I want to write again

[asadmoldyteacup]

Drawing him with my mc so he can get some rest ♡

[kithkart]

When you have to take care of your adopted children

[meowdei]

fontaine, the nation of justice — ft. wriothesley

your soulmate has spent his whole life in constant pain, and you’ve spent your whole life feeling it—fleeting for you, unending for him. after years of hoping, you finally find him…right as he dumps piping-hot tea onto his leg and burns you both at the same time

word count. ❤︎ 11.2k words — i promise its not too bad pls give it a chance

before you read. ❤︎ female reader + female gendered terms like “miss” and “pretty lady” ; canon compliant + soulmates au ; feeling your soulmate's pain trope ; heavy references to wrio's backstory, which alludes to child exploitation and trafficking ; mild implications of sexual trauma (wrio) ; reader sits on his lap + gets carried by him ; reader has an unspecified job at the palais/court ; protected vaginal sex ; slight handjobs ; very vanilla sex ; a series of events of you and wrio navigating how to fall in love and enjoying every second of it ; alternating povs

commentary. ❤︎ happy birthday to my bewtiful boy

Your soulmate is always in pain. It’s all you’ve ever known about him. 

“His back is killing him again,” you sigh in concern, rubbing your lower back for a moment.

Clorinde looks at you, raising a brow. The fortress is…well, it’s not the cleanest or brightest of places, but there is at least enough light to still make out the look she gives you. “You mean, your back is killing you, yes? You can feel it, too.”

“For just a moment,” you huff, “it’s gone very quickly. It’s not as though it troubles me for long. He, on the other hand…well, I wonder what that fool could have gotten himself into this time.”

The first time you feel what he does, you’re ten. It feels like there’s a sharp kick to your ribs, and then your back feels like it’s slammed hard against a surface just a moment later. You remember it vividly—how you cried out and hunched over. How your mother had rushed over to you and whispered words you couldn’t even hear, wiping your tears. All you knew then was that he was in pain, too. Agony. For a blinding second, you felt it with him, before it dissipated like it was nothing. 

At age ten, you learn what it means to worry for someone you’ve never met. To fear for another’s safety more fiercely than a child should be capable of. To wonder about his well-being. His survival. Whatever your soulmate is going through, it can’t be safe. Can’t be the life of a normal child with a normal upbringing or a normal home. You know it’s worse for him, even if you feel it too. Where your aches vanish in seconds, his must linger—throbbing, bruising, weighing down small limbs that have no business carrying so much hurt.

At ten, you learn that not all children are created equal. Some are born to live their lives as children. And others…well, others it seems, are only there to prove how blessed those children truly are.

That is the reality of Fontaine, the nation of justice. 

By the time you’re thirteen, there’s a constant ache in your muscles and your bones that comes and goes. A phantom pain that haunts you in bursts, disappearing as quickly as it comes. You can feel it—the burdens he carries. The constant soreness in his back and the tightness of his shoulder blades. Like he has nowhere proper to rest. No surface that curves along his spine and nurtures his developing body the way it should. 

It isn’t until you’re fourteen that it gets bad. You’ve known for a long time now that he has a habit of getting into fights—the soreness on your knuckles only implies that he can throw a punch or two back at least now and then. But this time, it’s…frightening. Something dark. Something heavy. It’s a long fight. You can tell that much. There’s a hard tug on your hair, then a bruising grip around your throat, then a swift kick to your stomach. Finally, you feel that familiar sting in your fists. And then it stops. For two days after that, you feel nothing. It’s almost as though he’s no longer conscious, as though someone has eased the pain and left no trace of it—and then, suddenly, it returns all at once. Like he’s been thrown back into reality after two days of being blissfully removed. This time, when the pain returns, a rawness to the skin around your wrist joins the list of things that hurt. 

Since the age of ten, you know that he has always been hurting. Always. 

There is always some part of his body that is bruised and battered and tender from cruelty. Even as he gets older, even as the sharp injuries stop along with the fights, the sore muscles never do. The throbbing in your arms and legs, and lower back, never goes away. Like he’s been fighting, even if no one has been there to fight him back. Like he’s been keeping his strength, so no one could knock him off his feet again. 

“How far is this warden’s office, exactly?” you huff, “and how do you even find anything down here? All these halls and tunnels look the same! I’m starting to wonder if agreeing to work down here was a mistake.”

“All you have to do is come down here for official Palais matters twice a week,” Clorinde hums, “and you’ll learn the tunnels just fine.”

“Ah, Miss Clorinde! You say that like you didn’t get lost for three weeks straight,” an unfamiliar voice calls ahead as she twists the door handle to enter a room. 

Clorinde exhales through her nose, unimpressed. “I wasn’t lost. I was exploring alternate routes.”

“You walked into the same dead-end storeroom six times,” a man—you assume to be Wriothesley—says as he comes into view, leaning against the doorway to his office. 

You pause. He’s…handsome. That’s the first thing you can think of. Second, you realize he can’t be much older than you. A lot younger than what you were anticipating for a Duke who runs a prison—a prison that he reformed all on his own, no less, from what you’ve heard. You meet his icy, blue-grey eyes, and it puts a shiver down your spine. There’s something…well, you aren’t quite sure. But there’s something about him. 

And you wonder if he senses it, too, because his brows furrow for a second as he takes you in. 

“I had to be sure you weren’t storing corpses in there,” she replies dryly. You blink out of your trance and look between them—apparently, this is normal. “Anyway,” Clorinde says, gesturing you forward, “this is the warden’s office, and this is Wriothesley. He’s supposed to brief you without embarrassing himself, but I make no promises.”

Wriothesley scoffs. “I’ll have you know I am an excellent host. I even made tea.”

“For your own interest, I presume,” Clorinde shoots back smoothly.

“Okay, so I made some tea for myself,” he huffs, “but I’m more than happy to share.”

He gestures for you both to come in. Clorinde gently nudges you forward once more. “I’ll leave you to it,” she says—and then she throws him a pointed look. “Try not to scare her off, Wriothesley.”

“You’re the scary one,” he calls after her, but she’s already halfway down the hall.

He shakes his head after her before he clears his throat and lets you in, gesturing for you to sit across from him as he settles into his own chair. “Right,” he says. “Formal introductions are probably overdue. I’m Wriothesley—warden of the Fortress, glorified administrator, part-time peacekeeper, full-time babysitter, whatever you would like to call it.” 

Your laugh slips out before you can swallow it, and he grins, pleased. “Rest assured, you won’t have to babysit me,” you hum as you introduce yourself. 

“That’s quite the relief, miss—but not to worry, nothing you’ll do down here is too complicated. Monsieur Neuvillette has given me the rundown of your responsibilities, and I’ll walk you through protocols, safety procedures, all the boring stuff—really, it’s easier than it sounds. Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you,” you say politely.

“Well, if you don’t want any,” he sighs dramatically, “guess I’ll drink some all alone.” He reaches for his mug mid-sentence, still flipping through a folder with his other hand.

Except his grip on the handle slips. Then the glass tilts. Then—

“Ah, fuck,” he hisses, the scalding liquid burning through his pants and leaving the skin of his thigh raw.

A moment later, you feel a ripple of pain burst through…your thigh? You gasp, letting out a low hiss of, “Shit!” as you grip your upper leg.

His head jerks up, glancing at you with narrowed eyes for a moment at your gasp, seeing you clutching your own leg. He leans over the desk, concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, “just felt like I got burned….” 

It hits you then. 

It hits you as you notice him watching your expression, still feeling the remnants of the same burn as you on his own thigh. His eyes widen as the realization hits him at the same time as you.

“You felt that?” he gapes.

You blink as your eyes hold his gaze. Could this mean…could he be…? No, you think, perhaps it’s just a freak coincidence and…

“Hang on a second,” Wriothesley murmurs, and then he pinches the skin of his forearm hard. He grimaces at the sting, and not even a moment later, you hiss and clutch your arm as a wave of pain radiates along the perimeter of your own skin.

“What the fuck?” You glare.

He blinks again. Then he whispers, almost shaky, “Well, what do you know…you do exist.”

“Was that really necessary?” you huff.

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing his neck awkwardly. “Just…just testing a theory there.”

“You could have tested your theory without pinching so hard,” you pout, rubbing over your arm as if the pain hadn’t already faded away. The phantom linger of pain is always the worst part—the part where you can’t forget how it felt to be hurt, even if it didn’t last long. The ghost of the injustice of it all. The unfairness that torments you without so much as a bruise as proof. The reality that somewhere, the person you are meant to find is hurt, and there is proof taunting you without making itself known properly.

But now…now he isn’t just somewhere. No—he’s right here. 

It dawns on you just what theory he’s tested and proven. Your head snaps up, getting a good, long look at his face before you stand and walk over, gripping the collar of his shirt and pulling him closer like you’re inspecting him more properly now.

He stares at you in bewilderment. “Um…wha—”

“Oh my god,” you gasp at the mark under his eye, “this scar—I remember this! That one felt awful—oh my god! Wait! I remember this, too,” you point to the one peeking through his collar at his neck. Without thinking, you quickly unbutton his vest and the shirt underneath, making him squawk in protest. But you pay him no mind—your hand delicately, gently, slowly tracing over the years and years and years of evidence of pain.

Pain you felt. Pain you shared. Pain you carried with him, even if only for a moment.

Your hand trembles as you take in the awful, cruel marks scattered across his skin—the raised, discolored grafts melding into the healthier patches. You ignore the way his eyes bore into your face, watching you carefully as every emotion twists across your expression.

“How could anyone…I don’t…I don’t understand,” you whisper, tracing a particularly thick scar across his left pec. You wonder if it narrowly missed his heart. Your eyes well up with tears against your will, much to your disdain.

His own eyes widen with alarm. “It’s not a big deal,” he says quickly. “They’re nothing, really! I’m strong, see?” Wriothesley flexes his arm, showing the bulging muscle of his bicep before he tries—poorly—to lighten the mood with, “Nothing’s beatin’ me down, miss.”

“Are you joking? These hurt,” you hiss. “Don’t pretend they didn’t! I felt them all too, in case you’ve forgotten!”

His face drops at that—guilt sprawling across every feature. (It’s a beautiful, handsome face. He’s gorgeous, and you wonder if he’s ever been made to feel that way. Even if only for a moment.)

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I never…if it were up to me, you would’ve never felt—”

“Never mind me,” you sniffle. “What in the Archons’ names have you been dealing with all your life?”

Your hands gently pull off his vest and the shirt underneath fully, giving you a proper look at the full map of suffering carved into him. It should be a bit unprofessional, really, to undress your new colleague the moment you meet—but, well, the circumstances are a bit unique here. And he just sort of lets you without protesting, this time. 

Your breath hitches as soon as you see his bare upper body. His torso is a constellation of old wounds—some thin and faded with age, others thicker, more jagged, warped in ways that make your stomach twist. Every scar is proof that this nation does not serve justice the way its divine nature intends. No one, especially not a child of his age when these injuries had marked him, should have endured such cruelty under the Hydro Archon’s watch.

You lift trembling fingers to his arm, tracing a long, uneven scar that snakes along the front. “This one,” you whisper, voice cracking, “I remember waking up in the middle of the night because of this. I thought—Archons, I thought someone had sliced me open.”

Wriothesley winces—not from your touch, but from the look on your face. His hands hover like he wants to steady you, but he doesn’t have the courage to fully reach.

“Ah, that,” he mumbles. “It…it wasn’t that deep. Just…caught a knife the wrong way, that’s all.”

You give him a watery, withering look. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”

“That was years ago,” he insists. “It’s over now! I’m…we’re okay.”

“I was always okay,” you bury your face in your hands. “All this time, I was okay, and you weren’t. If we’d…found each other sooner…or if—if maybe we’d tried to communicate somehow…perhaps if we’d even tried to—”

His hands gently wrap around your wrists, tugging them away from your face before pulling your hunched figure forward so you’re no longer bending awkwardly over him. Instead…you’re on his lap.

His lap.

Sure, he’s your soulmate, and of course, you’ve always felt a great deal of care for this stranger you’ve been bound to for years, but never really known, but you only met him not too long ago. And now you’re sitting on his lap.

You gasp, flustered as you stammer, “W-what are y-you—”

“Hey,” he hums softly, tilting your face to look at him. His hand cradles your jaw—gentle, delicate, impossibly careful from someone who’s known nothing but hardship at the hands of others. Your eyes lock with his as he murmurs, “I’m okay, sweetheart. See? I’m sitting here in the flesh right in front of you…if that’s proof.”

“Guess…guess it is,” you swallow thickly. 

“Y’know? It’s strange,” he admits, voice low. 

“What is?”

“Finally having you here. And not just some weird temporary feeling every now and then.”

You hum, studying his face. He really is young for a Duke. Handsome, sure, but too young to carry the burdens that he does. Then again, you think that might have been true all his life. “Strange as in good?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yes. Very good.”

Your fingers have begun tracing along a scar on his shoulder slowly, without even realizing it. He glances down at your hand, then back to you, lips curling into a loose, amused grin. You quickly stop the movement, clearing your throat as you mumble, “This is not professional work behavior, you know.”

“You took my shirt off,” he points out. 

“And you pulled me onto your lap!”

He tactfully ignores that part and hums, “You know…I think you should come by outside of official business. That way we’re not interrupted by duties and all.”

Your heart thumps hard enough that you’re sure he feels it. “Is this your way of asking me on a date? Because then it’s a little lackluster.”

He shrugs, giving you a boyishly charming smile. “Are you gonna turn me down? After I waited this long to find you?”

“Guess not,” you sigh dramatically, “perhaps I can spare some time here and there. In these…dark, dingy halls.”

“Your kindness moves me, miss soulmate,” he beams. 

You stare for a moment. (You should be embarrassed that you do, but he stares right back, and he doesn’t seem to be complaining about the circumstances. You can’t help but get lost in him—it’s almost a force that’s beyond your control. Perhaps beyond his, too.)

Finally, you blink and force yourself out of whatever trance he has you in. “I should get up…” you say, mildly embarrassed. You try to move—but he has one arm around your waist, keeping you in place as he gives you an unhappy frown. 

“What’s the rush? Not like either of us has to be anywhere.”

“This is unprofessional! And entirely not the sort of position anyone should see the warden of this place in if they walk—” 

“Well, that’s the fun part,” he gives you a confident, wolfish little grin, “no one walks into a warden’s office without knocking.”

“I’m gonna write that in my report,” you warn, “that you use unlawful tactics for intimidation and control.”

“The fortress is an autonomous region,” he shoots back. 

“It’s still a partnership!”

“Yes,” he grins, eyeing you softly, “I suppose it is.”

────────────────────────

Wriothesley knows he’s not very lucky in most departments. The soulmate one, however? He likes to think he got pretty damn lucky. 

You’re pretty and funny, and you have a good head on your shoulders. That much is evident, and most people would be thrilled just by that. But you have other endearing things about you—things he tallies up over the weeks as he gets to know you and keeps locked away in his memories. 

You can’t drink liquids if they’re piping hot, but somehow, food is not a problem. You like flowers even if you’re allergic to half of them. You’re passionate about how much you dislike Fontaine’s silly, unnecessary laws. You work at the Palais because it makes you feel useful. You insist you can’t decide what your favorite color is, but you unknowingly always seem to favor a certain one. You always insist you don’t want anything when he offers to pay, but you’re very bad at hiding your excitement when he buys you a pastry anyway. 

He could keep a list. He doesn’t need to write them down because his mind could not forget these little things even if he wanted, but he could keep a list. A list of everything he learns day by day, week by week, month by month. 

“I thought you hated bananas,” he raises an amused brow. You sit across from him in the bakery, happily slicing through the banana bread he bought on his mora. 

“I do,” you argue, “but banana bread doesn’t count. It makes the banana work—and there are chocolate chips, see?”

He doesn’t say anything—just stares and takes in the sight of you. All of you. You. 

“Want another slice?”

“Oh no, thank you,” you shake your head, “I’m good, really.”

(In the end, he gets you another. You pretend like he’s gone out of his way for nothing, but you eat it with no complaints, a happy gleam in your eye. He wonders if he’ll be blessed by the Gods enough to buy you sweets until all of his hair turns grey.)

────────────────────────

It takes a few months before Wriothesley talks about his past. You work at the Palais and sift through legal documents often enough that coming across his trial’s records is not difficult business. But you wait for him to tell you on his own terms. 

The first time he brings it up is also the first time you fuck him. It’s been a long time coming—you want him so badly, it almost hurts. You think about him all the time, and you’ve seen him in enough instances without a shirt that your imagination has begun to run a little wild. You want Wriothesley, and if you can just find out if he wants you too, you can have him, you’re sure. 

So you set out to find out. 

“You wanna make out?” you ask from the couch in his office as he does paperwork. 

He pauses, doing a double-take. “Sorry?”

“You and me,” you gesture between the two of you with a finger, “do you wanna make out? Like kiss and stuff with our tongues and—”

“I know what making out is, thank you!” he interjects, neck flushing a little, faint trace of red, “We’ve done it before, I’m not clueless. I’m just astounded by your forthcomingness, is all.”

You pout. “Well, I’m bored. And you look very handsome right now. So? Making out—yes or no?”

He drops his pen as he stares at you. It rolls off the desk. He makes no move to retrieve it. “Sweetheart,” he says slowly, like he’s talking to a toddler, “you can’t just look at a guy while he’s trying to finish disciplinary reports and ask if he wants to swap spit.”

“Why not? If you don’t want to, you can just say so.”

“I—” He blinks. Once. Twice. His ears are also red now. “I didn’t say I didn't want to.”

You grin excitedly, walking over to him with a little bounce in your step as you lean your hip against his desk, arms crossed in victory. “So you do want to.”

“I didn’t say that either.” He rubs a hand down his face. “We’re in my office.”

“So?” You shrug. “We’ve made out here before—you didn’t care then. Why start now?”

He glares, but it’s the useless kind—more fluster than defiance. “W-well, that was…after everyone was in their bunks for curfew!”

“Mhm.” You take a slow step closer. “So what about that time we made out behind some pipes in the middle of the day? Curfew only matters selectively, huh?” His breath stutters. Very slightly. But you notice. You push a finger under his chin, tilting his head up so he has to look at you. His pupils are blown—just a little, but it’s enough to knock a spark of heat straight into your spine. “You can tell me no,” you murmur. “Just say the word.”

“M’not ever going to say no to kissing you,” he mumbles, pulling you onto his lap, “you know that good and well, you little troublemaker.”

“Troublemaker?” you gasp, “I’ve no criminal history, your grace!”

“For now,” he snorts, “may have to take you into court myself for the damages you do down here.”

Before you can protest, he leans in and closes the gap, kissing you soft and sweet with a little edge of desperation. You gasp, and his lips move against yours again—harder this time, as if the first kiss has cracked open some dam to his self-control, and everything he’s been holding back is now spilling over at once. His hands slide to your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch. He pulls you flush against him, swallowing the small sound you make as he kisses you deeper, fuller, like he’s been starved for this—starved for you.

You fist the front of his shirt, dragging him closer, and he groans into your mouth, low and rough. The sound shoots straight through you and goes straight to your core. He tilts your head back, cradling it as his mouth slots against yours impatiently. When his tongue grazes yours, you answer him with a low moan, wrapping your arms around his neck and tugging at his hair.

He makes a sharp, pleased noise at that. You feel his smile against your lips—brief and crooked, making something between your legs ache. “Like that, huh?”

“Be quiet,” you huff. He only laughs before deepening the kiss again, his mouth claiming yours with an amused smile. 

Suddenly, an arm wraps tightly around your waist and hoists you closer—you can’t focus on it too much with the way he’s nipping at your bottom lip. It’s not until your back hits the wall that you even realize that he’s been moving you, walking to the short distance to the wall behind his desk with his arm curled around you, holding your weight like it’s nothing. One of his hands fiddles with something behind you—a click later, and you realize it’s a doorknob.

The door opens, and he quickly strides in with you in his grip. You pull away, panting, glancing around as you take in this new room. A bedroom, you realize—his bedroom. His gauntlets are there, in a corner, tools sprawled around them from the last time he spent tinkering away at them. You take in the simplicity of it, how there isn’t anything in here apart from his essentials. The bare necessities. 

“Is this your room?” you whisper. 

“Didn’t think I slept in the bunks with the inmates, did you?” he murmurs, gently setting you down on his bed as he hovers over you. “What’s the point of being a duke if I don’t get at least a few perks?”

“You should decorate the place more,” you murmur, “I’ll help.”

“Yeah?” he pecks your lips, “awfully nice of you, sweetheart.”

You tug him down by the collar, chasing his mouth when he breaks away to speak. He huffs a laugh, breath warm against your lips, and then he’s kissing you again—messy, hungry, more unrestrained now, like he’s finally given himself permission to want this as badly as you do.

His teeth catch your lower lip.

Your answering gasp is all the invitation he needs to bring his hand to your thigh, rubbing up and down the side of it as he groans into your mouth roughly when you tug at his hair some more. “Was this your plan all along?” he rasps, “get me in your bed?”

“This is your bed,” you point out, “and you brought me here.”

