✴︎ with a temper like you ⋆˚࿔ pt. 2
⤷ suguru, yuuta, toge, toji, choso, hiromi, takuma, shoko x fem!reader
syn. when you're fighting but they still care. angst to fluff, comfort
pt. 1 ଓ (ft. megumi, yuuji, nanami, gojo, sukuna)
all roughly 600-800 words !
ෆ g. suguru
you misunderstand him asking for space
you and suguru rarely argue.
when you do, it's small things. small things that get resolved within the hour.
but this time it's different. tight words, clipped tones. neither of you willing to back down. the kind of quiet disagreement that builds quicker than you can stop it until it feels too heavy to carry.
you’d both been sitting on opposite ends of the couch, voices overlapping, neither of you really listening anymore. just waiting for your turn to speak.
and then he'd said the words: “i think we should take a little space.”
calm and measured. like always.
but you were nothing but calm. you’d gone still.
“space?” you echoed.
he nodded once, already standing, then already by the front door, already reaching for his coat, “we’re both getting frustrated.”
you didn’t say anything. just watched him leave.
the door clicked shut softly behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.
you've been replaying that in your head for the past hour. curled on the couch, in the same spot he'd left you, knees to your chest, cheeks wet with tears and eyes trained on some stubborn mark on the coffee table as you tried to piece it all together.
space.
space.
what does that even mean? people don't usually ask for space unless something's wrong, right?
unless he was pulling away— or trying to let you down gently.
your throat closes at the thought.
no. nonono, he wouldn't just leave like that, would he? suguru was always so communicative, surely he'd at least tell you if he really was breaking up with you.
space didn't mean forever. did it?
but what if he was just trying to soften it?
your thoughts move faster than you could grab at them.
the conversation played in your head again as hot, stinging tears well up in your eyes. you psycho-analyse every part of it. every pause. every breath that now sounded suspiciously like a sigh of annoyance. every look on his face. was it disgust? anger? or was he tired?
did he seem distant recently? had he already been pulling away without you noticing it? did you miss it?
your body jolts when you hear the lock click.
the door opens again. and suguru walks in, holding two to-go cups of warm beverages, and his small smile back on his face, "hey." he says.
your head snaps up. and all you can do is stare, mouth slightly agape in confusion. he's... back?
he blinks when he sees you. really sees you.
your tear-streaked face. your curled posture. the way you look at him all furrowed brows like you weren’t expecting him to return.
his expression softens instantly.
“…oh, sweetheart.”
suguru sheds his coat and shoes, and finds his spot beside you, putting the cups down. one in front of him and one in front of you.
his hands are gentle as they come up to your face, thumbs brushing under your eyes.
“i was only gone for an hour,” he murmurs. “what happened? have you been crying this whole time?”
you stare at him, lost. “you…” your voice trembles. “you said… space.”
“i did.”
“but… but you’re back…” your lips wobble, “i—i thought you were leaving for… a long time.”
his brows knit together, something like guilt flashing across his face. “…is that why you think i wanted space?”
you hiccup, looking at him with wide, watery eyes. “is… it not..?”
he frowns, “no, baby,” his voice is quiet and wrapped in silk, fingers brushing the tears from your cheeks. “not at all.”
you sniff, your breathing uneven as you try to process it.
“i just saw we were both getting frustrated,” he continues, “and i didn’t want us to say something hurtful.”
you blink at him. then your shoulders sag. like something heavy finally slipped off them, “…oh.”
he smiles softly at your realisation, a breathy chuckle leaving him. he exhales softly, thumbs still tracing slow, soothing motions against your skin, “i’m sorry,” he murmurs sincerely. “i should’ve explained that better. i thought you understood what i meant.”
a small sniffle escapes you and you shake your head, "no. it's okay." you mumble.
"come here."
and you do. then you sit there. silent, face in his shoulder, and his arms looped around your back, gentle hands stroking your skin comfortingly.
once you're calm again, there’s a pause. then suguru reaches forwards for one of the cups, pressing it gently into your hands.
“drink."
you take it, fingers still trembling slightly. it's your favourite order from the cafe nearby.
you swallow, feeling the hot liquid chase its way down your throat, warming your chest and soothing you. your head finds its usual spot on his chest and you sigh. "i'm still mad at you." you mumble, reminiscing the earlier fight that had still gone unresolved.
suguru only smiles. "me too, baby. we'll talk later, hm?"
ෆ o. yuuta
you forget your phone at his place
you're halfway down the elevator when you realise your pocket feels way lighter than it should.
empty.
you pat it, and frown. then check the other pocket. your jacket. your bag. then your pocket again for good measure.
"...ugh." a quiet groan escapes you.
your phone. you forgot your phone. up there.
in that apartment. with that boyfriend. the one you'd just stormed out on.
the one who's probably still standing at the door, staring at it like you might come back. which now, you're forced to.
he gets like that after arguments. quiet and wide-eyed and apologising profusely even if he doesn't quite understand what he did wrong. like a kicked puppy.
and you... always cave. but you hadn't this time. mostly because you'd fully managed to avoid eye contact all the way until the door.
you had succeeded. if only you hadn't forgotten your phone in the heat of your annoyance.
the elevator dings at the ground floor and the doors slide open. you grumble and instead of getting out and going home like you're supposed to, you press the button for his floor, and glide back up.
yuuta blinks at you as he opens the front door, clearly confused why you're back so soon, eyes round and a little red around the rims. you immediately snap your gaze to ground. if you look at him for too long, you'll feel bad and give in.
"shut up." you mutter, pushing past him and inviting yourself into his house.
yuuta hadn't said anything. but he chooses to listen to your warning. he stands there, idly, watching you stalk around his living room, searching for something. he wants to offer to help, ask what you're looking for... but he's not quite sure if he's allowed to exist in the same space as you right now. even if this is his own house. besides, you had just told him to shut up.
you stand straight, back rigid. you can feel his gaze on you.
it pisses you off. because you know what face he's making even without looking at him: he has his head tilted to the side, his lips pressed together and his eyes wide and questioning and nervous. and he looks way too adorable for someone you're supposed to be mad at.
"say it." you mutter.
"huh..?"
your head snaps to him— big mistake. but you were absolutely correct with your prediction. he was making that exact face. "whatever you're thinking."
"...what are you looking for?" he almost steps forward, but his foot hovers before he retracts it, choosing to stay in his spot. as if one step would make you coil away in disgust.
"my phone."
"oh..." he scratches his nape, trying to think of when he last saw you with it. nothing comes up except for flashes of the argument and you walking out that make his chest hurt a little, "uh... do you want me to ring it?"
you pause. jaw flexes and unflexes and yuuta swears he sees a vein in your neck pop. before you sigh, "fine."
he fumbles and pulls his phone out of his pocket. and presses a few buttons and rings. a faint 'bzzt bzzt' accompanied by your ringtone reverberates from the couch. you walk over shoving your hand between the cushions and fish out the noisemaker.
you head for the door again, and yuuta simply watches, unsure if he should walk you out. he decides you probably wouldn't want that. "text me when you're home," he says instead, "...please."
you pause, your hand on the handle and your heart squeezes.
his voice is quiet and unsure like he's not sure if he's been given permission to ask that from you. you close your eyes, head tilting forwards and you almost groan. how the hell were you supposed to stay mad at him now?
with a turn of your heel, you step back into his space, and throw your arms around him in a hug. yuuta stiffens instantly, clearly not expecting the turnaround. but just as quickly, he melts, holding you, cheek pressed into the top of your head. "i will." you mumble into his shirt.
he nods against your head, "okay... bye..."
there’s a pause, you can feel it; the hesitation— like there’s something else he wants to say.
but he’s holding it back. perhaps because he doesn’t want to push you. or because he thinks he’s not allowed to.
you pull back slightly, looking up at him. his expression is soft and a little uncertain.
you roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it now. just affection, “love you,” you say for him.
his eyes widen just a little.
like you’ve just given him something he wasn’t expecting.
“…love you too,” he says, quieter. relieved.
you huff softly, stepping back again, grabbing the door handle. “i’m still mad at you,” you clarify, just to be clear.
he nods immediately. “i know.”
“we’re talking about it later.”
“okay.”
you open the door and step out. then pause. “…don’t just stand there,” you mutter. “go sit down or something.”
he blinks. “oh... okay.”
you shake your head, a small smile slipping through despite yourself. then you leave.
ෆ i. toge
clingy bf final boss
you’ve been ignoring him since last night, which, in theory, should’ve made you feel better.
it doesn’t.
it just means you’re on the track with nobara and maki, supposedly training, grumbling through your annoyance while pretending you don’t feel a pair of eyes burning into the back of your head.
“hey, y/n?…” nobara tilts her head slightly, squinting past you. “i think you have a fan.”
you don’t evem need to look. you know. “don’t acknowledge him,” you mutter. “i’m mad.”
maki snorts under her breath, arms folded. “i think he’s sorry.”
“i don’t care,” you say immediately. “he can be sorry from over there.”
behind you, a certain presence stays exactly where it’s been for the last ten minutes. quiet. still. watching. not paying the slightest bit of attention to anything his training buddies panda or yuuta have to say to him on the other side of the oval.
toge doesn’t move unless you move first.
and even then, it’s not really moving, it’s copying.
when you pace the track, he does too from his side. when you stop, he stops.
when you glance over your shoulder, he’s already looking at you.
expression unreadable. but persistent.
nobara eventually laughs, “this is insane.”
"i feel like that must take more energy than actually training," maki adds.
“ignore it,” you repeat, firmer this time, like that’ll fix your heartbeat.
it doesn’t. he knows exactly how to make you feel guilty. although you really can't tell if he's doing it on purpose or not.
you’re mid-sentence, telling the girls you’re going to go into the city for lunch— just to get space, clear your head, avoid the feeling of being watched wherever you are.
then you feel it.
a presence at your side.
you don’t even need to look.
you already know.
he reaches for your hand gently.
“salmon?” he asks, almost a little pouty. like he’s daring you to turn him away.
you glare at him instantly. “no. you’re not coming.”
he pauses.
blinks.
then tilts his head.
“okaka.”
you groan loudly and turn away, already walking. “i don't care,” you mutter. “i said no.”
he follows anyway.
it’s the worst game of 'what’s the time, mr wolf' you’ve ever played.
you walk. he walks. you speed up. he matches you instantly. you slow down. so does he.
and every single time you stop and turn around—
he’s stopped too. just standing there. looking at you.
like he’s waiting for you to keep walking. like you're just a normal couple out on a normal walk on a normal day. like you're the weird one for stopping all of a sudden.
you whip around at him once, frustrated. “s-stop following me!”
he tilts his head, “…tuna?”
you groan again and keep walking.
he follows again.
by the time you reach the restaurant, you’re fully done.
the hostess at the door smiles politely, holding up two fingers. “for two?”
you exhale through your nose like your soul has left your body. toge nods for the both of you, and then you're seated.
you sit across from him with your arms crossed.
he sits across from you like he didn’t just trail behind across half the city like a clingy stray caught on your scent.
for a few minutes, there’s silence. you refuse to look at him, even though his eyes are on you.
then the food arrives.
he watches you for a second. then picks up a piece of food, and holds his chopsticks under your chin in offering.
you immediately turn your head away. “no.”
he doesn’t move.
you glare at him. “i don't want it.”
he blinks slowly, “salmon.”
you refuse.
he waits.
ten seconds. twenty.
you try continuing with your meal, but he doesn't put it down. you can feel him still holding it there out of the corner of your eye.
still waiting.
you groan, rubbing your temple. “isn't your arm tired?”
"okaka."
"that was a rhetorical question."
"salmon."
your jaw tics, half in humour and half in annoyance "you don't have to respond to everything i say."
"salmon." he keeps holding the food up.
you finally snap, just to make him stop. “fine!”
he smiles, satisfied. you take a bite and chew, a little more aggresively than usual, as if you imagined his head being ground repeatedly between your teeth.
he watches you eat like he’s won something.
