didisficrecs

[didisficrecs]

ALWAYS : GOJO SATORU

gojo is an actor, a famous one, but he’s also been your boyfriend for a few years. you have an argument with him when he agrees to have a fake relationship with his costar without even telling you.

warning. established relationship! gojo, non-sorcerer! gojo, angst to comfort, reader thinking about leaving him.

gojo satoru, the name on everyone's lips, the face lighting up screens and hearts alike. after his series, jujutsu kaisen, hit the airwaves, his fame exploded. people couldn’t get enough of him—the magnetic charm, that boyish yet strikingly handsome face, his tall frame that seemed to demand attention, and that playful personality that left fans swooning. soon, he was everywhere, his every move followed, every glance analyzed. the media loved him, and so did the world. and it wasn’t long before rumors began to stir, fans shipping him with his co-star, utahime, the chemistry they shared on screen now fueling wild speculations.

but you— you loved him before all of that. before the fame, before the cameras, before the world started calling his name. you'd been his since high school, standing by his side through the quiet moments when it was just the two of you, when the world was smaller, and it felt like nothing could touch what you had. in all those years together, not once did you doubt him. not once did you question his love or his loyalty. satoru was yours, and you were his, in a way that felt unshakable, unbreakable.

until tonight.

you’re sitting on the couch, in the living room of your shared apartment, the place that always felt like home when he was around. the soft glow of the television flickers across your face, but the news it brings feels like a punch to the gut. there, on the screen, are headlines you never thought you'd see—rumors swirling about satoru dating utahime. the photos, the whispers, they feel like shards of glass cutting into you. your heart sinks, heavy and cold, and the world around you seems to crumble, falling to pieces at your feet. the trust you once held so tightly begins to tremble, slipping through your fingers like sand.

your chest tightens, breath shallow, as tears threaten to spill. it’s a slow ache, this feeling of betrayal—an unraveling of everything you thought you knew. but even with the panic swirling inside, even as the overthinking begins its cruel work, you hold onto a fragile hope. this has to be a misunderstanding, a twisted story spun by the media. you tell yourself to wait, to breathe, to stay strong until he comes home, until he can explain it all away.

hours tick by, and the apartment feels too quiet, too still. the silence presses in, and every minute that passes drags you deeper into doubt. finally, the door clicks open. it’s late—almost one in the morning. you watch as satoru steps through the threshold, his movements slow, his eyes glazed, the unmistakable scent of alcohol hanging heavy in the air between you.

satoru’s familiar smile lights up his face the moment his eyes land on you, that same warm, loving expression you’ve seen countless times. even through the haze of alcohol, there’s a softness in his gaze, a look of pure adoration as he leans against the doorframe for a moment, taking you in. despite the lateness of the hour, despite the swirling rumors, his eyes still hold that undeniable love, as if nothing in the world could change what he feels for you.

he steps closer, his movements slow but deliberate, and before you can say a word, his long arms wrap around your smaller frame. the embrace is warm, familiar, his body pressing against yours with a kind of gentle urgency. satoru buries his head in the crook of your neck, nuzzling into your skin like he always does when he needs comfort or closeness. his hold tightens around you, as if anchoring himself to you, as if the weight of the world outside disappears when he’s in your arms.

“i missed you,�� he mumbles against your neck, voice low and slightly slurred from the alcohol. his breath is warm, his touch soothing, and for a moment, despite everything, everything seems like it’s as it should be between the two of you.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, the smile on his face wider, his gaze a bit more unfocused. he cups your face, his thumb gently tracing the line of your cheekbone. “you’ve been waiting up for me, dollface?”

you meet his blue eyes, those familiar pools of endless blue now a bit dull, clouded by the alcohol and the late hour. they still carry warmth, but beneath it all, you can see the exhaustion and the weight of something unspoken. his thumb traces your cheek with such tenderness, and for a brief second, it almost feels like everything is normal, like the rumors you’d seen and the doubts gnawing at your chest were just figments of your imagination. but as you nod silently, unable to bring yourself to speak, the lump in your throat grows heavier.

you watch his face, his smile a little too wide, his gaze unfocused, and your heart tightens. you want to ask him, demand the truth, but the words stay trapped inside, tangled with fear and uncertainty. instead, you just nod again, your fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt as you fight the urge to cry. the silence between you feels thick, and the world seems to hang in the balance, teetering between the love you’ve always known and the fear of what might come next.

satoru’s smile falters for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he can sense the tension in the air. he can see the way you cling to his shirt, the tears threatening to spill from your eyes, and there’s a brief flicker of guilt in his expression. but he masks it quickly with another, more forced, smile.

“hey,” he murmurs, his thumbs gently wiping away the tear that escapes down your cheek. “why the tears, dollface?”

he can senses your inner turmoil when you don’t answer, the tension in your body, the way you cling to the fabric of his shirt tighten like a lifeline. the haze of alcohol makes everything hazy, his thoughts muddled and his reactions slower, but he can feel the storm brewing inside you. he leans his forehead against yours, his warm breath ghosting against your skin.