“You have a smart little mouth,” he grunts, angling your jaw up as he fixes you with a playfully stern look, “that’s insubordination, miss.”

“I think I need to be disciplined, your grace,” you say, giving him a cheeky little wink. 

He huffs out a disbelieving laugh, looking at you in awe and wonder before he shakes his head and brings your arms up, pinning them over your head as he presses kisses along your jaw. “You,” he murmurs between kisses, “are a handful.”

The moment he pulls back enough actually to look at you, though, something shifts. His breath hitches, barely perceptible, but there. His eyes glaze over with something as they take in the sight of you under him—you can’t quite make out what it is, but you know it makes you feel important. Special. Some sort of feeling that no one has quite made you feel before. Then his hands, firm a moment ago, loosen just slightly around your wrists, as if the reality of holding you like this suddenly hits him all at once.

You watch him swallow. His gaze flickers from your eyes to your mouth, then lower, before he willfully forces him to look up and direct his gaze to your forehead so he’s not looking into your eyes or downwards along your body. 

“What?” you whisper, a small smile curling at your lips.

“Nothing.” He clears his throat, though it comes out rougher than he means it to. “Just… you’re—” he cuts himself off abruptly, the unfinished thought hanging between you. He releases your wrists, carefully, like you’re something fragile that he’s only just realized he’s strong enough to break. His palms settle instead at your waist, hesitant in a way they weren’t before.

You tilt your head, watching him with growing curiosity. “You okay?”

“Course I am,” he huffs. “Just noticed you’re…very pretty. That’s all.”

“Only now?” you pout—but your lips are already curled into a cocky little grin. 

“Stop that,” he grumbles.

“Stop what?”

“You know what,” he huffs. 

You giggle, tugging him down by his stupidly loose tie and bringing his forehead against yours. His eyes are always icy blue, but they’re the brightest pools of warmth you’ve ever swam in, all the same. “You’re getting shy on me, you know.”

“Am not,” he argues.

“Are too,” you grin.

“Nope,” he all but pouts. His breath hitches as you untie his tie and fling it somewhere, slowly working at the buttons of his vest while he lets out a shaky breath over you. “You’re…sure about this?”

“I’m always sure about you,” you smile softly. He closes his eyes, breath stuttering for a moment as you pull off his shirt and vest, admiring the hard planes of muscle and the broadness of his physique. “You’re pretty, too, by the way.”

“You’re killing me,” he rasps. 

Undressing is an awkward ordeal. But endearing. Wriothesley struggles to kick off his boots, and unclasping your bra takes him a moment before he can tug it off—but finally, in between kisses and soft, amused giggles and breathy, embarrassed chuckles, you’re both bare and tangled in his sheets. 

He’s hard—his cock is thick and curved, and the tip leaks with the evidence of his arousal in the form of pre cum. You bring a hand between your bodies, gently smearing it with your thumb like a lubricant while he shivers and lets out a soft groan. 

“Fuck,” he hisses out, breathing harder as you wrap your hand around his girth. He stares down at where your touch meets him—and he’s more than a little dizzy by the way your hand can barely wrap around the full width of his thickness. 

“It’s…so big,” you murmur, staring in awe and disbelief. 

“You can’t just say that,” he groans. 

“Sorry,” you giggle, biting your lip as you give him an innocent smile.

“You’re not sorry even a little,” he huffs. Then his eyes flutter closed and his lips part in a low, shaky moan as you slowly move your hand and drag your palm along his length, stroking languidly while he buries his head into your neck. 

“I am,” you insist, kissing the side of his head sweetly, “here, I’ll even make it up to you.”

“Ngh—fuck,” he curses as your pace quickens, the friction of your hand gliding over the sensitive skin of his erection making his breaths come out unevenly. He’s pretty when he feels good—and Wriothesley is pretty and easy on the eye any time, of course, but when he’s bare and vulnerable and trusts you to witness him at his rawest, he is particularly beautiful. 

Your eyes can’t help but keep themselves glued on him—and he can’t help but notice and get more flustered. 

“Stop staring,” he grunts.

“What am I meant to look at then?” you huff, “the wall?”

“Close your eyes.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you shake your head with a snort. 

There’s a building ache between your bare legs, a wetness leaking and spreading down your inner thighs as you watch pleasure sprawl over his features and hear the sweet, delicate sounds of approval he makes when you touch him particularly right. 

Finally, his hand gently grasps onto your wrist as he stops you, panting and gritting his jaw as he murmurs, “O-okay—think…think we should get to…you know.”

“What?” you tease.

“The main part,” he glares weakly—and then, he spreads your legs and takes a closer look at your wet, needy cunt. “You want this just as badly—I can literally see it. Don’t be so smug, sweetheart.”

“Of course I want you,” you hum, “why wouldn’t I?” He shivers at that. Gives you a dazed look before he leans in and kisses you—almost like it’s more to distract himself than it is to distract you. 

(Wriothesley is endearing when he’s flustered. This is the conclusion that sex with him draws you to. When he fumbles through his side drawer to pull out a condom, and when he struggles to open the package, you are hopelessly endeared. And when he gives you a half-hearted glare as you giggle, you realize how endearing he also is when he is grumpy.)

“Ready?” he whispers, eyeing you good and hard once he finally lines up with your entrance. You nod, and he mumbles, “I need words, please, sweetness.”

“Ready,” you sigh fondly, “I want you. M’not backing out.” He takes a moment to look at you properly. Like he has to be sure you’re here and want this. With him. Wriothesley has brought you pain before—against his will, he’s made you ache and throb with soreness and harsh stings. He makes you ache again—this time, though, it’s a little different. It’s not because you carry his pain with him. It’s because that look he gives you makes your chest tighten and your heart ache all on its own accord. “I want you, Wrio,” you breathe, cupping his cheeks, “swear I do.”

Only then does he close his eyes, smiling softly as he nods and murmurs, “Lucky me. Got you all to myself—the universe said so. You’re all mine.”

“All yours,” you breathe. 

He presses the thick tip of his cock along your entrance, rubbing along your folds and collecting your wetness as you shiver. You gasp, and he chuckles softly at the fragile sound, pecking your lips as he murmurs, “Barely even done anything yet, sweetheart.”

“Then do something,” you click your teeth, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him closer, pressing his pelvis closer. 

He swallows, whispering, “You’ll tell me if I hurt you, yeah?”

“You’ll feel it anyway,” you murmur, “quit your worry-warting and move.”

“So demanding, miss soulmate,” he chuckles. 

And then—finally—he pushes past your folds, pressing into you slowly, carefully, delicately. Wriothesley has a reputation. It’s a bit out of his control—people tend to see a prison warden as rough and strict, and people often mistake him for a brute with just a glance. You know better. You know him to be soft and sensitive and so caring, it’s almost unfair that he spends his time under waves of the ocean instead of up in the real world, where he can share his warmth. You know him as the kind man who feeds squirrels in Fontaine and pets stray cats in the alleyways. You know him as the gentle guy who holds doors open for children and lets them cut in line at the ice cream shop. You know him as the delicate boy who never wants to hurt you with his strength when he already feels waves of guilt for having brought you so much hurt all these years without meaning to. 

When he sinks into your tight, welcoming cunt, and stretches you open, you wonder how you went this long without him. How you survived without knowing him. How you lived this long without being tangled in his arms and being connected to him deep and close. 

He feels so right—so good. He curves into you so perfectly, stretches you apart, opens you up with his thickness, and presses the blunt head of his against a delicate, sensitive spot in your walls that makes your head spin. 

“W-wrio…” your breath hitches, “f-fuck—so deep,” you whine. 

“And you’re…so tight,” he groans, “shit, sweetheart—never felt so good before.”

You never dwelled on the reality of soulmates. Your mother and father were lucky enough to meet each other—you know that soulmates are real before Wriothesley’s pain is ever yours because you watch them love. You watch them nurture you, the byproduct of that love, with so much care and diligence. You don’t need the proof of your own soulmate to know that they are real and they exist. 

For the longest time, you know nothing about Wriothesley apart from the fact that he exists. You’ve only ever known that he was yours. That one day, if you were lucky, you’d find him. It never occurred to you that once you did find him, you’d realize how incomplete you’ve always been. How everything was there, but there was no one to share it with. Now that he’s here, pressed into you deep into you, you wonder how you’ll ever disconnect. How you’ll ever part from feeling so whole and complete. 

His hips move—he pulls almost all the way out before slamming back into you, hard and rough but still careful enough that it doesn’t hurt you. It blinds you with a pleasure that burns through your spine and finds every nerve. It makes a soft, pleasant ache start to form at the pit of your stomach, building up stronger and stronger with every roll of his hips and every drag of his cock along your walls. 

The friction makes you sob, curling your nails into his shoulders as you whimper, “S’good, Wrio—so…so good, please don’t stop.”

“Now why would I do that?” he grunts, moaning when your walls flutter around him and squeeze tight. “Why would I stop feeling my precious girl?”

Your head spins more at that—precious girl. Wriothesley is smooth about calling you things like that. He calls you something affectionate so casually that sometimes you almost mistake your own name for a sweet, loving pet name. Sweetheart. Sweetness. Precious girl. Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly sentimental, he calls you honey. When he’s in a playful mood, he likes to say miss soulmate. (You ask him why he says it once, and he tells you, it’s because I like reminding you you’re my soulmate. And I like saying it out loud, too. Makes it more real.)

You like it when he calls you things that remind you that you’re his. You like being his. It’s your favorite thing to be—the thing that takes burdens off your shoulder and lets you simply exist without having something to prove. Something to offer. You like being so easy for someone to care about you, it feels like it happens for no other reason than just because it’s natural to do so. 

“Faster,” you plead. 

“Anything you want, precious,” he breathes. “You—hah—you are so beautiful. You know that?”

A hand moves up your thigh and travels to that delicate spot between your legs—and then you throw your head back and mewl as he finds your clit and rubs circles with that rough, calloused pad of his thumb. You’re sensitive—every brush against the bundle of nerves sends a jolt of pleasure that has you hurdling towards your end. 

“Close,” you rasp, “Wrio…m’so c-close.”

“Yeah, sweetheart? Is that right?” he asks, his own voice shaky enough that you gather it must be the case for him, too. His pace has become sloppy enough that he must be near the edge himself, as well.

“Mhm,” you nod, biting your lip and letting out a soft, drawn-out moan as he sinks deeper into you and presses right against your sweet spot. 

“Me…me too—come with me, okay? Want…want you to finish with me,” he pleads. His thumb is merciless against your clit—it rubs smooth, unpausing circles and builds you up to your release with one, then two, and then a third thrust of his hips. 

Your vision all but goes white as you fall apart. Your back arches, and he curls an arm around you and brings you flush against him, kissing you rough and hard and needy. You swallow each other’s sounds as your walls flutter around him and his cock twitches inside of you, letting warm rope after rope of thick seed spill into the plastic that separates you. 

“Fuck,” you both hiss. 

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, “you…you’re so perfect. Know that? Huh?” He kisses along your jaw. They’re wet, messy kisses, pressed into your skin with a drunken, hazy sense of control as you milk his cock for every last drop of his release. 

“C’mere,” you beg, “closer.”

“M’right here,” he murmurs, “fuck, m’not going anywhere. Ever.”

And then he collapses beside you once he’s fucked you both through the last few waves of your orgasms. He pulls you against him, wrapping two strong, muscled arms around you and tangling your body with his. 

“That was nice,” you whisper. 

“That was your plan all along,” he accuses, “you never wanted to just make out.”

You giggle, beaming up at him. “Guilty. Will I serve a sentence, your grace?”

“Life in prison,” he gives you a faux stern look, “directly under my supervision.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad,” you hum, “serving down here with you. I think I’d live.” 

For a while, it’s quiet. You bask in the afterglow of him and you and the skin that melts you both together. And then, his voice carries through the space that hardly exists between you both. 

“I served down here,” he mumbles. “Bet you already knew that—you probably have better access to legal documents than me.”

“I’ve seen a paper or two,” you admit. 

“You’re rather calm regarding my history,” he says carefully.

“I guess I just…always had a feeling things played out the way they did. I remember it,” you whisper, tracing the skin of his chest, feeling the scars from memory. “The night you killed your parents. I felt it, y’know?”

His breath stills. You’re sure he’s not surprised—it was nothing short of vicious, the fight he’d put up. You’re sure he remembers better than you how it felt in every nerve ending. You don’t think anyone could ever forget. 

The truth is that you’d known about his court case long before you pieced together he was your soulmate. It’s a case most people in your line of work know about. A popular case that opened up a popular investigation into chains of corrupted institutions for children. Places led and controlled by people who have intentions to do anything but keep the less fortunate children of Fontaine safe. Most people in your field consider him a hero of sorts—a boy who sacrificed his freedom to make a change the justice system wouldn’t. 

You think Wriothesley is troubled. He was as a child, and in some ways, he is now. You wish he could have been like other boys and girls, that he could be like other men and women. You wish life was kinder to him so that his circumstances never had to feel like the extremes were the only way out. 

You wish Wriothesley could have had a good life. You wish Fontaine and those who uphold its justice hadn’t failed him every chance he had to get one. 

He doesn’t look at you for a while. His gaze stays focused on the ceiling as he swallows. “The night I killed my foster parents maybe wasn’t my proudest moment.”

“Maybe not,” you agree, moving your hand to grab his, lacing your fingers together. “But I think you’ve had a proud moment or two since then.”

He stays silent. For a long time, Wriothesley is silent. You don’t think he’ll say anything else, so you close your eyes, slowly drifting off to sleep against his chest when his voice rumbles in your ear. Low. Hesitant. 

“I don’t regret it,” is all he says. 

You crack an eye open, tilting your head up. “Killing them?”

“Setting the kids free,” he corrects. “No one else would have done it. That was the only way I could think of. I felt like they deserved it.”

“How about now?”

“Well. Still think they deserve it,” he mumbles. “But…I would do it differently now.”

“That’s because you can,” you point out, “you have the connections and the resources to do things the ‘right’ way.”

“Think so?” he cracks a grin—small, but there. 

“I do believe you hold some authority, you grace,” you chuckle. He doesn’t say anything else—just laughs softly and kisses your forehead. You fall asleep lulled by his fingers along your back and the smell of his faint cologne. 

────────────────────────

Wriothesley has a habit of throwing himself into the ring when things get hard. It was the only outlet he had down here in the fortress for the most part when he served—the only way for him to break a sweat and get his energy poured into something. And maybe get in a few good hits to anyone who’d been giving him a hard time. But, well…some habits just stick. They’re hard to grow out of. 

Nowadays, being in the ring is more or less a matter of keeping in shape. At least, that’s what he tells himself, anyway—he knows it’s no coincidence that when his mind is particularly heavy, he spends more time hitting a punching bag with taped fists. He’s always had a high pain tolerance. The sore muscles in his arms and the sting of his knuckles ground him half the time more than they do hurt him. 

He wonders if he’s grown accustomed to pain because it’s been the only constant in his life, or if it’s because he simply deserves it. 

“Wrio,” he hears a soft voice call, pausing him from throwing his next punch. He drops his form, straightening his back as he looks over his shoulder. It’s you, of course. It had to be even before he’d registered your voice—only one person is allowed at the pankration ring at this hour (him) and only one person gets away with breaking his rules (you). 

“What’re you doin’ here, sweetheart?” he tilts his head a few times to crack his neck, “you’re supposed to be in bed.”

“So are you.”

“Got a little restless, is all,” he says vaguely. 

“You’re tired,” you raise an unimpressed brow, “and that poor bag has had enough—it never did anything to you.”

“I’m not tired yet,” he denies. (He is. Even for his standards, his arms and shoulders are rather tense and sore. He’s pushed himself further than usual. He bets you would know because you can feel it.)

“You can’t lie to me when I can feel the same things as you,” you huff, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “You’re too young to have stiff shoulders, y’know.”

His eyes soften with guilt before he lets out a heavy sigh and lets his shoulders drop. You walk over, standing behind him as your arms wrap around his midsection and your nose buries into the bare skin of his back. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he lies. 

“Wriothesley,” you say flatly. 

“Just a busy week,” he says half-heartedly. “Seriously, I’m fine. So…just drop it.”

“Okay,” you sigh, too tired from your sleep being interrupted to put up a proper fight. You kiss his back, and he melts a little at the gesture, limbs loosening up even more. “You’ll talk to me if you need to?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, “I’ll come find you if I need it.”

Wriothesley is aware that you know he won’t. Not of his own free will. He doesn’t talk about his feelings or share his burdens because then he’s no longer in control of his image. The less strong of an image he has, the more innocent and frail he seems. The more innocent and frail he seems, the more likely it is that he’ll be taken advantage of. 

It’s not that Wriothesley doesn’t trust you, or that he thinks you’ll take advantage of him. You won’t. He trusts that much. You’re the only good thing that’s his. But muscle memory is muscle memory. 

Some habits just stick. And they’re hard to grow out of. 

You gently shuffle to stand in front of him, wrapping your arms to rest around his neck now. His hands find your hips. “Let’s go to bed,” you whisper, pulling him down so his forehead rests against yours. “If you’re really that energetic, I’ll tire you out some other way.”

“Yeah?” he cracks a grin. 

“Mmh,” you hum. 

“Then lead the way, sweetness,” he chuckles. 

(In the end, he’s out like a light as soon as his head finds that comfortable place against your chest. He’s sure you’ll tease him for it as soon as he feels himself start to drift off, but he thinks it’s worth it when he feels your fingers card through his hair.)

────────────────────────

Sometimes, you forget Wriothesley can feel your pain just as much as you feel his. Your whole life has been spent so focused on how often he endures suffering compared to you, that you forget to focus on your own. 

He doesn’t forget to focus on you, though. He never does. He’s one deep scowl and a hand on his hips away from making that known. 

“With a headache like that, I’m surprised you’re still conscious, let alone finishing paperwork,” he clicks his teeth.

You glance up and give him a tired look when you register his words. 

“I just need to finish these up and get them out of the way so they don’t haunt me—”

“No, you need sleep. And maybe a proper meal,” he interrupts. 

“But—”

“No buts. Let’s go.” Before you can protest any further, he has you lifted and settled in his arms as he drags you to your bed from your desk. 

You learn quickly on that Wriothesley doesn’t like spending nights apart. He’s grown too used to your presence. On nights you can’t come down to the Fortress, his simple solution is just to come spend the night up at the surface. You can’t pretend like you aren’t relieved by his presence yourself—one night without him makes for a terrible night of sleep. And maybe a worse headache the next day. 

He shuffles through your apartment with a sense of familiarity that makes your heart full, even if your head is pounding. You nuzzle into the crook of his neck as he walks with you carefully tucked against him. 

“You give me headaches,” he mumbles, “literally.”

“S’only fair,” you yawn, “you’ve put me through worse.” Your words have no bite to them. Nothing more than a good-natured quip. You’d go through worse in a heartbeat for him.

He smiles fondly, sighing as he kisses the side of your head. “Yeah,” he whispers, “guess that’s true.”

────────────────────────

Sex is a complicated topic for Wriothesley. 

It’s a topic he’s been thinking about more lately. The more that sex happens between the two of you, the more he’s starting to realize that it’s a complicated topic for him.  

Although if he’s being honest, what he engages with you can hardly be considered just sex. It’s intimacy. Wriothesley has never partaken in intimacy before you. Sex, though? Plenty of times. Sometimes, it was more for survival than his own desires, and sometimes it was simply because he was a growing, curious boy with needs and wants. Sometimes, a quick fuck got him what he needed for survival much quicker when he was still a prisoner. Sometimes, a quick fuck got him through his pent-up emotions better than sitting and processing them.

Whatever the case may be, Wriothesley has always had just sex because it was just that. Sex that has a purpose—some purposes less sanitized than others, but a purpose all the same. 

But being intimate is something different from having just sex. When Wriothesley is having just sex, he can put on an air of cockiness. He can play into what people want, slip into whatever role they carved out for him—innocently sweet and naive, or dangerously charming and experienced, sometimes even a little rough and a little wicked. He can wear confidence like a mask, sharpen his smile into something rakish, tilt his chin just right, and say the things he knows people want to hear. 

He can disconnect. He can keep his heart out of it. He can survive it.

Intimacy, though? Intimacy is different. It demands that he stay honest, not perform. That he be soft. That he be seen.

With you, there’s no room for the cocky smirk or the confident swagger. And he tries—he really, really tries—but the moment your hands are on him with care instead of expectation, the moment you kiss him like he’s precious instead of convenient, the moment your eyes are fond instead of just lustful, his whole front crumbles. 

The mask doesn’t fit. The persona slips. The smooth, practiced words get stuck in his throat.

He’s clumsy with intimacy in a way he never was with just sex. His touches hesitate. His breath stutters when your fingers thread through his hair. He keeps searching your face like he’s waiting for the moment you change your mind, like he’s terrified you’ll see too much of him and walk away. Vulnerability of this kind turns him quiet, nervous, almost boyish in a way he hates himself for, and yet can’t seem to stop.

With you, he’s not performing. With you, he can’t.