ෆ f. toji
you don't ask him for help
you’re still mad at him. which is why you’re doing it yourself.
because he doesn't deserve the sweet, soft; “baby, can you grab that for me?” nor the batting of your lashes like you usually do just to see that stupid smug smirk tug at his mouth.
no.
you drag a chair across the kitchen tiles instead.
deliberately scrape it a little louder than necessary to get him to look up from the tv.
you climb up without looking at him, reaching toward the top cabinet for your favourite mug— the one he always gets for you.
behind you, the couch creaks.
he’s noticed.
you smile faintly with your back turned, enjoying the idea of the annoyed grimace that must be present on his face now.
toji doesn’t say anything at first. just watches. eyes narrowed slightly.
you stretch a little higher, fingertips just brushing the shelf.
the chair wobbles.
just a little, but that’s enough.
“oi.”
his voice cuts through the room, low and irritated.
"what? you ask haphazardly, reaching again.
the chair shifts once more as you lower cup after cup onto the counter to clear space for you to grab your favourite one. you swear he hides it at the back on purpose just to make sure you ask him every time.
heavy footsteps cross the room in two strides.
then suddenly, you’re airborne. clean off the chair like you weigh nothing.
“hey—!” you yelp, grabbing his shoulder on instinct as he sets you down on the floor like you’re the problem. “when the hell did you get there!?” you snap, glaring up at him.
he doesn’t even look fazed.
“shut,” he mutters, already reaching up to the cabinet.
he grabs the mug easily.
you cross your arms, still annoyed. “i could’ve gotten it.”
he shuts the cabinet with a quiet thud and turns to you.
“…yeah,” he says flatly. “looked real stable up there.”
you huff. “i wasn’t gonna fall.”
he steps closer. too close. close enough that you have to tilt your head up to keep glaring at him, “don’t care,” he says, tone rough but quieter now. “don’t like it.”
your irritation falters for half a second, but you recover quickly, scoffing, “well... i don't like you. and i don't need your help.”
he snorts. "yeah?"
"yeah."
"then how come every morning all i hear is—"
"don't mimic me." you grind out through tight teeth, already feeing the mocking tone coming.
he bats his lashes at you, "ohhh toooji." he trills in a high-pitched voice impishly made to resemble that of yours, "it's too high, i can't reeaaach."
you grit your teeth, lips pursing and head whipping in the other direction, looking away quickly so you don't laugh. now would be the worst time to laugh. it would only vindicate him and his ego. "shut up."
then he presses the mug into your hands.
firm.
final.
“drink your tea,” he says smugly.
"don't tell me what to do."
minutes later, you glance at him over the rim of the steaming mug.
he’s back on the couch like nothing happened.
controller in hand, leaned back, game unpaused.
ignoring you again. except his eyes flick to you.
just once. quick. checking. making sure you’re not climbing anything else you shouldn’t be. and he gives you that infuriating sharkish grin.
ෆ k. choso
clingy bf final boss pt. 2
you don’t go to bed afterwards.
the argument had fizzled out hours ago— no real resolution, just quiet tension and too many things left unsaid. he’d gone to the bedroom eventually, slow steps, softer than usual, like he didn’t want to push you.
you didn’t follow.
instead, you'd curled up on the couch with a blanket and a pillow, the tv casting soft light across the living room. some random movie plays that you’re not even really watching.
it’s late. really late. your retinas burn a little, a warning that you should just turn it off and rest, but you don’t move.
you’re still mad… at least you think you are. but too much of that madness is diluted by sadness and guilt and also how badly you miss his puppy dog eyes.
the hallway light flicks on.
soft footsteps.
you don’t look. because a part of you still feels the need to keep up the act.
choso appears in the doorway, hair loose and messy, sleep shirt wrinkled, eyes still heavy with exhaustion. his eyebags even more pronounced than they already usually are.
he pauses when he sees you. really sees you.
the blanket. the pillow. the way you’ve set up camp like you’re planning to stay there.
his brows pull together slightly.
“…you’re not coming to bed?” he asks, voice quiet, careful. and sad. undoubtedly sad.
you don’t answer.
just stare at the screen.
he steps closer anyway.
you hear the soft clink of glass before you see it—a cup of water placed gently on the coffee table in front of you.
“you should drink,” he murmurs.
still nothing from you.
he lingers.
waiting.
you don’t look at him.
don’t acknowledge him.
don’t give him anything to work with.
a minute passes. then two.
you expect him to sigh. to leave. to go back to bed. anything but stand there watching over you in the dark like the babadook.
he doesn’t.
"if you're gonna stay there, can you sit?" your voice croaks from exhaustion and unuse, "creeping me out."
"oh." he whispers. the couch dips beside you.
you finally glance over. he’s sitting there.
quietly.
hands folded loosely in his lap. watching the movie like he’s been invited.
but choso doesn’t move. doesn’t talk. doesn't snuggle into your side or join you under the blanket, even if he's a little cold and the blanket is definitely big enough to share. just sits with you.
the movie keeps playing. some backstory scene you don’t care about. but now you’re aware of him. the warmth beside you. the quiet presence. the way he glances at you every so often like he’s checking if you’re still there. watching your reactions to every line. the way your eyes follow the captions at the bottom of the screen and your lips press together to suppress a snicker when a character makes a dirty joke.
he smiles when you do. not because he heard or processed the joke but because you're smiling.
time passes. ten minutes. twenty. you shift slightly under the blanket.
he doesn’t say anything.
just adjusts the edge of it absentmindedly so it covers your shoulder better.
you notice, but you don't move.
fifteen more minutes.
eventually, curiosity gets the better of you.
you look over, expecting to see him watching the screen or you. he’s slumped slightly now, head tipped back against the couch, eyes closed, breathing slow and even.
…he fell asleep.
you stare at him for a second.
then sigh. soft. fond.
“you’re so stupid,” you mumble under your breath, but there’s no bite to it. you nudge him lightly. he stirs with a light whine but doesn’t wake.
he was already half-asleep when he came out here.
you shift, pulling the pillow out from under your head and sliding it beneath his instead. you tug the blanket up, draping it properly over him, tucking it around his shoulders.
his hand moves in his sleep. fingers brushing your wrist. then curling around it.
you stare at him, laying with the pillow and blanket you'd brought out for yourself with the intent of sleeping away from him and can't do anything but sigh again.
✴︎ BONUS!
(my apology gift for dragging this pt. 2 for like 3 months OOPSIE DAISIES)
ෆ h. hiromi
he forgets to exit lawyer mode
you’re halfway through ranting about your coworker when he starts doing that thing.
that lawyer thing.
the one where his brows knit, his fingers fold beneath his chin, and suddenly he sounds less like your boyfriend listening to you vent and more like a man preparing cross-examination notes.
“well,” hiromi says slowly, “did you instigate the exchange at all?”
you blink, “…what?”
he continues, maddeningly calm. “because you do have a habit of responding sarcastically when agitated, and that can escalate—”
“hiromi.”
“i’m just saying there may have been contributory—”
“hiromi.”
he pauses.
looks up.
you stare at him in disbelief from across the kitchen.
“i’m your girlfriend,” you say flatly, grabbing your coat from the hook by the door, “not your defendant.”
his mouth opens.
closes.
you yank the coat on with a furious huff.
“where are you going?”
“for a walk,” you snap.
the door shuts behind you before he can answer.
the cold air does help.
a little.
mostly because it gives you something else to focus on besides the fact your boyfriend had just tried to assign legal fault percentages to your workplace annoyance.
you walk for twenty minutes. then thirty. rounding the block and angrily murmuring to yourself.
by the time you come back, your anger’s dulled into that grumpy stubbornness where you’ve already decided you’ll be silent for the rest of the night.
you unlock the apartment.
step inside.
and stop.
the lights are dimmer.
soft jazz hums quietly from somewhere in the living room.
there’s a mug of coffee on the table.
your coffee.
made exactly how you like it.
and beside it—
flowers.
you blink.
“what…”
“in here, sweetheart.”
you turn.
hiromi appears from the kitchen, tie loosened now, sleeves rolled up, looking deeply sheepish in a way that almost never happens.
almost.
he walks over carefully, like approaching a witness he’s already intimidated.
“before you say anything,” he starts, “i’d like to formally state that i handled that conversation very poorly.”
you fold your arms.
and stare
he winces. “yes. deserved.”
you try not to smile.
try.
he notices anyway.
of course he does.
he steps closer, taking your coat from your shoulders and hanging it up for you.
“i’m sorry, sweetheart,” he says, voice softer now. boyfriend voice, not attorney voice. “you wanted comfort. i gave you a deposition.”
that gets a snort out of you.
you hate that it does.
he smiles faintly, relieved.
“i should have just told you your coworker sounds insufferable and that you were right.”
you narrow your eyes. “…i was right.”
“you were absolutely right.”
“and she’s annoying.”
“unbearably.”
you hum, accepting this.
he offers you the coffee and you take it. still grumpy, but less committed to the bit now.
“are the flowers part of your apology strategy?”
“yes.”
“did it work?”
he looks down at you, mouth twitching, “the jury seems undecided.”
you sigh dramatically. then step into him.
he wraps his arms around you instantly, warm and secure, kissing the top of your head. “for the record,” he murmurs, “i am on your side.”
you grumble into his chest, “that should be your default.”
“noted.”
ෆ i. takuma
accidental pervert
it happens so casually that it throws you off.
you’re both lounging around his place, tv playing something neither of you are really watching, on your phones, when he glances over at you and goes—
“…hey baby, what’s your bust size?”
you blink. slowly turn your head.
“…my what.”
takuma doesn’t even look phased. he’s still half-focused on his phone, like he just asked what your favourite colour was.
“your bust size,” he repeats. “like, the measurement.”
you stare at him, “…why.”
he shrugs. “just asking.”
just asking.
you sit up straight, narrowing your eyes. “why are you asking me that like it’s casual conversation.”
he finally looks at you properly, confused. “because i need to know?”
that does not help.
“takuma.”
“what?”
you chuck a pillow at his head, “what's wrong with you?!”
"ow! what?"
“why are you asking me that out of nowhere, you freak?” you ask, incredulous.
he opens his mouth. closes it. opens it again. as if this is absolutely not where he saw this conversation going.
“i'm going to bed,” you cut him off, grabbing your phone, "sleep here.”
“wait—”
“shut up.”
you stand up, already walking off, leaving him on the couch blinking after you like he just lost an argument he didn’t realise he was in.
he doesn't argue against you telling him to sleep on the couch of the house he pays for while you get his bed.
and you don’t bring it up again. the next morning is a little awkward, but you're fine again quite quickly.
even if he does act a little… awkward for the next couple days. like he wants to say something, but remembers how that went last time and decides against it.
a week later, a package arrives, addressed to you.
you frown, turning it over in your hands. “did you order something for me?”
takuma freezes. just for a second. then scratches the back of his neck. “…open it.”
you narrow your eyes suspiciously. but you do.
inside is a dress.
not just any dress.
a gorgeous one.
soft fabric, the kind that has to be tailored, your exact style like he reached into your brain and picked it out himself.
your mouth parts slightly. “…kuma.”
he’s suddenly very interested in the floor.
“it’s… custom,” he mutters.
you blink. look at the dress. then back at him. then back at the dress. “…custom.” you repeat
“yeah.”
realisation hits you like a truck. your jaw drops.
“takuma.”
"so... sorry if it doesn't fit right," he winces, “…i tried asking for your size,” he says, voice quieter now, “but you didn’t take too kindly to that.”
you stare at him. then at the dress. then back at him again.
“kuma, why would you ask me like that?!” you burst out. “if you told me it was for this i wouldn’t have gotten mad?”
he frowns, defensive now. “well i didn’t know it was weird!”
“how did you not know that was weird?!”
“because i didn’t even know what bust meant!” he blurts.
you pause, “…what?”
he rubs the back of his neck again, embarrassed. “i was just reading it off the website. it said bust, waist, hips... i thought it was just a regular measurement.”
you stare. “…you didn’t know what it meant.”
“not until you got mad at me and i googled it,” he admits.
you blink at him.
once.
twice.
then you start laughing.
he groans, face heating up. “it's not funny..."
