#drift report

[frangipani-wanderlust]

[cybertr0nian]

He's summoning the Autobots. Oh no.

" Crosshairs? Hound? Drift? Bumblebee? We all have had a very rough couple of years on this planet. We've been worn down, we've been left exhausted. However... I believe it best that we allow ourselves a moment of respite! "

" After coming into contact with Kup once again-- we're setting up a party at the warehouse on the edge of the junkyard. There'll be drinks-- yes, that means proper energon for us all to have... snacks, and a lot of partying. "

// @brctherscnce

Bumblebee gave a tilt of his helm, he saw the other bots dancing around he certainly didn't need to be told...after all there could only be two outcomes...a party or they were being attacked and since Optimus wasn't panicking it must have been the former. Still Bumblebee nodded excitedly, yes a party was definitely what everyone needed!

" Ah yes, a party to lift spirits. It is good to know that Kup is still 'kicking' as the humans say. I hope to see him, I certainly admire his experience." he raised a servo to his chin, a grin forming on his face " I would love to have some energon, proper energon."

Crosshairs had already been aware and may have snatched some drinks for himself before the party even started " Hm? Oh yeah party! Sounds awesome so that's what the drinks were for huh? Ops." he's definitely not just drinking as much high grade as possible....listen it's been awhile let him be.

" Hahaha, I can't remember the last party I was at...hmm it's been some time but I used to shred it on the dance floor." Hound reminisces proudly before Crosshairs chuckles " What's so funny?" he huffs casting a glare towards Crosshairs.

" I'm sure the dance floor isn't the only thing you're shredding big guy." the paratrooper laughs. But Hound only rolls his optics " I think you've had one to many drinks."

[bookwyrminspiration]

teacher: *mentions something I can slightly relate to a special interest*

super sonic autism mode: ENGAGED

[zimisnotdrifting]

So I guess I have to either watermark my stuff even heavier, explicitly state what NOT to use my art and designs for on every post, or something, because SOMEONE keeps finding my art and either tracing it or copying it completely, character and all.

And that SOMEONE has been contacted and if that SOMEONE doesn't stop, I'm actually gonna do something I really wish i didn't even have to consider doing (making a callout video)

[notoriousbeing]

hmmmmmmm i wanna cry

[personaiiisms]

@gloryseized asked: [ storm ] sender sees the awful weather conditions outside and insists receiver stay the night and ride it out Prompts for spending the night

He had meant to start heading home a few hours ago, but it had been so long since Ryuji had spent time with Akira that he had just... lost track of it. Time, that was. It wasn't so late that the subways weren't running, but-

The solid crack of thunder that came practically on the heels of the bolt of lightning that lit up the sky were the precursor that came moments before the rainstorm started. There was maybe one or two moments of something close to a gentle patter before it increased in intensity, pounding against the roof and the window of the attic room. There was even a moment where the lights flickered, though they didn't actually go out.

Well. Yet.

Grabbing for his phone, Ryuji had been in the process of texting his mother to ensure he was on his way home when Akira spoke up. "Huh? ... you sure?" It'd definitely save him from having to try to run through the rain, but it felt strangely invasive. While reconnecting with Akira had felt natural, spending the night felt like too much. But on the other hand, refusing what was being offered was also rude and would only make things harder for himself in the long run.

After a long pause Ryuji nodded. The half-written text was deleted and replaced with one confirming he was spending the night at a friend's.

[expedition33]

mannn i didn't realize i need a jig to mod my switch even tho it's unpatched... kinda a bummer but o well. it is definitely not the most imperative thing in my life rn and mostly just a convenience thing

otoh my joycons are drifting SO BAD once again so i put some wd-40 in them which always makes me feel so cool B) B) B)

[tonycries]

Your (Super)Man - N.K.

Synopsis. He’s not a bird. He’s not a plane. He’s…just Nanami Kento from the journalism department. But you have a feeling that Nanami’s hiding a super big secret - and not just the one down there.

Pairing. Nanami Kento x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, Clark Kent! Nanami, SUPERMAN AU, aphrodísiacs, coworkers-to-Iovers, he is a GENTLEMAN, slight víoIence, Itadori cameo, saving people, píning, manhandIing, he is BIG, cervíx kíssing, making it fit, pússydrúnk Nanami, oraI (fem rec.), BRÉEDING, creampíes, cúmplay, spítting, Nanami’s POWERS, matíng presses, face-sítting, buIges, BREAKING THE BED, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 9.7k

A/N. CLARK KENT(O) NANAMI SAVE MEEEE

“There’s just something about him, Shoko.”

“Right…”

You’re flicking a quick roll of your eyes as your coworker continues stealing drowsy sips of her early morning coffee. Well, her fifth of the morning. Grumbling out, “I swear- There’s just something about him that feels so…” Eyes drifting - as they much seemed to do these days - to the man in question. “-different.”

And, listen, Shoko would whole-heartedly prefer the tittering office gossip with you over working on her weeks-late article any day of the week. 

But times like this, she really had no idea whether the two of you were staring - undoubtedly creepily - at the same Nanami Kento. 

That stoic, mild-mannered hire who’d just been freshly accepted into your journalism sector. Tall, seemingly powerful - yet, he acted anything but. A gentle giant with the suspicious patience of a saint even against the worst of editors - honestly, she’s musing, just who was this guy?

“Hm…” Fingers digging into her achy temples as if trying to will away the memory of her upcoming deadlines. And this. “Maybe you just need to get laid. A proper, genuine good f-”

“Shoko.”

And she’s cracking her first laugh of the day, ducking underneath her computer screen with a sigh as Yaga passes by dangerously close. “Well, you were thinking about it. Harlot.”

You’re sighing, too - though for a much different reason, she imagines. 

Gaze narrowing as you finally rip them away from the blond-haired man dwarfing the corporate cubicle opposite the two of you. Bumbling and fixing the glasses on his face for the nth time this hour. “W-well it doesn’t help that he’s hot.”

Shoko’s mere milliseconds away from opening her sharp mouth once more - and you’re mere milliseconds away from wincing at what was surely to fall from them. Before- 

A call of your name.

Ah, saved by the bell - or, your managing editor, more like. Though, you weren’t sure if you’d consider it “saving” when Yaga’s holding out a crisp stack of documents your way. Brows furrowed underneath his sunglasses, he gruffs out, “They finally cleared the pitch for your article on that flower. You’re good to go.”

“O-oh, that’s great. Thank you.” Plastering on a simpering smile on your face, you’re hastily clasping those papers. “I’ll get started on the interviews right away.”

Articles on flower shops weren’t quite the adrenaline-thumping journalism you’d expected to work on when you first joined this company. Initially concocting fantasies about interviewing your city’s nefarious villains or perhaps even…Superman .

But ah, those were just dreams. And it seems that someone here had to report on things like mysterious flower shipments to local florists - which just-so-happened to be you.

You’re pulled out of your pitiful little reverie by another echo of your name. Turning back to Yaga, brows raised. “Yes?”

“And take Nanami with you.”

Oh.

Oh. 

“Ah, sorry you’re paired up with me, Nanami.” You’d be chuckling much, much later when you’d gathered your files and your wits to be stuffed inside an elevator with your coworker. “I’d imagine something like this probably wouldn’t have been your ideal first taste of real journalism.”

Eyes straying anywhere but where you could spy the way the suit buttons over his chest looked like they were about to pop! Nanami was unfairly attractive, even when he was slouched and nervously struggling to meet your eyes with his honeypool ones.

Always known around the rest of the company to be so timid - but you get the feeling that he was being extra jumpy around you.

He’s shaking his head - golden strands of hair curtaining his handsome face. “Please don’t worry. I’m only grateful that you’re taking me with you, I-I promise to try my best not to be a burden, ma’am.”

“Aw, no need to call me that. We’re the same age, after all.” Subtly, you’re mashing the button for the ground floor a few more times. Suddenly reminded of how dizzyingly tiny this space was. How much of it he was occupying. “And I can’t promise that I won’t be a burden, either.”

You’d meant it as a joke - you really did. But after seeing the way that Nanami’s forehead crinkles with a furrow, you almost wish you could take back those words. 

“Anyone would be lucky to have you as a partner.” He’s mumbling - such earnestness dripping from his rich baritone that you can feel your eyes widening a fraction. And Nanami sees it, too. 

“Oh?”

“I mean-” Fingers fumbling to push up his thick-rimmed glasses, he’s tightening his yellow speckled tie almost as if he wished to choke away that burning flush creeping up from the back of his drooped neck and blossoming at the tips of his ears. “Just- just that you’re one of the most c-competent journalists in our company and I’m only honored to be learning from the best and- o-oh, it seems we’re here.” 

It’s a wonder that Nanami noticed - it’s a wonder that you noticed once those metallic doors parted like a curtain to reveal the bustling lobby. Finally here.

He’s holding out the curved end of one big, strong arm, bent at the elbow to show off the straining stretch of his flexing biceps. And you can’t help but ogle. “M-may I?”

It takes you copious seconds of staring at the thoroughly outlined bulge of his sculpted arm for you to finally snap to your senses. And a few more to finally realize what he was asking. 

Something warm and mushy pools in your stomach. Fuck.

Tentatively wrapping your hands around the rock-hard mounds of flesh so that Nanami - ever-the-gentleman - could tenderly escort you out, as if this was a ballroom and not your workplace. 

And you can’t help but think that perhaps you didn’t mind tedious interviews if it went anything like this. 

.

.

.

“So, there’s no sender address?”

“Nope.”

“No date?” 

“Nada.”

“And no postage?” 

“Tch, I wish!”

You’re tapping your trusty pen against the parchment of the notepad, gears wracking in your thoroughly overworked brain. “Mr. Itadori, is there a possibility that this might be a prank?”

Wasuke Itadori shakes his head with a grunt, weathered fingers brushing over the aggressively violet petals of a flower you think looked too bizarre to even be pulled out of your very dreams. He’s tapping the stiff flower once. Twice. 

And you’re gasping when a tiny puff of shimmering pink billows out like a heady cloud. Perfumed. Hypnotizing. A musky vanilla that makes you draw in further, and reminds you of- Eyes peeking over at an aloof Nanami…him. 

“See? Smells jus’ like my wife’s cheap citrus perfume. N’ unless she’s haunting me from beyond the grave as she said she would, it seems too elaborate of a prank ta me. It’s obviously livin’, but I can’t find any information on this flower for the life of me.” The older man crosses his arms, scowling, “Ya have no idea how many times I’ve had ta stop my stupid grandson from trying to eat this thing.”

Humming, you’re jotting down a few notes - fingers tremoring ever-so-slightly at Nanami’s burning gaze right beside you. “Have there been any strange effects on the other flora since you’ve acquired this special flower?”

“Nah, nothing at all- that’s the thing, s’like it’s alien or something. Just showed up at my door one day n’ I dunno what it is.” He’s grouching - and you have to agree. That is strange. 

You’d never heard of any other florist’s receiving this type of strange…gift? 

But you can’t voice anything more before a voice sounds from outside the see-through door, and the man before you clicks his tongue. “Ah! Dammit, that reminds me- my flower vendor’s here already. Excuse me while I step outside, you can throw the lil’ gremlin in with the marigolds if he bothers ya too much.”

You’re holding back a chuckle - honestly, this was nothing like you expected, you think you would have enjoyed this interview regardless. 

Wasuke was a doting grandpa - as much as he may deny it. And his tiny, pink-haired menace of a grandson was positively bouncing off the walls at having official journalists enter the cozy flower shop. Dangling midair off of a closely-observing Nanami’s shoulders with two chubby arms wrapped around the other’s neck.

Though, you certainly weren’t complaining at the sight.

“Hey- pretty lady- mister Nananamin-” Yuji’s squeaking into his ear. “Are you two married?” 

You’re sure that if Wasuke was within earshot he’d have grabbed the child by the scruff of his neck. But, alas, Nanami was beared with none of that mercy. 

Teasing, “Hmm, would you like to answer this, Nanami?”

“No- I mean yes! N-no, this lovely lady and I are not married.” He’s huffing out a low bout of laughter, massive palms barely even having to try to pick up Yuji’s wiggling body. And you can’t stop the way your heart lurches when he’s softly cradling the younger boy in one arm - fuck, you really need to get yourself together.

“Why not?”

And perhaps for the first time since you’ve known him, Nanami Kento looked truly and utterly stunned. Hazel eyes pleading your way, mouth opening and closing a few desperate times. “Well…”

But Yuji only plows on with the oblivious confidence that only comes with being freshly five. “Then, since you’re erm- what was that word Megumi said? Uh- d-divowced, can I marry her?”

Ah.

Giggling behind your palm, you’re almost on the verge of saving your poor coworker. Almost. 

That is, before it happens. 

CRASH!

You can’t hear anything, you can’t feel anything, you can’t see anything - other than a bright, blood red. Fuck- 

“N-Nanami? Yuji?” Your voice is shrill - cracking, and you’re unsure if the way you grimace is because of how utterly pathetic you sound or because of the complete devastation in front of you. “Wh-what…”

Shit. 

Heaps upon heaps of concrete and wrecked pieces of building pile upon what was once the Itadori family flower shop. Flowerpots knocked over, the ceiling crumbling, bright morning sunlight filtering from above to illuminate a thick blanket of swirling dust. 

As if a whirlwind had wrecked it through and caught up you right in the middle of it - purposefully. 

Shit shit shit-

Gasping, heaving to try and scramble your thoughts into one big coherent one - but then instantly regretting it when your entire body wracks with painful coughs. You’re so confused - head churning with exactly what’s happening right now - that you barely even register the large hand soothing over your back.

Your ears ring with a sharp keen, eyes bleary and tinging with black - it hurts. And you’re pressing a hand to your forehead with a hiss. Unbalanced voice on the edges of shattering into a zillion pieces, “What happened- wh-where-”

“Shhh shh shh, you’re going to be alright, darling.”

What? 

Your head snaps up - it’s then that you notice it.

Finally. 

Body tucked safely behind the overarching counter of the flower shop, far from where the sudden impact of something would have hit you. You’re crouched against all the wood and debris that dug uncomfortably into your legs. Your hands tremble - but not just with fear, no, with the tearful cries of a curled-up Yuji snuggling thankfully safely into your body.

All in the arms of…Nanami?

But, wait, no- it was as if it wasn’t him at all. 

Because gone were those heavy glasses framing his pretty face, and you’re blinking your lethargic lids urgently to drink in the stern, serious features they’d left behind. Brows furrowed, plump lips pulled tightly when he’s clenching his jaw, muscles flexing as he’s holding you two tighter - as if subconsciously. 

There was something different about him, something…magnetic, like a flip had just switched on. And you’re definitely blaming the way your head was swimming - but you can’t help but think he looked so hot.

Fuck - now’s not the time.

Soft locks of blond were windswept to slick back, that snug coat of his tattered onto the floor to display an emblazoned logo that you wouldn’t be able to mistake even if you tried. 

“You’re…” you breathe, and it’s a wonder that the syllables come out coherent at all. Jaw falling slack at the glimpses of that familiar skin-tight red and blue suit you’ve seen smeared across every magazine, every news column, and every show these days. “...Superman.”

And it takes a second. Two. 

Until Nanami’s long lashes flutter with a little pant of laughter, a singular thick finger straightening into a shush-ing gesture when he’s smiling down warmly at a sniffling Yuji, “This’ll be our little secret, right?”

“Y-yes!” The little boy hiccups, plump palms scrambling to cover his mouth. And you think you could spy a tiny smile rising through his short fingers. Though it wavers, “Mister Nananamin- I mean- Mister Superman, my grandpa is still outside…”

He’s nodding, “I’ll keep you all safe-” Before turning to you with eyes so scorching that you can feel yourself inch in closer against the stiff fabric of his supersuit. “-all of you.” 

“Ahhh~ touching touching. Didn’t think I’d run into dear ol’ Superman here.” A high, eerie voice rings over the thundering blood pumping to your head, and you’re burying even deeper into Nanami’s sculpted side. “But ah, not to worry, Man of Steel, m’jus’ here to pick up a little lost package of my friend’s so…”

Nanami’s stiffening underneath your touch, and with a slow nod he’s getting up from your little hiding place. 

And if looks could kill - which you knew Superman could do - then the greyish, patched man in front of you wouldn’t have been waltzing in through the utterly destroyed door already. As if he owned the place. Owned all of you. 

“Mahito, we’ve spoken before.” Nanami’s voice was hardened with a growl in a way you’ve never heard. Fuming. “Leave now and no one gets hurt.”

There’s a metallic click! resonating across what was left of the four walls of this shop, as if he was loading some type of gun. But not as you’ve ever known one. 