You’re not just hoping he touches you for your own pleasure—and you don’t want to touch him back just to indulge your own wicked fantasies. You care about how he feels, how it is for him more than it is for you. You care about his experience with affection and gentleness. 

The more that you and Wriothesley are intimate, the more he opens himself up to gentleness. And Wriothesley has never known what to do with gentleness. 

He doesn’t know how to accept it. Not ever since the day he realized it came with a heavy price that he could never afford. (And how could he afford you? You are so patient and happy to have him, so willing despite knowing his past and the horrors of his crimes, despite enduring the agony he put you through physically. Your affection, of all things, should come with the highest of prices.)

“Did it bother you growing up?” he whispers, tracing your hip bone with his thumb as you lie against his bare chest. You like cuddling after intimacy. He likes it, too. You curl against him in his dark bedroom, bare and sleepy and satisfied, and for a moment, he feels normal. Like you’re not with him under the literal ocean. Like he’s not an ex-convict who now sees over other convicts. Like he’s not the guy who made you feel sharp kicks and deep bruises all your life. 

“What?” you hum. 

“You know what,” he huffs. You give him an earnestly confused shake of your head, and he sighs. He decides that perhaps you are being honest and not purposely dense just to make him properly communicate his feelings. “The pain,” he mutters. “It didn’t bother you that I was always bringing you pain?”

“It did,” you say bluntly. He tenses under you. You gently press a kiss to his chest as if to soothe him, like you’ve already read his mind. “Not for the reasons you might think, though.”

“Oh?” he arches a brow, “then do enlighten me, miss soulmate. How exactly did it bother you that I’m not gathering here?”

You roll your eyes. It’s affectionate. 

Wriothesley misses that. He misses affection in the simple forms he once knew—Mother’s fond eye-roll, the way she’d sigh and grab a handkerchief to clean the chocolate smeared at the corner of his mouth after Father brought home treats. The way she’d bend down and wipe the smudges away as she’d gently scold, You’ve got to be more careful, ▇▇! Heavens know what other people would think if they saw you so filthy. Whatever would you do without me? The way she’d sigh and pull him into a hug, kissing his cheeks when he’d pouted at being lectured. 

Mother was always so soft—he still wonders, sometimes, how anyone could possibly fake so much gentleness. Some of it had to have been real, right? Just a fraction? A small morsel? It had to be, hadn’t it? Even if he wasn’t worth loving long enough to keep, he must have at least been worth loving for that temporary time she showed him that affection.

If only he were worth more than a pretty sum of mora. If only he could have made Mother fond enough of him that keeping him was worth more than selling him off like some animal on the market, a piece of meat to butcher and cut open and devour with filthy, disgusting hands. 

Affection has always cost him something. Some price that is not worth paying. His innocence, his freedom, his life. You are the only person who affords him affection without any price. And how funny, he thinks—that the one person capable of it is the one person meant for him, decided by fate. He wonders then, that if there was no such thing as fate and divinity, if he’d be worthy of any affection at all. If you are the one person the world has granted him because it is their begrudging duty to assign him another half. If you alone are a miracle that he was lucky enough to be allowed by Celestia, as they smiled down on him out of a single, twisted instance of mercy. 

He can’t dwell on it too long before you’re cupping his cheek and pulling him out of his thoughts, pressing a kiss to his lips. His breath hitches for a moment—he forgets sometimes that can do this whenever he wants. He can kiss you. Claim your affection. Feel the proof of it for himself. He presses into you harder, desperately trying to swallow down as much of it for free as he can in case one day, this too has a price that is out of his means. 

“It never bothered me to carry your pain,” you whisper against his mouth, “though I won’t lie—it did hurt,” you chuckle. You peck his lips before he can say anything in response. “It bothered me that it was your reality. I couldn’t understand why it was like that—how different we were.”

“You shouldn’t have had to try to understand it,” he mumbles, “if you weren’t stuck to me, you’d have—”

“Mwah,” you cut him off, pressing a loud kiss to his mouth. “Don’t say that, silly. I’m not stuck with you.”

He blinks before he huffs out a soft snort, shaking his head in disbelief. “Silencing me with a kiss isn’t going to—”

“Mwah!” You kiss him again, theatrically louder this time as you giggle. 

“If you keep kissing me when I say self-deprecating things, it’ll only condition me to say them more,” he warns. 

“Then I’ll kiss you after you say anything,” you hum. “Then you’ll only bother saying the nice things since you might as well.” 

“I don’t know if that’s how it works—”

“Mwah!” You kiss again. 

He laughs, pulling you impossibly closer before he tilts your face up, cupping your cheek with a large hand that practically swallows your face entirely as he kisses you. Hard. You hum against his lips, eyes fluttering shut as you kiss him back. As if kissing him is enjoyable. As if someone like him was worthy of your time and affection and touch. As if someone of his status is worth tangling your life with, despite being who he is and where he is from. 

“Wrio,” you murmur, trying to pull away from his needy lips. 

“Mmh,” he mumbles, bridging the gap every time you try to create it. You giggle, gently stroking through his hair before delicately tugging at the strands to pry him away. He caves, sighing before he pulls away, grumpy as he stares at you, dazed. “What?” he frowns.

“I would have taken your pain for myself if I could,” you whisper, “if it meant you didn’t have to live like that. Feeling it was never the issue. You should know that.”

“You’re insane,” he breathes, “now c’mere.”

He moves to kiss you again—but instead, you cup both of his cheeks and force him to look you in the eyes. “You didn’t deserve to feel it all either.”

“I know that,” he mutters, frowning. (He is grouchy when he’s vulnerable. He’s known that from a young age. Feeling weak fills him with a sense of anger and disgust that makes him lash out. Maybe he’s angry with himself for being so weak. Or perhaps at the world for making him that way. He doesn’t know. All he knows is that it makes him want to become bigger. Stronger. More untouchable. Whether it’s through bloodied gauntlets in his childhood living room or some bulked-up muscle in the pankration ring, he is always trying to seem stronger.)

“And you deserve someone to carry everything with you,” you continue. “You know that too, right?”

“Course I do,” he grunts, not meeting your eyes, “what’s the point of saying all this?”

“The point,” you say firmly, “is that you start believing you can have nice things.”

“I have nice things,” he says petulantly. “Got a decently good income and…and my title is literally Duke, and I got you—I have a pretty lady that’s all for me, don’t I? You wound me, sweetheart. Are you trying to say I don’t have anything nice because I live under the sea or something—”

“Wrio,” you say softly. “Please.”

He deflates. 

Wriothesley has always kept a respectful distance away from people. His colleagues and this prison are all his home. His family. But he keeps a respectful distance. It’s the smartest option. Because distance is what keeps him most safe. What keeps people close enough that he’s never truly alone, but not close enough that they are people he can lose and suffer the loss of. But distance is difficult to maintain in an intimate relationship, though—distance is impossible to keep for longer than a small period of time.

Wriothesley is realizing that, slowly but surely—that no distance means having all the hard conversations. The ones that make him feel so raw and vulnerable, it’s like he’s peeling his skin straight off and exposing his bones and tissue. 

He takes a moment, focuses real hard on tracing the skin of your arm rather than meeting your eyes before he mumbles, “Yeah. Fine.”

“I don’t want you to feel guilty,” you say softly. 

“S’not a feeling I can just turn off,” he shrugs. 

“Yes,” you agree, “it’s not. But we can talk about it when your mind goes there.”

“I don’t like talking.”

“But you like me,” you smile, “and I like you, too. And if we want to like each other and make it work, we have to do that thing you don’t like where we talk about our feelings. Communicate. Do that couple-y sort of stuff. Yeah?”

You’re right about one thing—Wriothesley likes you. He likes everything about you. He likes hearing you talk and listening to your voice. He likes learning about you and the things you like. He likes looking at you and the way you smile or laugh. He likes everything. He even likes the way you add too much sugar to the tea he brews up for you (even if you don’t properly enjoy its flavor that way). He likes having you. Likes being able to say you’re his—not because he doesn’t want to share you with the world, but because he wants to have something he can keep. Something that isn’t here one second and gone the next. Something that was meant for him, so he can have it and never have to exchange it for something else because the universe only lets him have one good thing at a time. 

But Wriothesley also knows that things are just a set way for a guy like him. Not all people are created equal. Some people are blessed and lucky and can have a good life. Others are simply there to serve as a reminder that those people should count their blessings unless they want to end up like the others. 

He’s one of the others. And you’re one of the blessed. And sometimes…well, sometimes he wonders if it’s better that you stay in your blessed little bubble of a world instead of getting caught up in the whirlwind that is him. And his life. And his terrible, awful luck. 

He’d love it if he could save you the trouble of mingling with someone like him and realizing you were made for something better. And maybe, a little selfishly, he’d love it if he could save himself some heartache in the process and lose you before it would wreck him completely. He feels like he deserves that much—feels like he’s helped enough people and atoned enough for some of his darker sins that he should be able to just hold onto the stability he’s built himself. Sure, he’s not exactly fulfilled or happy, but he’s not exactly miserable or suffering. 

He’ll take that minimal win happily. 

You…you are everything he’s dreamed of. Maybe more. Maybe even more than more. You could very easily leave him miserable and suffering—not because you’re bad and you want to hurt him, but because he’s one of the others. And you’re one of the blessed. And things just work out a certain way for people like him versus people like you. 

You kiss his thoughts away again. Kiss his lips all soft and sweet and filled with a certain amount of adoration he doesn’t know he’s earned. (But he’ll take it. He’s not above something soft and sweet and just for him.)

“Your head is not a very nice place,” you murmur, tapping his forehead. “I can tell. It’s being mean to you.”

He laughs at that, raising an amused brow. “Yeah? Think so?”

“Yeah,” you hum. “In my head,” you move your finger to now trace his chest, running your fingers through the hair that litters his skin, “you’re just a good boy who did some bad things. And you’re trying to be good now, see? You reformed a whole prison! Very good. I think that we can work with that.”

“Good boy,” he repeats in disbelief, “you’re talking to me like I’m a dog?”

You pet his head teasingly. “Such a good boy.”

His face lights up as he suddenly gets an idea—you watch it in real time, the scheming look in his eyes. In an instant, he’s grabbing your wrist as he pulls it against his lips and murmurs, “Careful,” before gently nibbling at your inner wrist, “I might bite.”

“No!” you shriek, letting out a series of giggles, “no, don’t bite, please! I have treats! Spare me!”

He shakes his head, fighting back a lopsided grin. “Unbelievable,” he huffs, “you’re unbelievable.” 

“I’m not,” you brush back his hair. “If you just believe me, you’ll feel a lot better.”

“Yeah? What should I believe then, miss soulmate?”

“That we’re good together,” you murmur, “and that we’ll be fine. And that we deserve each other—as in you deserve this, too. Just trust me on that.”

He lets out a soft, heavy breath. Not all people are created the same in Fontaine. In fact, they aren’t in any nation. But all soulmates love each other the same—and this time, the way you look at him is not the same picture-perfect, falsified look from Mother. Or the same deceivingly kind, careful words from Father. 

These are real. He can work with that. 

“Okay,” he pretends to cave, shoving his face into your neck. You let him hide away in there. Let him keep that fragile look in his eyes hidden from view. “M’trusting you on that. Deceiving the Duke is punishable by ten years in prison, miss.”

“Yes, sir,” you smile, stroking his hair. “I am no rule breaker, you see. I’m a law-abiding citizen.”

“Good. I’ll hold you to that.”

“Wanna talk about what’s on your mind?” you offer softly. 

He hesitates. And then he decides that maybe he can afford nice things—the Fortress has granted him a pretty amount of mora these days, anyway. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “maybe not this second, though. But we’ll talk about it.”

He can practically see your smile even if he can’t look. “Okay,” you murmur, “fine by me. We have plenty of time, baby.”

Your arms wrap tighter around him. Perhaps this is Fontaine. Perhaps this is the nation of justice. Perhaps he has found his justice in your arms, feeling your warm skin against his as you erase every memory of pain from his body where you and he touch.

This is not a very linear format in terms of plot and story telling it. It jumps along many months and weeks and doesn’t have a specific timeline. It is just the journey of wrio falling in love despite his flaws. Hope you enjoyed that

[angel--cassie]

[heartkaji]

۫𓂅 ⵌ . . . 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐕𝐀 ! ⠀⠀ ࣪ ⸝⸝ ⠀

in which nerdjo is down bad for you, so the frat!jjk men teach him how to pull you using ‘alpha male’ techniques ! will he succeed in acting like a playboy to win your heart ?

cast: nerdjo (‘toru’ gojo) + frat! jjk men (‘sigma-chi’) : fratjo (‘sato’ gojo) ◞ geto ◞ toji ◞ sukuna ◞ nanami 𓏲 art gallery here !

PLAYBOY TACTICS #1: GET YOUR MONEY UP !

taught by: toji zenin

“trying to win y/n over with only a hundred bucks to your name? yeah try again friend.”

⎚-⎚

toji zenin is black coffee breath, borrowed birkenstocks & a bank account filled with student loan refunds. but when he opens toru’s scotiabank account & finds it filled with less than a thousand dollars, his lips contort in disgust.

“no funds, no game, no bitches,” toji clicks his tongue. “you just a bum.”

“don’t you have a baby mama and kid you can barely support?”

“silence.”

toru gojo has messy blanche hair & candy pink nose & acid pooling in the jugular. tonight he’s got a date with the girl he swears is the love of his life & the pressure pokes at him like a cracked rib.

toji leans heavy on toru’s sheets. “i’m gonna ignore that comment. let’s focus on how you’re a gojo and have only a hundred bucks in your chequing account.”

toru’s cheeks flush. “i keep my money in my savings…they’re for textbooks.”

he doesn’t mention how every penny that’s not in his savings ends up in sato’s betting app. damn yumeko jabami wannabe-ass twin.

but toji doesn’t question it, so he doesn’t tell. instead he tosses the cell back at toru, arms crossed behind his head as he makes himself comfortable on his bed,

“textbooks don’t get you laid, friend. listen,” toji licks his canines. “i’m gonna give you three simple rules. follow ‘em or get dumped.”

RULE #1 : NONCHALANCE. ALWAYS.

toru gojo doesn’t make it past rule number one.

he fails because he doesn’t know how to not bite his cheek & choke on the blood when you stroll in with four inch heels & glossy lips & nails that toru prays will gouge his eyes out. he can’t fucking think. his throat’s all achey & you smell like sugar & his tongue dries so hard he swallows blood to keep it wet.

he tries to say you look beautiful. the words dribble off his tongue & plunk into his drink.

“—earth to toru? it’s really rude to stare.”

how shameful of him! he should dig his knees into the tile. grovel & beg till your pout dissolves & you decide you can forgive him for making you even the slightest bit uncomfortable.

but instead he shifts his arm over the booth seat. clenches his throat. reminds himself of the training toji worked oh-so hard to give him & pinches his thigh so his foot stops tapping so hard,

“s’not much to stare at.”

what ?

in front of him you’re fawn freckled & doe eyed, lashes fluttering like—heaven forbid—you hadn’t even heard him.

so he says it again. “uhm, there’s nothing much to stare at—“

“i heard you the first time.”

your tone cuts him like a knife. toru’s not sure when you start packing, but suddenly your purse is half full & your fork’s on the table & say her name—say her name—”

he calls your name & screams an apology. you leave as the words plunk into his drink.

TOJI’S REMARK : SON, I AIN’T TEACH YOU ALL THAT.

PLAYBOY TACTICS #2: GOOD GIRLS LIKE BAD BOYS

taught by: sato gojo

“girls don’t care about that ralph lauren shit. take off that polo and get in this tech, man.”

⎚-⎚

toru gojo’s room reeks of fratboy & paint thinner.

there’s two pizza boxes & a beer can rotting; sugar in sato’s molars & suguru’s piercings glimmering in the heat. & sukuna is here; lately he always is, laid up in toru’s bed with his phone raised over his head & palm inching dangerously towards his waistband. toru gojo knows better than to comment.

“you’ve got no game, twin. how are we even related?”

sato speaks with a mouthful of popcorn. beside him suguru’s snacking too, shoving things in his backpack & parting lips so sato can feed him the occasional kernel.

suguru scoffs, teeth sticky. “it’s a miracle she even lets herself be seen with you. poindexter looking ass.”

“i know, right? mr. bean ass closet. he won’t spend money on clothes and wears the same shirt in different colors everyday.”

“that’s not true—“toru grips his neckline. “—i’m not even wearing the shirt right now!”

he gestures to the material but geto only wrinkles his nose.

“can you please stop moving? i can hear the polyester in your hoodie..”

sato snorts. sukuna grunts & it’s not due to the joke.

suguru’s done packing now. he kisses sato’s cheek. ruffles toru’s hair. turns to dap up ryomen sukuna before deciding he probably shouldn’t. he takes his exit with a palm waving goodbye.

sato turns to his twin. “you know what you really need, man?”

“the ability to set boundaries? i don’t know why ryomen thinks it’s okay to fap in my sheets.”

“that,” sato nods, ignoring the wet sounds that leave toru’s bedside, “and a new fucking wardrobe.”

ⵌ SHOW TIME ! tw: satirical references to suicide.

toru gojo looks like a fucking idiot.

glasses half-foggy. nose cherry pink. dark jeans with too many rips & chains dangling everywhere. sato’s jacket has zippers that don’t actually zip anything, and the nicest thing about the outfit are the ugly birkenstocks that show his flushed pink toes.

toru greets you with a smile. eyes bright, just happy to look a mess.

“hey, y/n!”

“Hello. Are you mad?”

your tone is clipped & makes toru flinch. he swallows, blood sticky in his jugular. your nose is wrinkled & lashes fluttering & your gaze flits to the library exit like you might run away.

he won’t let that happen. not again.

so he clears his throat. pinches his wrist. pretends his brother’s jacket doesn’t fit too loose & itch at his chin: “nope, just trying something new! shall we get started on the project ?”

his smile stretches like plastic. there’s sweat on his chin & you think he has too many teeth.

—-

toru gojo keeps tap tap tapping.

birge-carnegie library is oakwood old & glimmering with glory. the air is heavy with heat & coffee shells & the bitter realization that toru gojo is never getting the girl.

at least, not at this rate.

it’s been twenty minutes & yet all toru can do is stare. god, you’re so pretty. swollen cheeks, pretty gaze, cherry coke lips pressed into a pout & clicky nails that stab toru in the gut as you tap at your keyboard. you’re so pretty & it’s fucking killing him because you’re pouting & toru swears you don’t even want to be here.

toru can only bite his lip. mind racing, heart aching.

you’re shivering now.

and it’s not quite obvious, & if toru wasn’t staring at you like you were girl turned god he probably wouldn’t have noticed. but he sees it. the way your lip quivers. the way you tug your sleeve over your wrist & pout when it flicks back into place. the way your shoulders squeeze like they’re clinging to the heat.

you don’t even know how you make toru’s chest hurt.

& before he can think it through he’s leaning over to place his—well, sato’s—jacket over your shoulders. he can only pray it doesn’t still smell like suguru.

“this smells like suguru.”

oh, well.

but you’re softening now; settling into your seat. lashes fluttering as you push your arms into the holes & turn back to him with gentle gaze & eyes star-achingly bright.

“thank you,”

your voice is too soft. his heart is too sticky.

sato’s jacket swallows you whole.

toru thinks it’s cute. you think it’s annoying. it’s been five minutes & you’re still shifting it over your skin, pulling & tugging & pouting when you discover yet another zipper.

you frown. “i feel like a jingle bell.”

“merry christmas.” “it’s a tuesday in may..”

it is. toru doesn’t know why he said that. he’ll likely hang himself when he gets home.

but the embarrassment doesn’t end there. you stand up—just to tug the jacket over your thighs, just to straighten it out—but toru gojo doesn’t know any better so he fucking lunges—

“toru!” you gasp, startled.

toru freezes; glasses tilting off his face, mouth part open. & he looks at you, eyes wide & cheeks flushed & so fucking startled, & he thinks he’ll definitely be seeing that noose when he gets home.

“sorry—i’m sorry—i didn’t mean to—“

“you scared me.”

you’re gripping the hem of your jacket now—his jacket, sato’s, whatever—and god, he’s such an idiot. so fucking stupid & can never do anything right & will likely die knowing he was born into this world just to leave as his brother’s shadow. and worst of all, that he will never, ever, get the girl.

“i’m so sorry,” he trembles. he doesn’t look at you, he can’t & he doesn’t deserve to, so it’s fine. “i wasn’t thinking. i just saw you standing up and i thought—i thought—“

he swallows. looks away.

but you don’t let him off that easy.

“you thought what ?”

he doesn’t answer. god, he looks ridiculous. curled into himself, palms on his knees all stupid & polite. cheeks flushed, glasses foggy. lips half-bitten & a flushed gaze that never meets yours.

giving you his jacket left him in a wife beater two sizes too big. he looks small & scrawny & you think you want to kiss him.

“toru.”

he exhales, long & slow. he still doesn’t look at you. you wish he would.

“i thought you were gonna leave again.”

“what ?”

he continues, “like at the restaurant. when you—when you stood up. walked out,” he swallows. “i didn’t want you to leave again. i didn’t want to watch you go.”

god. your throat is far too tight. your nails itch at your wrist like you’re not quite sure what to do with yourself.

