Utopian Romantacist

header credit to @/astralles

[orionsscribbles]

Hello dearies. Welcome to my blog for my little stories.

✧ Orion or Ry ✧

She/Her | 31 | dreamer stuck working a fulltime job | fan of too many things | Roy Mustang is my first love but many have followed in his footsteps

Characters

Roy Mustang

✧ Dictamnus Albus (in progress)

✧ Dinner Date (request)

✧ Rainy Confessions (request)

Kakashi Hatake

✧ The Smile Doctor

Satoru Gojo

✧ He Always Breaks His Favorite Toys (in progress) 18+ MDNI

✧ Shift Tension 18+ MDNI

✧ Secret Visitor 18+ MDNI

[orionsscribbles]

He Always Breaks His Favorite Toys

Tensions rise inside the family when an unexpected visitor arrives, dragging hidden plans and old loyalties into the light. What should have been a routine meeting spirals into a clash of power, desire, and betrayal, leaving you caught in the center of a deal you never agreed to. In this world, power is the only currency—and everyone wants a piece of you.

Characters: Satoru Gojo, Sukuna, Suguru Geto, Aoi Todo, Kento Nanami, Toji Fushiguro, Mahito

Pairings: Mafia!Satoru x Mafia f!reader

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Blood, Violence, Yandere content, stalking, mentions of abuse, enemies to lovers, kidnapping. This Part- fingering, oral (m!receiving)

Tags: @nonids07 @ichxraaa

part one -> part two ->part three -> part four -> masterlist

The grandfather clock in the hall was striking two when you heard the commotion downstairs. Hushed voices and hurried footsteps. You stirred, the warmth of the sheets clinging to your skin, the memory of the dining room a distant echo in your sleep-muddled mind.

The soft thud of shoes hitting the floor peaked your interest and you cracked your eyes open. The bedroom was dark, except for the sliver of light from the cracked door. You saw the shadow of his silhouette devour the dim light as he stood outside. He moved differently in the dark, a predator in the night.

The door creaked open slowly as he stepped into the darkened space. The air changed, carrying a scent you knew too well. Blood.

Satoru stood at the foot of the bed, a faceless monolith in the gloom. He didn’t reach for the lamp. He simply began to undress. The black shirt came off with a wet sound, clinging to his skin. In the sliver of light, you saw his chest: pale, perfect, and smeared with crimson. It painted his ribs, dripped from the line of his collarbone. It was not his own.

You held your breath, a moth frozen before the shadow. He didn’t turn to face you, didn’t even acknowledge you were awake. He just stood there, letting the bloody clothes fall to the floor in a heap. Then, silently, he walked into the bathroom, light flooding into the bedroom for a brief moment before the door shut behind him.

The shower hissed to life, a steady rhythm that drowned out the thundering of your own heart. You lay in the dark, staring at the closed bathroom door, the metallic scent still lingering in the room, clinging to the back of your throat.

A coil of irritation tightened in your chest. He could have gone to his own room, but no. He chose yours. You threw the sheets aside, the cool air raising goosebumps on your bare skin.

You padded across the floor, the wood cool against your feet. The bathroom door was warm under your palm as you pushed it open without a word.

Steam billowed out, thick and heavy, fogging the mirror. He stood under the spray, back to you, water tracing the hard lines of his shoulders, washing pink rivulets down the drain. He didn’t turn.

“You have your own room, Satoru.” Your voice was flat, cutting through the hiss of the shower.

His hand pressed against the tile, head bowed. The water cascaded over him, a curtain of silence between his broad back and your voice.

Irritation sharpened into something colder. You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m not your maid. Go bleed on someone else’s floor next time.”

He finally moved, glancing over his shoulder at you, his eyes cold and distant. “You should go back to bed.”

His voice was a strangers wrapped in familiar chords. He reached for the bar of soap, his movements slow and deliberate, as if you weren’t even there.

The words fell from your lips again, sharper this time, a blade honed on the irritation coiling in your gut. “You think you can just show up here, dripping with-”

He moved before you finished. A blur of wet skin and sudden violence as the shower door opened. His hand shot out, fingers closing around your wrist, and he yanked. You stumbled forward, a yelp catching in your throat as the shock of hot water hit you.

You gasped, sputtering, your thin nightgown plastering itself to your body in an instant. You pushed against his chest, but your palm slipped on the slick, hot skin. The water stung your eyes, but you saw his face now, up close. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning with a cold fire.

“Better?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear as he leaned in. He didn’t release your wrist, his grip like iron. He backed you against the cold tile, caging you in, the heat of the water and the heat of his body a suffocating pressure. “Is this what you wanted? To be in the middle of it?”

The water sliced between you, hot and relentless. Your free hand, trembling or furious, lifted. Your fingers brushed the hollow of his collarbone, where the last trace of crimson clung, stubborn against the steam.

“Whose?” You breathed, the word barely louder than the spray.

His chest went still beneath your touch. For a heartbeat, the predator flickered, something raw and almost human surfacing in the hard line of his jaw. But he said nothing. His grip on your wrist didn’t loosen.

You pressed your fingers harder, smearing the diluted blood across his skin, marking him again. “Answer me, Satoru.”

The silence stretched, thick as the steam. His eyes dropped to where your hand rested, then rose slowly to meet yours. Cold. Unreadable.

“Does it matter?”

The question hung between you, heavy. Your heart hammered against your ribs, but you didn’t look away. You held his gaze, feeling the heat of him, the danger of him, the question of who he was when the lights went out.

Your hand slid down his chest, fingers tracing the path of water to his hips. The muscles jumped under your touch, a crack in the composure. He inhaled sharply, the sound barely audible over the shower’s rhythm.

Your fingers pressed against his hip bone, feeling the tension coiled there. The water dripped from your chin, your hair plastered to your scalp. You were soaked, shivering despite the heat, but you refused to break his gaze.

His free hand came up, slow and deliberate, and caught your chin. His thumb traced your lower lip, smearing water across your skin. The warmth of him, still laced with a copper tang, was an invitation you didn’t think twice about as he pressed his thumb past your parted lips.

You swirled your tongue around the tip, watching as his pupils dilated. His breath hitched. A sharp, ragged sound that cut through the silence. The predator in his eyes flickered, and for a moment you saw a crack in the glacier, a flash of heat.

He released your wrist, bracing his arm against the cool tile, trapping you against him. His control shattered into velvet rage as he pulled his thumb free and caught your jaw, tilting your face up to the spray.

“Careful.” He murmured, the word a rasp of thunder. But his voice was silk wrapped around steel.

His mouth hovered over yours, not kissing, just breathing you in. The water ran in rivers down his face, clinging to his lashes. He shifted, his hips pressing forward, and you felt him, hot and heavy. The thick length of his cock pressing against your thigh through the soaked fabric of your nightgown. It sprang to life against you, a demanding weight that made your breath catch.

His lips brushed against yours, teasing even as you saw his control faltering. He was fully hard now, the silk-soft head nudging against your hip. The insistent press of him, the subtle throb you felt from it even against the soaked fabric, settled deep in your core.

“On your knees.”

The command from him settled low in your stomach, the desire in his eyes swallowing any fight you might have had.

The tile was cold against your knees, a sharp contrast to the scalding water beating down on your shoulders. You looked up at him, water streaming down your face. His cock was hard against his stomach, curving up with thick veins tracing the length of him.

You leaned forward, your mouth finding him in the haze. The taste of soap, salt, and him flooded your senses as you tentatively swiped your tongue over his slit. He was hot against your tongue, the skin silk over steel.

A sound escaped him, low, guttural, torn from somewhere deep in his chest. His fingers thread through your hair, not pulling, just holding.

Your tongue traced his length, slow and deliberate, savoring the texture of him. You felt him throb against the roof of your mouth, a pulse that matched the frantic beat of your own heart. His hips twitched, the smallest thrust forward, and the salt of him bloomed across your tongue.

You hollowed your cheeks, drawing him deeper, your tongue still working that vein along his underside. His grip in your hair tightened, just shy of pain, a warning and a plea wrapped in one. You felt the weight of his gaze, the dark intensity of it boring into the crown of your head.

“Fuck.” He breathed, the word swallowed by the roar of the spray. His thighs tensed and you squeezed your own together as your core pulsed around nothing.

You took him deeper, letting his length slide past the resistance of your throat. The stretch was a shock, a burn that bordered on too much before settling into the thick, heavy feeling of fullness. His hips bucked involuntarily, a sharp, stuttered thrust that buried him to the root.

A strangled sound escaped his lips, half groan, half curse.

You held him there, your throat working around him, feeling the pulse of his blood against your tongue. Your nose pressed against the coarse white hair at his base, your hands bracing against his thighs, feeling the muscle jump and tremble beneath your palms.

When you finally pulled back, it was slow, deliberate, dragging your tongue along every ridge and vein. You gasped for air, your lungs burning. Your eyes met his as he looked down at you, a god drenched in steam and violence. Raw need bled through the crack in his control like fissures in armor.

“Again.”

