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cherrysweetink · 22 hours ago

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fake it, break it. [atsumu miya x f!reader] chapter two.

you needed a fake date. atsumu volunteered.

unfortunately, he's hot, annoying, and way too good at pretending.

series status: [in progress]

previous. || masterlist. ||

a/n: I fear the sexual tension in this one could power a small city. enjoy <3

!!!! minors do not interact !!!!

It starts with the packing. Sitting on your bedroom floor, surrounded by clothes you don't really even like that much, wondering which dress says, 'I'm totally fine with my ex getting engaged before me.'

You hold up the third dress you’ve tried on; soft fabric, muted blue color, pretty neckline, and stare at yourself in the mirror. You shift from side to side, tugging the hem down, then up, then back down again. It looks fine. But not 'wow, look what you lost' fine.

You sigh through your nose and toss it over your shoulder, where it lands in the ever-growing pile of rejects. “I’m losing my mind.” You groan into the chaos, phone on speaker beside you. Osamu's voice crackles faintly from the other end of the line.

"Just pick something you feel good in," he says, like it's that easy.

"I don't feel good in anything," you mutter, flopping backward onto your bed.

"You want me to send 'Tsumu to help?"

You groan. "Absolutely not."

Osamu snorts softly, as if reading your mind. “He’s excited, y’know.”

You grab a pillow from the bed and scream into it. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“I especially hate him.”

“That’s fair.”

You pause. “Do you think he’ll take this seriously?”

“Probably not!"

“That’s what I thought.”

“But,” Osamu adds, “he might surprise you.”

You scoff. “I don’t want him to surprise me. I want him to shut up and hold my hand and not embarrass me in front of my family.”

“Hmm.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

You narrow your eyes at the ceiling. “Don’t ‘hmm’ me. What does that mean.”

Osamu’s quiet for a beat. Then, a little too casually, “He hasn’t shut up about you.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

“He’s being annoying. Keeps asking what color you like to wear. Wanted to know if you’re allergic to anything. Said he needs to study his role.”

You blink up at your ceiling, heart tripping over itself.

“He’s probably just trying to win,” you mutter. “He turns everything into a competition.”

“Maybe,” Osamu says. “Or maybe he actually wants this to go well.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you just say, “Tell him not to wear cologne that smells like teenage angst.”

Osamu chuckles. “I’ll pass it on.”

He texts you when he’s outside, but you’re already at the window. You watch him through the glass for a second, sitting in the driver’s seat of his sleek black car, sunglasses on even though it’s barely past 9 a.m. He’s drumming his fingers on the steering wheel like he’s either hyped for a concert or hopped up on sugar. Maybe both.

With a sigh, you grab your bag and head out, telling yourself to stay calm. It’s just Atsumu. Just a short drive and a few days of pretending. You can survive anything for 72 hours. Probably.

He honks once as you open the passenger door. You pause. “Seriously?”

“What? It’s cute!” he says, grinning. “Like in the movies.”

You give him a flat look and toss your bag into the back seat. “In the movies, we'd be madly in love.”

Atsumu wiggles his eyebrows. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You slam the door shut.

He pulls away from the curb and merges onto the road like he owns it, one hand casually on the wheel, the other draped over the center console. His fingers brush your thigh when he adjusts the radio.

“You good, babe?” he asks, tone teasing.

You turn your head slowly. “Do not start with the pet names already.”

“Gotta practice,” he says, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “What if your mom calls while we’re on the road?”

You pull out your phone. “Then I’m throwing it out the window.”

He laughs. The real one, unfiltered and loud, the kind that always punches a little bit of a hole in your chest when you’re not expecting it. You hate that it’s nice.

The ride isn’t long, but it feels stretched out by the warmth of the sun and the stupid, comfortable silence that settles in sometimes between the banter. He hums along to songs. Points out weird billboards. Offers you snacks from a suspiciously well-stocked tote bag.

“Are those homemade?” you ask, holding up a neatly wrapped rice ball.

“‘Samu made ‘em for us this morning,” he says proudly. You don’t respond. You’re too busy chewing slowly, aware of the unfamiliar weight in your chest.

The Airbnb is nicer than you expected. And by nicer, you mean it looks like it was curated by an influencer. Whitewashed walls, soft lighting, a cozy living space with a little record player in the corner and a throw blanket draped over the couch just so.

You set your bag down and take it all in. “Did you rob a Pinterest board?”

Atsumu tosses his duffel onto the couch and stretches. “I got taste,” he says smugly. You’re welcome."

Before he can say anything else, you drift into the hallway and open the door to the bedroom. And then stop.

“Problem?” comes his voice from the doorway behind you.

You don’t turn around. “It’s… one bed.”

“Well, yeah. I assumed.” His voice is way too happy. You can hear the grin.

You turn slowly. “Assumed what, exactly?”

He shrugs. “That we’d share.”

Your silence makes his smile widen. “I’ll take the couch,” he relents, brushing past you with his bag. “Don’t look so scandalized.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.” He glances back, eyes flicking over you, lingering just a little too long on the exposed strip of skin between your hoodie and leggings. “Cute when you are.”

You mad it halfway through unpacking your things in the bedroom, towel-dried hair clinging damp to your shoulders, when you realize you forgot your charger in the hallway.

It’s a quick thing, just a few steps back toward the door. You don’t even think about it. But the moment you step into the hallway, you freeze. Because the bathroom door swings open at that exact second, steam billowing out in a warm, lazy cloud, and out walks Atsumu, skin flushed pink from the heat, towel slung dangerously low around his hips, hair dripping wet in messy, tousled waves.

You stop walking. He stops walking. The hallway suddenly feels too small.

He’s mid-rub with the towel over his hair, abs tensing with the motion, chest rising and falling with each unbothered breath. And then his eyes land on you, blinking once, golden and a little dazed like he hasn’t quite caught up to where he is yet. For a second, neither of you say anything. You try not to stare. It's unsuccessful.

There’s water tracing down the slope of his collarbone, clinging to the sharp edge before slipping lower, over his chest, down the clean cut of muscle along his ribs. His skin is a warm bronze, flushed slightly from the shower, freckled in places you hadn’t seen before. He looks like someone sculpted him out of gym membership fees.

And then he smiles.

“Damn. Didn’t know we were doin’ surprise inspections,” he says, towel still caught in his hand, voice low and lazy.

