drabble archive account for kaevia. i am not exclusively active on here, nor do i take (drabble) requests. if you want to use my ideas as fics, ask for permission first
GETO x female reader. implied female reader [mentioned as wife and other feminine terms], no country specified but reader celebrates diwali, traditional customs and cultural symbolism, chaotic environment, domestic fluff, cousin banter, playful teasing, hair braiding, family dynamics, gentle mockery, kids/teens involved, domestic fluff, marriage dynamics
You had half a mind thinking that Geto lost his way somewhere between the living room and the kitchen, because the scene that greeted you was nothing short of absurd.
There he sat, cross-legged on the floor in the middle of your cousin’s room, surrounded by a gaggle of preteens and teenagers who were all whispering, giggling, and arguing in overlapping chaos. And there, right in the center of it all, was your composed, too-polite-for-his-own-good husband, letting your cousins braid his hair with the patience of a saint and the confusion of a man who didn’t know how he ended up as a practice mannequin.
“No, no — you’re braiding too tight! His scalp’s gonna hurt!” one cousin scolded, batting another’s hands away.
“It’s fine,” Geto said quickly, even though his hair was being tugged in three different directions. “I can handle it.”
“You always say that,” the youngest one piped up, tongue sticking out as she looped a rubber band around the end of his braid, “but your face looks like you’re trying really hard not to cry.”
“I’m not crying,” he said calmly, blinking as a jasmine flower was tucked behind his ear. “Just… enduring.”
“See? Crying,” another cousin teased, collapsing into laughter.
You leaned against the doorway, trying not to laugh yourself. Geto, who had faced curses the size of buildings without flinching, was now being scolded by a twelve-year-old about hair parting symmetry. His long, black hair was being transformed — some sections braided, others curled around in loose knots — and flowers of every color imaginable were pinned haphazardly through it.
“Guys,” you finally said, raising an eyebrow, “what on earth are you doing to my husband?”
“Oh, hey!” one of them beamed, gesturing wildly toward him. “We’re figuring out hairstyles for Diwali! We can’t be wasting time on that morning when the aunties start yelling, right? So we’re using him as practice!”
Geto looked up at you with that helpless little smile that said he wasn’t sure what he’d signed up for but didn’t have the heart to say no. “They said it was for cultural preparation,” he offered, as if that explained everything.
“Yeah, cultural preparation,” one cousin repeated, twirling a strand of his hair thoughtfully. “And his hair is, like, perfect. It’s so shiny, I swear I can see my reflection.”
Another snorted. “Yeah, no wonder auntie always says it’s wasted on him.”
“Hey, don’t bully Uncle,” the youngest one said, clutching a flower clip like it was sacred. “He’s actually letting us braid it. My brother screamed the last time I tried to touch his hair.”
“Your brother’s a baby,” said the first cousin, rolling her eyes. “Uncle's chill. He doesn’t even complain.”
“That’s because he’s scared of us,” came the sly response. Geto snorted, halfway through another braid. “Should I be?”
“Depends,” said the ringleader cousin with a grin. “How much longer can you sit still without moving?”
“As long as necessary,” he said smoothly, though the twitch of his mouth betrayed him.
“Liar,” someone muttered, and the room erupted into giggles again.
You watched, arms crossed, utterly entertained. It was so unlike him — the composed, deliberate Geto Suguru — to be caught in such domestic chaos. And yet, there was no trace of irritation on his face. He nodded along to their nonsensical debates about fishtails versus French braids, about which color of flower clip looked “more aesthetic.”
He even asked, politely, “So… what’s the difference between a fishtail and a three-strand one again?”
The chorus of groans that followed could’ve brought the house down.
“Oh my god, it’s so obvious,” one exclaimed, tugging another section of his hair. “Fishtail looks more like — like scales! It’s thinner! Three-strand is just, like, normal.”
“I see,” he said seriously, nodding like he’d just been handed a vital piece of intelligence.
“No, you don’t,” said another cousin, snickering. “You’re just pretending so we stop explaining.”
He smiled faintly. “You’re very perceptive.”
By the time they were done, his hair was an artistic disaster — half braids, half loose waves, and decorated with a ridiculous number of flowers that would’ve made a garland jealous. You walked over, unable to resist running a hand through the chaos.
“You look like you lost a fight with a florist,” you teased. He chuckled, voice low and warm. “I think I won their trust, though. They’re… very thorough.”
“Thorough?” one cousin said, offended. “We’re artists. Say it right.”
Geto raised his hands in surrender. “Artists, of course.”
“Good. Now don’t move, I need to take a picture for evidence,” another said, grabbing her phone while the others dissolved into laughter.
He looked at you over their heads, his expression caught somewhere between resignation and quiet fondness. “You’re enjoying this too much,” he murmured, lips twitching.
“Oh, definitely,” you said, crouching down beside him. “This might be the most peaceful I’ve seen you look all week.”
“Peaceful?” he repeated, glancing at the girls still arguing about hair clips. “That’s one word for it.”
But even as another cousin tied a bright pink ribbon into his hair and proudly declared him “festival ready,” he didn’t complain. If anything, there was a softness to the way he looked at them — the way he laughed when they bickered, the way he let them fuss over him like he was just another big brother in the house.
And maybe that was what made your heart swell a little — that Geto Suguru, once a man surrounded by curses and shadows, now sat in a sunlit room filled with laughter, jasmine, and ribbons, smiling as if this was exactly where he was meant to be.
this is a drabble archive account for kaevia - this is a repost and not something stolen. i am not exclusively active on this account, nor do i take requests on here. if you want to use this idea for a fic or series, please ask for permission first.
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NANAMI x female reader. oblivious female reader, established relationship, GTA references, fluff & crack
this is a drabble archive account for kaevia - this is a repost and not something stolen. i am not exclusively active on this account, nor do i take requests on here. if you want to use this idea for a fic or series, please ask for permission first.
（＾∀＾●）ﾉｼ support me on kofi and help me pay for college!!
NAOYA x female reader. implied female reader [mentioned as wife and other feminine terms], no country specified but reader celebrates diwali, traditional customs and cultural symbolism, domestic bickering, cultural differences, light misogyny (discussed and mocked), sarcasm and banter, marriage dynamics
The first thing you learned about being the wife of Naoya Zenin was that domestic life with a man like him required a level of mental gymnastics you hadn’t exactly trained for. But the second thing you learned — and this, truly, felt like an Olympic event — was delegating tasks during Diwali. Not because of some dramatic cultural clash, but because your very foreign, very rich, very misogynist husband believed “cleaning” was beneath the hands of a Zenin man.
Of course, that didn’t stop him from lounging on the couch like the world’s most reluctant heir, expensive yukata thrown on as if he’d just walked out of a historical drama and into your living room. You stood there with your sleeves rolled up, broom in hand, looking like the very image of domestic wrath incarnate.
“Nao.” Your voice was the warning bell before a storm. “We’re cleaning. Together. As in, you pick up a cloth and wipe things. You are not exempt.”
He gave you a look, that trademark smirk that had gotten him punched by your cousin during your wedding festivities. “I don’t see why I should. We could just— and hear me out— throw some money at this problem and poof. Clean house. Prosperity achieved.”
“Yeah,” you muttered, sweeping aggressively under the sofa, “Because the goddess of wealth totally walks into houses with crisp bills taped to the walls.”
He tilted his head, brown eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong with that idea? If wealth is supposed to come in, I am wealth. I can just… sit here. Ta-dah. Cultural requirement met.”
“You’re going to be wealth outside this house if you don’t get your ass up.”
And here it came — The Great Male Ego™ — puffing up like an overinflated balloon. “I’m not doing the… wiping shit,” he declared, gesturing vaguely at the bottle of cleaner you’d left near the table. “It’s stupid. Women do that stuff. I’ll — I’ll oversee.”
You stopped sweeping, turning to face him. “Oversee?”
“Yeah.” He straightened his posture as if chairing a Diwali board meeting. “I’ll, you know, supervise.”
“Oh sure,” you snapped, sarcasm coating your words like oil on a lamp. “Because what every woman dreams of during Diwali is being micromanaged by her husband who doesn’t know the difference between a dust cloth and a dish towel.”
“Hey,” he raised a finger, mock-offended, “I know what those are.”
“Do you?”
“…they’re both rags.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose, muttering something your grandmother would absolutely scold you for. “Naoya, it’s not just cleaning. It’s cultural. It’s symbolic. You clean the house to welcome good fortune, okay? It’s—” you paused, waving your hand vaguely, “—a thing. It matters.”
He snorted. “Well, I’m Japanese. My culture’s all about killing curses, not scrubbing floors.”
“You married into it,” you shot back. “You signed up for this and — news flash — cleaning.”
“I married you,” he corrected smoothly, “not the broom.”
“Say that again.”
He wisely shut up.
You shoved a rag into his hand. “Wipe.”
“No.”
“Wipe or I’ll tell your sisters that you were too weak to lift a cloth.”
He stared at the rag like it had personally insulted him. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I would. With videos.”
His jaw flexed, that muscle in his cheek tightening like a man facing his greatest nemesis: housework. “This is ridiculous.”
“This is Diwali.”
“This is beneath me.”
“This is marriage.”
There was a long stretch of silence where he just stood there, glaring at the cloth. Then, very slowly, like a martyr accepting his cruel fate, he bent over and began to wipe the side table with all the enthusiasm of a cat being given a bath.
You leaned on the broom, smirking. “Look at that. Prosperity already walking in.”
He muttered something about divorce and international law under his breath, but the way he begrudgingly kept wiping — complaining every two minutes about “the oppression of Zenin men in marriage” — told you he’d survive.
And honestly, nothing said festival of lights like your snarky, spoiled husband sulking through housecleaning while lamps waited patiently on the balcony. If that wasn’t wealth and prosperity, you didn’t know what was.
this is a drabble archive account for kaevia - this is a repost and not something stolen. i am not exclusively active on this account, nor do i take requests on here. if you want to use this idea for a fic or series, please ask for permission first.
（＾∀＾●）ﾉｼ support me on kofi and help me pay for college!!
TOJI x female reader. implied female reader [mentioned as wife and other feminine terms], no country specified but reader celebrates diwali, traditional customs and cultural symbolism, chaotic environment, family dynamics, chaotic family dynamics, comedic panic, family involvement, light physical aggression (playful hitting on hand), comedic scolding, shouting/yelling, loud music, pressure to perform, mild embarrassment, domestic bickering, cultural differences
The aunties of the neighborhood had declared war, and unfortunately for your boyfriend, their battlefield was a plastic chair on your veranda, a shiny dholki (hand drum) balanced awkwardly between your boyfriend’s legs, and a garland of fairy lights glowing above his head like a taunting halo.
Toji had fought curses. He had stared down death with a blade in hand. But he had never in his life faced the combined wrath of three determined neighborhood aunties with matching bindis, flower-embroidered kurtas, and an encyclopedic knowledge of 90s Bollywood melodies.
“My dear, why are you playing so off-beat?” Mrs. Sharma slapped the side of the drum with two fingers, producing a sound so sharp it might as well have been a gunshot. “One, two, three — thap thap thap! Understood?”
“He is on beat,” you tried to mumble weakly from the sidelines, only to be cut down by Mrs. Malik's withering glare. “No dear, he plays as if he's performing at someone's wedding, that too with no practice!”
Toji stiffened, shoulders squared like he was back in a fight ring. His hand hovered over the drum’s head, big fingers twitching like they didn’t quite know how to translate muscle memory meant for weapons into delicate percussion.
“One thap strong, the other soft,” Mrs. Patel explained, already smacking the beat on her thigh for emphasis. “Not dhad dhad dhad like a washing machine. Thap thap dha! Understood? Dha!”
“Dha,” Toji repeated like a man saying his final prayer.
“Alright everyone! Start again!” Mrs. Sharma barked, waving her hand like a conductor about to lead the Vienna Philharmonic. “Kabhi khushi kabhi ghammm...~~~”
The opening notes were fine. Toji, jaw set, managed to find some semblance of a rhythm — thap thap dha, thap thap dha. His brows were furrowed in deadly concentration, and the aunties had their eyes narrowed like hawks circling prey.
“No no no!” Mrs. malik suddenly snapped, mid-line. “My dear, what do you think this is? The beat comes from the base, not an echo! Don't roll too much!”
“Roll?” Toji muttered, looking down at the drum as if it had just insulted his lineage.
“Yes, roll!” she demonstrated with alarming aggression, snatching the mallet from the side table and doing a flourish like she was auditioning for a music video. “Play like this — dhap tak tak tak tak! See? Now your turn.”
He tried. God bless him, he tried. The sound that came out was somewhere between a polite thap and a dying frog. The chorus of aunties groaned as one. Mrs. Sharma even slapped her forehead dramatically. “Stop this nonsense! At this rate, even the children will run away!”
You bit your lip to keep from laughing as Mrs. Malik whacked him lightly on the knuckles with the stick — not hard, but enough for him to jerk back in surprise. “Catch the tempo, my dear! Tempo! Your beat moves as if they are feet shivering in water!”
Toji glared at the dholki like it had personally wronged him. The veins in his forearm were standing out, not from rage but sheer determination. A muscle twitched at his jaw, and he inhaled like a soldier about to charge enemy lines. Mrs. Patel, bless her misplaced faith, patted his shoulder. “Don't worry, you can do it. Just ‘dha dhin dha dhin dha’…understood?” she added encouragingly.
“Dha dhin…” he muttered, nodding like a soldier repeating orders.
“One, two, one-two-three!”