You obeyed. Your mouth finding him again and taking him deep, your throat welcoming him. Your cunt ached as he let out another soft moan and you moved one of your hands down, past your hip, through the torrent of water.

Your fingers found your own slick heat, pushed the fabric of your panties to the side, and pressed inside.

A gasp escaped around the fullness of him, a vibration that made him shudder above you. Your fingers curled, the knot of tension that had been coiling since you stepped into the bathroom easing.

His hips began to move in a shallow, desperate rhythm against your lips as you worked yourself. You felt his gaze like a brand.

You shifted, sinking lower, the tile biting into your knees, your mouth trailing a path down his shaft. Your tongue traced his tightening sac, making a broken groan escape him. His hips pressed forward instinctively, seeking more of your mouth. But you held back, your tongue lapping at the sensitive skin of his balls, tasting the salt and him.

Your fingers worked in rhythm, pumping into your own warmth, the coil in your belly winding tighter with each stroke. Your walls fluttered around your fingers, your breath coming quicker as you got closer to the edge.

His hand pulled at your hair, forcing your gaze up to meet his again. His eyes were dark. Hungry.

“Look at you.” He rasped, his voice like gravel. “Soaking yourself on your own fingers while you worship my cock.”

You didn’t look away. Couldn’t. You held his gaze as you took him back into your mouth, tongue swirling around the head as you worked yourself faster, harder, chasing the edge.

You let out a moan around his cock and his control snapped. A low growl rumbled from his chest as he drove his hips forward, seating himself deep in your throat without warning. The intrusion was sudden, overwhelming, but you took him, your eyes watering as your throat convulsed around him.

Your fingers never stopped moving. They plunged deeper, the heel of your hand grinding against your clit as the pressure built. His grip tightened in your hair, guiding your rhythm, fucking your face with a desperate need.

The vibration of his groans traveled through your bones. Your walls clamped down around your fingers, the orgasm cresting like a wave, pulling you under. You moaned around him, the sound muffled and raw, your body shuddering against the cold tile.

He followed a heartbeat later. His hips stuttered, a choked moan coming from his throat as he spilled hot and thick down yours. You swallowed, the taste of him flooding your senses, your own release still pulsing through you in aftershocks.

He held you there, buried to the root, breath ragged. When he finally pulled back, his cock slipped from your lips with a wet sound. You gasped for air, your forehead resting against his thigh.

Neither of you spoke. The shower hissed on, water colder than before.

His hand found your jaw, tilting your face up. He smiled down at you, water tracing rivulets down his skin. He lowered himself, his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that was neither gentle nor kind. It was consuming, the taste of him and copper still clinging to the air.

He reached past you, twisting the faucet off. The water died with a gurgle, leaving only the drip and heavy sound of your breathing. Steam rolled off you both as he hooked an arm under your knees and lifted you as if you weighed nothing.

You didn’t protest. Your arms wound around his neck, your wet skin pressed against his. He carried you through the doorway, water pooling in his footprints and laid you on the bed with a reverence that seemed impossible from a man who had just been covered in blood.

The sheets clung to your damp skin as he followed you down, his body a furnace against the chill of the room. His lips found yours again, softer now.

The night pressed in around you, the chime of the clock downstairs ringing through the silence.

Your arms wound around his back, your fingers tracing over toned muscle and something else. Ridges. Raised and jagged beneath your touch, an uneven lattice of scars you hadn’t noticed in the shower.

Your breath catches as you feel them, trailing your fingers to his chest, feeling similar ridges across it. A particular one, circular and rough, placed over his heart, makes your heart race.

“Satoru.”

He doesn’t pull away, just leans his forehead against yours, both of you still breathless. Your fingers hover over the scar and he shifts to brace his weight on one arm, the other hand coming to rest over yours on his chest.

“What happened tonight?”

His shoulders rise and fall as he slows his breathing. “Later.”

It’s not an answer, and the weight of it settles in the hollow of your chest like a stone you can’t swallow. You barely know him, but you know the silence can be more imposing than any threat. In the morning, when the light strips the shadows from his face, he’ll have an excuse ready. You’re sure of it.

But the thought frays at the edges as his mouth finds yours again, soft and insistent. His lips move against yours with a slowness that feels deliberate, a patient unraveling of the tension still coiled in your shoulders. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, asking rather than taking, and when you part for him, the kiss deepens into something warmer, less frantic than before. His hand slides from his chest to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking the hollow beneath your ear, a gesture so tender it makes your chest ache.

You feel the tremble in his fingers before you hear the ragged exhale that escapes him. It’s barely there, the way his body softens against yours, the way his forehead drops to rest against your brow as he breathes you in. The predator is still there, lurking beneath the surface, but in this moment, he’s just a man, raw and worn and holding onto you like you’re the only anchor in a storm.

[notsorryiml8]

*don't like how it turned out, but oh well, it's 2 AM

[orionsscribbles]

He Always Breaks His Favorite Toys

Tensions rise inside the family when an unexpected visitor arrives, dragging hidden plans and old loyalties into the light. What should have been a routine meeting spirals into a clash of power, desire, and betrayal, leaving you caught in the center of a deal you never agreed to. In this world, power is the only currency—and everyone wants a piece of you.

Characters: Satoru Gojo, Sukuna, Suguru Geto, Aoi Todo, Kento Nanami, Toji Fushiguro, Mahito

Pairings: Mafia!Satoru x Mafia f!reader

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Blood, Violence, Yandere content, stalking, mentions of abuse, enemies to lovers, kidnapping. This Part- fingering, oral (m!receiving)

Tags: @nonids07 @ichxraaa

part one -> part two ->part three -> part four -> masterlist

The grandfather clock in the hall was striking two when you heard the commotion downstairs. Hushed voices and hurried footsteps. You stirred, the warmth of the sheets clinging to your skin, the memory of the dining room a distant echo in your sleep-muddled mind.

The soft thud of shoes hitting the floor peaked your interest and you cracked your eyes open. The bedroom was dark, except for the sliver of light from the cracked door. You saw the shadow of his silhouette devour the dim light as he stood outside. He moved differently in the dark, a predator in the night.

The door creaked open slowly as he stepped into the darkened space. The air changed, carrying a scent you knew too well. Blood.

Satoru stood at the foot of the bed, a faceless monolith in the gloom. He didn’t reach for the lamp. He simply began to undress. The black shirt came off with a wet sound, clinging to his skin. In the sliver of light, you saw his chest: pale, perfect, and smeared with crimson. It painted his ribs, dripped from the line of his collarbone. It was not his own.

You held your breath, a moth frozen before the shadow. He didn’t turn to face you, didn’t even acknowledge you were awake. He just stood there, letting the bloody clothes fall to the floor in a heap. Then, silently, he walked into the bathroom, light flooding into the bedroom for a brief moment before the door shut behind him.

The shower hissed to life, a steady rhythm that drowned out the thundering of your own heart. You lay in the dark, staring at the closed bathroom door, the metallic scent still lingering in the room, clinging to the back of your throat.

A coil of irritation tightened in your chest. He could have gone to his own room, but no. He chose yours. You threw the sheets aside, the cool air raising goosebumps on your bare skin.

You padded across the floor, the wood cool against your feet. The bathroom door was warm under your palm as you pushed it open without a word.

Steam billowed out, thick and heavy, fogging the mirror. He stood under the spray, back to you, water tracing the hard lines of his shoulders, washing pink rivulets down the drain. He didn’t turn.

“You have your own room, Satoru.” Your voice was flat, cutting through the hiss of the shower.

His hand pressed against the tile, head bowed. The water cascaded over him, a curtain of silence between his broad back and your voice.

Irritation sharpened into something colder. You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m not your maid. Go bleed on someone else’s floor next time.”

He finally moved, glancing over his shoulder at you, his eyes cold and distant. “You should go back to bed.”

His voice was a strangers wrapped in familiar chords. He reached for the bar of soap, his movements slow and deliberate, as if you weren’t even there.

The words fell from your lips again, sharper this time, a blade honed on the irritation coiling in your gut. “You think you can just show up here, dripping with-”

He moved before you finished. A blur of wet skin and sudden violence as the shower door opened. His hand shot out, fingers closing around your wrist, and he yanked. You stumbled forward, a yelp catching in your throat as the shock of hot water hit you.

You gasped, sputtering, your thin nightgown plastering itself to your body in an instant. You pushed against his chest, but your palm slipped on the slick, hot skin. The water stung your eyes, but you saw his face now, up close. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning with a cold fire.

“Better?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear as he leaned in. He didn’t release your wrist, his grip like iron. He backed you against the cold tile, caging you in, the heat of the water and the heat of his body a suffocating pressure. “Is this what you wanted? To be in the middle of it?”

The water sliced between you, hot and relentless. Your free hand, trembling or furious, lifted. Your fingers brushed the hollow of his collarbone, where the last trace of crimson clung, stubborn against the steam.

“Whose?” You breathed, the word barely louder than the spray.

His chest went still beneath your touch. For a heartbeat, the predator flickered, something raw and almost human surfacing in the hard line of his jaw. But he said nothing. His grip on your wrist didn’t loosen.