You blink, once, twice, your brain catching up slower than you want it to.

“You— Where are your clothes?”

He shrugs, completely unfazed.

“You live with someone this weekend,” you mutter, folding your arms across your chest instinctively.

“‘S not a real relationship,” he says, leaning a shoulder into the wall like he’s posing for something. “But you’re still gettin’ all the perks, huh?”

You roll your eyes and look away, trying to pretend the image of him still dripping, still half-wrapped in a too-small towel, isn’t already seared into your retinas. “I just needed my charger,” you mumble, stepping around him.

But he doesn’t move. And now you’re close, the heat radiating off his skin like a second atmosphere. The hallway wasn’t this narrow before. Or maybe it was, but now you’re both aware of it. You glance up at him, and he’s watching you. Not cocky. Just watching. His eyes flick down for half a second before meeting yours again. There's no shame in it, and no apology either. Just attention.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, quieter now. “Thought you were still in the room.”

You should say something witty or annoyed or clever. But instead you ask, much too softly, “Do you always walk around like this?”

He tilts his head, a slow curve tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Would it bother you if I did?”

You blink, lips parting to answer, but nothing comes out.

“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs.

And then, like it never happened, he pushes gently off the wall and walks past you. Steam trails behind him, towel tucked a little tighter around his waist. His bare feet pad quietly over the old wood floors, and you don’t look back until he’s already gone.

When you do, he’s disappeared into the living room, and you’re left in the hallway, alone, charger in one hand, and your heart thudding in your throat.

The living room’s quiet except for the soft whir of the old ceiling fan and the start screen of some romcom neither of you had strong opinions about. You both just wanted something on.

You're curled up on one end of the couch, warm skin tucked into soft sleep shorts and a cropped old tank, your hair still a little damp from your earlier shower. You’d meant to change into something less clingy, less… revealing. But you were tired. And it’s not like Atsumu cares. Or so you thought. Because when he walks back out, finally dressed in loose joggers and a hoodie, he does a double take. His eyes sweep over you once, twice. Linger. And then his brows lift just slightly.

“What?” you ask, heart already kicking up a notch.

“Nothin’,” he says, plopping down beside you. “Just wasn’t expectin’ you to look like that.”

You frown. “Like what?”

He smirks, turning toward the TV with way too much interest. “Like you’re tryna kill me, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes, but your throat’s suddenly dry. He grabs the remote, flinging his legs up so they’re stretched long across the couch. His thigh brushes yours when he settles in. He doesn’t bother to move it.

“You cold?” he asks after a moment, voice casual.

You glance over. “Not really.”

“Your legs say otherwise.” And then he’s tugging the throw blanket over both of you, like it’s nothing, like he’s done this a thousand times.

Your knees knock together beneath the blanket. It makes you overly aware of yourself. You try not to breathe too loudly. He hits play and for a while, you both just watch. Sort of. Except you’re not really watching. You’re thinking about the heat of him next to you. The way his arm is just behind your shoulders. The faint scent of his cologne, all warm spice and clean laundry, lingers in the air between you. At one point, you shift slightly, and his hand brushes against your knee under the blanket. He tenses, but doesn't quite pull away.

“You good?” he asks, eyes still on the screen.

You glance at him. His gaze flicks sideways, lands on your legs under the blanket for half a second too long. Then back up. You swallow hard.

“Fine,” you say. “You?”

He hums low in his throat. “Peachy.” Then he adds suddenly, voice a little quieter. "You sleep in that?”

You blink. “What?”

“The tank top,” he says, eyes flicking down before catching yours again. “It’s cute.”

Heat crawls up your neck. You look down at yourself, soft pink shirt, worn thin with time, neckline a little stretched.You raise a brow. “What, too scandalous for your delicate sensibilities?”

“No,” he says, and his voice drops again, low and sure. “Just didn’t think I’d be this lucky.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips anyway. He’s looking at you like you’re something he wants but isn’t sure he should touch, eyes sharp, mouth parted like he’s been holding his breath. The room feels way too quiet. The movie flickers in the background, but neither one of you is paying any attention anymore. You turn your gaze back to the screen, trying not to let the heat crawl too high up your neck.

You swallow. “You’re laying it on thick tonight.”

He leans back on his elbow, relaxed but coiled underneath. “Is it working?”

You glance over, and your eyes meet his. The air goes still. It should be easy to laugh him off like you always do. Call him out for being full of himself. Remind yourself that this whole thing is fake. That you’re playing pretend and tomorrow you’ll be eating a fancy meal with your great-aunt while Atsumu flirts with the wedding photographer. But instead, your voice comes out quieter. “Why do you keep touching me?”

His lips twitch like he wasn’t expecting you to ask that. “Why do you keep letting me?”

You feel it then, like something has tipped over the edge. Like the rules you set when this whole thing started are starting to fray at the corners.

He shifts closer, slow and deliberate, until his knee presses gently against your thigh. “If you want me to stop, just say so.”

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Because the weight of his touch feels too good. Because he smells like your shampoo and your soap and something else entirely his own.

“I’m not trying to mess this up,” he says, voice low. “But you’re not making it easy.”

You don’t know what to say to that. It makes your breath catches in your throat. Your fingers twist in the blanket without meaning to.

“I should go to sleep ,” he adds, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Put some space back.”

You're supposed to agree. Supposed thank him for being responsible. For not being the guy everyone accuses him of being. For pretending like this hasn’t already gotten out of hand.

But something in you wants to see just how far you can. push him. “You don’t have to," You whisper.

His eyes flick to yours, wide and surprised.

You hold the stare, even as your cesht goes tight with nerves. “We said we’d be convincing, right?”

He watches you for a long moment. Then he exhales, soft and slow, and his hand, warm and always steady, settles gently on your thigh.

Not enough to make a move. Just enough to remind you that it’s there. The movie keeps playing, but you don't hear a word.

When you wake the next morning, it's to the smell of something warm and buttery and slightly burnt? At first, you don’t know where you are. The room’s unfamiliar, soft morning light filtering through gauzy curtains, distant clatter of pans from somewhere past the cracked door. Then you remember: Airbnb. Wedding weekend. Fake boyfriend. Atsumu. Ugh. You rub your eyes and groan softly into the pillow. Your body aches in that weird way it does when you sleep in a bed that isn’t yours; stiff hips, limbs disoriented, mind still tangled in half-dreams. The scent of toast grows stronger.