“oh my god.”
he crosses his arms, sulking. “i was trying to do something nice.”
your laughter softens. you look down at the dress again with a grin. run your fingers over the fabric.
“…it’s really pretty,” you say softly.
he glances at you. “…yeah?”
you nod. then step closer, hugging him. “thank you, baby,” you mumble into his chest. “and… sorry for yelling at you.”
he huffs. “you’re still mean.”
“you asked me my bust size out of nowhere!”
“i didn’t know what it meant!”
you laugh again.
he sighs.
but he’s smiling too.
“…try it on?” he asks after a second.
you pull back, grinning, “yeah.”
ෆ i. shoko
she ate your cupcake
she's being dramatic. at least, that’s what you claim.
it’s just a scraped knee. you’ve had worse. it doesn’t even hurt that much anymore.
still, you’re sitting on the cool metal of the bench in her office, arms crossed, refusing to look at her because you’re still annoyed about the cupcake situation.
“it was in the fridge for a week,” you mutter. “i was saving it.”
“mm,” she hums. shoko doesn’t even look apologetic anymore.
she’s crouched in front of you, hair slightly messy, gloves on, disinfectant-soaked cotton ball pinched between a pair of silver tweezers, dabbing lightly at the broken, bloodied skin.
“i didn't think you wanted it anymore,” she says simply.
you glare at her, “so you just assumed it was abandoned?”
“yes.”
"it was waiting for me.”
“and you never arrived. poor cupcake.”
you huff.
she reaches forward and gently takes your leg, pulling it closer so she can clean the scrape at a better angle.
you flinch slightly.
“don’t move,” she says flatly.
“i am moving because you’re attacking me with alcohol.”
“i know. you're very brave.”
"haha. really funny. you proud of that one?"
she doesn’t respond. but smirks lightly as if to affirm, yes, she is in fact proud of that one, and presses the cotton pad to your knee again.
you hiss softly. “ow.”
“don’t be dramatic.”
“i am literally injured.”
“you’re alive.”
you narrow your eyes at her. “my cupcake isn't.”
“because i put it out of its misery.”
“it was my cupcake, shoko.”
she finally glances up at you.
“…you’re more upset about a cupcake than your actual wound.”
“because the cupcake was important.”
she sighs. like she’s tired. like she’s always tired. but there’s something softer in her eyes that only ever appears when you're around..
she finishes wrapping your knee with practiced ease, fingers light, careful.
then presses her lips to your bandaged knee gently.
“done.”
you look down.
“…you’re surprisingly gentle for a thief.”
“i'm not a thief,” she corrects. “i rehome neglected cupcakes.”
you snort.
she stands up, tossing the used materials into a bin before walking over to her desk.
you watch her. still sitting there. still mildly grumpy.
she grabs a small box from her drawer and places it graciously onto your lap.
you blink. “what’s this?”
“replacement.”
you open it. inside is a cupcake. perfectly frosted. freshly chilled. your favourite kind. you stare at it.
then at her.
"forgive me?” she requests.
you smile despite yourself. “hm. i suppose.”
“you’re so charitable.”
all dividers by da best @anitalenia !!! saur kyoot
something old, something new - ft. yuuta o. x fem!reader
cw: special grade reader inplied, fluff, lowk mean reader?, sassy yuuta ml
an: this isn't exactly how his ct works but the idea came to me while i was sleepy and i thought it was cute
“babe, are you ready? we're gonna be late-” yuuta's words came to a quick halt as he stepped into your shared bedroom, jaw almost falling slack at the sight infront of him. you, still clad in a towel, holding up two outfits on racks to rika— yes, his shikigami, rika. “what are you doing.”
gojo invited you both to a social networking event for sorcerers— mostly because he didn't want to attend alone, partly because he wanted you both to interact with other sorcerers that were on par with you. the event started at 7:30 and was a thirty minute drive. to be on time, you two would need to leave at seven; it was currently 6:45 and you weren't even dressed.
“i'm asking rika for her opinion, duh.” you responded with a roll of you eyes. meanwhile, rika lifted a pale, boney finger, pointing to the outfit on the right. “oh, i was thinking this one too. she has such good taste, doesn't she?” you beamed, holding up the outfit rika chose to yuuta, who was still standing in the doorway and absorbing everything around him. he never thought he'd meet a girl that didn't feel threatened by the curse lingering around him, much less befriending it “you could've asked me, y'know. i'm your boyfriend.”
at his words, you scoffed as a snarl curled at your lips. rika let out a child-like giggle, long fingers reaching out to you, gently curling a tress of your perfectly styled hair around jagged fingers. sometimes, he thought rika liked you more than she ever did him “rika's a girl. she understands these things better than you."
“i highly doubt that,” yuuta refuted, his tone carrying a hint of sass as he placed a hand on his hip. “you do realise rika still has the mentality of an eight year old, right?” at his words, you just scoffed with a dismissive wave of your hand as rika let out a wounded noise, scurrying behind your smaller frame. yuuta's face almost contorted in shock.
“tsk, you hurt her feelings," you stated before turning to rika, giving her a gentle pat on the.. nose? with a fond smile. “don't be sad. come, i'll let you help with my eyeliner.” rika immediately perked up at that, purring contently as she preened under your touch. yuuta stood in the doorway, betrayed and appalled, but he also knew that he'd never trade this for the world.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ think i like you best when you’re just with me and no one else
The exposed skin of your back is the only thing that Yuta can focus on right now. His eyes slowly trace down the curve of your spine, soaking in every small detail. He commits it all to memory, not knowing when another opportunity like this will come.
His fingers twitch in his lap. The urge to reach out and trail them along your skin runs deep, like he’s fighting off every muscle in his body that screams at him to touch.
His sits at the edge of your bed, hoping that you aren’t paying attention to his reflection in the mirror. Deep, blue eyes that look at you with desperation and want. Furrowed brows and a small pout on his lips. Like a puppy that waits for its owner’s attention.
“What do you think, Yuu?” You ask, doing a little spin to show off your cute dress. The hem lifts slightly, twirling with your movement.
He’s pulled out of his thoughts before you could even finish asking your question. You’ve got him wrapped around your finger and he doesn’t mind in the slightest. The second his eyes land on you it’s like all the words he wants to say get stuck in his throat.
“You look very beautiful, my love. That color suits you.” He manages to get out after a second.
Words really can’t describe how enamored he is with you. His pretty baby. If he had a say in the matter, Yuta would keep you here with him and kiss your pretty face until you got sick of him. But he can only beg and hope that you give in.
You walk over towards the bed, stopping right in front of Yuta. He parts his legs, pulling you in close by the hips. Tilting his head just a bit, the grip on your hips becomes a little tighter.
“Why not just stay home with me?” The little hint of desperation in his voice and the small pout that paints his face is sure to win you over. It does every time.
“Hey that’s not going to work on me this time, Okkotsu,” you say, bringing your hand up to give him a light tap on the cheek. Narrow eyes look back at him like you’ve got him all figured out. He likes to play this little game every time you go out.
“Yuta, my love. You call me Yuta,” he says, nuzzling into your hand that cradles his cheek. It’s almost too tempting to stay in with him, but you’re already dressed up and you’ve been excited for these plans all week.
“I’m just saying, Yuu. I’m not canceling on my friends last minute.” You lean down to give him a soft peck on the lips before turning to leave. A small smile makes its way onto your face. “Be good for me, okay?”
You’re only able to get a step away from Yuta before he’s pulling you back. Grabbing your jaw with delicate fingers, he captures you in a soft kiss. It’s slow like he’s savoring the taste of your lips—the sweetness of your lip gloss. The feeling of you against him. It’s hard to not pull you into his lap, but he needs to be good for you.
He lets out a deep sigh—almost like a soft moan into your mouth. Eventually, Yuta pulls away with much hesitance. Using his thumb, he wipes away some of lips gloss that got smeared.
A lovesick look on his face as he admires you. “Have fun.”
summary. what did he get after coming back from Africa? a fucking huge ego and the nerve to make you fall in love more. which, isss so fucking unfair not that you have to make him ask you to be his girlfriend.
triggers/warnings. fluff, emotionally constipated yuuta, dumbass to lover pipeline, soft virgin $ex (implied), first time, mutual pining explosion, goofy flirting to full-on intimacy, extremely affectionate makeout session, long slow kiss descriptions, teasing turned sincere, gentle undressing, consent check (verbal), heavy petting, reader-on-top position, soft dom yuuta, praise kink (gentle), internal ejaculation (mentioned), implied aftercare, lots of “i love you” mid-thrust energy, dumb relationship talk, boyfriend reveal post-orgasm, soft but emotionally unhinged dialogue, swearing / explicit language.
it was that kind of twilight where the sky went lilac, like it couldn’t decide whether to die down or scream one last color into the day, and the courtyard between dorms hummed with the lazy static of summer insects drunk off heat. your legs stuck a little with every step, your thighs brushing as your too-short cotton strawberry-print sleep shorts rode up—not because you’d rolled them, but because they were honest-to-god tragic at staying down where they were supposed to. the white t-shirt hung shapeless and limp, just long enough to look like you weren’t trying to be indecent, just short enough to flash a whisper of lower belly if the breeze kicked up. your hair was a half-washed mess. no bra. no socks. this was war.
plastic bag of snacks swinging off your wrist, crinkling loud enough to announce you two corners away, you clutched it like a peace offering, or a bribe, or a confession. everything in it had a story: the milk soda gummies he’d once nearly cried over. that dumb pink shrimp chip brand you always fought over because the flavor was “emotionally damaging” (his words). a tiny green tea cake with icing you’d pressed your thumb into by accident. the whole bag smelled like saccharine surrender. you hadn’t seen him in months.
yuuta had been sent to africa—yes, the continent, not the band—because gojo had gotten it into his hollow skull that yuuta needed “recalibration,” like he was a satellite that went a little too sharp after the shibuya aftermath. the accident—those cursed children, that nightmarish tangle of residuals, the stupid thing with the shrine and the way his voice cracked saying “i didn’t mean to—” right before gojo shoved him on a plane—had left him looped up in his own head. not dangerous, not even spiraling. just… too tuned in. too raw. so gojo, in his infinite “big brother but worse” wisdom, had sent him away. not to punish, not to exile. just to breathe somewhere far enough that even his regrets would echo slower.
you had hated him for it. not yuuta. gojo. because you missed him. and because you didn’t know how to say it.
he had texted, of course. photos of monkeys stealing his food. long meandering voice notes about heatstroke and rogue cursed spirits in old mining towns. one audio message that was just six minutes of wind and then “...it smells like burnt cinnamon here, isn’t that weird?” and then more wind. you’d replayed that one until the file started glitching.
now he was back.
you walked up the stairs with knees that didn’t work right, heartbeat like a stray drumroll in your chest. the hallway smelled like that vaguely bleachy institution-funk, overlaid with someone cooking too much garlic too late. but his door was the one with the taped-up polaroid of a lizard on the peephole—he’d named it jerry and claimed it once saved his life in botswana by pointing at a cursed talisman with its tail (you didn’t believe a word but loved him for trying)—and it stood exactly as you remembered. slightly misaligned. always looked like it wanted to be a secret.
you stood there too long. shifted the snack bag from left to right. considered fleeing. considered kicking the door down. did neither.
instead, you knocked. once. twice. then a little impatient third one that said “hey, i’m still me.”
the hallway was quiet.
your hand still hovered, a little curl of fingers like maybe you'd knock again but also maybe you'd just rest it there and feel how solid the door was between you. it didn’t matter. the moment had already bent in that soft surreal way, like a movie scene that couldn’t decide if it was a comedy or a tragic romance. behind that door was him. your friend. the dumbass with the soft hands and the eyes like old moonlight and a voice that didn’t realize it made you ache.
you licked your lips, wiped your palm on your thigh. you told yourself you were ready.
the plastic bag rustled. it sounded like a heartbeat.
the door opened with a click that sounded way too loud for the sleepy summer hallway and maybe also a little like the climax of a drama scene about to spiral into something stupid and irreversible, and there he was—yuuta okkotsu, fucking alive, standing barefoot in the doorway like he’d just walked off a fever dream you had eight weeks ago, except realer and worse, because reality had done something to him that memory never could: it made him taller.
not metaphorically taller, not emotionally expanded, not some symbolic “he grew while he was away” bullshit—no. he was literally, absolutely taller, which was rude as hell because you were already tragically average and now standing in front of him, your face came up to his stupid newly-broadened neck and you had to tilt your head back to look at his face and that made your neck hurt and now everything was his fault. again.