“dollface,” he murmurs, his voice laced with a mix of gentleness and intoxication, “i can see that pretty little head of yours overthinking. talk to me.”

your breath catches in your throat as he leans his forehead against yours, his closeness making it harder to suppress the storm raging inside you. his warmth, the familiar scent of him mixed with alcohol, wraps around you like a blanket, but it does nothing to soothe the ache in your chest. his words, so gentle yet muddled by intoxication, only deepen the conflict inside you. his voice pulls you in, but it’s the nagging thought in the back of your mind, the one you’ve been trying to ignore, that finally breaks through.

with trembling hands, you pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your grip on his shirt tightening even further, knuckles white from the strain. the words hang in the air between you, unspoken but heavy. your heart pounds in your chest as you force yourself to ask the question you’ve been dreading.

“did you... did you cheat on me with utahime, ‘toru?”

your voice is barely above a whisper, shaking with fear and vulnerability. you can feel the weight of the question settle into the space between you, and for a moment, it feels like time stops. the tears that had been threatening to fall finally spill over, your chest tight with the possibility that everything you had believed in, everything you had built together, could shatter with his next words.

satoru's reaction is immediate, his eyes widening as the weight of your words sinks in. without hesitation, he quickly shakes his head, his hands gripping your shoulders firmly but gently, grounding you both. there's a slight frown on his face, the alcohol clouding his thoughts, making it harder for him to process what you're feeling, but his urgency to reassure you is clear.

“no, no, no,” he mutters, his voice firm despite the slur, “of course not. i’d never do that to you, never.” his words come out rushed, almost desperate, as if the mere idea of it hurts him. he leans in closer, his blue eyes more focused now, searching yours for understanding.

“i love you too much, dollface. you have to know that,” he continues, his voice softer but filled with sincerity. “there’s no one else, not utahime, not anyone. it’s just you.”

his thumbs brush against your shoulders, his frown deepening as he tries to break through the haze of alcohol. he pulls you into him again, hugging you tightly, as if holding you close would somehow prove his words, his body trembling slightly against yours with the weight of his emotion.

you swallow hard, forcing a tight smile as you look up at him, your voice barely steady. “then why did i see the news, satoru? about you dating utahime?”

the question slips from your lips, though the lump in your throat makes it harder to speak. you’re trying to keep yourself from breaking, to hold back the tears threatening to fall, but the ache in your chest won’t ease. every part of you feels fragile, like you’re on the edge of crumbling.

you watch his expression carefully, searching for something—an explanation, a sign that what you saw wasn’t real. but even as you hold onto the hope in his words, the hurt gnaws at you, and you wonder if your heart can handle the truth, whatever it may be. your grip on his shirt loosens slightly, but you can’t stop the tremble in your fingers as you push through the overwhelming emotion rising within you.

satoru's expression falters again, his grip on you tightening, the alcohol making it harder for him to control his feelings. there's a mix of guilt and frustration in his eyes, a conflict warring within him. “it’s not what you think…” he starts, his words slightly slurred, “it’s all just... it’s all for the press, you have to understand…”

he’s trying to make you understand, to make you see past the headlines and rumors, but the complexity of the situation and the amount of alcohol in his system makes it difficult. he pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you with a desperate kind of possessiveness. “it’s all for publicity, doll,” he repeats, his voice a bit more pleading now. “they’re pushing a narrative, but you know me. you know what we have. i would never betray you… never.”

he leans his forehead against yours again, his eyes searching yours for any sign that you believe him. the scent of alcohol is strong, but beneath it, you can still smell the familiar scent of his cologne, the one that’s always so comfortingly ‘him’.

his words swirl around in your mind, a mix of desperation and pleading, but they don’t quite settle. the weight of his arms around you feels heavier now, almost suffocating, and as his forehead presses against yours again, you find yourself pulling away, pushing him back gently but firmly. your eyes narrow, the confusion and hurt bubbling up inside you, and before you can stop yourself, the question bursts out.

“what? so you and utahime are just pretending to date? for the media?”

your voice trembles with disbelief, the words sharp and cutting. the idea feels like a betrayal all on its own, the thought of him allowing the world to believe in something so intimate with someone else. you’re struggling to keep your emotions in check, trying to hold on to the last thread of composure you have left, but the pain in your chest only grows stronger.

your tears threaten to spill again, but you blink them back, refusing to let them fall. the ache in your throat tightens as you wait for his response, your heart pounding with a mixture of anger and desperation for the truth.

satoru’s eyes widen further, the flicker of surprise obvious in his expression. he almost looks taken aback by your bluntness, the alcohol impairing his ability to react in a more composed manner. he stares at you, the weight of your words and the look in your eyes making it clear that you’re not buying into his explanation.

he tries to step closer to you again, his hands reaching out to touch you, but you step back, maintaining the distance between you two. he’s not used to you being this confrontational, this insistent, and for a moment, he looks almost lost, the situation overwhelming him in his current state. he swallows hard, the guilt and confusion clear in his eyes, as he runs a hand through his hair.

“i... it’s not like that,” he finally manages to stutter out, the words coming out shaky. “it’s just for appearances, for the sake of our careers... it’s not real. i swear, dollface. you have to believe me...” his voice is pleading, desperate even, as he tries to make you understand. the sight of you pulling away is like a punch to his gut, the fear of losing you obvious in his expression.

your frown deepens as his shaky explanation sinks in, but it doesn’t soothe the ache in your chest. instead, his words make the hurt sharper, and your heart feels heavier with each passing second. you take a step back, creating more distance between you, and the pain you’ve been holding inside finally spills over into your voice.