You pressed your fingers harder, smearing the diluted blood across his skin, marking him again. “Answer me, Satoru.”

The silence stretched, thick as the steam. His eyes dropped to where your hand rested, then rose slowly to meet yours. Cold. Unreadable.

“Does it matter?”

The question hung between you, heavy. Your heart hammered against your ribs, but you didn’t look away. You held his gaze, feeling the heat of him, the danger of him, the question of who he was when the lights went out.

Your hand slid down his chest, fingers tracing the path of water to his hips. The muscles jumped under your touch, a crack in the composure. He inhaled sharply, the sound barely audible over the shower’s rhythm.

Your fingers pressed against his hip bone, feeling the tension coiled there. The water dripped from your chin, your hair plastered to your scalp. You were soaked, shivering despite the heat, but you refused to break his gaze.

His free hand came up, slow and deliberate, and caught your chin. His thumb traced your lower lip, smearing water across your skin. The warmth of him, still laced with a copper tang, was an invitation you didn’t think twice about as he pressed his thumb past your parted lips.

You swirled your tongue around the tip, watching as his pupils dilated. His breath hitched. A sharp, ragged sound that cut through the silence. The predator in his eyes flickered, and for a moment you saw a crack in the glacier, a flash of heat.

He released your wrist, bracing his arm against the cool tile, trapping you against him. His control shattered into velvet rage as he pulled his thumb free and caught your jaw, tilting your face up to the spray.

“Careful.” He murmured, the word a rasp of thunder. But his voice was silk wrapped around steel.

His mouth hovered over yours, not kissing, just breathing you in. The water ran in rivers down his face, clinging to his lashes. He shifted, his hips pressing forward, and you felt him, hot and heavy. The thick length of his cock pressing against your thigh through the soaked fabric of your nightgown. It sprang to life against you, a demanding weight that made your breath catch.

His lips brushed against yours, teasing even as you saw his control faltering. He was fully hard now, the silk-soft head nudging against your hip. The insistent press of him, the subtle throb you felt from it even against the soaked fabric, settled deep in your core.

“On your knees.”

The command from him settled low in your stomach, the desire in his eyes swallowing any fight you might have had.

The tile was cold against your knees, a sharp contrast to the scalding water beating down on your shoulders. You looked up at him, water streaming down your face. His cock was hard against his stomach, curving up with thick veins tracing the length of him.

You leaned forward, your mouth finding him in the haze. The taste of soap, salt, and him flooded your senses as you tentatively swiped your tongue over his slit. He was hot against your tongue, the skin silk over steel.

A sound escaped him, low, guttural, torn from somewhere deep in his chest. His fingers thread through your hair, not pulling, just holding.

Your tongue traced his length, slow and deliberate, savoring the texture of him. You felt him throb against the roof of your mouth, a pulse that matched the frantic beat of your own heart. His hips twitched, the smallest thrust forward, and the salt of him bloomed across your tongue.

You hollowed your cheeks, drawing him deeper, your tongue still working that vein along his underside. His grip in your hair tightened, just shy of pain, a warning and a plea wrapped in one. You felt the weight of his gaze, the dark intensity of it boring into the crown of your head.

“Fuck.” He breathed, the word swallowed by the roar of the spray. His thighs tensed and you squeezed your own together as your core pulsed around nothing.

You took him deeper, letting his length slide past the resistance of your throat. The stretch was a shock, a burn that bordered on too much before settling into the thick, heavy feeling of fullness. His hips bucked involuntarily, a sharp, stuttered thrust that buried him to the root.

A strangled sound escaped his lips, half groan, half curse.

You held him there, your throat working around him, feeling the pulse of his blood against your tongue. Your nose pressed against the coarse white hair at his base, your hands bracing against his thighs, feeling the muscle jump and tremble beneath your palms.

When you finally pulled back, it was slow, deliberate, dragging your tongue along every ridge and vein. You gasped for air, your lungs burning. Your eyes met his as he looked down at you, a god drenched in steam and violence. Raw need bled through the crack in his control like fissures in armor.

“Again.”

You obeyed. Your mouth finding him again and taking him deep, your throat welcoming him. Your cunt ached as he let out another soft moan and you moved one of your hands down, past your hip, through the torrent of water.

Your fingers found your own slick heat, pushed the fabric of your panties to the side, and pressed inside.

A gasp escaped around the fullness of him, a vibration that made him shudder above you. Your fingers curled, the knot of tension that had been coiling since you stepped into the bathroom easing.

His hips began to move in a shallow, desperate rhythm against your lips as you worked yourself. You felt his gaze like a brand.

You shifted, sinking lower, the tile biting into your knees, your mouth trailing a path down his shaft. Your tongue traced his tightening sac, making a broken groan escape him. His hips pressed forward instinctively, seeking more of your mouth. But you held back, your tongue lapping at the sensitive skin of his balls, tasting the salt and him.

Your fingers worked in rhythm, pumping into your own warmth, the coil in your belly winding tighter with each stroke. Your walls fluttered around your fingers, your breath coming quicker as you got closer to the edge.

His hand pulled at your hair, forcing your gaze up to meet his again. His eyes were dark. Hungry.

“Look at you.” He rasped, his voice like gravel. “Soaking yourself on your own fingers while you worship my cock.”

You didn’t look away. Couldn’t. You held his gaze as you took him back into your mouth, tongue swirling around the head as you worked yourself faster, harder, chasing the edge.

You let out a moan around his cock and his control snapped. A low growl rumbled from his chest as he drove his hips forward, seating himself deep in your throat without warning. The intrusion was sudden, overwhelming, but you took him, your eyes watering as your throat convulsed around him.

Your fingers never stopped moving. They plunged deeper, the heel of your hand grinding against your clit as the pressure built. His grip tightened in your hair, guiding your rhythm, fucking your face with a desperate need.

The vibration of his groans traveled through your bones. Your walls clamped down around your fingers, the orgasm cresting like a wave, pulling you under. You moaned around him, the sound muffled and raw, your body shuddering against the cold tile.

He followed a heartbeat later. His hips stuttered, a choked moan coming from his throat as he spilled hot and thick down yours. You swallowed, the taste of him flooding your senses, your own release still pulsing through you in aftershocks.

He held you there, buried to the root, breath ragged. When he finally pulled back, his cock slipped from your lips with a wet sound. You gasped for air, your forehead resting against his thigh.

Neither of you spoke. The shower hissed on, water colder than before.

His hand found your jaw, tilting your face up. He smiled down at you, water tracing rivulets down his skin. He lowered himself, his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that was neither gentle nor kind. It was consuming, the taste of him and copper still clinging to the air.

He reached past you, twisting the faucet off. The water died with a gurgle, leaving only the drip and heavy sound of your breathing. Steam rolled off you both as he hooked an arm under your knees and lifted you as if you weighed nothing.

You didn’t protest. Your arms wound around his neck, your wet skin pressed against his. He carried you through the doorway, water pooling in his footprints and laid you on the bed with a reverence that seemed impossible from a man who had just been covered in blood.

The sheets clung to your damp skin as he followed you down, his body a furnace against the chill of the room. His lips found yours again, softer now.

The night pressed in around you, the chime of the clock downstairs ringing through the silence.

Your arms wound around his back, your fingers tracing over toned muscle and something else. Ridges. Raised and jagged beneath your touch, an uneven lattice of scars you hadn’t noticed in the shower.

Your breath catches as you feel them, trailing your fingers to his chest, feeling similar ridges across it. A particular one, circular and rough, placed over his heart, makes your heart race.

“Satoru.”

He doesn’t pull away, just leans his forehead against yours, both of you still breathless. Your fingers hover over the scar and he shifts to brace his weight on one arm, the other hand coming to rest over yours on his chest.

“What happened tonight?”

His shoulders rise and fall as he slows his breathing. “Later.”

It’s not an answer, and the weight of it settles in the hollow of your chest like a stone you can’t swallow. You barely know him, but you know the silence can be more imposing than any threat. In the morning, when the light strips the shadows from his face, he’ll have an excuse ready. You’re sure of it.

But the thought frays at the edges as his mouth finds yours again, soft and insistent. His lips move against yours with a slowness that feels deliberate, a patient unraveling of the tension still coiled in your shoulders. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, asking rather than taking, and when you part for him, the kiss deepens into something warmer, less frantic than before. His hand slides from his chest to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking the hollow beneath your ear, a gesture so tender it makes your chest ache.

You feel the tremble in his fingers before you hear the ragged exhale that escapes him. It’s barely there, the way his body softens against yours, the way his forehead drops to rest against your brow as he breathes you in. The predator is still there, lurking beneath the surface, but in this moment, he’s just a man, raw and worn and holding onto you like you’re the only anchor in a storm.

[orionsscribbles]

He Always Breaks His Favorite Toys

Tensions rise inside the family when an unexpected visitor arrives, dragging hidden plans and old loyalties into the light. What should have been a routine meeting spirals into a clash of power, desire, and betrayal, leaving you caught in the center of a deal you never agreed to. In this world, power is the only currency—and everyone wants a piece of you.