You drag yourself out of bed and pad into the hallway, yawning into your shoulder. You don’t expect to see anyone yet, figure Atsumu is still knocked out on the couch, wrapped in a cocoon of throw pillows. Instead, you turn the corner and see him standing barefoot in the small open kitchen, hair messy and fluffed, wearing a fitted t-shirt and sweats that hang low on his hips. His back is to you. He’s flipping something in a pan with the overconfidence of a man who has definitely never read a recipe in his life.

“Is that supposed to be food?” you ask blearily, voice still thick with sleep.

He turns around, spatula in hand, grinning like he’s been waiting all morning for this exact moment. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You squint at him. “You’re… awake.”

“Observant, aren’t you?”

“You’re making toast?”

“And eggs. Sort of.” He gestures to a vaguely tragic frying pan situation. “It’s a little rustic.”

You raise a brow. “You mean burnt?”

“I prefer the term ‘caramelized.’ Adds flavor.”

You shuffle toward the counter and lean against it, watching him prance around the kitchen. He pours you coffee in a mismatched mug without asking and hands it to you with a smirk.

“I figured you’d need this before you start throwing insults.”

You sip. It’s perfect.

“You’re weirdly competent this morning,” you mutter.

He leans against the opposite counter, coffee mug in hand, head tilted as he studies you. He walks over and slides a plate toward you. One slice of very toast-adjacent bread and slightly overdone eggs. It’s kind of terrible, but you eat it anyway. He sits next to you at the small table, closer than necessary, even for the small space. He keeps bumping his knee into yours. You glance sideways. He’s looking at you, openly, like he doesn’t care if you notice. His hair’s still messy from sleep. There’s a faint red line pressed into his cheek from a pillow. He looks real.

You clear your throat. “You snore.”

“I do not!”

“You do. It sounds like a lawnmower struggling uphill.”

He laughs, bright and surprised. “Okay, that’s a new one.”

You shrug, hiding your smile behind another bite. “Just saying. Wouldn’t want to get too comfortable.”

He goes quiet for a second. Then:

“What if I already am?”

When you glance over at him again, he’s still looking at you. You hold his gaze and feel something crackle in the space between you.

You stand up abruptly, your chair scraping back. “I should get ready.”

He nods once, slowly. “Yeah. I’ll clean up in here.”

You pause at the hallway. “Thanks. For breakfast.”

His voice follows you softly: “Anytime, sweetheart.”

Your heart is doing that thing again, the fluttery, traitorous thing. And Atsumu, you’re sure, knows exactly what he’s doing.

You’re standing in front of the mirror in the Airbnb’s bedroom, dress halfway on, arms twisted uncomfortably behind you in a futile attempt to yank the zipper up. You’ve been at this for ten minutes now. And the dress, a pretty, sleek, dark blue thing, chosen carefully to be just the right amount of formal and flattering, has decided it hates you. Or maybe it hates your spine. Or your shoulders. Or your optimism. Either way, you’re one more failed yank away from burning the whole thing in the kitchen sink. You grit your teeth, wriggling your arm around for a better grip, and pull again. The zipper moves about half an inch before snagging. Again.

“Come on,” you hiss.

No good. You drop your arms with a dramatic exhale and glare at your reflection. The dress droops slightly in the back, the zipper hovering just above the halfway point, gaping open like a wound. You press your forehead to the mirror, defeated.

“I’m going to cry,” you announce to no one, muffled against the glass. “Or die. Or both.”

Two soft knocks at the bedroom door. “Y’alive in there?” comes Atsumu’s voice, low and faintly amused.

You groan. “Barely.”

“Need help?”

You hesitate, turning slightly toward the door. “Nope.”

“Sounds like a yes.”

“I said no.”

“Baby, I can hear the struggle from here.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so annoying.”

The door creaks open before you can stop it, and you whip around, holding the top of the dress to your chest.

“I didn’t say you could come in.”

Atsumu leans casually in the doorway, eyes scanning you once,from bare shoulders to flustered expression, and he raises an eyebrow like he’s trying not to laugh. He’s obnoxiously handsome. Not in the red-carpet, airbrushed sense, but in the way that feels divinely engineered to make your heart misfire. He’s dressed for the rehearsal. Dark slacks, black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Tousled blond hair that refuses to lie flat. A gold chain peeking from under his collar. His smile is all teeth and trouble as he gestures to himself like he’s unveiling fine art.

“I look hot, though. Right?”

You lift your phone and pretend to snap a photo. “You’ll be the talk of the casserole table.”

“Damn right I will. But, you look like you’re about to fight the dress.”

“I am fighting the dress.”

“Need backup?”

You sigh, long and dramatic. “I can’t get the zipper up.”

“I gathered.”

A beat. Then, gentler: “Let me help.”

You hesitate.

Not because you don’t need the help ( you absolutely do !) but because of last night’s too-long glances and his casual touches. Your chest feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry. Still. You turn around, spine straight, holding the fabric tight against your chest. “Fine. Just don’t make it weird.”

His footsteps are quiet behind you. Then he’s there, body heat ghosting against your back. You hold your breath as his fingers brush the base of your spine, just above the curve of your waist. Light. Careful. Like he’s trying not to spook you. Or maybe trying not to startle himself.

The zipper groans a little as he tugs it upward. You feel every inch it travels. The slow rise of fabric, the soft friction of his knuckles trailing along your back. His breath, quiet and steady, brushes the bare skin at your neck when he leans in to guide it the last few inches. The zipper catches for a second, somewhere between your shoulder blades. You stare at your reflection in the mirror, flushed cheeks, parted lips, heart almost visibly pounding beneath your ribs, and you can see him in the background, his head tilted slightly as he focuses on the zipper, lips just barely parted.

“Almost,” he murmurs. His voice is lower now. Rougher. He tugs gently again, and the zipper finally closes with a soft snick. But he doesn’t move his hand. He doesn’t step back. You feel his fingers rest lightly on the top of the zipper, just under the nape of your neck, warm and unmoving.

“Done,” he says, barely above a whisper. But he still doesn’t move. Neither do you.

You stare hard at the mirror, anywhere but at his reflection. “Thanks,” you manage. You think he might step away now. But instead, you feel the slow, deliberate brush of his thumb against your bare skin. Right where your shoulder meets your neck. Goosebumps race across your arms.

“You look...” he pauses. Then, quieter, “Stunning.”