The song started again. Aunties were already belting out the chorus like they were on Indian Idol, and this time, something almost miraculous happened: Toji found the beat. It wasn’t perfect — he was still slightly early on the dhin — but it was enough to make Mrs. Sharma do a surprised double take. You caught the tiniest flicker of pride in his eyes before Mrs. Malik screeched, “My boy, play with emotion! With the same passion like Shah Rukh Khan as he spreads his arms!”
His face fell flat again. Aunties broke into another collective wail. Mrs. Sharma threw her hands up to the sky. “Dear God, this boy plays your instrument like a robot!”
You were laughing too hard now, doubled over on the stairs, watching your six-foot-something ex-assassin being micromanaged by three five-foot aunties in matching sandals, who now decided that hand choreography was necessary for correct rhythm.
“After the thap, move your shoulder my dear. You'll feel the music then.”
“Shoulder?”
“Yes, yes… like this!” Mrs. Patel demonstrated, shimmying.
Toji, deadpan, gave it a try. The result was a stiff, murderous roll of the shoulder that made them all shout at once, “No no no!”
He closed his eyes, clearly recalculating every life choice that had led him here. And yet, when the chorus hit, his hands found the beat again, steady and loud, the aunties harmonizing (badly) but passionately. They looked pleased, nodding in approval like generals satisfied with a good soldier.
Mrs. Sharma leaned toward him, wiping a satisfied tear. “See? It's a good thing you learnt from us, dear. One must play from the heart.”
Toji grunted, and you swore you saw him whisper something to the drum under his breath. Probably a threat. Or a plea. Either way, he didn’t miss a beat this time.
this is a drabble archive account for kaevia - this is a repost and not something stolen. i am not exclusively active on this account, nor do i take requests on here. if you want to use this idea for a fic or series, please ask for permission first.
（＾∀＾●）ﾉｼ support me on kofi and help me pay for college!!
CHOSO x female reader. implied female reader [mentioned as wife and other feminine terms], no country specified but reader celebrates diwali, traditional customs and cultural symbolism, kids/teens involved, domestic fluff, mention of potential injury (falling from height), chaotic family dynamics, comedic panic, references to physical risk (standing on shoulders, rushing on a bike), overworking tendencies (volunteering for tasks), family involvement, domestic bickering, cultural differences, l
The sweet thing about Choso — besides his big, beautiful eyes and the very real possibility that he’d jump into a well for you if you so much as hinted you needed something from the bottom — is that he’s a family man through and through. Painfully, idiotically, catastrophically so.
He doesn’t just help out, he volunteers like there’s a medal waiting at the finish line.
It starts innocently enough. The women of the house need their dresses altered before the Diwali weekend. You’re mid-dinner, Choso’s halfway through his third serving, and then someone mentions, offhandedly, “If only we had someone who could go get the fabric store aunty to fix these before Saturday.”
You watch it happen in slow motion — the way his head lifts, the crease between his brows forming, and then he’s already up, chair scraping the floor. “I’ll go,” he says, wiping his mouth with a napkin like a man on a mission. Before you can even protest, he’s on his bike, roaring into the night at 9 p.m., hoodie flapping behind him like he’s the patron saint of last-minute errands.
Then comes the flour incident. Your mother’s standing in the kitchen, eyes wide, hands clutching an empty bag like it’s evidence of a crime. “We’re out of flour,” she whispers, and before you can say it’s fine, we’ll buy some tomorrow, Choso’s already gone. The man doesn’t even ask which brand to get. He just takes off like a grocery store commando, leaving you with a faint echo of his engine and your mother muttering, “What a nice boy.”
He comes back in ten minutes flat, a new packet of flour slung dramatically over his shoulder, like a soldier returning from war. The aunties coo, your mother’s smiling like she raised him herself, and you’re just standing there, trying to figure out when exactly you lost control of the situation.
But the real disaster — the one that had you screeching — was the lights incident.
You walk into the living room to find Choso hoisted on the shoulders of your perpetually wobbly cousin, who looks one strong breeze away from a hospital trip. Choso’s got a string of rainbow LED lights in hand, his expression deadly serious, as he tries to drape them symmetrically across the wall. There are children running around below him, cheering like they’re at a wrestling match. The whole thing looks like a scene out of a family comedy, except you’re the only one aware that there’s a potential obituary being written in real time.
“CHO. SO. GET. DOWN,” you yell, voice cracking with the kind of panic that comes from loving a man who doesn’t know how to value his spine. He glances down at you, calm as ever, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Just one more corner,” he says, as if that’s supposed to reassure you.
“One more corner my ass — you’re gonna fall and I’m not carrying you to the ER!”
And yet, ten minutes later, the lights are draped perfectly, the kids are dancing under them, and your cousin — somehow — lives to tell the tale.
That night, you sit Choso down for what you think is a serious conversation about boundaries. About saying no when someone asks him to do something ridiculous. About how he doesn’t have to risk life and limb to earn the eternal love of your family. He listens so earnestly, nodding at every word, those dark eyes soft and sincere. “I understand,” he says. “You’re right.”
And for a moment, you actually believe him.
Five minutes later, your uncles call from the living room: “Son, help us serve some snacks for the card game!”
And before you can blink, Choso’s already jogging to the kitchen, balancing a tray of tea cups like a waiter at a five-star restaurant, smiling as if this is his purpose in life.
You just stand there in the hallway, watching him laugh with your uncles as they deal cards, realizing you’ve lost the battle. Choso isn’t just your boyfriend anymore — he’s the household’s unpaid handyman, emergency courier, tailor’s assistant, grocery boy, light decorator, and now part-time waiter. And the worst part? He looks so damn happy about it.
this is a drabble archive account for kaevia - this is a repost and not something stolen. i am not exclusively active on this account, nor do i take requests on here. if you want to use this idea for a fic or series, please ask for permission first.
（＾∀＾●）ﾉｼ support me on kofi and help me pay for college!!
GOJO x female reader. implied female reader [mentioned as wife and other feminine terms], no country specified but reader celebrates diwali, traditional customs and cultural symbolism, chaotic environment, domestic fluff, overexcited partner, messy cooking, cultural differences
All it took was one innocent mention that Diwali involved making sweets for your husband, and Gojo Satoru — your overgrown man-child of a sorcerer — had transformed your serene villa kitchen into a full-blown dessert battlefield. He had heard “sweets” and, in typical Gojo fashion, decided that he was the only man qualified for the job. No, not the local sweet shop, not you, not even your poor house-help who had quietly excused herself the moment he started brandishing a ladle like it was a cursed tool.
The man had arrived in the kitchen with a confidence only someone who’d never cooked a day in his life could possess. Sleeves rolled up, hair tied, shades pushed up into that messy white fluff of his, and an apron that said “kiss the cook” — because of course it did.
The counter was already chaos: a vessel brimming with milk, boiling at a speed you knew was far too aggressive for any traditional dessert, sugar scattered across the marble like snow, and an array of sweets — store-bought kikufuku, of course — arranged like trophies around him.
“Step back!” he shouted when you so much as leaned over the counter. His white hair was messily tied with a spare scrunchie you hadn’t realized he’d stolen, and his blindfold was pushed up onto his head, blue eyes laser-focused on the pot as if this was some world-class sorcery battle. “I got this. I watched three WhatsApp forwards. I’m basically an expert.”
“Satoru,” you warned, “it’s milk, not cursed energy.”
“Same difference,” he declared, gleefully dumping jaggery into the pot like he was trying to summon diabetes in physical form. “They said to stir slowly but I feel like… more power means more love, right?”
“No, more power means burnt milk.”
“Negative Nancy,” he chirped, flicking the ladle like a conductor leading an orchestra.
The smell of boiling milk and sugar slowly filled the air, heavy and warm. He’d somehow managed to find cardamom pods — you weren’t sure how, since you’d hidden them at the back of the spice cabinet after last year’s incident — and crushed them like a man avenging a lifelong grudge. Every so often he’d taste the concoction with the ladle, his face lighting up like a child with candy, and then add even more sugar.
You tried to interject once. He actually shrieked — a high-pitched, utterly dramatic sound that had no place in a kitchen. “Don’t interrupt the magic,” he hissed, shielding the pot with his arms.
“Magic? It’s literally turning into a brick of sugar.”
“And what a delicious brick it shall be.”
You gave up trying to argue.
After what felt like hours — though it was probably just thirty minutes of him monologuing about how this was going to be the “most authentic dessert in the history of South Asia” — Gojo presented you with a steaming bowl. The kheer was pale, thick, and glistening with an alarming sheen of condensed sugar. Chopped nuts floated like innocent victims in a sea of sweetness.
“Taste it,” he said, practically vibrating with excitement.
You did. Or rather, you tried.
The spoon hadn’t even made it halfway to your mouth before the smell hit you like a freight train. The first bite was… blinding. Sweet enough to make your eyes water. You were fairly certain your ancestors whispered their disapproval.
“Well?” he leaned forward, all bright eyes and wide grin.
“I— it’s…” you coughed delicately, “very… rich.”
He beamed, clearly taking that as a compliment. “I knew it! I’m a natural.”
“You’re something,” you muttered, setting the bowl down carefully, already plotting your escape route.
The next morning, when your twelve-year-old cousins arrived — all energy and sugar cravings — you didn’t hesitate. “You guys want something to eat?” you asked sweetly, handing over the bowl that had nearly ended your will to live.
They devoured it in minutes, bless their young teeth, proclaiming it the best thing they’d ever had. Gojo beamed, smug and satisfied, whispering a proud “See?” as if his concoction hadn’t just been weaponized sugar. By the end of the night, he was already talking about making sweets next year, waving his spoon around like a declaration of war.
You made a silent note to hide the milk before Diwali ever came around again.
this is a drabble archive account for kaevia - this is a repost and not something stolen. i am not exclusively active on this account, nor do i take requests on here. if you want to use this idea for a fic or series, please ask for permission first.
（＾∀＾●）ﾉｼ support me on kofi and help me pay for college!!
SUKUNA x female reader. implied female reader [mentioned as wife and other feminine terms], no country specified but reader celebrates diwali, traditional customs and cultural symbolism, mentions of fire, mild risk elements (kids with fireworks), chaotic environment, mentions of past battles/violence (light, non-graphic), soft moments with children, domestic fluff, kids/teens involved
Diwali with Sukuna was an experience in itself. If the festival of lights was meant to bring peace, prosperity, and togetherness, he was the anomaly that brought chaos, noise, and a kind of excitement that made every neighbor secretly regret inviting him. While most people stayed a few cautious meters away from the rows of firecrackers and sparklers, your husband stood in the middle of it all, reveling in every explosion like a man possessed.
“Now this,” he said, a grin spreading across his face as another line of crackers went off in a thunderous chain, “this reminds me of battlefields. The smoke, the noise, the smell of burning — ah, brings back memories.” He said it with the kind of nostalgia most people reserved for childhood sweets or monsoon rains.
You stood a few feet away, holding a tray of lamps and muttering prayers that no child accidentally lost a limb tonight. “Sure it does,” you said dryly, squinting as another spark flew dangerously close to his sleeve. “But if this turns into a battlefield, you’re the one explaining it to the neighborhood watch.”
“They should thank me,” he said, folding his arms proudly as the ground sizzled with leftover firecracker debris. “Humans these days don’t know how to celebrate. Too quiet, too polite. Where’s the thrill? The chaos?”
“The safety regulations?” you offered, voice tight as you nudged a stray sparkler out of the path of a toddler.
He ignored you completely, continuing his grand monologue. “Back in my day, festivals weren’t about pretty lights or sweets. They were about victory, about power. About setting the sky ablaze and letting everyone know who you were. The weak would cower, the strong would—”
“—the strong would end up getting a fine for noise pollution if you don’t tone it down,” you interrupted, rubbing your temples He shot you a look that said you were ruining the mood. “You don’t get it, woman. It’s not about the noise. It’s the feeling. Every boom—” he snapped his fingers as another cracker went off— “is a heartbeat. A pulse of life.”
“Mm-hm,” you murmured distractedly, already halfway across the yard to stop two children from waving lit sparklers at each other like swords. “That’s lovely, dear. Really poetic. Now maybe don’t traumatize the neighborhood kids.”
“They’ll live,” he said, waving her off with a grin that could’ve set off sparks on its own. “Maybe even toughen up.”
You were about to respond when a group of children, all barely up to your waist, came running toward him — tiny feet pattering, cardboard boxes in hand. They stopped right in front of him, panting and wide-eyed.
“Uncle!” one of them shouted, holding up a box almost bigger than himself. “Can you help us light these?”
For a moment, something shifted in Sukuna’s expression. His usual smugness faltered, surprise flickering in his eyes like the glow of the lamps nearby.
Uncle. No one had ever called him that. Not “Lord Sukuna,” not “The King of Curses,” not even his name — uncle. It was disarming in the strangest, smallest way. You watched as he blinked down at them, his mouth twitching into a grin that was equal parts amused and awkward.
“You want me to help you?” he asked, as though unsure whether to laugh or scoff.
“Yeah!” another kid said eagerly, holding up a packet of flower pots. “You’re tall! And you don’t look scared!”
For all his arrogance and bloodlust, Sukuna had never quite known what to do with innocent trust. His eyes softened for the briefest second — a fleeting crack in the armor — before he chuckled and crouched down, resting one enormous hand on the boy’s head. “Not scared, huh? Smart kid,” he said, voice lower, gentler. “All right then. Let’s light ‘em up.”
You couldn’t help but smile as the so-called King of Curses was suddenly surrounded by a swarm of kids, all jabbering instructions at him. He ended up lifting one little girl into his arm so she could see better, using his other hand to light a small rocket, watching it whoosh up into the sky and burst into gold. The children squealed in delight, clapping and jumping around him like he was some kind of festival hero.