Characters: Satoru Gojo, Sukuna, Suguru Geto, Aoi Todo, Kento Nanami, Toji Fushiguro, Mahito

Pairings: Mafia!Satoru x Mafia f!reader

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Blood, Violence, Yandere content, stalking, mentions of abuse, enemies to lovers, kidnapping. This Part- fingering, oral (m!receiving)

Tags: @nonids07 @ichxraaa

part one -> part two ->part three -> part four -> masterlist

The grandfather clock in the hall was striking two when you heard the commotion downstairs. Hushed voices and hurried footsteps. You stirred, the warmth of the sheets clinging to your skin, the memory of the dining room a distant echo in your sleep-muddled mind.

The soft thud of shoes hitting the floor peaked your interest and you cracked your eyes open. The bedroom was dark, except for the sliver of light from the cracked door. You saw the shadow of his silhouette devour the dim light as he stood outside. He moved differently in the dark, a predator in the night.

The door creaked open slowly as he stepped into the darkened space. The air changed, carrying a scent you knew too well. Blood.

Satoru stood at the foot of the bed, a faceless monolith in the gloom. He didn’t reach for the lamp. He simply began to undress. The black shirt came off with a wet sound, clinging to his skin. In the sliver of light, you saw his chest: pale, perfect, and smeared with crimson. It painted his ribs, dripped from the line of his collarbone. It was not his own.

You held your breath, a moth frozen before the shadow. He didn’t turn to face you, didn’t even acknowledge you were awake. He just stood there, letting the bloody clothes fall to the floor in a heap. Then, silently, he walked into the bathroom, light flooding into the bedroom for a brief moment before the door shut behind him.

The shower hissed to life, a steady rhythm that drowned out the thundering of your own heart. You lay in the dark, staring at the closed bathroom door, the metallic scent still lingering in the room, clinging to the back of your throat.

A coil of irritation tightened in your chest. He could have gone to his own room, but no. He chose yours. You threw the sheets aside, the cool air raising goosebumps on your bare skin.

You padded across the floor, the wood cool against your feet. The bathroom door was warm under your palm as you pushed it open without a word.

Steam billowed out, thick and heavy, fogging the mirror. He stood under the spray, back to you, water tracing the hard lines of his shoulders, washing pink rivulets down the drain. He didn’t turn.

“You have your own room, Satoru.” Your voice was flat, cutting through the hiss of the shower.

His hand pressed against the tile, head bowed. The water cascaded over him, a curtain of silence between his broad back and your voice.

Irritation sharpened into something colder. You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m not your maid. Go bleed on someone else’s floor next time.”

He finally moved, glancing over his shoulder at you, his eyes cold and distant. “You should go back to bed.”

His voice was a strangers wrapped in familiar chords. He reached for the bar of soap, his movements slow and deliberate, as if you weren’t even there.

The words fell from your lips again, sharper this time, a blade honed on the irritation coiling in your gut. “You think you can just show up here, dripping with-”

He moved before you finished. A blur of wet skin and sudden violence as the shower door opened. His hand shot out, fingers closing around your wrist, and he yanked. You stumbled forward, a yelp catching in your throat as the shock of hot water hit you.

You gasped, sputtering, your thin nightgown plastering itself to your body in an instant. You pushed against his chest, but your palm slipped on the slick, hot skin. The water stung your eyes, but you saw his face now, up close. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning with a cold fire.

“Better?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear as he leaned in. He didn’t release your wrist, his grip like iron. He backed you against the cold tile, caging you in, the heat of the water and the heat of his body a suffocating pressure. “Is this what you wanted? To be in the middle of it?”

The water sliced between you, hot and relentless. Your free hand, trembling or furious, lifted. Your fingers brushed the hollow of his collarbone, where the last trace of crimson clung, stubborn against the steam.

“Whose?” You breathed, the word barely louder than the spray.

His chest went still beneath your touch. For a heartbeat, the predator flickered, something raw and almost human surfacing in the hard line of his jaw. But he said nothing. His grip on your wrist didn’t loosen.

You pressed your fingers harder, smearing the diluted blood across his skin, marking him again. “Answer me, Satoru.”

The silence stretched, thick as the steam. His eyes dropped to where your hand rested, then rose slowly to meet yours. Cold. Unreadable.

“Does it matter?”

The question hung between you, heavy. Your heart hammered against your ribs, but you didn’t look away. You held his gaze, feeling the heat of him, the danger of him, the question of who he was when the lights went out.

Your hand slid down his chest, fingers tracing the path of water to his hips. The muscles jumped under your touch, a crack in the composure. He inhaled sharply, the sound barely audible over the shower’s rhythm.

Your fingers pressed against his hip bone, feeling the tension coiled there. The water dripped from your chin, your hair plastered to your scalp. You were soaked, shivering despite the heat, but you refused to break his gaze.

His free hand came up, slow and deliberate, and caught your chin. His thumb traced your lower lip, smearing water across your skin. The warmth of him, still laced with a copper tang, was an invitation you didn’t think twice about as he pressed his thumb past your parted lips.

You swirled your tongue around the tip, watching as his pupils dilated. His breath hitched. A sharp, ragged sound that cut through the silence. The predator in his eyes flickered, and for a moment you saw a crack in the glacier, a flash of heat.

He released your wrist, bracing his arm against the cool tile, trapping you against him. His control shattered into velvet rage as he pulled his thumb free and caught your jaw, tilting your face up to the spray.

“Careful.” He murmured, the word a rasp of thunder. But his voice was silk wrapped around steel.

His mouth hovered over yours, not kissing, just breathing you in. The water ran in rivers down his face, clinging to his lashes. He shifted, his hips pressing forward, and you felt him, hot and heavy. The thick length of his cock pressing against your thigh through the soaked fabric of your nightgown. It sprang to life against you, a demanding weight that made your breath catch.

His lips brushed against yours, teasing even as you saw his control faltering. He was fully hard now, the silk-soft head nudging against your hip. The insistent press of him, the subtle throb you felt from it even against the soaked fabric, settled deep in your core.

“On your knees.”

The command from him settled low in your stomach, the desire in his eyes swallowing any fight you might have had.

The tile was cold against your knees, a sharp contrast to the scalding water beating down on your shoulders. You looked up at him, water streaming down your face. His cock was hard against his stomach, curving up with thick veins tracing the length of him.

You leaned forward, your mouth finding him in the haze. The taste of soap, salt, and him flooded your senses as you tentatively swiped your tongue over his slit. He was hot against your tongue, the skin silk over steel.

A sound escaped him, low, guttural, torn from somewhere deep in his chest. His fingers thread through your hair, not pulling, just holding.

Your tongue traced his length, slow and deliberate, savoring the texture of him. You felt him throb against the roof of your mouth, a pulse that matched the frantic beat of your own heart. His hips twitched, the smallest thrust forward, and the salt of him bloomed across your tongue.

You hollowed your cheeks, drawing him deeper, your tongue still working that vein along his underside. His grip in your hair tightened, just shy of pain, a warning and a plea wrapped in one. You felt the weight of his gaze, the dark intensity of it boring into the crown of your head.

“Fuck.” He breathed, the word swallowed by the roar of the spray. His thighs tensed and you squeezed your own together as your core pulsed around nothing.

You took him deeper, letting his length slide past the resistance of your throat. The stretch was a shock, a burn that bordered on too much before settling into the thick, heavy feeling of fullness. His hips bucked involuntarily, a sharp, stuttered thrust that buried him to the root.

A strangled sound escaped his lips, half groan, half curse.

You held him there, your throat working around him, feeling the pulse of his blood against your tongue. Your nose pressed against the coarse white hair at his base, your hands bracing against his thighs, feeling the muscle jump and tremble beneath your palms.

When you finally pulled back, it was slow, deliberate, dragging your tongue along every ridge and vein. You gasped for air, your lungs burning. Your eyes met his as he looked down at you, a god drenched in steam and violence. Raw need bled through the crack in his control like fissures in armor.

“Again.”

You obeyed. Your mouth finding him again and taking him deep, your throat welcoming him. Your cunt ached as he let out another soft moan and you moved one of your hands down, past your hip, through the torrent of water.

Your fingers found your own slick heat, pushed the fabric of your panties to the side, and pressed inside.

A gasp escaped around the fullness of him, a vibration that made him shudder above you. Your fingers curled, the knot of tension that had been coiling since you stepped into the bathroom easing.

His hips began to move in a shallow, desperate rhythm against your lips as you worked yourself. You felt his gaze like a brand.

You shifted, sinking lower, the tile biting into your knees, your mouth trailing a path down his shaft. Your tongue traced his tightening sac, making a broken groan escape him. His hips pressed forward instinctively, seeking more of your mouth. But you held back, your tongue lapping at the sensitive skin of his balls, tasting the salt and him.

Your fingers worked in rhythm, pumping into your own warmth, the coil in your belly winding tighter with each stroke. Your walls fluttered around your fingers, your breath coming quicker as you got closer to the edge.