“you didn’t even bother to talk to me about this, satoru,” you say, your voice low but thick with emotion. “i had to find out like everyone else… through the news.”

the weight of your words hangs between you, and the hurt is unmistakable in your tone. your fingers tremble at your sides as you fight back the tears you’ve been holding in. “do you know how that felt? seeing you… like that, with her, and not even having a clue?” you swallow hard, the lump in your throat making it harder to speak. you want to believe him, to hold onto the love you’ve always shared, but the betrayal of being left in the dark cuts deep.

satoru swallows hard, the impact of your words hitting him like a ton of bricks. the guilt on his face is almost tangible as he watches you step away, the hurt and disbelief in your eyes more apparent than ever before. his hands fall to his sides, the helplessness of the situation evident in his expression.

“i...” he starts, his voice trembling a bit, “i wanted to tell you... but i couldn’t...” the excuse sounds hollow even to his own ears, a weak attempt to justify something that shouldn’t have happened. he wants to reach out, to close the distance between you, but he knows that the hurt he’s caused won’t disappear with just a touch. his shoulders slump, his eyes dropping to the ground as he tries to find the right words, but nothing seems right.

“i swear, dollface...” he tries again, his voice barely above a whisper. “it’s not real. she means nothing. you mean everything. you have to believe me... you have to...”

the vulnerability in his gaze is raw and desperate, the pain in his voice mirroring your own. despite the alcohol clouding his thoughts, the fear of losing you is clearer than ever. “i just didn’t want you to be upset.”

a bitter scoff escapes your lips before you can stop it, the sound cutting through the tension in the room like a knife. you cross your arms, the sarcasm lacing your words as you look at him with an almost mocking smile, your emotions spilling out in a rush.

“oh, well now that i know the truth, i’m just sooo happy, baby,” you say, your voice dripping with false enthusiasm. “euphoria, really. thank you for this… for such happiness.”

you let out a sharp laugh, rolling your eyes as your hand moves dramatically to your chest, as if to emphasize how ‘grateful’ you are. your expression is anything but happy, the hurt still etched into your features as you step closer to him, your fingers barely brushing his arm in a gesture that feels more like a mockery than comfort.

“thank you for letting me find out this way,” you continue, your voice faltering slightly beneath the sarcasm, the real pain slipping through your facade. “it’s exactly what i needed.” even as you stand so close, your words create a distance between you both that feels impossible to bridge.

your sarcasm hits him like a slap across the face, your words cutting deep. he flinches, the mixture of hurt and guilt in his eyes almost palpable. your expression is harsh, your smile laced with bitterness, and the false enthusiasm in your tone is a stark contrast to the pain evident in your gaze.

as your fingers brush against his arm, a slight shudder runs through him. he can sense your hurt, the anger behind your mocking expression, and the way you step closer, almost mockingly, only makes him feel worse. “stop…” he murmurs, his voice low and choked with emotion.

“stop it, dollface,” he tries again, his hands reaching out to grab your arms in a desperate attempt to keep you from further pulling away. “please, listen to me... it’s not what you think... i never meant to hurt you…” his voice trembles, the alcohol-fueled emotions leaving him more vulnerable than usual. he can’t stand the way you’re looking at him—with pain and disappointment in your gaze. he wants to fix this, to take it back, but the damage has already been done.

a breathy chuckle escapes you, but there's no warmth in it, only bitterness. you pull away slightly from his grip, your eyes hardening as you meet his pleading gaze. “of course you didn’t mean to hurt me,” you say, your voice low and sharp, “ou’re just a coward, satoru. a coward who only thought about himself.”

your words are harsh, but they flow out before you can stop them, your frustration and heartbreak spilling over. “you didn’t even consider how i’d feel, did you? seeing it in the news, instead of hearing it from you.”

you shake your head, taking a step back as the weight of it all crashes down on you. “you thought you could protect me by keeping me in the dark? you thought it would be easier for me to find out that way?” your voice cracks at the end, the anger you’ve been holding onto breaking under the pressure of your hurt.

you look at him, eyes burning with unshed tears, but you refuse to let them fall. “you always said i was the most important person in your life, but you couldn’t even give me the respect of telling me the truth.”

every word you throw at him feels like a dagger to the heart, each one sharper and more painful than the last. the alcohol has made him weaker, less in control, and your words cut through him, exposing all of his flaws and mistakes.

“i... i just wanted to protect you,” he stammers out, his grip on you loosening, his fingers trembling. “i didn’t want you to worry... i didn’t want to hurt you...” he knows his excuses sound hollow and weak, the guilt weighing heavily on him.

you take another step back, your eyes narrowing as his words hit you, hollow and weak. your heart aches, but anger swells inside you, pushing the sadness deeper. “protect me?” you repeat, your voice low and filled with disbelief. “protect me from what exactly, satoru?”

your gaze hardens as you stare at him, your lips trembling, trying to hold back the rising emotion. “from seeing you pretend to date someone else? from the truth? from feeling anything at all?”

your words cut through the air, and as you stand there, a mixture of hurt and frustration twisting inside you, you realize the weight of what he’s done. “how could you possibly think hiding this from me would make anything better?” your voice cracks slightly, but you swallow down the lump in your throat, refusing to break in front of him.

he winces at the sharpness of your tone, the pain in your voice making him ache. he knows how wrong he was, how stupid his reasoning sounds when confronted with the truth. he tries to find the right words to explain, to make you understand, but everything he thinks of sounds empty and weak.