You leaned against the wall, watching him laugh — a real laugh, not his usual mockery — as the kids chanted for another round. His face, usually so sharp and cruel, was illuminated by the flicker of fireworks, softened into something almost human.
When he caught you staring, he scoffed. “Don’t look at me like that, woman. I’m just supervising.”
“Sure,” you said, crossing your arms, pretending not to smile. “Supervising. While holding a child in one hand and fireworks in the other.”
He clicked his tongue, looking away, clearly flustered. “Tch. Whatever. Just… tell them not to call me uncle.”
“Too late,” you said, barely hiding your laughter as the chorus began again — “Uncle! Uncle! One more!” — and the mighty Sukuna sighed in defeat, lighting another sparkler with a fond roll of his eyes.
If anyone had told you years ago that the King of Curses would one day spend Diwali surrounded by children and laughter instead of screams and fire, you would’ve laughed. But tonight, under the golden haze of fireworks, even Sukuna seemed a little less like a demon and a little more like a man who’d found his way home.
this is a drabble archive account for kaevia - this is a repost and not something stolen. i am not exclusively active on this account, nor do i take requests on here. if you want to use this idea for a fic or series, please ask for permission first.
（＾∀＾●）ﾉｼ support me on kofi and help me pay for college!!
TOJI x female reader. onlyfans model! reader, implied female reader, modern au, live in relationship, gaslighting and trust issues, angst throughout, pay disparity, financial insecurity, male ego, mentions of sex work, feelings of inadequacy/self-worth issues, emotional vulnerability
“What’s the weirdest way you’ve seen someone earn money?”
He didn’t even look up from Paladins. His thumbs kept dancing across the controller like it was a ritual. He gave you that dead, flat stare of his — the one that makes you feel like a question is more irritation than curiosity. “I’m a literal assassin,” he said without sarcasm, like it was the most obvious answer. “Things don’t get weirder than that.”
You laughed, because of course he’d say that. Toji’s life reads like a series of what-are-you-even-doing chapters. You two orbit each other in that comfortable grey area — stolen mornings, nights that end on the couch with his shoulder under your head, fights that dissipate faster than smoke. Everything romantic without the label; everything messy and easy where labels would make it complicated.
But lately the ease has been tight at the edges. The way his jaw clenches on calls to the hospital. The extra shift he takes and then hides the paycheck in a drawer. The silence when you mention groceries or a dentist appointment like it’s a word that might explode between you. So you tried to keep it light, tried to bait him into admitting the obvious with a ridiculous question about incomes.
He paused the game finally, let the menu linger on screen. The pause felt like someone holding their breath too long. He rubbed the back of his neck — the habitual gesture he does when something important lurks behind a simple sentence. “I’m fine,” he said, and you heard the way the words stuck to each other.
You watched him, the man who once threw himself between you and a stranger for no reason now looked small in the glow of your living room. Pride is a heavy muscle on him; it flexes at the dumbest moments. Asking for help would be an admission of weakness, and Toji’s definition of weakness has always been tangled with wanting to protect you. He’d rather bend himself into something broke and noble than hand over a problem for you to fix.
“You don’t have to be,” you said, softer. “You don’t have to pretend. We cover each other.”
He shrugged like it was easy, but his eyes betrayed him. “I’m not asking you for—” he cut himself off, voice roughening. “I don’t wanna be a burden.”
“You’re not a burden,” you said. “You ever think I cover stuff because I like power trips?” you teased, trying to push light back into the room. “I’m not your mom, idiot. I just — I like doing it.”
He let out a humorless snort. “You always come through.” The accusation sat there, not loud but full of everything: pride, gratitude, a confusing kind of jealousy. “How do you always come through?”
That was the question you’d been avoiding. How do you explain the steady bank transfers, the nights you hand over cash without flinching, the way you pull notes from your wallet like they sprout there? How do you explain the thin, secret architecture of your life that keeps his world from caving in without telling him the whole, messy truth?
You measured your words. The moment felt private, dangerous in that tender way things always feel between you two. Toji’s masculinity wasn’t fragile exactly — he was blunt, unfiltered, wired with a kind of survivalist pride — but it kept him from admitting he needed you. And because he valued you, because he loved you in that battered, back-alley way, asking for help felt like offering you the chance to carry him. That made him flinch.
“I’ve been picking up extra shifts,” you lied smoothly, because sometimes the truth is too sharp to hand over like a knife. “Freelance, odd jobs. You know, things. And some savings.” Your fingers toyed with the hem of your shirt, because there are small tells you’ve learned to employ when you fear you’ll be easy to read.
Toji watched you with a slow, suspicious gaze. The suspicion wasn’t mean — more like a radar trying to triangulate a pattern. He knows you. Knows your habits, the way you fuss with old t-shirts, how you hide receipts in books. He noticed the way your eyes flicked to the bank app sometimes, the way you closed tabs when he walked into the room. Not enough to be accusatory, but enough to make him wonder.
“You always say that,” he muttered. “You always have the money when I’ve got nothing.” His voice held a cracked edge, like something was fraying inside him. “You’d cover for me if I asked.”
“I would,” you said, truthfully. “But it’s not always about me wanting to help. You don’t have to be proud when it costs you.” You reached out and nudged his knee with your foot, a small, domestic touch. It was the kind of contact that usually melted him. Tonight it made him look away.
“I hate being the one who has nothing to offer,” he admitted in a sound that could’ve been a confession in quieter times. “I hate that you pull everything together like it’s nothing.”
You watched the shame work across his features — reddening the throat, the quick avoidance of your eyes. Masculinity had a way of bundling itself into unexpected knots. Him not asking wasn’t strength so much as stubbornness and pride and the need to be whole alone.
“You don’t have to offer a thing,” you said, softer. “You offer me midnight coffee, and you offer me your stupid car, and you offer me that ridiculous insistence on carrying heavy things. That’s enough.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile. “I’m not your car,” he grumbled, but the heat left his shoulders. Vulnerability is a rare currency with Toji. When he spends it, it matters.
There was a beat where the two of you sat like that: small domesticity braced against something raw. The city hummed outside, indifferent. Your silence finally broke because of the way his jaw tightened, like he was bracing for a truth he hated even imagining. “You always come through,” he repeated, but this time with less suspicion and more wonder. “I just… I wanna know you don’t drown.”
You wanted to tell him, to let him see the ledger behind your smile — the awkward late-night shoots, the polite but predatory messages you blocked, the spreadsheets you kept so you wouldn’t panic when a bill arrived. You wanted to tell him how the work made you feel complicated: powerful sometimes, ashamed other times, whole in ways nobody else understood.
You wanted him to know that the reason you could keep him afloat was because you’d fought to keep yourself afloat first.
But the grey area between you made it complicated. Opening that door would change the gravitational pull of both your lives. Labels would feel like a hand pressing a name onto something that had learned to move without them. And he — he might not be ready to hold the version of you that earns in ways he’d never imagine. So you stayed small for now, nudging his knee, letting the lie weave around the truth with all the tenderness you could muster.
“I’ll tell you when you’re ready to hear it,” you said, and it was equal parts promise and threat. Not a threat to leave, but the kind that meant something would shift when revealed. Toji’s eyes met yours then, honest and messy, and he let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Don’t make it dramatic,” he said, though his voice softened. “I’ll help if you want. If you need it.”
And you believed him, because of the way he said it — clumsy, hurt, proud — and because love in your grey area looked a lot like sharing burdens without naming the ledger. For tonight, that was enough. Tomorrow maybe you’d be braver. Or maybe you’d keep doing what you do: holding his silence with your secret, keeping the bridges standing until he could cross them himself.
The doorbell rang, the smell of melted cheese already ghosting through the narrow crack as Toji swung the door open with that easy swagger he wore for strangers. The delivery guy stood there, extra large pizza box balanced on his forearm, receipt folded neatly against the lid. Toji dug into his wallet, pulling out notes with the casualness of someone who thought they had enough. But then came the pause, the subtle falter in his brow as he flipped through the bills once, twice, the edges growing damper against his fingertips. His shoulders stiffened.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, low enough that only you, lingering a step behind, caught it.
The delivery boy shifted on his feet, already weary from too many doorsteps and hungry faces. “It’s thirty-two seventy-five,” he recited flatly, not rude, but the kind of tone that comes from repetition.
Toji glanced down at the limp notes in his hand — twenty-eight dollars, maybe twenty-nine if he counted the coin pressed into the leather crease of his wallet. The corner of his mouth twitched, his jaw working. You saw the moment shame cracked through his calm, and before you could say a word, he growled something about “hold on” and stalked back inside. His footsteps were heavy, almost petulant, thudding across the hardwood. Drawers rattled, closet doors creaked, the muffled sound of a box scraping against the floor. He was searching — hunting, really — for whatever scraps of cash he might’ve shoved into corners weeks ago. You stood frozen for a beat, the delivery boy now looking directly at you, brow cocked, pizza steam seeping out from the cardboard. His patience was thinning.
“We take online too,” he offered, voice dry.
The words hit you like a sting. It wasn’t the boy’s fault, but they made something in your chest collapse anyway. You fumbled for your phone, your fingers moving too fast against the screen, desperate to end this scene before it carved itself too deep. You pulled up the payment app, scanning the code, punching in numbers until the confirmation dinged. “Paid,” you said quickly, holding the phone up like proof, like a shield. He nodded, handed over the pizza box, and muttered a thanks before disappearing down the hallway.
The silence afterward rang louder than the doorbell had.
You turned, extra large pizza heavy in your arms, just in time to see Toji coming back down the hall, one fist clutching a few crumpled bills, the other holding a handful of coins that clinked with every step. His chest rose and fell a little too hard for something as small as this, and when his eyes landed on the empty doorway, on the pizza already in your hands, his whole body stopped.
He looked at you. At the phone still glowing faintly in your grip. At the pizza box. At the money in his hand that suddenly meant nothing.
For a long second, neither of you spoke. You almost wished he’d drop the money on the table, make some joke, brush it off. But Toji’s pride doesn’t dissolve like that — it implodes.
“Why the fuck do you always do this?” he snapped, voice rough, jagged, too loud for the small space of your living room. The coins slipped between his fingers, pinging against the floor as if to punctuate the anger. “Huh? Why do you always manage to cover for me, like you’re fucking invincible?”
You blinked, mouth opening, but he wasn’t waiting for an answer.
“Can’t even pay for a goddamn pizza anymore,” he spat, pacing two steps and dragging a hand down his face like it might ground him. “Every time — every fucking time — you’re just there, pulling out money like it’s nothing. Like you’re covering my ass is normal.” His voice cracked halfway through, bitterness bleeding into something more raw, more jagged.
You set the pizza down on the table, your arms aching, your stomach sinking as you watched him. His chest heaved, his eyes glossy with frustration he refused to name, and when he finally sank down onto the couch, it wasn’t graceful. It was a collapse. Toji leaned forward, elbows on his knees, both hands dragging through his hair. His shoulders hunched, his head bowed, like the weight of being unable to provide had snapped something invisible inside him.
“I hate it,” he said finally, voice hoarse, quieter but cutting deeper for it. “I hate that you always push through and I’m left standing there with nothing. Like I’m fucking useless.”
Toji was still slumped on the couch, head in his hands, but then his jaw set tight and he straightened up like a man who’d finally had enough of choking down his own shame. His voice came out low, sharp, heavy with something ugly. “How the fuck do you do it, huh? Don’t give me that freelancing bullshit — you think I’m stupid?” his lip curled, and for once his eyes didn’t soften when they found you. “What is it? You got some sugar daddy out there? Some old bastard paying your bills while I’m here scraping for change?”
The word hit like a slap — sugar daddy, spit out with so much spite it felt less like a question and more like an accusation. Your chest burned, your grip on the pizza box tightening until the cardboard bent inwards. “You don’t get to say that,” you snapped, louder than you meant to, because it wasn’t fair. The two of you weren’t official — no promises, no labels — yet somehow he’d drawn blood anyway, and it stung in all the wrong ways.
“Don’t give me that shit,” he cut in, pacing, one hand dragging down his face. “It adds up, you know? You always saving me when I’m short, always breezing through like it doesn’t hurt. What the fuck else am I supposed to think?”
“I have an OnlyFans.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
His face — fuck, his face. The disbelief cut sharper than anger, his brows drawing together like he didn’t even understand the language you just spoke. Then it hit him, and the look shifted, twisted. “You — you’re serious?” his voice cracked, a half-scoff as he pushed himself up off the couch. “You mean to tell me… I’m so fucking useless, so broke, you had to — what? Sell yourself online just to keep shit afloat?”
“No, Toji—” you tried, but he wasn’t hearing you. He dragged a hand down his face, pacing across the room, his steps erratic, like he wanted to punch a wall but couldn’t decide which one. his laugh was short, humorless. “Jesus Christ. I knew I was shit with money, but this? You really… you really had to stoop this low? For me?”
You slammed the pizza down on the table, voice cracking under the weight of everything. “I started this long before I met you! It’s not about you — it was never about you!” your hands flew up, desperate. “You’re great at what you do Toji, but you’re careless with the money. We can figure that out. This isn’t some pity project, this is my choice. I was doing it already.”
He stopped pacing, his body frozen like the words pinned him there. But his fists were clenched tight, knuckles white, and when he looked at you again, it was like he was seeing something he couldn’t swallow down.
“Choice?” his voice rasped. “You call that a choice? A site built on men jerking off to women for pocket change? You — you call that financial independence?” He dragged in a sharp breath, the muscles in his jaw twitching, his chest rising too fast.
