[perf1cti0n]

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓:

ᴘᴇʀꜰ1ᴄᴛɪ0ɴ ™️

welcome to my blog! you can call me nara, as in yoshimoto nara (my pfp). i am twenty years old and reviving my passion for writing. this will be a writing blog for all things fiction!

some of the fandoms i will be writing for is anime characters, marvel universe, dc universe (mainly batfam), and any other things that pique my interest.

i only write SFW pieces and will NOT be writing NSFW unless stated otherwise (i will not write full smut). my forte is angst with some fluff and as of right now, i will only be writing about male characters and all of my work will be in fem or gn format.

i will also write upon requests so please don't be afraid to request something! if i am uncomfortable writing about a specific thing that was asked, i will be public about my feelings for writing that specific piece.

thank you all for spending the time to read my about me! if you have any questions or want to talk i am all ears! i hope to interact with you soon! xoxo nara <3

if you want my masterlist, please click here!

banner by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

—

i do NOT tolerate:

bullying of any kind

racism

sexism

homophobia

harassment in any way

any interactions of these on my blog will be blocked and reported!! also minors, please dni with nsfw posts! ageless and minor blogs WILL be blocked if there are interactions with any nsfw content on my blog (reposts included)!

[bfbkg]

coming home from a tiring day and expecting bkg to be up and ready and cooking but to find him on the couch snoozing :(

nom nom nom

for the next move in your relationship with bakugou katsuki, he gave you the key to his apartment. it’s a fancy word, apartment. not flat, not your student shared house you lived in a few years ago or your family home with your tiny bedroom and snacks that will be snatched by your siblings.

your boyfriend’s apartment. it’s a skyscraper bachelor pad which, with the integration of you in his life, has become a home of more. or really katsuki’s house, with mini shrines to you all over it.

your favourite cereal and fruit bars in the cupboards, your favourite biscuits you dip in your tea and the fridge with a tub of the only yoghurt you eat. his living room which before had no blankets, has four. all chosen by you every time you go shopping with him and his inability to say no. then about three books you’re currently reading, your nintendo switch you leave at his house. his bathroom with your spare toothbrush, makeup wipes and a duplicate skincare selection of the one you have at home.

however, even though it might look like you live here for half of your week, your boyfriend still loves to treat you like a guest.

cooking for you every time you come over. fluffing up his cushions so you don’t think he only comes to his apartment to sleep and leaves for work. cleans up, showers, resprays himself with cologne and deodorant.

with all that said, you know what to expect with katsuki, especially when you use his front door key for the first time. no need to knock and wait to hear him rush over to the door, waiting a single second to pretend to look like he didn’t just run before opening the door.

this time, you opened the door yourself and instead of seeing your boyfriend in his kitchen, mixing something in his wok, adding soy sauce somewhere and veggies somewhere else, you can’t see him anywhere. you know he’s home though, he texted you an hour ago to say he would be.

you kick off your shoes and pull off your jacket. dumping your bag on the floor, you wade your way through his apartment.

“katsuki? are you on the toilet?” you call but as soon as you enter his living room, you go silent. a smile springs up on your face instead.

“awe,” you mumble and the feeling you get when you see a cute puppy, a little tiny kitten or a chubby sweet baby, fills up inside of you. warmth and love, everything pink with the urge to squeeze.

this grown ass man was dead to the world. laid out on his cloud ivory L shaped sofa, on his back, chest softly breathing up and down, up and down. in through his nose and out through his lips.

it’s rare you witness katsuki sleeping. he’s always up before you for his work and on weekends when you get to sleep in, he’s always in that half awake stage when if you try and sneak out under him, suddenly he gains all consciousness to drag you back.

the size of him is a shock. to see a man that large resting. he feels like a lion, ready to pounce at any hint of a predator. he’s in his comfy clothes, wool hoodie and grey joggers. both his hands on his stomach, resting over each other like an old man. you coo at the sight of him with no frowns nor is he on the edge of a bark.

you kneel at the edge of the sofa, knowing that if anyone where to see you now, you’d be framed as a loving girlfriend or an utter creep.

you couldn’t care less. you brush katsuki’s damp blonde strands off his forehead, wondering whether kissing his cheek is worth it to wake him up.

until one eye snaps open. bakugou jumps out of your grasp, onto his elbows with a yelp, “fuck!”

he makes you jump too, eyes wide as you watch his cortisol slowly level back to normal.

“it’s just me!”

“shit, i wasn’t expectin’ you to be there.” he lays back on the sofa, forearm over his eyes. sleep causes his voice to be a deep growl, every word delicious. “didn’t even realise i fell asleep, was supposed to be startin’ dinner for ya.”

“it’s okay, you must have been sleepy,” you say quietly, hands back on your lap and bakugou swings his head over to look at you.

he licks his bottom lip. eyes with creases around them, skin stiff but the endearment in his eyes is undeniable.

“how are you, sweets? sorry, i’m outta it.” he reaches for your waist, urging you to sit up next to him on the sofa.

you do eagerly, flinging your body over his like he’s your life boat, head on his shoulder. bakugou wraps his arms around your back.

“i’m fine. you’re such a cute sleeper.”

bakugou scoffs, closing his eyes, “shut up.”

“you are! like a baby, one who’s eating all their meals.”

“yeah?” he entertains.

“hm,” you hum, “wanna kiss all over your sweet cheeks.”

he peels one eye open. one thing about the prohero, he loves your attention. “go on. then i’ll start cookin’.”

you sit up, hands on his shoulders, “we can always order in. you’re clearly exhausted.”

“i like cookin’ for you,” he mumbles when you press your lips onto his cheekbone.

immediately bakugou grins, hands resting on your hips.

“but you don’t have to.”

another kiss to his right cheekbone. then his chin.

“i would rather lay here with you,” he murmurs.

“nice. i’ll look for something for us.”

a kiss on his eyelids, then his forehead.

“proper kiss now.” he pushes, tilting up his chin to keep closer to your face.

“so bossy,” you smirk before pressing your lips onto his.

[soryoru]

Quarterback!Izuku who was not only the quarterback but was the captain of the team since freshman year

Quarterback!Izuku who has a good arm like none of his throws are too low and too high

Quarterback!Izuku who lets you put stickers all over his helmet he doesn’t care if they’re cute or some meme stickers you found online

Quarterback!Izuku who makes u watch all of his practices because he likes showing off in front of you.

Quarterback!Izuku who is also a giant nerd. Cant play sports with low grades

Quarterback!Izuku who takes you out to eat when he’s done practicing. “Sitting there being pretty must be tiring let me treat you”

Quarterback!Izuku who MUST have a kiss before every game. Scrimmage, regular season, nationals? Kisses are mandatory.

Quarterback!Izuku who had to ask his coach for another jersey telling him he “lost it” when in reality he gave you the jersey to wear to all of his games. He really likes seeing you in his number.

Quarterback!Izuku who’s jersey number is 3

Quarterback!Izuku who always had a bad game when you aren’t there. It’s like if you aren’t there watching and cheering him on whats the point of playing?

Quarterback!Izuku who is now a senior and already has so many football scholarships

Quarterback!Izuku who wore the bedazzled cleats you gave him to a game and played the best game in his entire career

Quarterback!Izuku who got in trouble for skipping class to see you

Quarterback!Izuku who tells anyone listening that “My lady is wearing my number”

Quarterback!Izuku who kisses you in his car after driving you home after the game.

with cheerleader!reader

Quarterback!Izuku who likes to watch you practice. He’s overly mesmerized by how you fly in the air with no effort

Quarterback!Izuku who has turned down every single advice from your cheer team to the rivals schools cheer team. He gets sassy with it too. “Aren’t you [names] friend and on HER cheer squad?” or “My beautiful girlfriend is in the stands cheering MY name wearing MY number. I don’t need your good luck”

Quarterback!Izuku who always looks for you on the field after games. He doesn’t celebrate with his teammates, hug his coaches or anything. He finds you and gives you such a loving smile and a very tender kiss

Quarterback!Izuku who likes picking you up at random and loves it when you freak out “The cheer squad picks you up all the time, but I feel like it’s better when I do it. Don’t you?”

Quarterback!Izuku who helps you do your makeup, your hair, and fixes your uniform before pep rallies and before games. Those silent moments mean everything to him.

Quarterback!Izuku who introduced you to his mom after a blow out winning game and she loves you oh so much

Quarterback!Izuku who makes sure that the football team treats not only you but the entire cheer team with the utmost respect

Quarterback!Izuku who likes to watch you practice cheers. He loves it when you’re so focused on something, that look on your face just makes him so happy. He loves watching you indulge in your passions.

Quarterback!Izuku who likes to go over to your house after practice or games just to unwind with you. Showers, cooking, sleeping, even catching up on school work. He likes doing anything when you’re in his presence

Quarterback!Izuku who loves posting you on social media. He posts at minimum 5 pictures of you a day. Even the people who don’t care for football know you guys are dating.

Quarterback!Izuku who vowed to you that no matter what college he goes to he will never leave you

Quarterback!Izuku who asked you to senior prom during the final football game of his high school career. A sign, flowers, candy, he even got the entire cheer and football team involved.

Quarterback!Izuku who always has an arm on you whenever you are together. Waist, shoulders, or just linking pinks he’s there.

Quarterback!Izuku who during the last football game told you “For 4 years you stood by me regardless of the mistakes I made the bad things i’ve done and when I doubted myself so bad I almost quit football, you were there. I cannot describe in just words how grateful I am for having you in my life.” So he gives you a loving kiss in the middle of the field where everyone can see. He doesn’t care. You don’t either. The only thing that matters is the lips on yours.

this is ASS i am SORRY 🫩

art by @/she.sofyee on tiktok !

dividers by @/cursed-carmine!

[riotsgrl]

★ HEAVY | bakugou, k.

pairing: katsuki bakugou x reader

summary: when you’re unable to sleep for the third night in a row, katsuki notices— and takes matters into his own hands.

( OR: your boyfriend fucks you to sleep. )

content: comfort / fluff + SMUT - mdni ! pro-hero!bkg. established relationship. domestic intimacy. implied insomniac!reader — can be read as simply having issues with sleep. some banter. clear consent. soft kissing. slight marking / hickeys. pet names (baby). breast play. spit (on ur clit). dedicated pussy eating. fingering. self doubt/insecurity + praise/reassurance. finger sucking. missionary to mating press. "i love you" during sex. multiple orgasms. overstimulation. cum eating. aftercare. emotional & soft smut with feelings, bkg is very much in love !!! and he doesn’t cum but he dgaf this is abt u. quite some built up before the smut lmao. wc: 6.2k.

note: thinking back to the days i would literally Not Sleep 🚬🚬 also this to me is veery soft dom bkg i like dat ^_^

masterlist. | fic based on this request ! ( thank u anon!! )

The glow of your phone was soft against the tired lines of your face. You scrolled through your feed mindlessly, dry eyes fixed onto the screen, barely lingering on anything for longer than a few seconds.

Dull frustration sat heavy under your skin. 

You couldn’t sleep. Again. And it wasn't for a lack of trying.

You'd taken the medicine, made your attempts— many attempts. Setting your phone down, squeezing your eyes shut, wishing desperately for a soft, peaceful slumber to come find you. 

But it never did.

So, you did what you had done the two nights before this: distracted yourself. Doomscrolled well into the hours of the early morning, when the faint, first rays of the sun filtered through your curtains and you could finally get up and not have to pretend anymore.

It was all you could do, really.

Your weighted gaze dragged over to the time in the top right corner. The bold numbers 3:24 stared back at you like a taunt. You exhaled quietly, temples throbbing.

You should stop.

You should’ve stopped hours ago.

But before you could berate yourself any further, a high-pitched squeak tore through the stillness of the room.

You clutched your phone over your chest in an instant breath caught dead in your throat as the mattress creaked. Your pulse hammered in your ears as the sheets rustled behind you, a tell-tale sign of your boyfriend shifting in his sleep.

With a grunt, Katsuki threw a heavy arm over your waist, turning so that his bare chest was pressed up against your back. The warmth from his skin seeped in through your shirt. He was all encompassing, enveloping you in his dizzying heat.

Swallowing, you prayed silently that you hadn't woken him.

He let out a sigh, the soft sound muffled into the nape of your neck.

You remained as still as you could, fighting to not squirm.

A beat passed, then another.

Your insides melted with quiet relief when he didn't stir, when the rise and fall of his lungs fell in sync with yours— his body giving no indication that he was awake.

With a quiet breath you picked up your phone again, going back to what you what had busied yourself with before he chose to get all cuddly. But when the brightness of the screen decided to assault you, your heart dropped to your stomach, that relief dying in an instant.

You grimaced at the light, fumbling to quickly get it back down to the lowest setting. It had been all the way down this whole time! You must've misclicked, or—

"You're a shitty fuckin' actor."

You could've swore your soul left your fucking body at the gravelly voice against your ear.

"What the fu—"

You didn't get a chance to finish. Katsuki was already reaching over you, guiding your hand with his to set your phone facedown on your nightstand before bringing it back over your middle, rough palm holding your hand over your stomach.

Your shoulders were wound tight as he spoke; voice tired, gruff as always. But, strangely, he sounded calm.

"Third night in a row. You're not sleeping right."

It was less of an accusation, more of a statement.

He gave it to you plainly, straight and simple. But you thought you had been discreet, the mere feeling of being caught was enough to have you opening your mouth, readying your defense, but his next words had it snapping back shut.

"And don't you fucking lie to me 'bout it."

You bit the inside of your lower lip, running over how you could possibly explain yourself without sounding pathetic.

The last few nights had been much the same: restless, spent tossing and turning.

Even when you did manage to fall asleep on the first try, you'd wake up at odd hours, left to stare at the ceiling with burning eyes, unable to quiet your mind, which was simultaneously ever-racing and absolutely empty.

When you thought about it too long, the corners of your eyes pricked. A quiet, defeated ache twisted in your chest.

You didn't want to cry, not over something so menial, so stupid. Not now, not with him watching— expecting an answer from you.

You swallowed back the lump building up in your throat, feeling the slow brush of his thumb over your knuckles.

"Not sleepy."

It came out tight, quiet. Like you were afraid that if you spoke too loud, your fragile attempt at keeping all of that built up frustration inside would fall apart.

You wanted him to give it up, let you be for once. But Katsuki Bakugou was nothing if not stubborn.

With a rumbling sigh, he rolled you onto your back, reaching an arm over you to pull at the chain of your bedside lamp.

You groaned at the sudden light washing over your bedroom, tugging your blanket up over the bottom half of your face as if it could protect you.

Annoyed, you zeroed your squinted eyes onto him, but that angry furrow between your brows weakened as you took in the image of him propped up on one elbow to look down at you. 

The warm, honeyed lamp-light caught the ends of his mess of blond hair. It was unrulier than usual, sticking up in odd directions from sleep.

He was still tired— blinking slowly, as if his eyelids were too heavy. The usual harsh lines of his face looked almost uncharacteristically soft, but his gaze was weighted with something unspoken.

Guilt twisted inside your chest. 

He was awake because of you. On a work night.

You looked away when he finally spoke up again.

"It's 3 AM. Don't bullshit with me." 

"I'm not bullshitting, Katsuki," you reasoned, wishing you could just sink back into the mattress and not have to deal with this. "I'm… this just happens sometimes. Go back to sleep."

You tried to turn your head the other way, but he caught you by the cheek, pushed your face towards him with a firm hand to make you look at him again.

His jaw was clenched tight as he focused in on your face, took in your sunken eyes, the quiet exhaustion dampening your expression.

You knew he hated when you got like this, all dismissive and stubborn, a mirror of him.

"Don't do that shit." He bit out, his brand of harsh concern. "Not with me."

"I'm not doing anyth—"

"Don't be a fuckin' hard ass, alright? Talk."

"I can't sleep! Okay? Is that what you wanted to hear? That I can't fucking sleep? I just can't! I close my eyes, I try... but I can't! And it's—"

You came to a stop the moment you realized the increasing volume of your voice. You reeled back into yourself, embarrassed of your own outburst.

Turning from his hold, you opted to look up at the ceiling, dragging a hand down your face with a deep, shaky sigh.

"Sorry," you murmured. "This is so stupid. But seriously, I'm good."

You didn't spare him a look before turning your back to him with finality, knowing that if you met his eyes — so focused on you, attentive as ever — it would all come pouring over. 

Your throat was tight as you spoke. You hoped he couldn’t tell.

"Sleep, Katsuki. It's late. Don't wanna keep you up, too."

Just when you thought he would give it up, let you deal with this miserable situation by yourself like you always did, he shifted— sat up, pulled back your blanket off of you with a single, harsh tug.

You groaned at the lost warmth, looking at him confused.

"Kats—?!"

He cut you off.

"You tried everything, huh?"

Something about the way he said it — rough and challenging — made your heart spike. He was up to something, but what? You were too exhausted to figure it out, so you offered him a weak answer.

"…Yes?"

"Right."

With one swift motion, he pushed your thighs apart. The outline of his broad shoulders rose from between your legs, thick biceps flexing as he brought your thighs around his waist.

Your legs tightened around him on instinct, bringing him closer as he hovered over you, supporting himself with two steady arms at your side.

You blinked up at him, wondering if he could feel the flustered heat radiating off of your face from being this close.

"W-What're you doing?"

"Helping."

When you continued to just blink back at him at that lackluster answer, a single brow raising slowly, he elaborated with a soft grunt.

"Said you're not sleepy, yeah?"

"… Yeah?"

"Cumming makes you sleepy." all blunt, matter of fact.

Your brows twisted.

"What?" The heat burning your cheeks crawled up to the tips of your ears as your eyes widened incredulously.

It was in his nature to say things as they were, crude and direct, but it still caught you off guard at times, especially over something like this. For someone who got flustered fairly easily, he sure had his moments.

"C'mon. Don't tell me you don't know it." His palm smoothed over your inner thigh, the rough callouses and scars familiar, warm against your soft skin. Careful in a way only you got to see. "Every time we fuck you're out like a light."

"Oh."

"Yeah." he murmured, a little smug. "Tried that?"

You shot him a look. "Obviously not, asshole."

He only chuckled softly, tilting your face up to meet his, kissing the glare right off of your face. His lips moved against yours, slow and intentional.

A soft warmth bloomed behind your ribs as you kissed him back tiredly, letting his movements guide you.

You brought careful hands to rest over his muscled chest, palms slowly sliding up, fingers brushing over the raised, jagged skin of the scar over his heart.

You wrapped your arms around his neck lazily, uncaring that they felt like lead, just wanting him closer to you as your fists curled into the soft hair at his nape.

He pulled back barely an inch, breathing a question against your lips, "You wanna try that?" before kissing you again.

Your brows creased, any semblance of an answer faded into a soft moan against him.

"C'mon, baby," he murmured, pulling back properly this time to kiss up your throat, mouth lingering against your skin.