“i’m not gonna leave,”

your voice is too sweet, too gentle. it sounds like honey & it spoils in the heat.

“you promise?”

you only sigh, walk over and slip into the seat beside him. you don’t say you promise but toru thinks he’ll be fine for now.

SATO’S REMARK : KINDA PITIFUL, BUT HEY, IT’S SOMETHING !

PLAYBOY TACTICS #3: NEG NEG NEG

taught by: geto suguru

“it’s all about the mystery, man. you gotta lower her value to make her see yours.”

⎚-⎚

“so how do you neg?”

“well personally, i’d start with calling her a monkey,” geto has his tongue in his cheek, desk chair groaning with a creaaak as sato spins him playfully. “unless she’s black. you shouldn’t say that if she’s black.”

“i don’t think i should say that either way..”

sato rests his chin on the chair head, cheeks peach-tinged & grin clumsy.

“probably shouldn’t!”

geto shrugs, tapping at toru’s keyboard. it’s 12 PM monday & the gang’s all here: suguru’s playing the sims 4 on toru’s new PC. sukuna is asleep with his dick in his hands. sato is whining because suguru doesn’t want to have a gay love story with him in the sims. and toji’s not here—12 PM monday means a new shift at his new job. toru hopes skai jackson will take it easy on him—working as her personal AI prompt writer must certainly be exhausting.

“the logic is simple—” suguru smacks sato’s hand away from the keyboard, “if you subtly insult her, she’ll feel the urge to prove herself. and her trying to prove herself—” another smack to sato’s stubborn hands, “tricks her brain into thinking you’re worth impressing.”

“and eventually, that she likes you!” sato cheers. “woah, sugu—when did you install wicked whims?”

“huh—? what the hell? why does my sim keep trying to fuck bob pancakes!”

“make him fuck mine instead.” / “please slit your throat.”

toru breathes, drags a palm over his face. his brother & best friend are fighting now—god knows about what—but he’s more concerned about the fact that he’s got a movie date with you in two hours and today’s game plan is far from complete.

“suguru’s right. and for a feisty bitch like y/n ? negging is even more crucial.”

sukuna’s voice is close to guttural & has all eyes snapping towards him. he’s awake now, cheeks flushed & bleary gazed & eyes half-lidded. his cock is sticky on his stomach & his palm strokes it lovingly.

toru frowns. “don’t call her a bitch. i’m serious.”

“and don’t talk with your dick in your hands. i’m disgusted.” suguru snarks.

sukuna shrugs, still lazily palming himself for the world to see. suguru wrinkles his nose in disgust & turns his head back to the game. he rage quits when he turns to find his sim palming himself too.

“neg her as much as possible,” sukuna breathes, toes curling. “humble her, make her second guess—shit.” he’s pumping faster now, gasps short & breath heavy. “make her—fuck! m’gonna cum—!”

sukuna blows his load. suguru & sato have long left the room, & toru is still searching for that noose.

ⵌ SHOW TIME !

cineplex at yonge-dundas is too-bright screens & overpriced popcorn. even now, toru’s got caramel sticky in his teeth & palms crossed in a silent prayer. there’s blood in his throat & an ache in his ribs & he’s got a tie on his neck for no fucking reason.

you walk in looking like a midsummer dream.

toru really does think you’re girl turned god. after all, most girls his age aren’t honey-mouthed or starry-eyed or flush-cheeked like you are. you walk in in tight top & short skirt, lashes fluttering as you glance around the room in quiet search of him. your eyes are all big & your lips all pouty & toru bets you don’t even notice. bets you don’t even know how you leave him sweat-soaked & feverish.

“toru!”

you’ve sauntered up to him now, purse in your hands & grin on your lips. your smile is clumsy & satoru’s heart must be too because it swells over & bursts like overripe fruit. his vocal chords slosh against his throat like blood.

“hi,” he blurts. “you look pretty.”

you tilt your head & look up at him all warm-cheeked & doe-eyed. “thank you.”

it’s silent for a beat; toru’s eyes boring into yours with two cracked teeth & a kernel in his mouth. you’re so pretty & you look so sweet & he wants to kiss you so fucking bad.

you break the silence. “you like my outfit?” you step back, voice soft. “i went shopping yesterday.”

toru wants to ask if you did that just for him—just for today’s date with him—but he doesn’t. he knows better so he doesn’t.

instead he drinks you in. he looks like a butterfly trapped in a hazy addiction: pupils blown & bleary eyed, jam smeared cheeks & a quickly reddening nose. his lips are half-parted / his mouth is half-dry.

your outfit’s simple but oh-so effective: denim skirt too short on your thighs, black off-shoulder with ruffles on the sleeves, kitten heels to match your top. god, you’re so fucking cute.

and because you’re so cute, toru can’t fuck this up. so he decides it’s time to implement suguru’s lesson from earlier in the day.

“you look incredible,” he swallows, knuckles shaky. “did you—uhm. did you pick black to hide your stomach rolls?”

toru gojo shouldn’t have said that.

he knows because your lips part immediately. cheeks flushed, eyes wide. you’re frozen in front of him, lips quivering with something toru recognizes as embarrassment.

oh jesus—oh god—great universe—what has he done?

before toru’s joints can unfreeze you’re already turning away, & toru swears there are tears in your eyes. he’s sworn he’ll never let you leave again without a fight so even though his vocal chords slosh against his throat like blood, he manages to speak.

“y/n, wait!” he gasps, already moving. “i didn’t mean that—! your body is tea! your body is tea!”

GETO’S REMARK : MAN, CALL YOUR FUCKIN’ UBER.

PLAYBOY TACTICS #4 : GET YOUR GAME FACE ON !

taught by: ryomen sukuna

“you know your problem, man ? you’re not taking this seriously, not locked in at all. let me put you on, friend.”

⎚-⎚

sukuna sighs, flops out of toru’s bed with his dick hanging out of his boxers. he has his elbows on his knees & a palm on his chin & precum sticky on his abdomen.

“i think it’s time i stepped in and gave you some advice.”

“you have a porn addiction. i think i’m good.”

PLAYBOY TACTICS #5: OR MAYBE…BE YOURSELF ?

taught by: nanami kento

“you’ve been taking advice from those idiots all this time? oh…”

⎚-⎚

in the men’s bathroom of birge-carnegie library, toru gojo has his pulse in his teeth & his heart in the sink.

4PM today toru gojo walked into the library with too many books in his hands & glasses begging to tilt off. you sat at a table near the center, & when toru walked past he saw it: your gaze meeting his before burying itself between a thick book. the bite of your lips & the way your nose crinkled with disgust.

did you pick black to hide your stomach rolls?

how embarassing! toru gojo should hang himself now—or at least after returning his library books. the overdue fees were no joke. his life was one however, & the heavy realization has his knuckles rousing white on the bathroom sink as he sheds his nerves by the pint.

his eyes are red tinged. cheeks bloody. nose too red & throat too sticky so when he tries to breathe it comes out as a hiccup. toru gojo is truly pathetic. he’s known it his whole life but now the fact has chewed him up & won’t spit him back out.

“hello. what is your problem.”

kento nanami has a tone too clipped. he’s standing at the bathroom door & his mere presence has toru gojo startled. toru jumps back, face contorting in alarm, tears still sticky on his lashes. “kento!”

“in the flesh,” nanami pushes up his glasses. he’s in pressed suit as always, looking years older than toru & his age mates. “why are you loitering in the bathroom? this is very unsanitary.”

toru sniffles, wipes his eyes. “i’m sorry—” he tries for a swallow but it comes out as a hiccup & his eyes are burning all over again because he can’t even fucking breathe right. “—i’m sorry, i’m sorry for everything. i fucked up like i always do and i should’ve used that noose ages ago and i, and i—“

nanami’s brows knit in alarm. toru’s sobbing now, and kento joins him at his side.

“toru,” his voice is soft. “tell me what’s going on.”

if you told nanami kento that going to the carnegie library today would mean comforting one of the gojo twins in the men’s bathroom instead of picking up the new BL manhwa he’d requested the library to stock, he would’ve looked you in the face & laughed.

but here he is, awkwardly patting toru’s back & not reading the latest volume of nerd project.

in his shaky distress, toru recounts everything—the lessons with the sigma-chi boys. sukuna’s refusal to stop jerking off in his bed. him pointing out your stomach rolls—& kento can only shake his head. how ridiculous. he should be reading about andrew young & luke davis right now!

but kento gently wipes toru’s tears. he’s always been rather fond of the younger twin anyways. “have you tried being normal? as in, being yourself?”

toru’s eyes swell, big. he looks stunned—why didn’t he think of that?

but he quickly deflates. he had thought of it. but he’s much too uncool—scrawny & weak & only good for reading textbooks & mediating fights between geto & his dumb brother. he had no choice but to lean into the larp.™

“i can’t—“ he gasps. “—she wouldn’t like me. i’m not cool—“

“and you think the others are cool?” kento raises a brow. “toji, whose a deadbeat dad while in college and sells himself to earn money—“

“he doesn’t do that anymore,” toru gulps. “he works for skai jackson now.”

nanami nods. “and sato, who has a gambling addiction and loses thousands to hakari every week,” toru flinches.

“suguru, who’s addicted to the sims and is in a homoerotic friendship with your brother.”

another flinch.

“sukuna, who is—“

“i didn’t take any advice from sukuna.”

kento nods, “well done. but you know he has a porn addiction and an exhibitionist kink.”

toru gulps, “yes.”

“so no more listening,” kento claps his back. “you apologize. explain to her what you’ve been doing all this while, but also take accountability. you’re smarter than this. you should’ve known better.”

“i’m sorry. she makes me stupid.”

“i know,” kento sighs, softening. toru’s wiping his eyes now. “but you shouldn’t be apologizing to me. go out there and make things right. and wash your hands first.”

toru nods eagerly. he doesn’t even remember to wipe his hands dry, and nanami can only shake his head half-fondly as he watches the younger twin go.

—————

when toru finds you, there’s a pen in your teeth & you won’t meet his eyes.

toru knows you see him standing there beside you. but you don’t flinch. your lashes flutter & you blink slow like you’re totally engrossed in whatever you’re reading. is that percy jackson?

toru shakes his head. then wishes he didn’t, because he must’ve looked really stupid physically shaking his thoughts away. “y/n.”

you don’t respond. his throat folds.

but he keeps going anyways. “y/n, i owe you an apology,” he clears his throat, & he thanks god because he doesn’t hiccup this time. “i’m sorry. i’m really truly sorry. especially for yesterday,” he gulps. “—and your body is tea.”

irritation rises in your features & quickly dissolves.

“uhm,” he’s still standing there, arms behind his back, feet shuffling. “i didn’t—i don’t actually think you have stomach rolls.”

you shut your book with a bam! “can you please stop talking about my stomach?”

“i’m sorry! oh my god i’m so sorry, i’ve been taking advice from my brother and the others on how to be cool and make you like me back but i just ended up being a total idiot! and it’s stupid! it’s so stupid and i should know better but i like you so much that i can’t fucking think and i’m so sorry for hurting you and i’ll spend the rest of my life making up for it if you’d let me and—“

“toru. you’re rambling.”

“i’m sorry!” he panics. “please forgive me!”

“oh my god,” you sigh, palm dragging over your face. “can you please sit down first?”

he sits across from you; hands digging into his knees, back too straight to be healthy.

“so you’ve been taking advice from sato and the others all this time?”

“uh, yes.”

“in what universe is that wise?”

he deflates. “i don’t know how to be wise when it comes to you.”

your tongue’s in your cheek. right now, toru gojo is something akin to a kicked puppy. he’s got a gaze that won’t meet yours & his neck is rash red & you think he might explode.

you click your tongue. “i had my suspicions.”

his head snaps up. “you knew?”

“no, i suspected it,” you tuck a book into your bag, then another, and another. “i first thought so when you showed up at the library looking like ken carson. sato set you up, by the way. even he left his opium era back in 2023.”

“he said girls like guys who dress like that..”

“he lied,” you hum, “i prefer your usual button ups anyway. you look all smart and sexy.”

“thank you. wait—what?”

“mhm,” toru’s not sure when you get up, but now you’re sitting beside him; and god, you’re in a skirt again, and toru wishes you wouldn’t wear skirts. his brain acts all funny when you wear them. he gulps.

“for a smart guy, you’re awfully slow,” your thighs are touching his & your perfume’s in his lungs & fuck, his heart is doing that funny thing again! “do you think i would’ve asked you to dinner that first night if i didn’t like you?”

“the night i said you weren’t much to look at and you left?”

you grit your teeth. “yes, toru. that night.”

he swallows, pupils shifting because he can’t handle your pretty eyes glaring at him. “i thought you did it for a dare.”

you poke his temple & he winces. “i would never do that. you idiot, i’ve liked you since you bumped into me at the library and accidentally said ‘pretty’ instead of apologizing!”

“oh.”

“‘oh’ is right,” you sigh, falling into his shoulder. you don’t miss the way he freezes under your skin. “you’re such an idiot…”

“i really like you.” toru blurts, cheeks pink. “and uhm, i’m happy you like me back. and i think you’re beautiful. so beautiful. you’re probably the most beautiful girl in the world.” he swallows. “and i’m happy you like me back. did i say that already?”

you tilt your head to look up at him from his shoulder. his gaze is trained on his knees, neck flushed, ears pink. & you’re a devil of a girl so you stroke his arm when you purr:

“look at me when you confess. please?”

toru squeaks. because you sound so pretty when you say that in his arm. because the heat of your touch sends shockwaves to his spine & his sleeve is likely sticky from your gloss but he doesn’t care. he doesn’t fucking care.

he turns to you, slow. and you’re already gazing up at him, cheeks flushed, lashes low, sun-soaked & bleary eyed. your lips are so pretty. you’re so pretty. he can’t believe he almost wanted to kill himself. what an idiot.

he clears his throat. “i like you. i wanna kiss you so bad.”

toru’s eyes widen. he didn’t mean the last part—well he did, but he didn’t mean to say it & oh god he’s fucked up again & he felt you tense against him & he’s made you so uncomfortable & you’re gonna leave him again and—

“kiss me,” you breathe. “please, toru?”

his heart hammers. you sound so pretty when you say that. why do you sound so pretty when you say that?

& more importantly, who is he not to obey? so he does as you ask—cups your cheeks oh-so softly with rouge knuckles & gentle hands. and your lashes flutter shut, & oh my god he’s really doing this.

he presses his lips to your own. you sigh into his mouth.

——-

oh, but the story doesn’t end there.

four bookshelves behind & a corner to the right, the gang’s all there. sato & suguru are leaning over the corner, stacked over each other like this is some sort of cartoon. sukuna has a granola bar in his hand instead of his dick. toji’s still not here, still slaving away typing AI prompts for skai jackson’s snapchat stories. nanami kento is here though, standing just enough to the side so no one can mistake him as friends with these idiots.

“what the hell,” sato whispers. “did he just kiss y/n?”

“no way. i think he actually did.”

“why are you guys whispering? you look fucking stupid.”

“says the guy who talks with his dick in his hands.”

“i’ll put it in your mouth next, bastard. or you only like sato’s cock in it?”

“ayoooo. you right but not too much, not too much.”

“who the hell said he was right?!”

nanami takes his leave. that’s enough stupidity for one day.

SIGMA-CHI’S REMARK: HEY, HOW’S HE DONE THAT ?!

𐦂𖨆𐀪𖠋𖨆𐀪𖠋.

# SIGMA-CHI STORIES !

© HEARTKAJI. do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload.

[misswonderfrojustice]

AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

[vetckkie]

girl get off that c.ai and embrace the 'x reader'

[f-tality0]

Choso kisses

[lesserthan-3]

athletic trainer Iwaizumi Hajime who has a crush on the sweetest girl. Hed never tell her though, hes just happy to be by her side. But Iwaizumi is only a man- and a man has urges.

so he buys a sex toy, advertised as “it’s like the girl of your dreams.” He regrets it immediately and he thinks the devil might as well take him to hell.

But he tries it once, twice, three times, and now he can’t stop picturing your face with mascara running down your soft and rosy cheeks as he fucks your brains out. Hes not gentle, but why would he? It’s a toy.

What he doesn’t know is that “it’s like the girl of your dreams” is not an exaggeration. With some weird magic, youve been able to feel everything. EVERYTHING.

Every night, you’re curled up in bed, squeezing your legs together in hopes that the feeling will go away. And it usually does, but not until it drives out multiple orgasms out of you.

It happens too often, when you’re out shopping, working, even just trying to relax. And you cant live under these circumstances. So what do you do? Go to your most trusted friend.

When Iwaizumi hears your side of the story, he thinks- it must be fake, or a coincidence, right? Magic doesn’t exist. He has to find out for himself. But when he goes to his bag at the end of the day, the toy is gone.

His heart sinks. Where is it? He spends the next few days searching- going to the grocery store, looking in the lost and found at work, and the most humiliating part- having to ask his friends who he had recently met up with.

“Did one of you happen to take something out of my bag?”

“Oh, this?” It’s Mattsun. Of course it’s Mattsun.

part two below!!

Post by @lesserthan-3 · 1 link

💬 1  🔁 1  ❤️ 4 · Post by @lesserthan-3 · 💬 7  🔁 9  ❤️ 156 · athletic trainer Iwaizumi Hajime who has a crush on the sweetest girl. Hed never

a/n - I actually have a whole part 1 and 2 of this posted on my old accounts in Quotev and Wattpad so I’ll bring them over eventually. but I LOVE this plot. also i love scummy Mattsun lol

[the-underrated-introvert]

Some of my favorite Haikyuu Headcanons

Filipino Iwaizumi (Self-explanatory)

Viet Suna, Kenma, and Tanaka siblings (I'm Viet and this makes way too much sense to me personally)

Korean Oikawa and Sakusa

Fatherless Miya Twins (Purely off of vibes)

Makki and Mattsun have watched through the entirety of One Piece (You cannot convince me that this isn't true)

Shirabu had at least one crashout over Organic Chemistry (no one likes ochem to be fair)

Kita consistently has aunties trying to set him up on dates

Kuroo was lost as hell at his first internship

Terushima and Futakuchi have worked part-time as baristas before

Tendou replicates food from his favorite manga for funsies

There's probably more, but these are the ones off the top of my head, some of which I definitely made up :P

[pankk0]

Jealous ૮₍ ⊙ _ ⊙ ₎ა

I admit I'm not very good at making comics, but at least I try...

[ughhvix]

☆ oh my knight!

— a haikyuu fanfic // where daichi sawamura is your knight.

synopsis: your personal knight — daichi sawamura — had an unyielding loyalty to you. pairing: afab!princess!reader x knight!daichi (YUMMM) wc: 5.5k (BUT ITS FUN) cw: A MAN THAT YEARNSSSS IS A MAN THAT EARNSSSS. sm*t. angst. daichi is so lovestruck omg. so much yearning. so so much. nsfw includes: c*nnilingus, dry-humping, male and female org*sm, marathon s*x, overst*m, soft s*x.

sire sawamura was a simple man. he knew of his station, of his duty, and of his standing in the royal court. he was allowed to look at you, but never to even dream of you.

sire sawamura was a simple man. he was your personal knight — the one that was to stand by your side, the one that was to protect you, the one that was to always be with you but never ever have you.

you were never to be his. the court would never allow it. the princess of the kingdom to be with a mere knight like him? god. no. you were never to be his, but somehow that had never deterred him from loving you. not when he was eight, and not when he was eighteen. you were never to be his, but he was yours from the start.

━━━☆⭒

age: 10 in the fields.

"daichi!" you nudged his calf and he shifted his attention to look down at you. he was not much taller than you, but had already accepted his role as your protector. you sat in the meadow and looked up at him with wonder in your eyes. your fingers had clasped around a haphazard bouquet — a mismatch of colours and hues. "please hold this."

"princess," he sighed wearily. "we really shouldn't be here. it—" he scanned the fields with his periphery, "it could be dangerous here. out in the open."

"nothing dangerous about picking flowers, sire!" you grinned to yourself. daichi watched as you sorted through the tall standing flowers, picking more. there was dirt on your knees, your pristine silken dress tucked up over your knees so you wouldn't soil them and get scolded by your mother. some dirt had caked it's way from your fingernails onto your chubby cheeks. daichi felt his face flush, and so, he looked away to the faraway trees again. "we could land in trouble, princess."

"awh, daichi!" you pouted, still searching for more flowers, "if i get into trouble, you'd save me right?"

daichi swallowed, his gaze averted from you again. he knew the answer before you had ever asked the question. "yes. always."

you stood up, extending your palm towards him so he could hold these flowers as well. when you smiled, daichi felt his chest tighten. "then i have nothing to worry about, yes?"

"never. not as long as you have me." he could barely hear his own words over the rush of blood in his eardrums, of his heartbeat going rampant in his chest, and the feeling of something shimmering hot in his cheeks.