You opened your mouth, but he cut you off, voice louder, angrier, but with that wobble of desperation beneath. “No. No, fuck that. You don’t get it — you can’t keep doing this, not while I’m around. I don’t care if we’re not official, I don’t care what the fuck this is between us—” he gestured harshly between the two of you, hand trembling, “—the day I land my next big job, my next kill, you’re done with that shit. You hear me? Done. I can’t watch you do this and pretend it’s for yourself when i know it’s because I’m a fucking deadbeat.”
His voice cracked on the last word, and suddenly the anger collapsed into something heavier — shame, self-loathing, frustration that shook through his body. He turned away, shoulders heaving, one hand pressed against the wall like he needed it to stay upright. You stood there, chest tight, throat raw, watching a man who could carve through bodies in an alley but couldn’t stomach the thought of you carrying him, of you choosing something he saw as beneath you.
And you realized — he wasn’t just angry at you. He was angry at himself, furious that his own failures had convinced him you’d only ever do this because of him. And all you could do was stand in the quiet wreckage of his pride, wondering if telling the truth had been better — or worse — than the cruel suspicion he’d thrown at you first.
this is a drabble archive account for kaevia - this is a repost and not something stolen. i am not exclusively active on this account, nor do i take requests on here. if you want to use this idea for a fic or series, please ask for permission first.
（＾∀＾●）ﾉｼ support me on kofi and help me pay for college!!
SUKUNA x female reader. onlyfans model! reader, implied female reader, modern au, established relationship, live in relationship, gaslighting and trust issues, supportive partners, angst throughout, mentions of sex work, implied micro-cheating, emotional vulnerability
Sparking the conversation of having an OnlyFans with Sukuna wasn’t really sparking anything at all — you never even lit the match. He did.
It came at you sideways, the kind of ambush that made your stomach drop, the words slipping from his mouth in that deceptively calm tone of his. “Your heart rate spikes every evening at the same time without fail. And your door is always shut under the excuse of… what was it? Studying.”
You nearly choked on your own breath, because the way he said studying dripped with disdain, like he’d already filed the word away as an outright lie. You scrambled for composure, clutching your pen as if it might anchor you, forcing a laugh that came out too high, too quick. “Yeah, well, I mean — studying’s stressful. Maybe I just get too into it, you know? I… I was actually watching a trailer earlier, so maybe that’s what you noticed. Or I was gaming. Yeah, game trailers. Anime. There’s a lot of reasons for, uh… giddiness.”
He tilted his head, those sharp eyes narrowing like blades being honed. His voice dipped lower, modulated with something that made the hair on your neck rise. “No game excites you so consistently. Nor does any anime trailer make you… flustered. Not in that rhythm. Not with that heat.”
Your skin prickled as you gripped the edge of your desk, body turning half-away from him as though an extra inch of distance might dull the weight of his presence. Your mouth kept moving, desperate to fill the silence with anything other than the truth. “You’re overanalyzing. You always do that,” you said too fast, trying to match his steady tone with a casualness that rang false even in your own ears. “Maybe I just… get distracted easily, okay? Maybe I like closing my door, maybe I like — privacy. That doesn’t mean anything.”
Sukuna stepped closer, and your pulse jumped again, traitorous in its betrayal. His lips pulled back, not quite a smile, not quite a snarl — something between amusement and frustration. “Privacy, you say,” he murmured, voice sharp enough to slice through your flimsy excuses. “You hide behind it, but you are not hiding well. Your body betrays you. Your voice wavers, your gaze shifts, your hands fidget.” His eyes flicked down briefly to your knuckles whitening against the desk. “You avoid me instead of answering. Why?”
You laughed again, a nervous sound that cracked halfway through. “I’m not avoiding you. You’re just… intense. It’s weird being interrogated over — over nothing.”
“Nothing,” he repeated, the word curling with disbelief. His tone sharpened, like a frustrated hound scenting prey it couldn’t quite see. “Do you think me a fool? You shut yourself away, you emerge flushed, unsettled, and you cannot even meet my eyes. I know you are concealing something.”
You swallowed hard, your throat tight, eyes darting everywhere but his face. The wall, the corner of your laptop screen, the pen rolling off your notebook. Anywhere.
“I’m not hiding anything,” you insisted weakly, the denial sounding thinner each time. Sukuna’s exhale was slow, deliberate, like he was weighing patience against irritation. “You are lying,” he said simply, as if stating the weather, and the certainty in his voice made your stomach twist.
You flailed with words, babbling, trying to smother his precision with noise. “I’m not lying, I was literally just — like I said, watching something. Maybe I’m a little jumpy, but that’s normal, right? People get excited about things. Maybe I’m reading something funny, or — or chatting with someone, or—”
“Rambling.” he cut you off, the single word slicing through everything you’d piled up. His eyes pinned you in place, cold and sharp but glinting with a predator’s curiosity. “You are cornered and you ramble.”
You stiffened, breath caught in your chest, fingers wringing themselves in your lap. The embarrassment burned hotter than the fear, because the way he saw through you felt like being stripped bare, your flimsy lies crumbling under the weight of his analysis. And he didn’t even need you to say it. He knew. Or at least, he knew enough.
“So,” he said finally, straightening, his tone still steady but carrying that edge of exasperation, “What is it you are so desperate to shield from me? What truth makes your body sing and your tongue stumble?”
You pressed your lips together, avoiding his gaze, praying for an escape hatch to open up under your chair. Anything but this. Anything but him peeling the secret out of you with nothing but his voice, his eyes, and the suffocating weight of knowing you were caught.
He slumps like someone deflating a cushion — slow, ridiculous, the way a mountain might sigh if it realised it’d been asked to care about tiny, modern problems. For a beat the world narrows to the space between you: his shoulders dropping, his jaw unclenching as if he’s trying to put a thought back together that’s just fallen apart. You can see the calculation beginning; his face, usually an unreadable mask, rearranges into something oddly vulnerable and furious at once.
“I do not understand these things called… boundaries,” he says finally, voice low and brittle. His fingers drum once on the table, then stop, mid-gesture, the tiny motion betraying the storm under his skin. “I will not tolerate lies. Secrets are teeth that bite the hand. If you wish to hide, then I will hide. We will be even.”
And then the word slips out of your mouth — small, terrible, definitive.
“OnlyFans.”
He freezes as if you’ve thrown a stone through a window. For a second he looks at you like you’ve spoken in a foreign ritual tongue. His brow knots, as the tiny scowl that forms is half confusion, half something older, like someone remembering a memory misplaced across centuries. The yapper inside him — that millennia-old, possessive neuron that snaps at anything unfamiliar — twitches awake. “What is this… OnlyFans?” he asks, and you realise you have to be the translator of your own life.
You sit him down because explaining it properly now feels like diffusing a small bomb: subscription site, paywall, creators making content, control over who sees what, you set boundaries, you block abusers, you moderate messages, you schedule shoots, you manage taxes. You talk about consensual exchange and the blunt, boring logistics of invoices and savings. He absorbs your words like a man tasting a strange fruit for the first time — cautious, then suspicious. His face bobs through stages: bewilderment, disbelief, a rising flare of protective anger. Words tumble out of him, not directed at you but at the thing itself, a long, clumsy rant that feels like it’s trying to stitch together ancient fury and contemporary outrage.
“So women put themselves on display,” he says, voice taut, “And strangers pay? They trade coin for sight?” His hands curl into fists on the table. “This… commerce of lust. It is a market. Women’s bodies become product. Men trade their hunger like merchants. Do you not see how it resembles the old streets — the markets where a body’s worth was haggled?”
You open your mouth to explain agency, to say that this is your choice, that you set the rules, that the power also lives in your hands when you call the shots — but his words come faster, a tide you can’t quite interrupt.
“In my time,” he says, voice thick with a scholar’s disdain, “women were given positions where their worth was defined by others: concubines arranged behind screens, dancers in courts performing for nobles, offerings at temples that were not offerings of piety but of possession. The form changes, the architecture changes, but the scaffold remains: men’s desire constructs value, and then claims it as moral high ground.”
He draws parallels with a patient’s precision, fingers sketching invisible diagrams in the air. “We idolised and we traded. We praised beauty and then sold it as spectacle. I have watched empires rise on trade routes and men’s appetites. I thought those patterns dead. Yet here you are, and the same machinery hums — commerce, appetite, power.”
His nostrils flare as his eyes narrow into slits of wounded pride and fierce, protective rage, neither of which fit neatly into the modern lexicon. “You must have been forced,” he snaps suddenly, not at you but at the concept. “Or betrayed into it. Who convinced you? Who took advantage?”
You blink, baffled, because here is the crux of the collision: his reading of everything is as victimhood first, agency second. His brain cannot immediately hold the paradox of a woman choosing an option he recognises only as coercion.
You try again, carefully: you chose, you set boundaries, you blocked abusive accounts, you negotiate pricing, you keep your private life private, you do it because you needed autonomy, because it paid for medicine and rice and rent and didn’t ask for permission from awkward relatives. You tell him about the late-night shoots that are mostly light tests and coffee, the spreadsheets, the legal forms, the moments you flinch and then decide to continue anyway. You speak of confidence — the strange glow that came when you stopped averting your eyes.
But Sukuna’s anger swells into a monologue, not cruel but incandescently righteous. He rails against the institution itself: capitalism making loneliness into commerce, lust industrialised into subscription tiers, the way desire gets monetised into an endless mill that feeds off insecurity. He likens it to a scam, to a capitalist engine that profits off both women’s need and men’s entitlement. His hands move like a conductor’s — precise, theatrical — as he dismantles the idea piece by piece with historical analogies and moral certainty.
“They package loneliness and sell it in portions,” he says, voice rising. “They give you approval for a price and then call it empowerment. They make autonomy sound like consumption. It is commodified validation.”
You’re halfway between wanting to shout and wanting to laugh at the ferocity of his old-soul critique. Part of you appreciates the heat of his defense — the fact that his first reaction is not to shame you (at least not bluntly) but to obliterate whatever structure allowed such a site to exist. Another part of you is furious: furious that he assumes your hands are not on the wheel.
He looks at you then, and the fire moderates into something rawer. His jaw tightens; there’s a softening in the eyes — not understanding yet, but willingness to process. “I am angry you did not tell me,” he admits, each word heavy. “Not because of the act, but because of secrecy. You could have told me. We promised no secrets.”
There’s a ridiculous, intimate moment where he leans forward and, with all the solemnity of a man performing an ancient rite, asks: “Do you enjoy it? Or do you endure it?”
You blink, because the question hurts in a place you didn’t know was tender. You try to answer — yes and no, sometimes both — and he listens, but not like someone digesting nuance. He listens like someone cataloguing evidence for his moral argument. By the time you finish, Sukuna has mapped a dozen analogies in his head: marketplaces, temple offerings, courtly trades, ancient patronage systems. His face is a landscape of fury, affection, betrayal and protectiveness. Finally, after a long breath that seems to pull something ancient into the present, he says, slower now, “If this is your choice, then explain it to me plainly. Do not let me be the last to know.”
His voice has dropped from indictment to request — clumsy, imperfect, and startlingly human. You feel your panic ebb just a little, because he has opened a crack: not full acceptance, not even comprehension, but the willingness to be told the truth.
You are left both exasperated and oddly relieved; he has not converted, he has not capitulated. He has, however, promised to hold the space to understand, in his own jagged way. You bite the inside of your cheek, preparing to walk him through the ordinary, bureaucratic, boring parts of your life that somehow carry so much shame in other people’s mouths.
And while he mutters about the corruption of modern love and the resilience of old patterns, you realise this will not be a quick fix. Sukuna will learn, if he chooses to, by listening and stumbling and re-forging his ancient certainties. For now he paces between outrage and tender protectiveness, his long shadow falling over your confession like an ancient thing trying — beautifully, horribly — to adapt to the now.
this is a drabble archive account for kaevia - this is a repost and not something stolen. i am not exclusively active on this account, nor do i take requests on here. if you want to use this idea for a fic or series, please ask for permission first.
（＾∀＾●）ﾉｼ support me on kofi and help me pay for college!!
NANAMI x female reader. onlyfans model! reader, implied female reader, modern au, established relationship, supportive partners, financial insecurity, mentions of sex work, shame and guilt surrounding sex work, emotional vulnerability, domestic intimacy, workplace romance, discussion of financial struggles, mild workplace anxiety/paranoia (hr / gossip)
It had been exactly one week since Nanami Kento, the office’s most reliable man and your most embarrassing crush, decided to move from polite nods across spreadsheets to slipping his hand into yours on the way out of the elevator.
A week of hushed lunches, stolen glances, and his uncanny ability to look like he was about to scold someone even while pouring cream into your coffee. A week of you trying not to dissolve into a puddle every time he did something as simple as brush his thumb over your knuckles.
And now here you were, on what was technically your first proper date, sitting at a quiet corner table of a café he picked precisely because the blinds were drawn and the clientele consisted mainly of retirees who could barely squint at their soup, much less gossip to HR. Nanami, ever the professional, kept his back straight and his eyes flicking to the door every few minutes, like a bodyguard expecting a hit. To anyone else, it looked like paranoia. To you, it looked like tenderness disguised as alertness — his way of protecting you both from the storm that was office rumor mills.
“You keep looking around,” you muttered, stirring your tea, eyes narrowed in faint amusement. “Do you think HR has a spy tailing us with binoculars?”
Nanami’s lips twitched. “You would be surprised how little it takes for someone in HR to draw the worst conclusions. Two people caught in the lobby together, apparently, means a conspiracy to violate workplace ethics.”