“i… i thought if i didn’t tell you, you wouldn’t worry…” he answers, his voice low, almost a whisper. “i thought i could handle it… i thought i could keep you out of it…”

“i… i’m so sorry,” he falters, his eyes pleading with you, begging for your forgiveness. “i didn’t want to hurt you… i never wanted to hurt you. i just didn’t want you to worry. i wanted to keep you safe from the bullshit the media loves pushing, and i thought i could handle it on my own… but i was wrong, dollface. i was wrong about everything. please… please don’t hate me…”

your breath hitches, and despite trying to hold it back, the tears finally spill down your cheeks, hot and relentless. you stare at him, your voice trembling as you ask, “did you even think about me when you made that decision, satoru?”

each word carries the weight of your heartbreak, the betrayal sinking deep. your chest feels tight, your mind spinning as you search his face, his eyes—desperately looking for the love that was always there, the love that once felt so undeniable.

but now, standing before him, everything feels fragile, uncertain. “do you even love me?” you whisper, the question breaking you as it leaves your lips. the vulnerability in your voice is raw, and the silence that follows feels deafening.

you search his eyes for the truth, for something—anything—that can make this pain go away. but all you see is a man who hurt you, and you're not sure if he even knows how much.

the moment your question leaves your lips, you see the change in satoru's expression. it's as if the words struck him harder than any blow ever could. the haze of alcohol vanishes from his eyes, replaced by a raw, searing pain. for a split second, he looks shattered, but then, in an instant, his jaw tightens, and you can see anger flicker across his face.

“you are joking, right?” his voice is low, almost incredulous as he stares at you, his blue eyes sharper than before. “don’t you dare question my love for you.” his tone grows more intense, almost desperate, his hands reaching for you again. “i love you more than anything. more than anyone. everything i do, i do for you.”

his frustration simmers just below the surface, and you can feel it in his grip, his voice trembling not from the alcohol but from emotion. “how can you even ask me that after everything we’ve been through? i’ve given you everything i have—my heart, my life, my soul—and you think i don’t love you?”

he searches your eyes, his gaze pleading, desperate for you to understand, to believe him. but beneath that anger, you can still feel the weight of his guilt, the fear that you might not.

he takes another step towards you, closing the small gap between you. his hands tighten around your arms, his fingers digging into your skin as if he's afraid to let you go. “don’t you dare question my love for you,” he repeats, his voice low and intense. “i would never… i would never hurt you if i didn’t have to, dollface. you have to believe me.”

he looks at you, something between desperation and anger in his eyes, as if he’s begging you to see past the lie, to understand that he loves you more than anything in the world.

you've never seen him like this before—almost feral in his desperation to make you believe him. he's always been controlled, composed, but the thought of losing you has cracked that façade. he looks lost, raw, and desperate for you to see that he loves you, more than life itself.

your voice breaks as you softly ask, “then why are you doing this, satoru?” your words come out between the sobs, fragile and laced with the kind of pain that cuts deeper than any wound.

his grip tightens slightly, his fingers pressing into your skin, but you barely feel it, consumed by the flood of emotion. the tears continue streaming down your face, each one a reflection of the confusion, the heartbreak, the betrayal you feel.

“if you love me… why?” your voice is a whisper now, almost pleading, as if you're hoping for an answer that will make all of this hurt go away. you look up at him, searching for something, anything that will make sense of this, but all you see is the same mix of guilt and desperation in his eyes.

you want to believe him, to believe in the love you once thought was unshakable, but right now, all you can feel is the ache in your chest, the sharp sting of doubt that you never imagined you'd have to face.

“god damn it, dollface,” he mutters, his voice choked with emotion. “how can i make you believe me? how can i show you that i love you more than anything? i’d move mountains, i’d burn the world down…”

he leans forward, his forehead now touching yours, as he tries to get you to see the truth in his eyes. his voice is low and intense, his hands tighten around your arms, desperate to hold onto you, to make you understand how much he loves you.

the sight of your tears, the sound of your voice cracking with emotion, cuts through him like a knife. he reaches up to wipe away your tears, his touch gentle despite the intensity in his eyes. he can see the skepticism, the doubt in your eyes, and it only fuels his desperation.

“i would do anything for you, dollface,” he murmurs, his voice cracking. “anything. i’d give up everything, i’d burn the world down if it would make you believe me. just tell me what to do. tell me, and i’ll do it.”

you meet his gaze, searching his eyes for something—anything—that could make the pain go away. his words echo in your mind, the promise of doing anything for you, but it all feels so distant, unreachable. the hurt inside you runs too deep, and no matter how much you want to push it away, it keeps creeping in, clouding your thoughts.

your chest feels tight, and the silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating. after a moment, your head falls against his chest, the steady beat of his heart only making the ache in yours worse. you stay like that, in the quiet, trying to think of what you want—what you need—but it’s too much. the hurt, the betrayal, it’s all too overwhelming.

with a shaky breath, you push him away gently, your hands trembling as you do. “i need some time,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, but firm. “i need to be alone for a while.”