"good!" you beamed, brushing your hand against his as you forced the flowers into his hand. "take these flowers as a payment! for keeping me safe."

his bleary vision shifted to his palms, where the flowers blinked up at him in hues of pinks and reds and yellow. he blinked up at you, "f-for me?"

you nodded, proud. "now you cannot leave my side, for i have bequeathed you with these flowers!"

silly you, daichi thought, how could he ever leave your side?

he clutched the flowers tighter under his fist, though, until he felt the flimsy stems pop at the sheer force. his eyes fell to the ground, "we should go now."

you nodded and brushed past him. he watched you as you skipped along the meadow. he loved you. god, how he loved you.

━━━☆⭒

age: 14 in the gardens.

"you shouldn't be here, princess." daichi said sternly, standing straight as he crossed his arms and glared — well, tried to glare — at you. you looked up from your position near the grand fountain. the water fell so softly behind you, erupting in a gentle stream that fell from the top and trickled down to the bottom. the grass kissed your feet. the moon hung low in the starry, midnight sky and shaded your a pale blue. there went on another one of those pointless galas inside the palace, and you refused to spend another minute mingling with those haughty noble folk. so, you had come and hidden yourself in one of the many gardens of your estate.

"i wish to stay right here." you huffed, defying his comment with your own. daichi sighed, his eyes softening at your little fit, "this cannot do. your mother searches for you."

"let her, then!" you said plainly. there was this resolve in your eyes, one that made daichi's gaze falter away from you. "why doesn't she bother brother with these impudent matters instead? why always have me smile and wave at those proud, showy noble folks?"

"it is just how things have come to be. you cannot keep the queen waiting."

"well, that is no excuse for it to continue!" you huffed again, and daichi fought off a smile at the display of your stubbornness. you stood up and drew closer to him, "you know how i loathe these, daichi! how pointless it is to attend these galas and dote on those- those foolish men!"

he exhaled — both at the sudden closeness and the firmness of your words. "i know that."

there was a beat of silence. one in which the two of your just stared at each other. for a moment, daichi swore he felt your cheeks dust pink. however, he averted his eyes from yours and looked down at his shoes instead.

"do not force me." you turned around and sat back down at the edge of the fountain, one of your hands finding itself in the clear water again. your fingers swirled about the still water, and daichi gave it a last try, this time with a hint of emotional manipulation mixed in, "if you do not come with me, father would chastise me endlessly for allowing the princess to run away and hide."

your hand stilled in the water at his words. you craned your neck slowly towards him, "he would?"

daichi nodded, "you know how strictly he abides by the orders of the court."

"ugh." you groaned again, this time sluggishly picking yourself up, "fine, then. you win! but you—" you drew closer again, this time jamming your index finger into his chest with narrowed eyes, "you shall have to steal me a treat from the kitchen quarters tonight, sire sawamura! that is the least i deserve for what i am to endure now."

daichi laughed, something soft and airy, "yes. i promise."

you smiled, "very well, then. let us head back."

daichi did end up getting reprimanded by his father anyways, for stealing from the kitchen quarters. not like daichi could care, he would get reprimanded every day for the rest of his life if it meant that you smiled so sweetly as you did when you received that little treat. he loved you.

━━━☆⭒

age: 16 the palace library.

"you must see this! my ladies-in-waiting told me of this book!" you burst into a fit of giggles, sitting with daichi in between the maze of tall-standing, wooden shelves stacked with books upon books. in your hand, you held a thick leather-bound book and daichi couldn't help but warn you again, "if someone saw that you weren't in your room at this late hour of the night, princess—"

"sire sawamura!" you whispered feverishly, pointing to the book, "here i am, trying to impart knowledge to you and you're so worried about other, rather foolish matters! if someone finds me, so be it!"

"both of us would be stoned to death if they realize you're out of your chambers at such late hours of the night! with me, at that!"

you narrowed your eyes and stated plainly, "do you wish to read this with me, or not?"

well, you sure knew how to puppeteer him. you stood in silence and daichi sighed, weary, "what kind of knowledge is it, now?"

you inched closer to him, till your shoulder brushed against his bicep and your body warmth seeped into his. daichi's breath stuttered but you didn't seem to notice. you opened the heavy book and trailed your fingers down the fine print, "see this! right here!"

daichi found it hard to focus — courtesy of the dark and your close, feverish touch — but still whispered, "what is it?"

"read!" you egged him. daichi read out loud, "the male enters his phallus... princess-?" daichi squeaks, his ears going red as you giggle again. "what is this...?"

"go on!"

daichi felt his entire face heat up, "the- the male enters his phallus inside the female's wettened, sweet cavern. he presses his mouth-" daichi felt his own mouth grow dry, "to hers and steals her breath away as he begins to thrust... the- the female cries, losing herself to the passion of their love."

you laughed again, and the soft voice carries itself through the vast, empty library. daichi blinked, not even looking at you after reading something so lewd. you closed the book and sighed dreamily, "how do you think it would feel to do that with somebody?"

daichi lagged, his eyes resting on your lips for just the barest fraction of a second. "i- i wouldn't know, princess."

"hm. me either." you sighed, putting the book back in it's place. you turned to him slowly, your voice teetering on the edge of silence, "but... i do not wish to not... know until i'm to be wedded off."

he swallowed, "wh-what do you mean?"

"do that."

daichi felt his sanity rip, "d-do what? the phallus—?"

"no!" you shoved his bicep, horrified at the idea. your entire face was flush, eyes dropping to the floor as your whispered, "the... pressing your lips to mine."

as if that was any better?! why did you not just ask daichi sawamura to kill himself? that would have been easier.

"i- i do not think i should..." both of you looked away from each other as daichi saved himself the heartbreak of doing that once and never again, "it's something... your husband must do, princess. not me. not your knight."

you started softly, "but i wish for it to be someone i know... someone who i know is... you."

daichi brought his eyes to your face and felt his entire brain turn to mush, "shall you not regret it?"

you shook your head quickly, "no. never."

he swallowed for the nth time and inched closer. both of yours' breaths got heavier. you closed your eyes, puckering your lips into a soft pout. you awaited something, anything — a featherlike feel of his mouth over yours, maybe a fiery kiss of passion. but instead, you felt his fingertips trace over your cheekbones. your eyes fluttered open and you found daichi staring at your face, awestruck.

his thumb rubbed circles into your cheek and you whispered into the air, "do you not wish to?"

his voice was quiet, eyes heavy with regret of what he were to say next, "i am just a mere knight, princess. that is all i am. all i would ever be."

before you could argue, he leaned forward till your lips all but touched his. his soft breath fanned your lips and your heart stuttered out a pathetic rhythm of unyielding yearning. he trailed his finger down your cheek and onto your lips. his doughy fingertips traced the outline of your lips. both of you said nothing. he then pulled himself back before you could even react, "you must return to your chambers now. it's far too late."

you nodded slowly, "yes. my apologies. i shall take your leave now."

you brushed past him and walked your way to the entrance of the library. daichi stood where he had with you, and amidst the tall shelves he felt his knees weaken. he fell to the floor, shaking thumb that had touched your forbidden skin being brought to his lips. and in his lonesome, daichi smiled to himself. he could never have you. he would never have you. but for a moment there, he touched your bare skin, and that was enough.

━━━☆⭒

age: 18 your chambers.

daichi knocked once, twice, thrice. you didn't allow him the pleasure of hearing your voice from inside your chambers. he took a deep breath, using his scarred, broad palms to push back the gilded doors and peek in.

you sat on your bed, eyes glossed over as you didn't even turn to look at in. he sighed, "may i enter?"

you sat in silence, and he felt his chest clench in vain. swallowing, he announced, "i am entering, then."

he closed the door behind him and walked till he stood in front of you. you refused to look up at him, but he could make out the bloodshot rosiness of your eye-whites and the dried tear-streaks down your face. he kneeled. your knight kneeled in front of you, at the base of your bed and started softly, "you've been crying."

you turned your head to the side, unanswering. daichi continued, looking up at you, "his royal majesty told me to come persuade you. since we have been such close companions all our lives, he believes you'd listen to me."

you scoffed, "he believes wrong."

"princess..." he tried again, despite his lips wobbling at the prospect of what he was suggesting. "you... you must consider the suitors. you are of age now."

you finally looked at him, and in your eyes, he saw it — the ache of betrayal. your eyes glossed over, "you too, daichi? you are- hic- you too are going to tell me to get married?"

of course, it felt like daichi was engraving something sinister in his very heart but he nodded, remembering his duty, his station. his love couldn't make you his. so, he nodded. "you must."

"why?" your voice broke, "i-i do not love any of them."

"you'd grow to love them." he hated himself for saying that. oh, he loathed himself.

"i wouldn't!" tears fell down your cheeks and daichi's fingers twitched. oh, how he just wanted to jump forward and wipe those wretched tears off of your face. oh, how he could hold you in his arms and beg you to never fall in love with any of them. oh, how he longed to be the man you loved instead. but all those fantasies were just that — fantasies. you looked down to your lap as your tears fell in a steady pitter-patter, "i would never... fall in love with them, daichi."

what was daichi to do, now? he — as your bodyguard, as sire sawamura, should tell you to cease your crying and comply. but as your daichi, he couldn't bear to hurt you.

he rose slowly, "i understand. i will tell your father i was unable to persuade you."

he began to turn and felt your nimble fingers wrap around his wrist. he looked back, startled, "princess...?"

you looked up at him, teary-eyed and flushed. your libs wobbled as you came to stand up. you inched closer to him and your fingers still held his flesh at his wrist. you whispered, "help me run away, daichi."

daichi's eyes widened, his lips falling agape, "w-what?"

"please..." your words broke, "please. i do not wish to marry any of them."

it took all in daichi to not immediately agree. no, he had to be rational. he had to act like your protector, not like a boy in love. he replied, plain and simple. "they'd find you."

"no, they would not." you begged, "come with me. let's run away. to-to some faraway land, where nobody knows us."

daichi was silenced. his eyes searched yours and for a moment, all he wish to say was: yes. yes! let's run away. let's go somewhere where loving you isn't my greatest sin. but instead, he said, "if they find us, we're dead. dead."

you placed your hand on his cheek, "i would rather be dead with you, than live with them." the warmth from your soft palms sunk into his skin. his eyes fluttered close as you whispered, "you told me you'd protect me, that you'd never leave my side. were all those words a lie?"

his eyes opened to your face closer to his. he admitted, "they... were not."

"then, let's run away. please."

well, who was the knight to deny his princess of what she wanted?

that night, he conspired with his fellow knights — sire sugawara and sire tanaka, both of whom agreed to help him help you run away. by the time the moon hung proud and tall in the sky, you were sitting behind him on his horse. your arms were looped around his waist, your laugh soft and carefree as you felt the palace drawing farther and farther away. you rested your cheek on his back, closing your eyes and inhaling his scent in. for once, you could hold him without the fear of your station plaguing you.

a random inn, some town, far, far away.

at the counter of the inn, daichi sawamura — stuttering and five shades redder — had declared himself as your husband and you as his lawfully wedded wife, for who would allow for two unmarried youngsters in their inn?

now, daichi rested your luggage on the ground of your assigned room. it was set methodically near the entrance, in case you both had to grab it and run in the middle of the night. you looked around, wincing at how small the room really was. daichi seemed to catch onto your grievances. he apologized, "sorry, we have limited funds. this will have to do for now." you swiveled your head to him. he lingered near the door. "you should take the bed, princess. i will take the floor."

you shook your head, "no."

his brows furrowed, "if you wish for me to take another room, i shall—"

"no." you shook your head again, walking to him. "i mean... don't call me princess anymore, daichi. i am not that." the closer your came to him, the deeper his breaths became. you stood toe-to-toe with him, standing so close that your chest brushed against his. you blinked up at him, "and you are no longer my knight. we are far away from that wretched palace."

he swallowed, "what do you mean, prin-" he winced, "sorry."

you smiled, "what i mean is..." your breath faltered, a sheepish look crossing your eyes, "kiss me."

you half-expected daichi to shake his head and tell you to take the bed and go to sleep, but instead, one of his broad hands wrapped around your waist and another around your nape. he pulled you in and crashed his lips to yours. your eyes widened as the way he manhandled your body and slotted his lips against yours. his tongue licked your parted lips and delved inside. you moaned into the feeling of him, "mmph— god."

his broad hand kneaded your waist, as his lips marked you as his own. he was messy — tongue, teeth, spit. and when he pulled back, both of your lips glistened with a forbidden sheen. your heavy-lidded eyes met his similar ones and you found yourself tugging him by the wrist to the bed. he followed you without any rebellion, falling a slave to your whims and wishes like he had all his life.

settling down on the lousy, thin mattress with haste, you straddled him. for a second, the tension faded. it was just you and him, and him and you, and you and him. it was just you two. it had always been just you two.

his fingers moved through your hair, his eyes locked in against yours. under you, he was flushed and low-lidded. his breath stuttered, lips parting open to whisper, "you're beautiful."

you giggled as you leaned down to kiss him again. instantly, the soft moment turned into something more carnal. you fisted the cropped hair at the base of his neck. he sighed against your lips as you tugged at him. his own arms tightened against your waist as the kiss deepened.

"mmph hah—" you gasped as one of his palms bunched at your dress and and pulled it upwards till it bunched at your hips and left your skin bare in front of him. his lips parted from yours. eyes meets yours, slowly, he trailed his index up and down your skin. you jolted at the foreign touch, a shy whimper falling past your lips.

daichi gave you a small smile, his finger never halting, "what do you wish to do?"

you voiced your desires, "f-fuck me."

daichi's eyes widened at your request, then immediately he grinned — unabashed and free, "my, such crude words, princess."

you rolled your eyes, "do you wish to make love to me or no—?"

he stopped your words with a hasty roll of his pelvis under yours. your breath stuttered as he did the motion again. you found yourself rocking to his rhythm, moving your lower body up and down, glissading your fabric-clad cunt over his clothed erection. he groaned under you, eyes futtering shut. you did much the same. this chaste dance lasted only so long, however.

daichi wrapped his arm around your waist and hoisted you upwards. you looked at him, confused. he quickly turned you around. your back hit the mattress. you blinked up at him as he hovered over you. he didn't give you much time to think, though.

pulling back from you, the man worked quick to take off his shirt. as the fabric was pulled off of his body, his ripped body came into view. the careful muscles in his back and arms, the rippling biceps. clearly, the years of intensive training had come to be of help. you gawked at him, unwilling to take your eyes over the perfectly defined muscles.

daichi's cheeks flushed, eyes darting to the bed as he mumbled, "s-something wrong, princess?"

you giggled, shaking your head rather quickly. you bit down your bottom lip, "all those years of combat have paid off, it seems."

his ears tinged red, a nervous laugh right on his lips. he distracted himself by drawing closer to you again. a quick peck against your lips soon turned into feather-soft kisses down your jaw and throat. you made such pretty noises, all breathy and soft. daichi traveled down your body until he was nestled in between your legs. with practiced ease, he pulled the fabric of your dress upwards and bunched in at your hips. you shied your gaze away from him as your underwear came into his view.

daichi blinked at your apex, unabashed. carefully, scared, he reached out his thumb and pressed down on the growing wet-patch on the flimsy fabric. your back arched at the foreign touch, lips gaping open. daichi noticed your reaction and pressed with more pressure.

"m-move your fingers. in a circle-like motion..." you said, still shy and red from the feeling of your promised knight — who once refused to even kiss you — tease your heat so, so lewdly. focusing on the gentle throbs of your nub and your stuttered breath.

daichi followed your words like they were his holy grail. soon, his fingers used the flimsy fabric to rub 8-figures on your throbbing nub. the muscles in your thighs tensed. daichi looked up at you, "have you done this before? touched yourself...?"

you nodded, curt, "haven't you?"

"i have, but then again i am just a mere commoner. i didn't know princesses found themselves entangled in such..." daichi brought his other hand upwards, pulling at the strap of your dress to let it fall. the fabric cascaded down your skin and exposed the curves of your breast. the bare air teased your nipples taut. your breath slowed as he quickened his fingers. "compromising situations."

you raised an eyebrow, "for just a mere commoner, you sure are in the same bed as me."

"it seems i am." daichi grinned, smug. his nimble fingers pulled the flimsy fabric to the side. the cool, night air kissed your exposed cunt. you whined as his fingers made contact with your flesh. his gaze fixated on your heat — your fluttering, shy hole and enticing clit. "you're... wet."

"i'm aroused." you corrected.

daichi laid in between your thighs, quickly bringing his lips to your cunt. before you could protest, before you could ready yourself for the prospect of your knight burying his face into your heat, he was already lapping at your sex with such vigor.

his eyes met yours, tongue moving up and down in long, fat stripes. you tightened your thighs around his face, head falling back into the thin pillows at the feeling of his hot, wet tongue inside your hole — teasing, probing.

his lips latched around your clit, his fingers coming to circle your entrance. he waited a beat, and you nodded, urging him to do what he should do next. you had read about all of these in those forbidden books. daichi slipped one of his thick fingers in, and then another. your jaw hung open, soundless screams echoing through your body. he began moving his fingers in a pace that complimented the rhythm of his tongue.

one of your hands fisted the sheets, other his hair, "d-daichi."

he hummed around you, his eyes shutting in the ecstasy of your taste on his tongue. in your sex-crazed state, you noticed the soft drivels of his hips rutting into the sheets underneath. he moaned around your sex, the sound of it reverberating to your spine and forcing an orgasm out of you.

your toes curled, eyes rolled back and lips fell open, "i- gosh-!"

your apex stuttered around him, trying to tear apart from his lecherous, devil-like mouth. your knight wrapped his muscled arms around your thighs tighter and kissed your sloppy cunt harder as his ruts grew more needy. your walls clenched around his digits, clamping tight around him till it became hard for him to move them. your essence dribbled out of your cunt, travelling down his hand as you finally rode out of the waves of your orgasm.

you expected sire sawamura to pull up, for him to take off his pants and do as men and women do when they are in love. instead, daichi moved his fingers yet again. you whined, "'s sensitive—!"

daichi let go of your swollen, red clit with a pop. worry overwrote his hazed expression, "does it hurt?"

well, yes. but in a good way. so, you shook your head, "n-no."

"then, let me." with that, the man buried himself into yourself again. no foolish arguments could now stop the man. not until you were orgasming into his mouth again. he drank down your fluids like water, licked up your slit with a ravenous need, and kissed your sensitive bud like it was all but a human need.

after three round of you screaming god's name, daichi finally parted from your pussy — though, rather woefully. he hovered over you and kissed you again, driving his knee against your open cunt for good measure. once your sanity came back to your frayed body, you looked up and him and confessed, "should i not repay your kindness, sire?"

daichi's ears tinged red again, he looked away from you — somewhat embarrassed. your eyes fell to his crotch, where the fabric of his pants were wet now. before you could ask, he confessed, "i- i came undone."

"while..." your eyes widened, "while you were between my thighs?"

he nodded, too embarrassed to utter such pathetic words out loud. though, his eyes met yours and he smiled, "well, i am to serve you. am i not?"

you smiled back, "not anymore. you're not my knight, sire." you met his lips with yours, "you're my husband, it seems."

he grinned against you, "it seems, indeed."

your hand flew to pants, tugging them downwards, "well, then. we shall do what husbands and wives do."

he nodded, solemn, "we must, indeed."

you giggled, tugging the fabric down. needless to say, the night was long and next morning, daichi received a fair complaint from the inn owner about the lack of sleep he got last night because of you and him. all daichi could do was nod and promise not to do it again. he broke the promise the very next night.

━━━☆⭒

age: 21 a far, far away kingdom.

you carefully filled the bucket full of clear water from the shallow river stream. it would take you another fifteen minutes to walk back to your cottage, where no doubt your husband would be cutting the tree branches into careful wooden blocks.

you and daichi had made a life for yourself — a small cottage nearby a stream in a far, far land. he cut trees and sold them in the nearby market, you took interest in botany and made medicinal concoctions in your free time. it was good. it was enough. no amount of gilded thrones and silken dresses could have made you half as happy as this life did.

you gently traced the path you always took, walking back to the hut. as it came into view, you expected the regular view — daichi smiling big as he waited for you. he would be standing with an axe in his hand, standing in front of his table as he chopped wood. instead, you saw... guards. guards in recognizable uniforms. guards from your kingdom.

your eyes widened, the bucket of water slipping from your hands and falling to the soft earth. you ran. your feet struck the forested path as you ran towards your home. daichi. daichi was alone.

your heart hammered in your chest, blood roaring in your ears. your ran, and ran, and ran till the sinews of your legs burned. when you reached your cottage, your voice was hoarse, worn. "DAICHI!"

"there you are, princess." the head guard turned to you with a fake, candied smile. "we have been looking for you for a very, very long time."

there were a pack of ten guards there, all looking at you. but you didn't care. what happened to you didn't matter. instead, you searched for your husband. your frenzied gaze fell to the ground and there you saw sire daichi sawamura — your knight, your protector, your husband — with a growing pool of blood under him. the blood soaked his shirt — the same shirt you had sewed for him. you fell to your knees, crawling to him. mud clung onto your mortal body as you clawed your way to him.