His hand pulled at your hair, forcing your gaze up to meet his again. His eyes were dark. Hungry.

“Look at you.” He rasped, his voice like gravel. “Soaking yourself on your own fingers while you worship my cock.”

You didn’t look away. Couldn’t. You held his gaze as you took him back into your mouth, tongue swirling around the head as you worked yourself faster, harder, chasing the edge.

You let out a moan around his cock and his control snapped. A low growl rumbled from his chest as he drove his hips forward, seating himself deep in your throat without warning. The intrusion was sudden, overwhelming, but you took him, your eyes watering as your throat convulsed around him.

Your fingers never stopped moving. They plunged deeper, the heel of your hand grinding against your clit as the pressure built. His grip tightened in your hair, guiding your rhythm, fucking your face with a desperate need.

The vibration of his groans traveled through your bones. Your walls clamped down around your fingers, the orgasm cresting like a wave, pulling you under. You moaned around him, the sound muffled and raw, your body shuddering against the cold tile.

He followed a heartbeat later. His hips stuttered, a choked moan coming from his throat as he spilled hot and thick down yours. You swallowed, the taste of him flooding your senses, your own release still pulsing through you in aftershocks.

He held you there, buried to the root, breath ragged. When he finally pulled back, his cock slipped from your lips with a wet sound. You gasped for air, your forehead resting against his thigh.

Neither of you spoke. The shower hissed on, water colder than before.

His hand found your jaw, tilting your face up. He smiled down at you, water tracing rivulets down his skin. He lowered himself, his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that was neither gentle nor kind. It was consuming, the taste of him and copper still clinging to the air.

He reached past you, twisting the faucet off. The water died with a gurgle, leaving only the drip and heavy sound of your breathing. Steam rolled off you both as he hooked an arm under your knees and lifted you as if you weighed nothing.

You didn’t protest. Your arms wound around his neck, your wet skin pressed against his. He carried you through the doorway, water pooling in his footprints and laid you on the bed with a reverence that seemed impossible from a man who had just been covered in blood.

The sheets clung to your damp skin as he followed you down, his body a furnace against the chill of the room. His lips found yours again, softer now.

The night pressed in around you, the chime of the clock downstairs ringing through the silence.

Your arms wound around his back, your fingers tracing over toned muscle and something else. Ridges. Raised and jagged beneath your touch, an uneven lattice of scars you hadn’t noticed in the shower.

Your breath catches as you feel them, trailing your fingers to his chest, feeling similar ridges across it. A particular one, circular and rough, placed over his heart, makes your heart race.

“Satoru.”

He doesn’t pull away, just leans his forehead against yours, both of you still breathless. Your fingers hover over the scar and he shifts to brace his weight on one arm, the other hand coming to rest over yours on his chest.

“What happened tonight?”

His shoulders rise and fall as he slows his breathing. “Later.”

It’s not an answer, and the weight of it settles in the hollow of your chest like a stone you can’t swallow. You barely know him, but you know the silence can be more imposing than any threat. In the morning, when the light strips the shadows from his face, he’ll have an excuse ready. You’re sure of it.

But the thought frays at the edges as his mouth finds yours again, soft and insistent. His lips move against yours with a slowness that feels deliberate, a patient unraveling of the tension still coiled in your shoulders. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, asking rather than taking, and when you part for him, the kiss deepens into something warmer, less frantic than before. His hand slides from his chest to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking the hollow beneath your ear, a gesture so tender it makes your chest ache.

You feel the tremble in his fingers before you hear the ragged exhale that escapes him. It’s barely there, the way his body softens against yours, the way his forehead drops to rest against your brow as he breathes you in. The predator is still there, lurking beneath the surface, but in this moment, he’s just a man, raw and worn and holding onto you like you’re the only anchor in a storm.

[thatbutler]

𝐒𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐄...! 𝐒𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐄, 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐔𝐋!

[levitonin]

Dooooodles

[dailykakashi]

[orionsscribbles]

He Always Breaks His Favorite Toys

Tensions rise inside the family when an unexpected visitor arrives, dragging hidden plans and old loyalties into the light. What should have been a routine meeting spirals into a clash of power, desire, and betrayal, leaving you caught in the center of a deal you never agreed to. In this world, power is the only currency—and everyone wants a piece of you.

Characters: Satoru Gojo, Sukuna, Suguru Geto, Aoi Todo, Kento Nanami, Toji Fushiguro, Mahito

Pairings: Mafia!Satoru x Mafia f!reader

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Blood, Violence, Yandere content, stalking, mentions of abuse, enemies to lovers, kidnapping. This Part- fingering, oral (m!receiving)

Tags: @nonids07 @ichxraaa

part one -> part two ->part three -> part four -> masterlist

The grandfather clock in the hall was striking two when you heard the commotion downstairs. Hushed voices and hurried footsteps. You stirred, the warmth of the sheets clinging to your skin, the memory of the dining room a distant echo in your sleep-muddled mind.

The soft thud of shoes hitting the floor peaked your interest and you cracked your eyes open. The bedroom was dark, except for the sliver of light from the cracked door. You saw the shadow of his silhouette devour the dim light as he stood outside. He moved differently in the dark, a predator in the night.

The door creaked open slowly as he stepped into the darkened space. The air changed, carrying a scent you knew too well. Blood.

Satoru stood at the foot of the bed, a faceless monolith in the gloom. He didn’t reach for the lamp. He simply began to undress. The black shirt came off with a wet sound, clinging to his skin. In the sliver of light, you saw his chest: pale, perfect, and smeared with crimson. It painted his ribs, dripped from the line of his collarbone. It was not his own.

You held your breath, a moth frozen before the shadow. He didn’t turn to face you, didn’t even acknowledge you were awake. He just stood there, letting the bloody clothes fall to the floor in a heap. Then, silently, he walked into the bathroom, light flooding into the bedroom for a brief moment before the door shut behind him.

The shower hissed to life, a steady rhythm that drowned out the thundering of your own heart. You lay in the dark, staring at the closed bathroom door, the metallic scent still lingering in the room, clinging to the back of your throat.

A coil of irritation tightened in your chest. He could have gone to his own room, but no. He chose yours. You threw the sheets aside, the cool air raising goosebumps on your bare skin.

You padded across the floor, the wood cool against your feet. The bathroom door was warm under your palm as you pushed it open without a word.

Steam billowed out, thick and heavy, fogging the mirror. He stood under the spray, back to you, water tracing the hard lines of his shoulders, washing pink rivulets down the drain. He didn’t turn.

“You have your own room, Satoru.” Your voice was flat, cutting through the hiss of the shower.

His hand pressed against the tile, head bowed. The water cascaded over him, a curtain of silence between his broad back and your voice.

Irritation sharpened into something colder. You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m not your maid. Go bleed on someone else’s floor next time.”

He finally moved, glancing over his shoulder at you, his eyes cold and distant. “You should go back to bed.”

His voice was a strangers wrapped in familiar chords. He reached for the bar of soap, his movements slow and deliberate, as if you weren’t even there.

The words fell from your lips again, sharper this time, a blade honed on the irritation coiling in your gut. “You think you can just show up here, dripping with-”

He moved before you finished. A blur of wet skin and sudden violence as the shower door opened. His hand shot out, fingers closing around your wrist, and he yanked. You stumbled forward, a yelp catching in your throat as the shock of hot water hit you.

You gasped, sputtering, your thin nightgown plastering itself to your body in an instant. You pushed against his chest, but your palm slipped on the slick, hot skin. The water stung your eyes, but you saw his face now, up close. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning with a cold fire.

“Better?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear as he leaned in. He didn’t release your wrist, his grip like iron. He backed you against the cold tile, caging you in, the heat of the water and the heat of his body a suffocating pressure. “Is this what you wanted? To be in the middle of it?”

The water sliced between you, hot and relentless. Your free hand, trembling or furious, lifted. Your fingers brushed the hollow of his collarbone, where the last trace of crimson clung, stubborn against the steam.

“Whose?” You breathed, the word barely louder than the spray.

His chest went still beneath your touch. For a heartbeat, the predator flickered, something raw and almost human surfacing in the hard line of his jaw. But he said nothing. His grip on your wrist didn’t loosen.

You pressed your fingers harder, smearing the diluted blood across his skin, marking him again. “Answer me, Satoru.”

The silence stretched, thick as the steam. His eyes dropped to where your hand rested, then rose slowly to meet yours. Cold. Unreadable.

“Does it matter?”

The question hung between you, heavy. Your heart hammered against your ribs, but you didn’t look away. You held his gaze, feeling the heat of him, the danger of him, the question of who he was when the lights went out.

Your hand slid down his chest, fingers tracing the path of water to his hips. The muscles jumped under your touch, a crack in the composure. He inhaled sharply, the sound barely audible over the shower’s rhythm.

Your fingers pressed against his hip bone, feeling the tension coiled there. The water dripped from your chin, your hair plastered to your scalp. You were soaked, shivering despite the heat, but you refused to break his gaze.