That word doesn’t feel fake. Your whole body goes still. “I—” you start, voice too thin.

And that’s when his phone buzzes from the other room. Just once. A dull little sound. But it’s enough. He pulls back instantly. The warmth disappears and the air floods back in. He clears his throat, “We should head out. Before your aunt starts calling.”

You nod without looking at him. “Yeah. Okay.”

He waits in the hallway while you slip your shoes on with shaking hands. Neither of you mention what just happened. But when you walk side by side out the door, his hand hovers just behind the small of your back like he wants to touch you again.

String lights hang crookedly between trees. A folding table groans under the weight of half a dozen casseroles. Plastic champagne flutes clink together in the evening breeze, and the smell of garlic bread is thick in the air. You haven’t even reached the deck before your cousin’s barreling toward you in a flurry of chiffon.

“You made it!” she squeals, arms wide. “And this must be—”

“Atsumu,” he says smoothly, stepping forward to shake her hand like he’s known her for years. “It’s great to finally meet the bride.”

She laughs, flustered. “Oh! I’m not the bride, just the maid of honor.”

“Then I feel lucky to be meeting you first.”

You want to launch him into the hedges.

Your cousin shoots you a look over her shoulder, clearly impressed. “He’s cute. And taller than I expected.”

You sigh. “Fantastic. He’s charming and tall. My work here is done.”

You expect to coast through the evening on autopilot. To keep things short, introduce himself once or twice, then vanish toward the drink table. But Atsumu isn't made to blend into the background. He mingles, shaking hands and hugging aunts, complimenting floral arrangements and asking your uncle about his grill technique. He's like a politician in the best suit he owns and a smile that would definitely win elections. And he keeps touching you.

Nothing over-the-top. Nothing even inappropriate. A warm hand at your back when someone calls your name. His fingers brushing yours beneath the table. The steady weight of his thigh against yours during dinner, his body heat quietly staking a claim. You don’t know if it’s part of the performance or just him. Even worse, you’re not sure which version you want it to be.

You find sanctuary near the drink table, clutching a red plastic cup of sparkling cider and mentally tallying every second you’ve survived so far. You turn to find him grinning lazily, drink in hand.

“Your family’s nice,” he says.

You tilt your head. “That’s because they don’t know you yet.”

He feigns offense, clutching his chest. “I’ve been nothin’ but respectful.”

“You flirted with my cousin.”

“She started it,” he says, raising his brows. “I’m defenseless against good manners.”

You snort. “You’re a menace.”

“And yet…” he takes a sip, watching you over the rim of his cup. “Your mom thinks I’m sweet.”

Your brows shoot up. “What?”

He nods. “Said I’ve got ‘lovely eyes’”

“She really said that?”

“Right after she told me I’m the first guy you’ve brought home she actually liked.”

Your mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again. “She-? What?”

He grins wider. “You should’ve seen her. So sincere. Might’ve teared up.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” He leans closer, voice dipping low. “And admit it, you’re impressed.”

“I’m horrified.”

He laughs, a soft, warm sound that buzzes in your chest. You glance away, heart doing gymnastics. You step back instinctively, but he follows, only by a hair. Not enough for anyone to notice. Just enough that when he speaks again, his voice hums across your skin.

“You’re good at this too, y’know.”

You look up. “At what?”

“Playing the part.” His eyes are steady, unreadable. “You almost had me convinced.”

You frown slightly. “Don’t say that.”

Something flickers across his face. “Okay.”

Simple. No pushback. But when you leave, you feel him watching you.

Later that night, you lie in the Airbnb bed staring at the ceiling like it’ll have the answers you want if you just look hard enough. Your dress is draped over the back of a chair. Your makeup is wiped clean. And still, you can’t sleep. Atsumu’s sprawled on the couch in the other room, having made an absolute spectacle of claiming it as his own. He built a nest of throw pillows and loudly declared it a noble sacrifice. You told him to stop being dramatic, but he just winked at you. And now you can’t get him out of your head.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

[1:17 AM] Atsumu: u up?

You hesitate.

Then:

[1:18 AM] You: unfortunately

[1:18 AM] Atsumu: me too wanna watch somethin

You glance toward the hallway.

[1:18 AM] You: only if I get to pick

[1:18 AM] Atsumu: deal

When he knocks a moment later, you pull open the door to find him freshly showered, barefoot, and grinning. You make it a point to try not to stare at his collarbone. Of course, you fail.

taglist!! <3 @pizzitamia @kjf777 @anotb

thank you so much for the love on my first fic!!!

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cherrysweetink · 5 days ago

Text

fake it, break it. [atsumu miya x f!reader] chapter one.

you needed a fake date. atsumu volunteered.

unfortunately, he's hot, annoying, and way too good at pretending.

series status: [in progress]

masterlist. || next.

a/n: i've fallen victim to the atsumu brainrot

!!!! minors do not interact !!!!

You hadn’t meant to cry over a wedding invitation.

But there it sits: glossy cardstock, thick with your aunt’s perfume, all gold leaf and cursive. Your name printed neatly next to “plus one.” You turn it over in your hands, slowly. The RSVP deadline is tomorrow. You were supposed to fill it out last week. But every time you tried, your brain short-circuited and your heart sank like a stone. And now the countdown is real. And you still have no one. No plan. No way to face your family, or him, alone. So, like clockwork, you pull out your phone and text Osamu: you at the shop today? You’re already out the door before he answers you back.

You don’t expect it to be a big deal. Just a favor. A simple ask. One of those casual things that shouldn't be this hard to get over with. A favor between friends, like borrowing a hoodie or asking for help moving furniture. Not something you’d lose sleep over. And yet, your nerves are already prickling by the time you push open the glass door of Onigiri Miya.

The shop is in its usual afternoon lull, post-lunch rush and pre-evening pick-up. Soft clinks of utensils and distant kitchen sounds hum beneath a soft playlist that Osamu probably picked. The place smells familiar, like rice vinegar and toasted seaweed. Osamu stands behind the counter, wiping down a cutting board, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. A few pieces of hair have slipped free from where he tucked them back earlier. He looks relaxed, settled.

“Would you go with me to a wedding?” you ask, casual, like you’re asking if he wants the rest of your drink. He pauses mid-wipe. Looks up, eyebrows drawing together. “Come again?”

You hop onto one of the stools at the counter. “My cousin’s wedding. This weekend. I need a date. Like, not a real one.”