And Nanami’s eyes narrow with a thick coating of tension when Mahito’s fingers curl around that flower - the exact one you’d come here to interview about in the first place. Plucking it neatly from the vase before crushing the waxy petals between his fingers. 

“You sure ya wanna talk to me like that when you’ve got civilians here, Superman?” Voice airy, delighted. As if he wasn’t currently loading an opening in that specialized gun with the gooey insides of that flower. Before pointing it - right at the bullseye where you were scoured away. “Especially with sweetcheeks here? Don’t think I don’t know how soft ya are for-”

Nanami stretches into an attack-ready position. “So you’re after the innocents again.”

“Ah- no, actually.” Mahito snickers. Snickers. “I’m after you.”

BANG!

It all happens so fast that you’re not even sure if everything’s part of your imagination - whether this is all still a dream. 

Because in the bat of an eye, Mahito has the slightly-glowing barrel of the gun pointed your way. Bursting the counter into nothing but a few shockwaves and shards of plastic. 

And in the bat of much less, Nanami’s shielding you with his entire body, sculptured front glissading against your back, beefy arms curled snugly around your waist. Head tucked over yours to make sure every inch of you is protected, Yuji placed gently at his side. 

Your bleary vision clouds with a familiar fog of pink - dazzling and addictive with that same musky perfume. Was- wasn’t this what Wasuke had shown you earlier?

“Shit! Wh-what the fuck is this?!” You’re hearing off in the distance - or perhaps it was right beside you, you didn’t even know at this point. “That damn Hanami- this isn’t the poison-”

He’s letting off a shiver, before gritting out. One arm holding out to you just as it had in the elevator, the memory hits you with pang. “Y-you two need to get to safety. Now. May I?”

If it weren’t for the hours of droning meetings faced with Nanami, the weeks of trying to get him to speak with you - months of memorizing every syllable that dripped from his pretty lips, then you wouldn’t even have noticed. But you did. 

“W-wait-.” Your throat scratches and struggles to get the words out, matching the shakes in his own tone. “You’re hurt, aren’t you?”

But the only answer you get is a soft, mysterious smile. And the repeated hum - as if you weren’t wrangling yourself around to peek at where he was undoubtedly hit. “No need to worry about me, my love- ah. My first and foremost priority is you two-”

“But you’re hurt.” you’re crying out, gasping when Mahito’s eyes lock with yours. And he leers, knobbly fingers fussing to reset that weapon once more. 

“I know.” Stray tresses of golden flaxen stick to Nanami’s sweat-glimmered forehead like an impromptu crown, and you don’t know how he has it in himself to smile down at you. Cradling Yuji in one arm, and you in the other as if the two of you were easily weightless - you can only gape at the adorable dimple digging into the left corner of his mouth. “Now, hold on tight.”

You do - and you can only blink before your savior is flying. 

Now, you’d always marvelled at the sheer heights that Superman reached on those live newscasts. Wondering just how euphoric it must be to soar through the air, free from every care in the world - well, as much as you could be when the fate of the world rests on your shoulders, at least.

But this? This was heaven.

Wind whipping your face like an icy mask, Yuji’s high peels of laughter tinkling in your ears. You can’t do anything but watch and watch as the demolished flower shop grows smaller. A speck. 

“Oh- oh my god.” You’re whispering thorough scrunched eyes, nails clawing deeply into the mountainous curve of his well-defined deltoid.

And if it hurt, then Nanami didn’t give a single sign. Instead, he’s laughing - quiet, and as delicate at the cottony clouds passing you by. “S’alright, s’alright. Super- Ken’s here. N’ m’not gonna drop you.” You’re cutting through the air so fast - staggeringly - but right now, when Nanami’s boring his eyes into yours, it felt like time itself had stumbled to a stop. He’s pulling you even closer to his powerful body, “I’d never let ya go, darling.”

Yet, when the view of your cozy Metropolis apartment comes into view - you almost whine at the fact that he has to. 

“Don’t you worry about a thing now.” Nanami’s ruffling Yuji’s windblown mop of pink hair - even more tousled with the wind. “I’ll be going, and I’ll keep both you and your grandpa safe.”

And looking at him right now - velvety crimson cape flowing at the wind seeping in through your open window, one arm bulging with muscles as he leans readily against the frame - you wonder how you could’ve ever thought that anyone other than him could be Superman.

“Come back safe.” You’re choking out, hands clasped. “W-we’re still not done with our article…”

“Mhm, you better hold me to that, ma’am.” 

And with that, Superman - Nanami - was zipping through the air at a mach speed that made you realize he was intentionally slowing it down for both you and Yuji on your way here. 

Fingers quivering, it takes you what feels like practically forever to turn your television on - precisely onto a live newstream of how Superman had entered the site of a villain attack. Ready to save. To be a hero. 

Eyes locked mindlessly on the tiny blimp of red and blue onscreen, you cuddle a fidgety Yuji on the bouncy cushions of your sofa. For your jittery nerves just as much as his. “Your husband is so cool, lady- he’s Superman! Oh- whoops, shhhh! Tha’s a secret though…”

“Yeah…” you’re breathing out. “Yeah, he is cool, isn’t he?”

.

.

.

Forty-five saved, three buildings wrecked, and one injured. 

One injured - him.

Though, Nanami wouldn’t quite count himself with any civilians injured or…worse. He never quite does. 

But, oh, it was so hard not to when the first thing he’s peeling back that hazy layer of fatigue in his eyes is you - you, you, you. In all your glorious self, big, pearlescent tears spilling down your pretty cheeks and splattering in tiny puddles onto his bare chest. 

His bare, bandaged chest. 

And for a second, powers set aside, Nanami thinks he might just have died and reached heaven. How fitting that the angels looked like you. 

Voice hoarse as he’s muttering his first few words, “Are- are you alright?”

“-stupid. Asking about m-me when you’re the one hurt. Didn’t even-” Your sobs garble out into words, and you’re half-heartedly hitting your fist against the unbandaged part of Nanami’s skin. “Don’t you ever do that again- you had me- so worried.”

Ah, he’d won the fight - and he finally felt like it.

Silently, he makes quick work abandoning those delicate bandages of yours - a strange part of him almost hurt to unravel your work like this. To unravel nothing but silken, unblemished skin after hours of healing abilities.

Though, Nanami gives all the credit to your care, anyway.

Warm fingers cup your head to nuzzle your clammy face against the crook of his neck. Practically draped over your bed and onto his body now, and you could feel his burning skin, smell those musky pheromones of his. “Got it got it, I won’t be scaring you like that again.”

“Th-the neighbors were so worried when you just showed up all injured n’ half-fainting at my window, y’know? I had to bribe them to be quiet with a few of the flowers that Yuji’s grandpa left.” You’re muttering, more to fill the strangely thickening silence than anything. 

“Ah, tell- tell Mr. Itadori that I will have his shop reconstructed by the end of this week.” He’s whispering, voice so strained that you had to crane your head to hear him - close. “Was Yuji doing alright?”

“Mhm, never been better, apparently. He just left with his grandpa, and they invited us over for dinner before…” Brows furrowing, words withering away on your tongue at the agonized knit in his brow. There was something…different. “Are- are you really okay, Kento?”

Nanami doesn’t comment about that use of his first name - nor does he embarrassingly babble out how it might just be his new favorite song now. 

He can’t.

Because Nanami was panting - groaning. Pearly whites clenched so hard that you think you could hear them creak. 

There was a strange simmering flush creeping up his body, staining it such a delicious strawberry pink that made your mouth water- or maybe that was just the emanating clouds of vanilla musk saturating your lungs. Clinging onto Nanami’s body like a dripping second skin-

“I…” he’s gulping, half-lidded eyes shifting away from yours like he couldn’t even bear to look at you right now. Didn’t know what he would do. “-my apologies. But what that fucker- ah- excuse my language. What Mahito hit me with seems to not have been a poison, as I had thought. Rather, now that it’s finally spread through my body, I feel it’s something else entirely… ” 

“What is it- does it hurt?”

“It seems to be…” Gesturing wildly with his hands, careful not to jostle you. “-an aphrodisiac…of sorts.”

You’re letting your lips part, “Oh. Wait- ‘of sorts?’”

And ah, there was the timid Kento you knew. He could never lie to you. “It- itseemstoonlyaffectthoseinlove- B-but my healing abilities are working and-” Nanami’s sitting up faster than you could blink. Words running a mile-a-minute, “-and I shall leave in case you feel uncomfortable with me here-”

“Why would you leave?” It’s slipping between your lips before you can register. Still mulling over those previous words - they explained. A lot. 

Nanami stills, hands clasped around those creamy blankets he was flinging off, sure to disappear into the starry night. “P-pardon?”

Well, fuck. 

You’re steeling your gaze - you’ve waited this long. And if there was anything about Nanami’s afflicted aphrodisiac, it was that it was contagious.

Making you breathe in a heavy gulp of candied air, “Aphrodisiac, huh? I’ve read about those, and don’t you think that since you saved me-” Slowly - ever-so-slowly dragging your hands to rest on his smooth shoulders, faces inches away. “-it’s only fair that I help? Besides…I can smell it too.”

Oh, he gasps. A confession if any.

Fingers tangling through those damp locks. “But if- if you get tangled up with me- who knows what other villains will come after you. I might’ve taken down Mahito today, but Kenjaku is still out there. And I have to keep ya safe.”

“Well who’s going to keep you safe?” You scoff, refusing - rejecting - to relent.

“I don’t need to be safe if it means that I can keep that beautiful smile on your face everyday.” And maybe it was the aphrodisiac, maybe it was how close you were to him in this dimly heady lightning, but Nanami didn’t seem like he meant to say that out loud. Not at all. 

Basking in your spellbound silence. “My love…feel this?” He’s clasping one hand around your own, letting you rover a greedy grope of his plush pecs - his heartbeat. Thundering. Frighteningly so. “Th-this isn’t any old aphrodisiac, especially considering me.”

“And?”

“And that means, darling-” But he was, too, just as much. “That m’gonna want ya…need ya. So badly and fuck! M’gonna make ya forget what it feels like without me…” One rounded index trailing up, up, up to about halfway up your tummy. “-here.”

You’re shuddering, taking in deep gulps of that electric air. “...A-and?”

He’s jerking you forwards with a mere fraction of that superhuman strength to splay your body over his towering one. Face lolling into the cushiony valley of his pecs, legs straddling that slutty waist of his in a way that made you shy. Right on top of his drenched boxers. That needy spot between your legs heating up just as much as his condensing breath did on your skin. “I can’t promise that when I fuck you, I won’t break you.”

Fuck. Was this really the same, adorably feeble Nanami Kento from work? You weren’t sure, but you knew one way to find out…

“I’ll…hold you to that.”

But before he was Superman, he was Nanami Kento from the journalism department. And who was Nanami Kento against you?

“Such a stubborn girl.” You’re being surprised with a sudden implanting of his thick set of fingers leaving a sudden swat on your ass, voice teetering on what almost sounded like a growl. “But you’re mine, aren’tcha?”

Your fingers dapple along the sweat-dampened little curls of blond at the sexy edge of his undercut. And it seemed like the more the aphrodisiac boiled into his veins, the more and more he burned feverishly. 

Senses superhuman but already heightening with the coarse need glossing his brain - he could practically taste your arousal. 

Panting. Charming maw falling parted to mist you own with such rousing puffs of his scent, “Kiss me. Please- kiss me.”

And- fuck, Nanami kisses like he couldn’t get enough of you.

Was absolutely drunk with just a simple slide of his pursed mouth against your own, from a tender little peck until he only got greedier and greedier-

“Mmmm-” Rasping grunts curdle at the back of his throat, slurring into a low whine when he’s wrenching a splayed-out hand onto your scalp and dragging you away. Manhandling. Sultry sucks being left on the tenderest spots of your throat, sure to make the office talk tomorrow. “Can feel how fuckin’ wet ya are f’me already, darlin’. S’this the aphrodisiac or you?”

God, it was so embarrassing. 

That silky little puddle of your reflective slick was flooding from between your flimsy panties to press gluey little smooches against his manspread front. 

You’re mumbling, words stumbling over one another when your hips peek in to seat just above that swollen crown of his cock. Already rock-hard. “Y-you don’t have to say it out loud.”

You barely even realize how you’re slipping and sliding in needy little gyrations of your hips before Nanami’s putting a shuddering halt to it. One rude hand curling around that perfect curvature of your waist, he’s snickering at how you’re letting off a thoroughly disappointed whine. “My apologies, but s’hard f’me to act like a hah- gentleman when ya have such gorgeous lips…” He’s chuckling out - humorless, parking one big thumb against the corner of your mouth. “These ones, too.” 

He couldn’t even finish his sentence - couldn’t even finish his thought.

Not before bruising your lips with some of the filthiest little sucks on your lower lip - like he’d simply gone way too long without kissing you. Once. Twice. Again and again and-

“O-oh!”  Your hands scramble to find purchase up on his broad shoulders when he’s darting down one fat thumb to paint with all your silvery pussy slick. Drawing slow meshes of circles on your soppy slit up and down up and down up and- “N-Nanami-”

“Kento.” He’s cutting you off with a fracturing furrow of his brows, “We’re way past last names, don’tcha think, my love?”

Oh, that sweetly rugged tone stirred up something inside you that made you want Nanami now now now.

“Oh? S’that so?” Ravenous edges of his fingers pulling aside your sticky panties to the side to sidle in with one thick drag of his digits, they’re being lacquered with such a heavy layer of your sweet, sweet juices that Nanami can’t help but drag his fingerpads upwards to sniff. To suck one by one. Sweet. “You’re heh- babblin’ cute nonsense, but fuuuuck this cute cunt is talkin’ ta me even filthier.”

In such sappy awe at the way your puffy pussy flaps were sugarcoating him all the way down till Nanami was dripping at the wrist. Metallic wristwatch from work all shiny and ruined-

“Need you t-to touch me inside, Ken–” you’re huffing, circling lazy grinds across his roughened hands. “Please?”

“Anythin’ for my girl.”

And Nanami’s giving your ass another good thwack! of his palm, feeling the vibrato of delicious jiggles before hauling your entire body higher and higher. Letting his back hit the silken sheets of your bed within a fluid motion, before you even know it you’re hovering your clothed cunt over his swelteringly fevered mouth. 

Just one sudden move and you’d be riding his face - exactly what Nanami wanted right now. Yearned. 

“Oh- wait-” You’re startling, fingers fumbling with that tight pencil skirt you’d worn to work specifically for him to see. “Didn’t take this-”

“Not a problem.” He’s grunting, only looking up with droopy eyes at where you’re straddling his handsome face, decorated with tawny strands of hair when he’s grinning. Thick fingers clasping onto the hem at your waist, “Hold on tight n’ show me that pretty pussy.”

RIIIIIP–!

Your skirt is on the floor, torn through like butter - your blouse and bra soon to follow. Impatient. And it’s only once Nanami’s done savoring that sweet embarrassment wafting off of you, the way your drenched pussymound smells so sugary sweet - does he even consider freeing you of them.

He’s scrunching up the sodden wet fabric into a little treasure hidden underneath your pillow - something for him later…

And you’re even wetter than usual, that contagious spell of aphrodisiac making your eyes glaze with sheer need. 

“Aw, look at thaaaat.” Nanami’s breathing - enchanting. The curves of his lips lifting into a smirk at the way your dripping slit treacles a fresh coating of slick all down his tongue, letting it sliiiide a lazy trailway to hit the back of his scratchy tastebuds. “Atta girl, b-better be taking all of me if yer that eager, hm?”

And Nanami is so needy - he’s so desperate to have your clingy pussy make a mess all over his face as soon as possible. 

Breathing in like some pervert to take in your perfumed scent. Reaching up to smear a wet glissade of his lips down your own, and you think that it might just be the filthiest French snog that anyone has ever placed on you. The buttoned edge of his nose mushes against your peeked clit so harshly. 

He’s blazing, cock thumping for more- With a low, heated whistle, he’s nuzzling his sweat-glossed forehead up against your moistened inner thigh. Layers upon layers of your slick coveting his features and stinging delicate little ropes that connect his maw to your cunt.

“Mmm- fuckin’ sweet- fuckin’ hot–” Nanami keens out, pillowy palms spreading your legs so comfortably apart until you felt like he was cracking you open. “C’mon now, sit your f-full weight on me, my love.”

You’re sputtering, thighs all achy with fatigue. “B-but-”

“Darling…” Nanami’s smiling, eyes crinkling adorably at the corners. “Not to be conceited - forgive my tone - but I’m Superman. N’ if there was any way m’to die, then it would be right between these pretty legs of yours.”