his hands drop from your arms, his eyes widening slightly as you take a step back. you don’t meet his gaze again as you add, “i’ll sleep in the next room... for now.” and without waiting for a response, you turn and walk away, the weight of your decision pressing down on you with every step you take.

as the door closes behind you, the silence in the room is deafening, leaving only the sound of your heart pounding in your ears.

satoru stares at the door, his hand still outstretched, his mind struggling to process what just happened. the room feels empty without you in it, the silence is deafening, and the weight of what he’s done crashes down on him. he sinks onto the couch, his head in his hands, the full impact of your request—your need to be alone—hitting him with a force he didn’t expect.

he’s never been without you before, not like this. the thought of you being alone in the next room, your hurt, your pain... it’s almost too much to bear.

he sits like that, motionless, for what feels like hours, his mind a maelstrom of emotions. regret, guilt, worry, desperation���it’s all there, swirling together in a toxic mix that feels like it’s tearing him apart.

he thinks about going to you, of trying to make you understand, to apologize, to do anything to make things right. but deep down, he knows that you need this, that he needs to give you this time, even if it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.

the front door creaks open, and you hear it close with a soft thud, followed by the sound of a car pulling away. you sit on the edge of the bed, your heart heavy as silence envelops the room. tears stream down your face, each drop a reminder of the pain from the night before. despite the exhaustion weighing down on you, sleep eludes you as the memories replay in your mind, the hurtful words echoing like a haunting refrain.

eventually, the weight of your emotions takes its toll, and you succumb to sleep, your body finally giving in to the fatigue that has consumed you.

when you awaken, the sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow in the room. glancing at the clock, you realize it’s nearly noon. the realization hits you hard—satoru hasn’t returned. a pang of hurt slices through you as you consider that he left without even saying goodbye.

as you move to the kitchen, a swirl of worry settles in your chest. where did he go? did he sleep well? did he eat anything? the questions multiply, and the thought of him with someone else makes your stomach churn. you can’t shake the image of him with utahime, the fear gnawing at you like a relentless predator.

you pour yourself a cup of coffee, the familiar scent providing a momentary comfort amidst the chaos of your thoughts. as you sip slowly, your mind races through countless scenarios—what if he’s out drinking again? what if he’s hurting? the worry overwhelms you, threatening to pull you under.

just as you’re lost in your thoughts, you hear the unmistakable sound of keys clattering onto the kitchen counter. your heart races as you blink, trying to process the moment. slowly, you turn your head, and there he is—satoru.

he stands in the doorway, his disheveled appearance a stark contrast to the confident man you know. his blue eyes, usually so vibrant, are ringed with redness and framed by dark circles, a testament to a sleepless night. his silver hair is tousled, sticking up in all directions as if he’s just rolled out of bed.

“satoru…” your voice comes out as a whisper, the mix of relief and apprehension washing over you. he shifts on his feet, looking vulnerable and exposed, the weight of unspoken apologies hanging heavily in the air.

“i… i’m back,” he says, his voice hoarse and shaky. he takes a hesitant step towards you, the air thick with tension as he searches your face for any sign of how you’re feeling.

you stand there, coffee cup cradled in your hands, unsure of how to react. the memories of the previous night flash through your mind—his hurtful act, your tears. despite the urge to run to him, to wrap your arms around him and forget everything, a part of you holds back.

satoru stands there, his heart thumping loudly in his chest as he watches the myriad of emotions play across your face. he looks weary, exhausted—physically, emotionally, mentally. the distance between you feels like an ocean, the air heavy with tension and unsaid apologies. he can see the war raging in your eyes, the hesitation—the doubt. and it hurts, more than he thought possible.

he takes another step forward, his hand reaching out slightly, hovering in the air as if he’s afraid to touch you, to cross that invisible line that’s been drawn between you.

he opens his mouth to speak, his mind racing through everything he could say—everything he wants to say. he wants to apologize, to explain, to make things right. he wants to hold you, to be held by you, to be close to you again. but the words seem to evaporate before they even reach his lips.

finally, he simply says your name. just your name. and the way it falls off his tongue is like a plea, a silent plea for you to understand, to forgive.

your heart races as you look up at him, his tired eyes filled with guilt and longing. the way he says your name—soft, almost reverent—feels like a plea for understanding, a desperate attempt to bridge the chasm that has formed between you. but despite the sincerity in his gaze, the memory of last night lingers, a painful reminder of betrayal.

when he takes your hand, the warmth of his touch sends a jolt through you. you want to feel comforted, to lean into him and forget the hurt, but the thought of him pretending to be with another girl cuts deep. the mere idea of it feels like a heavy weight pressing down on your chest, suffocating you.

“i… i don’t think i can stand it,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you struggle to keep your emotions in check. “seeing you with someone else in public... pretend to be all couple.”

satoru's heart clenches at your words, the pain in your voice slicing through him like a knife. he knew it was coming, knew you’d bring it up. it’s just one of the many things he’s been dreading this morning. but hearing it from you, seeing the look in your eyes, it makes everything so much more real, so much more painful.

he tightens his grip on your hand, his thumb tracing small circles on your skin, an attempt to soothe, to comfort. “i know,” he responds, his voice almost a whisper.

satoru's heart aches as he sees the hurt in your eyes, the pain mirrored in your expression. the weight of your words hangs heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the chasm that has grown between you. he takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself, to gather his thoughts.