"d-daichi." immediately, you were cradling his body in your lap, uncaring for when the blood tainted your skin and dress. his face was pale, eyes half-shut as he looked up at you. tears welled up in your eyes, lips croaking out syllables that no longer sounded human.

with the least of his energy left, he gave you a smile. bile rose to your throat. you shook your head feverishly, as if that will undo what has happened, "no. no. no. daichi- daichi. please."

he croaked, "p-princess..." and then his body fell limp.

"NO—!" a scream tore through your larynx, you pressed the man to your chest and sobbed, "NO. NO. DAICHI. C-COME BACK."

your husband stayed mute. unresponsive. you sobbed harder, till your tears fell onto his face and you had uttered every iteration of his name into the cursed air.

"take her." you heard the head guard say. foreign, stronger arms came to wrap around your shoulders. you kicked, and cried, and thrashed but it was all futile. so futile. the guards dragged you away from his body, from your daichi's body. screams ripped out of you at the distance, at his lifeless corpse. your daichi — with soulless eyes and agape lips. your daichi — who in his last moments could only call you by your station and prove that he was your servant, forever and evermore.

the head guard ordered around his subordinates, "take the princess. take this man's body too. the king would need proof of his death."

"LET GO OF ME. L-LET ME— DAICHI!" you screamed and cried and thrashed, and repeated the same cycle until the guards knocked you out. next you knew, you were at the palace. they put you in beautiful gowns and extensive makeup, enough to hide your sunken eye sockets and paling face. a gala was to be held — to celebrate your return, and to celebrate the death of the man that had kidnapped you for three long years. sire sawamura became a traitor on the tainted sheets of history — the man who were to protect you, but instead stole you away. sire sawamura — who was a liar. well... he was a liar. wasn't he? he said he'd protect you but he was nowhere to be found now. nowhere to be found in this wretched world.

ah, sire sawamura was indeed a simple man. he knew of his station, of his duty, and of his standing in the royal court. he was allowed to look at you, but never to even dream of you.

sire sawamura was a simple man. he was your personal knight — the one that was to stand by your side, the one that was to protect you, the one that was to always be with you but never ever have you.

but sire sawamura did something that was forbidden, and now there was nothing else to be said.

a.n: NOT PRROFREAD. this might be one of my favs that i've ever written. daichi is SO underappreciated and i know there's like barely 15 people who give a fuck about him so it makes no sense to write such an intensive story but listen, here's the thing, I DON'T CARE. DAICHI SAWAMURA I AM ALWAYS GONNA BE YOUR NUMBER 1. also sorry for the angst :) tagging fellow daichi-enthusiasts: @huhukai @briokayama @lolikestoread @tsukimuta @synd1caate @magicalgirlwithnopowers @chocolatebearstrawberry @champagne-swizzle @crystal-lilac @lxnlian @iicherrycore @hoemegirlriri @ryujinxzyy @mariee-27 @hauszau @ellak419 [you guys commented/reblogged my last daichi fic lol] link to another daichi fic: under the influence!

[lumpyspacequinn]

how i feel searching for hours for angst fics but all i can find is y/n sucking their soul out of their dick.

Please recommend good angst fics

[indiewritesxoxo]

lovefool

intermission: Gojo | chapter index

love without loyalty is just lust - but which feeling lies where between the king you've sworn to serve and the clown who'll never be able to make you laugh?

synopsis: the only way for a siren like you to survive was as the king's pet, his pretty nightly pastime who spent years pining after him. but what happens when he's meant to marry another? or when a member of his court offers you a way out?

pairings: king!Sukuna x siren!Reader x jester!Gojo

content: MDNI, mostly angst ngl, medieval fantasy AU, forbidden love, heavy pining, very unbalanced power dynamics, messy relationships, gojo pov!!, asshole yandere!gojo !!, he is in love and he is TERRIBLE about it, reader is going through it

divider by @/bronzewasp

Gojo didn't want to see you like this.

Gagged and tied up, your eyes hidden behind a blindfold as he squatted down to study the way you squirmed against your restraints.

But how the hell else was he supposed to show you that you shouldn't be ashamed of yourself?

That unless you used your voice to protect yourself, you would just end up devoured. Chewed up and spat back out by the court, looked down on by the noble ladies and all the other morons who thought their inherited wealth meant they could push others around.

You inherited something far more valuable.

A gift that you could rule the world with.

And once he made you see that, everything would be solved.

You might be upset with him if you found out how much he had orchestrated. But you'd be grateful one day. Understand why he had to.

This would be your happily ever after.

Right now, you were playing the damsel-in-distress, not left in a dungeon, but the unused basement of the castle his stepmother must have found suitable.

He heard the sound of voices approaching from down the hall, tucking himself back into the shadows, slipping into the single storage closet attached to the dingy room just out-of-sight, waiting for his moment to strike.

His plan wasn't particularly complicated.

He knew his stepmother wouldn't stand for you taking her place, becoming the next queen once he took the throne. Unable to handle being thrown away, losing every ounce of power she wielded to someone she could never control. Gojo barely even had to snoop to discover her plans to pay off a few guards to kidnap you and sell you off in an underground market.

And okay, Gojo could have stopped it.

But wouldn't it be more romantic if he played your hero? Saved you from his wicked stepmother and showed you that you were his priority?

And most importantly, make you to use the ability you'd been blessed with while he was at it?

He could see through the cracked sliver of the door as two burly guards walked in, clearly drunk as they crossed the room, neither even glancing back in the corner he was in as they approached the chair they tied you to after stealing you straight from his bed.

"Think what they say about her is true?" One of them chuckled, daring to put a filthy hand on your hair.

"Careful," the other one half-slurred, slumping against the wall as the coins in his pocket jingled. "I heard she can drive a man mad just from a look."

"She's blindfolded, imbecile," the other one mocked, and you tried to say something, your voice muffled into the gag.

There it was.

His girl trying to fight back.

Before they could push their luck, the door swung open again, and tonight's villain finally decided to show her face.

"Is that thing tied tight?" His stepmother muttered, disgust dripping from her abrasive voice as his hands reflexively reached for the hilt of the sword strapped to his side.

"The gag is secured, Your-" One of the idiotic guards started to insist, but she just scoffed at him.

"I was talking about her."

You were a thing in her eyes.

A pest he had the audacity to bring home and treat like a pet.

To be fair, he sincerely doubted she would be happy with anyone she didn't select herself, irritated when he swore he was preoccupied searching for one and outright incensed that he brought home a woman who wouldn't fear her.

She wanted a puppet.

To act like she throne was hers even if she couldn't sit on it anymore.

Sure, to everyone else, she was doting, sweet, all supportive of the prince that wasn't hers. But Gojo had spent years seeing her for the snake that lived inside her skin.

"Have all the preparations been made?" She asked, walking around to examine you herself. Pinching your chin between her thin fingers before peeling the blindfold off to look directly in your eyes.

"Yes," the other one dutifully answered, shoulders stiff as he stood ready for her next command.

For all her flaws, she knew what you hadn't learned yet.

What you didn't want to learn.

How to wield every ounce of control she had.

"At least I'll make a pretty penny off of her," she exhaled. "I wonder how much you'll sell for at auction."

Sukuna and him could agree on one thing.

You were priceless.

Both the guards were distracted, nervously glancing at each other as his stepmother appraised you like some collectible, and Gojo supposed it was as good of time as any to put a stop to it now.

But before he could step out, you managed to wiggle one hand free and ripped the gag from your mouth, not giving her time to react before you were barking out an order.

"Don't fucking move," you whispered, your throat raw as the words ripped out of you.

It was a little satisfying to see them still.

Bodies frozen and unable to so much as budge an inch.

You were shaking, fingers trembling as you struggled to get your other hand out of the ropes keeping you tied to the chair.

Well, this would make the hero act he planned a little harder to execute, but he still stepped out of the closet with his sword drawn, puffing out his chest as he softly called out your name.

Your head snapped towards him, but there was no understanding in your stare as he preemptively prepared a speech to patch this over.

But his stepmother spoke up first.

"You stupid wench-"

"Shut up," you hissed at her almost automatically, chest heaving hard as you managed to tear your other wrist free, not even reacting to how raw it could've rubbed your skin.

She opened her mouth to argue, probably throw out another nasty name, but nothing come out.

Under your complete control.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," he soothed, walking over to the chair, bending down to release the restraints binding your ankles to it. "You did great."

It took you a second to meet his gaze, to really see him there, but you didn't talk either.

He didn't know how to read your face. What expression you were wearing now.

But your eyes were wild.

Like some untamed animal he startled in the woods.

"I was going to intervene, but it looks like you had it handled," he offered, cracking a smile like the last time he left you, you hadn't been pissed at him.

And apparently, still were, judging by the way your blank face abruptly twisted into something distraught.

Gojo knew.

Deep down, in the pit of the stomach, he knew who it was directed to.

But he still couldn't stop himself from acting like he didn't. Selling himself another lie and swearing that you would buy it too with time.

"I'll make sure she's imprisoned for kidnapping you," he comforted you, a hand on your forearm as he pulled you out of the chair, throwing a cursory glance back at the frozen statues behind him, their eyes moving back-and-forth as their bodies refused to let them budge. "Them too."

You had to be grateful for that, at least.

It would all work out perfectly.

With that ring on your finger, and the queen rotting in the dungeon, his father would be forced to relinquish the throne to him.

Maybe it made him greedy. Gluttonous for being unable to just accept what he already had.

He couldn't just go live off in a fucking cottage somewhere and pretend like he was happy to pick crops or play farmer.

Not when he had spent his life being waited on hand and foot. Knew what riches were waiting for those bold enough to take.

Gojo didn't know how to give.

Didn't it mean something that he wast trying to learn for you?

Sure, stealing you hadn't been enough. He still wanted Sukuna's kingdom too.

But he was just righting wrongs.

All of it should've been his from the start. He was just reclaiming everything that should have been his by birthright.

You looked at him like he was just as disgusting as the roaches scurrying over the stone floor.

"You let this happen to me," you whispered, shaking your head with the distrust he hoped to avoid shining in your eyes. Your voice was so fucking beautiful, it hurt. Lulled him even deeper in love with you, made his lashes flutter as he felt himself frown.

He understood, of course he understood, but he still huffed. Aching to make you understand him too. See that he only wanted to best for both of you.

You shouldn't have to spend your life accepting scraps when you should be showered with dresses and diamonds and desserts most people could only dream of.

"I would never let them hurt you," he insisted as you backed away, inching towards the door.

He touched your shoulder, fingertips grazing against your shoulder as you recoiled with a weak scoff like you were wounded anyway.

"You used me."

"You used me too," he reminded you, reaching out to tuck your hair behind your ear. "You wanted to run away. I did that for you. For us."

"This isn't the same," you protested, those pretty eyes watering as the blindfold that had been forced on you dangled around your neck with the gag.

"Don't be like this, baby," he murmured, tempted to bring up the fact that your kidnappers were still behind you, that they were the ones for you to be angry at. He was the one trying to protect you.

Gojo stepped forward, about to grab your arm to stop you from recoiling any further, when you swatted his hand away.

"Don't touch me," you hissed at him, your extra pointy canines glinting in the candlelight.

It was cute.

How convinced you were that your words would keep him away. He let you think that before. Played along when you kicked him out of his room.

But he supposed it was time for the truth.

To put all the cards on the table since he already rigged the deck.

He would claim the jackpot tonight, but it really was adorable seeing you act like you were the winner.

"You're going to get me a carriage and let me go home," you commanded, using your sternest voice, scowling at him as you rubbed the wrists you must have just realized were sore.

Home.

He nearly scoffed.

You were caged before. Confined to your bed chambers and the corners of Sukuna's court.

How the hell could you call that home?

And how long would it take for you to see that your home was here now? With him?

Sukuna might like his trophy to sit up on a shelf.

But Gojo wanted to watch you shine.

"Don't think so," he retorted, doing his best impression of an apologetic tone as he breached the gap between you. You didn't move. Too stunned to do anything but stare as he cupped your cheek tenderly. "I'm taking you back to our room."

"But-"

You couldn't even get more than the single word out.

And then your eyes drifted down to the engagement ring on your finger, his clever girl figuring it out for herself that it was more than just a show of his affection.

"It's charmed," he smiled softly, dragging his thumb over your cheekbone. "Your powers won't work on me."

[noosayog]

002 a bittersweet valentine ft kuroo tetsuro

wc: 1.2k

valentine's masterlist, regular masterlist

The day before Valentine's Day has the entire campus abuzz. Girls talking to their crushes to get a feel for what kind of chocolate they like, boys trying to weasel at least obligation chocolate from girls. As for you, that’s the least of your worries as you’ve already decided exactly whom you’d be giving your homemade chocolate. Right now, your biggest concern is how you’re going to brave your walk home in the winter chill. Your thin cardigan and knee socks hardly cut it, as you shiver in the corridor. 

“You look like a chihuahua.” 

You look over to the voice to see Kuroo hovering near you, already changed into his outdoor shoes and bundled in a muffler, hoodie, and volleyball jacket. 

You continue shivering, proving his point. 

“Yeah, well…” you say. 

“Where’s your jacket?” 

“Got rained on this morning. I don’t think wearing a wet jacket would keep me warmer than not wearing one at all.” 

“You didn’t bring an umbrella?” 

You give him a look. “Yeah, I brought an umbrella. I just decided I wanted to get soaked in 2 degree weather.” 

“Okay, let’s scale back the snark a bit.” 

“It’s already on the minimum setting.” . 

Kuroo chuckles quietly, continuing to stand next to you and looking up at the grey sky. 

You look over at him and raise your brows. “What are you waiting for?” 

He shrugs, tapping his toes on the ground to adjust his shoes. After another moment, Kuroo’s maroon jacket, warmed by his body, engulfs your figure. “Take it.” he says before running out into the cold. 

He doesn’t look back and thank goodness because he doesn’t need to see you zipping his jacket all the way up and snuggling into it, nose inhaling the scent of your special someone. 

– 

You arrive at school the next day, armed with Kuroo’s jacket and a neatly wrapped little box. Most of your walk had been spent wearing the jacket, but you had wisely removed it a little ways before reaching school. God knows the rumors that would fly if you were caught wearing a boys jacket to school. 

Mainly though, you also wanted to avoid any teasing remarks from Kuroo about you and his jacket. You fear that one careless sarcastic comment from him would crumble the courage you spent half a year building up to even decide you would make chocolate for him this Valentine’s. 

You pass the jacket to Kuroo at the shoe lockers before bolting off to the classroom. You’re sure he gives you a strange look considering you’re both headed to the same place, but ignores it as he changes into his indoor shoes. 

When Kuroo enters the classroom, you sit up straighter, not really having thought out when you’d confess. You figure he’ll head straight for his seat near Kai but instead he walks over to your desk. 

When he comes to a stop in front of your desk, you look up at him, a strange look in his eyes. He digs his hands into the pockets of the maroon jacket you just returned to him that morning and when they come up, a familiar little box is in his hands. 

Your stomach drops. 

“Hey, I think you-” 

“It’s not for you!” you blurt.

The classroom falls silent, all eyes on you after your outburst. 

Kuroo scratches at his neck, ears flushing red. 

Your classmates begin to whisper. 

“Did you hear that?”

“Valentine’s day chocolate… but it’s not for him?”

“A rejection?”

Kuroo gulps and places the box onto your desk. “Okay… got it. Not for me.” 

His awkward laugh makes you want to grab your words and stuff them back down your throat. You want to tell him to wait, he’s right, you’re wrong; it is for him. He looks down at the floor, desperately trying to hide the embarrassment of his very public, very apparent rejection. With nothing left to say, he takes a couple of steps back, eyes still fixed to the floor, before waving pathetically and fleeing the classroom. 

The clamor of the classroom gets louder upon his departure, shameless speculation and whispers sure to spread like wildfire before the end of the day. You bury your face into the paws of your sweater. 

–

The end of the day does eventually come. Unfortunately, you don’t see Kuroo for the rest of the day, having never returned for any classes. 

The weather seems to agree with your mood, overcast skies threatening to rain. You stare glumly out at the heavy clouds, the bite of the late-winter wind making for a gloomy and lonely prospective walk home. You sigh, breath frosting up. 

“Heading home?” 

You turn to face the voice that comes from your left. Kuroo also stares out into the bleak weather. 

“Kuroo!” you exclaim. “I thought you went home…” 

“Nah,” his voice weak. “Just took a nap in the infirmary but before I knew it the day was over.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yep.” 

Silence reigns. You sneak a look at him, finding that his expression is downturned and dejected. All your six-months worth of courage are flushed down the drain, the box of chocolates heavy in your bag. You reach your hands in your bag, fiddling with the ribbon wrapped gift. 

“You know, about this morning…” 

Kuroo looks at you out of the corner of his eyes before looking back outside. 

“The chocolate,” you clarify unnecessarily. “It’s homemade…” That was practically a confession.

Kuroo knew. He already knew that. But he couldn't help himself when- 

“Who?” 

You startle. “Huh?” 

Kuroo had you grabbed by the shoulders, forcing you to face him, eyes drilled into yours. “Who are they for?”

The intensity of his stare has you locked in position, only staring wordlessly into his eyes. 

“They’re for you.” 

His grip loosens. “What?” he asks dumbly, worried, no, afraid, he heard you wrong. 

“They’re for you,” you repeat. 

He lets go. “Then why did you…” 

“I was embarrassed,” you explain. “I was mentally preparing myself to give them to you, but I didn’t think I’d make a stupid mistake and leave them in your jacket.” 

He takes a step back. Your heart sinks, but you continue. It’s too late to stop now. You fish the box out of your bag and hold it out to him with both of your hands, wholeheartedly. 

“I made them for you. You’re the one I like. You don’t have to accept them. But I hope you will, even after I yelled at you this morning.” 

A fist comes up to obscure your view of his face. When he slowly lifts his face, eyes meeting yours, your eyes widen when you’re met with his beet red face. 

“You scared the hell out of me,” he breathes. 

“Huh?” 

“I thought… I really thought you made them for someone else.” 

“Nope,” you shake your head. “They’re yours,” you say again. 

“Mine,” he parrots. 

You nod. 

“Then… Can I accept?” 

“I hope you will.” 

He grabs the box and starts undoing the ribbon. 

Your hand darts out to stop him. “You’re opening them now?!” 

“They’re mine. I can open them when I want, no?” 

You retract your hands. You suppose he’s right. 

He continues unwrapping the box until the simple truffles are exposed. They’re dark chocolate so as not to be too sweet, drizzled with a dark red raspberry topping. He pops one in his mouth. 

“Are they okay?” you ask tentatively. 

“I love them,” he responds simply. 

You nod, tickled. 

He swallows. 

“So…”

You look over at him. There’s a smirk on his face that warns you of what’s coming. 

“You were wearing my jacket this morning, huh?"

[yukkigiri]

not a virgin

your roommate has been running her mouth to her now ex-boyfriend that you were a nerdy little virgin, and after they broke up you let kuroo find out if she's telling the truth.

starring. kuroo tetsuro x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, smut, timeskip!kuroo

wc: 9.7k

warning: 18+ mdni., smut. nsfw. unprotected sex. cunnilingus. some themes of exhibitionism (?). cheating. mentions foursome. detailed smut. tit play. oral (f and m!receiving). face sitting. creampie. p in v. pwp (?). kuroo and reader matches each others freaks.

You live in a two-bedroom apartment tucked away in a quieter ward of Tokyo—not too far from the city’s rhythm, but just enough to give you a breather. It's modern, clean, and honestly more space than you need. You could’ve gone solo. The rent was well within your budget, a little indulgent even, but something about sharing the space felt… right. Whether it was a leftover instinct from dorm life or just the quiet knowledge that silence in too many rooms can get heavy over time—you weren’t entirely sure.

Eventually, through a casual coffee catch-up with an old college colleague, you were introduced to someone else who happened to be in the same position: apartment hunting, strapped for time, and looking for something stable. The arrangement was convenient. She seemed easygoing enough, worked long hours like you did, and respected shared space. No red flags, no awkward tension. You didn’t overthink it.

And for a while, everything just... worked. You had your routines—brushing past each other in the kitchen during rushed mornings, the occasional shared takeout dinner in front of the TV, the soft hum of separate lives running parallel. You didn’t hang out much, but you coexisted comfortably. That was enough.

What you hadn’t expected, though, was the shift that happened a few months in. The subtle kind. The kind you wouldn’t notice at first—until a stranger’s shoes started appearing by the door on the weekends, or the low murmur of laughter drifted from her bedroom late at night.

You didn’t care.

She could do whatever she wanted, and it wasn’t your business. When she first told you she was seeing someone—some guy named Kuroo, apparently—you offered nothing more than a nod. They’d been together for a few months, she said. “He might start staying over more. Was that okay?” You told her it was. You didn’t mind. Not really.

Even the nights when the walls failed to hold their secrets didn’t bother you. You’d hear it, sometimes. Soft giggles turning breathy. The rhythmic creak of her bedframe against the wall. The occasional slip of a moan that crawled down the hallway. But it was always distant. Easy enough to ignore. You’d just turn up the volume on your music or pretend your pillow muted everything. It didn’t affect you.

You rarely crossed paths with him.