And you didn’t know whether it was the fumes of vanilla aphrodisiac taking over his melty brain completely because Nanami was ruthless. 

Your dear, sweet coworker was kissing the very edges of your bloated cunt with one of his oversized fingers. Sifting through to draw numerous innocent hearts on your sensitive clit, before plunging down,down, down-

“Ah!” You’re yelping at the stinging stretch of his souring fingerpads, swirling in mushy little gyrations around and around your elastic entrance. Extra sensitive right now- damn that flower. “H-how is your finger already feeling so…”

“Good? Does my heh- good girl like this?” He’s cooing up at you, feeling your gloopy cunt with such copious inches of his long hands. 

And with such staggering fingers you could only imagine how big he’d be down there…

SWAT!

“Aww, don’t space out already. Wanna hear those p-pretty moans even longer-” The jutting pout of Nanami’s oh-so-cute lower lip smudges against your saturated clit. Tingling and hot when he tilts his head to bite. “‘Sides, how are ya gonna f-fit my cock if this is too big, hm?”

You’re holding back a wrecked whimper when he’s chancing another rummaging finger to part your pursed pussy lips. Ramming up and down to drag a sultry stripe across every nook and gummy ridge, to feel for- 

“F-fuck-” Head throwing back, your spine arches into a tight little bow that slops the entirety of your cunt down onto Nanami’s eagerly awaiting mouth. “There- there there there- don’ stop, Kentooo.”

He’s been waiting for this forever. And he was going to get his fill. 

And you could feel the way his mouth curled into a flirty smile, the back of his sharp chin slathered against the very back of where you needed him the most. 

“Mhm– Not gonna let ya go-” As if to prove his point, one free hand is all it takes for him to latch onto your waist and pin you to ride his face with reckless abandon. Exactly how he wanted it. “Wanna marry ya- be mine- please-” Because Nanami Kento didn’t want to move an inch - couldn’t bear parting with the exact sweet treat that’s haunted his most lecherous dreams since the day he fucking met you. “-never- ah- never after th-this.”

Such pretty, pretty melodies resonate out every time Nanami’s slobbering honeyed flurries of sucks and kisses onto your cunt - and not just from between your lips.

No, your teary pussymound was so loud with wiry sploshes of sap. And he simply can’t help himself from nodding his head with every waterlogged swash - as if he was having a full fucking conversation.

“S’right- m’wife’s always so right aren’tcha-” Nanami’s rawly drenched fingers pump outside - just for a split-second - to pap! pap! pap! his calloused pads on that syrupy little stud of your clit before curling his fingers into his mouth and sucking. Cleaning himself off. “Sh-should hear what yer gorgeous pussy’s been hah- sayin’- such a talkative girl, isn’t she?”

And those drunken chestnut eyes of his were just pleading - begging - for you to babble out, “Wh-what is she saying, Ken?”

“She’s sayin’- boasting, actually…” he’s drawling off, and with just how utterly fucked that Nanami looked right now, you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d lost his train of thought. Giggling - giggling out, “-that she can take three.”

He was determined to prove it to you.

To swell your adhesive walls open with three of his pulpy fingers until you felt like you were going to burst. Those thickset globular ends of his digits reaching for that precious little bullseye of your cunt - he’s caressing you lovingly from the inside.

Over and over back and forth in maddening crawls until you were halfway through sobbing. And a primal itch inside him purrs at the sight of those prettily glistening tears in your eyes.

Ah, you looked so gorgeous riding his face like this - and, really, it wasn’t Nanami’s fault that his mouth felt a little left out…was it?

“B-both?” You’re dawdling your limp arms precariously onto the mahogany headboard - something that lasts for a generous two seconds before he’s unlatching your hands to dig harshly into his prespired tug. Firm arm around your first nudging you to pull- “You’re seriously gonna t-try n’ fit both?”

Both being the way that Nanami’s overfilling your snug channel with the dual penetration of his long, extra-sensitive tongue. 

Hissing with a slightly feral snarl marring those features when your tight hole won’t give way, Nanami’s bumping his nose against your sensitive nub with shy pecks once. Twice. Thrice to bully his feverish muscle inside.

“H-hngh—” he’s groaning at the tugging squeeze of your rubbery cunt. Stray fingers scissoring open your gluey walls, “Need ya to m-milk my tongue- know you can- ah! Gonna take it like my good girl, aren’tcha?” 

And it happens all at once.

You don’t know what you’re more surprised at - the way that he’s somehow managing to wedge in that sugarcoated drive of his tongue, or the way that you’re cumming.

Your own high taking you by surprise - taking all but Nanami by surprise. 

And you’ve never felt anything like this before, eyes flashing with white-hot stars. 

They’re burning into your brain and rendering you absolutely stupid with every bludgeon of his fingers into your gooey depths. So fast and hard that you can feel the recoil from your bulging g-spot sprinting in cratering vibrations down your spine.

“Nana- Ken-ohhh fuck!” Your mouth drivels away mindlessly, the euphoria so good that you can feel pools of dribble spilling from the corners of your lips with every grind. Thighs quaking, somehow wanting more- shit, seems the aphrodisiac won’t be done after just one…“M’cumming- ngh- m’cumming m’c-cumming.”

“Mhmmm- already know.” Words sinking down into what almost sounds like whines, and Nanami almost feels like he could cum in his pants. “Come now- pull on m’hair n’ r-ride me through that pretty high.” Filthy. Depraved. He’s curling the deliciously gravely tastebuds on his tongue to lap up every one of your knotted waves of slick, letting viscous wad after wad hit the back of his throat with a lewd splat!. “H-hehhh. Chatty pussy- y’know what else she’s sayin’?”

Shit- the idea makes your fingers nimbly pull at Nanami’s soft strands until he’s wafting out a low atta giiirl. Mumbling through croaking moans that just won’t stop dropping from your lips, “Wh-ngh! what?”

“She’s hngh- saying…” Yeah, it wasn’t the aphrodisiac - it definitely wasn’t the aphrodisiac that had him losing his fucking mind like this. It was you. “-that yer gonna g-give me another biiiig one very soon.”

Oh.

That wasn’t a promise - Nanami didn’t have to promise that. 

Because he was so intoxicated by that caramel scent sticking to you. Increasing twofold when with a sodden swat! down your bawling slit, you’re being stretched out with three of his digits until you were wide agape. Embarrassingly, so.

But not for Nanami - with a tantalized loll of his head into the silk-covered pillows, he’s gifting your sloppy entrance with a thick wad of saliva. 

As if the need was infectious - that orbed mass of spit flooding the inside of your cozy pussy just before his tongue is. 

“Ngh- s-so hot- ya like that new lipstain, my love?” He’s gulping down the excess slushes of your slick with every thrust past your glutinous walls, hard. Sloppy. Making such a mess on purpose, because for all how straightlaced Nanami was - all that shattered when it came to you. “-s-so sweet. Ah- h-hold my hand if s’too much, darling.”

“Feels so s-sensitive but…” Your jaw drops into a soft oh! when his rugged tongue drags over the globed bruises of his fingertips inside. Fingers scrambling for his free ones in midair, “-but I want more, Kentooo-”

With the leverage on your hand, he’s helping your burning thighs manage out a few more soppy strokes up and down. 

Your head is so dizzy by now, and you can barely see straight. Barely stumble to match every sopping smooch being punished upon your overwhelmed pussy. “Look so pretty like this- So tight- so cute. Probably c-couldn’t even ngh- fit my tip this way.”

“S-so mean.”

“I’d be nice if ya- hngh- spit in my mouth.”

Gasping, “Like this?”  But you didn’t even have to ask - you knew the answer in Nanami’s eyes, in the way he was smearing your pussy lips thoroughly ajar. In the way his dilated pupils run all the way to the back of his lips when you do. 

Your greedy gaze dazes back down to take in that heavenly sight of him - and you almost wish that you still had your camera for the article today with you. Because this was a sight you wanted to remember forever and ever. 

He’s so pretty with his golden locks splayed out like an angelic halo on the pillowcase below, clammy skin flushed rose red, swollen lips coral pink and gumming over your gluey ones like it was his favorite candy. Sucking. Even harder at the sloshes of translucent sap that laminated his face down to his chin, his neck, and all the way up to his cheekbones. 

Thighs stuttering and sticking with every grind on top of his face, it’s all you can do to manage out a pitchy, “Think I might just- K-Ken–”

He’s swirling up a lazy few fingertips to your needy clit and pinching. “-cum all over m’face again, my girl.”

You do. You do like you can’t stop.

And he’s supping up every draining burble of your flooding slick like it was an antidote to this little ah…indisposition. 

He says so, too - gurgling out wet little scientific explanations into your cunt that make your high peak with orgasms upon orgasms. Your second, third, and forth meshing into one to make you practically convulse. Nanami’s forced to dig his fingers into the plush of your thighs to stop you from escaping. 

And the question about whether this was part of his powers is halfway out of your mouth before Nanami’s leaving off a final swat! again your drooling pussy.

Chuckling - crazed - at the wispy sprays of juices that makes you gush out. 

“C’mon now, do those legs s-still work?” Nanami can’t hide the way that his deep voice wobbles into what almost sounds like a laugh. High. 

You’re being ragdolled with a squelching pop! off of his heated mouth and easily lifted to take his third favorite seat of yours - his lap. The second being his mouth, and the first- well, it was sure to be his thoroughly achy, angry cock right about now. 

“Ken-”

Nanami couldn’t bear to hear his name in your sweet, whimpering tone - he just couldn’t. Shutting you up with a slow slide of a kiss, “Yeahhh, darlin’...kiss me- more. Lick it allll up.”

“D-didn’t think you’d be so dirty…” you’re gasping, when his tongue pries your slagging maw open to once more spit. Sweet. Caramelized. 

“Oh, my pretty girl…” Two of his soppingly wet fingers smush your cheeks into a pathetic pout, “You haven’t seen dirty just yet. Now- spit back in m-my mouth, why don’tcha?”

You do - splattering a messy mark right at that adorable dimple of his with your messy aim. But he loves it - it was so sweet. Darting out a tongue to extract back all those sugary remnants before giving you one, final French kiss. 

Begging in that growling way of his, “Whaddya- whaddya want from me- I’ll give ya anything- anything-” Both arms looping your waist to plaster your sweaty front into his Herculean one, you have to hold back a keen at how your hardened nipples massage against his pecs. 

But, most of all, what you could feel - what you so badly wanted to feel - was that long, thick outline that jerked once you glide away sweaty strands of Nanami’s hair. Desperate. 

“Wan’ your cock, Kento.” You were way past feeling any sort of embarrassment now. Winding your arms around his sculpted shoulders, “N-need you ngh- inside me. Now.”

Of course, whatever you wanted - Nanami Kento would give.

He’s tugging down on the elastic waistband of those too-tight boxers, and your ears burn with the saturated schwf! of soaked fabric on skin. And that superhero suit…did not do him justice. 

Nanami’s slouching back on one arm when you’re oh-so-impatiently helping him kick off that useless piece of fabric. Head tilting with an uncharacteristically cocky smirk, “Like what you ah- see, hm?”

Shit, did you ever. 

Because it’s always the quiet ones - always. 

And with your seat position right at the thick, globular mushroom tip of Nanami’s cock, you knew that he’d be packing a staggering few inches. The mere outline of it puckering up against your pussyflaps enough to get you to gulp with nervousness.

But this? This had your jaw dropping. 

Fingers trailing down that lightly fleeced copper happy trail of his in utter disbelief. Because not only was Nanami Kento big - he was big. 

Swollen, glistening near-nine inches that jerked at the vulgar size difference of your digits struggling to wrap around his ridiculous girth. Nestled against bulky breeder balls rounded and weighing heavily underneath his strawberry pink length. He seemed even harder than usual - and it was all for you.

Fuck, that aphrodisiac. This was all for his gorgeous (future) wife.

Lazily drooling out a thick few wads of pearly pre that butters over your fingerpads, and just a simple touch - just one drag of his sweltering hot length makes Nanami whimper-

“O-oh- yeahhh- brace yerself, my girl.” He’s letting his head tumble back with a groan, heavy-handed arms guiding to the fleshy mound of your waist. “Gonna be ah- ruinin’ this pretty cunt-”

Nanami’s making you mewl with a welcoming little thwack! of his plumply bloated cockhead against your puffed-up pussy lips. Making your creaky bedframe sing out a few protests. Stirring out a staccato of one - two - three before finally - finally - slipping right between that pursed pout. 

CRASH!

An overwhelmed hand of his grips your headboard the moment he’s pushing and pushing - only to have the strong mahogany break underneath his superstrength. Damn, these powers.

“Awww, look how much yer drooling-” Nanami’s hiccuping with every tiny clench of your gummy walls around that cylindrical intrusion. A mean few fingertips so ferally smearing over the rings upon rings of saturated sap your cunt was slobbering all over his hefty base. Drawing a foggy line with them over your tummy, “G-gonna be riiiight here…h-heh.”

And maybe it was best that your dear Nanami was talking to, well, her. Because just the simple stretch that came with his fattened tip was enough to render you spellbound. 

“Nana-”

Smack! “Mhm? M’here, m’here, your dear hngh! Kento is here.”

“Kento- oh my goood-” Nonsensical syllables drooling from your lips and readily available for Nanami to kiss away. Your head slags drunkenly into the crook of his neck with each sinking inch, “S-s’so big, dunno if it’ll even ah- fit.”

“Shhh, s’gonna fit. Deep breaths…deep breaths.” 

You’re echoing, trying to time your stumbling gasps to match his. Backfiring when you only obtain lungfuls of his masculine scent, ‘D-deep breaths?“

“Mhmm- deep-” Oh, but even he wasn’t immune to the cloggy clamp of your pussy that had Nanami rutting. “Whoops.” One of his powerful forearms showcase in front of your narrowed vision, ogling all the pumped veins and rippling muscles. “C’mon- bite.”

You’re listening without a second thought, teeth sinking into the smooth skin - gurgling back tiny sobs at the sheer stretch. It felt like you were being split apart. 

He’s rolling his tips upwards, glissading you in a cozy massage against the ridges of his sweat-shielded abs. “M’gonna make it- duh. Look at me-” Dextrous fingers curling around your throat to make your woozy gaze focus on him, “Yeah- yeah. Look riiiight at me wh-when I ah- ”

And it takes only the tiniest probe of his thumpingly peaked veins bludgeoning against your tender walls, fuming divot bawling out a few geysers of creamy precum that fill you up scorchingly.

It takes only that for you to cum with an unstable shudder, moans piling on top of moans. You’re digging your fingerpads into Nanami’s damp scalp and pulling when you cum for the nth time on his cock.

You didn’t even know how you were cumming again - why, but you had a feeling that the thickening perfume of vanilla and candy in the room had something to do with it…

“C-cummin’ from jus’ the ah- tip? Seriously?” Nanami’s breathing, chest heaving with awe. Pushing and pushing away the heavy strands of his blond hair just to see you. And the urgent motions only make your pussy slide down even more, spearheading his lusciously right-leaning curve up into your gooey placeholders. “Really are jus- ah- made f’me- really ah! So perfect. So, so perfect.”

You’re watching his huffs turn heated, “Mmm- wanted you to f-fuck me like this ever since I was- ngh at the office.”

“Ohhh what a coincidence.” He grins - grins. “I’ve wan’ed to fuck ya like ah- this, since I first s-saw ya. Woulda fucked ya right then n’ there in your pretty lil’ cubicle if I ah- could.”

Crying out, “More- more more more-”

“Jus’ another inch-” Nose crinkling at the gripping resistance of your tight entrance, you were so slicked-up that you were practically flooding him with delirious puddles of resin. His fat thumb smears open your lips, “S-see? Juuuus a lil’ more-”

Oh…fuck.

He was finally- wait. No, this had to be a dream, right?

“Wait- shiiit- did you seriously-” He’s stuttering - stuttering exactly the way he used to back in the office. Back in his disguise. “Seriously…think ya deserve a little r-reward for that, right?”

Your reward just-so-happened to be another treacly wad of saliva being blasted onto your tongue. And by now you’re doing nothing but letting it easily be swallowed up with a cockdrunk smile. “God, m’feelin’ so hngh! full— c-can feel ya right- here-” 

Every jackhammer bullied up into your goopy orifice had Nanami wrecking you from the inside. His crowned, rotund tip prying open those stickily sweet walls of yours, barely even having to try to stir up a wet wipe against your poor cervix. 