“that’s why,” he begins, his voice barely above a whisper, “i spoke to the company earlier.” he pauses, searching your gaze for understanding. “they were furious.”

he cups your cheek gently with his free hand, the warmth of his palm a stark contrast to the cold reality of the situation. “i never wanted you to be caught in the crossfire of all this,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “the pressure… the expectations… i just thought it would be easier if we kept it private. but i see now how wrong that was.”

his thumb brushes softly against your skin, an attempt to convey the depth of his remorse. “i was so focused on protecting you that I forgot what you really needed—transparency, honesty. i wanted to shield you from the chaos, but instead, I just pushed you away.” satoru’s eyes search yours, filled with regret and determination. “i’ll do whatever it takes to make this right. i’ll fight for us, even if it means facing the wrath of the company. i want to be open about us, to show the world how much you mean to me.”

you blink in surprise, confusion flooding your mind as you process his words. “what do you mean you spoke to the company?” you ask, your voice wavering slightly. “wwhat did they say?”

but before he can respond, satoru turns on the tv, and your heart drops at the sight of him. he looks so different—disheveled, exhausted, eyes red-rimmed, as if he hasn’t slept in days. the conference is chaotic, the flashing lights of cameras blinding as reporters hurl questions at him, but he stands there, unwavering.

you stare at the screen, completely stunned. your eyes flicker from the television back to satoru, who stands quietly beside you. the image of him on the screen—a mess of disheveled hair, red eyes, and exhaustion—contrasts sharply with the composed, confident man you know. your heart pounds as you take in what’s unfolding before you: the rumors, the flashing cameras, his raw vulnerability on full display.

the conference is chaotic. journalists fire rapid questions at him, flashes of light bursting in quick succession, but satoru doesn’t waver. he remains steadfast, repeating only one thing—that the rumors aren’t true, that he’s had a girlfriend for years. you feel a lump in your throat, your chest tightening with emotion as the realization sets in. he did this… for you.

you turn to him, your voice shaky, barely above a whisper, “satoru… why you did all of this…?”

he doesn’t speak immediately, just watches you, his expression soft yet filled with a mixture of guilt and hope. slowly, he nods, his thumb still brushing gently over your hand. “i couldn’t let you think for one more second that i’d ever choose anyone else over you,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse from everything he’s been through. “i had to do something… anything to show you.”

your eyes well up with tears again, but this time it’s not from pain or anger. you’re overwhelmed, touched by how far he’s gone to try and fix this. “but you didn’t have to—” you start, but he cuts you off, shaking his head.

“yes, i did,” he insists. “i needed to prove it. not just with words, but with action. i’m not letting you walk away thinking i’d ever betray you like that.”

satoru's gaze is intense, his eyes fixed on you as he continues, “i couldn’t let you think for a second that i'd even entertain the thought of being with someone else. you mean everything to me, and i had to make a statement, a public one, because i can’t bear the thought of you doubting that. not for a second.”

“i know i messed up,” he continues, his voice filled with a mixture of regret and determination, “but i swear to you, i’ll never do anything to hurt you on purpose ever again.”

your heart races as you absorb his words, a whirlwind of emotions flooding your mind. the intensity of his gaze makes you feel both cherished and guilty. the weight of the situation settles heavily on your shoulders, and you can’t shake the feeling that you might be the cause of turmoil in his life.

you swallow hard, your throat dry as you find your voice. “but what about your series?” you ask, anxiety creeping into your tone. “what happens now? you just… put everything on the line for me?” the guilt gnaws at you, and you can't help but worry that your struggles might ruin his career. “satoru, i didn’t want this to affect you. i thought you’d want to keep things private to avoid backlash.”

the thought of him facing consequences for his public declaration sends a shiver down your spine. you look at him, your eyes wide with concern. “what did they say? are they going to fire you? or change the series because of this?” his silence hangs in the air, and you brace yourself for his answer, anxiety wrapping around your heart like a vise.

satoru’s eyes soften even further as he looks down at you, his hand still holding yours, but his grip has tightened slightly. he’s clearly nervous—nervous about what he has to say next, nervous about how you’ll react.

he takes a deep breath before responding, his voice measured and controlled. “i’m not getting fired, dollface.” his words, though relieving, don’t seem to quell the anxiety in your eyes. it’s clear that there’s more to the story, and he can see that you’re bracing for the worst.

satoru watches your expression shift from worry to confusion, then a flicker of understanding as he continues. “they just decided to kill me off in the middle of the second season,” he says, forcing a smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He chuckles lightly, trying to lighten the mood. “the writer never really liked me anyway.”

he sees the way your brows furrow, and his heart aches for you. he wants to ease your concerns, to show you that his world isn’t crumbling because of this. “it’s all part of the plan,” he adds, his tone playful, even if the situation isn’t exactly ideal. “maybe i’ll get a dramatic comeback. who doesn’t love a good resurrection arc, right?”

he cups your nape gently, his thumb brushing along your skin as he leans down to place a tender kiss on your forehead. “i’d do it a million times over for you, you know? i’d take the hit if it means you feel secure in my love. No one else matters more than you.”

as he pulls back slightly, he searches your gaze, hoping to see a hint of reassurance that you understand his intentions. he wants you to feel loved and protected, no matter the chaos that surrounds them.