His free hand came up, slow and deliberate, and caught your chin. His thumb traced your lower lip, smearing water across your skin. The warmth of him, still laced with a copper tang, was an invitation you didn’t think twice about as he pressed his thumb past your parted lips.

You swirled your tongue around the tip, watching as his pupils dilated. His breath hitched. A sharp, ragged sound that cut through the silence. The predator in his eyes flickered, and for a moment you saw a crack in the glacier, a flash of heat.

He released your wrist, bracing his arm against the cool tile, trapping you against him. His control shattered into velvet rage as he pulled his thumb free and caught your jaw, tilting your face up to the spray.

“Careful.” He murmured, the word a rasp of thunder. But his voice was silk wrapped around steel.

His mouth hovered over yours, not kissing, just breathing you in. The water ran in rivers down his face, clinging to his lashes. He shifted, his hips pressing forward, and you felt him, hot and heavy. The thick length of his cock pressing against your thigh through the soaked fabric of your nightgown. It sprang to life against you, a demanding weight that made your breath catch.

His lips brushed against yours, teasing even as you saw his control faltering. He was fully hard now, the silk-soft head nudging against your hip. The insistent press of him, the subtle throb you felt from it even against the soaked fabric, settled deep in your core.

“On your knees.”

The command from him settled low in your stomach, the desire in his eyes swallowing any fight you might have had.

The tile was cold against your knees, a sharp contrast to the scalding water beating down on your shoulders. You looked up at him, water streaming down your face. His cock was hard against his stomach, curving up with thick veins tracing the length of him.

You leaned forward, your mouth finding him in the haze. The taste of soap, salt, and him flooded your senses as you tentatively swiped your tongue over his slit. He was hot against your tongue, the skin silk over steel.

A sound escaped him, low, guttural, torn from somewhere deep in his chest. His fingers thread through your hair, not pulling, just holding.

Your tongue traced his length, slow and deliberate, savoring the texture of him. You felt him throb against the roof of your mouth, a pulse that matched the frantic beat of your own heart. His hips twitched, the smallest thrust forward, and the salt of him bloomed across your tongue.

You hollowed your cheeks, drawing him deeper, your tongue still working that vein along his underside. His grip in your hair tightened, just shy of pain, a warning and a plea wrapped in one. You felt the weight of his gaze, the dark intensity of it boring into the crown of your head.

“Fuck.” He breathed, the word swallowed by the roar of the spray. His thighs tensed and you squeezed your own together as your core pulsed around nothing.

You took him deeper, letting his length slide past the resistance of your throat. The stretch was a shock, a burn that bordered on too much before settling into the thick, heavy feeling of fullness. His hips bucked involuntarily, a sharp, stuttered thrust that buried him to the root.

A strangled sound escaped his lips, half groan, half curse.

You held him there, your throat working around him, feeling the pulse of his blood against your tongue. Your nose pressed against the coarse white hair at his base, your hands bracing against his thighs, feeling the muscle jump and tremble beneath your palms.

When you finally pulled back, it was slow, deliberate, dragging your tongue along every ridge and vein. You gasped for air, your lungs burning. Your eyes met his as he looked down at you, a god drenched in steam and violence. Raw need bled through the crack in his control like fissures in armor.

“Again.”

You obeyed. Your mouth finding him again and taking him deep, your throat welcoming him. Your cunt ached as he let out another soft moan and you moved one of your hands down, past your hip, through the torrent of water.

Your fingers found your own slick heat, pushed the fabric of your panties to the side, and pressed inside.

A gasp escaped around the fullness of him, a vibration that made him shudder above you. Your fingers curled, the knot of tension that had been coiling since you stepped into the bathroom easing.

His hips began to move in a shallow, desperate rhythm against your lips as you worked yourself. You felt his gaze like a brand.

You shifted, sinking lower, the tile biting into your knees, your mouth trailing a path down his shaft. Your tongue traced his tightening sac, making a broken groan escape him. His hips pressed forward instinctively, seeking more of your mouth. But you held back, your tongue lapping at the sensitive skin of his balls, tasting the salt and him.

Your fingers worked in rhythm, pumping into your own warmth, the coil in your belly winding tighter with each stroke. Your walls fluttered around your fingers, your breath coming quicker as you got closer to the edge.

His hand pulled at your hair, forcing your gaze up to meet his again. His eyes were dark. Hungry.

“Look at you.” He rasped, his voice like gravel. “Soaking yourself on your own fingers while you worship my cock.”

You didn’t look away. Couldn’t. You held his gaze as you took him back into your mouth, tongue swirling around the head as you worked yourself faster, harder, chasing the edge.

You let out a moan around his cock and his control snapped. A low growl rumbled from his chest as he drove his hips forward, seating himself deep in your throat without warning. The intrusion was sudden, overwhelming, but you took him, your eyes watering as your throat convulsed around him.

Your fingers never stopped moving. They plunged deeper, the heel of your hand grinding against your clit as the pressure built. His grip tightened in your hair, guiding your rhythm, fucking your face with a desperate need.

The vibration of his groans traveled through your bones. Your walls clamped down around your fingers, the orgasm cresting like a wave, pulling you under. You moaned around him, the sound muffled and raw, your body shuddering against the cold tile.

He followed a heartbeat later. His hips stuttered, a choked moan coming from his throat as he spilled hot and thick down yours. You swallowed, the taste of him flooding your senses, your own release still pulsing through you in aftershocks.

He held you there, buried to the root, breath ragged. When he finally pulled back, his cock slipped from your lips with a wet sound. You gasped for air, your forehead resting against his thigh.

Neither of you spoke. The shower hissed on, water colder than before.

His hand found your jaw, tilting your face up. He smiled down at you, water tracing rivulets down his skin. He lowered himself, his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that was neither gentle nor kind. It was consuming, the taste of him and copper still clinging to the air.

He reached past you, twisting the faucet off. The water died with a gurgle, leaving only the drip and heavy sound of your breathing. Steam rolled off you both as he hooked an arm under your knees and lifted you as if you weighed nothing.

You didn’t protest. Your arms wound around his neck, your wet skin pressed against his. He carried you through the doorway, water pooling in his footprints and laid you on the bed with a reverence that seemed impossible from a man who had just been covered in blood.

The sheets clung to your damp skin as he followed you down, his body a furnace against the chill of the room. His lips found yours again, softer now.

The night pressed in around you, the chime of the clock downstairs ringing through the silence.

Your arms wound around his back, your fingers tracing over toned muscle and something else. Ridges. Raised and jagged beneath your touch, an uneven lattice of scars you hadn’t noticed in the shower.

Your breath catches as you feel them, trailing your fingers to his chest, feeling similar ridges across it. A particular one, circular and rough, placed over his heart, makes your heart race.

“Satoru.”

He doesn’t pull away, just leans his forehead against yours, both of you still breathless. Your fingers hover over the scar and he shifts to brace his weight on one arm, the other hand coming to rest over yours on his chest.

“What happened tonight?”

His shoulders rise and fall as he slows his breathing. “Later.”

It’s not an answer, and the weight of it settles in the hollow of your chest like a stone you can’t swallow. You barely know him, but you know the silence can be more imposing than any threat. In the morning, when the light strips the shadows from his face, he’ll have an excuse ready. You’re sure of it.

But the thought frays at the edges as his mouth finds yours again, soft and insistent. His lips move against yours with a slowness that feels deliberate, a patient unraveling of the tension still coiled in your shoulders. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, asking rather than taking, and when you part for him, the kiss deepens into something warmer, less frantic than before. His hand slides from his chest to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking the hollow beneath your ear, a gesture so tender it makes your chest ache.

You feel the tremble in his fingers before you hear the ragged exhale that escapes him. It’s barely there, the way his body softens against yours, the way his forehead drops to rest against your brow as he breathes you in. The predator is still there, lurking beneath the surface, but in this moment, he’s just a man, raw and worn and holding onto you like you’re the only anchor in a storm.

[levitonin]

Gojo art study

[notsorryiml8]

Full body w/new brushes..

[kokodrawings]

Three Legendary Sannin

[weltenwellen]

The Quiet Machine Ada Limón

[cr0wcaller]

📖 KAKASHI HATAKE | SMAU | assorted boyfriend texts

a/n: requested by a lovely anon, i hope you like these!! this forced me to finally give kakashi a proper place in my modern au so that's nice

content: kakashi x gn!reader boyfriend/husband texts, modern!au

All rights reserved. Please do not repost, copy, translate, plagiarise, or feed my work into AI. Reblogs are deeply appreciated; reposts are not permitted.

[nixscriptum]

[orionsscribbles]

The Smile Doctor

You never meant to fall for your orthodontist, but Dr. Kakashi Hatake makes it impossible. You slowly realize you're not just starting a new job once you graduate, you're starting something with him.

Pairings: Orthodontist! Kakashi Hatake x Dental Hygienist! Reader

WC: ~3.8k

Warnings: Fluff. Kakashi has a bit of OCD.

A/N: This is my first time writing Kakashi so hopefully this isn't trash. Thanks @t1track for encouraging me to step out of my comfort zone.