“Feel me right-” One softened palm splays down across your tummy. Hard. Feeling for that tenderizing whack of his thickly tip into your most precious spots. “-here, huh? Yeahhh- f-feel that bump- touch it. Gonna c-carve out a fuckin’ ngh- cute lil’ bruise right here.” 

“P-please.”

And then, with a heady drawl of laughter, Nanami’s dredging out his tired tongue to lick over your rapid pulse like he wanted to bite. Palms still groping that orbed bulge, “Y-you wouldn’t believe what this- ngh- this is makin’ me think…”

Ever-so-curious, even when you’re being fucked stupid like this. “Wh-what?”

Earning you another few vicious ruts into your g-spot, a few thin lines of drool waterfall past his lips. Almost as if the very thought is enough to make him light-headed. 

“Jus’ thought a-about how yer always so ngh- pretty.” Muttering low and frantic with every bounce on his painfully hard cock, like he didn’t even want to admit this pussydrunk nonsense. But couldn’t stop. “So pretty when you were handlin’ Yuji today. Pretty when yer all ah- overstuffed with my cock b-but…you’d make an even prettier mama, though.”

Oh. 

A mama - Nanami Kento wanted to make you mama. 

And he was pressurizing you with pound after pound drilling into your melty depths until you were sure that you were molded around his shape. That mountainous curve of his crownhead striking every bullseyed sweet spot.

“Wan’ it-” Your legs wrangle around his slender waist, heels digging into the pretty dimples at the bottom of his spine. “Want you to f-fill me up so ngh- badly, Kento.”

“S-seriously?” Your words so distracting that it has his riotous cock drilling hard into that spot and skidding away in increasingly sappy thrashes against your battered and bruised cervix. Jaw clenching, “Really wan’ me fuckin’ this cute cunt hngh- p-pregnant, darling?”

Making you only nod and nod and nod-

“Yeahhh- anythin’ my girl ah- wants, huh?” He’s tittering at how adorably your hips were slurring out the tiniest of grinds. Up and down up and down - failing to meet his sloppy cadence, but angling your hips to use him. “N’ right now- all I wan’ is you all ah- round and fuuuuull.”

And it wasn’t just the aphrodisiac talking. 

You were beginning to overspill already, the flooded torrentials of his slushy precum seeping from the pouty ends of your slippery slit. You’re moping down his length with such humid tufts of juices, “Cum in me- please- need you to- now.”

“Mama didn’t teach ya ah- patience, my girl?” 

And despite his words, he’s falling back to lounge so sexily against the dampened sheets. Close - he could feel it in the snaking heat at the bottom of his stomach that he was so very close. 

Losing his faint grip on his power, Nanami’s clenching and balling his fists to stop from soiling permanent marks all over your body. Mind shattering. Your bedsprings bursting. Teeth gritting to stop him losing control-

Voice breaking into a few whimpers when he finally utters, “S-s’alright- greedy girl.” Before palming one hand onto the bloated budge of his length, the other swirling over your tearily overstimulated clit and tweaking. “-I can be th-the heh- strict parent.”

Oh, at this point, your orgasm is more a few heavenly tingles than anything else. 

Stimulating your most fragile of pummeled crevices, you’re feeling warm, thick goblets of Nanami’s cum swash in a sticky wave. And there’s so much of it - extra with his condition right now, spurting out ribbony ropes of sickly sweet cum with every squeeze of his bulky balls.

Those knotted wads of ivory are filling you up until your gummy walls were inflating, thunking out a little wet spot at your cervix. Something that he can’t help but keen over a few fat digits and push to make a splashing mess. “Gonna get ya pregnant- I will g-get ya pregnant.”

Nanami’s big, beefy arms are pinning you to the front of his chest like he never wanted to let go. Never would. 

Heaving to chase his breath - and, yet, still failing with every battering ram of his snaking cock. Fucking up the thickly viscous streams of cum up deeper and deeper-

“O-oh.” Nanami’s muttering, glassy wooden eyes straying somewhere beyond you and towards the end of the bed. The strangely…sagging bed. “We broke the- hah- we broke the bed.”

Shit. But you barely have the time to register his words before- THUD!

Your back is being brazenly splayed-out across the mahogany floors of your bedroom, Nanami’s arms underneath you shielding your body from every ounce of the stinging smack. Strong. Holding onto you tight. 

Still pumped inside, still carving out the free ounces with masses upon masses of his swollen cock. 

With your head drooping barely-lucidly to the side, you’re gasping at the blackened palm print that had burned itself onto the floor right beside your head.

The air around the two of you was candied, pheromones of candy and vanilla melding into what was probably your favorite scent now. Ahhhh…he didn’t even care if this was the cure anymore.

And despite being the strongest being in perhaps the entire universe, Nanami was melting into you. His abs adhesively plastered against your front, hips rolling in what can’t even be called grinds. Just simple, sappy gyrations of his still-twitchy cock. 

He’s whispering out a slurring mantra of words into your thoroughly wrenched open mouth - barely even able to talk coherently after that mind-shattering orgasm. “Lock- lock them- lock them please-”

“I-I caaaan’t.” You’re whimpering out, limp legs uselessly dangling like dead weight where Nanami was resting them on the cushiony home of his deltoids. 

But not to worry. Of course not to worry, your Nanami was here for you. 

Biceps bulging when one arm bends to pin your ankles behind his neck, he’s folding you down, down, down into such a filthy mating press. 

Moving you around as if it was nothing, as if you couldn’t hear your joint weakly popping. His healing powers being kicked involuntarily into overdrive…fuck.

Nanami can feel his cock jerk - barely softened for a few nanoseconds before thumping with every ounce of blood in his fully spent brain.

“Awww, t-too weak?” Planting a sodden peck against the corner of your ankles. And something in that tone told you that the two of you were far, far from over. That the slowly drunken fucking of Nanami’s hips was just the beginning. He’s squashing back a few remnant dredges of seed from just earlier, slipping out just enough to smear a messy white lipstick. “Well then…”

You’re jolting at the quick pap! pap! pap! of his ballooned tip popping out a few sloppily smushing strikes - before sinking deeply back in.

He’s fucking you again- and again and again and-

“Y-you know I h-haaaah- hate disrespectin’ my girl like- this-” He’s staring deeply into your eyes, gesturing languidly at the expanse of the floor. Ever-the-gentleman…usually. “-but if s’f-fer makin’ our daughter…then. Gotta make sure that I can be her Superdad.”

A/N. Hope you lovelies have the best week n’ happy new year in advance <3

Plagiarism not authorized.

[cybertr0nian]

👀 //To Drift from Whirl, Overlord from Rodimus and Kaon, Rodimus to Crosshairs

Send 👀 to know if my muse finds yours attractive!

" Oh yes I do find Whirl attractive but I will never tell him that."

" Rodimus Prime and Tarns little Kaon? Oh yes, they are quite attractive....and fun to mess with."

" Frag yeah! He's hot, tell him that if you want I don't care."

[daily-nikki]

New Horizons Day — Drift Through the Skies — Leisurely Tales — Floating Report

Floating Report takes us to the shores next to where the White Jade is docked to find a little girl named Polly.

She is having a problem of her own that she needs help with.

After her problem is solved and you find a piece of the report, it's time to adventure our way over to the Bug Catcher's Cabin in Breezy Meadow.

When you arrive, Momo will let you know that you need to find Merian. She can be found wondering around outside the front of the cabin.

Merian will let you know that she thinks that she saw some notes float into the nearby pond.

Walk around the pond that's down the hill from the cabin until you find a note.

Nikki and Momo will read the report and comment on how sincere it sounds. Next it's time to go back to Elea at the Breezy Meadow Activity Area.

When you arrive, a cutscene with Elea will start.

She will arrange a free Hot Air Ballon ride with Mr. Francis. He can be found at a booth right around the corner of the house to the left.

Have fun on the ride, take lots of pictures, and enjoy the new title!

Riding the special Hot Air Balloon ride also accomplishes a Strings of Time activity. Make sure to grab it when you're done.

[salsakiyoomi]

“do you think we're soulmates in every universe?” 

you ask, snuggling up to sukuna, on your king sized bed — you had been served dinner and sukuna bas gone through his reports and duties as king, and now it was his sacred time with you.

“we aren't in this one.” he scoffs, wrapping his arm around you.

you pout at him, mildly offended but you expected nothing less from the ‘heartless’ king of curses, “what makes you say so?”

“i don't believes in such foolish nonesense.” he says simply, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

“it's not foolish nonesense.” you argue, tracing lines on his chest absentmindedly, admiring his sculpted form.

“and what makes you say that?” he asks, mocking your earlier question.

you smile at him, “i mean, do you not feel a connection between us? a binding of souls? i know you love me and i’m sure you know that we are meant to be in every universe.”

“don't put words in my mouth, woman.” he huffs, caressing your shoulder.

you laugh — you know that while he might have not said it before, he most definitely thinks and feels it.

and it's true, sukuna had first fallen for you for your otherworldly beauty, and had chosen you for marriage, and that was that for a while until he started falling for you.

you, your laugh, the way your eyes sparkle when you talk about something that you love, the way you always showered him with loving words and affection that was always so foreign to him.

but he slowly started getting used to it, even reciprocating it in his own way.

“whatever you say, ryo.” you finally say, smiling sheepishly at him before blowing out the candle and rolling on your side, “goodnight.”

“hm.” he huffs, wrapping all four arms around you before slowly drifting into sleep, his mind swarmed with thoughts about how your souls could possibly be tied.

foolish thoughts, for him maybe, but maybe it was also true

because, sometime, centuries later, in the middle of tokyo in a small business coffeeshop, sukuna meets you — the all time business ceo, falls for the loving and bubbly batista who always left him notes on his morning coffee.

and he falls for you all over again.

[ggclarissa]

kiddo | clark kent

pt. 2

fandom: dcu

pairing: corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader

content: reader is in her early 20’s, clark is older and unfortunately hot about it, mild age gap, mutual pining, oblivious clark, insecure reader, lois lane mention, angst if you squint, fluff if you don’t.

summary: in which you convince yourself that clark kent’s habit of calling you “kiddo” signifies you have no chance — until he unexpectedly proves otherwise.

author’s note: i don’t know if clark has an official age in the new movie? i read somewhere that he might be in his early 30’s, so for the sake of this oneshot, let’s just say he’s 30.

You’d heard the nickname before — at family reunions, crooned by aunts with lipstick-smudged teeth and tossed around by uncles who still ruffled your hair like you were five, never mind the fact that you were old enough to drive. Back then, ‘kiddo’ had been sweet. Familiar. Even a little endearing.

But from him?

It stung.

“Nice work on that LuthorCorp zoning piece, kiddo.”

You’d poured your entire weekend into that article — combing through public records at City Hall, chasing down a contractor who insisted on meeting in a dimly lit parking garage, and revising quotes until your fingers cramped. It was the kind of piece you were genuinely proud of.

And yet — kiddo.

He might as well have called you ‘sport.’ Or ‘champ.’ Or ‘slugger.’

You were twenty-one. A fully functioning adult. Old enough to vote, pay rent, and catastrophically destroy your credit score if you pleased. And certainly old enough to recognize a dismissive pet name when you heard one.

Clark Kent had said it with a smile — polite, mild-mannered, not unkind. He adjusted his glasses and offered you a nod like a proud teacher, then strolled back to his desk with the easy, unhurried gait of someone completely unaware he’d just ruined your entire day in a single breath.

A month had passed since then, and you’d been trying — quietly, relentlessly — to be seen as more than just a kid.

You arrived early. Pitched stories with deeper research, sharper angles, stronger sources. Your outfits had shifted towards sleek and deliberate — less intern, more young up-and-coming professional. You swapped the communal Keurig for your own overpriced cold brew in a stainless-steel tumbler, a quiet declaration: you weren’t some wide-eyed rookie anymore. You even started carrying a pocket-sized Moleskine in your blazer — because Clark did.

And yet, every time he passed your desk, he left behind the same three-syllable sting:

“Hey, kiddo.”

And you’d smile. Like it didn’t land soft and patronizing. Like it didn’t shrink you in all the quiet, aching ways you could never admit.

Because of course he didn’t see you that way. Clark was older — only thirty but carried himself with a calm certainty that made him seem decades ahead. There were no plaques on his walls, no flashy accolades, but he didn’t need them — not when he was the only reporter Superman would grant an interview. His credibility didn’t shout; it simply existed. Unshakable. Undeniable.

And you were…well, you.

Fresh out of college, you were still learning how to wear a press badge without feeling like an imposter. Trying — often failing — not to beam like an overeager puppy whenever he passed your desk.

Lois Lane noticed, of course. Over time, she’d taken on the role of the reluctant older sister, guiding you through the chaos of the Daily Planet since your very first days as an intern.

“You look like someone spiked your coffee with battery acid,” She remarked one afternoon, barely looking up from her monitor.

“He called me ‘kiddo’ again,” You muttered, slumping into your swivel chair. You gave yourself a slow push and drifted towards her desk like a defeated Roomba.

Lois didn’t blink. “Maybe it’s his love language.”

“It’s condescending.”

“Or maybe,” She said, typing another sentence, “he just doesn’t know what to do with himself around you.”

You shot her a skeptical look. “He’s Clark Kent.”

At that, Lois finally glanced up, one brow lifting higher than your own. “And?”

“I’m twenty-one. Barely. I use the word ‘slay’ unironically and sometimes sleep in my mascara.”

She offered a slow, knowing smile. “And yet, here you are — working alongside the only reporter Superman actually talks to. Do you honestly believe Perry would’ve kept you around if you were just some clueless kid?”

You wanted to take Lois at her word.

You longed even more to dismiss the way your heart clenched every time Clark said the word — kiddo — as if it were merely a nickname, not an insurmountable barrier between you. You tried not to dwell on the subtle shift in his expression when you spoke up in meetings. You struggled to resist what was clearly beyond your reach.

You tried — and, as always, came up short.

It was a late Wednesday night.

The newsroom had settled into an unnatural quiet — only the clack of keys and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights breaking the stillness. Most desks were empty, long since abandoned. Only the copy editor remained, fast asleep over page twelve, his gentle snores blending with the white noise.

And then there was you — alone, staring down a half-finished Word document and a blinking cursor that refused to yield. The only source of light came from your desk lamp, casting a slightly-too-yellow glow across your notes.

You were halfway through revising your lede when a familiar voice sliced through the silence.

“You always work this late, kiddo?”

You flinched — less from the word itself, more from how softly it landed. This time, it didn’t sting. Not quite.

It settled instead. Lingered in the quiet between you.

You didn’t meet his gaze right away. Your tone was even, almost detached. “Do you really have to call me that?”

A pause followed. There was a subtle shift in the atmosphere.

“Call you what?” Clark asked.

When you finally lifted your gaze, he was leaning against the wall — sleeves rolled to the forearms, tie loosened, glasses slightly askew as if he’d been tugging at them in thought. He looked worn down, but somehow still managed to make disheveled seem deliberate.

“Kiddo,” You said. “You always call me that.”

His expression shifted — barely, but noticeably. As though it hadn’t once crossed his mind that the nickname might carry weight.

“You don’t like it?”

You gave a small shrug, eyes drifting back to your keyboard. “It just…makes me feel like you don’t take me seriously.”

You braced for a laugh. A quick deflection. Something light to dismiss the weight of your confession.

Instead, he closed the distance. “You think I don’t take you seriously?”

You raised your head to meet his unwavering gaze. “You call me ‘kiddo.’ You pat my shoulder. You treat me like I’m…harmless.”

His lips twitched — barely — but he withheld a smile. He circled to your side of the desk, leaning against the edge, regarding you as one might before posing a challenging question in an interview.

“I called you that,” Clark said slowly, “because I didn’t know what else to call you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re smart. Sharp. You care about justice — enough to pursue it when no one else will. You ask better questions than half the newsroom, and you fight for your stories even when Perry barks.” He tilted his head. “You remind me what this job is supposed to be about.”

You stared in silence.

“I didn’t call you ‘kiddo’ to minimize you,” He continued, voice softening. “I called you that because…anything else felt too real.”

You swallowed hard. “Too real?”

“You’re young,” He admitted. “And I’m not. That’s a line I was afraid to cross. But you’ve never been a kid to me. I knew that the day you yelled at Perry for burying the migrant housing story behind WayneTech stocks.”

You had no words. You hadn’t realized he even remembered that moment.

“You said the city deserved better,” He murmured. “That people weren’t headlines — they were human beings. That stayed with me.”

Something caught in your chest. You’d thought no one had listened that day. You cried in the bathroom after that meeting, convinced your voice had dissolved into the noise.

“I only called you ‘kiddo’ because your name…” He paused. “Because it felt dangerous. Because every time I said it, it stayed with me longer than it should have.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“I thought I didn’t have a chance,” You whispered.