Baby. He was calling you baby. Because he knew you loved it, knew it turned you to mush— hearing him, always so crude and unapologetic about it, refer to you so sweetly.

A shaky sigh slipped past you as he brought a large hand to the back of your neck, curving it toward him. His kisses turned to gently sucking soft marks and you shuddered, fighting a whine.

"Quit bein' difficult." he huffed, breathe hot against you. "Lemme take care of it."

He brought his face back to watch you like a hound, waiting for your confirmation.

Amidst catching your breath, you contemplated, pursing your lips in thought.

"I… I mean, it doesn't hurt to try?"

It was true, you hadn't tried this 'method' to sleep and part of you was curious whether it would work or not.

But, again, it was a work night, so despite your desperation and exhaustion, you knew that this whole ordeal would get in the way of and the strict schedule Katsuki kept to optimize his health and performance. 

He ate well, took part in rigid physical training; mandatory for the powerhouse of a man that stood at number 5 in the pro-hero rankings.

Like clockwork, he woke up at 6 AM, went out there and worked himself to the bone, put his body on the line, and unless the circumstances were dire (either he couldn’t sleep because of dreams of the past or he had missions that demanded later hours) he turned into bed at 8 PM sharp without fail.

From all the years of knowing, you knew that Katsuki was particular about his habits. 

But amidst your guilt, you were forgetting that he was also particular about you.

You had wormed into his heart, became something of an exception for him in many regards. But you couldn't see that now, not with worry and weariness eating away inside you.

Your half-lidded eyes searched his, a soft crease forming between your brows as you looked up at him.

"... Do you want to, though? I don't wanna keep you up, or… or like make you do thi—"

He cut you off with a scoff, cocking his head in disbelief as if that was possibly the stupidest thing you could have said to him.

"Don't be an idiot, alright?" he pushed closer, nose brushing yours. "If that's the shit you're worryin' about, don't."

His eyes darted down to your mouth, watching as you chewed on your bottom lip, voice lower; softer.

"Always fuckin' 'want to'."

You took in his words, blinking back the small sting in the corners of your eyes.

Katsuki didn't do pity, never did anything he didn't want to. And right now, he had nothing but undeniable want written all over his face.

There was something ravenous behind those irises, that fiery red sharp and determined in a way that had your stomach flipping.

"Okay," you decided with a slow nod, a small smile settling over your face. "We can try."

A self-satisfied smirk stretched across his face before he nodded back, eyes fluttering shut as he leaned down to peck your lips. His hands found your waist, sliding up your sides as he deepened the kiss. 

You gasped slightly as they wandered up under your shirt, rough hands smoothing over the curve of your breasts, feeling the weight of them in his palms— giving them a firm, testing squeeze.

He kept your mouth parted with his, slipping his tongue against yours in a careful rhythm.

You made a muffled sound against his mouth when his thumbs brushed over your nipples, back arching just enough to tell him you wanted more.

Katsuki pulled back, the small string of saliva between your lips breaking as he began to lift up the fabric of your shirt.

"Arms up."

You complied, raising your arms over your head.

Those blazing eyes were narrowed, a subtle furrow forming between his brows— you always thought he looked gorgeous when he was focused, and being the center of that unwavering attention always had your mind spinning.

With a final tug, he pulled your shirt off, watching as your nipples hardened, exposed to the chill of your room.

His eyes locked with yours as he leaned down, pressed a wet kiss to your chest.

Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist as he cupped both your breasts with his hands, took his time pecking around the soft flesh. It was only when you huffed quietly that he chuckled, giving you a long, slow lick over your nipple.

He ran his thumb back and forth over the other, pinching the taut peak between his index and thumb as he sucked one into his mouth, the subtle scrape of his teeth drawing out a small, strangled sound from you as he nipped at your chest.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, keeping him in place.

An involuntary whine slipped past you when he pulled back from your chest with a soft pop, his hot mouth switching to the other, the whole process repeating until you were breathless— gasping incoherent strings of what vaguely sounded like his name, nails raking down the expanse of his broad upper back.

He drew back at last, taking in the picture of you; soft lips parted as you panted, a glistening sheen over your chest, dazed eyes blinking up at him— silently asking for more as they darted between his face and the obvious clothed bulge pressing against your core.

You thought he’d get straight to it, tug down his boxers and give you what he knew you wanted, but it seemed he had a different idea. 

Pulling back between your legs, he lowered himself to your heat slowly, peppering sloppy kisses from your calf down to your inner thighs. When he finally pressed his lips right over your clothed clit, you groaned softly, head sinking back into your pillow.

His tongue peeked out to give your clit a little lick over your panties; warm and slow and wet.

You whimpered, thighs instinctively tightening around his head as you sighed out his name, wanting to melt.

"Katsuki…"

"You're always so pretty, y'know that?" he breathed out before kissing you over the cotton again, watching the damp spot grow darker under the soft amber lamp-light. "Shit drives me fucking crazy."

You drew in a shaky breath, ears burning.

You weren't exactly what you'd call pretty, right now. Your hair was very likely a mess, eyes red and heavy. And up until he had taken it off, all you had on was an old oversized shirt that had seen better days. Your panties weren’t much better; plain, save for the small bow at the center.

But the way he said it still made your heart flutter— as if, despite all of that, you were pretty to him.

You couldn’t gauge how your body looked, what he could see of you, and you were too tired to try and figure it out. But the uncertainty was enough to have you breathing out a small scoff.

"Don't just say that."

The corner of his lip curled back like you had just offended him to the highest degree.

"Y'know I never just say shit." he barked back.

Maybe you had, in a way. Because he really, really didn't. He never said anything he didn't mean when it mattered, especially not to you.

You bit your lip as his finger hooked under the hem of your underwear, his eyes asking you a silent question. 

You nodded slowly, lifting your hips for him. He moved swiftly, slipping off the last piece of fabric shielding you from him.  

He stared down at your bare heat shamelessly. Drank in how your wetness glistened under the soft light, the way your legs twitched slightly as if you were fighting the instinct to close them at his intense, unwavering gaze.

He traced a line down your slit with just a finger, relishing the small sound that drew out of you. His gaze met yours as he parted your folds with two fingers and leaned down, mouth hovering right over your pulsing core.

You watched with shallow breaths, eyes locked with his as he gathered spit in his mouth, letting a hot glob drop slowly onto your pussy. You groaned when he dragged the flat of his tongue over your clit, mixing it with your arousal.

He moaned into you, "Taste so fuckin' good…"

His tongue drew circles around your sensitive nub; so diligent, so thorough.

Like with everything, he gave it his all, didn't quit until he was satisfied. His method tonight was torturous, a slow pace that dragged out each sensation almost unbearably to ease you into that blissed out haze that'd surely knock you out.

He'd barely gotten started, and you were already panting, mind slowly slipping into that pleasure-drunk state.

Your fists curled around the sheets when he sucked your clit softly just to hear your breathy whines, smiling against you as you keened.

Katsuki Bakugou was known for his mouth. Snappy, explosive, unforgiving. It was what had drawn you to him in the first place, how he never held back.

But this mouth was the one only you got to know. Still relentless, unyielding, just a little mean— but it felt like devotion when he lapped at your leaking mess, fingers digging into your plush thighs to keep you in place as you squirmed.

You reached a hand down, let your fingers card through his soft hair before giving it a small tug. That earned you a groan, the deep rumble muffled against your dripping heat.

He licked a long stripe up your slit— wet, sloppy. Piercing eyes watching your face as he found your entrance, fucked you with his tongue before replacing it with two thick fingers, gathering your wetness before slowly pushing them in. 

You groaned as he worked you up to the stretch, pushed them in knuckle deep.

Savoring the stuttering rise and fall of your chest, he slowly started to pump them in and out. Your eyes fluttered shut, head sinking back into your pillow as his fingers filled you up, curling against that familiar spot— a slow, deep pleasure building each time he hit it just right.

You wanted to cave, melt, maybe sob.

You were so close— you could feel it… just a little more…

But… there was this feeling sitting heavy in your chest, winding up tight around your heart.

You made a noticeable attempt to keep your sounds down as your mind began to race again, your focus drifting away from him as a question resounded your head— you should've already finished by now, right?

Katsuki was doing everything right, touching you perfectly, like he always did. He should be done dealing with you. But you hadn't finished yet, he was still going at it.

Your lower lip trembled. Maybe you were too tired, too caught up in your own exhaustion to cum. Whatever it was, something was holding you back. And If you really couldn't finish, then this would all be pointless, wouldn't it? You'd have wasted both of your time for nothing.

Before the worry could fully cloud your head, Katsuki gave your thigh a firm pat.

You looked down with a start; eyes half-lidded, unfocused.

"There you are." He muttered. "Eyes on me, got it? Hell’s the matter?"

Even when he was concerned, his brashness clung to him.

His care was rough around the edges, imperfect, but it was all his intent. He wanted to be careful with you, you could see it in his eyes, how they were just focused and just soft enough for you to detect.

Even if he didn't know exactly how to do it just right, he tried. Because you mattered. You meant something to him.

He lifted his face just enough for you to know you had his attention, stilled his movements and gave your thigh a small squeeze, a silent prompt to tell him what was wrong.

You couldn't look away if you wanted to, even as you felt your eyes sting— not when he was looking at you like that.

You gnawed at your bottom lip; embarrassed, ashamed.

"I can't."

He raised a brow. "Can't what?"

You let out an exasperated breath. 

"Can't… can’t cum. I can't, feel like— I dunno, something's wrong with me, Katsuki, I'm—" 

"Get outta your head." he cut off your babbling sharply. You whimpered when he started moving his fingers again, tongue coming down to drag over your clit at the same time. "Nothing's fuckin' wrong with you. I know you can."

His unshaken confidence in you was enough to draw out a soft groan, but his mouth and fingers working in tandem to build up that tightening warmth inside you again was what had your back arching off the bed, eyes screwing shut as the pressure above your belly wound tighter and tighter. 

That heaviness in your shoulders slowly melted as he picked up the pace, the worry and doubt wrapped tight in your chest loosened and faded steadily, the sweet promise of eventual euphoria taking over your senses.

Quick, shallow breaths escaped your lungs as you brokenly mumbled his name, bucking your hips against his mouth, squeezing around his head with your legs. Your hands found his hair again, pulling without a care as he nearly doubled his efforts.

With a choked out sob, you finally came, the fingers curled in his hair tightening just a bit more one last time before going lax.

You could feel him smiling against your core as you came down; proud, a little cocky, but above all, happy to be lost in the taste of you.

He kissed you through it, mouth unrelenting against your pussy even as your thighs spasmed and trembled, working you down from your orgasm.

With a final kiss over your clit, he finally pulled back, wiping the mixture of his saliva and your slick off the bottom half of his face lazily, like he didn't actually care whether it was there or not.

Shifting, he hovered over you, crimson eyes locking with yours, reading you silently with the same rapt attention he had out on the battlefield.

A light sheen of sweat was cast over his muscled arms at your sides, the highs of his cheeks were flushed a soft pink, spikes of blond hanging messily over his forehead.

"Still with me?"

His voice was gravelly, a smoky rasp. Just a little breathless, but the satisfaction in his eyes told you he'd have it no other way.

You attempted a response, still panting heavily.

"Mhm…"

"Not an answer, baby."

"…Yes. Thank you."

He leaned down to kiss you, you moaned softly at the taste of yourself off of his lips.

Pulling back, he trained his serious eyes on yours. "Don't thank me for that shit."

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize either." You managed a snort at how impossible he was being, but he continued. "Feelin' sleepy?" You hummed. "Yeah. A little."

He blinked once, scanning your face. Then grunted. "Not good enough."

"Katsuki, it's okay, you've done enou—"

"I told you, 'm gonna take care of it. Yeah?"

With his hands on the underside of your thighs, he pulled your legs around his waist, his hardened cock pressing over your still-drooling pussy, hot and heavy despite the single layer of fabric between you both.

Your heart picked up again; voice small, airy.

"Yeah…"

"Gonna let me, right?"

You whined. "But I just—"

"I know," he shushed you, slowly moving his hips, grinding himself against you agonizingly. "You can gimme another."

"Mh…”

Your lips pursed, brows pinched.

It could feel nice. It would feel nice.

You had warmed up to the idea, hips lifting just slightly to push against him as he moved, a quiet, nearly imperceptible motion.

He noticed, like he always did, but still, he wanted to draw it out of you.

"C'mon, gotta say it." his voice was a half-tease, low and coaxing, yet that mocking undertone never left. "Can only do it if you say it."

You groaned, embarrassed heat crawling up your neck.

He always did this—made you say it out loud, full-well knowing how it embarrassed you.

It was as though he lived to see you get heated, got something out of watching your lips curl and twitch in your attempts to fight your own discomposure.

"Can give you 'nother," you practically huffed out. "Jus' fuck me, please. Wanna feel you."

He smiled down at you, pleased with himself, and before you could even think to roll your eyes at that smug expression, he began to shuffle out of his boxers, freeing his aching cock.

He brought it to rest right over your pussy as he settled between your legs.

His eyes said look, and you did, took in his thick length, the angry flush of his leaking head, the precum dripping onto your navel.

He wanted you to see just how deep he would go, wanted you to really take it in. 

You felt yourself get wetter, feeling empty at just the sight— he reached just below your belly button. 

"You ready?"

Slowly, he dragged his tip between your folds. You let out a small, choked sound, nodding as your hips involuntarily bucked up to chase more.

"Uh huh. Please, please."

Katsuki’s abs tensed as he finally positioned himself just right, pushing into your tight warmth with gritted teeth, biting back the moan threatening to slip past.

He took his sweet time, going inch by agonizing inch, all the while your chest heaved as he stretched you out, filled the emptiness that had you aching.

When he finally bottomed out, panting, you clenched around him, whimpering slightly.

He let out a guttural sound; something low, ragged, already wrecked.

"Don't…" he breathed, voice cracking slightly. "Don't fuckin' do that."

"Sorry…"

"Told you not to do that either."

With a shaky breath, he began to move. Careful rolls of his hips, a hand splayed over your stomach as he eased himself in deep.

You stuttered out his name as that same hand moved lower, stopping right where your bodies met, the pad of his thumb slowly rubbing your clit. 

His eyes fluttered as he watched your head fall back against your pillow, panting as he eased into a languid rhythm, angling his hips with each thrust in search of that spot.

When he found it, you keened, toes curling, lips parting as you let out a moan.

"Katsuki…" you dragged out the end of his name, practically whining.

He only grunted, something like a strangled whimper managing to slip past his gritted teeth. "Yeah, I know, I fuckin' know…"

He continued to thrust slowly, pull all the way back out before pushing back in, intense scarlet eyes watching your face twist upon each intrusion.

You didn't notice his thumb had been brushing the plush of your lower lip before he tapped it.

"Open."

That was all he said. He knew he didn't need much for you to listen. You looked down at his hand, then back up, parting your lips on command, the pink of your tongue peaking out on instinct.

"There we go…" He murmured, slipping his index and middle finger into your waiting mouth slowly.

The weight of his thick digits settled over your tongue and you groaned, sucking gently.

"You like that?" He asked, watching your mouth work around his fingers softly, voice low.

He already knew you liked it, knew that it lulled you into a fuzzy, brainless haze. But he loved to see you nod back at him; that pliant, sweet look in your half-lidded eyes as you offered him soft 'mhm' around his fingers.

He fought the moan crawling up his throat, instead letting out a tight a chuckle.

"Yeah, I know you do."

When he pulled his fingers back, you whimpered, but didn't get to dwell on it for long.

He moved to cage you down, supporting himself by the forearms, groaning into your ear as he bucked his hips deeper into you, pace noticeably faster.

You threw your head back. It was so good, perfect even. But you still wanted to feel more of him.

"Closer…" You asked, a quiet whine behind your words. "Closer, please, baby. Need you closer, Katsuki…"

Katsuki loved missionary, you knew this. He loved that it meant he could get close, actually see you— watch as your face twisted from being filled by him.

But on nights when close wasn't close enough, he folded you in half, pressed himself impossibly deeper, brought you closer than you thought you could ever feel.

The second he realized what you were asking for, he pushed the backs of your thighs, pressed your knees up by your head.

You hooked your arms around his neck, he kissed the the hinge of your jaw, breathing desperate words against your neck.

“Fuck, I love you.”

You bit back a groan, feeling him trail sloppy kisses down to your collarbone.

“Y’know that, right?”

You were shaking, letting out breathy moans as he began to suck soft marks into your skin, lost in the feeling— the taste— of you.

Your hands slid to hold the back of his neck, pulling him back carefully. Your nose bumped his as you held his face, felt the sharp curve of his jaw in your palms.

You pulled a hand back to find one of his by your head, you laced your fingers with his, gave his hand a soft squeeze before softly pecking his lips.

"I love you," you murmured the words against his mouth before pulling him back feverishly, moaning into the kiss. "I love you so much."

He picked up his pace at those words, fucking into you desperately, "Can't believe you thought I didn't wanna do this shit…" He panted out.

"Always fuckin' want you, don't y'get it?" his voice was already deep. but now— rough from sleep and want, the rasp made you impossibly wetter.

The sound of your creaking bed and the soft slap of skin against skin faded into the background as he leaned down to kiss you, all messy and raw.

"Tell me you get it." the words heaved out of him, hot and breathy, his lidded eyes met yours, the blistering need behind them setting your skin ablaze.

"I get it," you managed, tugging him closer, holding him against your chest. "I get it, Katsuki, please—"

He groaned by your ear, "Fuck, I know. I got you…"

Suddenly, nothing else seemed to matter. Everything that had weighed on your heart— the frustration, the doubt, the unsureness in yourself. it dissolved to nothingness in the back of your mind— because Katsuki Bakugou loved you. You loved him.

You could feel it all around you; he was everywhere, everything. And part of you felt that was all you might ever need.

With a broken sound, you came, burying into the crook of his neck.

He breathed with you for a moment, held you close, heated sweat-slicked skin against yours. He pulled out carefully, gritting his teeth to bite back a groan.

You were caught off guard when he hooked your thighs over his shoulders, leaned down to lap up your spend— his grip was a vice, absolutely not letting go of you— his fervent mouth moving against your sensitive heat to stimulate you past what you thought was bliss.

You nudged at his face half-heartedly, too tired to even whine; shallow, broken sobs heaved out of you as your thighs twitching around his head.

It was too much, you told him as much. At least, you tried to. You weren't sure if he could make anything out of your nonsensical babbling between whimpers, but you were certain he didn't really care.

When your hands found his hair, you twisted the blond tufts in your fists, letting out a final cry as he pushed you over the edge one last time.

He lifted his head back, lingering for a beat, careful eyes taking you in. Your eyes were shut, relishing the aftershock of your own high as your lungs raced to catch onto air, but more importantly: you were completely fucked out.

With a small kiss to your inner thigh, he got up.