You sipped your tea slowly, trying to hide your grin. “Scandalous. Imagine the reports: Nanami Kento, known for his tragic lack of humor, exposed for kissing his coworker by the water cooler.”
His gaze softened at you, and he shook his head. “You are hardly just a coworker.”
Cue to the moment of your heart cartwheeling into your throat, as you had to look down at the sugar packet you were nervously shredding.
Nanami, oblivious to your inner collapse, leaned back in his chair. “Speaking of which, I was thinking about side hustles today. You know — second incomes, hobbies. During college, I used to bake banana bread and sell it at expos.”
You blinked. “Banana bread.”
“Yes,” he said, with the same tone one might use for taxes are due in March. “I perfected the recipe. It was moist without being dense, flavorful without excess sugar. Surprisingly lucrative, though not exactly sustainable.”
You bit back a laugh, watching him as he stirred his coffee with unnecessary precision. “You’re telling me the same Nanami Kento who terrifies interns with one glance used to… stand behind a booth and sell banana bread?”
His brow furrowed. “Everyone needs income. And banana bread is versatile.”
“Versatile, huh?” you teased, leaning forward. “Did you give free samples with cute smiles too? Because I can’t imagine you charming people into buying baked goods.”
He gave you a dry look, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, tilting upward ever so slightly. “I managed.”
You wanted to laugh again, but his segue into side hustles made your stomach twist. Because unlike his wholesome banana bread empire, your “side hustle” involved lingerie, ring lights, and the internet’s willingness to throw large sums of money at you for doing what Nanami would probably classify as “not very sustainable either.”
“So,” he asked, tone even, “what about you? Any side hustles? Hobbies outside of work?”
Your spoon clinked too loudly against your cup. “Uh — hobbies. Yeah, freelancing. You know. Photography. Modeling. That kind of… stuff.”
Nanami raised an eyebrow, the same way he does when a junior submits a half-baked report. “Photography?”
“Mmhm,” you hummed, your voice pitched higher than normal. “Just, you know, small gigs. For… creative… outlets.”
There was a pause. The kind where you could hear the air conditioner hum. Nanami studied you like you were one of those convoluted spreadsheets he dissected in record time. His eyes narrowed, but not cruelly — more like he was making notes in his head.
“Interesting,” he said finally. “And… profitable?”
You nearly choked on your tea. “Profitable? Well, I mean — not like banana bread at expos profitable, but… enough. Definitely enough.”
He tilted his head. “Enough to cover rent? Savings? Diversify investments? Or enough for coffee money?”
You wanted to strangle the finance bro in him and kiss the man at the same time. “Why are you grilling me like a tax auditor?” you blurted.
“Because,” Nanami said dryly, “financial transparency is important in a partnership. And you seem… evasive.”
You laughed nervously, waving your hand. “I’m not evasive. I’m just… private. About, uh, the details.”
Nanami didn’t press further. He simply sighed, stirred his coffee again, and gave you a patient look. “That’s fair. Money is not an easy topic so early on. But — when you’re ready to be more specific, I’d like to hear it. Not for judgment,” he added, his voice softening in a way that made you look up despite yourself. “Just so I understand.”
And just like that, your heart pulled another somersault. Because here was Nanami, wary of HR, weary of gossip, yet steady in his quiet insistence that he wasn’t going anywhere — not even if you stumbled, not even if you weren’t ready to spill everything right away. You poked at the shredded sugar packet, lips twitching. “Fine. But only if you make me banana bread someday.”
His eyes glinted with quiet amusement. “Deal.”
.
.
.
The night had the sort of glow that made everything feel a little more unreal than it should’ve been. You and Nanami had left the café arm in arm, both of you a shade too tipsy for anyone to trust with responsible decisions, and somehow ended up sprawled in the grass of a small city park. It wasn’t the quiet kind of park — it pulsed faintly with the hum of traffic, the laughter of strangers walking past the gate, and the orange wash of streetlamps breaking through tree branches. But right here, lying flat against the cool lawn with Nanami beside you, the rest of the city blurred into background noise.
The two of you had been talking nonsense for a while — complaints about coworkers, your shared annoyance at the price of decent coffee, him teasing you about your dramatic storytelling — until, almost without realizing it, you slipped into honesty. The kind that hangs heavy in the air and doesn’t quite fit the playful tone of a tipsy evening.
“So, that’s how I make money on the side,” you admitted, staring at the starless sky, voice small but steady. “Not exactly the most… respectable way, I guess. But it pays better than doing nothing.”
There was a pause, and then the faint shift of movement. Nanami slowly propped himself up on one arm, his shadow blotting out the nearest streetlight as he looked down at you. His expression wasn’t sharp, not the stern one you saw in office meetings, but thoughtful.
“You do realize this is in violation of HR rules,” he said finally, his voice calm and low.
You snorted softly. “Yeah, I already know that.”
“And you realize if word gets out, it could cost you your job.”
Your laugh was short, a little bitter around the edges. “I already know that too.”
The silence stretched between you, and for a second you braced yourself for disappointment, for the inevitable lecture about professionalism and consequences. But instead, Nanami just exhaled slowly, shoulders loosening as he studied you.
“I’m not angry,” he murmured.
That caught you off guard. You turned your head to meet his gaze, searching for the hidden reprimand. “You’re… not?”
Nanami shook his head. “People have to work in this economy. The company barely pays enough for rent, let alone stability. Most of us are overworked and underpaid. I can’t fault you for doing what you must.”
The weight of his words pressed into you differently than the grass beneath your back. There was no judgment in his voice, only recognition, maybe even solidarity. Nanami knew more than most what it meant to live in a system that wrung people dry and handed them scraps in return.
His eyes softened just slightly, catching the glow of the city lights. “Though,” he added, a ghost of humor tugging at his mouth, “I would appreciate it if next time you considered earning your side money by helping me bake banana bread instead.”
The absurdity of it cracked the tension. You let out a shriek of laughter, the kind that startled a couple walking by the park fence, and rolled over to throw yourself against him. “Banana bread?” you giggled, half-tackling him in the grass. “You can’t be serious.” Nanami grunted as you knocked him onto his back, but his arm instinctively looped around you, steady even in the mess of your laughter. “I’m always serious,” he said, dry as ever, though the faintest chuckle escaped him.
Pressed against him, cheek to his shoulder, you could still hear the hum of traffic, the distant clatter of the city. But wrapped in his words, in the quiet acceptance of your messy reality, it felt almost like safety. Like for once, there was no need to defend yourself. Not here, not with him.
The night was imperfect — the grass damp, the air thick, the city lights too bright — but it was yours, and he didn’t mind. And that made it perfect enough.
this is a drabble archive account for kaevia - this is a repost and not something stolen. i am not exclusively active on this account, nor do i take requests on here. if you want to use this idea for a fic or series, please ask for permission first.
（＾∀＾●）ﾉｼ support me on kofi and help me pay for college!!
GETO x female reader. onlyfans model! reader, implied female reader, modern au, supportive partners, pay disparity, arranged marriage, financial insecurity, mentions of sex work, shame and guilt surrounding sex work, emotional vulnerability, domestic intimacy,
The café was warm that late afternoon, buzzing with soft chatter and the clinking of cutlery, autumn light filtering through the glass windows in streaks of gold. Your hands cupped the ceramic mug in front of you, the steam rising faintly, carrying the faint bitterness of your tea. Across the table sat Suguru — older now, sharper around the edges, but still carrying the same quiet composure you remembered from years ago.
Five years of silence. Five years of wondering if the tether of childhood friendship could hold under the weight of time. And yet, here you were, both roped into an arranged marriage that would tie your names together for the rest of your lives.
“So,” you finally said, breaking the comfortable lull, “you actually have a ten-step haircare routine?”
His lips curved, the faintest hint of pride glimmering in his dark eyes. “Don’t sound so surprised. Good hair takes effort. But, since we’re getting married, I figured it’s fair — five steps for me, five steps for you.”
You raised a brow, pausing mid-bite into your panini. “What, like… you’ll split it with me?”
He leaned back, arms crossing casually, his smirk widening. “Marriage is about compromise, isn’t it? I’ll do the oiling and shampooing, you can handle the masks and treatments. Efficient teamwork.”
A laugh slipped out of you, one you hadn’t realized you were holding back. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re still the same,” he countered smoothly, “teasing me for things that clearly work. You can’t deny it — my hair looks great.” You shook your head, but you couldn’t deny it either. It was comforting, how easily the rhythm returned, like the years apart were only weeks.
Conversation tumbled on, flowing naturally. He told you about college — how he’d moved between majors, how he’d taken odd jobs to keep himself busy. “One time,” he said, sipping his coffee like it was nothing, “I took this assignment off a poster in one of the campus halls. Paid eight grand to take photos of women for lingerie shoots.”
You nearly inhaled your tea the wrong way, choking mid-swallow. “Excuse me?!”
His brow shot up as he leaned forward quickly, hand brushing instinctively against your arm. “Hey, don’t die on me now — what, that shocked you?”
“Shocked?!” you coughed out, eyes wide. “Suguru, that’s insane! You — you actually did it?”
He nodded, unbothered. “It was legit enough. Paid in cash, no scams. The models were professionals too. I was nervous as hell at first, though — had no idea how to direct them. But it ended up being… weirdly educational?” You pressed your lips together, stifling a laugh, though your face felt hot for an entirely different reason. “Educational, huh?”
“What?” his smirk returned, lazy and amused. “Don’t tell me you’re scandalized.”
“Not scandalized,” you muttered, suddenly very focused on picking at the crumbs of your bread. “Just… familiar, that’s all.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, curiosity sparking. “Familiar?”
Your tongue tripped, heart racing. You weren’t ready to spill that part of your life — not yet, not when things between you two were still fragile, still rebuilding. So you dodged. “Just, y’know, familiar in the sense that I’ve… read about those things before. Nothing more.”
He studied you for a long beat, eyes sharp but not pressing, before shrugging lightly. “Hm, fair enough.”
You exhaled slowly, grateful for his restraint.
The conversation drifted back into safer waters — mutual friends from school, memories of old teachers, stupid inside jokes that somehow hadn’t lost their humor. Every smile that crossed his face reminded you of the boy he’d been and the man he’d become, the gap between those versions bridging inch by inch as you talked. And in between the warmth of the tea, the hum of the café, and the familiarity of his laughter, something fragile and tentative bloomed in your chest. Not love, not yet. But the slow, careful weaving of it — the kind that could make an arrangement like this feel less like obligation and more like possibility.
“It’s strange,” you admitted softly, almost to yourself, “how easy this feels again. Like nothing changed.”
Suguru tilted his head, his gaze warm, steady. “A lot changed. But maybe… not the important parts.”
And for the first time since your families had announced the arrangement, you didn’t feel the weight of it pressing down on you. Instead, you felt the quiet beginning of something being rebuilt — trust, friendship, and maybe, one day, love.
The café had quieted down as the sun dipped, warm amber spilling across Suguru’s face as he leaned back with his coffee. He’d let you talk and laugh, let the nostalgia of shared memories fill the space, but eventually his expression sobered into something you knew all too well: the look of a man pivoting into business. “So,” he began, lacing his fingers together on the table, “let’s talk finances. I don’t like walking into things blind, and if we’re doing this marriage, we should at least know where we stand.”
Your heart dropped. “Finances? Right now?”
“Better sooner than later,” he replied easily. “I’ve been working with a mid-tier finance agency. Commissions are steady. Between that and some consulting, I’m pulling in about seventy-five thousand annually. Enough to cover expenses and still invest. I’ve got a decent emergency fund too — six months’ worth of living costs. You?”
You froze, your fingers tightening around your mug. “Uh… freelancing.”
He raised a brow. “Freelancing what?”
“Photography,” you blurted, voice too quick, “and, um, modeling sometimes. Y’know, when people… need it.”
“Okay,” he said slowly, clearly unconvinced but not pushing. “What’s your revenue stream look like? Monthly averages?”
You scrambled. “I mean, it really, really depends. Not consistent, but, like, enough?”
“Enough,” he echoed, his tone amused. “Do you track your expenses against your income? Like, do you have a budgeting system — 50/30/20 rule, zero-based budgeting, envelopes? Anything?”
Your palms went clammy. “I… I kinda just… keep it in my head? I mean, I know what’s going in and out, generally.”
“Generally,” he repeated, sipping his coffee, clearly biting back a laugh. “Do you have savings goals? Retirement account? High-yield savings, brokerage account?”
You wanted to throw your panini at him.
“Who — who talks about retirement during coffee?”
“Someone who plans ahead,” he said smoothly. “You’re twenty-something, right? Compound interest is your friend. A Roth IRA, an index fund — hell, even a mutual fund if you want to be conservative. Do you at least have an emergency fund?”
You swallowed hard. “I… might.”
“Might?”
“It’s… small. Like, tiny. Okay, microscopic.”
He tilted his head, studying you, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous!” you insisted, voice a pitch too high. “Just — it’s weird! Money talk this early? Super weird!”
“It’s not weird,” he said gently, tone softening. “It’s smart. But…” he let his gaze linger on you, watching your fidgeting fingers, your refusal to meet his eyes. “I get it. You don’t have to give me details right now. Money is… a vulnerable thing. Especially at the beginning.”
Your chest tightened, relief and guilt clashing. “Thank you,” you muttered, fiddling with the rim of your cup.
“But,” he added, leaning forward slightly, his smirk returning, “I will ask again. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week, but eventually. Because I’m marrying you, and I wanna know how you’re living, what keeps you afloat.”