The faintest smile touched his eyes — tired, tender, and achingly sincere.

“You’ve always had a chance,” He said softly. “I just didn’t know if I was allowed to take it.”

A silence unfolded between you — slow, charged, almost unbearable in its honesty.

Then he reached for your hand.

And you let him.

Clark’s hand was warm, steady — large enough to completely enclose yours, yet careful in the way it held you. As if this moment meant something. As if he knew he’d waited too long to risk breaking it.

“I’ll stop calling you that,” He said quietly.

“Good,” You breathed, a smile tugging at your lips. “Or I’ll start calling you ‘grandpa.’”

His laugh was quiet and unguarded, something deep and real.

Then, without pretense or hesitation, he said your name — your real name — not as a tease, not as a placeholder, but with intention. Like it meant something. Like he meant it.

And it was better than you could’ve ever imagined.

You leaned in, uncertain — but open — and he met you halfway. The kiss was soft, assured, unhurried. Like the first line of a story you already knew by heart.

When you parted, his forehead rested rested gently against yours.

No words passed between you.

None were needed.

The next morning, the newsroom buzzed with a quiet, perceptible energy.

You hadn’t exactly been discreet in the way you smiled at Clark from across your desk. By midday, you’d caught his gaze lingering more than once — twice before noon, and again as he stood by the communal Keurig. And each time, his gaze dropped the moment you noticed, a faint flush rising to his cheeks.

You nearly stumbled over a cable when he called your name across the bullpen — simple, warm, and laced with something you hadn’t dared to hope for.

Lois cornered you by the vending machine, mug in hand and that familiar, knowing glint in her eyes.

“So,” She said, sipping her coffee with deliberate nonchalance. “You and Clark.”

You stilled. “What about us?”

Her lips curled into a smirk. “You think I didn’t notice how he said your name like a prayer this morning? Or how he didn’t call you ‘kiddo’ for once?”

Heat crept up the nape of your neck.

“Relax,” She added, her voice softening. “Frankly, I think it’s long overdue.”

Your eyes drifted back to Clark. He was hunched over his desk, deep in concentration, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. Something about the sight made you smile.

“Yeah,” You murmured. “Me too.”

[shokocide]

POWER PLAY - GOJO SATORU

summary. Gojo Satoru’s used to getting everything he wants—until his company hires you, the shy assistant who’s all glitter, gloss and charm. But the more he tries to stay professional, the harder it gets… in more ways than one.

word count. 9.3k (not 10k wow)

content. mdni fem!bimbo! reader, ceo! gojo, gojo crashing out for multiple reasons, down bad simp gojo, heavy tension, teasing, jealousy, pet names, smut, multiple scenes, fingering, oral (m and f rec.), p in v, office sex, desk sex, praise, creampie, slight overstim, aftercare

author's note. inspired by this by my leslover @cairoverse i'm sorry this took so long ml </3

The wine’s expensive, but not because he’s trying to impress her.

He just likes the taste.

The restaurant is sleek, candlelit, with soft jazz humming in the background. It’s the kind of place that whispers luxury, not screams it — understated elegance, a lot like his watch. Or his suit. Or the car he pulled up in.

The girl across from him is… nice. Pretty in that polished, social-media kind of way. Knows which fork to use, laughs at the right moments, has a thousand-watt smile and legs he noticed the second she slid into the booth.

For the first time in a long time, Gojo thinks: maybe.

Maybe this could go somewhere.

She sips her wine, sets the glass down, and leans in just enough for the scent of vanilla to drift his way. Her voice is smooth, easy. “So, what’s it like, running an empire?”

He smiles, a little self-deprecating. “Exhausting.”

She laughs. “Bet it pays well, though.”

A harmless joke, maybe. But something cold flickers at the edge of his ribs.

He hums, brushing it off.

But then she tilts her head, lashes fluttering just so. “I mean… you must be, like, what? Eight figures? Nine?”

There it is.

His smile doesn’t falter, but something in his chest withers.

He takes a slow sip of his wine. Lets the silence stretch for a beat too long.

Eight figures. Nine.

She’s still looking at him, expectant. Playful.

He should be used to this by now. Hell, he is. But it still stings. Every damn time.

“I stopped counting,” he says lightly, setting his glass down.

She laughs again, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “That’s such a rich guy answer.”

And just like that, the candlelight feels too warm, the wine too bitter. The space between them grows miles wide.

Gojo leans back in his seat, fingers drumming lightly on the tablecloth. He already knows there won’t be a second date. No nightcap. No exchanged texts or cheeky goodnights.

And when he finally slips into the backseat of his car an hour later, staring blankly out the tinted window at the blur of city lights, a single thought loops in his head like a broken record:

Maybe this just isn’t in the cards for me.

Not the connection. Not the late-night calls. Not the stupid domestic shit he secretly wants — tangled legs on a couch, coffee in chipped mugs, someone who sees him.

He huffs a soft laugh, more bitter than amused.

Gojo Satoru has everything.

And somehow, he feels like he has nothing.

-

“What did you just say?”

Gojo doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. The sheer weight behind the words is enough to make the room still.

Nanami adjusts his glasses, like he hasn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb in the middle of Gojo’s morning.

“The quarterly reports,” he repeats flatly, “were emailed to Zenin Holdings.”

A pause.

“And the Osaka merger documents,” he adds. “Along with internal notes referring to their CEO as—” he consults his tablet, “—‘an off-brand Ken doll.’”

Gojo presses a hand to his temple, like he’s physically holding in the migraine.

“Who?” he grits out.

Nanami doesn’t blink. “The new recruit.”

Another silence stretches.

Then Gojo lowers his hand. “Bring them to my office.”

Nanami nods once, and without another word, leaves the room.

-

You’re not sure why you were summoned.

You clutch your little pastel folder to your chest like it might protect you, knees squeezed together as you sit—perch, really—on the plush chair outside the glass doors of the executive office.

The receptionist gave you a look. You’re not sure what kind of look. It felt kind of judge-y. Or maybe pitying?

Then, the doors open.

“You can go in,” Nanami says, voice flat as ever.

You blink up at him, eyes wide. “Oh! Okay. Um. Am I—” You pause, then smile nervously. “Am I in trouble?”

He doesn’t answer.

That’s fine. Totally fine.

You step into the office with careful little steps, the kind of walk that says please don’t fire me before I finish paying off my student loans.

Inside, the man behind the desk looks up.

White hair. Stupidly pretty face. Cerulean eyes that flick over you like you’re a puzzle that somehow assembled itself upside-down.

He’s not smiling.

You don’t meet his eyes—not for more than a second—just dip your head as you approach his desk.

“I—um. I was told to… to report here?”

Your voice is so quiet he almost misses it.

He leans back in his chair, elbow on the armrest, thumb brushing his jaw. “You’re the new recruit?”

You nod once, too fast. “Y-Yes. I mean, I think so. That’s what Mr. Nanami said, at least. He said—um, he said this is my new position now.”

You step fully into the office, holding a pink folder like it might bite you. You’re wearing a cream sweater that looks two sizes too soft and a plaid skirt that’s about four inches too short for HR standards. Your ID badge is flipped backward. Your heels click awkwardly against the tile.

And he suddenly understands how people end up doing very, very stupid things for women.

You stand there, shifting your weight from one heel to the other, clutching your folder like it’s a lifeline.

“And you are…?”

You whisper your name so faintly he has to repeat it aloud just to be sure.

“Right.” He pauses. “Well, take a seat.”

You hesitate for a second too long before perching on the very edge of the chair across from him—back stiff, eyes focused on the edge of his desk.

Gojo leans back in his chair. He’s quiet for a beat too long.

Then “So,” he says, tone deceptively mild. “Tell me. Why did Zenin Holdings get our quarterly reports?”

You freeze.

“I—I didn’t know they weren’t supposed to?” you offer, blinking up at him.

He blinks back. Slowly.

You chew your lip in thought. “They were in the CC list… and I thought that meant they were part of the, um… quarterly club?”

“The what.”

“The quarterly club?” you repeat, voice smaller now. “Y’know. People who… get quarter stuff.”

You trail off, wilting under the weight of his silence.

Gojo stares at you. Hard. Trying—trying—to remember that you are a human being. With feelings. With softness. With a little clip shaped like a bunny holding back your hair. His eye twitches.

“And the Osaka merger notes?” he asks slowly, enunciating each word like it might hurt.

Your expression brightens slightly, like you've just remembered something important. “Oh! Yeah, I added a couple of personal notes to that file! Like, color commentary. For context.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Color commentary.”

He almost sighs. This is who HR sent? The one who forwarded classified financial statements to a competitor because their logo “looked kind of familiar”?

But then you shift slightly, fidgeting with the hem of your skirt, and he catches a glimpse of that anxious expression. The way you bite the inside of your cheek. Like you're waiting to be yelled at. Like you already know you’ve messed up and can’t even figure out how to explain yourself.

And, god help him, something about that makes his chest ache.

Gojo closes his eyes briefly. He’s going to need to do breathing exercises. Maybe call Shoko and have her prescribe something illegal.

You smile again. It’s like watching sunlight struggle through a stormcloud. “Was that bad?”

He exhales.

He should fire you. Realistically, that’s the correct response. A sane man would do it.

But when he opens his eyes, you're still standing there—wide-eyed, a little nervous, but so terribly, painfully earnest.

And his heart does that stupid little lurch again.

“No,” he mutters finally. “Not bad.”

You brighten instantly. “Oh, yay! I was worried—”

“But,” he cuts in, holding up a hand, “you’re going to be working directly under me from now on.”

Your brows lift. “Really? Oh my gosh, that sounds so fancy!”

“It’s not,” he lies smoothly.

He’s already planning which desk you’ll sit at in his office. Already making a mental note to have HR triple-check your email access. Already dreading what happens when you accidentally reply-all to a company-wide memo.

You give a delighted little bounce, clearly thrilled by the promotion.

Gojo’s not even mad anymore.

He’s confused. He’s concerned. He’s possibly having a stroke.

And he’s completely, utterly fucked.

-

It starts with the printer.

You stand in front of it for ten minutes straight, staring like it personally wronged you. Gojo passes by, slows, then stops entirely when he sees you poking the touchscreen with a single perfectly-manicured finger.

“…Need help?”

You turn, lip caught between your teeth. “I think it’s jammed.”

He crouches down, opens the tray, and immediately pulls out a crumpled sheet that’s very clearly been inserted upside down.

“Oh,” you murmur, eyes wide with awe. “You’re so smart.”

He straightens slowly. “Right.”

Then there’s the time he catches you on your way to send a very important file.

You wave at him, cheerful. “Hi, Mr. Gojo! I’m going to fax that thing you said.”

“Email,” he corrects gently, already bracing himself.

“Oh—right! Email. I meant that.”

(You did not.)

Still, when you do manage to send the right file—to the correct company this time—he gives you an exaggerated look of impressed approval.

“Nice job,” he says. “Look at you.”

You beam. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he says, completely serious. “You’re crushing it.”

He swears your cheeks actually flush. Like you’re the one who just got complimented for launching a satellite into orbit instead of… attaching a PDF.

Another time, he asks you to bring him a hard copy of the quarterly budget report.

You come back ten minutes later with a full-color printout of a Pinterest banana bread recipe.

You fidget when he just blinks down at the paper, eyes wide. “I, um… I might’ve labeled it wrong on my desktop.”

He hands it back. “Looks delicious.”

Despite everything—everything—he just can’t seem to get frustrated with you. Your voice is always soft when you speak to him, full of tentative politeness like you’re worried he might bite (he won’t—unless asked). You apologize earnestly for every tiny mistake, so genuinely mortified each time that he ends up reassuring you.

And when you do get something right—God help him—he reacts like you’ve cured polio.

“That’s perfect,” he tells you one afternoon, glancing at a neatly stapled stack of documents you’ve triple-checked for typos. “You nailed it.”

You blink up at him, mouth parted just a little. “…Really?”

“Mmhm. Proud of you.”

You go quiet. Blush furiously. Practically flee the room.

Gojo grins at the door after it clicks shut behind you.

He’s doomed.

Absolutely doomed.

-

“Do you need to stand there like that?” the exec snaps, arms crossed. “That machine isn’t rocket science.”

You blink, startled. “O-oh… I’m just— I’m trying to find the—um, the collate button?”

“It’s literally right there,” he scoffs, jabbing a finger at the screen. “God, how did you even get hired?”

You flinch like you’ve been struck. Eyes down, voice small. “I—I’m sorry…”

And that’s exactly when Gojo shows up.

You don’t even see him coming. One second the air is stiff with tension, the next it’s cut clean by the sound of his voice—smooth, pleasant, deceptively light:

“Everything okay over here?”

The exec stiffens. “Sir. I was just—”

“I saw,” Gojo says simply, stepping in beside you. He doesn’t even look at the guy—his gaze is already on you, sharp and assessing.

“You alright?”

You nod quickly. “Mhm. Sorry. I was just confused—”

“No need to apologize,” he says, almost too softly. “That’s what training is for.”

Then he finally looks up—at the exec—and there’s something in his eyes that wipes the smug off the latter’s face immediately.

“Unless,” he adds with a tilted smile, “you’re suggesting I made a mistake hiring her?”

Silence.

The exec stammers. “Of course not, sir. I—”

“Good,” Gojo says. “Then don’t talk to her like that again.”

The exec makes a quick, flustered exit. Gojo turns back to you, and his whole demeanor changes—softening.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

You nod again, a little stunned. “…I didn’t mean to make trouble.”

“You didn’t,” he assures you. “Some people just forget how to be decent.”

And then—because you’re fidgeting and biting your lip and looking far too much like you’re going to cry—he gently takes the stack of papers from your arms.

“C’mere,” he says. “I’ll help you.”

You trail after him, still pink in the cheeks, still utterly confused by the way his hand just barely grazes the small of your back as he guides you to his office.

(You don’t know it yet, but Gojo has already scheduled a little "chat" with HR.)

-

He checks his watch for the third time that morning.

9:47 AM.

You were supposed to be here by 9:00.

Gojo exhales, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair, irritation simmering just beneath his skin. Meetings have been pushed, calls delayed. He’s not even sure why he’s this impatient—he has other assistants, more capable ones at that. But none of them stumble into his office with sleepy eyes and whispered apologies like you do.

And like clockwork, the door swings open with a quiet creak.

You enter in a flurry—breathless, hair slightly disheveled, cheeks flushed with panic. The top two buttons of your blouse are undone, likely forgotten in the rush, and your skirt is just slightly askew. Your chest rises and falls in frantic rhythm, lips parted as you gasp, “I’m so, so sorry I’m late—”

Satoru turns in his chair, ready to scold. Ready to lecture you into next week.

But the words die in his throat.

His gaze drops.

The loose fabric of your blouse shifts with each heavy breath, revealing just enough skin to make his jaw tighten. The delicate slope of your collarbone, the curve of your breasts pressing faintly against the silk. One deep breath away from completely derailing his morning.

You don’t notice the way his posture stiffens. Or the way his grip on the armrest turns white-knuckled.

He stands slowly.

Silent.

You freeze when he starts walking toward you, every step measured. His voice, when it comes, is quieter than you expect. Lower.

“Why are you late?”

You blink up at him, confused by the shift in tone. The air around him feels… heavier somehow. You fidget, your voice soft, guilty. “I—I overslept. My alarm didn’t go off and then the train was late and I didn’t mean to—”

He stops in front of you, towering over you. Close enough that you can smell his cologne—warm, expensive, intoxicating.

You glance up nervously, throat bobbing.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper again, lips trembling in the tiniest pout. You’re not even aware of how you sound, how you look. Not aware of the storm building behind his gaze.

And that is the worst part.

Because you don’t know what you’re doing to him.

You never do.

Gojo inhales sharply, jaw clenched. He watches the way your fingers twist in the hem of your cardigan like you’re expecting to be punished.

But instead of snapping, instead of chastising you like he knows he should, he closes his eyes for a second, forcing down the heat licking at his spine.

“...Don’t let it happen again,” he says at last, voice hoarse.

You nod quickly—eager to please, still breathless, completely unaware that he’s already running through several very unprofessional thoughts involving those undone buttons and his desk.

He turns away before he can say something stupid. Or worse—do something worse.

“Go grab your coffee,” he mutters. “You’ll need it.”

Because he sure as hell does.

-

Gojo thinks he’s composed. Polished. Unshakeable. He built an empire from the ground up, commands boardrooms with a single glance, and has executives stuttering when they see his name on a meeting invite. And yet—you.