"Where're you going…?” you managed between breaths, feeling his presence on your bed go missing, eyes opening just enough to peek at him.

 “Clean underwear. Water."

"Oh."

"Mhm."

You felt like you might pass out in the best way possible. Your eyes were so droopy, but you tried your best to keep them open.

You traced the line of Katsuki's back as he shuffled through your drawers. Something soft and warm branched out from behind your sternum, spread through your body.

Suddenly, you wanted nothing more than to hold him in your arms. Feel his body curve against yours.

He uncapped a bottle of water from your dresser and held it out for you, watching intently as you sat up shakily and took careful sips.

You handed it back to him, wiping at your mouth as he moved back onto your bed, tugging on a clean pair of underwear over your legs. 

"You shoulda kept goin' Katsuki…" You tried to sound harsh, scolding. But it came out softer than you wanted. "You didn't… y'know…"

He pulled the blanket over your body and his quietly, settling at your side. You watched as he laid his head to rest on his pillow, taking in the familiar lines of his face.

"Don't care." He flicked your forehead. "Think too much and I might have to fuck you to sleep again."

Your lower lip jutted at that, a small flush settling over your face.

Reaching an arm out, you drew him closer to you. Your heart swelled at the familiarity of his warmth, that longing in you satiated momentarily at the feeling.

Your hand found his jaw, thumb brushing over the unscarred side of his face. You always loved that scar on his right cheek, thought it made him look handsome.

A small smile touched your face as you leaned in to press your lips over it, even though his other cheek was much easier to kiss. You liked to do that whenever you got the chance.

"Hey, Katsuki?" You hummed, brushing some of his hair back.

"What?"

Fondness curled inside your chest at his voice; it came quick because it was soft. Because he had softened himself, for you.

"Thank you."

He blinked back at you before, "Tch." then leaning forward to peck your lips.

"Told you to stop doin' that."

You could only chuckle, letting his large hand find the back of your head, pull you down to cradle you against the warm, solid planes of his chest.

"Sleep."

You yawned, smiling as you pressed your cheek closer against his skin.

"I'll make it up in the morning, 'kay?" You mumbled, the thrum of his heart easing your limbs, his strong arms curled around you tighter. "Promise."

Katsuki snorted softly, running a hand up and down your back, careful and soothing as he tucked you under his chin, adjusting the blanket around you to make sure you were properly warm.

"'M sure you will."

masterlist ★ taglist form ★ want to request?

may blabs: hellooo guys

second smut we up 😈 im still learning how to write ts so this was kiiinda stressful… (overthought a Lot) … but it ok we made it 🥹

im not even a petname bkg truther really so idk why i wrote that in but i did. playing with him like he’s my doll lalala

love me some acts of service solution oriented katsuki who’s soft in his own way ^_^ and i like emotions so this was quite fun to write! soft intimate smut… sighs dreamily

bkg not getting to nut lowk a recurring pattern now tho im dead 😭 (will he ever get to bust? stay tuned)

(btw title is from the marías song !!! #peak)

★ IMPORTANT — the amazing art in the header is not mine! unfortunately, i was not able to find the artist to give adequate credit, so this is my disclaimer !! all i did was edit the coloring.

taglist: @kamislop , @yameheartzzz , @aera-777 , @pandalover-valen , @ahallucination420 , @sparkkkyy , @talilosha , @ludic-art-k , @cupiditee , @spidermanlover3000 , @kwonminsoyeon , @lildidi , @annexblogs , @iv-vee , @sheltertoken , @starroll121 , @ipukegiltters , @keijisprettygirl , @sunnyjade4 , @blurpleuni-squid , @claymoreshaze , @chloesfinalproject , @ochaluvr , @5-st4rrr , @updownandbatty , @gaylittleboi69 , @randiiii , @marimars132 , @miminist , @everlasting-everlong , @l3viathanpup , @vr00m-vr00m , @eijiromelissa12 , @thescarlettfiles , @dizzytyrant , @ravenhood2792 , @imstressed17 , @sunnygurl713 , @cattyyyyy , @justamewithherweirdlife , @bakedbeansplease , @whimsycupid , @sleepyknight1225 , @ghoulerbeing , @cinnacai , @wolf-ish , @z444r , @swakoko , @deeplightgarden , @artistic-endchamber 𓂃˖ ࣪⊹

* if you ever wish to be removed from my taglist, no worries ^_^ send me an ask (i wont answer, it will be private!) & i’ll remove u!

[lowkeyremi]

FREAK LIKE ME !

pairing: iida t. x fem!reader note: nobody believes you when you tell them that your very studious bf can in fact, match your freak ! (saw some yummy iida hcs on tiktok and now he's on my mind again. i don't think i've ever written for him though??) content: suggestive, mentions of sex, university au, iida is a nerd LMAO, crack fic in a way??? wc: 1.1k divider by: @strangergraphics

"You can be honest with me. What do you even see in Iida? I love the guy, but I can't imagine him being very good in bed." A very drunk Kaminari asks you for the fifth time tonight. You sigh, turning towards Kirishima.

"Kiri, could you take Kami home? He's drunk." Kirishima nods eagerly, and strangles the blond out of Mina's apartment. He yells goodnight to everyone and tells Mina he'll be back later. She giggles and nods.

By now, the party has died down and there's only a few of you left. Mina of course, because she hosted this gathering, Shinso who had nothing better to do, Jiro who was in charge of music, Urakaka, and yourself.

Mina skips her way over to you having overheard Kaminari's question.

"Honestly, I'm wondering the same thing! Likeeeee is he good in bed?" Somehow you find the question less offending coming from Mina's mouth than Kaminari's.

You throw a teasing smirk her way as you start to pick up red solo cups that have been long forgotten by party goers. "He's better than good."

Mina's mouth hangs open in disbelief, "Really? I can't imagine him being anything but a gentleman."

"That's what a lot of people say." Luckily for you, the topic of your boyfriend is dropped and the five of you clean up the rest of the party with some good tunes from one of Jiro's many playlists.

A groan escapes your lips when you check your phone. It's one in the morning, and all you want to do is shower. You underestimated how long you'd be helping Mina out. It always baffles you how college students seem to have no common sense when it comes to being respectful in someone else's space. Mina's place was a mess after the party.

Putting that all behind you, you unlock your door.

"Hey, baby, I'm back." Tenya's probably asleep you assume, but you call out anyways. He couldn't join you at Mina's party due to his thesis. He's been working so hard at it, and the last thing you'd want is to distract him.

"Hi, love. How was the party?" A groggy voice responds. A smile immediately takes over your face when Tenya pulls you in for a hug. He buries his face into your neck, and you can feel his lips brush against your neck.

"It was fine, the cleaning part sucked, because some people don't know how to act." As soon as you finish your sentence, the crimson eyed man kisses your neck. A gasp leaves your lips.

"Sorry... I just missed you." He pulls away enough to look you in the eyes.

"You don't need to apologize; I was just taken by surprise is all." You grab his hands and give them a little squeeze.

Without a word he scoops you up into his big, strong arms, "Well, shall we take this to bed?"

"What's the occasion? Are you ovulating or something?" You joke. You can hear his socked feet pad on the ground with purpose as he takes you to your shared bed.

"Don't joke, honey. I'm this close to ravishing you." You're at a loss for words when you hear him say that. His voice is dripping in something dangerous.

"Tenya, love, I have work at three so I need to get out of bed." You aren't exactly sure when you went to sleep, but you know for sure you fell asleep during the second round with him.

Tenya kisses your shoulder. The two of you have been a tangled mess of limbs throughout the morning.

"I don't want to keep you from your obligations, but everything about you is purely intoxicating." The man sure has a way with words, because you consider skipping work for a moment.

Another kiss is planted on your very marked up shoulder. As a matter of fact... every part of your body is marked up. You find that very unusual, as Tenya never tries to mark you up, unless you ask, of course.

"I don't think I'll be able to hide these..." You say.

Tenya smiles, "Good, maybe Kaminari will learn how to mind the business that pays him." You perk up at that, the sheets uncovering your upper body in the process. It wasn't the fact that he had used your lingo that you were confused.

It was the fact that he somehow knew about Kaminari's remarks from last night. "How'd you even know about that?"

"He drunkenly texted me early dawn, asking how I could possibly satisfy someone as beautiful as you. Let's just say... I felt the urge to prove that I could."

Your eyes widen in shock. Tenya has never been one to flaunt his bedroom skills, because he believed that it wasn't really anyone else's business. So, hearing that Kaminari provoked him enough to prove him wrong had you aghast.

You let out a small chuckle, "So that's why you were such a hornball when I got back."

His face scrunched up, "'Hornball' sounds distasteful."

"My bad- that's why you were so needy when I got back." He doesn't even indulge in your teasing.

"I'll make something to eat while you get ready." He groans as he gets out of the bed, and reaches for his glasses that he discarded last night when they started to fog up in the midst of your sexual endeavors.

"Thank you, Ten!"

After finishing your closing shift, you decide to join Mina and a few others for dinner. She and Bakugo were cooking so, of course you'd be there. Tenya asks you to bring him a plate, which you had already planned on doing anyways.

"Knock knock!" You yell out into the apartment as you walk inside.

A few 'hellos' echo throughout the place. You take off your shoes at the front door as to not track anything you've stepped on today into Mina's place.

The smell of food overwhelms you to the point that your stomach urges you to hurry along to the kitchen.

Kirishima, Kaminari, and Sero were sitting on the couch watching something, and if your ears don't deceive you, you could hear Izuku snorting in the dining area.

"Hey guys!"

Kaminari spares you a glance before his jaw drops, "What the hell happened to you?" Kirishima and Sero turn their heads to look at you too.

Sero smirks, "I'm pretty sure her boyfriend happened."

"He sure did." You agree with a chuckle.

Kaminari just stares in disbelief, "I didn't think he had it in him."

"I swear nobody believes he's freak. He is crazy about me, dude. All you did was rile him up."

Kirishima howls out in a fit of laughter, and Kaminari goes red at what you're implying.

"My condolences to your body."

"All good, I had fun." You send a smirk his way before walking into the kitchen to make small talk with Mina.

Even after your boyfriend proved he could very much satisfy you, you'd still get the question every here and there as to why you'd date him. It didn't bother you much, because you knew that he was indeed a freak like you.

blue and grey banner by the amazing: @uzmacchiato !

©𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐊𝐄𝐘𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈 All works are written by me! Please do not copy, translate, or upload onto other sites without my permission, thanks! I will also ask that you do NOT feed my work to AI!

[rosesforshoto]

marked in your heart | masterlist

todoroki shouto x reader 𖥧 soulmate au

length: 65k (completed) 𖥧 ao3 link

Some believe that soulmates are destined partners, someone to nurture—to love. Others treat them as an unwanted anchor, a reminder that one can never escape fate.  So where did that leave you? As someone who avoids their soulmate altogether? As someone who fears their soulmate without having even met them? A chance saving from the hot-n-cold hero whose name has followed you since birth. Ideas of peace are challenged, past regrets resurface, and you learn that soulmates may tether you in ways more than a mere mark on your skin.

soulmate mark 𖥧 75% of the population is born with their soulmate’s name inscribed on their skin. The inscription’s hue changes upon first skin-to-skin contact with your soulmate. 

content 𖥧 fem pronouns/afab reader, soulmate marks, pro-heroes, villains, grief, angst, hurt/comfort, avoidance, fluff, pining, yearning, shouto’s kinda a flirt (or tries to be), shouto is mildly good at feelings, noodles, flowers, hospitals, books, reader is a bookstore owner, smut (optional to read)

warnings 𖥧 blood and injury, canon-typical violence, mentions of death, mentions of suicide (reader’s mother), mentions of mental illness, grief, avoidance, overthinking/spiraling thoughts

˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ chapters

1 ─ saving and soba

2 ─ heroes that live

3 ─ oasis of comfort

4 ─ upon a full moon

5 ─ time never stopped, until you came

6 ─ omniscience

7 ─ wherever you are

•ू♡ smut scene ─ takes place in ch7, optional to read

˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ ending author's notes

tag ─ #fic: marked in your heart

before you read: i'm aware that this shouto may not be the most nonchalant boy that we know and love. but i hope you come to like this version of yearning, desperate shouto as much as i do :) happy reading!

july 2025 ─ october 2025

header for chapters under the cut

[kumasakka]

𝓑𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐒

─── ❨ 𝐧. ❩ there is a saying that wherever your beauty marks are , it is the place your past lover kissed you :: beauty marks are his reminders to show you the depth of his love !

content ⸝⸝ jason todd x fem . reader , drabble , fluff , suggestive , 0.76wc 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒

　　"I have another one." you blink slowly.

Eyes set on your inner wrist—another beauty mark. Weird. You've been tracking your beauty marks for a while after noticing the growing amount of them.

"Really?" Jason hums, his gaze fixated on you since the very start, letting it wander around and eventually getting lost on your body, "c'mere."

You follow and make your way to him because you know—know too damn well that he has one goal in mind — to love you eternally and more than you've ever been loved.

Jason had this one habit of being a little competitive, wanting to beat sorts of people and even your lovers in your past life. As silly as this might sound, there is this certain phrase said by too many to comfort, to highlight beauty marks.

Beauty marks are there, where your past lover kissed you — and he fully believes every word of it.

So he made it his mission to litter you with kisses, to pamper you with affection and love that you've never experienced before to know the depth of his feelings.

"You love me so much." you tease, letting him hover above you as soon as you lay down in bed.

"I believe I don't love you enough." he whispers, taking a hold around your wrist to kiss the beauty mark, "can't find myself getting beat by your past lovers, y'know?"

You laugh, corner of your eyes crinkling at his words.

He smiles, lips pressed against your skin.

"For a man of your big age, you certainly believe the silliest sayings."

"It's just my excuse to love you a little more." because he doesn't know another way of showing.

He plants his knee right between your knees, on hand sliding under your neck while letting his lips ghost over your jaw down to your collarbone — starting to nip and lick as if he was possessed.

"Hey... Stop that—!" you let out a shaky breath, heat rushing to your neck where his hand was.

Unfortunately, he doesn't listen. And you know your words are only a mere whisper in the back of his mind.

Too lost in the moment, too intoxicated with you, too infatuated with your bare body—Jason treats you like divinity.

As if your love is the only thing that keeps him grounded, as if you are his absolute one and only — his god, his universe. And he makes sure you feel every moment of it.

He exhales lowly and it fans against your skin, tickling it slightly. He acts as if you're his oxygen, he moves as if you've enchanted him as if he isn't only obsessed with your body but also about your entire soul.

It doesn't take long until he reaches the very end, sitting between your legs and moving his hands with fluidity.

"I feel embarrassed." you whisper, staring up to him and biting the inside of your cheek.

"Don't—please." he murmurs, planting one hand right on your waist and grasping your ankle with the other, raising it into the air.

His lips connects with the beauty mark on your ankle, his eyes never leaving your flustered expression.

"It's unfair—god." the heat getting the best of you.

"I always loved that about you." he hums smoothly.

The hand, that was placed against your hip, now slides down to your thigh and caresses it gently before using his using his other hand to place your ankle right over his shoulder.

"You get so flustered whenever I do the smallest things..." he continues to push the heat and leans down, "reacting to all sorts of acts."

"No—not at all..." you lie and suck in a sharp breath.

A tinge of shyness overcomes you as he dips down to kiss the last beauty mark right on your inner thigh—dangerously close to your most sensitive part.

"Let me get a taste of you, sweetheart."

"You act like a dog..."

"I practically am, grew up on the streets of Gotham." he secures your thigh over his shoulder and guides your hand to his hair.

"Haha, very funny." you can't help but bite back, "my favourite, nasty dog."

"Right—then treat me like that, won't ya?"

Your hand tangles itself within his dark, tousled hair, your fingers curl around the locks.

Jason stares at you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle and your stomach flutter in a funny manner.

He smiles. Not grinning, not smirking. As if he has already won.

"I love your beauty marks." his head dips down, "reminds me that I gotta be fuckin' grateful."

You whimper.

© 2026 kumasakka — do not plagiarize , copy , modify , translate our work ⸝⸝

divider source — @cursed-carmine ⸝⸝

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[beaniesayshi]

second opinion

Your car breaks down right in front of his garage, and you’re already steeling yourself for the usual routine: a sky-high bill, too much time wasted, and a mechanic who barely looks up. Instead, you get Sukuna, who’s so offended by your previous mechanic's scams that he takes it upon himself to teach you enough to make sure it never happens again. Unfortunately for him, fixing your car is a breeze, but getting you out of his head? Not so much.

cw: mechanic!sukuna x f!reader, mostly sukuna pov, sukuna has a crush, yearning sukuna, pining sukuna, sukuna is bad at feelings, kinda slow burn

wc: 10.4k, one shot

notes: based on these two asks: first and second! thank you nonnie for the idea <3

main masterlist ◦ ao3 ◦ sukuna art by @/hunnismokah

It's barely past dawn, and as Sukuna drags the shutters up, the ungodly morning air hits him with a brisk, damp chill, cooling the coffee in his hand. He’s banking on a quiet hour to sort through the mess of inventory, maybe even enjoy the silence, before the first scheduled appointment pulls him away.

Down the road, maybe a hundred meters away, hazard lights blink through the gray mist. A hatchback sits stranded on the shoulder with its hood open. You’re there beside it, looking entirely defeated, with your shoulders hunched as you rub your arms against the biting chill that cuts straight through your jacket. You're pacing in small circles, your breath blooming in white puffs that vanish into the fog.

Taking a long sip of his coffee, Sukuna watches the scene for a beat. It’s obvious that this mess is about to become somebody's problem, and with how close you are to his driveway, that somebody's him. He lets out a resigned grunt, sets the mug aside, and starts the slow, reluctant walk down the slick, dark stretch of asphalt.

By the time he gets to you, you’re prodding at the battery terminal with pure confusion, clearly out of your depth. He stops by the driver’s side fender, his shadow stretching over the engine bay and swallowing up what little light the morning offers.

"Get in and try to crank it," he rumbles, his voice still rough from sleep.

You flinch slightly, nearly dropping your keys, as you turn to find the massive mechanic who’s just materialized out of the fog. Stumbling through a rushed, embarrassed explanation about how the dashboard lit up like a christmas tree before the steering went stiff, you slide behind the wheel, fingers trembling as you twist the key. The engine coughs out a pathetic, sluggish click-click-click before dying completely.

Sukuna leans over and scans the open engine bay with narrowed eyes. He brings his hand down to the alternator, then straightens and wipes a streak of grease off on his thigh.

"Alternator's shot," he diagnoses, pinning you with a flat stare through the windshield. “It stopped charging your battery while you were driving. That's why your steering went stiff, and all those warning lights came on. Battery's flat now."

He glances down the road toward his garage, jerks his chin in that direction, then flicks his gaze back to you, waiting. "Not fixing it out here. I can tow it in and take a look, if you want.”