The waiting room smells faintly of mint and new plastic. That sterile, comforting scent every dental office seems to have. You sit with your hands tucked under your thighs, trying not to fidget as the wall clock ticks too loudly. You’ve been here before, but today feels different. Maybe it’s because this is your final adjustment to your braces before graduation, maybe it’s because of a certain orthodontist.

The door to the back swings open, bright white lights making Dr. Kakashi Hatake look even more obnoxiously gorgeous than usual.

“There’s my favorite student.”

He stands there in his slate-gray scrubs, black surgical mask in place, silver hair a soft mess that somehow still looks intentional. His visible eye curves just slightly, the closest thing to a smile you ever get from him during appointments.

You stand, suddenly aware of how warm your face feels. He notices everything though.

“Come on back.” He says, voice low , warm, professional. But there’s something else there. Some hidden undercurrent in his voice when he says your name. Something that makes your pulse skip.

You follow him into the exam room. He gestures to the chair, and you sit. Your hands fidget with the loose string at the hem of your shirt as you lie back. The overhead light clicks on, bright and intimate.

“So,” he says, adjusting his gloves, “last appointment before you’re officially a dental hygienist. Excited?”

“Terrified.” You admit, biting the inside of your cheek as he adjusts the light above you, his form casting a shadow.

“You’ll be good at it.” His eye softens as he pauses, contemplating what to say before continuing. “You’re meticulous. And you care. Those are rare.”

Your stomach flips. He always does this, slips in a compliment so casually you almost miss it.

He leans in, close enough that you can smell the faint citrus of his hand sanitizer. “Open for me?”

You do. His gloved fingers brush your cheek as he adjusts the bracket. It’s nothing, technically. A routine touch. But your breath still catches.

Kakashi notices. Of course he does.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod, though your heart is pounding in your ears. He finishes the adjustment, rolling his chair back to the sink with a dramatic turn that you can’t help but laugh at. He pulls his mask down, watching you out of the corner of his eye as he takes a sip of his water. You catch a glimpse of his mouth, sharp lines softened by the smallest smile.

“You know.” He says, watching as you sit up in the chair, tossing his gloves in the trash bin. “I’ve been meaning to ask… Where are you applying?”

You shrug. “A few places. I’m not sure yet but I have a few interviews lined up that school set up for me. I think they’re like group interviews because a few of my classmates are sitting in with me on them.”

“Hmm.” He tilts his head. “What about working here?”

Your breath stops.

He slowly pulls himself towards you in the chair, awkward and still somehow exuding so much confidence that your nerves spark. He stops just close enough that you swear you felt his knee touch yours. Even sitting he seems to tower over you and you have to force yourself to tilt your chin up to meet his gaze.

“I could use someone like you here.” He says like he’s discussing the weather. “If you want it.”

Your throat goes tight. “Y-you’re offering me a job?”

“I’m offering you a place,” he corrects softly. “A good one. With me.”

The words hang between you. Professional, but threaded with something warmer. Something that makes your chest feel too full.

You swallow. You don’t even know any of the logistics of what he’s offering. Pay, benefits, holidays, but none of that really matters when your mouth opens before you can stop it. “I’d like that.”

His eye curves again, pleased. “Good. Then it’s settled.”

He pushes back, standing and offering his hand to help you stand from the chair. His hands unnervingly soft as they clasp yours gently.

You stand, still dazed as he drops your hand and walks you past the lobby door all the way to the main entrance. Just before you step out, he says your name, so soft it almost gets lost in the creak of the door as you open it.

You turn and watch as he pulls the mask fully off his face now. The sunlight dancing across his jawline perfectly caresses his high cheekbones and highlights the stubble beginning to adorn his chin and upper lip.

“Congratulations.” He says, smile widening on his face to show bright white teeth. “See you Monday morning.”

The way he says it makes your pulse flutter and you nod gently before turning quickly to step out into the warm evening air. You’re not quite sure but Monday morning feels like start of something more than just your career as a dental hygienist.

The weekends over too fast. The office lights aren’t even on when you arrive in the light blue scrubs, hair pulled into a tight ponytail. The faint smell of mint and sterilizer lingers as you step inside.

You’re early. Ten minutes early from the time you enter the back hallway, hoping you’d beaten the office manager, Ino Yamanaka, to make a good impression.

The rumbling in the back supply room catches your attention as you peak around the corner.

Kakashi’s standing there, half inside a supply cabinet, rummaging with the intensity of someone searching for a lost relic. His hair is messier than usual, sticking up in a way that suggests he’s been here for a while.

“Umm. Morning.” You say, shifting your lunch box on your shoulder.

He jolts. Actually jolts. His head bumps the shelf, a box of fluoride wobbles, and he catches it like he’s been training for this moment his whole life. He turns, smile wide enough under a  navy blue mask that his eyes crinkle at the corners and you can see a faint flush on his cheeks.

“You’re early.”

“So are you.”

“I got excited.” He turns back to searching for whatever it was in the closet and you take a few steps closer to him.

“About… teeth?”

 “No. Although I do love my job.” He laughs softly, the movement shaking his shoulders before he rips open a package with ease. “About these!”

He turns toward you, holding up a plastic-wrapped bundle like it’s sacred. You blink, confusion setting into your face as you actually see what’s in his hand.

Matching surgical cap and what looks to be a set of 50 surgical masks. All navy blue with small white hearts on them.

“You ordered a matching set of masks to your cap?”

“Yes!” He nods, proud. “Amazon has them. And they were able to do same day delivery!”

“And this is… New information for you?”

“Life-changing.” He says, completely serious.

Kakashi pulls the old mask off, immaculate smile plastered on his face, attention solely on extracting the heart patterned mask from the package and slipping the loops over his ears quickly.

You bite back a laugh as he walks over to grab a mirror from an exam room to fix the cap over his white locks, lining the pattern up perfectly with the mask. He looks like a man who discovered a new religion when he turns back to face you.

“You’re very coordinated today.”

He straightens, hands on his hips. “I’m a professional.”

“You’re worried about matching a disposable mask to your scrub cap.” You shake your head, smiling more despite yourself.

“Your point?” He sighs when you don’t answer, shrugging his shoulders before gesturing to the break room. “Come on. I’ll show you around. First appointment isn’t for another hour.”

You follow him closely, easily falling into step next to him as he gives you the world’s most earnest tour: where he keeps the good floss, which ultrasonic tips he likes, the drawer system in each room that he organizes by color because “It’s more soothing that way”.

When you make it to the breakroom to put your lunch away, he hurriedly waves you over to what he calls the most important addition to the office: a cabinet above the sink he’s labeled Kakashi’s Emergency Snacks with a label maker he definitely bought for fun.

He pauses as he hears the office staff entering the building and takes a few steps towards where their voices start to carry before turning to you, the smile no longer hitting his eyes. The atmosphere shifting serious.

“You’re going to do great today.” He says. “I’m glad you’re here.”

The sincerity in his voice hits you harder than you expect. You nod, trying not to look flustered.

He tilts his head. “Also, if you want a matching set, clearly I have extras.”

“Extras?” You point to his cap. “It’s not a set if it’s just the mask and I only say the one cap.”

“Oh no!” He walks over to the cabinet he was rummaging in earlier. “I have four more! Five total.”

“Why five?” you laugh as he hands you one, leaving no room for arguments.

“One for every day of the work week.” He looks at you like the answer was obvious.

You’re still laughing when Ino comes down the hallway, a patient chart in one hand, coffee in the other.

“I hope Dr. Hatake hasn’t scared you off yet.” She smiles brightly at you before she hands him the coffee and you the chart. “I don’t know what you drink so you’ll have to tell me tomorrow so I can add you to the morning order.”

“O-oh. Thank you.” You smile and feel Kakashi watching you. The quiet, warm attentiveness in his gaze makes your stomach summersault.

He takes a drink of his coffee, humming in delight. Ino rolls her eyes. You follow him towards the exam room, his subtle muttering to himself drifting to your ears.

“Maybe I should get the teal one next…”

You shake your head as you see flip through the patient chart. A simple wire check, nothing complicated or dramatic. But your pulse still jumps when Kakashi takes the chart from your hands right before you enter the exam room.

“Ready?”

You nod, even though your stomach is doing small acrobatics as you loop the mask over your ears, pressing gently on the metal bridge to secure it better to your face. He steps in the room with that calm, unhurried confidence that makes the room feel steadier.

The patient sits in the chair, chatting nervously as Kakashi settles into his space. He listens, nodding softly before glancing at you as you settle in beside him.

“Can you pass me the .014 NiTi wire?”

You reach for it automatically, muscle memory from school kicking in, but your fingers brush the wrong tray. He notices instantly.

“Ah.” He says softly, tapping the correct tray with a gloved finger. “Color-coded. I organize them by shade.”

“By shade?”

He nods, completely serious. “This one is ‘cool silver’. The other one is ‘warm silver’.”

“They’re… both silver.” You stare, completely perplexed by this side of him that you never saw during your appointments.

“Not to me.” He shrugs, already prepping the bracket. “Warm silver feels chaotic.”