You waltz into his office in pink heels, with a notepad that’s more doodles than notes and a voice so breathy it makes his vision blur. You don’t even mean to drive him insane, he knows that. That’s the worst part. You’re just sweet. Oblivious. Soft in ways that make his dick ache.

Like today. You’re sitting on the edge of his desk, babbling on the phone about a nail appointment while absentmindedly reapplying your lip gloss—shiny, sticky, strawberry-scented. He watches the wand glide over your bottom lip like it's a slow-motion scene from a movie no one else gets to see. He’s staring. Unblinking. Dying.

And when you leave, heels clicking, skirt swaying, you forget the gloss. He doesn’t even hesitate. Just picks it up and rolls it between his fingers, stares at it. It smells like strawberries. You smell like strawberries. His head hits the back of his chair. He’s so fucked.

It happens again and again. You lean over his desk to show him your “cute calendar” for the month—full of glittery stickers and hearts—and your cleavage is right there. Right. There. He knocks his coffee into his lap and doesn’t even flinch. Just stares at you while it soaks through his slacks, wondering if this is how men go insane.

And then in the elevator. Five minutes. Just the two of you. You don’t even notice the silence thick with tension. You’re talking about your new lip liner. He’s clutching the railing behind him like it’s keeping him tethered to Earth. If you’d looked at him, you’d have seen the vein in his neck pulsing like a warning sign.

But nothing—nothing—compares to the time you shyly step into his office and whisper, “I finished typing the reports, sir.”

He doesn’t breathe for a full ten seconds. Just stares at you like you just moaned it instead of murmured it. Sir. Sir.

He shifts in his seat. Crosses his legs. Forces a smile. “Good,” he manages to say, voice tight.

You beam, oblivious. “Thank you, sir!”

He books a week off.

For “stress.”

-

His voice is calm. Measured. Smooth as silk over the phone speaker as he discusses quarterly projections with someone powerful on the other end. It should be just another meeting—another conversation where he dazzles and dominates, where the board eats out of the palm of his hand.

But you're sitting beside him. So it’s not just another meeting.

You’re perched on the edge of his long leather couch, notepad in hand, eyes wide and glossy with focus—or something like it. You’re wearing that tight little pastel skirt again, the one that always hikes up when you sit, riding dangerously high on your thighs. He’s not looking. He’s not. He can’t.

You chew on the tip of your pen. Take little notes in bubbly handwriting that looks more like diary scribbles than minutes. Your perfume curls around him like sugar—sweet and sticky and heavy.

He swallows thickly and forces his voice to stay even.

“Yes, I saw the numbers from Q1. I’m more concerned about the international—”

Your pen clatters to the ground.

You let out a tiny “Oops!” and bend down to retrieve it.

And he sees it.

The hem of your skirt lifts, slow and innocent. And beneath? A delicate peek of pink lace. Just a flash. Barely anything. But enough. Far too much.

His throat goes dry mid-sentence.

“—international… ah—i-interest projections,” he chokes, dragging a hand down his face like that’ll fix the heat flooding it. On the other end of the call, someone asks a question. He doesn’t hear it.

You sit back up like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just flash your lace panties in front of a man on the verge of damnation.

You turn to him with a soft, clueless smile. “Did you want me to jot that last part down, sir?”

He makes a sound. It's somewhere between a sigh and a whimper.

“…Y-Yeah,” he rasps, gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles go white. “Write it down, sweetheart.”

He ends the call early. Tells them he has a migraine.

And when you leave, swaying your hips and humming under your breath, he sits there in silence. Staring at the door.

He needs a second. Maybe a sedative. Maybe a priest.

-

The next few days are… strange.

You don’t do anything differently. Not really. You still show up on time, still take notes in pink ink and heart your i’s. Still trail after him in those little skirts and heels that click sweetly on the marble floors. But now?

Now you catch him looking.

At first, you thought it was your imagination—just a trick of the lights in his big glass-walled office. But then there was that meeting where you leaned over to grab a file from across the table, and his pen slipped right out of his hand.

The way he stared at it on the floor for a solid five seconds before muttering, “I’ll grab it later,” like it had personally wronged him.

Or how his jaw flexes every time you call him “sir.”

And maybe, maybe you're not as airheaded as everyone thinks. Maybe you notice the way his breath stutters when you get a little too close. The way his fingers twitch when yours brush his as you hand him his coffee. The way he clears his throat, sharp and low, whenever you pout a little at the copier machine and ask, “Sir, can you help me? I think I broke it again…”

He’s unraveling. Quietly, pathetically. And now you know it.

So one afternoon, when it’s just you two in the office, you decide to test a theory. You're by his desk, sorting through a stack of documents, when your pen slips from your fingers. Again.

This time, you don't rush to pick it up. This time, you bend at the waist slowly, keeping your knees straight, skirt riding up with every inch.

You hear it—barely—a sharp inhale through his teeth. The creak of leather as he shifts in his chair.

And when you straighten up, all innocent, pen in hand and a small “Got it!” on your lips, you glance back at him.

His eyes are locked on his screen. His jaw is tense. His ears are red.

“Something wrong, sir?” you ask softly.

His hand flexes on the mouse. “No,” he says, too quickly. “Just… keep working.”

You turn back around, letting a little smile play on your lips as you resume sorting. And behind you, you swear you hear him exhale like he’s been holding his breath for hours.

-

The office is quiet. Still.

It’s late—past nine—and everyone’s gone home. The usual buzz of ringing phones and fast-clicking heels has faded into silence, replaced by the distant hum of the city through the tinted glass.

You zip your purse, your reflection faint in the darkened windows, and start toward the elevators when you pass by his office.

There's a light. A thin sliver glowing beneath the heavy door.

You pause. He usually leaves before you—always gone in a blur of cologne and tailored coats, muttering about dinner meetings or conference calls. But tonight?

You don’t even think to knock. You just twist the handle gently and step inside.

He’s on the couch. Jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened. His head’s tipped back, long legs spread lazily, one arm resting across the back of the couch. But it’s his face that stops you—brows knit, lips parted slightly, tension carved into every sharp line of his expression.

“Sir?” you ask, voice soft.

His eyes snap open instantly.

He blinks once. Twice. Like he’s still anchoring himself to the present. Then he straightens slightly, clearing his throat. “You’re still here?” His voice is rough—raspy, like he hasn’t spoken in a while. Like maybe he’s been sitting there, alone in the dark, trying to exhale something that refuses to leave his chest.

“I was just leaving,” you say, stepping in hesitantly. “I saw the light. Thought something was wrong…”

His gaze drags over you, slow and unreadable. You’re still in your little work outfit—tight pencil skirt, soft pink cardigan buttoned just enough, gloss fading but still catching the light.

Something shifts behind his eyes. Not predatory, not quite. Just tired. Tightly wound. Like he's been holding his breath for days and didn't realize it until now.

You take another step in, voice gentler. “Are you okay?”

He huffs a laugh under his breath, low and humorless. “That’s a loaded question.”

You offer a tiny smile, unsure. “Can I… get you anything? Water?”

He leans back again, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. “I’m alright. Just… stressed.”

You take a small step closer. Your heels click against the floor, the sound delicate and deliberate in the thick silence of his office. “Stressed?” you echo, like it’s a foreign concept. “Is it work stuff?”

He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “It’s always work stuff.”

You hesitate. Then, softly—“I could help you.”

His head tilts just slightly. “Help me?”

“Mhm,” you nod, all sweet sincerity. “Like, if there’s something that’d make you feel better…” You give him a soft little shrug, voice light. “I’m good at taking direction. And I always try my best. Especially for you, sir.”

It cuts to silence.

Except it isn’t really silent—just muffled. Wet sounds echo low between your bodies, broken only by the soft catch of your breath and the rougher gasps he keeps trying—and failing—to hold in.

You’re on your knees in front of him.

The carpet’s rough under your skin, but you barely notice. All your attention is on him—on the way he looks half-wrecked, head tipped up like he’s praying for strength he doesn’t have.

His shirt’s half-open, wrinkled and clinging to his chest. His tie’s slung loose around his neck. His belt is unbuckled, slacks shoved just low enough to free his cock, flushed and heavy against your tongue. You’ve got one hand wrapped gently around the base, just to keep him steady, and the rest of him is disappearing into your mouth—slow and warm and dripping with spit.

He’s so hard it hurts. His thighs are tensed under your palms, twitching every time you suck just a little deeper, every time you swirl your tongue just right. His knuckles have gone white where he’s gripping the edge of the desk behind him, and the only reason he hasn’t fucked into your throat yet is because he’s too stunned to move.

One hand’s in your hair. Not tight—barely there, fingers trembling where they tangle in your strands. Like he’s scared to hold you too hard. Like he doesn’t trust himself not to snap.

Because you look up at him with those pretty, shiny eyes—sweet and obedient, mouth stretched around his cock like it’s nothing, like you were made to take it. Every time your lips slide down, you hum like it makes you happy. Like you’re just trying to make him feel good. Like you really think this is helping.

But it’s not just good. It’s fucking devastating.

“F-fuck,” he chokes out, voice thick and raw, eyes squeezing shut like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His hips twitch and he immediately pulls back, like he’s punishing himself for even thinking about pushing deeper. “You—god, you have no idea what you’re doing to me…”

You pull back with a soft, wet pop. Your lips are swollen and slick, gloss long gone, spit clinging to your chin. And still—you look up at him like you don’t understand why he’s shaking. Why his voice is breaking. Why his jaw’s so tight.

You blink slowly, lashes fluttering. Your voice comes out light. “But… I thought I was helping, sir.”

And that’s it. That’s the moment Gojo knows he’s fucked.

Because you’re too sweet, too soft, too good—kneeling on the floor with your mouth still open like you're waiting for permission to keep going. And he doesn’t want to just ruin you.

He wants to worship you while he does it.

His whole body goes still.

Like that last sentence knocked the breath out of him. Like the sight of you—so sweet, so sincere, kneeling between his spread legs with spit on your lips—is too much.

Gojo’s chest heaves, one hand still barely resting in your hair. The other drapes uselessly over the back of the couch, knuckles twitching like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He looks down at you. Really looks—at your flushed cheeks, your glassy eyes, the gloss long gone from your lips. You’re still stroking him, slow and gentle, mouth parted just enough like you’re ready to take him again the second he says so.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he mutters, voice rough.

You tilt your head, blinking up at him. “I was just trying to make you feel better…”

And that’s what shatters him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, hand tightening slightly in your hair. Not rough. Just… grounded. Like he needs you now—needs the feel of you to keep from falling apart.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he admits, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “This exact thing. You. On your knees. Pretty little mouth full of me. Acting like you don’t even realize what it’s doing to me.”

When he opens his eyes again, they’re glassy. Wild.

“I think about it all the time, you know? In meetings. At dinner. Late at night in my apartment—fucking my fist wishing it was you.”

Your breath hitches at that. He notices.

And when he strokes your cheek—soft, reverent, thumb brushing over your spit-slick lower lip—you don’t flinch. You just lean into it, eyes wide, mouth still open a little.

“God, baby…” he whispers. “Look at you. You don’t even realize how fucking perfect you are, do you?”

Then, low and commanding, “C’mon. Open up again for me.”

You do. Instantly. No hesitation.

He groans, head falling back against the couch cushion, hips lifting just slightly as you take him back into your mouth—slow, deliberate, deeper this time.

He’s panting now. One hand in your hair, the other gripping the couch so hard the leather creaks under his fingers.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice broken. “Just like that. Let me use your mouth, sweetheart. Let me fuckin’—” He cuts himself off with a ragged gasp when your tongue flicks along the underside of his cock just right.

He tries not to buck his hips.

Tries not to grab your head.

Tries not to lose it completely.

But it’s no use. Not when you look so soft. So obedient. So eager to take everything he gives you.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this isn’t just a one-time thing. Not after this. He’s never letting you go.

You can feel it in the way his thighs tense under your palms. In how his hand tightens just a little too much in your hair, like he’s trying not to pull you down—trying to be good.

But his self-control’s shot to hell.

You hollow your cheeks and ease forward just an inch more. His head snaps back. A long, broken moan spills out of him, and his other hand—still clinging to the edge of the couch—moves to cradle your cheek, palm shaking.

“Wait—baby, I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You look up at him. Eyes wide. Unfazed. Lips stretched around him, spit running down your chin. You hum softly—sweet and encouraging, like you want it.

That’s what does it.

Gojo groans deep in his chest, hips twitching once before he locks them still, his hand trembling where it cups your face. He comes hard, spilling onto your tongue, body shuddering like he’s been pulled out of orbit. And you don’t move—don’t flinch—just swallow quietly, blinking up at him like you’ve never done anything so natural in your life.

He’s panting when it’s over. Gasping like he ran a mile, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. His hand slips from your hair and drags gently down the side of your neck, tender and dazed.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You’re unreal.”

You pull back slowly, mouth slick, lips swollen and pink. There's still a bit of him clinging to your bottom lip—and when you wipe it away with your thumb and suck it off absentmindedly, he makes a soft, wrecked sound in the back of his throat.

“Did I help?” you ask softly, like you’re not already his religion.

And suddenly he’s moving.

In one smooth, needy motion, Gojo leans forward, grabs you under your arms, and pulls you right into his lap. The whole shift is effortless—like you weigh nothing, like you belong there. Your knees settle on either side of his thighs, your hands instinctively resting on his chest.

He’s still breathing hard. Hair messy, tie hanging askew. But his hands are steady now, warm as they cup your hips and hold you close. His head rests against your shoulder for a second, like he just needs to feel you.

“Too well,” he murmurs. “You helped too fucking well.”

One hand lifts to cup the side of your face again. He strokes your cheek with his thumb, gaze softening like he’s trying to memorize everything—your flushed skin, your shiny lips, the way you’re still straddling him like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“You’re so good for me,” he says. Quiet. Honest.

You smile, just barely. “I like being good for you.”

And it clicks for him then. That he’s completely gone. That he’d do anything to keep you like this—sweet, soft, his.

“Let me take care of you now,” he murmurs, leaning in. “You were perfect.”

His mouth brushes your jaw, your cheek, your lips—soft, reverent kisses. Nothing rushed. Just quiet, lingering gratitude, like he’s trying to say everything he doesn’t have words for yet.

He holds you there, warm in his lap, and for once in his life, Gojo Satoru feels like he has nothing else to run to.

-

It starts small.

A glance that lingers too long. The way his eyes flick down to your mouth whenever you talk. The way his voice goes soft—low and fond—when he calls you into his office now.

“Got a minute, sweetheart?”

He always says it like it’s nothing. Like his heart isn’t skipping a beat every time you look up at him with wide eyes.

But then there’s the night he catches you frowning at the copier.

Your arms are crossed, bottom lip caught between your teeth, standing in front of the machine like it just insulted your entire bloodline.

He rounds the corner, sees the blinking error light, and immediately slows his steps.

“Need help?” he asks, lips twitching.

You huff. “It keeps saying ‘paper jam,’ but there’s no paper. I looked!”

Gojo steps in without hesitation, one hand brushing your back as he leans close—so close—to peer into the machine with you.

“Let me help you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice warm.

You freeze a little when he says it like that. Soft. Patient. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to come untangle your messes.

He opens the side panel, reaches in, and—sure enough—pulls out a crumpled little piece of paper stuck way in the back. You blink.

“Oh.”

He grins, glancing down at you. “You’re cute when you try to problem-solve.”

You open your mouth to protest, but before you can say a word, he leans down and kisses you. Soft, slow, sure. Right there in the hallway, lights buzzing faintly overhead.

It doesn’t last long—just a breathless few seconds—but when he pulls back, he’s smiling like you hung the stars.

“See? You do your best,” he says. “And I take care of the rest.”

Another day, another meeting.

You're seated beside him, nervously flipping through a stack of documents. The printouts don’t make much sense—some budget chart you barely understand—but you try to follow along, nodding like you get it.

Gojo notices. Of course he does.

He leans over, voice low near your ear. “That page’s upside down, baby.”

You blink down. Oh. It is.

Your face goes hot instantly. But he just grins, tugs it gently from your hands, and flips it around before setting it neatly back on the table.

Then he grabs your pen and starts jotting little notes in the margins to help. Bullet points. Simplified terms. Asterisks with arrows pointing to key numbers.

You stare at the page.

He nudges your knee under the table, gentle. “I got you.”

Sometimes he kisses you without warning. When you bring him coffee. When you trip over your words in a meeting and look at him like you’re going to cry. When you smile too hard at something stupid and he just can’t help himself.

There’s a moment in the break room—mid-laugh, holding a napkin in your hand—when he walks in, sees you like that, and kisses you so suddenly the coffee cup almost falls from your fingers.