You blink at him, hesitation suddenly tightening your chest. He's a huge, imposing stranger with eyes that seem to see right through you. You have no clue what his garage charges, and for all you know, he’ll tow your car a few meters and hand you a bill big enough to drain your entire savings account. Biting your lip hard, you look down the foggy road toward the distant city lights, debating whether freezing out here for your usual mechanic is worth it.

"Really?" you ask, your voice thin and cautious.

"You got a better plan?" Sukuna asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. He doesn't look like he's got the patience for a long deliberation this early in the morning.

Your eyes flick from the dead dashboard to the shutters of his garage down the road again. Waiting for your own mechanic could mean hours out here, and you’re already running late. Shoulders sagging, you let out a shaky, resigned sigh and nod. "No, not really. Okay, yeah. Please tow it."

True to his word, ten minutes later your car is hooked up to his truck and rolled right onto his hydraulic lift. He works quietly, hooking up a diagnostic scanner and testing the voltage. You stand on the side, nervously watching him work through the tangle of wires and metal, while the smell of old coolant and burnt oil fills the air.

Finally, he wipes his hands on his coveralls. He glances up, meeting your gaze with a flat, unreadable look before speaking. "Alright. It's definitely the alternator. Parts and labor, you're looking at around two hundred, maybe two-fifty if the belt snapped when it seized up."

He braces himself for the usual routine: the hesitant sigh, the defensive wince, maybe a drawn-out complaint about how expensive car parts are these days. He’s seen it all before, a thousand times over.

None of that happens, though. You just blink at him, completely speechless, like he’s started speaking a foreign language.

"Are you..." You swallow hard, eyes darting between your car and the man in front of you. "Are you undercharging me out of pity? Did I really look that pathetic standing on the side of the road?"

Sukuna freezes, and the rag stops mid-wipe against his palm. He stares at you, his brow knitting into a dumbfounded, deep scowl, entirely derailed by the accusation. "What? No. That's the price of the part and half an hour of my time. I don't do pity discounts.”

"Seriously?" A breathless, half-disbelieving laugh escapes you, as your hand comes up to press against your forehead while you try to make sense of the numbers. "My mechanic charges me a small fortune every time I bring this thing in. Like... last year I paid almost three hundred for an oil change, so I figured something that actually stopped the car from running would be..." You trail off, your eyes wandering up to the underside of a different car on the lift. "Honestly, I have no idea. Just… more."

Disbelief hardens his stare, and a sharp, sudden outrage flares in his chest at whoever’s been fleecing you, quickly followed by a heavy wave of disappointment. He can't quite believe you’d just hand over a small fortune for basic maintenance without so much as a second thought.

"An oil change," he repeats in a low rasp. "He charges you three hundred dollars for an oil change?"

"Well... yeah? And..." Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you wince as your sneakers squeak against the slick concrete. Your hand waves uselessly in the air when you’re trying to remember the items from the invoices you received. "Some other things? He always says there are other things."

Silence settles over the garage, broken only by the steady drip of fluid into a drainage pan nearby, each drop echoing like a ticking clock.

Sukuna tosses the rag aside, leans against the workbench and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes narrow, studying you with a look that grows more troubled by the second, like you’re some puzzle that refuses to make sense.

"You know what those other things were?"

You frown, your shoulders pulling in slightly under the weight of his intense stare. "Not really."

That stare doesn’t budge, flat and unblinking, and it makes you want to sink straight into the concrete floor.

"And you paid anyway."

It's not a question, but a flat statement, paired with a slow, disappointed shake of his head that twists your stomach.

Heat crawls up your neck, embarrassment prickling across your skin. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself defensively, trying to salvage a scrap of dignity. “He’s a mechanic, so like… why wouldn’t I trust him about… mechanic stuff?”

"So you just pay whatever he puts on the invoice?"

After a beat of hesitation, your eyes flick toward the garage exit before you force yourself to meet his gaze again. "I mean..."

The irritation in him doesn’t fade; if anything, it settles in deeper. The more you talk, the clearer it gets that this wasn’t just one bad invoice. It’s a pattern.

"How long you been taking your car to this guy?"

A startled blink, caught off guard by the rapid-fire questioning. "A few years?"

A muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw flexes. "Christ." His arms drop, one hand coming up to rest flat against the workbench behind him. "You don't know anything about cars, do you?"

You open your mouth, ready to stammer out some flimsy defense, but he cuts you off with a sharp, impatient wave.

"No, don't answer that." He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. "I already know." When he lowers his hand, his expression darkens. "And he knows it too. That's the problem." He takes a slow step toward you, his towering height making the small garage feel instantly crowded. "He knows you don't know what you're looking at. He knows you won’t question the invoice. He knows you’ll just nod, pull out your card, and pay whatever number he pulls out of thin air."

His words hit with bruising accuracy, uncomfortable in their honesty. Swallowing hard, you feel the bitter reality of years of being scammed settle like a stone in your stomach. Sukuna clicks his tongue, the sharp, dismissive sound echoing off the concrete walls.

"And he's been taking advantage of it, overcharging the hell out of you.” He shakes his head again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It's disgusting."

—

The last clink of metal fades, giving way to the low, steady purr of your car’s engine. Sukuna lingers, listening to the alternator hum, his attention fixed on the sound until he’s sure everything is running just right. Only then does he cut the ignition and shut the hood.

At the sink, he scrubs at the thickest layer of grease on his hands and forearms, while each pass of the soap gives him a moment to stew. The whole time he’d been working on your hatchback, the audacity of your last mechanic kept simmering in the back of his mind, needling at his sense of professionalism and refusing to let go.

He dries his hands on a clean rag, then heads back to where you’re waiting by the office door. The invoice comes off the clipboard, and he holds it out to you along with your keys.

"Alright, you're good to go," he rumbles, his voice level and calm. "It was just the alternator. Parts and labor came out to two hundred, exactly like I said."

You take the keys and the paper, relief washing over you as your eyes land on the total. Exactly what he quoted. No hidden fees, no sneaky line items, no surprise charges, nothing lurking in the fine print.

Sukuna stands there, his large hands settling loosely on his hips. His gaze flicks from your face to the paperwork in your hands, brow furrowing slightly as he hesitates. Then, the words slip out before he can stop them.

“If you want, you can bring your old receipts by sometime. Dig 'em out of your glovebox or whatever." He clears his throat, the sudden offer surprising even him as it leaves his mouth. This isn’t something he does. He doesn’t take work home, and he sure as hell doesn’t do clerical charity for strangers. Still, he pushes through the awkwardness, keeping his tone flat and businesslike. "I’ll look through 'em and write down what you actually should have been paying for that basic stuff. That way you have a baseline reference sheet next time you go back to your guy, and you'll know if he's trying to pull a fast one."

There's no pressure behind his words. He leaves it entirely up to you, offering a casual favor simply because he despises seeing someone get taken advantage of.

You blink at him, completely caught off guard. You look up to his face, and gratitude cuts through your usual wall of caution.

"Really?" you ask, a soft smile breaking across your face. "You'd actually do that?"

Sukuna gives a short, dismissive shrug, shifting his weight like he’s trying to play down the gesture. "Takes me ten minutes. It's no big deal."

"Thank you. Seriously, that’s... incredibly nice of you," you say, genuinely touched by the gesture. You fold the invoice carefully, tucking it into your purse. "What day would work best for you? I don't want to interrupt your business."

Sukuna rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting toward the calendar tacked to the garage wall as he does the math in his head. "Day after tomorrow," he decides, looking back down at you. "I usually wrap up around six. Come by then. The shop's quiet after hours."

"Six on Wednesday. Perfect," you nod, your smile widening slightly. "Thank you again. I really appreciate you fixing the car so fast, and for... well, everything else. I'll see you Wednesday."

"Yeah," he mutters, his voice dropping a fraction softer as he nods back. "See you then. Drive safe."

He stands in the open bay, watching as your hatchback backs out of the driveway and pulls into the morning traffic. Only when your taillights disappear down the street does he finally let out a low breath, turning back to his tools and wondering what possessed him to volunteer his free time to look at old paperwork.

——

Just like he promised, the shop is mostly quiet when you pull up to the garage on Wednesday. With the bay doors rolled halfway down, the usual street noise is muffled, leaving only the clink of a wrench against metal to let you know he’s still inside.

Pushing open the side door, you’re greeted by the soft chime of the bell overhead. Sukuna appears from the back a moment later, dragging a clean rag over his forearms. His crimson eyes catch yours before flicking down to the stack of papers in your hand and the box tucked securely under your arm.

"You actually found 'em," he rumbles, a faint quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before his expression smooths back into that usual, unreadable mask.

"Every single one I could find." Stepping up to the high counter that separates the office from the shop floor, you set the invoices down and nudge the box toward him, careful not to jostle what’s inside. "And I brought this. As a thank you."

Sukuna glances down at the cardboard box but doesn’t reach for it. He folds his arms across his chest, and his brow instantly furrows into a stubborn, defensive scowl.

"I don't need cake," he snaps, voice blunt and dismissive. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than accepting a gift. "I fixed the alternator, you paid the invoice. We're even. You don't owe me anything."

"It's not cake. It’s an apple pie. And it’s homemade," you counter softly. Before he can get another word in, you reach out and pop the lid open, letting the sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon spill into the grimy, oil-scented room. You shoot him a small, stubborn look that dares him to refuse. "And you're taking it."

For a split second, Sukuna freezes, his eyes darting from the warm pie back up to your face, looking completely out of his depth. The tension drains from his broad shoulders, and he lets out a low, grudging grunt, realizing he’s being difficult for no good reason.

"Fine," he mutters, reaching over. He grabs the box and carries it to the small, cluttered desk in the corner, sweeping aside a stack of part catalogs to clear a spot. Pausing, he peeks into the box again, then nudges a metal stool toward the desk for you with his boot. "Sit down. Let me wash up."

While he heads over to the sink to scrub the grit from his hands, you pull the pie out of the box. Only as you glance around the cluttered office does the realization hit you. You look down at the pie, still warm in its baking dish, then at your empty hands.

When Sukuna walks back in, drying his hands on a paper towel, he finds you perched on the stool, mortification written all over your face.

"Um," you manage, cheeks burning with embarrassment that creeps up. "I just realized... I forgot plates. And forks. I was so focused on getting the pie out of the oven and not showing up late that I didn't even think about it."

Sukuna stops, staring at your flushed face, and a slow, amused smirk tugs at his lips. He opens a filing cabinet, rummages through a plastic bin in the top drawer, and pulls out two plastic forks he clearly hoarded from a takeout order.

"Don't worry about it," he says, dragging a second stool over and settling in beside you. One fork is pressed into your hand, while he plunges his own straight into the pie, breaking off a steaming chunk. "We can eat it out of the dish. Problem solved."

A relieved laugh slips out as you take a bite for yourself. The pie is actually good—better than you hoped and the relief from that is almost dizzying. Watching this massive, intimidating mechanic quietly savor a dessert you’ve made in his own garage fills you with a sudden, unexpected warmth.

A few bites in, Sukuna reaches for the stack of invoices you brought along. He fishes a battered yellow highlighter from the drawer, uncapping it with his teeth, and drags the first sheet closer. Instantly, his whole demeanor sharpens, focus narrowing as he scans the lines of text.

"Two hundred for an air filter?" he mutters, jaw clenching so fast you can almost hear his teeth grind. Flipping the page back a little too sharply, he scans the top of the sheet, eyes narrowing. "When was this?"

"Last… three months, I think?" you offer, leaning in to peer over his elbow, the edge of his sleeve brushing your arm.

"Three months ago," he confirms, voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight register. The highlighter clicks against the paper, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. "I looked at your air filter on Monday when I was checking the belt. There is absolutely no way a filter looks that bad after ninety days of city driving. He didn't even change it. He just wrote it down and charged you for the part."

Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth. Staring at the highlighted line, you feel disbelief crash over you, cold and sharp, prickling along your skin.

"Wait... what? He just... left the old one in there?" You shrink down on your stool, while both embarrassment and genuine offense burn in your chest. "I actually remember sitting in his waiting room for an hour because he said he had to go fetch the specific part from the back warehouse."

Sukuna lets out a sharp, cynical grunt that cuts through the room and makes you wince. "Yeah. He was probably back there taking a nap on your dime." He flips to the next invoice and scoffs loudly. "A hundred and fifty for a 'diagnostic fee'? Your car doesn't even have a complex computer system. You plug the reader in, it takes two minutes. He's padding the numbers because he knows you’re not gonna question it.”

You blink, eyes glued to the number on the page, the math slowly ticking through your head. "Two minutes... for a hundred and fifty...?"

He’s working himself up again, but his eyes keep flicking to you, making sure you’re following every step of his explanation on why it's a scam. He breaks down the mechanics in plain English, laying out the real labor time versus what was billed, and you find yourself keeping pace with him, asking about parts, checkup schedules, and why on earth a single fluid could ever cost that much.

Sukuna’s highlighter hovers over a line, pausing as he takes in the questions you’re firing back at him. Whatever assumption he had about you being gullible is gone now. He sees you're not stupid or careless, just someone who did what anyone would: you trusted a professional because you didn’t have the background to know better. The way you’re sitting here, eagerly learning, determined to protect yourself, earns a flicker of respect in his eyes.

"You're tracking this fine," he says, irritation melting away into something unexpectedly gentle. "You just needed someone to actually layout the baseline for you."

"Yeah," you murmur, smiling a little self-consciously. "Nobody ever really explained it before."

Any trace of your nervousness has vanished. Settled into his office, you absentmindedly swing your legs beneath the stool, taking another bite. Eating straight from the baking tin, you instinctively leave the best pieces of crust for him. It’s a small, polite habit that doesn’t go unnoticed, and Sukuna finds it oddly endearing.

Powdered sugar dusts your thumb as you hold the dish steady while digging your fork in again, and without thinking, you lick it off while scanning an invoice. The gesture is so unselfconscious, so normal, but it catches his attention and draws his gaze to your face.

This close, he can’t help but notice the small things: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you’re focused on the paperwork, the little smile that appears each time you taste the pie, how small you look perched beside him. For a moment, his mind just goes completely blank.

The realization hits him square in the chest—you’re beautiful. And you went out of your way to bake a pie for him.

All at once, the office starts to smell different. The sharp tang of oil and metal slips away, replaced by the sweetness of apple and cinnamon, and beneath it all, your perfume.

You point to a line on the invoice, but his attention drifts to your hand resting next to his on the desk. His own fingers are thick and calloused; yours look impossibly soft and small by comparison. The urge to see how your hand would feel in his is so distracting he nearly loses track of what you were saying.

For a moment, the usually unshakeable and confident mechanic is thrown completely off balance, his thoughts tangling so fast he almost forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. Somehow, he keeps his face neutral, handling the rest of the paperwork with a steady voice, but underneath, panic is already clawing at him. He has no clue how he’s supposed to get your number before you walk out that door.

Hesitation or tentativeness have never been his style. If he wants something, he takes it; if he likes someone, he just tells them. It’s always been that simple. But with you leaning over his desk, a crumb of crust clinging to the corner of your mouth, something unfamiliar creeps in and stiffens his limbs. It isn't shyness—he doesn’t have a shy bone in his body, and he certainly doesn't embarrass easily. Still, this strange, careful caution settles in his bones, making every movement feel intentional and new.

For once, he actually cares about the reaction he’s going to get, and that shift in the stakes makes his usual straightforwardness feel too rough, too heavy-handed for this. The thought that messing this up could mean never seeing you again roots him to the spot, every instinct to act suddenly tangled up in hesitation. His hands feel too big, his words too blunt, and the risk of screwing this up presses in until he feels almost clumsy.

Ideas tumble through his head, each one worse than the last, none of them good enough. Sliding his business card across the desk? Too impersonal, like he’s just angling for another job. Handing over his phone and asking you to put your number in? That’s too aggressive, too much like he’s trying to corner you in his own shop. Even making up some excuse about needing to text you a follow-up on the alternator warranty feels cheap, and the idea of playing a game just to get your number makes him feel ridiculous.

The whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth, every option making him feel more foolish than the last. Frustration builds until his jaw aches from how tightly he’s been clenching it, tension crawling up into his temples. He can’t remember the last time he was this stuck on something so simple.

At last, he forces his jaw to unclench, loosening his grip on the highlighter before setting it down. Glancing around the cramped office, something cuts straight through his frustration. Here you are, sitting in a garage after hours with a man twice your size you barely know, just because he offered to help. You trusted him enough to walk into his shop after closing, carrying a homemade pie as a thank-you that feels so genuine it almost hurts.

The last thing he wants, and the absolute last thing his pride will allow, is to make you feel like he used a professional angle just to corner you. If he pushes for your number now, after spending an hour showing you how vulnerable you’ve been to a scam, it’ll feel like an ambush. It’ll undo every bit of safety you felt sitting next to him and ruin any chance he might have had. The thought hits him like a splash of cold water, cooling his temper.

Drawing in a sharp breath, Sukuna reaches past you for a pen resting on the clipboard. He pulls the top invoice toward him and scrawls his phone number across the margin of the page.

"Look," he rumbles, his voice steady and stripped of the chaos in his head, sliding the stack of paperwork back across the desk to you. "You're gonna have to find a new shop now or keep dealing with that idiot down the road. If he—or anyone else—hands you a quote and it feels even a little bit off, you text a photo of the invoice to that number." He taps his thick thumb against the handwritten digits on the page. "That's my personal cell. I’ll look at it and tell you if they’re trying to rip you off."

Blinking down at the paper, you’re completely oblivious to the war he just waged with himself. The gesture is so unexpectedly kind that warmth blooms in your chest and a soft smile tugs at your lips as you glance back up at him. "Are you sure? I don't want to bother you any more than I already did."

"It's not a bother," he mutters, keeping his face carefully blank even as his pulse hammers a little harder against his ribs. "Just think of it as a backup plan. I can't stand watching people get scammed."

"That… actually makes me feel a lot better. I’ll make sure to save it," you murmur, glancing up to meet his unreadable gaze. The papers fold neatly beneath your fingers before you tuck them into your bag and rise from the stool. "Thank you. Seriously. For the alternator, the invoices, all the explanation and… for the company."

"Yeah," he mutters, his throat suddenly tight as he gives a single, gruff nod. "Don't sweat it."

Once your empty baking dish is tucked back into the box, you offer him one last warm smile that squeezes his chest uncomfortably tight. He pushes himself up to walk you to the door, the bell above your head chiming bright as you step out into the cool evening air.

"Goodnight, Sukuna."

"Goodnight," he calls back, standing entirely still as he watches you walk toward your car.

The warmth lingering in the office vanishes, leaving only a cold, hollow ache in its place. Through the glass, Sukuna watches your car start up, headlights slicing through the dusk as you ease out of the driveway and disappear around the corner. The instant your taillights blink out, frustration slams into him, heavy and relentless.