You tried to laugh it off, though your heart pounded like a drum. “Yeah, yeah, Mr. budget spreadsheet. You’ll get your numbers someday.”
“Good,” he said simply, sitting back again. “Just know — I’m not here to judge. I just need to understand. That’s all.”
You nodded, forcing a small smile while your brain spun in frantic circles, rehearsing half-truths and scrambling for plausible numbers. Suguru wasn’t mad, wasn’t prying — yet — but his suspicion had already flickered, and you knew this conversation wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
.
.
.
You almost hit him — literally.
The moment you saw Geto stepping out into the street, coat slung over one shoulder, you pushed through the café door like a woman on fire. Your CHANEL bag thudded against your hip, your heart was a hummingbird trying to escape your ribs, and the words “I need to tell you something” looped in your mouth like a broken record. You were half-running, half-skirting around pedestrians, cheeks hot enough to toast bread, and then you nearly collided with him. He caught you by the forearms before you could yank the whole scene into pratfall territory. His hands were steady and warm, those long fingers wrapped just under your elbows so you couldn’t wriggle free if you tried.
For a second you could only stare — at his face, the slight stubble that shadowed his jaw, the way his coat looked impossibly expensive even when bunched in the crook of his arm. You could see confusion ripple through him like a small wave.
“Hey — slow down,” he said, voice amused, not worried. He wasn’t complaining. He never complained when you were frantic; he’d learned your panic looked better in motion than folded into silence. “What’s up?”
You opened your mouth, shut it, opened it again. “I—” You tried for the dramatic pause. What came out instead was the frantic, burbling preface you’d been rehearsing for ten minutes: “I need to tell you something — no, wait — no, it’s stupid — no, it’s not—” Your breath shuddered on the last word, and behind you the faint hiss of an approaching Uber grew louder. Geto’s smile softened; his thumb pressed a little into your wrist, steadying you. “Okay, okay,” he said. “Breathe. You’re scaring the birds. Out with it.”
You inhaled, as if that could gather courage in your lungs, and the words spilled.
“I have an OnlyFans.”
There’s a thousand ways people imagine reactions to that sentence. Loud, dramatic explosions. Cold, moralizing silence. Fainting. What you’d imagined never landed squarely anywhere near what happened. Geto’s shoulders did this tiny, almost imperceptible droop — like someone deflating a balloon very slowly. The change was so small that a stranger wouldn’t notice, but it stole the air from you all the same.
For one ridiculous second you thought you’d ruined everything.
Then he huffed. Not an angry sound — more like a puff of laughter you can’t hold in. He smushed both your cheeks with exaggerated affection, his palms warm against your skin, and you squeaked at the contact, utterly unable to form a coherent protest.
“Your timing is terrible,” he said, voice a wheeze of amusement. He squinted down the street; the Uber’s headlights cut a pale path toward the curb. “Of all the moments to spring confessions, you pick ‘Geto runs to an Uber and my driver is five seconds away.’ Classic you.”
You tried to explain, words tumbling out in that breathless jumble you used whenever your brain outran your mouth. “I — no, it’s not what you think — I started it back in college as a dare, it was one thing and then it kind of stuck, it helps with—” You stumbled, looked at your hands, and felt absurdly small. “I wasn’t trying to hide it from you — God, I’d tell you anything.”
Geto’s expression shifted slowly, like a sky clouding over then clearing. He tugged at the ends of his coat, eyes flicking to your face, cataloguing the tiny betrayals of your confession: the flush that wouldn’t go away, the way your fingers worried at the strap of your purse, the honest, ridiculous panic in your gaze. He was quiet for a beat or three — long enough for the Uber to pull up and the driver to call out, “Mr. Geto?”
He let out another small laugh, softer now, and squeezed your forearms once — light, reassuring. “I’m not mad,” he said, and though his words were calm, there was an amused heat at the edges. “God, you look like you expected thunderbolts and pitchforks. I’m not going to cancel a marriage over a website.”
You exhaled a sound that was probably a sob and probably a giggle. “You really mean that?” you said, voice little and ragged.
He leaned forward and smooshed your cheeks again, ridiculously domestic. “I mean that I will never be the sort of man who storms off because of… this.” He tapped your temple with a knuckle. “Timing’s terrible, yes. Content choice? Debatable. But you — are not a scandal. You’re a human being who does stuff. We’ll talk about it. Tonight. Tomorrow. On our next date. I’ll even call you while I’m in the car if you want me to.” His tone slid easily into the role of practical comforter, the one who says, “We’ll discuss later,” and you automatically trusted him.
The Uber door swung open; headlights painted your faces in harsh, car-park light. Geto shifted his grip, clasped one hand around yours in a quick, possessive squeeze that was equal parts promise and domesticity.
“Also,” he added, a half-smile coming back, “if anyone asks, I am very much still your husband. Don’t let them have any fun with the line-up. Got it?”
You nodded, tiny and grateful and stunned all at once. You waved at him on autopilot as the car idled forward, your hand fluttering because your muscles had stopped taking orders from your brain. Geto climbed in, shot you a look that was equal parts affection and exasperation, and mouthed, “Call me,” before the car merged into traffic.
You watched his silhouette pull away, felt your cheeks ache from smiling, and then, finally, you let the breath you’d been holding since the café fall out of you in a long, shuddering exhale. The city noise folded back around you — horns, distant laughter, the hum of life — and in the middle of it you felt, absurdly and wholly, at home.
this is a drabble archive account for kaevia - this is a repost and not something stolen. i am not exclusively active on this account, nor do i take requests on here. if you want to use this idea for a fic or series, please ask for permission first.
（＾∀＾●）ﾉｼ support me on kofi and help me pay for college!!
GOJO x female reader. onlyfans model! reader, implied female reader, modern au, established relationship, supportive partners, mentions of sex work, alcohol consumption, shame and guilt surrounding sex work, feelings of inadequacy/self-worth issues, emotional vulnerability, discussion of unhealthy coping mechanisms, mentions of loneliness and restlessness
The night had started easy — pizza boxes on the counter, a half-empty bag of chips spilling across your coffee table, and two mismatched glasses of cheap alcohol that Gojo insisted was ‘classy because it burns less.’ Your apartment smelled faintly of takeout and that vanilla candle you’d lit to cover up the scent of your laundry basket.
Gojo sat cross-legged on the rug, hair a wild mess that refused to be tamed even indoors, blue eyes glittering under the dim lamplight. Every time he leaned forward to set down his drink, his socks brushed against your leg where you sat curled on the couch, and it was both infuriating and comforting.
“Okay, okay — your turn.” He wagged his glass at you, grin already stretching wide, too proud of the last round where you had to drink after admitting you once cried during a Marvel movie.
You narrowed your eyes. “Never have I ever… dyed my hair white.”
“Boo.” He groaned dramatically, but tipped his glass anyway. “Can’t help genetics, baby.”
“Genetics my ass. You look like you bleached it with holy water.”
“Don’t hate me ‘cause I’m beautiful,” he shot back, tilting his head with a flourish like he was in a shampoo ad.
The questions rolled on: dumb ones about crushes, pointed ones about bad exes, and sly ones that had you laughing so hard you spilled on the carpet. The room was warm, lighthearted, filled with his voice bouncing off your walls. And then—
“Never have I ever…” Gojo leaned back, his grin devilish, eyes narrowing in faux-seriousness as he thought. “Had an OnlyFans.”
You froze. The drink in your hand turned heavier, colder, poison against your skin. Gojo snorted at his own joke, downing the rest of his glass. “Ha! Imagine me — posing in lingerie, charging, what, twenty bucks a month?” He was already laughing, sprawled half against your coffee table, hair falling in his eyes.
But you didn’t laugh. You didn’t move. The silence stretched like elastic pulled too far. He blinked, mid-chuckle.
“...Huh?”
You shifted, fingers tightening around your glass. “What?”
“Hey,” he said softly, smile faltering just enough to betray his curiosity. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze zeroing in like a spotlight. “Why so quiet, hm?”
You forced a laugh, thin and awkward, shaking your head. “Nothing. Just — dumb question.”
But Gojo wasn’t buying it. His grin returned, slower this time, curling with a kind of playfulness that was far more dangerous. “Aw, don’t tell me. Don’t tell me my sweet little girlfriend just failed to drink when she was supposed to.”
Your throat tightened. The glass sat heavy in your hand. And Gojo’s gaze — piercing, amused, waiting — made it impossible to breathe.
The silence stretched too long, too brittle, and Gojo was quick to break it — not with more teasing, but by shuffling across the carpet, drink forgotten on the table. He nudged your knee with his own, his usual grin softened into something smaller, gentler.
“Did I… overstep? Was that a bad question?” His voice dropped low, like he was afraid of scaring you further. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, you know. I didn’t mean to—”
You cut him off, words tumbling out in a messy rush. “I — no, it’s not that. I just… I have one. An OnlyFans.”
He blinked, blue eyes widening, then narrowing as if his brain was trying to rerun the sentence to make sure he heard it right.
“You… what?”
“I do. I have an account,” you confessed, staring at the bottle instead of him. “It’s not — it’s not something I’m proud of. And I swear I was gonna delete it the second you asked me out. I even meant it, but then… I didn’t. I just… kept it. And now it’s — ugh, I don’t even know how to explain this without sounding pathetic.”
Gojo tilted his head, gaze flicking across your face like he was trying to piece together a puzzle. “Pathetic?”
“Yes!” Your voice cracked, hands flailing before you pressed your palms to your thighs to keep them still. “I don’t even need the money anymore, Satoru. I just — don’t know what else to do with my time. It’s like this stupid… habit. Like checking your phone first thing in the morning or staying up too late on purpose. I tell myself I’ll stop, and then I don’t. It makes me feel busy, like I’m not just sitting around wasting my life.”
For a moment, he didn’t speak. His lips parted like he had something to say, then he just exhaled — loud, heavy, like the sound of an air conditioner kicking on in a dead quiet room. Then he leaned in, wrapping his arms around you without ceremony, pulling you against his chest until your forehead pressed to his collarbone.
“You’re such an idiot sometimes,” he muttered into your hair, his voice muffled but firm. “You think I’d care about something like that more than I care about you?”
“I thought—” You swallowed, voice shaky. “I thought you’d see me as… I don’t know. Bored. Desperate. Gross.”
“Gross?” He pulled back just enough to give you a flat look, brows arched high. “Sweetheart, the only gross thing here is you thinking so little of yourself. Do you really think sitting in front of a camera is the worst way to kill time? Please. You should see what I do when I’m bored. Half the time it involves trying to see how many marshmallows I can fit in my mouth at once.”
You huffed out a weak laugh. He tightened his hold, chin resting on the crown of your head now. “But listen… seriously. Doing this just to keep yourself occupied? To trick yourself into not being lonely or restless? That’s not healthy, baby. That’s not gonna fix what you’re trying to fill. And I can’t stand the thought of you pushing yourself into something that makes you feel empty after. You deserve better.”
You whispered, barely audible, “I don’t even know what else I’d do.”
“That’s where I come in.” He gave you a squeeze, voice warming again. “We’ll find something better. Something that makes you feel good without draining you. Hell, I’ll sign us up for pottery classes, start a terrible band, whatever it takes. You’re not doing this alone, not when I’m around.”
You finally let yourself breathe — deep, shaky, but freer than you’d felt in months. The weight in your chest, the guilt pressing against your ribs, all of it loosened as you melted into him.
“…You’d really go to pottery classes with me?” you murmured.
He grinned, tilting your chin up so you’d look him in the eyes. “Baby, I’d make you the ugliest vase you’ve ever seen in your life. And you’d have to keep it on display forever. That’s true love.”
And for the first time in what felt like forever, you laughed without guilt weighing it down.
this is a drabble archive account for kaevia - this is a repost and not something stolen. i am not exclusively active on this account, nor do i take requests on here. if you want to use this idea for a fic or series, please ask for permission first.
（＾∀＾●）ﾉｼ support me on kofi and help me pay for college!!
SHIU x female reader. onlyfans model! reader, implied female reader, modern au, established relationship, live in relationship, supportive partners, mentions of sex work, attempt to smoke (and failing miserably), lingerie wearing reader, emotional vulnerability, domestic intimacy
It starts, as all brilliant, earth-shattering tragedies do, with you half-bent over your boyfriend Shiu’s nightstand, digging through a mess of receipts, old matchbooks, and one ominously sticky lighter until you finally unearth what you came for: his cigarettes. You were not stealing, you told yourself, only borrowing for the noble cause of fulfilling a very specific, very bizarre OnlyFans request.
Apparently, some guy out there wanted lingerie shots with cigarettes. Not lit, mind you — no, he wanted the whole vibe, the aesthetic, the bad girl who smokes behind the gymnasium type. Easy money, right?
Except for the glaring issue that you knew jack shit about smoking.
Your one ill-fated attempt at vaping in college had ended with you clutching your knees in a bathroom stall, swearing you’d seen God. Not exactly the kind of experience that made you eager to repeat. But here you were, standing in front of Shiu’s mirror in lace that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, holding a cigarette like it was an alien artifact. You tilted it between your fingers, trying to mimic the casual way Shiu always had it dangling from his lips, smoke curling like he was born with lungs full of sex and mystery.
Instead, you looked like a kid pretending with a breadstick.
“Real sexy,” you muttered at your reflection, tilting your wrist so awkwardly it looked like you were about to salute the damn thing.
Lighting it proved to be its own comedy routine. The lighter hissed, flared, died, flared again, singed one acrylic nail, and finally caught. You flinched like you’d just detonated a grenade, then jabbed the tip of the cigarette into the flame with all the grace of someone skewering a marshmallow. When it finally lit, you leaned in, lips closing around the filter, trying to copy every slow, practiced drag you’d seen Shiu pull a hundred times.