He just pulls you in. Mouth hot and insistent. One hand curling around your waist like he needs you closer.

You gasp against him, wide-eyed, but don’t pull away. You never do.

When he breaks the kiss, he leans his forehead against yours, breathing hard. Eyes glassy.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Couldn’t help it.”

But he’s not sorry. Not even a little.

And when he walks you out at the end of the night—past the quiet desks, the dark windows—he always makes sure your purse is zipped, your coat is buttoned, your phone’s in your hand.

“You good?” he asks, gentle. “Need me to call you a car?”

“I’m okay,” you say every time, small and sweet.

But he still walks you to the elevator, still touches your back as the doors close, still watches them until the numbers tick down and you're out of sight.

Because Gojo Satoru is in love. So in love.

And it’s getting harder every day to pretend he’s not.

-

You hand him the report in silence, nervous fingers lingering just a second too long on the paper. He takes it, brows lifted—expecting to have to fix something, as usual.

But he doesn’t say a word. Just scans the first page, then the second.

Then stillness.

He looks up, something unreadable in his eyes. “You did this?”

You nod slowly. “I… think I got it right.”

He flips back to the beginning. Reads again. His lips part, and he exhales a quiet laugh—disbelieving.

“Yeah. You did.” A pause. “You got everything right.”

Your breath catches.

He pushes back from his desk, legs spreading slightly in his chair, eyes still locked on you. “C’mere.”

You walk around the desk slowly. His chair rolls back a little, his hands landing on your hips to guide you between his legs. His voice is low, almost amused.

“You’ve been trying to get this right for weeks.”

“I know,” you say quietly, blinking up at him.

“You’ve been trying so hard,” he murmurs, thumb brushing under your chin. “And I’ve been so fucking patient.”

Before you can ask what that means, he pulls you in, kissing you soft and deep, tongue sliding into your mouth with slow intent. It’s not rushed. It’s not demanding. It’s like he’s savoring you.

Then, a whisper against your lips, “Up on the desk, sweetheart.”

You hesitate. His hands lift you easily, setting you on the polished edge, your skirt already sliding up as he nudges your knees apart.

You breathe his name, quiet. He smiles, eyes flicking to your thighs, then back to your face.

“You always try so hard for me,” he murmurs, fingers brushing up your bare leg. “I should’ve done this sooner.”

He leans in and kisses your inner thigh. Just once. Then again, higher this time, warm breath brushing close. You’re already squirming when his fingers hook into your underwear, dragging it down slow.

His hands hold your thighs open, firm but not rough. And when he leans in and finally licks—flat and slow, from bottom to top—you gasp.

He hums against you, like you taste better than he imagined.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your clit as he speaks. “Wearing that little skirt. Acting all innocent.”

His tongue moves again—firmer now, more focused, mouth wet and hot, tongue dragging circles around your clit until your back’s arching off the desk.

One of his hands drifts to your stomach, holding you down gently while he keeps going.

He doesn’t stop. Just sucks your clit slow and deep, then flicks it with the tip of his tongue until your thighs clamp around his shoulders.

“Oh my god—sir—”

He groans at the sound of your voice, fingers digging just slightly into your skin. He licks deeper, messier now, tongue dipping into you before dragging back up, mouth slick with you.

You grip his hair, eyes fluttering. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he groans when you do it—low and hungry, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

“You taste like heaven,” he murmurs, voice muffled against you.

Every time your hips jerk, he steadies you with a quiet, “Shh, I got you.”

And when you finally come—quiet but shaking, breath punched out of your lungs—he holds you still and keeps licking until your thighs are trembling from the aftershocks.

Only then does he pull back, mouth shiny, pupils blown.

When you finally go still, he stays there a beat longer. Just breathing against your skin. Then he leans up, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks at you.

No smirk. No smug comment.

Just “You did good.”

Then a pause, before he adds, softer—

“So good I might keep you here for a while.”

-

The conference room is all glass and polish, afternoon sunlight spilling over the sleek table, casting reflections on every chrome edge. You’re seated near the far end, soft blouse tucked neatly into your skirt, lips glossed, notebook open—trying to look like you understand the graphs being passed around.

You’re perched between two other departments. People you don’t usually work with.

That’s when one of them—a guy from Finance, tall, tan, and way too smug—leans toward you with a charming little grin.

“I don’t think we’ve met yet,” he says low, like this meeting is a cocktail hour. “You new?”

You glance up, a little startled. “Oh—kinda. I’ve been here a couple months…”

He looks you up and down, eyes lingering a second too long. “They must’ve been keeping you hidden.”

You laugh nervously. Just a tiny sound. Then glance across the table.

Gojo’s already watching you.

Expression unreadable. Elbow propped on the armrest, long fingers brushing his lips, like he’s bored but you know better. His other hand is clenched in his lap, the silver of his ring glinting as it curls tighter.

He says nothing.

Just tracks the way that guy keeps leaning closer. The way his shoulder nearly brushes yours. The way you keep tucking your hair behind your ear.

“You work directly under Gojo?” the guy asks, lips quirking.

“Mhm,” you nod, keeping your tone light. “Just admin stuff.”

“Admin,” he echoes with a smirk. “You sure don’t look like admin.”

Gojo’s head tilts, slowly. “Something you’d like to say about my assistant?” His voice is calm. Light.

But something sharp lives underneath it.

The guy laughs, brushing it off. “Just saying, sir. You’ve got an eye for talent.”

A few people chuckle under their breath.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking back to your notes, burning with embarrassment.

Gojo doesn’t laugh.

He just smiles. That small, dangerous kind of smile. “Mm. That I do.”

The meeting moves on—but he doesn’t.

You can feel the weight of his stare for the rest of it. Every time you fidget, every time you speak up with that soft, hesitant voice of yours, his eyes flick to you like he’s trying to memorize the sound.

It’s late afternoon when your desk phone rings.

You jump a little. The office is quiet now—most people wrapping up their day, the halls thinning out.

You pick it up. “H-Hello?”

“Come to my office.”

That’s all he says. No tone. No explanation. Just that low, clipped command—and then the line clicks dead.

Your heart stutters.

You smooth your skirt nervously, touch up your gloss with shaking fingers, then knock on his office door.

No answer.

So you step inside.

The room’s dim, lit only by the golden wash of the setting sun through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Gojo’s at his desk, sprawled back in his leather chair.

Jacket tossed aside, sleeves rolled. His tie’s hanging loose around his neck, top buttons undone. Hair a little messy like he’s run his hands through it too many times.

He looks you over slowly. Not speaking. Just dragging his gaze down your body and back up again, the tension crawling up your spine with every second of silence.

You shift, swallowing. “You… asked for me, sir?”

A slow smirk touches his lips.

“Mm. I did.”

He doesn’t invite you to sit.

He just watches you stand there—nervous and fidgety, wringing your hands in front of his desk.

“I wanted to ask,” he says lazily, “how that meeting went for you.”

You blink. “It was… okay?”

“‘Okay’,” he echoes, still smirking. “That guy from Finance seemed real interested in you.”

Your stomach flips.

“Oh, um—he was just being friendly—”

Gojo hums. Stands up.

You freeze as he rounds the desk, walking toward you slowly. Unhurried. Like he already knows you won’t run.

“He called you pretty,” he says, voice softer now. “Right in front of me.”

You look down. “I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t flirt back or anything—”

“I know you didn’t, sweetheart,” he murmurs, reaching you at last.

His fingers find your chin, tilting it up gently.

“I saw you. Saw how good you were. All polite and quiet. Just letting him talk like that.”

You nod, lips parted, breath catching.

His thumb strokes along your jaw.

You barely have time to ask what this is about before he crowds in, gently guiding you backward until your hips bump the edge of his desk. He doesn’t push—he never has to. Just waits, hands resting on your waist, thumbs stroking small circles until you sit for him.

The silence stretches as he steps between your legs. He’s still for a moment, eyes drifting down your body—slow and thoughtful, like he’s mentally tracing every place he’s already touched.

“Didn’t like that,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

His hands slide up your thighs. “The way he looked at you.”

You swallow. “I didn’t flirt with him or anything, I swear—”

“I know,” he says simply.

His thumbs reach the edge of your skirt, bunching the fabric higher. The room’s quiet except for the rustle of clothes and the faint hum of the city outside the glass.

“You were good,” he murmurs. “You always are.”

You don’t know what to say. Your heart’s racing. You’re too aware of the warmth of his palms against your skin.

Then he sinks to his knees.

Your breath catches.

“Sir—”

He looks up at you. Calm. Steady. “Just let me, angel.”

You nod.

He leans in, pressing a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher. His hands slide further up, coaxing your legs open—thumbs stroking the soft skin of your inner thighs like he’s in no rush. Like he’s savoring it.

You try not to squirm.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he murmurs.

He hooks his fingers under your panties and drags them down slow. No fanfare. No teasing smirk. Just quiet focus. When he presses his mouth to you, it’s unhurried. He licks into you like he’s tasting you for the first time—soft, deliberate strokes of his tongue that have your breath stuttering.

You grip the edge of the desk. He hums softly when you twitch under him.

“So sensitive,” he murmurs. “How long have you been like this?”

You shake your head, too breathless to answer.

His thumb strokes your thigh while he eats you out like it’s something to be taken seriously—like he’s tuning the rest of the world out just for this. Just for you.

Every now and then, he pauses. Kisses the inside of your thigh. Lets you breathe.

“Say it.”

You blink, dazed. “Say…?”

“You know what I want.”

Your mouth parts. “I’m yours.”

He groans softly, going right back in—tongue slow, fingers digging into your thighs to hold you open.

“Again.”

You moan, hips jerking. “I’m yours, Gojo—fuck—only yours—”

“Yeah,” he mutters against you, voice low and wrecked. “That’s right.”

He doesn’t stop. Not even when you start trembling, thighs shaking around his head. He keeps working you through it—tongue steady, hands warm, mouth dragging out every pulse of it until you're gasping his name, half-crying into the sleeve of your blouse.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is slick and his breath is shallow. 

You're already wet—he drags his fingers through it once, slow and deliberate, before circling your clit with maddening patience. You try to keep quiet, but the sounds come anyway—tiny, breathy, embarrassing things.

He slips one finger inside, then another. It’s not rushed—it’s focused. Careful. Testing what you can take.

His free hand wraps around the back of your thigh, pulling you a little closer to the edge. His fingers work you open slowly, curling just right, his thumb brushing up top in quiet, steady strokes.

“You can take it,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

You grip the edge of the desk, gasping when he shifts just slightly and hits something deeper.

“There,” he says, like he’s memorizing it. “Right there, huh?”

You nod quickly, eyes fluttering, hips starting to roll with him.

“Yeah… that’s it. Just like that.” He watches you the whole time—so attentive, so fucking into it—like he’s trying to catch every twitch of your mouth, every time your lashes flutter.

“Go ahead,” he whispers. “I want to feel you.”

You come quiet, but it shakes through you all the same—hips jerking, thighs trembling, mouth falling open around a sound you didn’t mean to make. His fingers don’t stop. He fucks you through it—just enough pressure, just enough praise, dragging it out until you're oversensitive and shaking.

When he finally pulls his hand away, he brings it to his mouth, licking his fingers like it’s nothing.

You blink at him, dazed. “Gojo—”

He stands, reaches out, and drags you up to your feet with zero effort.

“We’re not done yet,” he murmurs, already turning you gently around.

And then he presses you forward over the desk—his hand on your back, firm but not rough, guiding you down. You feel the heat of him behind you, his belt already unfastening.

His belt slides open with a quiet snick, slow and deliberate, like he’s giving you time to brace.

But you don’t. Can’t. You’re still bent over his desk, legs trembling from the second orgasm he pulled out of you like it was nothing.

Behind you, you hear the soft zzzp of his zipper, the rustle of fabric as he lowers just enough to free himself. You start to shift—maybe to stand, maybe to turn—but his palm finds the small of your back again, holding you down gently.

“Stay,” he murmurs.

You freeze.

“‘M not done with you yet.”

You gasp when you feel the blunt heat of him, hard and already dripping, sliding between your folds. He’s not pushing in—yet—but he’s there, heavy against you, teasing, dragging slow and wet between your folds while he stares down like he’s watching something sacred.

“Still so fucking warm,” he says under his breath. “You gonna let me fuck you now, sweetheart?”

You nod quickly, the word yes catching in your throat.

“Need you to say it,” he breathes, leaning forward, his chest brushing your back. “C’mon. Tell me.”

“I want you to,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Please—”

He groans, low and ragged, and then—finally—he pushes in.

You gasp—he’s big, thick and slow as he sinks in inch by inch. Your hands scramble for purchase on the desk, gripping the edge as he fills you.

“F-fuck,” he grits out, jaw clenched tight. “You feel—Jesus, precious, you’re perfect.”

He bottoms out with a slow roll of his hips, then stays there. Doesn’t move. Just breathes heavy against your back, like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he says softly. “So long. Can’t even count how many fucking times I looked at you and wanted this.”

You whimper as he pulls out a little, then thrusts back in—just once, sharp and deep. You jolt against the desk, your cheek pressing to the cool wood.

He sets a pace then—not fast, not rough. Just deep. Controlled. Like every thrust is meant to remind you who you belong to. He fills you so fully, going deeper with every thrust as if trying to rid any thought from your brain that isn’t him.

The rhythm of it—his hips rolling into you, his hand tight on your waist, the obscene sound of skin meeting skin and your own slick soaking every movement—drives you closer and closer until you’re nearly crying with it.

“Satoru—please—” you pant, arching back against him, trying to take more.

“I know, precious. I know,” he murmurs, dragging his hand back to your hip so he can fuck you harder now, a little deeper. “You’re takin’ it so good.”

His thick head kisses your cervix with every relentless snap of his hips and one of his hands reaches down to dip between your thighs, rubbing tight, precise circles onto your clit.

“Mmm—sir,” you whine into the polished mahogany table, fingers digging into the edges of the fine wood. “I’m so—fuck—close!”

“Yeah? You’re gonna come for me, precious?”

Your orgasm builds sharp and fast and you nod, your toes curling, jaw slack, eyes squeezed shut.

“Let go,” he whispers, voice low and frayed. “Wanna feel you come on my cock. Be good for me, yeah?”

You do—god, you do—legs shaking, breath catching, body going tight around him as the orgasm hits, rolling through you in waves.

Gojo swears under his breath, fingers gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he fucks you through it, chasing his own release. And then he groans deep and spills into you with a shudder.

He stays there for a moment, slumped over you, both of you catching your breath in the heavy silence of the office. Then, slowly, he pulls out, gentle as ever, hands skimming over your hips to smooth your skirt back down.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice still rough, a rasp of heat and concern wrapped in silk.

You nod, lips parted, lungs trying to catch up. His gaze doesn’t move from your face.

He leans down and presses a kiss to your shoulder then another just beneath your ear. “Breathe, sweetheart,” he coaxes, hands tracing soothing lines down your sides. “You were perfect.”

He shifts, not pulling away from you, but adjusting and cradling you with too much care for a man who had you begging a few minutes ago. He gently flips you over onto your back, strong hands finding your hips and then your thighs, his thumbs kneading slow, soft circles into the sore muscle like he’s memorizing your skin.

A content sigh escapes you, and he smiles, eyes half-lidded and reverent.

“Good girl,” he says lowly, his forehead pressing to yours. “You did so good for me, angel. So fucking good.”

His mouth finds yours, and the kiss he gives you is nothing like the ones before. It’s not rushed, not wild. It’s deep, slow, and indulgent. Like he’s trying to pour all the unspoken things into it.

Your arms loop around his neck, and your fingers find his hair, tugging gently. He groans quietly against your lips, like the sound is meant just for you.

You sigh into his mouth, full, and wrecked in the best way.

He pulls back only slightly, nose brushing yours. 

“Remind me to give you another bonus.”

author's note. yeah i got real lazy at the smut. i'm so done with writing smut i quit icl ts pmo gng

please do not steal, modify or translate my work.

taglist. @raendarkfaerie

[techdriveplay]

Thredbo Resort Basks in Fresh Snow as Polar-Powered Storm Continues

Thredbo Resort is experiencing an exceptional winter season, courtesy of a relentless polar-powered snowstorm. The latest overnight snowfall added another 9cm, bringing the storm’s total accumulation to an impressive 14cm, transforming the resort into a snowy wonderland. The storm began on Sunday afternoon and has been unyielding in its delivery of fresh snow, blizzard conditions, and freezing…

[kbwrites]

The Lord's Favorite CH.2

synopsis: "He was both a monstrous force of vengeance and your savior, intertwined in a tempest of passion and fury.."

prev ← → next

⚝content: trueform!Sukuna x fem! reader, slightly suggestive, mentions of blood and gore

⚝wc: 1.5k

⚝a/n: I'm still shocked this got as much attention as it did! Thank you for reading, I hope this next part pleases you.