He blinks. "You need a fake date?"

You nod, undeterred. “My ex is gonna be there. With his new fiancée. My aunt keeps talking about how tragic it is that I’m not engaged by now. I just need someone to sit next to me for a little bit, maybe hold my hand, smile politely, and not let me die of humiliation.”

The words are meant to be casual, but your voice falters just slightly on the last word. You know he notices. You’re not really sure when it started bothering you this much, but it has. All the subtle looks of pity. The well-meaning comments about how there's 'plenty of fish in the sea' and 'just keep your head up'. Osamu gives a low whistle.

“Yikes. That sounds... intense.”

There's a solemn nod as you speak. “It��s the Olympics of emotional damage. And I’d like not to compete alone.” He laughs at that, quiet and warm, that signature Osamu chuckle that smooths over awkward moments. Like whatever you just said wasn't embarrassing or over-the-top. He leans against the counter, arms folded, mouth quirking up at the corners.

“You’re calm,” you say. “You’re normal. You wouldn’t make it weird. You’re not gonna flirt with my grandma or try to actually kiss me."

He smirks. “Tempting. I’d help you out, you know I would,” he says, “but I’ve got a catering gig Friday through Sunday. Booked solid. One of those fancy downtown venues, full staff. I can’t back out.”

You deflate visibly, "Perfect. Guess I’ll show up solo and pray for divine intervention.” He wipes his hands on a towel, hesitates, and...you should know better. You should have seen it coming.

“You could ask ‘Tsumu.”

That makes you freeze. Then lift your head and squint at him. “Are you trying to ruin my life?” He shrugs, all innocence. “He’s got the weekend off. He’d probably be thrilled. You know he loves attention.” You narrow your eyes, incredulous. “He’s a walking spotlight with no off switch. I would rather go alone.”

“Okay, dramatic.”

You open your mouth to argue that he is, in fact, worse than bad, when the universe, ever cruel and opportunistic, decides to make it real.

“Wow,” comes a voice from behind you, smooth, deep, and full of amusement. “Way to make a guy feel wanted, sweetheart.”

You don’t even need to turn around. You already feel him there, like a shift in gravity, the kind that makes you forget how to breathe for a second. Atsumu Miya.

Of course. You twist in your seat and there he is, leaning lazily against the staff door, he carries himself with the kind of confidence that borders on theatrical. One hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other lifting a protein shake to his lips. Naturally, he’s grinning from ear to ear. A smug, golden-haired, camera-ready disaster. You drop your forehead to the counter. “No."

“Aw, come on,” he says, pushing off the door and strolling over, casual as ever. “You need someone hot, charming, and photogenic. Lucky for you, I’m available.”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. “You’re not charming.”

He leans against the counter beside you, eyes gleaming. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“You want to.”

“Definitely not.”

Osamu, the traitor, doesn’t even try to hide his smile. “He cleans up nice.”

“I have standards.”

“And I exceed them,” Atsumu declares proudly.

You snort. “You’d turn the whole thing into a joke.” He taps a finger to his chin thoughtfully.

“Yeah, but like... a convincing one. Isn’t that the point?”

Your jaw clenches. You look at Osamu. He gives you a helpless shrug, like sorry, this is your life now. When you glance back at Atsumu, he's already watching you expectantly, the edges of his grin threatening to split wider. Too smug. Too pretty. Too eager. But, it’s either this... or showing up alone and letting your ex think he won.

"Fine," You mutter. "But there are rules."

Atsumu perks up like a dog hearing the word 'treat.' “Ooh, rules. This is getting serious.”

You hold up a finger. “No real kissing. No wandering hands. No gross pet names. Nothing weird.”

“Got it,” he says. Then, without missing a beat: “So when do I meet your parents, babe?"

You groan and bury your face in your hands.

It’s not a real date. It's just practice. It’s not like you want him to think you look good. But the image of his smug little grin replays in your mind and... God. Why are you making this harder than it should be? Your phone buzzes.

atsumu [8:37 PM] u allergic to roses? you [8:38 PM] what??? atsumu [8:38 PM] asking for chemistry reasons atsumu [8:38 PM] gotta know what kind of flowers to bring my beloved gf you [8:38 PM] … you [8:39 PM] no allergies atsumu [8:39 PM] k cool. see u tomorrow, sweetheart. you [8:40 PM] you’re ridiculous.

'Practice date' was code for chaos.

There’s no other explanation for why, after a full day of internally preparing yourself for something super low-key and forgettable, you now find yourself standing outside a trendy downtown café with mismatches chairs and bright neon signs.

You arrive five minutes early, because you’re a normal person. A punctual person. A person who has dignity and takes fake dating arrangements seriously.

He shows up ten minutes late.

And slips his hand in yours before you even sit down.

“Relax,” Atsumu says, flashing that bright, press-ready smile that’s definitely been featured in some national volleyball ad campaign. He squeezes your hand just a little. “You said this had to be convincing.”

You blink at him, stunned, still half-reaching for the door. “You’re late.”

He shrugs, completely unapologetic. “Had to look good for my girl.”

“I’m not-” You hiss the words under your breath, looking around. “We are not doing this in public.”

“Doing what?” He swings the door open, still holding your hand. “Being affectionate? Playing our parts? Pretending I’m madly in love with you?”

“You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I’m enjoying us,” he says, and before you can decide whether to roll your eyes or scream, he’s already guiding you to a table.

The café is the kind of place that smells like lavender syrup and very overpriced espresso. Fairy lights are strung along exposed brick walls, and the playlist is some kind of French indie-pop that makes you feel underdressed and out of your depth. There’s a couple in the corner taking aesthetic photos of their drinks. A guy with wire-rimmed glasses is typing furiously on his laptop near the window.

Atsumu picks the booth in the back without asking, slides in with the ease of someone who owns every room he walks into, and pats the seat beside him like you’re on a date. A real one.

“Sit.”

You hesitate. “Why do I feel like I’m being lured into a trap?”

“Because you overthink everything.” He pats the seat again. “C’mon, sweetheart. I don’t bite.”

You sit. Reluctantly. Stiffly. “We’re supposed to be close,” he says, nudging your hip with his. “You know, believable.”

“I hate that you’re good at this,” you mutter.

He leans closer. “I know.”

Before you can argue, the waiter shows up, and Atsumu orders for both of you. Correctly. You stare at him. “How-?”