"Damn it," he barks into the empty shop, slamming his hand flat against the workbench.

Never in his life has he felt this powerless. Control is what he prides himself on—knowing exactly how a machine or a situation will play out because he’s the one steering it. But right now? He’s handed over his only leverage, left the whole gamble in your hands, and the lack of control is enough to make him want to tear his hair out.

He has no name saved in his phone, no confirmation. Nothing. He’s got no way to reach you, which means he’s stuck waiting, and everything now hangs on whether you decide to text. What if you lose that paper? What if the number gets buried in your purse and you forget about it until your car dies again months from now? What if you just think he was being polite and have no intention of ever using it?

The weight of not knowing gnaws at him, driving him to pace the shop floor, muttering curses under his breath for being so damn careful.

Two hours later, fresh from the shower, he sinks into the couch with a cold beer he hasn’t even opened yet. Usually, Sukuna finds the quiet of his apartment a relief after a day spent surrounded by noise, but tonight the silence feels heavy and irritating.

His phone lies face-up on the coffee table. By ten, he’s already picked it up and set it down more times than he cares to admit, each glance met with nothing but the glow of the lock screen and the relentless crawl of minutes. By eleven, frustration curdles into something uglier—doubt.

Doubt isn’t something he’s ever felt before, but alone in the dark, his mind starts tearing apart every second of that hour you spent in his office. The memory of your shoulder brushing his lingers. He can still hear your laugh when you realized you’d forgotten the plates, see how easily you followed his explanations, and how you smiled. He’d been so sure there was something there. He’d bet on it.

But as midnight approaches without a single vibration, his thoughts twist, turning defensive and sharp. Maybe he’d read the whole thing wrong. His brow knots as a heavy, sour thought appears and settles right in his gut. You didn’t feel a connection. You were just being polite, bringing an apple pie to thank a mechanic for doing his job. Sitting on that stool, chatting with him, you were just well-mannered, not interested. He’d blown it all out of proportion, let himself believe there was a spark when, to you, he was just the guy who fixed your alternator and handed out some advice.

—

Sukuna arrives at the shop in the worst mood humanly possible. Sleep barely touched him last night, and whatever patience he might have had for the rest of the world has been ground down to nothing.

Fingers curling around the cold iron handles, he wrenches the shutters up, and metal slams against the top of the frame so hard the glass windows in the office rattle. Not that he gives a damn. His jacket lands carelessly on the hook as he storms inside, and the paper coffee cup hits the workbench hard, sloshing the dark liquid over the plastic lid. It tastes like battery acid, but he drinks it anyway, needing the bitterness to match what’s inside of his chest.

He sets his personal phone right at the edge of the workbench, telling himself it’s just so it won’t get crushed in his pocket while he works. He knows that’s bullshit. Each time he reaches for a tool or crosses the bay for another socket, his gaze flicks back to the black screen, searching for a flicker of light that stubbornly refuses to appear.

Around nine, the shop's cell rings, echoing through the empty bay. Sukuna’s heart lurches, a ridiculous, frantic leap before his brain can rein it in—maybe you lost his number but found the shop’s online. The wrench clatters to the floor as he strides into the office, snatching the phone off the desk with a grip that’s just a little too tight.

“Ryomen’s Automotive," he grunts, his voice a rough, impatient gravel.

"Hey, man, just checking if you got those brake pads in for the pickup?"

Disappointment slams into him right beneath his ribs. His jaw locks, knuckles whitening around the mobile. "Yeah. They’re here. Come get 'em," he snaps, hanging up before the customer can get another word in.

Storming back into the bay, he grabs up his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket, as if that’ll keep the urge to check it all the time. The impact gun roars as he goes after a stubborn lug nut, the booming racket finally loud enough to drown out the chaos in his head. That’s it. He’s done checking. If you haven’t texted by now, you’re not going to. You probably tossed the paper, and he needs to get over it.

By one, Sukuna is elbow-deep in the greasy undercarriage of an old sedan, forearms streaked with black smears, his expression locked in a scowl so forbidding that even the delivery drivers have been giving him a wide berth all day.

He’s just reaching for a torque wrench when his phone vibrates on the workbench.

Bzzzt.

The sudden vibration catches him off guard, freezing him mid-reach. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all, letting the faint clicks of the cooling engine overhead fill the silence. It’s probably just spam, he tells himself. Or some useless data plan alert. Or a wrong number.

Peeling off his gloves, he slides a hand into his pocket, pulls out the phone, and swipes the screen awake. There’s a text from an unknown number—except the first line of the preview makes his chest seize up.

[You]: Hey! Sorry for the late text, I didn't want to bother you last night since it was way too late. Just wanted to send this so you have my contact too. Thanks again for looking through those invoices with me, the pie was a small price to pay for saving my bank account!

OH THANK FUCK.

Relief hits him in a bone-deep wave, draining the tension from his shoulders. He draws in a slow breath as he stares at the words glowing on the screen. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up and register the gap between his own spiraling and your ridiculously polite message. You were just being considerate, that’s all.

Clearing his throat, he uses a clean patch of his forearm to wipe the grease off his thumb before he even thinks about typing. Something clever would be good, something that proves he’s not rattled by any of this, but his fingers feel thick and awkward on the keys. Finally, he settles for something short that won’t give him away.

[Sukuna]: No worries. Pie was great, by the way. Just let me know if you get any more of those invoices.

He taps send, eyes glued to the delivery confirmation, then instantly adds the number to his contacts. Your name appears at the top of the chat, and for the first time all day, a smirk tugs at his mouth, breaking through the hard set of his jaw.

The phone disappears back into his pocket, and he turns to the sedan on the lift, with a jolt of energy running through him. As he grabs his wrench, the reality of the situation hits him from a completely different angle: you texted just to be polite and acknowledge the professional favor, and he just capped his own response by telling you to let him know if you get more invoices, boxing himself right back into being the helpful mechanic. Now what? How is he supposed to ask you out without trampling all over the boundaries you just so carefully respected?

By Friday night, that pitiful text thread on Sukuna’s phone has become a full-blown obsession. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he ignores the bowl of dinner going cold on the counter, his attention fixed on the glow of his screen. The chat is as embarrassingly short as it was the previous day: your polite thank-you, then his own awkward reply about the pie.

With a low, frustrated rumble in the empty apartment, he taps the empty text box. He’s never had to plan a conversation in his life, but suddenly, the weight of actually caring what you think drags every word through mud.

Hey, you free this weekend?

He glares at the five words. The line looks all wrong, like something a teenager would send on a dating app, hovering over his phone, waiting around for a girl he barely knows to throw him a bone. Sukuna is a grown man; he doesn't do vague, open-ended checking-in. And if you say no, or tell him you have plans, that’s it. Conversation over. No way to push back without looking like a desperate idiot.

Worse, you texted him because he'd offered to help with invoices, not because you'd expected him to use your number for anything else.

"Don't be a fucking asshole, Sukuna," he mutters.

With a heavy, irritated sigh, he holds down the backspace key until the box is wiped clean.

Saturday evening drags in after a brutal ten-hour shift, wrestling with stubborn leaf springs and rusted exhaust bolts. As he’s slumped on his couch with a cold beer in his hand, his muscles ache, but his mind is still stuck on the same loop. He pulls out his phone again and opens the chat. All he needs is an excuse—something car-related, since that’s the only ground you both actually somewhat share.

Let me know if that alternator’s making any noise.

His thumb freezes before he can hit send, and he scowls at the message, a sharp spike of professional irritation cutting through the haze. If the alternator was making noise, that would mean he’d screwed up the belt tension. He knows it’s perfect. He checked it twice before you left the bay. Asking about it now is basically calling his own work sloppy, and his pride won’t let him insult himself just to get a text back. With a shake of his head, he deletes the line and takes a long pull from his beer, trying to rework the phrasing, still clinging to the car angle but making it less about his own hands.

Make sure you check your oil this week.

He drags his hand over his face, catching himself immediately. If he sends that, he’s just barking orders at a customer who already admitted she doesn’t know a thing about cars. It sounds bossy, too gruff, and leaves you nothing to say except a flat agreement. 

"What the fuck am I doing?" 

He clears the text box again and tosses the phone face down onto the cushion beside him, ready to bang his head on the wall.

Monday night is the worst. The silence of the last few days feels like a personal insult. Standing by his kitchen window, looking out at the dark street, he’s completely fed up with his own uncharacteristic hesitation. He’s Sukuna. He doesn’t sit around overthinking a three-line message like some awkward kid. Enough. He’ll just give it to you straight, no games or professional excuses. He snatches the phone off the counter and types, fingers jabbing at the screen.

I'm heading to the diner by my shop for lunch tomorrow. Come with me.

He stares at the message, breathing heavier as his thumb hovers over the blue arrow. For a split second, he almost hits it. But then your reaction flashes through his mind—opening your phone and seeing a blunt lunch demand from the mechanic who fixed your car last week, suddenly wondering whether the man who seemed so put-together had been working an angle the whole time.

"No. That's fucking creepy."

He’s completely trapped by his own respect for you, stuck suffering the consequences of having zero organic reason to reach out. He can rebuild a transmission blindfolded, but figuring out how to move a text thread from professional advice to I want to see your face again without being an asshole? That breaks his brain entirely.

A low, bitter curse slips out as he clears the message. He throws the phone onto the kitchen table, furious that one person has managed to jam his gears so completely without even lifting a finger.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

By Tuesday afternoon, the frustration has cooled into a quiet, stubborn determination. Leaning against the workbench during a lull in the shop, he stares at your name in his contacts. One more try to find a middle ground that feels natural but actually gives him an opening.

Found another complaint about that shop online. Thought you’d wanna see it.

Sukuna deletes it before he even finishes the sentence, dragging his hand down his face. Thought you’d wanna see it. He sounds like he’s trying way too hard to find an excuse to talk to you. It’s not a lie, but he’d rather die than let you catch on.

"For fuck's sake."

By Wednesday afternoon, Sukuna’s completely done with himself, and he’s become absolutely insufferable to be around. Leaning against the tool board, he glares at the calendar pinned crookedly to the office wall, his thumb drumming a relentless rhythm against his thigh.

Every scenario he plays out in his head ends with him looking like an idiot. If he’s going to make a move, it has to be on his own terms, in his own space, where he actually knows what the hell he’s doing. Turning back to his tools, he forces himself not to spiral into another round of pointless drafts. Finally, his mind clears—he doesn’t need a smooth pickup line. He just needs a real, professional reason to get you back in the garage. Maintenance. That’s it.

I’m closing up the shop tomorrow around 6. If you wanna swing by, I can show you how to check your fluids and oil so you aren’t just guessing. No worries if you’re busy.

He stares at the message for a moment. There. Completely professional. Nobody in their right mind could mistake that for flirting. Another second passes. Perfectly reasonable text to send a customer.

With that, his thumb slams the send button, heart thudding stupidly against his ribs. The phone disappears deep into his pocket as he turns back to his tools, pulse racing, completely irritated by his own anticipation and already hooked on the slow, torturous wait for your reply.

Meanwhile, you’re at home, finally sinking into the couch after a long day, when your phone buzzes against the coffee table. His name flashes across the screen, and your heart gives a small, unexpected flutter. You read his invitation twice, and a soft smile tugs at your lips. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you tap out your reply, keeping it light and trying to match his tone.

[You]: I'd love to! Need me to bring anything? (I promise I'll actually remember the plates this time if there's food involved!)

Down in the garage, Sukuna’s been organizing the same shelf of oil filters for the last four minutes, trying to distract himself, when his pocket finally vibrates. He freezes mid-reach. He deliberately finishes placing the last filter on the rack, forcing himself to move at a normal pace, refusing to look like a lunatic even to his own reflection. Only then does he step back, dig out his phone, and unlock the screen.

Reading your text, the tight, stubborn knot in his chest unravels all at once. Relief hits so fast it’s almost dizzying, and a rush of heat crawls up his neck. You didn't say no. You didn't find an excuse, you didn't think it was weird, and you explicitly said you'd love to come back. And that little joke about the plates instantly crumbles the remaining walls of his stubborn frustration.

A massive, genuinely victorious smirk spreads across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners as a low, rough chuckle rumbles out of his chest. Energy surges through him, ridiculous and electric, like he’s just rebuilt a blown engine in record time.

Then his gaze snags on that last sentence, and his thumb freezes over the keyboard.

Food. You’re asking about bringing food.

For you, it’s testing the waters for a little more time together. But to him, it's enough to send his thoughts careening straight off the rails of the maintenance lesson and into a chaotic spiral of logistics. Does he buy something? Does he tell you to bring something? If he says no, does that mean you’ll just learn how to check a dipstick and drive away immediately after? He doesn't want you to leave. He wants you back on that metal stool, right where he can see you.

Pacing a short line next to the workbench, he types out a response, frowning as he slams straight into a wall of overthinking that’s completely foreign to him: I’ll grab some burgers. No, that’s too much like a date. Don't worry about food. No, that sounds like he doesn't want to eat with you at all. Or worse, you’ll eat before you come, and he’ll miss his chance entirely.

Frustrated with his own hesitation, he deletes the drafts, grunts, and decides to handle it the only way he knows how: blunt and completely practical.

[Sukuna]: Just bring the car. I’ll order a pizza. Pepperoni alright?

He hits send, tossing the phone back onto the bench with a sharp exhale. The message is demanding, a little aggressive, and leaves zero room for negotiation. Still, it guarantees you're staying for dinner.

A wide grin splits his face as he spins around and surveys his empty shop, eyes scanning the bays with sudden, critical focus. Twenty-four hours. That’s all he’s got to make sure his office looks halfway respectable before you walk through the door.

—

Rolling into the gravel driveway with five minutes to spare, you idle near the entrance just as the side door swings open and Sukuna steps out into the cool evening air. He’s in a plain black tee stretched across his broad shoulders and dark grey sweatpants. The change catches your eye immediately because he looks ridiculously good out of his coveralls. You can’t help but wonder if the wardrobe swap was just a coincidence, or if he actually cared about making a good impression tonight.

He walks over to the front of your car, waving his hand to guide you forward. "Bring it straight into the second bay," he calls out.

Following his gesture, you shift into drive and ease the car forward into the bay. The engine clicks softly when you shut it off, and as you step out, Sukuna’s already at the front bumper, nodding at you.

“You’ve made it," he rumbles, stepping up to pop the latch and lift your hood into place with a practiced, heavy thud.

"Told you I would," you say, glancing over the open engine bay with curiosity. "So, where are we starting? Am I going to get entirely covered in grime?"

Sukuna lets out a low, amused huff, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and pivots toward the rolling tool cabinet. "Not if I can help it."

He reaches into a cardboard box on top of the cart and pulls out a pair of thin, black single-use gloves. His size is impossible to ignore when he steps in close, suddenly crowding the space, and hands them over.

"Put these on first," he instructs, his gaze locking onto yours for a heartbeat. "The alternator's fresh, but everything else under that hood isn’t. No reason for you to ruin your hands."

You take the gloves, smoothing the black rubber over your wrists before looking up at him with a playful smile, tilting your head. "Very thoughtful. I didn't think a tough mechanic like you cared about a little dirt."

"I don't care about it on me," Sukuna mutters. His eyes linger on your hands for a second before he jerks his gaze back down at the engine bay, clears his throat, and points into the tangled mess of metal and hoses. "Alright, come here. We’re skipping the basic fluid check—you’re smart enough to know how to read a dipstick. I want to show you more interesting stuff."

Stepping in close, you slide the gloves over your hands, your shoulder brushing his for just a second. It's barely a touch, but enough to make both of you hyper-aware of the space you share.

"See this belt right here?" Sukuna asks, leaning over the grille. His deep voice drops into a steady, confident cadence as he gets into his element. "This is your serpentine belt. In case someone tells you it’s about to snap, I'll show you how to check the tension yourself, and how to spot actual dry rot versus regular wear."

He tugs on his own gloves, then reaches down. He navigates the cramped space around the engine block with ease, and you find yourself briefly distracted by the contrast between the size of his hands, the precision of the movements, and how gentle they look as he grips the heavy rubber belt. Then, with a twist, he exposes the underside to the light.

"Get your hand in right here," he says, glancing sideways at you, his eyes dark and intense in the low light. "Feel the edge of the rubber. Tell me what you notice."

For the next hour, Sukuna guides you through a standard oil change, patiently talking you through each step. He doesn't do the work for you; he has you reach beneath the chassis with a socket wrench to feel the exact point of resistance on the oil pan drain plug, his hand covering yours to adjust the angle, explaining the difference between a secure seal and stripped threads.

When he shows you a spark plug, he holds the tiny ceramic piece beneath the shop light, pointing out the faint color differences that separate a healthy engine from one that's burning fuel too rich.

All the while, Sukuna stays at your shoulder, keeping you grounded. Each time your gloved fingers falter over a stubborn clamp or an unfamiliar valve, his hand is there, nudging your wrist or guiding it with a confidence that makes it impossible to feel foolish. He answers every question thoroughly without a hint of impatience, pleased with your curiosity. By the time you peel the gloves from your hands, the machinery that once felt so intimidating is just a puzzle you’ve learned how to solve, and the satisfaction settles deep in your chest.

A sudden chime of the office bell cuts through the quiet, shattering the spell. Sukuna pulls his hand back from the engine block, his head snapping toward the front door.

"Pizza's here,” he rasps.

He strips off the gloves, tossing them in the trash before heading to the glass door to pay the delivery guy. You follow suit, peeling yours off and grabbing the plates you stashed in your trunk earlier. Stepping into the dim office, you find Sukuna already setting the steaming pizza box dead center on his desk.

"Look at that," you tease softly, sliding the plates onto the desk. "Real plates this time."

Sukuna glances down at them, and a faint, genuinely amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Fancy," he mutters, eyes flicking up to catch yours for a split second before his hand moves to the cardboard lid. “Bringing the good stuff to a garage."

The moment he flips the lid open, the rich, savory scent of hot cheese and pepperoni floods the room, instantly smothering the stubborn trace of motor oil that still clings to the air. He slides a massive, steaming slice onto your plate before grabbing one for himself. "Eat up before it gets cold."

For the first twenty minutes, conversation just flows easily, and to his immense relief, not a single word about car parts comes up. You ask about the shop, how long he’s been running it, and whether he always wanted to be a mechanic. He tells you how he likes working with his hands, how machines make sense in a way people never do, because if something’s broken, there’s always a reason, and always a fix.

After a while, Sukuna starts tossing questions your way. One answer leads to another, and before long you're deep in a story about that trainwreck project at work and the latest chaos your friends managed to stir up over the weekend. He doesn’t interrupt, his crimson eyes fixed on your face, watching your eyes crinkle with laughter, how your hands sketch wild shapes in the air, and the tiny smile that sneaks out when you mention your friends.

Some part of him is convinced this should be awkward. Or, at the very least, harder than this. But it feels completely natural, and before he knows it, he’s talking more than he ever does. And that’s exactly when the invisible trap closes right back around his throat.