Work kept you out late, and on most nights, you slipped into the apartment quietly, careful not to wake anyone even when you knew they were still awake. Sometimes you’d see him in passing—a flash of dark hair as he leaned over the sink, his hoodie thrown carelessly over one shoulder. His voice would drift from the other room, low and teasing. But he never really looked at you. Never acknowledged you. And that was fine. You had no interest in making small talk with your roommate’s boyfriend.

He must have thought she lived alone.

And maybe she wanted it that way.

Still, there was something oddly satisfying about the way he lingered in the living room sometimes, eyes drifting over the shelves that lined the far wall. The ones filled with manga spines, collector’s editions, limited-release box sets. Hand-built Lego models positioned with the care of a gallery. You’d catch the subtle pause in his voice when he spoke near them, the shift in his tone from casual to curious.

“This stuff’s cool,” he said once, running a hand along the edge of a display. “Didn’t know you were into Legos.”

You hadn’t been close enough to see her face, but you could hear the disdain wrapped around her reply.

“God, no,” she laughed, that practiced little snort she used when she wanted to sound above something. “That’s my roommate’s. She’s like, a total nerd. Obsessed with comics and kids’ toys and whatever. I let her keep it out here. It’s, like, her thing.”

You stood just out of sight in the hallway, expression unreadable, your bag still slung over your shoulder.

You didn’t say a word. Just turned toward your room, the door clicking shut behind you as her laughter faded into silence.

Let her laugh. Let her act like it was something to be embarrassed about.

Because the way his voice had caught before she answered? You didn’t miss that.

It was subtle—the kind of pause most people wouldn’t think twice about. But you weren’t most people. You caught that split-second hitch in his voice. Like he was expecting someone else to respond. Like he had a different name on his tongue before hers came out. And once you noticed that—everything else started to unravel.

After that, your roommate’s colors started bleeding through her carefully layered persona. The kind of girl you swore you left behind in high school. Pretty, mean, passive-aggressive. The type who needed to feel above someone just to breathe easy.

She liked to act casual, like it was all girl talk. Like she wasn’t trying to sink her claws into your insecurities.

“Kuroo was so good last night,” she would say, eyes glinting as she leaned against the counter, always loud enough for you to hear. “I swear, he knows my body better than I do. He had me pinned—biting, moaning, choking. I couldn’t stop shaking.”

She’d glance at you as she said it. Smirking. Cruel.

“I mean... not that you'd know what that’s like,” she added with a fake laugh, stirring her tea like she hadn’t just thrown acid at your self-worth. “He doesn’t go for girls like you.”

You smiled. Calm. Unbothered.

“You’re right,” you said sweetly. “And I’m not interested. That’s fine.”

But inside? You were laughing.

Because she had no idea.

You’d lived that wild, messy, electric kind of life she only pretended to understand. Back in college, you’d had your fair share of boyfriends—and girlfriends. Pretty ones, sweet ones, dangerous ones. The kind who got on their knees just to worship your thighs. Who sucked on your tits like they’d die without the taste. You’d been kissed against dorm walls, fucked in music rooms, devoured in the backseat of a car while your heels dug into fogged-up windows. You’d had people beg to taste you—tongue-deep until your legs shook, until your moans echoed down quiet hallways.

You’d been wild. Reckless. Insatiable. You’d even tried a threesome with a married couple once—just to see if you could make them both fall apart. You did. Twice.

But then you graduated. Got a job. Realigned your priorities. You weren’t that girl anymore—not all the time.

You hung up the stilettos and the lipstick-stained wine glasses. You traded morning-after texts for early meetings. Nights spent tangled in sheets became nights at your desk, fingers flying across a keyboard instead of someone else’s skin.

You retired from the chaos and focused on your career.

But that girl—the one she thought you couldn’t possibly be?

She still lived within you, and she was just waiting to come out and play.

You’d almost forgotten her until that morning. The one where she sat at the kitchen island with bed hair and a proud smile, sipping her coffee like it was just another Tuesday. She didn’t just talk about her night with Kuroo—she dissected it, glorified it, sprinkled it over your morning like sugar in your tea. Not that you asked, but she offered every lurid detail anyway, like you were the best friend she never had and the enemy she always needed. He was so big. He made her gag. She choked a little—laughed as if the memory alone still lingered at the back of her throat.

You didn’t flinch. Not then.

But it didn’t stop. It became a pattern. Whenever Kuroo stayed the night—his shoes by the door, his laugh echoing in the kitchen—she’d find a way to mention it. How her throat was sore. How she could still feel him. How she couldn’t walk straight. All of it tossed out with that lazy grin and self-satisfied tone. At first you told yourself it was just her way—crude, bold, a little drunk on the attention. But something in her voice changed. Something smug. Pointed.

And then came the men who weren’t Kuroo.

You saw one first by accident. You’d woken early for work and padded down the hallway, half-asleep and still rubbing your eyes, only to nearly crash into him outside the bathroom. He was tall, wearing nothing but boxers and looking for a jacket. He blinked at you like you were the one in the wrong hallway. He muttered a soft “morning,” then disappeared into her room.

You didn’t say a word.

But the worst—no, the most unforgettable—happened one humid night when sleep just wouldn’t come. You'd tossed in bed until frustration took over, deciding a warm glass of milk might help settle you down. The hallway was dark, the tiles cool beneath your feet. But the second you turned the corner toward the kitchen, your breath caught.

Her bedroom door was wide open.

You froze.

The sounds were unmistakable—flesh on flesh, low groans, the wet thud of skin colliding with skin. Heavy breathing, slurred moans, and the distinct slap of motion too fast to be just hands. The room reeked of alcohol and sweat. And you saw it all—every obscene detail lit by the dim glow of her desk lamp.

One man was behind her, rhythm sharp and relentless, his hands gripping her waist as she braced herself on shaking arms. Another lay beneath her, her knees braced on either side of him while he thrusted up into her from below, mouth latched to her breasts, tongue circling one nipple then the other like he couldn’t decide which to devour first. And a third—God—the third stood in front of her, hips pumping as she sucked him down, her mouth stretched wide around him, spit slicking her chin and dripping to her collarbone.

You watched as her whole body trembled under the force of it—three men, three directions, all taking turns. Her throat constricted as she took him deeper. Her back arched as the one underneath groaned into her chest. The man behind her pulled her hips back, harder, rougher. She whimpered. Moaned. Her nails scraped the sheets. And when the one in front finally shuddered and came, you saw the spill of it leak past her lips, trailing white down her chin as she let out a breathless laugh—uncaring, uninhibited, completely lost in pleasure.

None of them noticed you.

Not even when you stepped back and nearly knocked over the dish rack in your daze.

You almost laughed.

So much for good sex.

So much for Kuroo not going for girls like you.

You didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, she confronted you in the hallway, freshly showered and still damp, eyes smug with victory. “You saw, didn’t you?”

You didn’t deny it. Just nodded once, softly.

And she beamed—fucking beamed. “I can take three cocks at once,” she said proudly. “Feels good, you know? Having every hole filled at the same time. It’s like—ecstasy. And they even took turns, babe. I lost count of how many times they came. My holes have been filled thrice as much.”

You stared at her, mouth dry, heartbeat unsteady. Her words were half confession, half performance.

And then, as if it were an afterthought, she added, “I wanted you to see it.”

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

“I left the door open on purpose. Thought it might loosen you up. But I figured you wouldn’t join anyway. Those guys probably aren’t into your type.”

You didn’t rise to it. Not yet. “How about Kuroo?”

That made her pause for a second. Just a flicker.

She shrugged. “The dick’s good. But he’s getting clingy. Talking about labels and exclusivity and all that serious shit. I don’t like that.”

Your stomach sank. “You told me it was serious.”

“It wasn’t. Until he thought it was.”

And just like that, she turned away, humming to herself as she made her coffee like she hadn’t just shattered something in the room. Something delicate. Something quiet and private and stupidly hopeful that you didn’t even realize you’d been holding on to.

You never judged her. God knows college has been a blur for you too. You’d partied, drank too much, made your own share of mistakes. But still—something about seeing her like that, twisted and shaking and laughing with a mouthful of someone else, had done something to you.

Maybe it was the betrayal. Maybe it was the performance. Maybe it was that deep, unspoken part of you that had started to care about Kuroo even if you didn’t want to admit it.

But what you never forgot—what stayed carved in your mind, looping over and over like a cruel joke—was the smirk she wore as she wiped cum off her chin and looked toward the door.

She knew.

And you’d never seen her look more pleased.

It was one of those rare, treasured off days—the kind where time stretched and slowed, unbothered by alarms or obligations. You padded out of your room with a fresh mug of coffee and a sealed box in hand: the latest Lego Architecture set you’d been dying to build. The living room was quiet, lit by soft daylight filtering through the sheer curtains, and for once, blissfully yours. Or so you thought.

You settled cross-legged on the rug, carefully opening the box and sorting the pieces into neat color-coded piles across the coffee table. The soft clink of plastic against plastic was meditative, your fingers already moving by muscle memory as you started on the foundation.

Then, the door creaked open.

You glanced up, expecting it to be your roommate stumbling in from a late-morning hangover—or another boy doing the walk of shame. But instead, it was him.

Kuroo Tetsuro.

Hair tousled in every direction, eyes half-lidded with sleep, and wearing nothing but a loose shirt and sweatpants slung far too low on his hips. He blinked at you like you were a hallucination.

“…Shit,” he muttered under his breath before stiffening like he’d been caught stealing.

You raised an eyebrow.

There was a beat of stunned silence before he scrubbed a hand down his face and cleared his throat. “You’re—wait, you're the roommate?” He pointed at you like he couldn’t quite believe it. “You’re her roommate?”

You looked back down at the half-built Lego set and calmly clicked a few pieces together. “Mmm. That’s what it says on the lease.”

Kuroo stared at you, then at the Lego box, then back at you. “Is that—oh my god, is that the Fallingwater set?” His voice pitched up slightly, boyish excitement suddenly blooming on his face.

You blinked, slightly surprised at the sudden shift. “Yeah. Limited edition, too.”

His eyes lit up in a way you hadn’t expected from someone who, until now, had only existed in your mind as a tangled mess of sex sounds and sneaky exits.

“I’ve wanted to build that one for months,” he said, stepping closer without even realizing it. “Frank Lloyd Wright is—God. His work is insane. That cantilever design? Pure genius.”

You stared at him for a second, momentarily caught off guard. “You’re into architecture?”

“I’m into Legos,” he corrected with a grin, dropping down to sit a few feet away from you on the floor. “Architecture’s just the gateway drug.”

The way he said it was so earnest, so casually nerdy, that you couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh. He didn’t seem to notice he was still inching closer, eyes darting across your sorting piles with the practiced gaze of someone who had done this a hundred times before. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for a piece, to help build.

“You’re not usually home,” he added after a second. “She always says you’re working.”

“I usually am,” you replied, not bothering to hide the slight edge in your tone. “Today’s the exception.”

Kuroo paused, then gave you a sheepish look. “Well, I feel kind of dumb. I’ve been talking to your Lego collection like it was hers.”

You glanced at him, amusement tugging at your lips. “So you do talk to the Lego sets.”

“Only the ones that deserve respect,” he shot back easily, gesturing toward your build. “That one? Deserves a round of applause.”

There was a pause—just long enough to realize how quiet the apartment was with only the two of you in it. Just long enough for the tension to crackle faintly in the air, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

For the first time, you were seeing him as something more than your roommate’s cocky lay. He was still smug. Still smug and way too attractive for his own good—but there was a softness there too, the kind that clung to people who used their brains for more than ego. A surprising amount of dork nestled beneath the devil-may-care smirk. You didn’t know what to do with that just yet.

Still, you couldn’t resist the tease.

“You can help sort, if you wash your hands,” you said, tilting your head.

Kuroo gave you a mock gasp. “You think I’d touch a limited edition set with dirty hands? I’m offended.”

You laughed under your breath as he stood up and headed to the sink, and as the sound of running water filled the space, you glanced back down at the instructions in front of you.

It seemed like, for once, today might actually be interesting.

And maybe—just maybe—so was he.

Eventually, you and Kuroo became close, as he sometimes helped you with your builds if you were free and he happened to be in the apartment.

It was just an innocent hangout since you two shared an interest—nerding out over collectors' sets, comparing mini-figures, debating Marvel versus DC, and even spending quiet evenings building modular LEGO cities in comfortable silence. It was never anything more than shared company, quiet companionship, and a love for plastic bricks and fantasy worlds.

But apparently, that probably hit a nerve with your roommate.

Because a few days later, you came home from work and stepped into the middle of a storm brewing in the living room.

“You always hang out with her now,” your roommate spat, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “Why?”

You froze, one foot just inside the doorway, the other still outside. You blinked at the tension in the air—at the way Kuroo stood across from her, jaw tight, like he hadn’t expected this either.

“She’s cool,” Kuroo said simply, voice calm but edged in confusion. “We like the same stuff. That’s all it is.”

“That’s all it is,” your roommate echoed mockingly, rolling her eyes. “So what, you're into nerds now? You think you're gonna build a little LEGO love story with her?”

Kuroo frowned. “It’s not like that.”

She scoffed, arms flying up in the air. “Bullshit. You’re getting soft. And since we’re airing things out—guess what, Kuroo? I’ve been fucking other people the entire time. Not just one or two.”

You watched from the hallway as she stepped closer, lips curling into a smirk. Like this wasn’t a confession—it was a flex.

“Three guys,” she said, slowly, as if daring him to react. “At the same time. And I liked it.”

She said it proudly. Like there was no shame, no remorse, no thought to how it might hit him.

And it did hit him.

You saw it in the subtle shift of his stance, the way his shoulders pulled back and his jaw clenched. He didn’t yell. He didn’t crumble. But you saw the exact moment it clicked—that he wasn’t just some convenient hookup to her, but completely disposable.

“You’re serious?” he asked, slowly.

She shrugged, unapologetic. “Dead serious. And I don’t get why you’re acting like we were exclusive. I never promised you anything.”

He inhaled sharply through his nose, glancing away like he was trying to keep his temper level. “I just thought we respected each other. I thought you gave a shit. And I thought you and your roommate were friends. That’s why I even talked to her in the first place.”

The room fell uncomfortably silent after that. You felt a sting deep in your chest—for him.

You knew Kuroo wasn’t the type to get attached easily. But he had cared. He wouldn’t have lingered around your coffee table for hours helping you alphabetize your manga, or asked you what your dream Star Wars set was, if he was just killing time between fucks.

And now, he looked like he’d just had the wind knocked out of him.

You didn’t want him to see your face, the way your brows pulled together or how your heart ached with sympathy for him. So, quietly, you backed away from the hallway and slipped into your bedroom, shutting the door behind you before the fight could escalate further.

You didn’t want to hear any more of it—not the insults, not the ego, not the unraveling of something he’d believed was real.

All you could do was sit on your bed, palms pressed to your thighs, and let yourself hurt in silence—for the boy who never deserved to be treated like a backup plan.

After that argument, you never saw much of Kuroo again. You hadn’t asked for his number or any of his socials, and he never asked for yours either. Maybe it was intentional—maybe it wasn’t—but either way, you chalked it up to a chapter that closed before it could fully begin. It was easier that way, wasn’t it? Your roommate moved on fast. So fast that the same night you’d heard her moaning another boy’s name through the thin apartment walls while you buried yourself under a pillow and turned the volume of your anime up louder than usual. You weren’t sure if it was pity or residual anger that lingered in your chest, but either way, you avoided bringing it up.

A few months passed. Your job had picked up pace, and while your calendar was often cluttered with deadlines, you managed to put away enough money to indulge yourself a little. Which is why you didn’t even flinch at the entrance fee for the local comic and toy convention—hell, you even treated yourself to priority access, determined to beat the crowd before anyone could swipe that rare LEGO Star Wars Ultimate Collector Series set you’d been eyeing online for weeks. You weren’t sure if it would even be there, but the hope was enough. And if not, there were always manga volumes to haul home, limited prints, and maybe another blind box you didn’t need but would justify with weak logic about resale value.

The place was buzzing with life. Cosplayers brushed past you in elaborate wigs and armor; booths were stacked high with colorful displays; the air smelled like plastic wrap, buttered popcorn, and overpriced takoyaki. Your bag was already a little heavier than it should’ve been—three volumes of a manga you hadn’t even started and two keychains you didn’t need clinked together at your side—but your heart was light. It was a good day. You were in your element. You were happy to be spending money that you earned doing something you didn’t hate. That in itself felt like a win.

You were crouched in front of a display, squinting to read the fine print on the LEGO box tucked in the farthest shelf corner—your prize almost within reach—when a familiar voice slid in from behind you, smooth as ever, but touched with disbelief.

You turned. And just like that, the convention disappeared for a second.

Kuroo stood a few feet away, noticeably overdressed for the venue. His dark button-up was tucked neatly into charcoal slacks, the lanyard from the Japan Volleyball Association still clipped to his belt, a blazer slung casually over one arm. His hair was a little more tamed than the last time you saw him, like he’d just stepped out of a boardroom instead of a crowd full of anime fans and collectors. And yet, his expression—wide-eyed and visibly caught off-guard—was anything but polished.

“…Tetsu?”

He grinned then, that same crooked smile that used to flash your way over unfinished LEGO builds in your living room, the kind that warmed something unguarded in your chest.

“I thought that was you. I’d recognize that laser-focus over a brick set anywhere,” he teased, stepping closer. “You stalking LEGO aisles now?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” you said, glancing pointedly at his outfit. “Did you just come from a funeral or are you here to do tax audits on people’s purchases?”

He laughed, the sound genuine. “Meeting at the JVA ran long. I was supposed to head straight home after, but I saw the convention signs on my way out and figured I’d pop in. Nostalgia, you know? Didn’t think I’d run into anyone I knew… especially not you.”

Your smile faltered only slightly, the past nudging its way in. “Yeah… I didn’t think I’d see you again either.”

For a second, neither of you said anything. The noise of the convention carried on—someone shouted about free pins at booth twelve, another person squealed over a celebrity sighting—but in that moment, it was just the two of you, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of a LEGO display that felt like a full circle too ironic to ignore.

“I didn’t get to say sorry,” Kuroo said quietly, his voice softer now, lower. “Back then. I should’ve reached out. But I didn’t even know how.”

“It’s okay,” you said, and maybe you meant it. Maybe part of you still felt the sting of that goodbye-that-wasn’t, but seeing him again like this, in the middle of a day you thought would be just another solo outing, made the ache feel a little more bearable. “You don’t owe me anything.”

His eyes searched yours for a long moment, as if trying to read between the lines. And then, with a small smile, he gestured toward the shelf. “So… you finally get it? That LEGO set you’ve been after?”

“Almost. Some guy just bought one before me. I’ve been debating if I should just fight him for it or cry in the corner.”

Kuroo smirked, like it was 3AM again and you were bickering over missing pieces. “I’ll help you strategize. Worst-case scenario, we distract him with a full-blown scene in the Gundam section.”

You laughed, and just like that, the heaviness began to lift. Maybe the past didn’t need to be reopened in full detail. Maybe there was something worth picking up from here instead—on neutral ground, between plastic bricks and overpriced manga—and maybe this time, neither of you would let it slip so easily.

You eventually started spending more time at Kuroo’s apartment—not because it was necessarily more convenient, but because the idea of inviting him over to yours felt layered with complications you weren’t ready to unpack. Your roommate still lived there, and after everything that had transpired—the awkward tension, the quiet spite, the ghost of her moaning someone else’s name just hours after things ended with Kuroo—it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel neutral. And you didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of thinking she had any space in whatever it was that you and Kuroo were slowly building now.

He never asked questions. Just unlocked the door, let you in, and cleared space on his coffee table for your snacks and whatever LEGO set he’d been tinkering with that week. It became your quiet ritual. He’d handle the bulk of the instruction booklet while you sorted pieces by color or shape, occasionally bickering about which build deserved priority. You laughed more often than you had in weeks. Kuroo, for all his smug quips and relentless teasing, had a calming presence when he was relaxed like this—lounging in sweats, hair pulled back haphazardly, glasses perched on his nose, and a cup of instant coffee steaming between you.

It was during one of these hangouts—somewhere between building a replica of the Millennium Falcon and reorganizing his manga shelf—that he really started noticing the little things about you.

You wore glasses at his place. Not the contact lenses or styled versions of yourself that the world got to see, but the comfort version—the one with oversized hoodies, your hair tied up, and those thick-rimmed frames slipping down the bridge of your nose every few minutes. You’d wrinkle your nose every time they slid too far, push them back up with a finger, then hunch further into the build like you were preparing for battle. It was absurdly endearing.

Kuroo found himself watching you more than he watched the pieces. The way your brow furrowed in focus, the way your voice softened when you talked about your favorite arcs, how your hands hovered when he got too reckless snapping bricks together.

And the more time he spent with you, the harder it was not to remember all the things your ex-roommate used to say about you.

He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. She’d speak in offhand remarks—half-laughed criticisms and quiet jabs that he hadn’t really questioned. Stuff like, “She’s sweet, but kind of childish, don’t you think?” or “Her room’s full of toys and junk, I don’t know how she lives like that.” It sounded harmless then. Maybe even normal, like the kind of light annoyance roommates always had about each other.