“whoa,” he said, voice a little low and scratchy like he hadn’t talked much today, maybe a little sleepstill lingering at the edges, but then he smirked, and it was the kind of slow curling thing that should’ve come with a health warning. “what the hell are you wearing?”
you didn’t answer. couldn’t, really. because your brain short-circuited the moment your eyes tracked the line of his collarbone visible through that worn white t-shirt—the one clinging just enough to expose the ghost of his abs underneath, because apparently he had those now, just a casual six-pack sculpted out of trauma and climate change and moral injury—and then lower, to where the hem of the shirt barely brushed the waistband of those indecently low athletic shorts. shorts that screamed “i don’t own dignity” but in a confident way. and legs. endless, lean, travel-worn legs like he’d gone on a side quest for new muscles.
his hair was parted to the side, a little messy but shaped like it meant to be, probably from running his fingers through it a hundred times, and his eyes were brighter than you remembered—not in that overworked, glassy way he used to have, but something steadier, like he’d seen some shit and come back joking about it. and his smile was sharp now. not mean. just sharper. more boyish menace than anxious darling.
“you okay?” he asked, still holding the door open, leaning one shoulder against the frame like he’d taken a class in posing over there. “you’ve been standing there like i’m a ghost. is this the part where you tell me i’ve been dead the whole time?”
“no,” you blurted, then immediately hated how your voice cracked like a teenage boy about to confess his love to the back of a girl’s head in a shoujo anime. “no, you’re just—i didn’t realize you’d... grow vertically.”
he raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking down, dramatically, then back up. “you’re just short.”
“liar. you’re taller than before.”
“am i?” he tilted his head. “i thought you just shrank. maybe that’s what all the strawberry-print shorts are doing to your brain. estrogen shrinkage. is that a thing?”
“you look like a backup dancer for a washed-up j-pop group,” you fired back, finally stepping past him into the dorm, brushing his shoulder on the way, pretending it didn’t buzz like an electric fence when you touched him. “no right looking like that at home. i almost dropped the snacks.”
“the what now?” he snatched the bag from your wrist with a dramatic flourish and held it up like it was the holy grail, peering inside. “is this—are these shrimp chips? you do love me.”
“i didn’t say that.”
“your shorts said it for you.”
“fuck you.”
he shut the door behind you with a little too much smugness in the click, dropped the snack bag onto his desk like it was a reward for something he didn’t work for, and turned to look at you fully. “okay, but seriously. hi. you look... like you lost a fight with a dryer, and then won the war of being adorable.”
“you’ve been back for five minutes and i already regret everything.”
“but you missed me.” his voice dropped just half a note, not sultry, not teasing—just confident, and you hated that it made your stomach go soft and fluttery like a tragic anime side character about to say something embarrassing and get hit by a car. “you missed me so bad, didn’t you?”
“i missed you like a hole in the head.”
“that’s still a kind of love,” he grinned, stepping closer, just a little, enough to tilt his head down so his forehead almost bumped yours. “cursed and irreversible.”
you tried to back up, hit his desk instead. fuck.
“you’re an idiot.”
“you look like you wanna cry.”
“i do. because of your face.”
“because you love my face.”
“yuuta.”
he laughed, that soft exhale kind of laugh, warm and real and too close. his fingers grazed the snack bag again. your heart forgot how to perform basic rhythm.
you hated him. you hated how he looked better than before. more whole. more like himself. and that he wasn’t scared anymore. and that now you didn’t know if you were allowed to want him without breaking something.
“so,” he said, turning to open the mini fridge, crouching slightly, letting his shirt ride up so you could see the shadow of his lower back and the waistband of his shorts pulling low, “what’s the plan, captain? movie night? tears? declaration of undying devotion? all of the above?”
you hated him. you hated that he knew. that he was waiting.
but you were here now. no takebacks. and your knees had already lost the ability to lock.
you said, “movie night.”
he grinned again, not looking back. “mmhm. coward.”
you stared at him for a second too long, a long dumb second where he was still bent over with the fridge door hanging open and the lamplight just so, highlighting the curve of his spine and the soft dip of muscle above his waistband, and he was rattling a soda can around like it owed him something, humming some godawful off-key jingle under his breath while absolutely oblivious to the fact that you were contemplating both murder and marriage at the same time. and that was dangerous. because the moment you started thinking thoughts like his back looks like a religious experience and i want to punch him in the throat, you were in too deep.
so you did the only thing your tragically flustered nervous system allowed: you walked up and kicked him square in the shin.
“ow—fuck, what the hell,” he yelped, straightening with the drama of a man shot in war, dropping the soda in the process which landed with a thud and rolled under the desk like it knew what was good for it. “was that necessary?”
“yes,” you said, stepping around him like he was debris, heading straight for the tiny kitchenette shoved into the corner of the dorm like an afterthought. the popcorn bag was already in your hand, pre-buttered and microwavable and honestly the only real symbol of stability in your life at the moment. you yanked open his one cabinet, found a bowl shaped like it had been purchased in a panic, and set it down with the finality of someone trying very hard not to scream. “i am asserting dominance.”
“by kicking me like a rabid toddler?” he called from behind you, and you heard the stupid amusement in his voice, the I’m-smiling-but-I’m-also-plotting kind of grin that made you want to wrap your legs around his head and drown him in it. “wow. you really did miss me.”
you ignored him, shoved the bag into the microwave and typed in numbers that weren’t the time but felt emotionally correct. then you heard it—that sound. the soft, quiet approach. sockless feet brushing linoleum. and then—
his fingers in your hair.
it started small. just a gentle flick, like he was testing the texture, maybe reminding himself what it felt like to touch you. and you told yourself you weren’t going to react. you were strong. you were composed. you had kicked him in the shin, for god’s sake.
then he twirled a strand, slow and deliberate, looping it once, twice around his index finger like he was braiding the concept of being insufferable. and he was close. not body-pressed-close, not oh-no-we’re-about-to-kiss close—worse. emotionally close. best-friend-who-knows-what-makes-you-crack close. and that was the real danger zone.
“i don’t remember giving you permission,” you mumbled, not looking back, hands busy pretending to rearrange popcorn bags that didn’t need rearranging.
“you didn’t,” he said, twirling harder, tugging it gently like he was testing how far he could go before you screamed. “but it’s not like you’re gonna stop me.”
“you’re violating the geneva convention right now.”
“it’s hair. not nuclear arms.”
“i will scalp you.”
“hot.”
you froze for a half-second, horrified by the small laugh that slipped out of your own throat, because how dare he be funny and disgusting and weirdly charming all at once. and the worst part? the actual worst part? his fingers were still in your hair. just resting there now, tangled lazy, like he belonged. like you were a thing he was allowed to touch. and your whole body was doing that thing again—heat in the gut, soft static under your skin, a flush crawling its way up your neck like shame dressed as desire.
“i hate you.”
“you keep saying that but you’re not convincing,” he said, voice close to your ear now, low and amused and awful and warm. “you didn’t even flinch.”
“i’m biding my time. waiting for the perfect moment to shiv you with a butter knife.”
“you are so bad at pretending you don’t love me,” he whispered, fingers giving your hair one last tug, then releasing like he hadn’t just incinerated every single one of your higher brain functions.
you whipped around, popcorn forgotten, bowl cradled in your hands like a weapon. “you’re the most annoying man i’ve ever met.”
“you’ve only met like four men.”
“and three of them were fictional.”
“and you still picked me.” he grinned, then leaned in so close you could count every unfair eyelash, all fluttery and boyish and violent. “tragic.”
you opened your mouth to say something—anything—but the microwave dinged, loud and shrill like an alarm you didn’t set, and both of you jumped. he stepped back, smirking like the devil in gym shorts.
you hated him.
you also loved him.
but that wasn’t the point.
you reached past him to yank open the microwave, your arm brushing his chest on the way, and you could feel the heat of him, the bare skin under that translucent white shirt, like he’d been designed in a lab to make you clinically insane.
he didn’t move.
you didn’t either.
not yet.
fast forward past the microwave war crimes and the traumatic realization that the strawberry-print shorts rode up every time you bent even slightly, past the part where he insisted on filling a second bowl “for tactical snack separation” and then immediately kept both within his reach like a possessive gremlin, past the flickering mental images of throttling him versus maybe gently kissing him just to shut him up—it was later now, and you were on his bed, which felt like a decision made under spiritual duress.
you were laying on your stomach like a lazy sea creature, arms folded under the ridiculous puff of one of his old pillows, probably the one he drooled on based on how aggressively it smelled like shampoo and existentialism. the tv on his desk across the room played soft flickers of color over your bare legs, the blue hue of a night scene washing over your skin like cinematic bathwater. the pillow squished your ribs uncomfortably but you refused to move because you were locked in a delicate standoff between comfort and pride. your shirt had ridden up, naturally. you ignored it. you were committed to the bit.
he was leaned back against the headboard beside you, long legs stretched out like a relaxed golden retriever who knew he owned the whole damn room, the popcorn bowl balanced delicately between the two of you, technically for sharing but realistically under his complete jurisdiction. every now and then, when you reached for some, he’d shift the bowl slightly like a petty little landlord, then smirk when you glared without heat.
“this is a hate crime,” you muttered, palm in the bowl fishing blindly for something that wasn’t just kernels and betrayal.
“this is a romantic crime,” yuuta corrected, chewing obnoxiously loud next to your ear. “we’re bonding. we’re creating memories. you’re gonna look back at this one day and cry.”
“i’m gonna look back and sue.”
“i’m gonna bring this up in my vows.”
“what vows—are you marrying my corpse?”
“god, you’re so dramatic,” he said, nudging the bowl toward your face just as you gave up. “here. have a sympathy handful, you absolute victim.”
you grumbled something incoherent but shoved your hand in before he changed his mind. your fingers touched his for a second and he didn’t flinch, just looked down at you with that dumb fondness in his eyes like he’d won a prize at the fair and couldn’t decide whether to eat it or keep it on his shelf forever.
on screen, ana steel was currently having her lip bitten by christian grey for the twelfth time in twenty minutes.
“i can’t believe you made me watch this,” you groaned, mouth full of popcorn, turning your face into the pillow like it might drown out the secondhand embarrassment.
“excuse me?” he gasped, mock horror fully engaged. “i am blessing you with culture.”
“you made me watch a billionaire man-child stalk a woman into a bdsm contract.”
“and he bought her a car,” yuuta pointed out, as if that somehow absolved the war crimes happening on screen.
“he sold her car without asking.”
“okay, that part was unhinged,” he admitted, stuffing another handful into his mouth. “but also kind of hot, like in a ‘don’t do this but also do this if you’re rich and emotionally damaged’ way.”
you turned your head to look up at him, chin digging into the pillow, eyebrows furrowed. “so you identify with him?”
he didn’t miss a beat. “i identify with ana.”
you snorted so hard you nearly inhaled a kernel.
“what, like you want someone to rescue you with their trauma and a playroom full of sex toys?” you asked, half choking on laughter.
“no,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head with criminal smugness, “i want someone to look at me like that and let me sign a contract that outlines exactly how often i’m allowed to be annoying.”
you rolled your eyes so hard you almost left your body.
“god, you’re insufferable.”
“but lovable,” he added, nudging your shoulder with his knee. “admit it. you like watching horny garbage with me.”
you didn’t answer right away, just flopped your face sideways into the pillow again, watching the screen, because the thing was—this was maybe the dumbest and coziest version of hell you’d ever experienced. the soft weight of his blanket tangled over both your legs. the occasional crunch as he kept eating your popcorn with the rhythm of a man chewing through existential dread. the quiet hum of the fan above you both. his presence looming, always just close enough to lean into. or over. or on.