Ask her, his mind orders, the thought landing in his chest with a sudden, heavy thud. Eight words. Do you want to go out with me? Just say the damn words.

You finish your slice and lean back a little on your stool, thumb brushing a stray crumb from your lower lip without thinking.

Do it now. She's sitting right here. She likes talking to you. Just open your stupid mouth and ask for a real date.

Sukuna shifts his weight on the metal stool as his large hand tightens around his napkin.

Don't be a coward. It's a question, not a marriage proposal.

He opens his mouth, but his throat locks up tight. He isn't actually afraid of hearing the word no—he has plenty of pride, but a rejection wouldn't break him. What paralyzes him is the fiercely protective boundary he’s drawn around you in his own head.

And then what? She realizes the mechanic who helped her has been working an angle the whole time?

He’s desperately trying not to abuse the trust he’s built with you. The sheer weight of wanting to keep this clean and respectable for your sake completely jams his gears.

"Hey," he blurts out anyway, his voice a little rough, cutting right through the middle of whatever you were saying.

You pause, blinking at him with curious eyes. "Hm?"

Sukuna freezes as his brain goes completely blank again under your direct gaze. His eyes drop to your mouth, staring at the soft curve of your lips in the dim light of the desk lamp, his mind scrambling for any kind of escape hatch.

For fuck's sake, Sukuna. You've started already. Just finish it.

Instead, his throat stays bone dry, jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek. The words just refuse to come, and the surge of internal fury that follows nearly knocks him sideways.

“Never mind.”

You study him for a long moment, and a small, knowing look flickers in your eyes as you set your crust down on the plate.

"Well," you say softly, with a playful little tilt to your head. "I guess I officially know enough about drive belts now. At this rate, I won't have an excuse to bother you anymore."

The words hit like a bucket of ice water. The thought of you just fading back into the real world, never showing up at his garage again, triggers a raw, defensive panic that steamrolls right over his hesitation.

"You don't need car trouble to stop by," he quickly says.

It comes out too blunt, his voice rough and a little too sharp in the quiet room. He winces inside, bracing for you to pull away, but you just look at him, a soft, slow smile spreading across your face.

"You know," you murmur, your voice dropping into a gentle, teasing tone as you lean just a hair closer over the edge of the desk. "Most people just ask for a date."

Sukuna goes utterly still. The words hang in the air, and the silence that follows is so thick you can hear the faint, steady hum of the fluorescent bulb overhead. He doesn’t answer right away—he can’t. The gears in his brain lock up as he stares at you, completely stunned that you’ve just outmaneuvered him without even trying.

But then the sheer absurdity of it all hits him, and the tension in his chest snaps like a rubber band.

A low, rough chuckle shakes his chest, half frustration, half pure captivation. He drops the crumpled napkin onto the desk, and suddenly his eyes are burning with that hyper-confident heat he’s been holding back all week. The cautious, hesitant mechanic is gone in a blink.

"Yeah?" he rumbles, his voice dropping an octave.

Before you can blink, he closes the distance between the stools. That massive hand of his finds the back of your neck, thick fingers curling gently, thumb pressing into the warm skin along your jaw. His sheer size blocks out the rest of the office, casting you in his shadow as he leans down, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

His eyes drop to your mouth, and the intensity of his stare makes your breath catch.

"Been trying real hard to be polite all week," he mutters with a wicked smirk right against your lips, tracing a slow line along your jaw with his thumb. "But you're entirely right. I'm taking you out tomorrow night."

He pauses, giving you one last chance to pull away if you want to. When you don't move, matching his smirk with one of your own, he closes the last bit of space without a single shred of hesitation.

The moment his lips meet yours, a ragged breath escapes him, a sound so raw it sends a shiver tearing down your spine. He’s been starving for this all week, and the force of it knocks the air from both your lungs.

Sweet vanilla and tobacco from his perfume flood your senses, drowning out everything else. Sukuna tastes exactly like he smells: warm, intense, and utterly intoxicating. Any coherent thought vanishes beneath the rush of it. Your hands find the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers twisting the fabric at his chest and bunching it tight in your fists as you pull him closer. Every bit of hunger he pours into the kiss, you give right back.

Feeling you lean in and your hands on him, a low, gravelly groan rumbles from deep in his chest. His grip at the nape of your neck tightens, thick fingers slipping higher into your hair until they're tangled in the strands at the base of your skull, leaving no room for doubt about how badly he's wanted this. His other hand leaves the desk, sliding up to cup your face, calloused thumb sweeping hard over your cheekbone as he tilts your head back, searching for a better angle.

Slow, insistent pressure parts your lips, and his mouth moves over yours in a rhythm that makes your head spin. The heat pouring off him is overwhelming, swallowing up the entire office until there's nothing left but his lips and the rough drag of his hands against your skin.

Sukuna pulls back just a fraction, barely a breath of space between you, so you can both drag in ragged breaths. Eyes closed, his forehead drops against yours while his chest heaves. But staying away isn’t an option. He leans right back in, catching your lower lip between his, sucking on it with a slow pull that rips a quiet gasp from your throat.

That deep drag is followed by a series of quick, hot pecks—one to the corner of your mouth, another firm press at the center of your lips, and finally a lingering kiss that seals your mouths together all over again.

Every tiny, breathless break just makes him hungrier. He presses in deeper, tongue tracing the shape of your lips, completely taking over the pace. Your heart hammers stupidly against your ribs, your body turning to liquid on the metal stool, kept upright only by the iron grip of his hands. He’s kissing you like he wants to leave a permanent mark, making up for an entire week spent talking himself out of this.

Even when he finally tears his mouth away, he refuses to let you go. His breath comes in short, heavy rasps that tangle with your own, crimson eyes fluttering open to find you—dark, hooded, and completely blown wide as he stares at your swollen lips. His thumb sweeps over your lower lip, wiping the dampness away with a slow, heavy pressure that makes your chest ache.

For a moment, neither of you says a word. The office is silent except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath. His chest rises and falls close to yours, and you can feel the lingering warmth of him, the tension that hasn’t left either of your bodies.

A smirk slowly tugs at the corner of his mouth. He savors the silence every bit as much as the kiss itself.

“Text me your address,” he rumbles, his voice incredibly low and rough. His hand is still tangled in your hair, fingers threaded deep enough that when you instinctively try to lean back and get a better look at him, his grip tightens just enough to stop you. It isn’t rough, but it’s firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his fingers shift slightly against your scalp. “And be ready at seven.”

Blinking up at him through the haze of the kiss, you tilt your head as much as his grip allows, brows lifting as you study him. The corner of your mouth twitches, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

"Pretty sure that wasn't a question, Sukuna."

His smirk deepens as he looks down at you, completely unfazed by your tone. That arrogant confidence in his eyes is impossible to miss now, and somehow it only makes your stomach flip harder.

"Neither was taking you out tomorrow night," he murmurs.

You don’t bother answering. Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his shirt as you drag him down, crushing your lips into his. He chuckles deeply into the kiss as his hands slide from your face to your waist. Before you can think about what he's doing, he's pulling you off the stool and into his lap. Deepening the kiss, you bury your fingers in his hair, drawing a low groan from him that sends a shiver racing down your spine and straight between your legs.

notes:

> sukuna: somebody has been scamming this woman > sukuna: she baked me a pie > sukuna 5 minutes later: i need her phone number or i'm going to lose my fucking mind

sukuna. buddy. my man. my brother in christ.

[ohangeleyes]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[perf1cti0n]

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ MY FAVORITE PEOPLE :: k.nanami

✎ᝰ. based on this tiktok <3

BED time has become a routine your little family adored. dad!kento nanami was in love with what your family has become and his love only grows stronger by the day. he was infatuated with your son. the two of you were the most important things in his life.

“time to wash up before bed!” says kento to your son. though he’s still a blabbing toddler speaking incoherent sentences, he understands fully. your son was just as infatuated with his father was with him.

you carried him for nine months only for him to look exactly like your husband and be in love with him even more. fortunately you wouldn’t have it any other way. they were your two favorite boys. they forever will be.

your son loves bath time. and he loves it even more when kento’s the one bathing him. he would spend hours in the bath if it meant his father would stay in the bathroom with him.

when bath time is over it’s pajamas and lotion time! while bathing your son, kento lets you get unready before tucking your son in bed. but there are some nights where you both feel like being lazy and letting him get some cuddle and screen time with his two favorite people.

you’re in charge on lotion and pj’s while nanami gets himself ready for the night. you read him some silly stories and tickle him in ways that get out his stomach laughter that you love to hear.

once your husband is done getting ready, the three of you snuggle into your bed. and turn the tv on. the second you grow older, the more you shy away from children tv shows but when you become a parent that tv show becomes a statement in your household.

right now the three of you are watching tv and nanami notices that every time he moves his hand or his head away from his son, his little grabby hands move his fathers’ closer to him, eyes still locked on the tv. the two of you notice and laugh together.

this is the perfect little video that you are able to record. your two favorite boys.

you pull your phone out and motion kento to move his head again. your son notices immediately and brings up his arm to gently pull his dad’s head to rest on his shoulder again. kento does it another two times and your son follows directly after.

laughter emerges nanami again and he sprinkles kisses all over his sons face. he has his father wrapped around his little finger. literally.

nanami kento would do anything if it meant his two favorite people in the world were happy and healthy. he loved you both more than words could ever describe.

[perf1cti0n]

♪ VORTEX :: d.grayson

✎ᝰ. and i’m tired of this and the way that it feels

i’m not there anymore, this has never been real

we’re just awful together and awful apart

i don’t know what to do anymore.

THE strain of your relationship has grown bigger as the days pass by. dick grayson is the only person you knew— fully as he was. everything about your relationship was what everyone wished theirs was. until it wasn’t.

maybe it was comfortability and routine or maybe it was resentment and jealousy. but either way you’re stuck. you want to get out so bad. you really do. dick grayson’s time in your life was now over. but you didn’t know how to end things. end it with the person who’s only ever seen you as you.

somewhere along the way, things changed. there’s no more giddy smiles and excited anticipation. nightwing is needed more now than ever. but what blüdhaven doesn’t understand is that dick grayson is needed more now than ever. was he willing to risk his relationship with you to fight crime and save the city? was he willing to risk it all to be the perfect vigilante? was he willing to risk you?

if you were to look back to the beginning of your relationship, dick was able to balance his love life and his hero life. you were so proud of him, so proud of everything he did and everything that he stood for. but along the way you think he lost who he was. right now, you’re stuck loving the version of him you wished he was. you’re stuck loving the version of him that you know he still possesses. you just don’t know why he’s hiding.

dick grayson is now a figment of your imagination. you’re here. he’s here. but your minds are somewhere else. you don’t know how you lost him but you did. and he’s so close to losing you as well. you’re unsure of how long this has been going on. you’re unsure about a lot of things when it comes to your relationship. and at the end of the day, you’re unsure about yourself.

you told yourself you wouldn’t let a man change you. you told yourself you would stand up for yourself if you weren’t being treated right. but where were you now that you’re sitting in bed alone, crying over someone who was an arm’s length away yet felt emotionally a light year away. you felt like you were continuously falling. there was no end.

harsh words soon leave your lips. impenetrable words leave his. it’s a never ending cycle of resentment and pain. what are you doing? this was not the dick grayson you knew. this was not the you, you knew.

it was for sure comfortability and routine. you both knew where you stood. whether that was safe was a question that has been thrown in the air for a while. you both live day by day like roommates. it strains your heart. you both live day by day like roommates. it’s quiet and uneventful.

it was for sure resentment and jealousy. you felt so incredibly lonely. he was annoyed that you felt that way. every argument about reassurance and quality time ended with insecure statements that lasted a lifetime. and yet here you both are, still sleeping in the same bed inches apart. inches that felt so close yet so far. he’s right there. you’re right there. talk to each other. but the night ends with silence.

maybe it was both comfortability and resentment. neither of you would go. you’ve both built so much love for each other and to end it like that would be a nuisance. and yet staying together has proved to be a nuisance as well. there was no running. there was no answer. you’re here with dick, stuck in a never ending loop because it was hard. it was so hard.

having to imagine leaving everything you built from the ground up with dick leaves you sick to your stomach. letting go of everything you’ve ever known leaves you dry heaving at the slammed door. but at the same time, staying with him any moment longer makes you feel angry at the world. being with him makes you hate yourself.

you’re stuck between staying with him and putting on a facade or leaving him and regretting every decision that has led you up to those moments.

at this point you don’t know where you stand anymore. you don’t know what you want anymore. you don’t know what to do anymore.

[minayans]

Gojo Satoru is overly obsessed with his pregnant wifey.

Our pretty boy and his new favorite thing.

It was no surprise to absolutely anyone that Gojo Satoru flaunted anything he could. Not just to show off, but also simply because he could and nobody could stop him.

Money? He had too much of it. So through loud and quiet luxury he flexed: cars, overpriced dress up shirts people couldn't tell apart from a supermarket ones from a mile away, and in many different ways.

Strength? They didn't call him the strongest for nothing. From the moment he won the genetic lottery by inheriting two broken cursed techniques, he was already bound to be the strongest.

Speaking of genetic lottery, his looks? Oh please, that's the first thing you notice about the man even with half of his overly handsome face covered.

However, as of late, Satoru has found his new favourite thing to brag about. His very pregnant and glowing wife.

You didn't plan to get pregnant at all but-- one day, you woke up and waltzed into the kitchen, as usual, looking for your morning fix of coffee. Your shirtless husband was sitting at the counter, piece of half burnt toast hanging from his lips as he scrolled on his phone.

A normal morning it was. That was until he turned around, eyebrows furrowed after feeling your cursed energy off. You were in the middle of yawning, pajama shirt lifting just slightly and exposing your stomach.

Satoru's toast hit the ground with a depressing sound. You raised an eyebrow. "Babe?" Still with your arms over your head.

His hand flew at lightning speed to his blindfold, revealing his wide open eyes under them glued to your stomach. You looked down to where he was looking and noticed the bit of weight you had gained.

You hadn't felt bad about it until now, really conscious under his intense and quiet gaze. By instinct, your hands wrapped around your stomach, hiding it from him.

He choked on his own spit right then and there. "N-NO!" his yell startled you and he immediately apologized, stumbling over his own words.

"Nononono baby, no- you-." - "Spit it out Satoru!" With his six eyes glowing like a lamp post, he happily shouted. "You're pregnant!" - "WHAT!?"

Anyway, that was about three months ago. Now you were currently 4 months pregnant and apparently carrying a baby boy. Up until your second trimester, you hadn't been showing much from when you initially had found out about your pregnancy.

Many visits to your OBGYN were necessary to calm you down from the worries that your baby wasn't growing. But, coincidentally, the week that Satoru had been dispatched to an overseas mission urgently for a week, your belly grew twice it's size.

And when your excited husband walked through the door, so ready to reunite with the loves of his life, but instead was greeted with a very pregnant and glowing wife- the sight he had been secretly dreaming of seeing since he had found out about your pregnancy. He exploded with joy.

Then he became overly clingy. Talking like a maniac, a cute one, but still a maniac to your stomach for hours on end. Giving you routinely massages all over your body (focusing on your legs and stomach because he likes those parts specifically). And showering you with oceans of compliments anytime he caught sight of you.

However, ever since he had finally gotten you a full closet of maternity clothes which in result allowed you to finally leave the house, he has made it everyone's business that you were carrying his baby.

At a bakery, too early in the morning he ordered for you:

"A chocolate chip cookie and a blueberry muffin for my gorgeous pregnant wifey."

The lady behind the counter cringed and you flushed by him, embarrassed. But he was blissfully unaware and too happy so you kept quiet.

Nanami was a frequent victim of Satoru's nonsense.

"Nanamin, serious topic. What sport should I get my son into?" - "I don't care, Gojo." "You should have a daughter so our kids can date!" - "No."

You were trying on a maternity dress at the mall when he barged into the changing room. "Satoru! Privacy!" He ignored you and just gawked at your figure through the reflection of the mirror, then whispered.

"Can I put another baby in you?" As if you weren't pregnant already.

Even though you were expecting, and noticeably so, men didn't stop looking your way. And that pissed your husband off more than anything. He always had to mentally count to a hundred before barking or pouncing on the men who stare too much at you when you were outside.

Shoko never heard the end of it either.

- "No Satoru, she doesn't hate you, she's just carrying your annoyingly heavy baby. I'm surprised she can even get up in the morning with how much of her energy that damn fetus takes from you." And he whined again.

[neossence]

⟡ BOYFRIEND OF THE MOST INTROVERTED GIRL YOU KNOW

"五条 悟 ✶ GOJO SATORU," ◦ ₊ㅤ ﹙　wait, who's gojos girlfriend? The quiet girl at the back of the classroom?　૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა　artist credits: official jjk art　reblog / like 2 support　 ⃘໋ׅ♡　𝑤.𝑐: 1.3k ⁀ ˳ ⟡

♡⏝　⸝⸝　　𝓦ARNINGS ˖　 ❝　　sfw　fluff　crack　she/her pronouns　nanami, haibara, suguru & shoko cameo　reader is quiet & introverted　shy-ish!reader　popular boy!gojo　2006 timeline　reader & gojo are like 17　reader obvi isn't loud and won't appeal to everyone　only tooth rotting fluff　canon compliant au　before hidden inventory / premature death　2nd person perspective　❞

── #⃝ MINA'S NOTES ( 💬 )　literally me and gojo bro　masterlist <3

GOJO SATORU was the it boy of popular boys in the 2000s. 

There's fan pages of him online, teenage girls and boys take pictures with him in the street asking "can I punk my friends and tell them you're my boyfriend?" and how could he say no and stop people from experiencing the awesomeness that is Satoru Gojo. His flip phone is usually set to silent or vibration only, since he often took pictures of himself and uploaded them to Mixi and Nico Niico Douga under his "digimoncutiez639" persona. Blurry photos taken in the Shinjuku nightlife, mostly ones he had forced suguru and shoko to take for him.

junmasamoto4199: "digimoncutiez639 is meccha kakkoii! >_<" Xx_Imblue_xX: "That boy is chou sekushii" tempura2: "*gyaa gyaa . . . i wish he waz my bf  (╥﹏╥)"

The last comment was one he seemed to get a lot, and he didn't exactly reject any of his dedicated fan girls and fan boys, never replying to comments unless the asked for where his outfit was from. He didn't avoid telling people that he was dating you, per say, it was more that… people reacted differently. Almost as if he was lying to them. 

The first time had been almost at the end of his first year at Jujutsu Technical College and 3 weeks after he had officially asked you out. The upperclassmen usually avoided him, put off by the so called "prodigy," but he had finally been able to strike up a conversation with them after the school's athletics carnival had went well. Suguru had kicked the football a total of 3 times and scored one goal, while Satoru had hogged the ball most of their first year match and scored over 10 goals, before Yaga had dragged him off of the field by his ear. 