But now, sitting across from you while you earnestly explained the rarity of a certain manga edition you were planning to hunt down next weekend, he realized how misplaced those comments really were.

Your roommate hadn’t been annoyed. She had been dismissive. Cruel, in subtle ways that made him feel gross now that he understood the full picture. Because if this was you—brilliant, expressive, unapologetically passionate—you weren’t someone to mock. You were someone worth watching. Worth listening to. Worth knowing.

Kuroo was starting to think he’d like to know you even better.

And he did.

The more time you spent at his place, the more the line between casual hangouts and something softer, something more intentional, began to blur. It wasn’t sudden—nothing about it was rushed or dramatic—but rather a quiet shift, the kind that unfolds slowly when two people realize they enjoy each other’s company more than they probably should.

It started with the little things.

He began walking you home instead of just waving from the doorway. He'd pick up your favorite snacks without needing to ask. Once, he texted you in the middle of the workday just to share a photo of a new LEGO architecture set he spotted in a store near the JVA office—“Made me think of you,” he’d said.

Then came the first not-quite-date, when he asked if you wanted to grab ramen after a long build session. It wasn’t phrased romantically, but when he held the door open for you with a lopsided grin and a low, “Dinner’s on me,” it lingered like a promise. 

After that, it became a quiet pattern—late-night meals, museum dates disguised as “research” for future builds, bookstore strolls where he let you drag him into the manga aisle even though he always ended up walking out with more volumes than you did.

One evening, he surprised you with a black box tied in yellow ribbon, smugly handing it over like he was presenting you with a Nobel prize.

You opened it to find a bouquet of LEGO flowers—intricate, colorful, and painstakingly detailed.

“I figured they wouldn’t die on you,” he said with a small shrug, but his ears flushed red, betraying just how much the gift actually meant.

You smiled so brightly it made his chest ache.

Later that night, you sat side by side on his floor, building each stem and petal piece by piece. Your fingers brushed occasionally, and each time it happened, he didn’t pull away. Neither did you.

And when you were finally finished, the vase of plastic blooms sat proudly by his kitchen window, catching the light like real blossoms might. It stayed there—quiet, permanent, and real in its own way. Just like the two of you were starting to become.

More sets of LEGO flowers bloomed forever in the corner of Kuroo's bookshelf, perched beside a manga box set he'd later surprise you with. Then another. Then a collector's figurine. A special-edition Blu-ray. It became a habit for him—dropping by a shop after work, carrying something that made him think of you. Something you’d gush over while adjusting your glasses or scrunching your nose in delight. Kuroo loved how animated your voice became when you explained the significance of a certain volume or lore from a world he only half-understood but always listened to anyway.

He loved the way your eyes sparkled when you carefully peeled away the plastic wrap, reverent in a way that almost made him jealous of the object in your hands.

“Tetsu, I told you to stop giving me gifts randomly.” you scolded him after he just handed you a new set of Lego figures.

Kuroo shrugs his shoulders and gives you a sheepish smile, “I like giving you gifts just because, okay?”

That went on and on—nights tangled in LEGO instructions and accidental laughs, meals shared over manga discussion, and growing routines that never needed to be spoken aloud. Eventually, he started asking you on actual dates. A quick dinner after helping him with his laundry. A detour to the park after a weekend spent sorting model kits. You never had to ask if it was a date—he made it clear every time he paid, every time he walked you home, every time his fingers lingered at the small of your back.

Then one night, he took you somewhere just a little fancier.

A cozy, tucked-away place with dim lighting and soft music humming underneath clinking silverware. You wore something nice—not over the top, but enough to make Kuroo smile the moment he saw you. He was dressed in a dark button-down shirt, sleeves casually rolled, a silver watch peeking from his wrist. Formal enough to make your heart thump a little harder when he pulled out your chair for you.

You talked—about work, a new LEGO release, some anime remake coming out soon, and halfway through dessert, it slipped out.

“So…what are we?” he asked, fingers absently running along the rim of his wine glass.

You paused, lips parting—but he beat you to it.

“I mean, I already know what I want us to be,” he added, voice quieter, more certain. “I’d just like to know if you feel the same.”

Your heart skipped. You didn’t answer with words—not right away. Instead, your hand slid over his on the table, your thumb brushing his wrist like it had always belonged there. Kuroo’s smile widened, soft and crooked.

That night, after he drove you home, it was meant to end the same way it usually did—warm, unspoken affection lingering in the air, a kiss on the cheek, a casual “see you soon” exchanged in the quiet of the night. Kuroo leaned in like always, one hand still gripping the steering wheel out of habit, his lips brushing against your cheek.

But this time, you didn’t let it end there.

"Stay," you said—softly but with no room for refusal—as your hand curled around the lapel of his coat and tugged him through the door. The click of the lock behind you echoed in the quiet, both of you breathing just a little heavier now.

His brow lifted, slightly amused, but when you reached for him—when you pressed your lips to his without hesitation—Kuroo dropped all pretense. He kissed you back just as fiercely, meeting the pull of your mouth with a hunger that had simmered under the surface for far too long.

You wrapped your arms around his neck as if anchoring yourself there, while his large hands settled on your waist, grounding you. The soft press of your bodies swaying closer felt like gravity had chosen this moment to pull tighter.

His mouth moved down—along the curve of your jaw, then lower to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. When his lips found your neck, hot and deliberate, you tilted your head back and let out a breathy moan that made something flicker in his chest and spark in his eyes.

"God, you have no idea what you do to me," he murmured into your skin, voice low and gravel-thick with restraint. His hands were already wandering—sweeping over the curve of your waist, tracing the line of your ribs, bunching the fabric of your top like he couldn't decide whether to peel it off slowly or just tear through it and devour you whole.

Then, in one fluid motion, he hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly. You gasped, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, clinging to him as he carried you through the apartment like he already knew every step of the way. He nudged open the door to your bedroom with his foot and kicked it closed behind him with a soft thud.

“Are you sure about this, darling?” he asked, lips ghosting over your throat, warm breath teasing your skin. His voice was careful, velvet-wrapped concern undercut by the tension thrumming just beneath it.

“Yes,” you whispered without a second thought—breathy, aching, already burning. “Kuroo, yes.”

That was all he needed.

He set you down on the edge of the bed, fingers already working the hem of your top. He tugged it over your head, eyes darkening as more of your skin was revealed to him. “Fuck,” he breathed out, like seeing you undone just for him knocked the wind from his lungs. “You’re unreal.”

You helped him out of his shirt next, palms gliding across his toned chest as if you needed to commit every line, every scar, every warm plane of skin to memory. His pants were next, discarded somewhere along with yours, clothes tossed carelessly onto the floor as your mouths met again in a kiss that was less polite now—more heat than hesitation, more teeth, more tongue, more everything.

When he finally laid you down on the mattress and hovered above you, bare and wanting, the look in his eyes wasn't just lust. It was reverence.

“You're so fucking beautiful,” he said, almost like he was scolding himself for taking this long. “You’ve got no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this—about you.”

And then he kissed you again, slower this time, as his hand drifted between your legs—testing the waters, coaxing more of those breathy moans he was already addicted to.

“Gonna take my time with you,” he growled, “because after tonight, I’m not going anywhere.”

His voice was thick—low and rough with promise—as his mouth descended onto your chest. Kuroo's lips wrapped around your nipple, tongue swirling slow, lazy circles before he sucked hard enough to make your back arch. His free hand slid between your thighs, fingers parting your folds before his thumb found your clit with practiced ease, rubbing gentle, teasing circles that made your hips twitch.

“Tetsu,” you whimpered, threading your fingers through his dark, unruly hair, tugging just enough to draw a low moan from him.

Kuroo glanced up, eyes half-lidded but gleaming. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice vibrating against your skin. “Keep saying my name like that.”

You gasped as his fingers pressed in deeper, sliding along your slick heat, fingertips curling just right—just enough to make your thighs tremble and your breath catch.

He sucked on your other breast, taking his time, leaving red blooms along your skin like a trail he’d follow again later. The slow, wet sounds of his mouth on your tits mixed with the obscene slick of his fingers fucking you open, setting your nerves alight.

“Tetsu—fuck, I can’t—” you choked out, hips stuttering beneath his touch.

“Yes, you can,” Kuroo whispered, lips ghosting over your nipple before he kissed the swell of your breast. “You’re doing so good for me.”

He pulled back just slightly, lifting his head to watch you unravel for him—your body flushed, eyes glassy, chest heaving with every broken breath.

“Taste yourself, baby,” he said, bringing his glistening fingers up to your lips. You parted them instantly, moaning as he pushed them past your tongue. His groan was almost feral. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

When he kissed you again, it was rougher—needier. He cradled your head in his hand, the other already stroking his cock as he lined himself up at your entrance.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, voice trembling with restraint. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you, Tetsu,” you breathed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “All of you. I’m yours.”

Kuroo didn’t hesitate. With a low groan, he pushed inside—slow and deep, stretching you open inch by inch until he bottomed out.

“Fuck,” he cursed, jaw clenching. “You feel… fuck, you feel like heaven.”

And when he started to move—thrusting slow, deliberate, grinding deep—you knew you’d never want anyone else. Not when Kuroo made you feel like this.

Each stroke was intentional, like he was mapping your body with every inch of his. One hand anchored beneath your thigh, fingers pressing into the soft underside, while the other stayed between your bodies, lazily circling your clit in time with the slow grind of his hips. The sounds he drew from you were loud, raw, almost embarrassing if they weren’t so fucking honest. You didn’t care. Not when Kuroo was whispering filth in your ear, kissing along your neck like he was claiming you with every mark.

“You feel that?” he murmured, lips brushing your skin. “That’s me. That’s all me, baby.”

When your back arched and your nails raked down his spine, Kuroo groaned—low and guttural, like the sight of you unraveling under him was too much to handle.

To say the least, Kuroo was obsessed with you in bed. He didn't expect someone so quiet, so soft-spoken and unbothered with drama, to be this wild and insatiable behind closed doors. Sometimes his stamina was off the charts—athlete-built and fueled by ego—but even he could admit: fuck, he couldn’t always keep up with you.

It drove him crazy in the best way.

You were demanding in all the right places. Greedy with your kisses, shameless when you rode him like you needed him deeper than physically possible, and vocal when you came, screaming his name like a prayer and a curse. Every time he thought he had you figured out, you flipped the script.

Kuroo used to think he was the one with the upper hand. He wasn't.

Your roommate—back when she and Kuroo were still trying whatever you’d call that—once mentioned you in passing. They were cuddling on your couch, legs tangled up in each other, when she scoffed and said, “She’s probably a virgin. You’ve seen her room, right? It’s full of Legos and manga. All that nerd shit? She’s definitely never been touched.”

He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, just hummed and nodded, though something about the certainty in her tone stuck with him.

Months later, when things with your roommate fizzled and Kuroo found himself in your bed, tangled in your sheets and catching his breath after your second round, he brought it up.

“She said you were probably a virgin,” he told you, laughing, head resting on your stomach.

You had chuckled, brushing your fingers through his messy hair.

“Yeah?” you replied, eyes gleaming. “Tell that to the guys I had in college. I practically broke one of them.”

You weren’t lying.

You proved it to him that same night. Straddling his face with that lazy smile and those goddamn glasses sliding down your nose. You rode him like you’d been waiting to prove a point and holy hell, Kuroo swore he saw the light. You had him pinned, hips grinding, thighs squeezing around his head like a vice, and he welcomed it. Happily. Drowning in your slick, drunk on your moans, Kuroo didn’t even care if he suffocated in your thighs that night.

He’d die a happy man.

You were so hot like that—uninhibited, filthy, hungry for him. And god, you looked so damn good when you sucked him off still wearing your glasses. Hair all messy from his fingers, mouth slick and eyes daring him to look away. He couldn’t. Not when your tongue ran along his shaft like you were savoring every inch. Not when you moaned around him like he was your favorite flavor.

“Fuck, baby,” Kuroo had groaned, head tilted back. “You’re gonna kill me.”

And you? You just smirked.

“I’ll make it worth your while.” He didn’t doubt it.

Kuroo had been ruined for anyone else after that.

The moment you rode him in his home office, shirt half-unbuttoned, your hands gripping the back of his chair, hair falling into your eyes and mouth hanging open when you moaned his name—Tetsurou—like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

He never wanted to let you go anymore.

If he could marry you right then and there—naked, sweaty, your panties dangling from his desk lamp—he would’ve gotten down on one knee without a ring. Just a promise. Just you and him.

But you deserved something better. Probably something by the ocean. A quiet, golden beach proposal with the sound of waves behind you and a little velvet box tucked behind one of his science joke t-shirts. Yeah. That’d be perfect. He’d plan that out eventually.

Still, your little dates didn’t slow down.

Lego-building marathons in his living room, your legs tangled across his lap as you bickered about which minifig was better. Cuddles during movie nights where you wore his college volleyball hoodie and snuck popcorn from his bowl. Quiet mornings when you stayed over, sipping coffee and flipping through manga in nothing but your panties and his button-down shirt.

You called it simple. He called it everything.

Kuroo kept giving you things. His love language wasn’t subtle.

Whenever you were at your apartment, a box would show up. Your favorite snacks. A collector’s edition manga you mentioned only once. That limited-edition Ninjago set you joked about. Sometimes he even had them delivered while you were out—just so he could text,

"Check your doorstep, sweetheart."

And when you opened the door, it was there. Sometimes with a post-it that read, "Build this with me tonight?"

And you always did. The second you stepped inside his apartment—his real home, now that you’d practically claimed it with your spare toothbrush and the fluffy slippers he bought for you—there’d be a new set waiting on the table. Or a volume laid neatly beside your favorite spot on the couch.

You would groan playfully, “Tetsu, this is too much…”

But your eyes always sparkled. And that was all he ever needed to see.

Kuroo wasn’t a man of restraint when it came to spoiling you. He liked seeing your expression when you tore the wrapping off. He liiked hearing your happy little gasps. And he especially liked the way you thanked him—sweet kisses at first, and then crawling into his lap and grinding down until his hands gripped your thighs, his voice rasping near your ear.

"Fuck, sweetheart. Is this how you're gonna thank me every time I buy you something?"

You always gave him cuddles… or him fucking you in return.

Neither of you would have it any other way.

Most of your dates happened right there in his apartment. It was your little world. The walls full of bookshelves, scattered Lego creations proudly displayed beside framed photos of his team. Your favorite blanket always draped over his couch, because he swore it smelled like you. You’d both start watching something—some superhero rewatch, some obscure Netflix docuseries—and end up tangled on the couch, kisses turning sloppy, laughter breaking into gasps as he dragged you under him.

It was always his apartment. His couch. His bed. His office. You bent over his desk, your nails scratching at the surface as he fucked you from behind. Or on his kitchen counter, panties pushed aside as he held your thighs apart and groaned against your neck.

"You’re fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart," he’d whisper against your skin. "Can’t believe you’re mine."

And you—smirking, breathless, always ready to drive him wild—would moan out, “I’m all yours, darling.”

That was the thing about you two. No matter where, no matter what—it was always just the two of you. A little domestic chaos, a little nerdy fun, and a whole lot of love.

Kuroo Tetsuro was ruined for anyone else.

And truthfully, he liked it that way.

He liked waking up in his apartment with your leg tangled with his. He liked how your shampoo clung to his pillows and how your glasses sat on his kitchen island beside your empty mug. He liked carrying you to bed when you fell asleep on the couch with a LEGO brick half-built in your hand. He liked that you left things behind—your books, your socks, your presence.

Kuroo Tetsuro had turned his apartment into a second home for you, and he didn’t even realize it until one afternoon when you opened a drawer in his bathroom and found your toothbrush, your hair ties, and your lip balm already waiting. It felt easy with him—domestic. Warm. Comfortable. Real.

But last night, he needed more than domestic.

He’d just come back from a grueling business trip—seven days without you. Seven days of restless sleep, ignored hotel breakfasts, and staring at unread messages while stuck in JVA meetings that ran longer than necessary.

And the second he saw your text, “Door’s open. I’m still up.”

He didn’t go home.

He went to your apartment instead. And the second he walked in and saw you in your oversized sleep shirt and those thick-rimmed glasses you forgot you were wearing—his restraint snapped.

He took you right there in your bedroom.

On the bed. Then again on the floor. And once more with your thighs trembling on the edge of your desk as his name broke from your throat in loud, obscene cries you couldn’t muffle even if you tried.

Kuroo always had a thing for your glasses. Something about the way you looked up at him while you were on your knees, eyes blown out, lips stretched around him, lenses fogging up while you sucked him deep like you missed the taste of him as much as he missed the heat of your body. And he always loved how you let him fuck you in them—wanted it even—telling him how dirty it made you feel when his cum splattered your lenses or dripped down your chin as he kissed you hungrily after.

And last night?

He made you wear them the entire time. Told you he’d missed seeing your pretty face get ruined while they were still on.

So yeah, Kuroo made good on every lost second from that trip. Filled you so many times you couldn’t remember if your name or his was the last thing you said before passing out. Your inner thighs ached. Your sheets were still crumpled with drying stains. And you still felt the wet, pulsing mess between your legs as you stood in the kitchen making breakfast the next morning, robe half-open, neck blooming with hickeys.

He had left early for another JVA morning call—but not before kissing your forehead and stuffing you full one last time in the shower.

But of course—unfortunately for you—your roommate had heard everything.

At first, she brushed it off. You weren’t exactly loud usually, and she assumed you were probably a virgin or celibate by choice. But when she heard your voice—unfiltered, breathless, begging—moaning “Tetsu!” like a prayer answered through gritted teeth and slick skin, it made her stomach churn.

And it was the final straw when his voice echoed in return.

Moaning your name.

Groaning about how tight you were. How much he missed your pussy. How pretty you looked taking every drop.

It made her snap.

So when you entered the living room that morning, holding your travel mug and your bag slung over your shoulder, she was already there—arms crossed, face sour, passive-aggressive aura bleeding into the walls.

“How long has that been going on?” she asked without looking at you.

You didn’t pretend to misunderstand. You just sipped your coffee.

“Define that.”

Her nostrils flared. “Don’t play dumb.”

You leaned against the counter, hair still wet from the shower, smirking slightly.

“If you mean Tetsuro—last night was just making up for lost time,” you said airily. “He missed me. So did my thighs, apparently.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Funny. That’s not what you said when you told me all about your foursome while dating him,” you replied, tilting your head. “One behind, one underneath, and one shoving it down your throat, right? You left the bedroom door open just so I’d see. Said you were trying to prove a point. What point was that again?”

Her mouth opened, then closed. Scoffed. “That doesn’t mean you get to snake away my ex.”

Your grin widened—sharp, knowing.

“Sweetheart, you cheated on him constantly. I just didn’t say anything because, frankly, it wasn’t my relationship to mourn.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s probably just using you to get back at me. You really think Kuroo Tetsuro would go for you? You said it yourself—he’s a career man. And you—well, look at you.”

You took another sip from your mug. Unbothered. Your petty meter had barely lifted.

“You told me he wouldn’t fuck someone who wore glasses. Now he asks me to keep them on. Funny how things change.”

She scoffed again, louder this time. “You’re seriously going to act like I wasn’t the best sex he ever had?”

“I don’t have to act. I know he’d disagree,” you replied, voice sugar-sweet. “Besides, we were just friends at first. You remember that, don’t you? He liked my LEGO builds. We bonded over manga. I still have the first limited edition he gifted me. First of many.”

“I knew something was up when he started hanging out with you more. You’re not even his type.”

“He said I’m exactly his type,” you said softly. “Smart. Funny. Loyal. And, apparently, really good at taking his cock.”

That was the one that hit.

Her eyes narrowed. “Just because you finally lost your virginity doesn’t mean you’re special.”

You laughed, really laughed, and set your mug down.

“Oh, sweetie. I’ve had a wild sex life in college. I just toned it down to focus on work. Tetsu just brought it back out. And then some. He fucks me in every corner of his apartment. Did he ever do that with you? Kitchen table? Floor? Balcony during rush hour?”

She didn’t answer.

“Didn’t think so,” you murmured.

“You’re lying.”

You stepped forward and whispered like it was a secret.

“He came in me three times last night,” you said casually. “Told me he missed seeing it drip out. Even helped push it back in.”

Her face twisted.

You raised your brows. “But if you want, I can play you the voice memo he sent me last month. He had his cock in his hand and couldn’t stop moaning my name. It’s really quite romantic.”

“Bitch.”

You tilted your head. “Always have been. Just quieter about it.”

She let out an angry shriek before stomping back to her room and slamming the door hard enough to rattle the coat hooks.

You took another sip from your mug and hummed under your breath.

Toned down? Maybe. But this?

This was your victory lap.

And you hadn’t even told her yet about the time Kuroo made you cum just from sucking on your tits while you rode his thigh—glasses on, mouth wet, his hand around your throat as he whispered that he wanted to keep you forever.

That story was for another day.

© 2026 yukkigiri ☾ creations by luna — please do not repost, copy, or translate without permission.

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