He shrugs, not even looking at you. “You always get it when you go out with ‘Samu.”

You blink. You weren’t aware he ever paid that much attention. It’s... disconcerting. You glance at him again, searching for a punchline, but he’s not smiling. Not smirking. Just focused on adjusting the sleeves of his jacket. The drinks come out first. Atsumu makes a show of thanking the waiter with a wink, and you almost die on the spot. The waiter walks away flustered. You slap him on his shoulder.

“Don’t flirt with the staff.”

“I wasn’t flirting,” he throws his hands up innocently. “That was just charisma.”

“It’s exhausting.”

“You say that now,” he hums, picking up his coffee, “but watch how fast you start falling for it.”

You groan, head thudding lightly against the table. “I can’t believe this is my life.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, laughing. “Admit it. You’re having a little fun.”

“You’re delusional.”

“You’re smiling.”

You are. And that might be the most concerning part.

The conversation starts light. Easy. He asks you about your day. You mention work. He makes a joke about you being boring and then pretends to be offended when you agree with him. It’s the kind of banter you hate to admit feels natural with him. Almost like you've done this before. It's actually kind of nice.But then he starts performing.

“Say that again, babe,” he purrs, way too loud, leaning in close.

“Stop.” You pinch his arm under the table.

“God,” he groans, turning to the couple seated a table over, who are absolutely eavesdropping. “I love when she gets shy.”

Maybe the floor will open up and swallow you whole, if you're lucky. He just smirks. You try to focus on your drink, on anything else, when your fingers brush against his reaching for a packet of sugar. The first time, you both pull back instinctively. The second time, he doesn’t move his hand. You glance up. He’s already looking at you. His eyes are soft and lazy, a little amused. The corner of his mouth pulls into the faintest smile, like he knows something you don’t. And he doesn’t say anything. You look away first. It’s annoying. It’s obnoxious. It’s-Your heart skips. You sit back too fast, knocking your coffee with your elbow. It sloshes but doesn’t spill. He leans in slightly, stretching a long arm along the back of the booth. “You okay there?”

“I’m fine.”

He hums. “You sure?”

Before you can snap something obscene at him, he reaches forward and brushes a crumb off your chin with his thumb. Gentle. Almost too gentle. It makes your breath catch. You swat his hand away, heat flaring in your cheeks. “You’re enjoying this.”

He leans back like he’s on a throne,.“Baby,” he says with quite possibly the widest smile you've ever seen on his face, “I’m thriving.”

The walk back is strangely quiet. No teasing or dramatic comments. Just the steady beat of your footsteps on the sidewalk. The occasional hum of traffic. The breeze that slips between buildings, and brushes against your skin. He walks beside you, not too close, not too far. His hands are in his pockets. Yours swing at your sides. It feels normal. When you glance over at him, he isn’t looking at you. For once, he’s just walking, head tilted slightly back, watching the sky change color as the sun sets. Without the stupid smirk, and the attitude, his face softens. His jaw relaxes. The sharp gleam in his eyes is subdued into something gentler.

He looks good like this.

You hate that you think that.

“Same time tomorrow?” he says finally, still not looking at you.

You should say no. You should call it off before it gets any weirder! Instead, you nod.

He doesn’t make a joke, or glance your way. But a small smile spreads across his face. And somehow, it makes your heart race even worse.

taglist! @pizzitamia @kjf777

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cherrysweetink · 8 days ago

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fake it, break it. [atsumu miya x reader] masterlist

you needed a fake date. atsumu volunteered.

unfortunately, he's hot, annoying, and way too good at pretending.

series status: in progress!

a/n: this one's been living rent-free in my brain for weeks and now i'm dragging you all down with me

chapter 1.

chapter 2.

chapter 3. in development

chapter 4. in development

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cherrysweetink · 10 days ago

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womanizer!geto x nerd!fem!reader

suggestive, mdni <3

You meet him because he's failing. Hard. Like almost-suspended failing. Suguru Geto is every professor’s worst nightmare; tattoos half-visible under his uniform, earrings flashing when he stretches, cigarette tucked behind his ear. And you? Top of the class. Quiet. Responsible. Glasses slipping down your nose while you push your highlighters into neat color-coded rows. You weren’t expecting to be assigned to him. And he definitely wasn’t expecting you. Top student meets top disciplinary case.

First session, he shows up 20 minutes late. Sits backward in the chair. Looks you up and down like you’re the one wasting his time. You’re nervous. He’s amused. You’re wearing a cardigan and glasses. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that clings to his abs, hair pulled into a loose bun, silver ring glinting on his thumb. “You’re cuter than I expected,” he says, and God, his voice. Deep and smooth, with just a little rasp like smokes too often. "If I’d known that, I might’ve flunked sooner.” You want to tell him off. You really do! But then he stretches. Long arms over his head. Shirt riding up just enough to show the ink curling at his hips. And now you’re staring. He notices. “Like what you see, pretty?”

He doesn’t take tutoring seriously. Not at first. He spends the whole session watching you. He keeps flirting, keeps teasing, keeps getting closer. His excuse? “I'd focus better if you were sitting on my lap.” You shut that down real fast. But he starts testing your limits: Touching your knee under the table, sitting too close, whispering answers against your ear. “C’mon, baby,” he drawls one night, low and warm. “I’ll behave if you let me kiss you.” You drop your pen. He catches it before it hits the floor, eyes still on you.

Geto’s reputation is no secret. He’s the guy who hooks up with girls and never calls them after. The guy who makes it look easy. Geto’s never had a real reason to behave. Never had to try for anything. Until you. You make him earn it. Every second of your time, every shy smile you give. You’re the first one who tells him no. No, he can’t copy your answers. No, he can’t sweet-talk his way out of learning the material. And no, you’re not going to sit in his lap while explaining conditional statements. The last one? “Worth a shot,” he says, biting down on his grin.

You start to notice little things. Like how he gets real quiet when you laugh. Or how he is even less focused when you wear a skirt to tutoring. Or how his jaw clenches when another guy stops by your study table just to say hi. “You think he’s smarter than me?” he asks later, tongue in his cheek. “Because I’ll start studying twice as hard if it means I get to fuck you first.”