"Ohhh, right, I saw you get dragged off," Haruto has nodded and yawned, scratching the back of his neck, while Yoshida had hummed. "Yeah, Sawako even wanted us to check up on you, pfft," he snorted before Haruto nudged him to shut up.

"Whaaat? I'm being a good friend," Yoshida scoffed and rolled his eyes with a prideful smile, before his eyes looked over at his tall underclassman again. "Yo, Satoru, do you have a girlfriend?" he asked bluntly, ignoring his friends glares and sighs of embarrassment and awkwardness. 

He had raised a confused eyebrow, before pointing his thumb back at the classroom. He was sure he had kissed you and held your hand on the bleachers that day, did they not see? More importantly, you were literally the most gorgeous and prettiest girl in his eyes, obviously someone as hot as him was perfectly paired with another otaku baddie like you! Pshhhh, maybe they couldn't believe someone like him has been able to pull you.

"Yeah. Her." His thumb pointed back at your figure in the empty classroom.

Yoshida and Haruto had peered into the classroom, only to see… some girl they had never seen before. Plain hair, plain eyes, plain uniform, and a plain you just pressing away at your Tamagotchi. Haruto and Yoshida shared a confused look, before Yoshida clicked his fingers and gasped. "O-oh yeah, that's the girl I was telling you about the other day! You know, the one who walked away when I was trying to ask her for directions?" Haruto nodded, eyes lighting up in recognition, before confusion washed over their faces at the same time.

How does one of the most extroverted and loud boys, fall and date someone like you? Someone who talks in class maybe once a week! someone who’s flip phone is used to play snake while Gojo’s is used to actually… talk to people!

"What?" They had blurted at the white haired student, going on and on about how someone like you should’ve hated someone like gojo, and that you were clearly not meant for each other, and how they were going to tell Sawako that it'd be a waste of her time to pursue Satoru. As if Satoru wasn't right there. His eyes narrowing and upper lip curling in obvious annoyance.

As if he’d let anyone insult you.

"Hey, dumbasses. That's my girlfriend you're talking about," he scoffed at him, pushing past and going back inside the classroom to sit next to you again. 

You had looked over at him curiously, showing him the small screen of your Tamagotchi. "Look, our child is growing," with that casual smile on your face. Satoru blinked, his face straight, before he broke out into coos and awhs, pinching your cheeks and suffocating you in kisses all over your face. "Aghhhh, get off of me! You lunatic!" You had huffed, while he was happily kissing your face all over, "you're such a good mother to our baby dragon! Awhhh, what's the name you chose for him again, my beautiful princess?"

You had huffed, looking a mess before sighing and giving the toy to him. "Sylus."

That day was one of the main reasons that Satoru avoided outright disclosing your relationship, preferring to show it to people instead. 

Nanami didn't need to ask when he finally had enrolled into JJT, as Satoru made it a habit to hold your hand at every chance he got, and kiss your cute face. Haibara, unfortunately, hadn't seen enough or gotten the clue, only seeing how quiet and standoffish you were, and made the brilliant terrible statement when you all were camping in the back of the forest behind JJT for fun. Unfortunately, Haibara had spoken right in front of Satoru fucking Gojo, or Satoru L/N as he'd prefer to be called. 

The fire crackled in the cold dark night, illuminating 6 faces in the forest, as the scent of pine and wet soil drifted through the air. "Y/N and Nanami would make a good pair, wouldn't they? They're so similar!" he had smiled happily and adjusted his hold on the marshmallow he was roasting, not noticing Suguru choking on his spit, Shoko looking up at him and even pausing in chewing her gum. He especially didn't notice Satoru freezing, when he was draping his expensive jacket over your shoulders, cold icy blue eyes glaring holes at the sweet boy's face.

"Converg—" Suguru had jumped to stop and tackle gojo to the ground before he could possibly have killed Haibara. 

After calming Gojo down, mostly by you looking at Gojo as if he was embarrassing you and him whining apologies to you, Haibara had finally been made aware that Gojo and you were dating. "Ohhh, you're Y/N's boyfriend, sorry Satoru, I didn't know," Haibara had chuckled and nodded his head in an apology. 

"We're married," he lifted his hand to show a string you had tied around his ring finger a few minutes ago while fidgeting with him quietly. "We're not married," you shook your head bluntly, correcting him with a straight face.

"Engaged. We're engaged." he nodded proudly and flipped his hair back, all cool and already thinking about wanting to whip out his digital camera and force Suguru to take more shots of him for his fans. "We're 17, Satoru."

"We have a child." "I have a Tamagotchi pet… one that you get jealous of."

"We're madly in love then." He nodded again, not shy or embarrassed after being shut down by you so many times. He waited, Suguru waited, even Nanami waited, wanting to hear you correct Satoru's claim. Only after a full minute had passed, Satoru smirked, a blush on his cheeks as he shrugged, "see, she loves me. Hah," he smirked and stuck his tongue out at Nanami for a split second, knowing the blond man had been doubting him.

That's when he felt your lips press against his cheek. Very rarely did you initiate an sort of romantic gestures, let alone kisses. 

His face had turned beet red, while you were looking at him confused. Blinking blankly, and Suguru laughing loudly in the background. Yes, Satoru did love his girlfriend, more than he loved anyone or anything else, and much to peoples complaints . . .

She was a perfect match for him.

© 𝐍𝐄𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 | do not copy, translate, republish or feed my work into ai.

[perf1cti0n]

♪ VORTEX :: d.grayson

✎ᝰ. and i’m tired of this and the way that it feels

i’m not there anymore, this has never been real

we’re just awful together and awful apart

i don’t know what to do anymore.

THE strain of your relationship has grown bigger as the days pass by. dick grayson is the only person you knew— fully as he was. everything about your relationship was what everyone wished theirs was. until it wasn’t.

maybe it was comfortability and routine or maybe it was resentment and jealousy. but either way you’re stuck. you want to get out so bad. you really do. dick grayson’s time in your life was now over. but you didn’t know how to end things. end it with the person who’s only ever seen you as you.

somewhere along the way, things changed. there’s no more giddy smiles and excited anticipation. nightwing is needed more now than ever. but what blüdhaven doesn’t understand is that dick grayson is needed more now than ever. was he willing to risk his relationship with you to fight crime and save the city? was he willing to risk it all to be the perfect vigilante? was he willing to risk you?

if you were to look back to the beginning of your relationship, dick was able to balance his love life and his hero life. you were so proud of him, so proud of everything he did and everything that he stood for. but along the way you think he lost who he was. right now, you’re stuck loving the version of him you wished he was. you’re stuck loving the version of him that you know he still possesses. you just don’t know why he’s hiding.

dick grayson is now a figment of your imagination. you’re here. he’s here. but your minds are somewhere else. you don’t know how you lost him but you did. and he’s so close to losing you as well. you’re unsure of how long this has been going on. you’re unsure about a lot of things when it comes to your relationship. and at the end of the day, you’re unsure about yourself.

you told yourself you wouldn’t let a man change you. you told yourself you would stand up for yourself if you weren’t being treated right. but where were you now that you’re sitting in bed alone, crying over someone who was an arm’s length away yet felt emotionally a light year away. you felt like you were continuously falling. there was no end.

harsh words soon leave your lips. impenetrable words leave his. it’s a never ending cycle of resentment and pain. what are you doing? this was not the dick grayson you knew. this was not the you, you knew.

it was for sure comfortability and routine. you both knew where you stood. whether that was safe was a question that has been thrown in the air for a while. you both live day by day like roommates. it strains your heart. you both live day by day like roommates. it’s quiet and uneventful.

it was for sure resentment and jealousy. you felt so incredibly lonely. he was annoyed that you felt that way. every argument about reassurance and quality time ended with insecure statements that lasted a lifetime. and yet here you both are, still sleeping in the same bed inches apart. inches that felt so close yet so far. he’s right there. you’re right there. talk to each other. but the night ends with silence.

maybe it was both comfortability and resentment. neither of you would go. you’ve both built so much love for each other and to end it like that would be a nuisance. and yet staying together has proved to be a nuisance as well. there was no running. there was no answer. you’re here with dick, stuck in a never ending loop because it was hard. it was so hard.

having to imagine leaving everything you built from the ground up with dick leaves you sick to your stomach. letting go of everything you’ve ever known leaves you dry heaving at the slammed door. but at the same time, staying with him any moment longer makes you feel angry at the world. being with him makes you hate yourself.

you’re stuck between staying with him and putting on a facade or leaving him and regretting every decision that has led you up to those moments.

at this point you don’t know where you stand anymore. you don’t know what you want anymore. you don’t know what to do anymore.

[perf1cti0n]

♪ VORTEX :: d.grayson

✎ᝰ. and i’m tired of this and the way that it feels

i’m not there anymore, this has never been real

we’re just awful together and awful apart

i don’t know what to do anymore.

THE strain of your relationship has grown bigger as the days pass by. dick grayson is the only person you knew— fully as he was. everything about your relationship was what everyone wished theirs was. until it wasn’t.

maybe it was comfortability and routine or maybe it was resentment and jealousy. but either way you’re stuck. you want to get out so bad. you really do. dick grayson’s time in your life was now over. but you didn’t know how to end things. end it with the person who’s only ever seen you as you.

somewhere along the way, things changed. there’s no more giddy smiles and excited anticipation. nightwing is needed more now than ever. but what blüdhaven doesn’t understand is that dick grayson is needed more now than ever. was he willing to risk his relationship with you to fight crime and save the city? was he willing to risk it all to be the perfect vigilante? was he willing to risk you?

if you were to look back to the beginning of your relationship, dick was able to balance his love life and his hero life. you were so proud of him, so proud of everything he did and everything that he stood for. but along the way you think he lost who he was. right now, you’re stuck loving the version of him you wished he was. you’re stuck loving the version of him that you know he still possesses. you just don’t know why he’s hiding.

dick grayson is now a figment of your imagination. you’re here. he’s here. but your minds are somewhere else. you don’t know how you lost him but you did. and he’s so close to losing you as well. you’re unsure of how long this has been going on. you’re unsure about a lot of things when it comes to your relationship. and at the end of the day, you’re unsure about yourself.

you told yourself you wouldn’t let a man change you. you told yourself you would stand up for yourself if you weren’t being treated right. but where were you now that you’re sitting in bed alone, crying over someone who was an arm’s length away yet felt emotionally a light year away. you felt like you were continuously falling. there was no end.

harsh words soon leave your lips. impenetrable words leave his. it’s a never ending cycle of resentment and pain. what are you doing? this was not the dick grayson you knew. this was not the you, you knew.

it was for sure comfortability and routine. you both knew where you stood. whether that was safe was a question that has been thrown in the air for a while. you both live day by day like roommates. it strains your heart. you both live day by day like roommates. it’s quiet and uneventful.

it was for sure resentment and jealousy. you felt so incredibly lonely. he was annoyed that you felt that way. every argument about reassurance and quality time ended with insecure statements that lasted a lifetime. and yet here you both are, still sleeping in the same bed inches apart. inches that felt so close yet so far. he’s right there. you’re right there. talk to each other. but the night ends with silence.

maybe it was both comfortability and resentment. neither of you would go. you’ve both built so much love for each other and to end it like that would be a nuisance. and yet staying together has proved to be a nuisance as well. there was no running. there was no answer. you’re here with dick, stuck in a never ending loop because it was hard. it was so hard.

having to imagine leaving everything you built from the ground up with dick leaves you sick to your stomach. letting go of everything you’ve ever known leaves you dry heaving at the slammed door. but at the same time, staying with him any moment longer makes you feel angry at the world. being with him makes you hate yourself.

you’re stuck between staying with him and putting on a facade or leaving him and regretting every decision that has led you up to those moments.

at this point you don’t know where you stand anymore. you don’t know what you want anymore. you don’t know what to do anymore.

[perf1cti0n]

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ FAKE:: d.wayne

EVER since you’ve known damian wayne he’s been an enigma. you’d be lying if you said that something about his aura just made him appease to other people. but you didn’t entertain that. you never did. you thought he was a snobby rich kid that always had people at his back and call. you thought he was a stuck up, broody teen with an ego bigger than the sun. and yet people just revolved around him.

that was until you actually got to know him. really know him. your friendship with the boy was quiet. it wasn’t like you two were hiding your friendship. there was just no need to be showing it off. and you genuinely liked that about damian wayne.

in some ways he was that stuck up rich kid with no intel of the real world. but behind all of that, he was someone who truly cares about the people around him, even if he had a hard time showing it. you could see it though, there was a certain glint in his eyes when he talked about his siblings.

you weren’t too close to him. but you were close enough that he would occasionally invite you to the manor. through quiet whispers and quick glances, you understood damian. as nonchalant as he wanted to be, he was very easy to read.

the more he invited you over, the more his siblings pestered. the more they grew to like you.

however your relationship changed when he decided to be a dumb teenage boy with a stupid ego and horrible friends.

at the snobby gotham academy he’s sitting at the lunch table with his friends, watching you a few tables down mingling with your own friends.

“damian, what do you see in her? actually,” asked jon.

“what?” damian tried to act clueless but jon knew better.

he poked his head toward your table, “her. she’s not your type.”

“what are you talking about? and how do you know what my type is?” damian’s eyebrow raised.

“prove it then. go ask her out. i know you’ve been ogling at her.” jon’s got him hooked now.

“what? no.”

“so then why are you always with her? i bet you can’t even get her to date you, wayne. she’s totally not your type.”

damian grumbles to himself, cursing out jon in arabic in his head.

“i do not know what is going through your mind, kent. but i can get her to date me.”

jon smirked, “prove it. go ask her out now. if she says yes, you do my anatomy work for a month. if she says no then i’ll get you lunch for a month. deal?”

damian doesn’t even have time to answer him as he’s already getting up from his chair. it squeaked against the hardwood floor as he got up and trudged his way toward you. everyone’s eyes now on him.

the ego he has on his shoulders is overcrowding his mind and all he can think about is that stupid bet. because he can get you to date him. it was easy. one word then he’ll break it off and he’ll get free lunch for a month. it seemed easy enough. though he clearly did not think about the consequences.

he stops at your table, “you will go out with me.”

you don’t know who he’s talking to. he’s never talked to you like this. but his eyes are dead set on you.

you laugh, “i’m sorry, what?”

“we will date. you are my girlfriend and i am your boyfriend.”

your friends are whispering at each other. they’re all looking at you waiting for your answer. and damian’s ears are turning redder and redder as the moments pass.

“damian, what? what is going on?” this wasn’t the damian you knew.

“…. i like you! i want us to date.” god he was going to regret this in five minutes.

“is this some sort of prank or something?” you’re still confused, sketched out by his sudden behavior.

“no.”

oh.

you liked him. in between the silent looks and the quiet nights reading in his bedroom you grew fond of damian wayne. you liked him. you just didn’t think he liked you enough for that.

“okay. let’s date,” you have a shy smile on your face. so much for keeping your friendship private.

he nods and smiles. you think it’s him being genuine, but really it’s him being victorious.

when he walks back to his lunch table jon is in utter shock. the smile is wiped off damian’s face. it took him five seconds (too late) to realize what he had done. what was he thinking? he couldn’t do that to you. he would never do that to you. and yet he did. all because of a stupid bet and his stupid inflated ego.

—

soon the hallways of gotham academy had begun to empty. safe for the handful of students who had afterschool extracurriculars. the hallway that also contained none other than damian wayne and jon kent.

“dude i can’t believe you actually did that,” jon snickers.

“i understand you cannot believe it jon. can you just let it go now?” damian is tired. tired of thinking about the fiasco that happened. tired of thinking of what he’s going to say to you when he ends up breaking your heart. tired of thinking about what his life would be like without you in it once you found out the stupid thing he did.

unbeknownst to him, you’re listening. you’re in the class next to his locker— the door wide open. the pair are obviously unaware that you are inside, listening to their entire conversation. the second you heard their voices you decided to scare them. that was until you heard.

“no way. you, damian wayne, got some chick to actually agree to date you.”

“like it is hard? i have people constantly at my back and call, jon. i am sure that would happen if i asked anyone that damn question,” he rolls his eyes and shuts his locker.

“well you didn’t ask. you demanded,” jon corrected. just in time for you to come out.

you couldn’t believe him. after all your friendship has gone through these past couple of months he decides to fake it? fake the whole thing? was this just some ploy?

they’re walking the other direction so they’re still unaware you’re behind them. you grab your water bottle and empty the rest of it on top of stupid damian wayne’s head.

jon is just as surprised as he is. no one even dared to touch damian wayne, let alone pour water on top of him?!

he’s fuming when the water hits his head. but the second he turns around his eyes soften.

you’re standing there— water bottle, the culprit, in hand. your eyes are rimmed with tears. face heating up the second you stepped behind him. how could he?

“wayne…”

jon scurries off. he’s too scared to meet the face of the victim. as if he was the one who did the whole thing in the first place.

“hey.. um,” damian starts off.

“you’re actually kidding me,” you sniffle and try to let out a laugh. not a funny laugh no, a laugh of disbelief. of shock.

“so this whole thing was a ploy? was it just something fun for you to do while you get to run free like the little stuck up rich boy you are,” you aggressively wipe your tears on the back of your arm sleeve.

“no, listen. please,” he’s desperate now.

“no you listen. i don’t know what went through your head when you said all of that and pulled the shit that you did but i’m not the one. if you want to be some kind of fake person with a fake persona then be my guest, but i’m not going to be the victim of your games, damian,” the tears have surpassed your eyes but you’re no longer crying.

“you made me feel so stupid.”

“i know but please-,” he tries to reason.

“this friendship should have never existed.”

[choivae]

THE PRESIDENT'S SWEETHEART

summary: satoru gojo is the untouchable, ultra-charismatic president of campus greek life—until a trip to the quiet university library completely short-circuits his brain. now, the smooth-talking frat king is a stuttering, lovesick mess for a quiet stem major who has absolutely no idea who he is.

pairing: satoru gojo x reader

contents: fluff - romantic comedy - college/greek life au - frat president!political science major!satoru - stem major!reader - down bad satoru - mutual pining - featuring suguru, sukuna, choso, and toji as chaotic protective frat bros

word count: 3.9k

a/n: this is my first fic ever, i'm so excited but also nervous!! english isn't my first language so please be kind ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

the music in sigma alpha house wasn't just loud; it was a physical force. it vibrated through the floorboards, pulsed in the soles of everyone's shoes, and made the red plastic cups on the kitchen counters shake.

from his vantage point at the top of the grand, slightly scuffed wooden staircase, satoru gojo looked down at his world. he wore a backwards baseball cap, a vintage bomber jacket with his fraternity's greek letters stitched across the chest, and a smirk that he knew exactly how to use.

he was, without a doubt, the undisputed king of this campus. when elections had rolled around a few months ago, nobody else had even bothered to put their name on the ballot. why would they? satoru had the kind of charisma that felt like a magnetic pull. if he walked into a lecture hall, the energy shifted. if he threw a party, the whole campus showed up.