“you’re the garbage,” you finally said, voice muffled. “the movie is fine.”
“awww,” he cooed, leaning down, voice dripping with weaponized smugness. “is that your love language? bullying me into intimacy?”
“don’t flatter yourself, grey.”
he reached over and tugged at your shirt gently, pulling the hem down over the small of your back, only to immediately pull it back up again like he was testing how much he could get away with. you smacked his hand blindly, but it made you laugh anyway, because this was him—yuuta fucking okkotsu, sweet and mean and flirty and dumb as a brick in love’s stupidest architecture. and you hated how soft it made you feel, how completely unguarded and ridiculous and… happy.
“we should recreate the elevator scene,” he whispered suddenly, like a war criminal.
“i will push you down the stairs.”
“you’re no fun. i could be your emotionally stunted dom.”
“you literally cry at those dog rescue videos.”
“emotional depth isn’t a crime.”
“you own one pair of handcuffs and they’re for cosplay.”
he gasped like you’d just ruined his career. “you promised never to bring that up.”
“you wore them to the school halloween party and said you were ‘sexy rehabilitation.’”
“and it worked! i won second place! gojo voted for me!”
you couldn’t breathe. your face was buried in the pillow again but this time from hysterics, your body shaking against the mattress while the movie’s dramatic music swelled in the background, completely ignored. he reached down and started playing with your hair again, soft and absentminded, fingers running over strands and occasionally tugging just to make you twitch.
“you’re the worst,” you muttered into the fabric.
“i’m your worst,” he said, and it was so quiet, so offhand, so horribly gentle that you had to close your eyes for a second and hold your breath just to survive it.
the tv glowed soft and blue. the popcorn was half gone. and yuuta’s fingers were still tangled in your hair like they’d never stopped.
you don’t remember when the popcorn bowl was exiled to the floor like a fallen soldier, when his knees bent to cage your hips in place, one on either side like he wasn’t subtly climbing you like a tree, like he didn’t just decide that personal space was a capitalist lie invented to keep you from enjoying the sheer horror of his presence, but suddenly there he was—perched over you like a smug gargoyle with perfect posture and absolutely no sense of shame, one hand tangled in your hair again, the other casually draped over the small of your back like he was claiming territory or maybe measuring how far he could push you before you screamed into his pillow.
you were still lying on your stomach, still pinned to his stupid bed with your stupid dignity melting through the mattress like slow death, still pretending you were unaffected by the fact that he was now fully lounging on top of you like a sunbathing menace, his weight gentle but inevitable, like gravity got a personality disorder and started flirting.
“you know,” he drawled, voice sliding right beside your ear like a heat rash in audio form, “if i didn’t know better, i’d say you planned this.”
you tried to lift your head but his palm gently but very firmly pressed it back into the pillow with the same exact energy as someone telling a golden retriever to “stay.” your voice came out muffled, somewhere between indignation and a breakdown. “planned what? the fucking suffocation?”
“you brought snacks,” he said with a completely unserious shrug you could feel vibrate through your entire spine. “you wore the shorts. you’re lying on my bed like a sacrificial offering. i’m just connecting the dots.”
“you’re connecting shit. you’re a conspiracy theorist with a god complex.”
“mmm,” he hummed, tracing a lazy circle between your shoulder blades with one finger. “god’s out of office. i’m your problem now.”
you flailed halfheartedly, kicked one heel back into his thigh. “i’m filing a complaint.”
“please do,” he said brightly. “i love getting fan mail.”
“you’re so—so annoying.”
“you’re blushing,” he said.
“i’m overheating under your weird emotionally co-dependent weight.”
he bent low enough that his breath tickled the back of your neck and you wanted to slap him and kiss him and throw yourself out the window in equal measure. “you like it. just admit it. you like when i’m all clingy and dramatic and a little mean. you missed me. so bad. like it hurt.”
you choked on a noise that wasn’t a denial. it might’ve been a dying bird. maybe a baby crying. the tv was still playing in the background, some intense jazz instrumental under a scene where christian grey was earnestly making eye contact while unzipping something. you hated this. you loved this. you wanted to throw the remote at his head and then press your mouth to his collarbone like you could bite the word finally into his skin.
“you’re getting cocky,” you whispered, tilting your chin just enough to glance up at him, your face twisted in dramatic pain. “something happened to you out there. in africa. the mosquitoes gave you a superiority complex.”
he laughed, short and loud and delighted, collapsing just slightly more against you, his chest brushing your back in a way that felt like someone turning a page too slowly. “nah. you just forgot i was a menace before i left. it’s all coming back now, isn’t it?”
“i blocked it out for my mental health.”
“you missed me so much you forgot your own coping strategies.”
“you’re projecting.”
“you cried when i posted that video of the meerkat hugging the baby goat.”
“because i have empathy.”
“you sent it to me with ‘this is us.’”
“because you’re the goat and i’m the burdened soul holding on for dear life.”
he snorted, finally rolling just enough to the side so his weight settled against your hip instead of directly on your back, one leg still draped over yours like he was trying to win a game of human jenga. “you love me.”
you groaned, pulling the pillow over your face. “stop saying that.”
“say it back, coward.”
“no.”
“say it.”
“absolutely not.”
“say you love me or i’ll quote the contract scene verbatim.”
“i dare you.”
he took a deep breath.
you shrieked, flung the pillow directly into his face, which he caught with both hands while wheezing with laughter. “you fucking menace. you—how do you still know the words? do you memorize garbage?”
“yes. and you. same folder. same cherished label.”
you glared at him. he was laughing so hard his cheeks were flushed, his hair a mess again from rolling over too much, one curl sticking to his temple with sweat and popcorn grease, and the sight of him—real and here and loud and breathing all over bed space—hit you so hard you went still for a second, like your body realized before your brain did that this was the moment, the moment, the breath before you said something you couldn’t walk back.
his eyes caught yours. quiet for once. sincere. amused, yes, always, but... waiting.
“you are so fucking annoying,” you whispered.
“you’re stalling,” he whispered back.
“you smell like corn butter and laundry detergent.”
“say it.”
“you’re ugly.”
“say it.”
“you’re literally the worst person—”
he grabbed your jaw. not hard, not rough—just enough to tilt your chin up and look you in the eye, eyes glinting with something unbearable and infuriating and stupidly, ridiculously beautiful. “say it, or i’m gonna say it first and you’ll be mad about it for the next thirty years.”
your chest hurt.
your legs tingled.
your mouth was dry and also stupid.
“i love you,” you said, like it was a dare.
he blinked.
paused.
then, grinning like a man who just pulled off the greatest heist of his life, he leaned down, brushed your nose with his, and whispered—
“took you fucking long enough.”
you wanted to hit him. not with your fist. with a book, probably, or maybe a bag of frozen peas, or something heavy and full of metaphor like the complete works of shakespeare annotated by someone with too much time and a vendetta. because he was smiling now, but it wasn’t even a normal person’s smile—it was a stupid, slow, predatory, cat-that-ate-the-whole-zoo grin, the kind of smile that said “i’ve already won and now i’m just here to gloat about it while reclining dramatically on your grave.”
he was leaning in, still half-laughing, half-devastating, his forehead brushing yours again like he couldn’t quite resist the gravitational pull of your face and the disaster inside it. your breath hitched and your brain short-circuited and all your blood decided to throw a rave in your ears. you couldn’t look at him. so, obviously, you did.
“say it again,” he whispered, and the worst part was that he wasn’t even trying to be hot. he was just obnoxious and needy and chronically underloved in the most annoying way possible, which made it ten thousand times worse, because now he’d tasted victory and he wanted seconds.
“you didn’t even say it back,” you said, mouth dry, fingers curling into the pillow like it owed you emotional support. “why should i go again if you’re gonna keep holding your words hostage?”
“oh,” he said, tilting his head dramatically like a villain who just heard a plot twist. “do you think this is transactional?”
“everything’s transactional when your heart is on fire,” you snapped, voice high and stupid and a little wobbly.
“jesus christ,” he breathed, grinning wider, “you are in love with me.”
“no, i’m just suffering.”
“same thing.”
you made a sound. an actual sound, like a dying kettle or a kettle that’s just learned about taxes, and buried your face in the pillow again, except this time he didn’t let you escape. he grabbed your shoulders and pulled you back, just enough to keep you looking at him, just enough to make you feel every inch of him, the soft weight of his thigh over yours, the heat of his hand wrapped around your arm, his breath a lazy ghost near your cheek.
“okay,” he said, voice lower now, still soft but stupidly smug, “you ready?”
“for what,” you mumbled.
he raised a single, unnecessary eyebrow. “i’m gonna say it back. you better not cry. or kiss me. or cry while kissing me.”
“i am deeply unattracted to you right now.”
“shut up.”
you did.
he took a breath. unnecessarily long. dramatic as hell. he looked like he was about to deliver a monologue on a stage with a spotlight, except instead it was just you and him and the flickering tv in the background showing a guy tying a tie around someone’s wrists, and the half-empty popcorn bowl on the floor like the saddest metaphor for your relationship.
“i love you,” he said, finally, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like it wasn’t news, like he hadn’t already been living it out loud every day since you met.
you blinked.
he blinked back.
then: “there. now we’re even. now it’s not weird anymore.”
“it’s still weird.”
“you’re weird.”
“you love someone who’s weird.”
“you’re right,” he said. “i’ve got horrible taste.”
you tried to shove him off the bed. he caught you by the waist and laughed so loud you swore someone in the next room probably heard, and you didn’t even care anymore because it was so easy now—laughing with him, being angry with him, being alive with him—it all made the same kind of impossible sense.
you fell back against the mattress, still tangled in him, still dumbfounded by how something so long-simmering could feel so sudden, so now. and he was staring at you again with that specific kind of expression that should be illegal—soft and knowing and just a little too satisfied with himself, like he’d cracked the code to life and it was just your name on repeat.
“you’re gonna marry me one day,” he said casually, like he was mentioning the weather.
“oh my god,” you groaned. “please shut the fuck up.”
“you are,” he insisted, lying flat beside you now, one arm under his head, the other tracing the hem of your shirt with a pinky like he wasn’t doing it on purpose. “we’re gonna fight over dishes and have a weird little dog named knife and every time we argue i’ll remind you that you confessed first.”
“you’re a walking restraining order.”
“and you fell in love with me. tragic.”
you turned your head to glare at him. he was so close his breath hit your cheek every time he exhaled. his eyes were stars and graveyards. his mouth was curled in that same stupid smile that made your stomach try to escape out your knees.
“yuuta.”
“yes, my beloved nemesis.”
“if you don’t shut up in the next five seconds i’m going to kiss you so hard it’ll reset your nervous system.”
“that’s the opposite of a threat.”
you lunged.
and he caught you.
and he kissed you like he’d already been kissing you for years. not perfect. not polished. just yours. messy, crooked, smiling into your mouth kind of kissing, hands in your hair, your fingers twisting in his shirt, legs tangled and breathless and stupid. kissing like a fight and a promise and an inside joke all at once.
when you pulled back, he was already laughing.
“told you you’d cry while kissing me,” he said, wiping under your eye with his thumb like the smug idiot he was.
you slapped his hand away.
and then you kissed him again.
it was deranged, truly, how fast the air changed—one second you were sprawled like a corpse of sarcasm and poor life choices on your stomach, cheeks warm, laughing against his mouth, his fingers still in your hair like they’d grown roots there, like they were meant to stay, the whole room vibrating with that ridiculous bubble of mutual idiocy and love and “did that really just happen?”—and the next thing you knew, he was shifting, moving with that new, awful confidence like he’d been holding back for years and the dam finally cracked. your brain barely registered the shift in weight before he sat up fully, legs folding beneath him, his hands sliding down your sides with terrifying purpose, and you were the one who ended up on his lap, straddling him like you’d been doing it since the dawn of time and the world just hadn’t caught on yet.
the tv was off. when had the tv turned off? it didn’t matter. the screen was black now, and you could see your own reflection in it behind his shoulder—wide eyes, wild hair, expression like someone who’d just been told the apocalypse was romantic—and the room was dim, barely lit by the single desk lamp glowing soft yellow, its bulb on its last legs, everything cloaked in that kind of warmth that made skin look flushed and intentions look softer than they really were.
you didn’t remember putting your hands on his shoulders. you didn’t remember him pulling you closer. but there you were, knees pressed against the outsides of his thighs, his palms anchored at your waist like you were something solid, something worth holding onto even now, especially now, and his thumbs were rubbing gentle circles through the hem of your stupid strawberry-print shorts and you could feel the electricity behind his breathing, tight and shallow and not teasing anymore.
no more games. no more sharp-edged banter. just this.