One week, you get sick. He shows up outside your apartment with soup, a bottle of Motrin , and zero explanation. “Don’t read into it,” he says. “I just need you alive to pass psych.” You’re in pajamas. No makeup. Unbrushed hair. And he’s looking at you with an expression that you can't quite understand. He stays. Doesn’t touch you. Just leans against your desk chair while you nap, scrolling his phone like it’s the most natural thing in the world. When you wake up, there’s a hoodie draped over your blanket. It smells like him.

One night, it all finally snaps. You’re both tired, overworked, frustrated. He’s been actually trying lately, which shocks you, and clearly shocks him too. You’re leaning over the table, pointing out an error he made, when he grabs your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to make you pause. “You know I want you, right?” he asks, eyes dark and steady. “I’ve been good. I’ve been trying. So if I kiss you right now-” You don’t stop him. He kisses you like he’s starving. One hand in your hair, the other gripping your waist like he's been dying for it. Your glasses are fogged. Your head is spinning. And when he finally pulls back, breathing heavy, lips swollen. “You taste better than I dreamed,” he says. “And I’ve dreamed about it. Like a lot.”

After that, he’s worse. He’s texting you at 2 a.m. with stupid math memes just to make you laugh. Leaning too close when you’re helping him with formulas, eyes on your mouth instead of the notebook. “If I ace this quiz,” he whispers, “do I get a reward?” You laugh flustered and breathless, but don’t say no. He gets an 87. You barely make it past the couch.

He’s filthy when he finally has you. Pinned under him in his apartment, your cardigan long discarded, his hands dragging your skirt up so slowly you swear he’s doing it just to watch you squirm. He groans, kissing down your stomach.,“Bet you’ve been aching for this since day one.” You moan when he bites your inner thigh. He grins. That night, he ruins you. And the next morning, he shows up early to your tutoring, coffee in hand, kiss bitten lips, and an essay fully completed. “See?” he says, flashing that devilish smile. “You are a good influence.”

dividers by @thecutestgrotto @cafekitsune

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cherrysweetink · 13 days ago

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fratboy!roomate!gojo x fem!reader

part 1

nsfw, mdni <3

It doesn't happen during a party. Or after one. It's late, just the two of you buzzed on cheap wine and whatever's playing softly from the speaker. Gojo’s sitting on the floor between your legs, half-draped across your thighs like a cat. You're wearing one of his oversized hoodies. Nothing else. He knows. And you know he knows, because his fingers keep trailing higher on your calf, casual but deliberate. And then he looks up at you with those eyes, sharp, icy blue, and framed by lashes that should be illegal. His hair is tousled from running his fingers through it, he always does that when he's nervous. His mouth, pink and soft, pulls into a lazy grin. God, he’s stupid hot. Tall and lean, abs peeking from his loose shirt, veins on his big hands way too visible for your sanity. And when he tilts his head like that, all cocky and easygoing, you forget how to breathe.“You smell like me,” he murmurs, resting his cheek against your thigh. “It’s your hoodie,” you say. But your voice comes out too breathy. Too soft. “Nah,” he mumbles, thumb dragging a line just above your knee. “You smell like me.” Then he sits up straighter, lips just inches from your skin, and says it. “Can I taste you now?”

When you finally say yes, it's not with words. You just let your thighs part a little wider. A glance down at Gojo, where he kneels between your legs like he was made to be there, has you tangling your hand in that snowy hair and tugging, just enough to tell him yes. His breath stutters. His arrogant smile falters, just for a second. Like he wasn’t expecting you to actually give in. But then it's back. That hungry, smug look. “You have no idea,” he says, voice low and rough. He sounds wrecked, “how many times I’ve thought about this.” His breath catches as he pushes the hoodie up, slowly, like he’s unwrapping a present. Groans deep in his throat when he sees you, already warm and wet for him. “Angel, you’re gonna ruin me.”

Gojo is cocky with his mouth, of course he is, but he's also unfairly good with it. He doesn’t go straight for it, either. He teases. Slow, like he's testing how long he can keep you whining and squirming before you beg. Licks lazy circles on your inner thigh. Kisses just beside where you want him most. Smiles when you writhe. You try to glare at him. You really do. But he licks a stripe up your inner thigh and all that comes out is a broken whimper. "Patience, baby,” he whispers, mouth so close it burns. “You want me to take my time, right?” You nod. He raises an eyebrow. “Use your words.” “Please,” you whisper. “Gojo—” “Satoru,” he corrects, eyes half-lidded. “You call me Satoru when I’m between your legs.”

He doesn’t stop until your legs are shaking. Until you’re gasping for air, tugging his hair, babbling his name. “That’s it,” he coos against your skin. “So fuckin’ sweet. Knew you’d taste this good.” You think he’ll stop when you come, but he doesn’t. Not right away. He laps at you lazily, savoring it. Holding your thighs open like he owns them. When he finally pulls back, he wipes his shiny lips with the back of his hand and rests his head on your stomach.

Afterwards, you're limp on the couch, chest still heaving, legs sprawled over his lap. Gojo looks positively ruined. Hair a disaster, cheeks flushed, and eyes blown wide like he’s drunk on you. “Roomie benefits go crazy,” he grins, hand smoothing up and down your bare thigh. You go to smack at his chest. He just catches your wrist and presses a soft kiss to your palm. “Don’t get an ego-boost,” you murmur. “Too late,” he giggles. “You let me put my face in your pussy, there’s no going back.” You groan. "I hate you."

And after that? He’s insatiable. He’s on you all the time now. In the hallway. On the couch. In the kitchen when you’re just trying to make toast. “C’mon, angel." he murmurs, cornering you against the fridge “Just a little taste. Just one kiss.” His hand slips under your shirt. Finds your waist. Your heart hammers in your chest. "We just did this last night!" You hiss. “What can I say?" he smirks. “I’m a hungry guy.”