“Please, do your best to remain still,” Uraume chides gently. They press the cotton swab soaked in alcohol to your face, the stinging sensation causing you to wince as it penetrates the cuts on your cheek. Uraume offers a sympathetic glance. “I apologize for this…”

“You don’t need to-“

“Please.” They say firmly “I was aware of the tension between the servants, I... never thought they would do something to harm one of their own.” Uraume’s voice wavers slightly. They move to the wounds on your arms.

The door to the chamber swings open, and Sukuna stands in the threshold, leaning one arm nonchalantly against the doorframe. He surveys your battered form sitting on the edge of the bed—a trace of annoyance etched on his face. Uraume rises swiftly to bow before the king, but he dismisses the gesture with a casual wave.

“My lord, I’ve treated her as best as I can.” Uraume reports.

Sukuna’s gaze shifts to your face, his demeanor cold yet betraying a hint of concern.

“Are you in any pain?”

“No.. my lord and I’m sorry-“

“You are not at fault.” He interrupts you, his voice firm as he strides over, his heavy footsteps echoing through the room. Clad in a black robe with a purple sash tied around the waist, his rippling muscles are visible through the cascading fabric. Uraume steps back, offering a brief bow before exiting, leaving you alone with him.

He scans your face with a piercing gaze, lowering himself to your level. His eyes drift to your empty wrist, narrowing with a mix of concern and intensity.

“Where. is it.” He demands. Your eyes widen as you realize the bracelet you were given today was missing.

“I… it must have fallen off when they attacked me” You piece together aloud. 

“So they would harm you as well as steal…” Ryomen’s voice grows taut with anger he clenches his fist, body tensing up. He rises from his kneeling position, figure looming over you.

“Are you able to stand?” He questions lowly. You nod.

“Good. We will be going now.”

You look up at your king, his expression is unreadable, but there’s an unmistakable intensity in his eyes—a silent promise of retribution. 

You lag behind him as he strides purposefully down the dimly lit  hallway. The evening light leaks through the dark red curtains of the hall, casting long shadows that dance along the walls. Each step of his echoes with a menacing authority. He stops abruptly at the entrance to the servants quarters. Sukuna looks over his shoulder at you, his gaze intense and unwavering.

“Do you wish to watch?” He inquires, voice low and steady.

“W…watch?” 

“Yes, do you wish to watch as I kill the ones who hurt you.”

“I—“ your heart races, Was this really happening? “No… my lord I do not.” You speak quietly. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond, opening the door to the room.

The servants look upon him in reverence… or fear. Ryomen Sukuna did not bother himself with his servants, so seeing him generally meant bad news. He scans the room at the trembling help who shrink under his scrutiny, ‘utterly pathetic..’ he thinks. Their eyes drift to you, standing behind him. Ryomen shoots you a sidelong glance, awaiting you to point out your offenders. 

You look up at him, conflicted. Do you really wish for them to die? He scoffs as if reading your mind.

“You would protect them, even after what they did to you?” He sneers.

 He directs his attention back to the line of servants, all bowing their heads in fear. His gaze lands on one woman, and he notices the bracelet on her wrist—identical to the one he had painstakingly crafted for you.

At the sight of the bracelet, his demeanor changes abruptly. His expression darkens with a fierce intensity. With a swift motion, two of his arms encircle you, gently but firmly covering your eyes.

“Do not open them, until the screaming stops.”

Screams of horror reverberate through the room. You hear slashes mingling with the sound of Sukuna chuckling darkly. All the while two of his arms remains protectively around you, shielding you from the brutality he’s inflicting upon the ones who dared to harm you.

The screaming fades, his breathing slows, upper left arm lowers from your eyes.

“It is done.” And as your eyes slowly open, the sight before you is gut-wrenching. Blood and carnage litter the servant’s chambers. You clasp your hand  over your mouth as you fight back a gag. 

Ryomen looks at you, a hint of annoyance for your lack of appreciation. You gaze upon his bloodied form, he was covered in it. He wipes face, turning his back on the lifeless bodies.

“Let’s go; I require a bath and new clothes.”

You sit on the edge of the porcelain tub, adding oils and dried petals. The act of bathing Lord Sukuna had become quite routine. And yet every time he entered the room your heart would skip a beat. He stood at over six feet tall, his four muscular arms and broad, chiseled chest commanding attention. The tattoos that adorned his toned body only added to his already imposing presence.

He strides confidently over to the bath, crimson eyes never leaving yours. The scent of lavender and roses wafting through the tiled room. He lowers himself into the water, groaning as the hot water enveloped his powerful frame.

You grab a sponge, wiping the dried blood from his chest. Ryomen leans his head back against the edge of the tub, sighing in relief under your touch. He’s quiet for a moment, only the sound of the water sloshing around echoes throughout the room. One eye opens slightly to observe you, your gentle hands erasing the evidence of his carnage. Massaging away his stress and tension. He speaks in a low, commanding voice.

“Join me.”

You abruptly cease your movements, looking at him in disbelief.

“You mean—“

“In the tub, yes.” You hesitate, glancing nervously between him and the water. Knowing it was not wise to disobey your king, you begin to shed your clothing, covering yourself modestly as you allow the bathwater to cloak you. You settle on the opposite side of the tub, his eyebrow quirks in mild annoyance.

“I will not harm you.” His voice almost… gentle.

You move closer to him. Albeit too slow for his taste, one arm pulls you towards his chest, settling on the small of your back. The unprecedented position of intimacy with your lord both thrilling and unsettling.

“Are you… unhappy with my actions today?”

"No… my lord." It was partly true. You were still reeling from the events that had transpired. The king to whom you had dutifully bowed had unleashed his fury... for you? The man you willingly served, had been so enraged by your injuries that he had taken the lives of those who wronged you. He was both a monstrous force of vengeance and your savior, intertwined in a tempest of passion and fury..

“Good.” Another hand reaches to stroke your hair, a touch so feather light you wondered if he thought you’d break. “I… do not wish for you to be unhappy.” He speaks softly. His finger traces your jawline. You shiver under his touch, but don’t pull away. If your heart were to beat any faster you feared it might give out altogether.  His hand trails down to your chest, placing his palm flat against the valley between your breasts.

“Your heart is racing…Are you frightened of me?” He questioned, feeling the rhythm quicken beneath his touch.

“F…frightened?” You try to keep your voice from shaking, but it betrays you quivering with uncertainty.

“It is understandable; I could kill you right now.” He grins as his words make your heart beat even faster. “I am merely stating a fact. Do not think of it.” His gaze travels from your face to your chest, lingering at the point where the water begins.

He stands up, water dripping down his body, your gaze travels down his abs to his v-line. He only grins as he sees your curious eyes widen at his lower half. It was quite hard not to look when he was so… big. The screams from his bedroom made sense after you were called to his bath the first time. 

“You are permitted to touch.” He declares, snapping your out of your daze, a shaky hand comes up to feel his abs. He groans softly under your nimble fingers, feeling his muscles tighten in response. He was a work of art, as if the gods themselves sculpted his figure.

You knew that after his bath, Lord Sukuna would typically summon one of his concubines to his chambers. This would inevitably result in several hours of indecorous moans and pained screams, audible through the door connecting your room to his. As his servant, you wanted to adhere to your place, but a part of you couldn't help but wonder... what it would be like to bask in your lord’s presence in such an intimate way.

“My lord, shall I summon someone to… attend to your needs?” 

He only chuckles darkly, one arm reaching down to gentle cup your face. His crimson eyes feasting upon your wet, naked form committing this scene to memory.

“No need,” He murmurs, his voice deep and resonant.

 “I believe your presence is precisely what I crave.”

taglist! (I know a lot a people in the previous post asked for a part two but idk if that meant you wanted to be tagged, lmk!) @haruchi-slit @gg-trini @pastelbunnelby @cauqhtz @shadava

[tw1sters]

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ husband? never heard of him.

When Jake stumbles into your office attempting to flirt with you, all you can do is humor the fact that your husband seems to have forgotten you.

▸ PAIRING: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Wife!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: Pure fluff, slight amnesia, injured Jake, sexual jokes ▸ WORD COUNT: 1.6K ▸ A/N: wrote a quick small idea because i love a good secret relationship and a flirty hangman

The crash outside piques your curiosity. You abandon the latest report you’re working on and get up to swing open your door right on time for a certain blonde aviator to spill into the infirmary. Jake barging into your office is not news; he barges in probably more than he really should, particularly when you’re with patients.

“Boundaries” becomes the most used word in your relationship. 

Only thing is, this time, he’s looking at you with big, surprised eyes. The tinges of blue around his emerald eyes are even more prominent when they’re blown up. “Who allowed you to look this good, Doc,” he says with a swagger in his step, eyes droopy now as he leans against the doorframe. 

Before you can question him, Rooster walks through the door, a pitying look at Jake. “He’s on the good stuff. Maybe too much of it.” You quirk an eyebrow. “Sedatives.”

Your eyes dart briefly to Jake who is still eyeing you with interest but now he has taken over your chair, propping his chin up on his palm with his elbow on your desk. That smug smile, albeit a little sleepier, is still plastered across his face. 

“He crashed earlier–” The smile wipes off your face quickly and Rooster instantly adds, “Nothing big, managed to get out, but he landed wrong cause he ejected too close to the ground. We had to take him to the hospital. Most of it’s around his ribs, but he’s okay.” 

Drifting over to Jake, you cup his face and tilt him to look up at you. While he’s busy giving you dark, flirty glances, you are checking him for any signs of permanent damage. He has a few scratches on his face, you notice now the new band-aid he’s sporting on his cheek. 

You’re on your knees then and you’re slowly unbuttoning his uniform. If he’s really injured here, he should probably be wearing something more breathable. You remember he packed an extra short-sleeved shirt this morning. 

“Whoa, at least take me out to dinner first,” Jake teases, which earns a roll of your eyes. 

“Told his dumb ass he should be going straight home but he insisted on making a pit stop here. Something about getting a second look. He might’ve also said something along the lines of visiting the pretty doctor.” Your eyes snap up to Rooster, who holds his hands up in defense. “His words, not mine.”

Humored, you look at him playfully, accusingly. “So you don’t think I’m pretty?”

“That’s not what I said!” Rooster immediately replies, face flushing crimson. “Anyways, before I dig a deeper hole for myself, I’m going to leave him in your very capable hands. Whenever he’s done, one of the guys can drop him off at home.”

“I’m going to wrap up soon so I've got him, don’t worry.”

“You got his address?”

You fight to keep a straight face. “Yeah, it’s on his records.”

“Awesome, thanks, Doc. See you tomorrow.” With that, Rooster makes his exit, the door slamming shut behind him.

You wait a moment and thank the heavens that Jake has the false reputation of being an incorrigible flirt. That will hopefully throw off any suspicion of your relationship. 

When you know you’re in the clear, you inspect Jake a little more closely. There are bandages wrapped around his abdomen and you wonder how severe the accident was if they had to give him sedatives. Then again, it’s entirely possible that Jake was being a little bitch and they gave it to him just to shut his mouth.

Aside from the minor injuries, he seems to be in pretty good shape. Physically at least.

Mentally – you look up at him and he’s still smiling stupidly at you – he’s perhaps not quite there yet.

“Jake, honey, I’m going to need to move you to the bed.”

“So soon?” His eyes blow up comically before the expression falls away to a confident grin. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

A disgruntled sigh slips past your lips. Even when he’s drugged up, he still manages to be insufferable. You position his arm around your shoulders and slowly help him to his feet. Jake leans his weight on you, but more so because he really likes being this close to you. The man is heavy to say the least. All six feet of him. You lead him carefully towards the infirmary bed with him nuzzling into your hair the entire time. 

He hums thoughtfully and grins against the side of your head. His hot breath tickles your neck right as you plop him on top of the comforter. He avidly refuses to lie down, instead scooching his way in until he’s sat with his back against the wall. 

Jake turns to you, grinning smugly with teeth in full view.

“Damn, darlin’, you smell so good. Do you have a boyfriend?”

You’re just sitting down on the edge of the bed when you hear it and freeze. “Come again?”

“Sweetheart, we haven’t even come once,” Jake retorts, seeming all too pleased with his joke. The ‘we’ is cute, very considerate of him to include both of you in the conversation. However, you’re too distracted by his question. 

“You’re asking me if I have a boyfriend.” You repeat, incredulous. 

Jake nods aggressively, likely jumbling his head even worse. 

A smile tilts the corner of your lips. You raise your left hand, showing him the back of it. “I’m married actually.”

“Married?” He gasps, completely aghast. He looks crestfallen and then stares at the ring in annoyance. “I mean, of course, you’d be married. You’re so smart, and so pretty. You also embarrassed Rooster? God, you’re fuckin’ perfect. Who’s the lucky person? Do I know them? Are they on base?”

“You do know him, very well in fact. He is on base.”

A growl rises from his throat. “He better watch his back, I’ll get him if he even thinks about slipping once.”

“Really? How would you do that?”

“I could fight him.”

You chuckle. “Right, you’ll fight him. That might be a little hard.”

“Why is that?”

“He’s pretty tough. He’s tall. Very strong. Very handsome too.”

Jake scowls. “Alright, so he’s Mr. Perfect because you’re also perfect. Well, if I ever catch him not being perfect, I’m going to swoop in for the kill. Neither of you will ever see me coming.”

A grin stretches across his face at your laugh. “Good to know, Seresin. I’ll make sure to warn him.”

“Hm, so you’re really married,” Jake repeats again in a deep, disappointed sigh. He takes your left hand in both of his, looking down at the spectacular rock on your hand. He lets out a low whistle before he grimaces, realizing who he’s complimenting. 

Actually, not even realizing who he’s complimenting. 

“He did good, your husband.” Jake turns your hand, letting the diamond catch the sunlight. The facets sparkle, speckling the room with blinding polka dots. “Gorgeous ring for a gorgeous girl.”

Heat creeps up your cheeks. “Thank you.” You pause before dropping another bomb on him. “I should also probably tell you that you’re also married.”

Jake jerks back, nearly getting whiplash from how quickly he turns to look at you. “I am? To who? I think I’d know if I was married.”

“A very lucky woman.” 

“Well, shit.” Jake grunts. “Well, if I married her, then I’m sure she’s as perfect as you.”

“Probably more alike than you think,” you mutter under your breath. 

Jake is smiling at you softly and you see his eyes begin to close. His eyelids flutter, struggling to stay open. It’s as if he is striving to commit your face to memory. “I think I’m kinda sleepy, Doc.”

“Well, you best get your rest then.” 

“When I wake up, if you happen to be single, you let me know right away. Or even before I wake up, that might just do the trick.”

“You got it, Hangman.”

–

“I had the strangest dream,” Jake tells you on your drive home. 

He’s in the passenger seat, his head still spinning a little from the heavy slumber. He had woken up when everyone else was long gone and found you flipping through your novel, waiting for him. He didn’t seem to remember what happened just an hour prior, so you let it play out, told him he just slept the entire time. 

“Hm, what about?”

“I was flirting with this woman,” he says, sounding even more confused than you should be. “I promise, sweetheart, I’d never hit on anyone else. I haven’t hit on anyone else, not since that time I flirted with you when you first joined.” 

You hide your smile, focusing instead on the road. “Yeah, was she pretty?”

Clearly, a part of him does think so because he hesitates before responding. “Would you be upset if I said she was? I can’t even remember her face. I just remember thinking she was so fuckin’ stunning.” 

“Should I be concerned about this fictional woman?” 

“Definitely not,” Jake scoffs, crossing his arms over your chest. “Dream woman could never compare to you. The real deal.” 

You let out a little mm-hmm as you pull out something from your pocket. His dog tag dangles from your hand, glimmering right next to the wedding band he keeps around his neck. “Rooster gave it to me before he left. Said you dropped it in your landing.”

He gratefully accepts the necklace and clasps it around his neck. “Thank you, did he ask about the–you know.” 

“You mean your wedding ring? The one you’ve been wearing since you married me a year ago? The one you keep secret from your squadmates because no one knows you’re married and you let them believe you’re still a cocky, unbearable flirt?” 

Jake laughs. “That’s the one.”

“Yes.”

“And what did you say?”

You smirk, “Told him it was a purity ring.”

“Darlin’,” he groans, “I have a reputation to maintain.”

divider credit: @cursed-carmine