your heart feels heavy as you gaze up at satoru, the weight of your worry settling deep in your chest. “are you sure about this?” you ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “i don’t want to be the person who ruins your career.”

the concern in your eyes reflects the turmoil inside you, the fear that your feelings and insecurities could jeopardize everything he’s worked so hard for. you search his face for any sign of doubt, but all you find is unwavering determination.

satoru’s expression shifts, and he gently squeezes your hand, trying to convey his certainty. “dollface, you could never ruin my career,” he reassures you, his voice steady and calm. “if anything, you’re the reason i want to fight for it. i don’t care what they think or what the company says. my love for you is worth any backlash i might face.”

he leans closer, his forehead resting against yours, grounding you both in the moment. “i’d rather give it all up than let you feel like you’re the problem. you are my priority, and nothing will ever change that.” his blue eyes search yours, pleading for you to believe him, to trust that he’s all in.

your heart pounds in your chest as satoru’s words sink in, the rawness of his vulnerability hitting you like a tidal wave. his career, his reputation, his future—he’s willing to risk all of it for you, and the weight of that sacrifice leaves you reeling.

you look at him, the love and determination evident in his eyes, and you struggle to find the words to express the mixture of gratitude and guilt churning inside you. you don’t want to be the one causing ripples in his world, but his steadfast resolve makes it impossible to deny the intensity of his feelings.

satoru notices the turmoil in your expression, the way your brow furrows with guilt as you process his words. it cuts through him like a knife, the thought that you might still feel responsible for any turmoil in his life. he can’t stand to see you in pain, especially not when it’s tied to his choices.

he takes a deep breath, trying to ease your mind. “hey,” he says gently, tilting your chin up so your eyes meet his, “i’ve got a few offers for new series and movies lined up. i’m not in danger of losing everything, i promise. they’re just waiting for me to finish this one.”

a small, reassuring smile crosses his face, one that he hopes will lift some of the weight off your shoulders. “this is just a bump in the road, and i’m more than capable of handling it. what matters is you. i need you to know that I’ll always choose you, no matter what.”

he leans in closer, his eyes searching yours, filled with sincerity. “we’ll figure this out together, okay? you’re not a burden; you’re my motivation.”

your heart squeezes at satoru's words, your chest tightening with a mix of emotions. the guilt, the worry, the love—it's all flooding through you, leaving you feeling vulnerable and exposed. but in that vulnerability, you also see the depth of his devotion, his unwavering commitment to you.

“but… i don’t want you to choose,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “i don't want you to feel like you have to sacrifice your career... because of me.”

satoru hums softly at your words, the sound reverberating with warmth as he processes your concerns. with a gentle yet deliberate motion, he lifts you to sit on the counter, his hands steadying you as your thighs rest against the cool surface. he positions himself closer, his forehead resting against the counter beside your body, effectively caging you in.

“i can’t sacrifice you for my career either,” he says, his voice low and earnest, the intensity of his gaze locking onto yours. “you’re the one thing i won’t compromise on. i’d give up everything for you, even if it meant starting over. no job, no series, nothing could ever mean more to me than you.”

his expression is fierce, a combination of determination and vulnerability that makes your heart race. “so please, don’t worry about me. we’re in this together. we’ll figure it out side by side, and i’ll make sure you never feel like you’re standing in the way of my dreams.”

as you look into his eyes, the depth of his words washes over you, and a warmth spreads through your chest. you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer, needing the reassurance of his presence. the feel of his warmth against you brings a sense of comfort, a connection that calms the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

“i just… i don’t want to be the reason for your struggles,” you murmur, your voice thick with emotion. “i care about you so much, satoru. i want you to shine, to succeed, and to be happy.”

holding him tightly, you feel the tension in his body ease as he leans into you, his breath mingling with yours. “i know we’ll figure this out together,” you whisper, your heart swelling with love. “but promise me you won’t carry this weight alone. we’re a team, right?”

satoru’s eyes flutter shut as he absorbs your words, a mixture of gratitude and relief washing over him. your unwavering support and love are like a balm on his weary soul, and he melts into your embrace, his head resting on your shoulder.

“together,” he affirms, his voice a whisper against your skin. “you’re not just my partner; you’re my foundation. you give me the strength to face anything, good or bad. we’re in this together, and no one, not even the company, can come between us.”

he lifts his head, his eyes studying your face. “you’re not a burden or an inconvenience, dollface. you’re my priority, my everything. i may have an image to uphold, but nothing is worth more than your happiness, your comfort. i’d take on the world for you if i have to.”

a flicker of vulnerability passes across his face. “just promise me that you’ll keep communicating with me. if you ever feel like you’re in my way or like you’re causing me trouble, i need—no, i want you to tell me, okay?”

a warm smile spreads across your face at his words, the sincerity in his eyes soothing the lingering doubts in your mind. you nod, feeling a rush of affection for him. “okay,” you mumble softly, your voice filled with reassurance.

a wave of visible relief washes over satoru’s face as you agree to his request. the tension in his body eases visibly, and he reaches up to gently brush a strand of hair away from your face.