Instead of cool and languid, you inhaled like you were taking a last breath on earth.
Smoke burned down your throat and into your lungs so violently that you gagged, eyes watering instantly. The next second you were doubled over, wheezing into your lace bralette like your respiratory system had filed for divorce.
Camera still rolling. Perfect content.
You straightened, still coughing, trying to hold the cigarette in some sexy angle while your lungs waged war, snapping another shaky selfie with your free hand. Because yes — this was what you did for OnlyFans. Choke on carcinogens while looking hot enough that someone, somewhere, would tip you for it.
And then, the doorbell rang.
You froze, cigarette trembling dangerously between your fingers, mascara already smudging from your coughing fit. And of course, it wasn’t a delivery guy or the neighbor — it was your boyfriend Shiu Kong. Handler to assassins, smoker extraordinaire, soon to be man who would 100% know you had just broken into his stash like a lingerie-clad raccoon.
“Oh dear,” you whispered hoarsely, cigarette smoke leaking pitifully out your nose like some tragic dragon. So, not only did you look like you’d just lost a bar fight with nicotine, but now you had to open the door for your beloved while smelling like his vice and wearing lace that definitely hadn’t been meant for him tonight.
A true professional.
Bless the boyfriend, truly, because when you finally cracked open the door you were already half-buried in shame. Oversized shirt tugged hastily over the evidence of your sins, lace peeking at your thighs if you moved even an inch too much, and that unmistakable smell clinging to you like you’d spent the last two hours rolling around in a gas station ashtray. Shiu stepped inside, sharp eyes immediately narrowing, nose twitching in faint amusement. He hung back for a second, just enough for you to panic in the silence, before tilting his head.
“...you have company?” he asked casually, voice smooth but edged with curiosity, like he was trying to puzzle out whether he should be jealous or entertained. You scrambled, stammered, voice cracking in half. “N-no, I just… I, uh, wanted to — try smoking? Surprise you with… my skills.” Your words limped out of your mouth like wounded soldiers, not quite truth, not quite lie. You might as well have admitted you were rehearsing to audition for a Marlboro ad.
He blinked. Then, with the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips, let out a low chuckle that only made the heat rise to your ears. “Your skills, huh?” he repeated, shrugging off his coat and draping it over the chair like he had all the time in the world. And then he leaned in to kiss you, not even hiding his smirk as he pressed close, nose brushing yours. His lips caught yours gently, teasingly, but the moment he inhaled, he pulled back just a little, enough to murmur against your skin, “You smell like you’ve been chain-smoking for hours.”
You nearly combusted on the spot. “I-it was just one!” you squeaked, throat tight, heart hammering. You tried to hum, to play it off, but your nervousness bled through every sound.
Shiu didn’t look mad — he looked positively entertained, like he’d walked in on the punchline of a joke he hadn’t known was being set up for him. His eyes dragged over you, oversized shirt slipping just enough to hint at the lingerie beneath, and then back up to your flushed face. And instead of lecturing, instead of mocking, he only tilted his head again, lips quirking. “Mm,” he hummed, slow and thoughtful. “Guess I’ll have to teach you how to smoke properly then.”
Your whole body jolted at that, like he’d suggested handing you a loaded weapon instead of a cigarette. You wanted to catapult yourself through the nearest window, but you were rooted in place, the word teach echoing like a death knell. Because of course — only you could manage to humiliate yourself by botching a fake bad-girl routine for OnlyFans and end up with your handler boyfriend offering you actual lessons in how to look like a delinquent. And worse? He sounded absolutely delighted at the prospect.
You tried every possible diversion in the book — wasn’t he tired from work? Didn’t he want dinner? A bath? Maybe a spiritual retreat? Anything, absolutely anything, that didn’t involve you sitting face-to-face with a cigarette and his full attention. But Shiu wasn’t having it. His hand had already hooked around your wrist, his low laugh buzzing in your ear as he tugged you toward the sofa.
Before you could even breathe out another excuse, you were already settled across his lap, his palm firm against your waist to keep you there. He moved with the ease of someone who had done this a thousand times before — drawer pulled open, packet slipped out, lighter ready. The motion was so fluid, you didn’t even have time to process the fact that you were trapped.
He held the cigarette between his lips, about to strike the flame, when his other hand betrayed you completely. Fingers drifting, brushing over the lace clinging to your thighs. He stilled for a moment, then let out a quiet hum of surprise, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he were seconds away from teasing you.
“...You wore this for me?” His voice was amused, soft, like he was already anticipating your embarrassed denial. Except your mouth moved faster than your brain, blurting the truth before you could reel it back.
“It’s not for you.”
The pause that followed was brutal. His brow furrowed, his confusion plain, head tipping just slightly to the side as he processed. He blinked once, then twice, and you could see him brushing off the comment — because sure, sometimes people wore lace for themselves, for confidence, for comfort. He got it. He wasn’t about to question your autonomy over something like that.
But then you kept talking. And you said the word.
“...It’s for my OnlyFans.”
This time, he froze completely. The lighter in his hand clicked uselessly, forgotten, his eyes locked on you with the kind of sharp focus he usually reserved for reading a room full of enemies. His lips parted, closed, then parted again, but no sound came out right away.
“Your… what?” His tone was deliberate, careful, like he needed to confirm he’d actually heard you correctly.
The cigarette, still resting between his lips, hung crookedly as he slowly removed it, eyes narrowing not in anger but in sheer bafflement. His grip around your waist didn’t loosen, though — it tightened, subtle but certain, as if anchoring himself to the reality of what you’d just admitted.
There was no immediate explosion, no raised voice, no sharp accusation. Just that silence — thick, heavy, charged with a hundred unspoken questions crowding his mind. Shiu wasn’t a man who rattled easily, but you’d clearly just dropped a weight into the calm waters of his composure, and he was watching the ripples spread, trying to understand exactly what kind of revelation he was dealing with.
“I — look, it wasn’t even supposed to be a thing,” you blurted out, your hands waving before you even knew what words were coming out. “Last year of college, okay? Someone dared me. I thought it was funny. I thought it’d be… whatever. And then I got this, like, insane request and — yeah, I know, stupid — but I did it, and then it just—” you broke off, fumbling over your own explanation, “—it just became this thing. Not like, big huge thing. Just… habit. Privacy. Exclusivity. It made sense.”
Shiu was watching you like a hawk, but not in the terrifying way you expected — his head tilted, cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers now, his expression unreadable but not sharp. He let you talk, didn’t cut in, didn’t explode. Just sat there, his hand still warm and steady at your waist.
“And that’s why I was…” you gestured helplessly toward the drawer, toward the discarded lighter. “…with the cigarette. Because apparently that’s someone’s fantasy now.”
Finally, Shiu spoke, voice low and slow, like he was trying to measure how much weight each word carried. “How much?”
Your throat went dry. “…Five thousand.”
For the first time since your confession, his eyebrows actually rose. He leaned back slightly, not in disbelief but in calculation, as if he were doing the math in his head. Then, without a word, he reached over, pulled open the drawer again, and rummaged with deliberate calm until he came out with a neat stack of bills — thick, folded, bound with a band. He dropped it in your lap with a soft thud!
“Ten.”
You blinked down at the money like it was radioactive. “…What?”
“Ten,” he repeated, his mouth quirking just barely at the corner. “Smoke for me in lingerie. Skip the middleman.”
Your jaw dropped. “Shiu—”
He cut you off with a small chuckle, pressing the unlit cigarette back against your lips for emphasis. “You’re telling me you’re doing all this for strangers who don’t even know your name, and you’ve got me sitting right here? Hm?”
“I — it’s not like that, I—” your protest collapsed halfway, your face heating as you stumbled over your words. “It was just — I don’t even do crazy stuff, I swear, it’s — it’s so stupid sometimes, like, I got asked once if I could eat dry ramen out of the bag in heels—”
That earned a low laugh from him, rough around the edges, like he couldn’t help himself. “Dry ramen?”
“Yes! And another guy — he wanted me to hum the Pokémon theme while wearing a maid outfit, which like, fine, but he tipped so much and—” you cut yourself off, groaning, burying your face in your hands. “God, why am I telling you this?”
“Because you’re embarrassed,” Shiu said simply, his tone softened with amusement, his fingers prying your hands away from your face with surprising gentleness. “And because you don’t need to be.” He tilted your chin up until your eyes met his. “I’m not mad.”
“You’re… really not?”
He shook his head slowly, expression calm but firm. “Why would I be mad? You did what you had to. You wanted independence. You got creative. You stayed safe. Can’t fault you for that.” A pause, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “And besides — pretty sure I earn more than enough to keep you afloat, if you want to stop.”
You melted then, your breath hitching at the casual confidence in his words, at the way he said it like a simple fact rather than a brag. He wasn’t mocking, wasn’t judging — he was just offering. And somehow, that was worse for your flustered brain.
“...You’re ridiculous,” you mumbled, pressing your forehead to his chest, trying to hide the way your shoulders trembled from a mix of laughter and relief.
Shiu leaned back again, still chuckling, eyes softening as he studied you. His thumb brushed your cheek, quieting you. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is — you did what you had to do. And if you’re happy, then I’m happy. But if you’re not?” He nudged the stack of bills closer to you. “I’ll cover the difference. Always.”
Your chest squeezed, the kind of ache that wasn’t painful but overwhelming. You whispered, “You really still love me after all this?”
“‘Still’?” His tone turned incredulous, then gentle. “Baby, I never stopped. Website or no website, lace for me or lace for them — I love you. That’s it.”
And for once, you couldn’t think of a single thing to say back, so you just melted into him, letting his confidence carry what your nerves couldn’t.
this is a drabble archive account for kaevia - this is a repost and not something stolen. i am not exclusively active on this account, nor do i take requests on here. if you want to use this idea for a fic or series, please ask for permission first.
（＾∀＾●）ﾉｼ support me on kofi and help me pay for college!!
NAOYA x female reader. onlyfans model! reader, implied female reader, modern au, established relationship, supportive partners, angst throughout, depiction of panic attacks, mentions of body image/dysmorphia/issues, financial sexism, arranged marriage, male ego, mentions of sex work, feelings of inadequacy/self-worth issues, emotional vulnerability, discussion of financial struggles
Talking to Naoya Zenin on what was, by your rough estimate, the 97th date in a string of dates that had started blurring together, was always an exercise in patience. He looked pristine, as always, perfectly pressed shirt sleeves rolled just enough to show off his watch, hair neat to the point of arrogance. The downtown café you’d picked out wasn’t loud enough to hide the scrape of his silverware against porcelain, wasn’t cozy enough to give you cover, and definitely wasn’t the kind of place where you wanted to unload the weight of your double life.
But here you were, sipping a latte that tasted far too bitter, mentally rehearsing a confession that might implode the engagement your families had been parading like a business deal.
He was talking about budgeting, or at least his version of budgeting — the kind that involved throwing around numbers for wedding venues, imported champagne, and how much your “wardrobe updates” would cost once you were his wife. The way he said it was so matter-of-fact, so clinical, like he was already allocating columns in a spreadsheet.
“You don’t have to worry about rent anymore,” he said smoothly, like it was supposed to be comforting. “And you can stop thinking about little expenses like groceries. My family will handle that. It’s inefficient for you to be stressed about trivial things.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, because wasn’t that the problem? Trivial things were exactly what your OnlyFans income covered. Trivial things like not having to choose between paying rent and buying decent food. Trivial things like going to the doctor when you needed to without worrying about the bill. It wasn’t millions, but your account was in the top twenty percent, enough to give you independence, enough to make you feel like your choices belonged to you. And yet here he was, with his controlled smile and his precise words, making even the act of eating a croissant sound like an itemized report. “I like being able to manage my own expenses,” you ventured carefully, knowing how quickly he could turn conversations into quiet little wars.
Naoya’s eyes flicked up from his espresso, sharp and unimpressed. “That’s cute,” he said, and you felt the patronizing lilt slice straight through your attempt. “But after marriage, you won’t need to worry about such things. Independence is overrated when it just means struggling. You’ll have me.”
You inhaled slowly, gripping your cup. Independence is overrated. It almost made you laugh, if only because the irony was so sharp it hurt. Did he have any idea what it felt like to be proud of your own work, to look at yourself on a screen and not shy away from the reflection? To feel powerful in a way that no family name, no handout, no Zenin-funded credit card could buy?
Your mind flickered back to the nights you spent adjusting lighting, arching your body just so, reclaiming your image in a way that was both raw and deliberate. You’d learned to admire yourself there, to stop shrinking from the mirror. The money was good, yes, but it was more than that — it was proof you could stand on your own two feet, no matter how “wonky” the path.
You looked across the table at the man you were supposed to marry, at the way he dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin as if this café — this entire city — were just a backdrop to his performance.
“So, what about things like… personal savings?” you asked lightly, trying to steer the conversation closer to the truth without tearing the veil all at once.
He smirked, leaning back in his chair like you’d said something amusing. “You’ll have access to what you need. Why would you want to keep your own account when mine will cover everything? Besides, it’s better for the husband to manage finances. It avoids… unnecessary complications.”
Your exasperation curled in your chest, tight and hot. Unnecessary complications. As though your work, your secret life, the thing that kept you afloat and whole, was just some messy line item on a budget he could strike out. You imagined saying it — I run an OnlyFans, Naoya, I make money showing myself online, and I’m damn good at it. You imagined the look he’d give you, that smug disdain cloaked as civility, the way he’d twist the words into a lecture about propriety and shame. You stirred your coffee, trying not to let your sigh slip past your lips. This café, with its marble countertops and delicate chandeliers, was not the place. Probably no place would ever be the place. And yet the weight of it pressed down harder the longer you stayed silent.