You bite back a laugh. The patient doesn’t even shift, but Kakashi notices the way you had to straighten yourself and the slight shake of your head. His eye crinkles again as he smiles, amused.

He leans in to begin the adjustment, and you fall into the rhythm you practiced so many times in school: suction, mirror, exchanging of instruments. But working besides him feels different than any exam from school. He’s precise, but relaxed. Focused, but quietly playful.

“Can you angle the light just a bit?” He murmurs, his hands working diligently. “I want it right here.”

You adjust it before he even finishes pointing.

“Perfect. You have good instincts.”

Your chest warms. You try not to show it.

He continues working, explaining each step to the patient in that calm, steady voice that makes even the most anxious person breath easier. You watch his hands, sure, gentle, practices, and you feel yourself settling into the flow beside him.

The adjustment finishes smoothly after that. The patient beams at your both before exiting and Kakashi throw his gloves like a basketball into the trash, turning to high five you when it hits the edge before landing in the bin.

“The caffeine kicking in?” You joke and he smiles as he lowers his mask, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Hold on.” He says, reaching into his pocket.

You’re not sure what you expect, but it wasn’t a tiny laminated card on gold paper.

“What’s that?” You blink, tossing your own gloves away before taking it from him.

“My checklist fir wire changes.”

“You laminated it?”

“Of course. It makes it waterproof.”

You try not to laugh, but it’s useless as he looks at you completely serious. He waves you off, standing abruptly.

“Fine. Judge my checklist all you want.”

“Dr. Hatake wait.” You chase after him, still laughing softly.

He shakes his head, grabbing the next chart, and you realize something quietly as you see him glance at you over his shoulder.

Working with him feels right. Natural. Like you’ve finally found your rhythm.

By the end of your first week, you and Kakashi move around each other like you’ve been working together for months. He never says it outright, but you can feel the shift in the way you start to anticipate his movements and him yours. The way he instinctively steps aside just before you reach for a tray, handing you a scaler before you ask, how you adjust the overhead light exactly where he needs it without words.

He’s still odd. Quirky in a uniquely him fashion.

Once you showed him how to add personalized images onto the scrub caps he furiously bought one of every color with his dog Pakkun plastered inside little hearts.

You start to see the quieter parts too by the end of the week. The way he pauses before entering a room, centering himself. The way he listens, really listens, when a patient is nervous. The way he watches you when you’re focused, like he’s memorizing the way you work.

Friday afternoon, you’re cleaning instruments from the day while he charts. You hum under your breath, a song that had been on the radio this morning replaying in your head, and he glances over.

Curious.

“That’s new.” He says softly. The smile no longer hidden behind the mask.

“What is?”

“You’re comfortable enough to hum.”

You freeze, embarrassed. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He shakes his head, logging off the computer before standing. “It’s nice having your voice fill the silence.”

Your cheeks warm. You pretend to focus on the ultrasonic cleaner, but you feel his gaze linger before he walks out of the door. Heading home for the weekend.

Monday he shows up to work with fresh teal masks and you begrudgingly slip in on just to see him smile triumphantly even as the mask doesn’t quite fit your face like the ones from last week.

Tuesday he’s begging you to wear the teal again and swears he can’t perform the tooth extraction without matching his ‘dear assistant’.

The rest of the week mimics more of the same. Kakashi begging you to match and you fighting with the mask to stay on your face the entire procedure.

Finally, Friday comes and you’re adjusting a patient’s suction line when your mask slips, just enough to be annoying. You reach to fix it, but Kakashi is suddenly reaching for you, one gloved hand gently catching the edge of the mask before you can.

“Hold still.” He murmurs and you feel his voice caress you like a velvet blanket.

His fingers brush your cheek as he adjusts the fabric, smoothing it into place with care that feels far too intimate for something so mundane. His touch is light, seemingly profession, but there’s a softness in it that makes your breath catch.

“T-thanks.” You swallow as you meet his eyes, the corners of them crinkling at the corners.

He nods once, then returns to the patient like nothing happened. Your pulse hammering in your chest doesn’t settle for the longest time after that.

Week three you find him in the break room, sitting on the counter because “The chairs in here don’t swivel.” He swings his legs casually, reading instructions on a new curing light the same way one studies ancient scrolls.

He looks up when you enter. “Good timing!”

“Okay?”

He holds up a container and smiles wide, teeth gleaming like they always are. “I brought extra.”

“For me?” You question.

“You forget to eat when you’re focused.” He shrugs, casual.

You tug on your bottom lip for a moment. “How do you know that?”

“I watch you.” He tilts his head and pats the spot on the counter next to him. “Now come eat.”

Your heart stutters.

He hands you the container, something simple but warm and thoughtful. You sit beside him, your legs mimicking his as they dangle like kids hiding from responsibilities.

When you smile wide at him retelling a story from dental school, his arms waving in the air as he reenacts each detail. When you laugh, he looks at you like he’s storing the sound somewhere private.

At one point, your knees brush. Neither of you move.

The end of your first month comes with Kakashi’s monthly cleaning list and somehow all the clerks had wriggled out of it. The office is dim except for the glow of the sterilizer and soft hum of the HVAC.

You’re halfway inside the refrigerator as you wipe it down when Kakashi appears in the doorway, mask off, hair slightly mussed with sweat from scrubbing the floors.

“You work hard.” He says quietly.

“So do you”

He steps into the room, hands in his pockets. “I’ve had assistants before. Hygienists. Good ones.” He pauses, eyes trained on you. “But working with you feels different.”

You stand, tossing the bleach wipe into the trash.

“It feels easy. Almost natural.”

Your chest tightens as he takes another few steps into the room. “I feel that too.”

He nods, relieved in a way that makes your heart ache. For a moment, you stand there in the soft light, the air warm and still. He’s close enough you can see the faint line of tiredness under his eyes, the way his shoulders relax around you.

Kakashi looks at you, really looks, and there’s so much unspoken in his eyes. One of his hands comes to rub the back of his neck.

He’s nervous.

His mouth flounders for a moment like he’s trying to say something before he steps back. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Kakashi wait.”

You were too late, his footsteps were already receding and you hear the door close, leaving you all alone, stomach in knots.

The next morning feels different as you walk in. The quiet hum of the sterilizer making goosebumps prickle across your skin.

You expect Kakashi to be in his usual spot, checking the supplies in his favorite exam room, but he’s not. Instead he’s standing inside the break room, hands in his pocket as he looks out of the window.

When you enter he glances over his shoulder. Something in his expression is different. Tormented almost.

 “Morning.” You say softly.

He doesn’t answer right away, instead turning to fully face you. He studies you. The way your hair is pulled back, the way your lunch hangs off your shoulder, the way you pause in the doorway like you can feel that the air has shifted.

“Can we talk?”

You hesitate. Am I going to get fired? Your pulse jumps. “Of course.”

He steps closer, slow and deliberate, like he’s approaching something fragile. He stops an arm’s length away but it feels like it’s too far somehow.

“Yesterday.” He begins, voice low. “I realized something.”

You wait, heart thudding violently.

 “Well, I guess I actually realized it a while ago. Which is why I asked you to work here.” He looks down at his hands, flexes them once, then meets your gaze. “I’ve been noticing you. More than I should. More than I meant to. The way you work. The way you listen. The way you just make this place feel lighter.”

He pauses, eyes searching yours.

“But most importantly I’ve noticed the way I feel then you’re near.”

Your chest tightens, warm and aching.

“I promise I didn’t plan it when I hired you. I didn’t expect this crush to bloom like some Icha Icha Paradise scene. But this feeling won’t go away. And I don’t want to pretend it’s not there.”

You swallow, barely able to speak. “Kakashi.”

He lifts a hand, slow, giving you the chance to pull away. When you don’t, his fingers brush your cheek. Gentle and careful. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. When his palm settles, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone.

Your breath stutters. The room feels impossibly still.

You lean into his touch. His eyes soften, relief flickering like a quiet sunrise. “I was worried you were going to run away.”

“I don’t want to run away.” You say, voice shaking. “I’ve always been chasing you that I wouldn’t dare run away now.”

His shoulders loosen, tension melting as he looks at you. He drops his hand slowly, reluctantly as he hears movement in the front of the office. The moment still settling between you like something fragile and precious.

“We’ll navigate this carefully.” He smiles his fingers slowly reaching out to brush yours. “Professionally. Respectfully.”

You nod, heart full as he hands you a mask with cartoon teeth printed on the fabric, his expression softer than you’ve ever seen.

“Let’s start here.”

And as he leaves the room to grab the first chart for the day, you touch your cheek, the place where his hand rested, and feel the warmth still lingering.

Kakashi returns a minute later, chart in hand, the tooth mask now snug across his face. When he sees you still standing there, fingers lightly touching your cheek, his expression softens.

“Come on,” He says, nodding once. “Let’s have a good day.”

When you fall into step beside him, the space between you feels settled. No longer uncertain, not fragile, simply mutual understanding. Something new, steady, and yours, beginning now.

[levitonin]

Nightjo wip if anyone cares