He’s definitely still a frat boy. Still loud, still annoying, still leaves empty Gatorade bottles everywhere. But he doesn't bring girls home anymore.He doesn’t even look at other girls anymore. Not at parties, not even when they slide into his DMs with mirror selfies and fake homework questions. Gojo Satoru, the same man who used to flirt with the barista just to get an extra shot of espresso, is now very visibly obsessed with you. People notice. They whisper. “Isn’t that Gojo’s hoodie she’s wearing?” “I thought he never hooked up with the same girl twice—” He just grins. Big, obnoxious, displaying all his perfect teeth. But this time, it’s different. There’s a certain pride behind it. Almost like possessiveness. He looks over at you, leans in close enough to kiss your jaw, and says it without blinking. "She's my girl." And later that night, when he’s got his hand wrapped around your throat in the dark, hips grinding slow against yours, whispering, “Say it. Tell me who you belong to." “You.” His breath stutters. His grip tightens. “Damn right.”

dividers by @thecutestgrotto @cafekitsune

#gojo satoru smut #satoru gojo x reader #gojo smut #jjk #jjk smut #jjk x reader #roommate!gojo #jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo x you #x fem!reader #jjk headcanons #gojo thirst #gojo brainrot #gojo satoru #Gojo Satoru smut #fem reader #cherrysweetink #cherry.writes

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cherrysweetink · 15 days ago

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fratboy!roomate!gojo x fem!reader

suggestive, mdni <3

part 2

You should've known what you were getting into the second you signed the lease. Gojo Satoru. You'd heard of him, of course. Everyone had. Tall, loud, impossible to miss. Half the campus either wanted to punch him, fuck him, or both. The moment you walked into the shared apartment and saw him shirtless, sprawled out on the couch, wearing sunglasses inside, and eating straight from a Costco-sized tub of cheeseballs, you knew living with Gojo Satoru would be a problem. Not a “he’s messy” problem (he is). Not a “he throws parties every other night” problem (which he also does). No, it’s the way he looked up and said, “You’re my new roomie?”, lips already quirking into a grin. “Oh, we’re gonna have fun.”

And he meant it. Fun, to Gojo, includes (but is not limited to) weekly keggers, drinking games, stripping shirtless every time he loses, blasting music at 3 a.m., and somehow always ending up in your personal space. Like the time you were doing yoga in the living room and he sprawled out on the floor next to you, chin propped on one hand, sunglasses still on. “Downward dog looks real good from this angle, angel.” You hit him with a throw pillow. He winked.

You’ve developed a sixth sense for his presence. You can feel him behind you before he says a word; tall, warm, always standing way too close. In the mornings, when you shuffle into the kitchen in nothing but his oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks, you can feel his eyes trailing over you like it’s the first time. Every time. “G’morning, sunshine,” he purrs, coffee mug in hand, white hair sticking up in every direction. “You always wake up this pretty, or is that hoodie just magic?” You never give him the satisfaction of an answer. Just sip your coffee with a flat stare and ignore how your pulse jumps.

Except it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the way Gojo really looks at you when you’re walking around in your big T-shirt and tiny shorts. The way he suddenly gets quiet when you’re laughing at something on your phone, biting your nail. The way he leans a little too close when you’re cooking.

His room is a mess. Protein shake powder dusted on the floor like it’s seasoning. Two different girls' earrings left on the nightstand (he swears he’s going to return them). Your room is off-limits. You made that rule clear on day one. “No parties in here. No girls in here. No you in here.” He’d raised his hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it, angel. Unless you invite me, of course.”And weirdly… he’s honored it. Even when he's drunk. Even when he's sleepwalking. “Sacred space,” he shrugs. But his eyes linger when your door is cracked. The one time you fell asleep with it open and he caught a glimpse of you curled up, wearing one of his old shirts you 'borrowed', he stood there for a full ten seconds, silent, before backing away like he just witnessed a crime.

Parties are weekly. sometimes his, sometimes Geto's down the street. You never intend to go. But he always pulls you in. “Just wear that little black top,” he says, leaning on your doorframe like it’s his full-time job. “You know, the one that makes all the other girls at the party mad.” “Because they think I’m trying to steal their man?” “Nah,” he grins. “Because you’re already have me.” (You don’t answer. But you wear the top.)

The teasing is constant. You argue about laundry, over his collection of identical, stupid sunglasses, about why he keeps using your expensive shampoo. “It smells like you,” he shrugs. “I like it.” One day, the arguing gets heated. Voices raised, faces inches apart. You’re glaring up at him, and he’s leaning in, chest heaving just a little. The air between you shifts. “You done?” he asks, voice lower now, eyes flicking to your lips. “Are you?” you fire back. He doesn’t kiss you. But he almost does. You feel it in the curl of his fingers at your hip. The way his jaw clenches like he’s physically holding himself back.

Sometimes you catch him staring when he thinks you’re not looking. But it’s not casual, it’s hungry. Like he’s imagining exactly what you’d sound like moaning into his pillow, or what you’d do if he slipped his hand between your thighs instead of the blanket you share during movie nights. He’ll tilt his head, tongue poking his cheek, blue eyes sliding over your lips like he’s already kissed them a hundred times in his mind. “What?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady. He smiles, slow and shameless. “Nothing. Just... trying to remember if you always look this good when you’re ignoring me.” You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, still smiling. Later, you hear him groan through the paper-thin wall. You tell yourself you imagined it. But you know you didn’t.

One night, you almost say it. You're buzzed after a party, warm from the inside out, barefoot in the kitchen, eating cold pizza from the box. Gojo strolls in, shirtless again, hair wet from a shower, sweatpants slung low on his hips. He watches you for a moment. You're wearing one of his t-shirts with no bra underneath, and he knows it. You swear his gaze burns through the cotton. He corners you in the against the counter, hands braced on either side of hour hips. The scent of his cologne, rich and citrus-y, envelops you.“You keep looking at me like that, angel,” he whispers, voice rougher than you've ever heard it, “and I’m gonna stop pretending this is friendly." You swallow, hard. “Who says we’re pretending?” That’s when he touches your waist. Large, warm hands with enough pressure to make your breath catch. "You gonna let me kiss you yet?" He murmurs, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. And you want him to. But you stop him. Barely. Fingertips curled into his shirt like a warning. “Not like this.”

He makes pancakes the next morning. No shirt. Just low-slung sweats and sleepy eyes. “Didn’t even touch you, and I’m still wrecked,” he mutters, flipping a pancake like he’s trying not to look at you. You’re standing there in your tiny shorts and one of his old hoodies, arms crossed, pretending to ignore the way his gaze keeps dropping to your legs. “You always cook for the girls you don’t fuck?” He grins, devilish. “Just because I didn’t hit doesn’t mean I’m not a gentleman." You tell him he’s insufferable. He tells you that you look really good in his hoodie.

You leave the hoodie folded on his bed later, along with a note that says: if you’re gonna touch me, do it right next time. And that night, you swear you hear him groan again, louder.

divider by @thecutestgrotto

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