“You look distracted,” Naoya observed, tilting his head like a predator cataloguing a weakness. “Are you worried about something?”
Yes, you thought bitterly. I’m worried about the part of me that doesn’t fit into your spreadsheets. I’m worried about what happens when my independence collides with your arrogance. I’m worried that the confidence I clawed my way into will shrivel under your disapproval. But you smiled instead, that polite, practiced smile that kept the peace. “Just thinking about… all the changes. Moving in, the wedding. It’s a lot.”
He nodded, satisfied with that answer, returning to his coffee as if the conversation had already ended. And you sat there, heartbeat heavy, wondering if marriage was supposed to feel like this: like biting your tongue raw, like hiding the best and worst parts of yourself because the man across from you would never understand.
But you decided to try again. You asked if you could have a conversation about personal finances, and the way Naoya instantly agreed made your stomach knot. Too quick, too sharp, like he was holding the door open only to slam it shut the second you walked through. But you’d already cornered yourself into the moment, and before you could claw your way out, you blurted it.
“I… I have an OnlyFans.”
The silence afterward was deafening. It stretched, brittle and heavy, while Naoya’s expression cracked open and rearranged itself in real time. Disbelief first — his brows lifting so fast you thought he might laugh. Then the scoff, sharp and biting, his lips curling into that familiar sneer. He leaned back, elbows propped on his knees, body turned halfway away from you as if the distance might help him process the sheer absurdity.
What is a Zenin, if not theatrically expressive in their disapproval? Every shift of his body was a performance: the narrowing eyes, the exaggerated exhale through his nose, the slow shake of his head like you’d just told him you’d taken up juggling on street corners for spare change.
You were spiraling. Your pulse hammered so loud it filled your ears, and your mind jumped straight to catastrophe. What if this gets out? What if the Zenins hear? They’d cancel the wedding before you could blink, your family would be ruined, shunned, dragged into whispered scandals over espresso cups. The walls of the café seemed to close in, every polished marble surface suddenly hostile. You wanted to snatch the words back, to rewind time ten seconds, to shut yourself up before you detonated your own life. But then his voice cut through, surprisingly even.
“...why?”
Not furious, not scandalized. Just one syllable, heavy with incredulity, almost like he couldn’t reconcile the idea with the person sitting across from him. Your throat went dry, but you forced the truth out anyway, because lying now would only trap you deeper.
“I had… body image issues,” you mumbled, eyes fixed on your coffee cup. “For a long time. I hated the mirror. I hated myself. And it wasn’t the donations or the gross messages — it was me, finally being able to look at myself, on camera, in the mirror, and not flinch. I blocked the creeps, I kept the rules. But the confidence… it came after.”
His reaction was maddening in its clumsiness. Another scoff, but weaker this time, almost uncertain, his hand dragging over his mouth like he was trying to erase the sound before it finished. His gaze darted to the side, then back to you, then down to his hands. His jaw clenched, released, clenched again. He wasn’t built for this kind of conversation — this level of rawness. To him, your reasoning was too deep for something he had already labeled trivial. His body betrayed him, though. He leaned forward again, forearms braced on the table now, no longer pulling away. His brows were still furrowed, but there was something restless under his skin, some stubborn attempt to bridge a gap he didn’t know how to close.
“You don’t need strangers to tell you what you’re worth,” he muttered finally, voice stiff, clumsy, almost irritated with itself. His eyes flicked up, locking on yours in something like defiance. “You have me. I’m your husband. That’s all that should matter.”
It wasn’t the sweeping acceptance you might have dreamed of, no sudden enlightenment, no tender epiphany. It was awkward, jagged, begrudging even. But it was what he could give. His own warped way of saying he heard you — even if he didn’t fully understand.
And as you sat there, heart still racing, panic still clawing at your ribs, you watched him fumble through the limits of his pride and ego to offer something resembling reassurance. Clumsy, yes. Imperfect, absolutely. But a thread of acceptance, however strained, was still better than the silence you’d feared.
this is a drabble archive account for kaevia - this is a repost and not something stolen. i am not exclusively active on this account, nor do i take requests on here. if you want to use this idea for a fic or series, please ask for permission first.
（＾∀＾●）ﾉｼ support me on kofi and help me pay for college!!
CHOSO x female reader. onlyfans model! reader, implied female reader, modern au, established relationship, live in relationship, supportive partners, mentions of sex work, shame and guilt surrounding sex work, emotional vulnerability, domestic intimacy,
“I think we should look at only fans next time,” Choso says with the kind of offhand cheer reserved for people pointing out curtain rods, and you nearly short-circuit right there in the Ikea self-checkout line.
Did he just — did those words actually just come out of his mouth?
It’s not even the words themselves, really — it’s the way he says it so casually, like he’s talking about checking out the food court next time, maybe trying those suspiciously rubbery meatballs. Not like he just unknowingly drop-kicked your double life into the fluorescent light of a Swedish furniture store.
You freeze mid-step, barcode scanner still in your hand, staring at him as if he’s just told you he moonlights as a tap dancer. And bless his clueless, beautiful soul, Choso turns back with a smile, a little lopsided, waiting for you to laugh along like the two of you are in on the same joke.
“W...what?” you manage, voice cracking like you’re thirteen again.
“The fans,” he repeats, grinning wider, pointing vaguely towards the warehouse section. “The big ceiling ones they had near the mock living rooms? I thought those were cool. Maybe we should look at those next time.”
Right. Fans. Only… fans.
Nothing sinful, nothing incriminating. Just home décor. He’s already tapping the screen to pay, humming under his breath. Meanwhile, your heart has taken up residence in your throat.
Because here’s the thing: you are no vigilante, no caped crusader skulking around rooftops. Your secret is infinitely less noble and infinitely more profitable.
Politely speaking, you’re an OnlyFans model.
Realistically speaking, your “side hustle” — the kind every female motivational podcast host swears by — leans heavily toward lingerie try-ons and pay-per-view messages that keep your rent covered and your savings account alive.
And he has no idea.
“Can you believe it?” Choso says, hauling one of the flat-packed boxes onto the cart with that quiet, eager determination of a man about to set up his first shared apartment. “We’re really doing this. Moving in together. No more lugging my stuff back and forth. No more pretending I like my roommates’ music taste.”
You force a smile, nodding, because his excitement is contagious in that earnest way of his. His eyes are practically glowing as he talks, even under the unflattering Ikea lighting. “I already know where I want to put the bookshelf,” he continues, oblivious, “And I was thinking we could get matching mugs? Not corny ones, just… you know. Something nice. Yours and mine.”
Your inner turmoil could rival a Greek tragedy. He’s standing there, making plans about mugs and shelves, while you’re calculating how long you can keep your side hustle under wraps before it detonates spectacularly.
“Mugs sound good,” you say, because what else are you supposed to say? ‘Sure babe, mugs and maybe I’ll reveal that half the internet has seen me in lace’?
He pushes the cart forward, smiling back at you like you hung the moon. “This is gonna be perfect. Us. Finally living together.” And you nod again, clutching your receipt like it’s a legal document binding you to silence, thinking that Ikea sells storage solutions for everything except the double life you’ve crammed under your bed.
And yet, you nearly felt like wailing as soon as Choso started reciting Ikea's lighting catalogue on the drive home, the way people narrate recipes on cooking shows — earnest, delighted, unaware of the chaos simmering in the pot behind them. The city blurred past in orange streaks and the car's heater hummed the kind of neutral white noise that made your confession feel impossibly heavy.
“Baby,” he said, fingers drumming the steering wheel the way he always did when he was thinking of color schemes, “We could get those pendant lights for above the table. Imagine us, eating—”
You cut him off before he could get to the ‘imagine us’ part because your mouth had been practicing the script all day and now it tumbled out raw and unedited. “I need to tell you something.”
The way he jerked the wheel made the car veer an inch; you swore you saw every stray churro of your life tumble in that brief swerve. His eyes went wide, then very, very soft. “What is it? Is everything okay?” he asked, half-panicked and wholly adorable, like a dog being scolded for knocking over a plant.
Your hands trembled as you imagined walking back into the Ikea kitchen displays and ripping down the ‘lifestyle’ posters — exposing the real you underneath their staged porcelain calm. you exhaled and said it:
“I have an OnlyFans.”
For a long, electric second he was completely still. And then, because this is the universe and also your boyfriend, Choso's face didn’t do scandalized, it did literal confusion. “Oh — you have a fan? Like… one of those big ones? At home?”
You wanted to scream. You wanted to laugh until your ribs hurt. You wanted to reach over and shake him like a very soft, very bewildered marionette. Instead you explained, because you are a patient person with a knack for diplomacy and also because you couldn't bear the thought of this becoming a sitcom-gag misunderstanding twice in one week. “No, not a fan,” you said, choosing your words carefully so they’d land like soft bricks. “OnlyFans — it’s a subscription site. People pay to see content I make. It’s… it’s how I make money on the side.”
He blinked like a man trying to reboot. “Oh right, the internet.”
He said it like he was describing a foreign country he’d never visited, which was not far from the truth. Choso had long ago declared the internet an abstract force that either gave you free music or ruined your eyes, depending on the day. He peered at you with an expression somewhere between curiosity and the kind of concern you reserve for small animals found shivering in doorways.
“Are you… happy?” he asked, and God, the way he asked it made everything in you tilt. It wasn’t a question with judgment; it was the kind of question you ask when you mean it — pivoting your entire world to make room if needed. “I don’t get half the web stuff,” he admitted, fingers finding the edge of the steering wheel like an anchor, “But if you’re happy doing it, I’m happy too.”
And for a beat you were speechless because what you’d feared — fury, betrayal, some grand moral scaffolding falling apart — was replaced by something softer and stupider and infinitely more disorienting: unconditional, baffled support. You pictured all the dramatic reveals in movies and none of them had prepared you for the way his eyes shone with trust, the way his voice softened around the edges.
You told him the logistics because once the dam had burst there was no point in damming the flood. You told him about the paywall and the messages and how you managed boundaries because your privacy mattered to you, because fans were people with bank accounts and expectations and because you had rules — rigid, necessary rules — that kept the work from being your whole life. You told him about the calm efficiency of packing orders, about the late-night shoots that were mostly lighting and outfit changes and awkward directions you gave yourself in the mirror. You told him the parts that didn’t need lipstick: that it kept your bank account from panicking and gave you the space to breathe when other things got loud.
Choso listened like he was learning a new language. His forehead creased in that way he does when he’s concentrating on something he wants to keep safe. Every now and then he asked a question — practical, small:
“Do people know it’s you?”
“Is it dangerous?”
“Do you want me to help with anything?”
— and you answered because honesty was easier than carrying the worry alone.
Then, when you expected an inevitable cinematic fallout, he did something quietly lethal: he started to make future plans.
“So,” he said, voice practically conspiratorial now, “Maybe we should figure out how to soundproof the living room. Not for me — for the neighbours — but also maybe for you when you film things. Like a little home studio? And hey, we could get separate mugs but they can be matching so you can keep your, uh, professional stuff separate.”
You nearly laughed. Maybe you did — a short, wet sound that felt like relief. Here you were, about to be found out, about to be unmasked, and instead of anger he offered screws and mugs and the entirely domestic solution of isolating sound with Ikea curtains. You let the ridiculousness of it settle around you like a blanket.
“I’m nervous,” you admitted finally, because it was true. “I’m scared you’ll think different of me.”
He reached over, thumb brushing your knuckles like a benediction. “I might,” he said, earnest and honest and alarmingly human, “But I’ll start from the version of you I like best. The one who steals my food and critiques my playlists.”
You wanted to cry then, but this time it was the good kind of crying — the kind that tasted like salt and new beginnings and slightly overwhelming affection. His support didn’t erase the risk of being vulnerable, or the practical worry about what friends or family might think if they stumbled across it accidentally; it simply made the risk something you wouldn’t have to shoulder alone.
For the rest of the ride you talked logistics, like two roommates planning a budget and a move that had already rearranged the contours of your life. You mapped out which cupboard would be yours, which side of the bed you preferred (he laughed when you insisted you didn’t care, then insisted anyway on the left), and where the little fan he’d misheard would go. He asked a million tiny questions about consent and boundaries and how long you needed for shoots, and you answered them all because you suddenly wanted to build a life with someone who could ask questions like those.
By the time you pulled into your building, the confession had shed most of its sharp edges. It was still vulnerable, still something that made your throat tighten when you thought about other people finding out, but it was, improbably, also part of the scaffolding of the future he was already drawing for both of you.
As you climbed the stairs together, bags slung over shoulders, you glanced at him and couldn’t help the thought that maybe Ikea did have a return policy, but it didn’t cover the parts of yourself you decided to share. And maybe that was okay; maybe the return policy you were going to rely on was trust — fragile, honest, and somehow more useful than any receipt.
Poor baby, you thought with a fond, sharp little smile, as he wrestled a flatpack into the elevator with the concentration of a man attempting origami without instructions. He had no idea how complicated you were, but he was ready to be simple, and that — horrifyingly, wonderfully — felt like enough for right now.
this is a drabble archive account for kaevia - this is a repost and not something stolen. i am not exclusively active on this account, nor do i take requests on here. if you want to use this idea for a fic or series, please ask for permission first.
（＾∀＾●）ﾉｼ support me on kofi and help me pay for college!!
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