"hey, prez! catch!"

satoru didn't even look up as a crushed silver can flew toward his head. he simply reached out a hand, catching it cleanly out of the air before tossing it into a nearby recycling bin. he looked over to see suguru geto leaning against the doorframe of the executive office, holding a clipboard and looking thoroughly exhausted.

"the fire marshal is down the street, satoru," suguru called out over the bass, rubbing his temples. "if we get one more noise complaint, sukuna says we won't have the budget to pay the fines."

"relax, suguru. i'll handle it." satoru laughed, throwing an arm around his vice president's shoulders as they walked down the stairs. "the fire marshal's son is a pledge at kappa beta. i'll just promise him vip access to our next tailgate. works every time."

as soon as satoru's sneakers hit the first floor, a wave of voices cheered his name.

"satoru! do a flip!"

"gojo, tell these guys your beer pong record!"

he thrived in it. he floated through the crowded living room like a celebrity, high-fiving the guys and flashing bright, easy smiles at the girls who hovered nearby, hoping to catch his eye. satoru was a natural flirt; it was like breathing to him. he'd lean in close to hear a girl over the music, wink just to watch her blush, and crack a joke that had an entire circle of people laughing within seconds. he was completely, effortlessly in control.

he loved the noise. he loved the crowd. he loved being the center of a universe that he had built from scratch.

as the night bled into the early hours of the morning, satoru stood on top of a sturdy coffee table, raising a cup to a roaring crowd of college students. he felt untouchable. he was satoru gojo, frat president, the loudest voice in every room.

he had absolutely no idea that in less than forty-eight hours, a single quiet room—and a person who didn't care about his title at all—would complete break his composure.

the university library was satoru's personal version of hell.

it was too bright, too sterile, and worst of all, it was dead silent. satoru didn't do silent, he was a creature born for bass drops and shouting over crowds—not the rhythmic, aggressive tapping of laptop keys and the occasional dust-filled cough.

he wandered aimlessly down the narrow aisles of the third floor, dragging his fingers across the spines of old, heavy books. he looked entirely ridiculous. he was still wearing his bright blue fraternity hoodie, but today it felt suffocating.

"i swear to god, suguru, i'm going to use this book as kindling." satoru muttered to himself, squinting at a crumpled sticky note in his hand.

suguru had practically locked him out of the frat house this morning, refusing to give satoru the keys to his own car until he went to the library to retrieve a super-specific, archaic political science reference book for their upcoming chapter presentation. "you're the president, satoru. do some actual work for once," suguru's voice echoed in his head.

but satoru was completely out of his element. the numbering system on the shelves made absolutely no sense to him. was 320.1 before or after 320.09? he sighed loudly, a sound that immediately earned him a sharp, lethal glare from a student three rows over. satoru offered a weak, apologetic peace sign and quickly turned a corner, running a hand through his messy white hair. he was genuinely frustrated. he was satoru gojo; he didn't struggle.

"do you need help finding something?"

the voice was soft, spoken in a hushed, polite whisper, but it made satoru jump an inch off the carpet.

he spun around, ready to flash his classic, thousand-watt presidential smile to charm whoever was bothering him. but the moment his eyes landed on you, the smile died on his face.

you were wearing a little laminated 'library staff' badge pinned to your cardigan. you had a cart of books beside you, and you were looking up at him with a patient, helpful expression. you were completely ordinary compared to the flashy girls who screamed his name at parties, but to satoru, the air in the room suddenly felt incredibly thin.

"uh," was all that satoru managed to say.

that was it. that was the grand opening line from the most charismatic guy on campus. uh.

"i, um," he stammered, his blue eyes widening behind his round sunglasses. he suddenly felt hyper-aware of how tall he was, how loud his sneakers were on the floor, and how fast his heart was suddenly hammering against his ribs. his smooth, unbothered composure didn't just crack—it shattered into a million pieces. "book. i need… a book."

you let out a tiny, amused breath, your eyes crinkling at the corners. "right, most people do. what's the title?"

satoru's hand felt clumsy as he shoved the crumpled sticky note toward you. his fingers brushed against yours for a fraction of a second, and a jolt of pure electricity went straight up his arm. he literally stepped back, his face flushing a furious, sudden pink.

you read the note, unbothered. "oh, the political theory texts. they're actually a floor down in the basement archives. follow me."

as you turned and began walking toward the stairs, satoru followed like a dazed puppy. his brain was in total, catastrophic system failure. he tried to think of something clever to say. usually, flirting was like breathing. he'd ask for a number, make a joke about the quiet rules, wink—something. but as he stared at the back of your head, his mouth felt completely dry. he was terrified that if he spoke, he'd squeak.

you led him into the quietest corner of the basement, scanned the shelves for three seconds, and pulled back a thick, leather-bound book from the top shelf.

"here you go," you whispered, handing it over with a sweet, polite smile. "advanced political structures. good luck with your studies."

"th-thanks," satoru choked out, his voice cracking slightly on the 's'. he gripped the book like a shield. "i'm satoru, by the way. gojo. i run the—"

"nice to meet you, satoru," you interrupted softly, giving him a polite little nod before turning back to your cart. you clearly had no idea who he was, and frankly, you didn't seem to care.

satoru stood frozen in the basement aisle for a solid two minutes, clutching the textbook to his chest, watching you walk away.

by the time he dragged his feet back up to the third floor, he saw you sitting at a secluded corner desk. your shift was clearly over. you had a massive, intimidating stack of organic chemistry and advanced calculus textbooks piled high next to you. you slipped a pair of large, noise-canceling headphones over your ears, completely tuning out the rest of the world as you buried your face in notebook, entirely focused.

satoru stood a few rows back, hiding half of his face behind the political science book. his cheeks were still burning. he looked at the heavy stem books, then at your peaceful face, and then down at his own trembling hands.

he was down bad. he was so incredibly, terrifyingly down bad.

"he's broken." sukuna said.

he didn't look up from the chapter ledger spreadsheet on his laptop, his face set in its usual permanent scowl. he was sitting at the massive, grease-stained kitchen island of the sigma alpha house, aggressively tapping his pen against the marble.

"what do you mean, broken?" choso asked, carefully organizing a mountain of neon-colored philanthropy fliers into neat, perfect stacks.

"i mean he's malfunctioning," sukuna muttered, gesturing with his pen toward the living room. "look at him."

across the house, satoru gojo—the undisputed king of campus, the man who normally couldn't sit still for more than thirty seconds—was slumped on the worn leather sofa. he was staring blankly at his phone, a soft, dopey smile plastered across his face. his legs were draped over the armrest, and he was mindlessly twisting a lock of his white hair around his fingers. he looked like a teenage girl in a 90s rom-com.

suguru walked into the kitchen, tossing a bag of ice into the sink, and groaned at the sight. "he's been like that since tuesday. i told him to go to the library to get one reference book, and he came back looking like he'd been hit like a truck. he hasn't yelled 'let's go!' once today."

"maybe he's sick?" choso suggested, looking genuinely worried. "should i make him soup?"

from the hallway, toji walked in, wearing a tank top, holding a protein shaker, and looking entirely too old to be hanging out at a frat house. he took one look at satoru, let out a loud, mocking laugh, and raided the fridge. "he's not sick, idiots. he's whipped."

"whipped?" suguru blinked. "by who? satoru flirts with everyone, but he doesn't actually date."

and that was the truth. but as the week rolled on, the signs became impossible to ignore.

the real crisis happened on friday night. the sigma alpha house was absolutely packed for their mid-semester banger. the bass was rattling the windows, the strobe lights were cutting through the sweaty air, and a group of girls from the top sorority campus were practically begging satoru to come take a group photo with them.

normally, satoru would be right in the middle of it, posing, laughing, and being the life of the party.

instead, he was standing near the back door, completely ignoring three different girls trying to spark a conversation with him. his eyes kept darting to his phone screen. when a girl playfully touched his arm, satoru actually stepped back, nervously clearing his throat and checking his watch.

"uh, sorry, i actually gotta… go check on the breaker in the basement. yeah. fun party, though!" he stammered, offering a painfully awkward thumbs-up before slipping through the back door.

suguru watched the entire exchange from the bar, his jaw dropping. "did satoru gojo just reject a girl to go look at a circuit breaker?"

"he didn't go to the basement," sukuna said, appearing over suguru's shoulder like a vengeful spirit, his eyes narrowed as he watched the back exit. "the basement door is on the other side of the house. he just left the property."

by saturday night, the situation had reached a boiling point. the frat house was in full swing again, a line of students stretching down the block just to get in. inside, the crowd was chanting.

"prez! prez! prez! prez!"

they wanted him to do his traditional, chaotic speech from the top of the staircase to officially kick off the night. suguru ran up to satoru's room and slammed the door open.

"satoru, you're up, get down—"

the room was empty. the bed was made, the window was cracked open, and satoru's signature sigma alpha bomber jacket was hanging neatly in the closet. the president had completely abandoned ship on the biggest night of the semester.

suguru marched back down the stairs, his face deadpan as he approached the rest of the executive board gathered by the kitchen.

"he's gone." suguru announced.

toji grinned, slamming his protein shaker on the counter. "that's it. grab your jackets, boys. we're tracking the idiot."

"i'll bring the car," choso said, instantly protective. "if someone is blackmailing our president, i will handle it."

"i don't care who she is," sukuna growled, grabbing his keys with an irritated sigh. "but she's ruining our social calendar, and i'm going to personally tell her off."

the gps on suguru's phone led them far away from the chaotic neon lights of their street and straight into the quiet, historic district of the campus town.

sukuna parked his black suv across the street from a tiny, brightly lit botanical greenhouse cafe. it was the kind of place that smelled like lavender and expensive matcha—a place satoru gojo wouldn't be caught dead in under normal circumstances.

"there," toji muttered, pointing a thick finger through the windshield. "in the corner by the giant plant."

suguru, sukuna, choso, and toji piled out of the car, ducking behind a row of large, decorative hedges outside the glass windows of the cafe. four of the most intimidating guys on campus were currently crammed together, peering through the leaves like a bunch of terrible secret agents.

and what they saw made their jaws collectively drop.

satoru was sitting at a small wooden table. he wasn't wearing his usual loud street clothes; he was wearing a soft, beige knit sweater that made him look completely approachable. opposite him sat you. you were laughing softly at something, a small plate of pastries sitting between you.

but it was satoru's behavior that caused a literal system error in his brothers' brains.

"is he… holding her purse?" sukuna whispered, his voice dripping with pure disbelief. he was. a small, cute tote bag was slung over satoru's massive shoulder.

"look at his face," suguru breathed, pressing his forehead against a leaf. "he's blushing. satoru doesn't blush. he doesn't even know how to blush."

inside, you reached over and wiped a bit of powdered sugar off the corner of satoru's mouth with a napkin. the fearless, untouchable sigma alpha president instantly turned a shade of red that matched a fire engine. he didn't make a smooth joke. he didn't smirk. he literally tangled his own fingers together, looking down at his lap and stuttering out what looked like a shy 'thank you', his white hair practically glowing in the warm cafe lights.

"he's completely defenseless," choso whispered, clutching his chest. "look how gently he's holding her hand. it's beautiful, i'm so proud of him."

"it's pathetic," toji snorted, though he was grinning like a maniac, thoroughly enjoying the blackmail material. "i'm going to ruin his life with this." he reached for the door handle, ready to ruin satoru's night, but suguru grabbed his jacket collar and yanked him back.

"wait, don't go in yet," suguru hissed, a devious glint in his eyes. "if we catch him now, he'll just make up an excuse. we need more evidence. we're tailing him tomorrow."

sukuna grumbled, but ultimately nodded. they quietly backed away into the night, leaving the president completely unaware that his inner circle had just turned into his paparazzi.

the next morning, the operation began in earnest.

it was a sunday, a day satoru usually spent sleeping in until 2:00 pm to recover from the weekend's parties. but today, at 9:00 sharp, satoru practically skipped out of the sigma alpha house, looking freshly showered and wearing a crisp, neat flannel.

behind him, a dark suv with tinted windows rolled out of the driveway, keeping a precise two-car distance.

"target is on the move," toji deadpanned from the passenger seat, wearing sunglasses indoors just to commit to the bit.

their first stop was the university library's outdoor courtyard. the boys parked and took up positions behind a brick pillar. through a pair of binoculars that choso had inexplicably brought from home, they watched you and satoru sit at a concrete picnic table.

you had your massive, terrifyingly thick organic chemistry textbooks spread out. and satoru? he was actually holding a highlighter, intently reading a textbook right alongside you.

"is… is he studying?" suguru blinked rapidly, rubbing his eyes. "satoru hasn't opened a textbook since freshman orientation. he usually just flashes his smile at the professors or begs me for his notes."

"look closer," sukuna muttered, leaning over suguru's shoulder. "he's not studying. he's been on the same page for twenty minutes. he's just using the book to hide his face because he's staring at her."

it was true. every time you leaned down to write a formula, satoru would peek over the top of his book, a completely dazed, love-struck look on his face. when you suddenly looked up, he panicked, dropped his highlighter, and scrambled to pretend he was deeply invested in a chapter about cell structures.

"isn't that idiot a political science major?" sukuna snapped from behind the pillar, his eye twitching as he watched satoru intensely study a diagram of a plant cell. you laughed—entirely oblivious to the stakeout happening across the courtyard—reaching over to ruffle his white hair, and satoru instantly melted, looking like he had just won the lottery.

by 2:00 pm, the stakeout moved to the campus park.

the frat brothers watched from a safe distance behind a duck pond as the untouchable campus king willingly allowed himself to be humiliated. you were trying to teach him how to crochet a little yarn flower. satoru's giant, clumsy hands were tangled in bright pink yarn, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth in intense concentration.

"he looks like an idiot," toji laughed, taking a video on his phone. "the guy who handles a six-figure fraternity budget can't figure out a slipknot."

but the real kicker was how quiet he was. there was no shouting, no arrogant smirking, no crowd cheering his name. he was just listening to you talk about your major, nodding along with genuine interest, and looking incredibly soft.

"alright, i've seen enough," sukuna finally sighed, tossing his keys in the air. "he's completely gone. the satoru gojo we knew is dead. we need to go introduce ourselves to our new sister-in-law before he completely forgets how to speak english."

before suguru or choso could stop him, sukuna aggressively parted the bushes and marched right onto the grass, his face set in his signature terrifying scowl. the others had no choice but to follow him, trailing out of the greenery like a bunch of unhinged, heavy-set bodyguard shadows.

satoru's head snapped up. his blue eyes widened in absolute, sheer horror behind his sunglasses as his executive board successfully surrounded their picnic blanket.

"nice pink yarn, gojo," toji smirked, crossing his arms and looming over the space.

"w-what the—! what are you guys doing here?!" satoru's voice cracked perfectly into a high-pitched squeak. he scrambled to stand up, knocking his knees against the picnic basket and trying to use his massive frame as a human shield to block you from their view. "suguru! sukuna! go away! you're completely ruining the vibe!"

"we've been watching you all day, you idiot," sukuna grumbled, stepping forward and flashing his phone screen, which showed a crystal-clear photo of satoru tangled in pink yarn. "you skipped the mandatory meeting to learn how to crochet?" sukuna snatched the tangled ball of pink yarn right out of satoru's hands.

"it's a slipknot, actually. and it's very complex!" satoru shot back, his ears turning a violent shade of crimson as his smooth, unbothered president persona completely disintegrated. "get out of here before you scare her—"

before he could yell any further, you stepped out from behind satoru's shoulder. instead of being terrified by the sudden ambush of large, intense-looking guys, you gave them a warm, adorable smile and opened a plastic container sitting on the blanket.

"oh, hi!" you said, your voice calm, sweet, and totally unfazed. "are you satoru's friends from the house? i'm glad you're here! i actually baked some fresh blueberry scones this morning. would you like one? satoru was too nervous to eat breakfast, so there's plenty left."

the collective hostility from the boys evaporated in a fraction of a second.

choso's face instantly softened. he completely ignored a sputtering satoru and stepped right onto the blanket. "i'm choso, his older brother figure. if he ever acts annoying or uses that loud voice around you, just tell me. i will handle him."

"i'm suguru, the vice president," suguru said, immediately shifting into his most charming, polite executive mode. "and don't worry, we didn't mean to startle you. we were just checking up on our fearless leader."

you giggled, offering the container. toji immediately reached in, taking a massive bite. "oh, wow. these are actually incredible. hey sukuna, try this."

sukuna stood there, still clutching the ball of pink yarn, looking down at the giant, blushing mess of his president, and then at you. you were nice, polite, completely unimpressed by satoru's campus status, and you made phenomenal baked goods. with a defeated sigh, sukuna stuffed the yarn into his pocket and plucked a scone from the container.

"fine," sukuna muttered, chewing. "she's approved. you're still a loser, gojo."

satoru buried his face in his hands, letting out a weak, pathetic groan. "please stop talking," he mumbled into his palms, his ears burning a violent, undeniable red.

just as you and satoru had agreed that night, you tried to keep your dating life under wraps. you didn't want the drama, and satoru wanted to protect his favorite quiet space from the chaotic world of greek life.

but unfortunately on college campus, rumors seem to travel at the speed of light.

within weeks, the whisper network was in full swing. "did you hear? the sigma alpha president is locked down." "no way, satoru? with who?" "someone from the library, i think. a stem major. she doesn't even go to his parties."

people were skeptical of course. the campus king and a quiet, adorable library girl? it didn't make sense to anyone.

except for the sigma alpha house. the frat brothers became your fiercest, most terrifyingly protective bodyguards. if anyone ever questioned your relationship, sukuna would glare them into silence, choso would proudly tell everyone about the baked goods you brought to the house, and suguru would smugly remind people that satoru was a changed man.

and he really was—he still threw the best parties, but the second you walked into the room, his eyes found yours, and that soft, goofy sweater-wearing satoru belonged entirely to you.

fast forward to exactly one year later.

the spring semester was winding down, and satoru's term as president was officially coming to and end. a massive, heavy cardboard box arrived at the sigma alpha house, and the boys gathered around as suguru carefully sliced it open to pull out the brand-new, yearly chapter composite.

they hung the massive, elegant frame dead-center in the main hallway, right alongside decades of history.

if you walked into the house today, your eyes would immediately go to the very top row. right in the center was satoru's professional headshot—though, true to form, he had ruined the serious vibe by wearing his signature round sunglasses and flashing a proud, dorky peace sign.

but right next to his photo, placed perfectly in its own elegant frame with the exact same weight and importance as the president, was a beautiful, radiant picture of you.

and underneath your name, embossed in elegant gold lettering, read the title:

sweetheart.

© choivae // please do not copy, repost, translate, or feed my works to ai .ᐟ