“you’re quiet,” he whispered, voice the softest it had been all night, reverent almost, like he was afraid if he said it too loud the moment would fold in on itself.
“i’m overwhelmed,” you answered, honestly, stupidly, because you couldn’t lie to him anymore, not now, not when his mouth was this close and his hands felt like home. “you’re being—serious.”
he blinked, slow and soft, then smiled—not the usual grin, not the toothy, boyish mischief. this one was small. sad in the corners. sweet in a way that hurt.
“i’m always serious with you,” he said, brushing his nose against yours like punctuation.
“no, you’re not,” you laughed, even as your voice trembled. “you’re a menace.”
“a menace who’s in love with you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the edge of your jaw, a soft thing that made your entire ribcage vibrate. “deeply. irrevocably. stupidly.”
“you forgot ‘violently’,” you whispered.
he kissed the corner of your mouth. “violently,” he echoed.
then he kissed you. properly. finally. again.
but this time it was different—no more smirking into the press of lips, no more tongue-in-cheek or cocky little nips meant to drive you crazy. this was slower. deeper. like something he’d been holding in his lungs for a decade and now he could finally let it out. he kissed you like he wanted to memorize every reaction, every shift in breath, every way your hands trembled slightly against the curve of his neck when he tilted his head just right and exhaled into you like a confession he couldn’t quite say out loud yet.
his mouth moved against yours with that awful sweetness that made your knees weak even though you weren’t standing, the kind of kiss that said stay. the kind of kiss that didn’t have to ask.
your hands slid into his hair before you even thought about it, fingers tangling in those soft strands, pulling him closer like it wasn’t enough, like it would never be enough. and he let you, of course he did, tilting into your grip, mouth parting just enough for your teeth to catch his bottom lip and make him sigh—a sound so soft and desperate it knocked every thought straight out of your head.
his arms wrapped around you tighter, one slipping under your shirt like he needed proof you were really there, fingertips ghosting up your spine, warm and shaking and tender. he kissed you again, and again, in between breaths like he was scared the distance might kill him.
“fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, his voice breaking around the edges now, none of that performative sass left, just raw affection and nerves and that unbearable sincerity that always lived under the mess. “i missed you so much it made me fucking sick.”
you closed your eyes. rested your forehead against his. let your nose bump his cheek. let your entire body lean into him like the safest place in the world.
“i thought about you every day,” you whispered. “like a freak. like some pathetic little lovesick idiot.”
he kissed your cheek. your temple. your chin. “yeah,” he said, “same. we’re freaks together.”
“soulmates in idiocy.”
“co-presidents of the tragic dumbass society.”
“yuuta.”
he looked up at you again, eyes wide and stupid and full of too much feeling.
“yeah?”
“don’t stop,” you whispered.
so he didn’t. he kissed you again. again. again. slower now. messier. the kind of kiss you fell into and never came back from. the kind that changed your blood type.
you didn’t know where this was going. you didn’t care. all you knew was this—his hands on you, his voice in your ear, his mouth against yours like he was trying to rewrite your entire existence one breath at a time.
and god, it worked.
he kissed you like he was running out of time and breath and restraint, like every press of his mouth against yours was both apology and reward, thank you and finally, and it didn’t feel like escalation, didn’t feel like foreplay or some slippery slope into the inevitable—it felt like something older than either of you, something pulled up from under your skin and cracked open between your teeth. you could barely think. you were breathing through him, your whole world tilted on its axis and centered now around the place where your hips were pressed against his, knees bracketing his thighs, your hands still tight in his hair because if you let go you might float straight out of your body and never come back.
his palms splayed across your back like he was trying to memorize the exact pressure needed to keep you tethered, moving in soft little circles that made you shiver even though the room was hot, and his tongue flicked against your lower lip again and again, coaxing little sighs out of your throat that made him groan like he was the one unraveling. and maybe he was. maybe you both were. maybe this was the only way either of you knew how to be real—half-laughing, half-crying, wrapped around each other like idiots in love and out of options.
you dragged your mouth away long enough to gasp, “we’re so dumb.”
and he, breathless and flushed and grinning like the devil had just offered him a promotion, replied, “yeah, but we’re hot.”
you snorted, chest heaving, and dipped your head into the crook of his neck, lips brushing against the column of his throat as you laughed directly against his pulse. “you’re ridiculous.”
“you’re hesitating,” he shot back, and it took you a second to realize what he meant, to follow the trail of thought through the haze of heat and affection and general hormonal disaster. your hands had shifted, were now fisted lightly in the hem of his shirt, that worn, thin white thing clinging to his chest in soft folds, semi-transparent under the lamplight. you’d tugged it up just a little—just high enough to expose the first dangerous inch of his stomach—but then stopped. froze. like a coward.
“i’m not hesitating,” you muttered, because lying was easier than having a panic attack mid-makeout.
he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and amused and way too full of affection for someone being slandered. “you’re totally hesitating. you’re scared of my abs.”
“i’m not scared of your abs.”
“you’re scared of my hot, missionary-sent-me abs. you’re intimidated.”
“you’re literally the most annoying man alive.”
“you love my annoying abs.”
“yuuta,” you said, trying to be serious, trying to slow the momentum of the joke before it took over everything again. “i just—i don’t know.”
he went quiet. not in a bad way. not in a oh no now he’s overthinking way. just soft. aware. like he’d felt the shift in your hands, your posture, the way you were still touching him but also thinking too much.
he brought his hand up to your cheek, tilted your face back toward his with two fingers under your chin, and whispered, “hey. look at me.”
you did. of course you did.
his eyes were stupidly gentle, like a blanket you didn’t ask for but needed anyway.
“we don’t have to do anything. we don’t have to do anything,” he said, clear and calm and slow like he wanted to make sure every word landed in the right place. “i just wanna kiss you. i could kiss you for, like, seven years. we can pause for snacks. maybe a nap.”
you blinked, suddenly a little breathless again but for a different reason.
“you’re so dumb,” you whispered, but it cracked halfway out.
“and you’re still holding my shirt like it personally offended you.”
you looked down at your hands, still clenched in the hem like it owed you rent. the skin under your fingers was warm, soft, the faintest hint of tremble under his calm like he wasn’t nearly as unaffected as he pretended to be.
slowly, carefully, you moved your fingers again. just a bit. tugged the fabric higher.
yuuta didn’t move. didn’t help. just watched you. patient. still.
you pushed it up over his stomach, revealing more—soft skin, lean lines, that ridiculous little dip under his ribs that was definitely not helping your composure, and finally, the undeniable definition of his abs. stupid. taut. completely unnecessary. like someone designed him with the express purpose of making you go into cardiac arrest.
“jesus,” you mumbled. “i thought this was just the lighting earlier.”
he smirked, tilting his head. “you can say it. you’re turned on.”
“i’m not gonna feed your ego.”
“baby, you’re literally in my lap.”
“on accident.”
“sure.”
your hands slid higher, just a little more, and he leaned back slightly to help you, finally, tugging the shirt off the rest of the way and over his head, tossing it to the side with a casual flick that really shouldn’t have been so hot but unfortunately was. his chest was bare now, lit golden in the low light, the shadows making every line look sharper than necessary. he sat there, proud and obnoxious and gorgeous, arms resting loosely around your waist, eyes half-lidded and waiting.
“so?” he said. “what’s the verdict?”
you stared for a beat too long, then shook your head. “i hate you so much.”
he leaned forward, mouth brushing yours, and whispered, “you’re drooling.”
you kissed him before he could finish laughing, kissed him hard and hungry and full of frustration and gratitude and longing that had nowhere else to go. his hands slid back up your spine again, then down, slow and warm and steady, and you pressed your chest against his, skin to skin now, breath tangled and mouths moving in sync like it was muscle memory.
this was different now. not just soft. not just playful. it was still dumb, still full of laughter and half-whispers and too many feelings, but it was honest. real. the kind of closeness you only earned after months of pretending not to want it.
his mouth moved to your jaw, then your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the curve until you shivered, his hands holding you like you were fragile and indestructible at the same time.
“okay,” you breathed, fingers threading through his hair again. “okay. maybe i am turned on.”
he laughed against your skin, a low hum that made your whole body vibrate.
“yeah,” he said, voice low and satisfied. “me too.”
you felt it before you saw it—his fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt, slow and reverent, like he was approaching a religious artifact and not your tragically old white cotton tee that probably still had mystery stains from dorm laundry hell and smelled vaguely like microwaved snacks and anxiety. his hands were warm, thumbs dragging along your ribs, and your breath caught halfway out of your throat because he wasn’t being cocky now, wasn’t making jokes or weird noises or doing that thing where he said something infuriating just to watch your face implode—no, he was focused. soft. maddeningly gentle. like he was scared of spooking you. like he was trying to do this right.
he looked at you the entire time, didn’t glance down once, even as the shirt bunched under your arms, his fingers pushing it up your back and then over your head in one smooth motion that felt too intimate to be legal, too slow to be real, and the way his eyes locked on yours as the fabric peeled away? criminal. unhinged. deeply dangerous. you could feel your heart trying to claw its way out of your chest cavity and throw itself out the window.
and then, like an idiot, like a grinning stupid horrible soft idiot, he said:
“whoa.”
“if you make a single joke,” you warned, voice threatening but also fragile, the kind of tone that cracked around the edges like old ceramic.
“no jokes,” he said immediately, holding up both hands like he was surrendering to the law but still resting them dangerously close to your spine. “i swear on gojo’s dumb designer sunglasses. you’re—shit. you’re so pretty. it’s actually rude.”
you didn’t know what to do with that. so you stared at him, blinking like someone who just got told they won a sweepstakes they didn’t enter, and tried not to melt into a puddle of hormonal regret.
you were still in your bra, obviously. thin-strapped, slightly crooked from his earlier manhandling, one cup sitting a little askew like you’d been in a romantic fender-bender. you felt like a hot mess. he looked like he wanted to write poetry about it.
“yuuta,” you murmured, unsure of what you were even trying to say.
he leaned in, kissed your collarbone with a soft press of lips that made your head tilt back instinctively, then trailed down—slow, slow, like a river taking its time to flood. and then his hands moved again, sliding up your back, thumbs brushing your shoulder blades, one finger hooking under the band of your bra in that way that made your stomach absolutely plummet.
his mouth was still on your skin when he said, half-muffled and far too casual:
“can i?”
the bastard had already found the clasp. one hand resting over it like it was a button to a secret door. your entire body was stiff and molten at once.
you breathed. shallow. shaky. said, “you’re asking now?”
he had the decency to chuckle into your shoulder, the vibration making your skin break out in chills.
“consent is hot,” he whispered, “even if i’m already halfway there.”
“yuuta,” you said again, but softer this time, more like a prayer than a warning.
he pulled back to look at you, and fuck—his face. flushed. open. stupidly beautiful. eyes wide and waiting, not pushing. not assuming. just there.
you nodded. slow. a little dizzy.
“yeah,” you whispered. “you can.”
his fingers moved without hesitation now—not rough, not rushed—just sure. the clasp gave way with a quiet click, the tension in the band loosening, and he slid his hands under the straps as if to say, i got you, even though he didn’t say anything at all. the fabric slipped down your arms like surrender. you let it. let him.
his eyes dropped, finally, but the look wasn’t hungry. it wasn’t some cliché moment of ogling. it was worse. it was tender. reverent. like you were something to be memorized, not devoured. like he was seeing you for the first time and the only thing in his brain was thank you.
his voice cracked a little when he said, “holy shit.”
you wanted to laugh. or cry. or combust. maybe all three.
so you did the only thing you could: you grabbed his face, held it in both hands like you were trying to mold it into something you could survive, and kissed him again. desperate. grateful. a little shaky. and he kissed you back like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.
he didn’t touch your chest—not yet, not even a hint of suggestion. he just wrapped his arms around you, full body, buried his face in your neck and whispered, “you’re gonna ruin me.”
and you whispered back, “good.”
and meant every word.
the air in the room shifted like it had caught on fire, not the loud kind, not the dramatic blaze that engulfed buildings and screamed for attention—no, this was the slow, creeping kind, the burn that started in your chest and worked its way outward, cell by cell, inch by inch, until even the dim, flickering lamplight felt like it was watching you both a little too closely. and there you were, bare from the waist up now, still straddling his lap like a disaster waiting to happen, like a headline, like a statistic in a very affectionate cautionary tale, his arms around your ribs so gently it felt like gravity was being polite about it, and his face buried in the crook of your neck like he was hiding from his own goddamn feelings.
he hadn’t moved since you said it—good—hadn’t laughed or made some snarky little comeback, which was alarming in itself because that was his whole brand, wasn’t it? being a menace in the shape of a boy you stupidly trusted with your life and now your shirt. but instead, he just exhaled. slow. hot. reverent. like that single word did something to him he wasn’t ready to admit.
and then, of course, because he couldn’t help himself—because silence was a threat to his personality—he whispered, voice muffled into your throat, “you’re evil.”
“you’re clingy,” you muttered, even as your arms looped around his shoulders like anchors, like reflex.
“you just said you wanted to ruin me. do you hear yourself?”
“i said good, which was not a threat.”
“oh no, it was,” he said, finally pulling back to look at you, and he looked wrecked already, hair a mess, lips bitten pink, cheeks flushed, pupils blown out like he’d seen some divine truth in the curve of your collarbone. “you’re saying things like that while sitting on my lap and half-naked and then acting surprised when i combust.”
“you haven’t combusted yet,” you said, tilting your head, “do i need to try harder?”
his jaw dropped. his hands—those goddamn hands, all heat and reverence and menace—gripped your hips a little tighter, not rough but anchoring, like he needed to confirm you were real and also possibly prevent you from flying off the rails, which was ironic because you were the one currently holding yourself together with a thread and a half.
“okay,” he said, nodding slowly, eyes narrowing like he was processing a new kind of threat. “okay. so this is what we’re doing.”
“what are we doing?”
“you’re playing innocent while literally breaking me.”
“i’m not innocent,” you said, inching forward just slightly, just enough to make his breath hitch in a way that made you feel like you’d grown wings, like maybe you could ruin him if you tried. “i’m just not doing anything.”
“that’s the problem,” he said, and then, like he couldn’t help himself, he leaned in again, lips brushing against your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone, soft kisses dropped like punctuation marks in a letter he hadn’t finished writing. “you’re not doing anything and i’m still losing my fucking mind.”
you reached up, brushed his hair back from his forehead, your fingers sliding into the mess like they belonged there, like they’d always been there. he looked up at you from under his lashes, and it hit you all over again—how stupidly pretty he was, how unfair his face was in this lighting, how every expression on him looked like a confession.
“yuuta,” you whispered, and it wasn’t a warning this time. it wasn’t even a question. it was just his name, soft and unsteady and full of every terrible, wonderful thing you hadn’t had the guts to say before.
“yeah?” he breathed, hands still on your waist, fingers twitching like he was trying so hard not to move.
you kissed him again. because what else could you do? his mouth opened under yours like it had been waiting, like it knew how to respond to your rhythm, your breath, your hunger before you even gave it a name. this kiss was slower, but not gentler. it was deep, exploratory, a little unhinged, teeth catching his lip, your hips shifting against his thighs without permission, and he groaned into your mouth like it surprised him, like the noise escaped before he could trap it.
“fuck,” he gasped when you finally pulled back for air, forehead pressed to yours. “you kiss like you’re trying to make me pass out.”
“good,” you said again, and he made a sound, something between a growl and a laugh and a strangled plea.
“you keep saying that,” he muttered, hands sliding up your sides now, not pushing, not groping, just holding, like he needed the contact, needed the skin-on-skin like it was a lifeline. “and it keeps getting hotter.”
you shivered, not because of the cold—there was none, not here, not with him breathing like that, not with your skin pressed against his, not with your heart trying to climb out of your mouth and build a shrine to his name in the back of your throat—but because of the weight of it. all of it. everything you’d kept hidden between laughter and fake arguments and eye-rolls. it was all out now. and he was still looking at you like you were the best decision he’d ever made.
“what happens now?” you asked, not quite trusting your voice.
he smiled, slow and devastating, one thumb rubbing a line across your waist like he was signing something unspoken.
“whatever you want,” he said. “this—” he kissed the corner of your mouth, “—is yours.” he kissed your jaw, “you call the shots.” kissed the dip under your ear, “you tell me when to stop.”
you leaned into him, breathing fast, laughing a little even though it felt like you were about to cry.
“god, you’re such a dumbass romantic.”
“only for you,” he whispered, and meant it so hard you could feel it in your teeth.
and you believed him. like a fool. like someone ready to fall and call it flying.
you kissed him again. and this time, you didn’t hesitate.
the words slipped out like a crime, like you hadn’t meant to say them but also had meant to say them every second since you walked through his door with that bag of snacks swinging from your wrist like a peace offering and a loaded weapon—your lips grazed his, your mouth half-open from breathless kissing, brain so loud and full of him it almost cracked, and then there it was, out in the air between you, all soft and stupid and sharp at the edges:
“i want to do it.”
it wasn’t seductive. it wasn’t breathy or pornographic or dripping with confidence. it was shy and shaken and maybe even a little too high-pitched, like your body knew what it wanted before your voice had a chance to rehearse. but the second you said it, you felt it click. like the moment when you find a light switch in the dark and flip it without knowing what room you’re in.
he stilled. for once, yuuta didn’t grin. didn’t make a joke. didn’t even blink for a second. his hands were still on your waist, bare skin under his fingers, and his forehead was still against yours, but something in his eyes shifted—some soft, wide-eyed mix of holy-shit and are-you-sure and oh-god-oh-god-oh-fuck.
he swallowed. slow. shallow. said, barely above a whisper, “are you sure?”
you nodded. once. twice. then whispered it too, because it was true now, every part of you humming like a live wire, “yeah. i’m sure.”
and then he kissed you like it was his last chance to memorize the shape of your mouth, slow and deep and gentle in a way that was almost reverent, like you’d said something sacred instead of something horny. his hands moved with the kind of patience that should’ve been illegal, every touch featherlight but confident, and when he finally laid you back onto the bed, his fingers never left your skin—not once. it was less like he was trying to get you naked and more like he was trying to hold you steady while the world spun off its axis.
he made you laugh in the middle of it, too. of course he did. you’d accidentally kneed him in the thigh while trying to scoot back and he made a whole dramatic performance out of it—groaning, falling onto the bed beside you like you’d mortally wounded him, then catching you with one arm and dragging you down with him, both of you breathless and flushed and laughing like the dumbass soulmates you were. he kissed you through it, kissed your laughter, kissed the corners of your mouth like they were the most important coordinates he’d ever mapped.
and when the laughing stopped—when the air got heavy and quiet and full of warmth instead of nerves—it was slow. careful. so gentle you almost cried. hands and mouths and breath, the soft sounds of skin finding skin and hearts beating too fast. nothing about it was polished or poetic. it was awkward and intimate and full of stupid sweetness, little whispered “is this okay?” and “does that feel good?” and “i think i’m dying but in a good way,” and god, it was so real. when it finally happened—when he was inside you, when his breath hitched in your ear and his hand squeezed yours like a lifeline—you realized it wasn’t about perfect. it was about him. about you. about finally getting to say i love you in a language you didn’t know you spoke.
and then, silence.
warm, golden, soft-edged silence, the kind that only came when everything was said and nothing had to be explained.
the room was still. the sheets a little twisted. your legs tangled with his under the blanket he must’ve pulled over you at some point, and your head resting on his chest like it had always meant to live there. you were both still naked, but the air didn’t feel cold—it felt right. safe. like you were inside a bubble that nothing outside the dorm could touch.
his hand was on your back. slow circles. absentminded. your name humming under his breath like a song he didn’t want to forget. you could hear his heart, steady now. solid.
“you’re weirdly quiet,” he murmured eventually, voice low and raspy like he’d been yelling all day when really he’d only been falling in love out loud.
you nuzzled into his collarbone, lips brushing warm skin. “i’m trying to preserve brain cells.”
“did i ruin you that bad?”
“yuuta.”
“don’t lie. i felt your soul leave your body halfway through.”
“i tripped over the blanket and headbutted your chin.”
“exactly. transcendent.”
you laughed. he kissed your temple.
and in the quiet that followed, he whispered, softer this time, “i love you.”
you smiled, eyes closed, body sore in the best way possible.
“i know,” you whispered back. “i felt it.”
and you did.
everywhere. still do.
you laid there in that post-apocalyptic emotional soup of skin-on-skin warmth and sex-brain fog, limbs tangled like a pair of cats that fell asleep mid-fight, the blanket half slipping off one side of the bed like even gravity was too blissed out to care anymore. yuuta’s arm was still looped around your back like a seatbelt he refused to unbuckle, his hand absentmindedly tracing lazy, reverent little lines up and down your spine like he was trying to learn braille from your vertebrae. your face was tucked into the crook of his neck, because of course it was—because it was safe there, stupidly comfortable there, smelled like him there: warm skin and detergent and sweat and something sweet, like caramelized embarrassment. and for a while you just laid there, breathing slow, matching each other’s exhales, letting your pulse learn how to stop breakdancing.
and then your dumbass brain did what it always did in quiet moments.
it started thinking.
you didn’t mean to speak. not really. it started as a thought, then became a hypothetical, then suddenly it was a sound pushing its way out of your mouth without warning, wobbling on the edge of hesitation and a laugh and full-on dread.
“so, um,” you mumbled against his collarbone, lips barely moving, “does this mean you’re, like… my boyfriend?”
he stilled. dramatically. completely. like a lizard who sensed danger. you felt every muscle in his chest lock up under your cheek like you’d just asked him if he believed in god and monogamy in the same breath.
and then: “wait,” he said slowly, blinking up at the ceiling like he’d been personally betrayed by the sudden emergence of consequences. “we didn’t define the relationship before having sex? we’re heathens. we’re criminals. we’re going to moral jail.”
you groaned immediately. “never mind. cancel the question. take it off the table.”
“no, no, you brought the table out. now we’re gonna eat off it. we’re gonna have a whole discourse. with sides.”
“shut up—”
“you shut up,” he shot back, turning to face you properly now, rolling you a little so your leg slid higher over his hip, his hand gripping your thigh like punctuation. “you asked. so let’s unpack. do you want me to be your boyfriend? is this an exclusive, high-stakes, one-man show?”
“you literally said you loved me like five minutes ago.”
“people say crazy things during sex,” he said, eyes wide, clearly holding back a laugh. “i once said ‘let’s go’ in the middle of sex in my dream like i was about to ascend. anything’s possible.”
you slapped his chest. “yuuta. focus.”
he caught your hand before it retreated, laced his fingers through yours, and looked at you with that annoying mix of mockery and affection that made your heart feel like it was doing cartwheels in a minefield.
“you want me to be your boyfriend?” he asked again, quieter now, like maybe he wasn’t entirely joking anymore. “is that what this is?”
you swallowed, suddenly shy again, the post-sex high replaced with an equally stupid rush of panic and oh fuck this is real. “i mean… if you want to. if you don’t already have, like, a girl in every jujutsu region.”
“first of all,” he said, gently squeezing your hand, “you are the only dumbass i’ve ever stripped for. and second, of course i want to. i already am. i’ve been your boyfriend in spirit since the moment you called me a ‘walking restraining order’ and then gave me your last shrimp chip.”
you blinked. “you really consider that the turning point?”
“i fell in love right then,” he said seriously. “i knew you were the one.”
“you’re so full of shit.”
“your boyfriend is full of shit,” he corrected smugly. “say it. call me your boyfriend. do it. you started this, coward.”
you groaned again, burying your face in his neck, which was a mistake because now he was laughing and smug and warm and his stupid heartbeat was right under your ear, reminding you that yes, you loved this idiot. and yes, apparently, he was yours now.
“yuuta,” you muttered.
“say it.”
“you’re my boyfriend,” you grumbled, barely audible.
“louder, babe.”
“you’re my fucking boyfriend,” you said, half-snarling, half-laughing.
he grinned so hard you thought his face might crack. “fuck yeah i am. lock me in. relationship status: unhinged and fully committed.”
“i hate you.”
“you love me.”
“shut up.”
he rolled you both over until he was on top again, elbows on either side of your head, his hair flopping down into your face, and he kissed you quick and messy and happy, like he couldn’t help it, like he didn’t care about breath or rules or what happened next.
when he pulled back, his eyes were shining.
“girlfriend,” he said.
you rolled your eyes. “boyfriend.”
he smirked. “horny and in love. what a time to be alive.”
and then he kissed you again, just to seal the deal, because apparently, that’s what boyfriends do.
The music was too loud or maybe it was just your head.
Everything blurred together—the flashing lights, the laughter, the warmth spreading through your chest that felt a little too heavy to be fun anymore. You didn’t even remember how many cups you had, only that someone handed you one, then another, and suddenly walking felt like trying to balance on air.
“Hey… hey, easy.”
A familiar voice cut through the noise. Firm, steady.
Yuta.
You barely registered how he got there, but his hands were already on your shoulders, grounding you before you tipped forward. Your vision swayed, and when you tried to focus on him, his face doubled.
“Yuta…?” you mumbled, words slurring together. “I’m fine… I think. The floor just… moved.”
“It didn’t,” he said quietly, chuckling slightly at your current condition, his voice already sounding tired in that gentle way he got when he was worried. “You did.”
You laughed weakly at that, but it came out more like a breath. The room spun again, sharper this time, and your stomach dropped.
“I don’t feel good.”
“I know.”
Before you could say anything else, he crouched in front of you slightly. “Come here.”
“What—?”
Your words dissolved into a small noise when he lifted you with ease, one arm under your knees, the other steady at your back. You instinctively grabbed onto his hoodie, clinging without thinking.
“Yuta—!” you whined, voice soft and embarrassed. “People are looking…”
“I don’t care,” he replied, already moving.
And he didn’t.
What mattered more was you're in his arms.
—
The night air was cool, but everything still felt warm.
Too warm.
Your face pressed against his chest, cheek squished against the soft fabric of his hoodie as he walked, steady and careful.
Each step was even. Controlled.
Like he was afraid you’d fall.
“…Yuta,” you murmured, voice muffled.
“Yeah?”
“You smell nice.”
He nearly stumbled.
“…It’s just detergent.”
“Nooo” you dragged out, shifting slightly in his arms..too much that he had to tighten his hold on you. “It’s you. You always smell nice.”
A pause.
“…Thanks,” he said quietly, ears and cheeks feeling warmer than they should, clearly not knowing what to do with that.
You hummed in satisfaction, fingers absentmindedly rubbing against his chest through the fabric. Not really thinking. Just… feeling.
His shoulders tensed.
“Hey—don’t move too much,” he muttered, adjusting his grip again. “You’ll fall.”
“I won’t,” you insisted, even as you leaned closer, practically melting into him. “You won’t drop me.”
“…I won’t, never” he admitted.
Your head tilted up just enough to look at him, though your eyes barely focused. “I trust you.”
That made it worse.
Yuta looked away quickly, jaw tightening just slightly. “…You’re drunk.”
“Mhm,” you agreed easily. “And honest.”
“…That’s not how that works.”
“It is,” you said, nodding like it made perfect sense.
Silence settled for a moment, broken only by his footsteps.
Then—
“I like you.”
He froze.
Not completely.. but enough that his next step faltered.
“…What?”
You frowned slightly, like he was the confusing one. “I said I like you.”
“Yeah, I— I heard you,” he stammered, grip tightening instinctively. “You’re just— you’re drunk. You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” you insisted, louder this time.
Too loud.
A couple passing by glanced over, and Yuta’s ears went red immediately.
“Hey—shh,” he said quickly, lowering his voice. “Not so loud.”
“But it’s true,” you argued, pouting slightly as you shifted again, pressing closer. Your arms slid more securely around his neck now, clinging. “I like you a lot.”
His face was burning now.
“You— you don’t have to say this right now,” he muttered, clearly flustered. “We can just— talk about it later, okay?”
“Nooo,” you whined softly, shaking your head against his shoulder. “You always avoid it.”
“I don’t avoid it!”
“You do,” you insisted, poking weakly at his chest. “Every time I get close, you act like you don’t notice.”
“That’s not—”
You shifted again, this time rubbing your face lightly against his shoulder, nuzzling into him without thinking. “You’re so warm…”
He went completely still for a second.
“…You’re making this really hard.”
You blinked slowly. “What’s hard?”
“…Walking,” he said quickly.
You giggled, completely unconvinced. “Liar.”
His grip tightened again when you shifted, your knee brushing slightly as you adjusted yourself in his arms.
“Stay still,” he said, voice a little strained now, shyer than ever. “Seriously.”
“Make me,” you mumbled, clearly not helping.
“…I am carrying you.”
“That’s not making me,” you argued, though your voice was already getting softer, heavier.
Another few steps passed in silence, though it wasn’t comfortable for him.
Because you didn’t stop.
“I like you,” you repeated, quieter this time, almost drowsy. “You’re always nice to me… even when I’m annoying.”
“You’re not annoying.”
“I am,” you insisted. “But you still take care of me.”
His steps slowed slightly.
“…Of course I do.”
“Why?” you asked, tilting your head again to try and look at him.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Your fingers curled tighter into his hoodie. “Is it because you like me too?”
That did it.
Yuta nearly stopped walking entirely.
“…You should sleep,” he said after a moment, voice softer now, but somehow more affected. “We’ll talk when you’re sober.”
You stared at him for a second longer… then smiled faintly, eyes fluttering.
“…Okay,” you whispered.
But even then, you didn’t let go.
If anything, you curled closer, face tucked into his neck now, breathing evening out as sleep slowly started to take over.
Yuta exhaled quietly, adjusting his hold one last time.
“…You’re really unfair,” he murmured under his breath.
But he didn’t put you down.
Not once.
Maybe Yuta is forgetting that drunk people are the most honest.
yuuta is sensitive. Everything you do has him a flushing mess in seconds.
The way your soft lips connect with his own, gentle yet so passionate. He subconsciously groans whenever you two kiss. His brows pulled together, hands either fisted or gripping your waist.
When your arms snake around his waist to give him a bone crushing hug, his whole body is buzzing with butterflies, he thinks he might throw one up.
Or how your hands grace the hair on the nape of his neck when you guys are making out. He adores the way your lips feel against his neck. Sucking marks and bites all along it, Addams apple bobbing with every lick you leave on his pale skin. He wears his love bites proudly even though you protest to cover them up.
But god does he love when you’re in between his legs. Where he’s the most sensitive of them all.
He breaks into a sweat, panting, face hot as you litter kisses on his inner thighs. His legs involuntarily jumping when you suck marks. Yuuta wears the same expression always. He almost looks as if he’s in pain but you know exactly what that face means. He tries so so hard to conceal his noises once you engulf him in your warm tight mouth. His head thrown back as he melts into the couch.
“Feels—hah—good.” He musters out and you hum, the vibrations further stimulating his cock. Your tongue licking the underside of his lengthy dick as you take him deeper. Your nose hitting his pelvis, he gasps. His hands, rake through your hair.
“Yes, baby, yes.” He whines out.
He’s so fucked out, his mind mush. He lets out the prettiest moan ever when you massage his balls, even going far as to suck them. He whines, his hips bucking into your hand as you suck and suck. Releasing them with a pop, his tongue is practically out of his mouth, panting even harder as he grows closer to his release.
“Mouth honey, please.” He whimpers, his eyes rolling to the back of his head when you comply. You don’t give him time to breathe, taking him in fully.
“F-Fuck! can’t—m’s-sorry!” He moans, his hands gripping your hair tightly. Holding you in place as fucks his dick into your mouth. You gag and the second your throat constricts around him he’s shooting his load into your mouth, hips stuttering as he fucks out his high. Desperate whines and whimpers leaving his mouth.
“Oh baby.” He moans out, coming down from his high. You pull off of him, opening your mouth to show him you took all of it. He chews on his lips. Reaching down to catch just a dribble of his cum with his thumb, shoving it in your mouth.
“You’re so perfect.” He huffs out, eyes lidded as you suck his thumb. You rest your head on his thigh, hands feeling his toned body greedily.
Yuuta was sensitive, especially when it came to you.
★ the school's star volleyball player is struggling keep her grades up. her friends are kind enough to help her get a tutor.. but it turns out to be her ex boyfriend. what happens when she and yuta cross paths a second time?
★ tutor/tutee with a TWIST, implied nobamaki and itafushi, extremely self indulgent, volleyball knowledge, trying to be funny, foul language, pole vaulter maki
larp city we owe megumi $150
★ rotation 1 - psychosis
★ rotation 2 - certified opp
★ rotation 3 - to your advantage
★ rotation 4 - can't say no
★ rotation 5 - back then
★ rotation 6 - born to fly
★ rotation 7 - whip supreme
★ rotation 8 - remind you
★ rotation 9 - cupcakes and unicorns
★ rotation 10 - in a crunch
★ rotation 11 - sidetracked
★ a/n! Guys i'm so excited to write this i'm so sorry it's SO self indulgent i miss playing volleyball so much. i'm coping with this. I HOPE IT GETS LOVE athlete reader is always my favorite :p ALSO IM AT 1K LIKES TOTAL HELLO THANK YOU GUYS WTF
NSFW MDNI. how they react to a nice glock for the first time!
n. keeping it short n’ nasty 😏 hope ya like it babes <3
ITADORI YUUJI. his breath hitched, and he couldn’t help but let out a soft whimper. face flushed in pink and forehead drenched in cold sweat already. even from the first second your lips parted around his shaft, you earned a sweet wail from your boyfriend. “a-ah, fuuuckkkk, baby,” your eyes flew open as you felt him jerking his hips forward, a lil’ frantic for your attention, making you chuckle at him. tipping his head backwards every now and then as he begged and moaned desperately.
FUSHIGURO MEGUMI. groans, breathy groans were all you could hear from him. you swirled your tongue around his tip, earning a silent gasp from your boyfriend. his emerald eyes shutting and head thrown back as you drooled over his thick veiny length. “fucking, hng, god,” he grunted, compressing his syllables into groans and biting his lower lips to make the moans sound rough. your movements were deliberate and slow. so you took a long, flat lick down his length before taking it all in again. that's when he couldn't hold it back anymore.
GOJO SATORU. he thought you were the goddamn best with your hollowed cheeks, tongue playing at his cock and gulping him until his tip reached your back as your head bobbed up and down constantly. moans furiously as your lips swallowed him whole, his favorite part when you draw back to lick along the underside of his cock. “mhmmm, so soo gooood for mee,” gojo was completely and utterly lost in the ecstasy of the pleasure. “shiiiit, yeah—just like dat, keep goin’ baby, keep, hng, going..”
YUUTA OKKOTSU. it started when you flicked your tongue around his warm top and took it all in, giving it a short suck with only your naked lips enclosing his cock. yuuta began to squeal and pant heavily as a result of your tongue's vicious movement. "b-baby, don't—ah" tears welled up behind his eyes, and all he could see were the hazy lights that dazzled them. the guy was growing hotter, and the sensitivity down below was pushing him to cry even harder.