“thank you,” he whispers, his hand resting on your cheek. “i just... i need to know that you’re okay, that we’re okay. that, even when things are messy, we’re still you and me. always.”

you nod, a soft smile still gracing your lips as you gently cup his cheeks in your hands. feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your palms, you lean in closer, your heart racing in anticipation.

satoru’s heart races at the touch of your hands against his cheeks, the warmth of your palms sending electric currents through his body. your lips meet his, a sense of peace washes over you, the world around you fading into the background. it’s a sweet, tender kiss, filled with unspoken promises and the depth of your feelings for him. as your lips meet his, he savors the taste of you, melting into the kiss like a man starved.

you pull back slightly, your foreheads resting against each other, and whisper, “always,” letting the word linger in the air between you, a vow that encapsulates everything you both cherish. it’s a simple word, but it carries the weight of your love, a reminder that no matter the chaos, you’ll always find your way back to each other.

satoru feels the weight of your promise like a gentle caress. a content smile spreads across his face as he brushes his nose against yours, a whisper of affectionate laughter escaping his lips.

“always,” he repeats quietly, his blue eyes sparkling with love. “me and you.”

[didisficrecs]

super annoying gojo satoru when a girl comes up to you and asks you if he's your brother even after clearly seeing him grabbing your ass and saying super cheesy lines to you to make you only roll your eyes at him.

and you're stuck dumbfounded because it's not rocket science to figure out that you two are a thing just by looking at the both of you because the clingy bastard is quite literally stuck to you everywhere you go, whining and pleading for yet another kiss after stealing several from you.

and it's the same clinginess that prompts him to answer in your stead "yes actually. we're siblings" he beams a smile at you and you scowl, why the hell is he feeding onto this random girl's delusions like that? can't he take the hint?

you're not done scrutinising him when he grabs your chin with his big ass hands and smashes his lips onto yours, tugging and devouring your mouth into an extra sloppy kiss for the girl to take a hint.

he pulls away, a smirk on his lips as he licks his lips where yours had been a second ago. "is that obvious enough?" he chuckles, eyes never leaving yours as you see the girl storm off in the corner of your eye.

[didisficrecs]

volume down

[suggestive at toji's] you wake up one day and decide to give them the silent treatment because you're a menace

incl: gojo, geto, nanami, choso, toji, sukuna, yuji and toge.

[didisficrecs]

SHE TOLD YOU THAT SHE CELIBATE, SHE TOLD ME I COULD NAIL HER SH*T — gojo satoru minors dni

PART I. of the new years letters, a series of fics dedicated to some of my lovely mutuals! 🎁

prologue. → you wish gojo satoru would stop trying to ask you out. not that you don't like him, but dating the one guy that you're smacked silly about would mean that he could break your heart and leave you in ruins. so it's best to keep some distance right?

pairing. gojo satoru x afab!reader

warnings+. college au, reader wears a skirt, reader is choso's twin and yuuji's older sister, but no appearance detailed. kissing, making out, óral (f) receiving, general bitchiness and fuckups 😚 ensemble cast of poor bystanders (geto, shoko, sukuna, yuki etc)

word count. 10k! song inspiration. gang baby — nle choppa

a/n. it's because of that one edit by satorupedia that's going around rn. yall know which one 😭 art by touno_stupa on twt!

dedication. yayyy decided to start my little gift series for new years with this fic inspired and dedicated to @fushitoru who was one of the first blogs i followed on here before i was super familiar with jujutsu kaisen. aashi writes thee most wonderful gojo fics that are so well characterised and heart-stoppingly adorable and HAWT. 😁 🤭 and i easily associate her with physics/college au gojo now, ever since her spiderman gojo fic that lives in my head!!!!

gojo in this fic:

ACT I. don't puck around and find out!

"i ran into gojo today," choso says, his voice as unbothered and monotone as ever, scraping the gravel lazily with the heel of his scuffed combat boots, "or he ran into me."

"gojo satoru?"

"how many gojos do we know?" your twin brother huffs, giving you a dry side-eye. but before you can retort something equally acrid, he's yanking at the sleeve of your sweatshirt, halting you midstep, "wait. car."

you blink out of your tired daze just in time to see a battered camry putter past, its engine groaning like it's on its last legs. just how you feel after a long day of seminars and lectures. the car rattles down the street with the grace of a tin can tied to a string.

"thanks," you mutter, half-heartedly as you shift your laptop case from one tired arm to the other, "could have been the end of my genius academic career."

"would have been a short one either way," choso quietly quips, earning himself a sharp elbow to the ribs.

"so?" you press on.

"so, what?"

"what did gojo say?"

"ohhh," choso drawls, in that irritating way of his that indicates he has no idea how to deliver good gossip, news or any form of tea, "he asked if i wanted to play hockey for his team tomorrow. they're down a player ever since kento went on exchange."

"hockey?" your eyebrow arches, and skepticism curls your lips for choso is hardly known for his athleticism. you mean, you're sure he has the physical ability in him somewhere but you (and the rest of the world) are yet to see it, "are you gonna join the team, then?"

not that you care about gojo's stupid, state-tournament winning team. of course not. you're just curious. and curiosity is harmless.

it has nothing to do with the fact that you woke up last night wanting to jump gojo satoru's bones. just like you did the night before, and before. and the week before that. yeah, suffice to say that this has been going on for a while.

"nah," choso says, shaking dull, greasy strands of dark hair out of his eyes, "got placements tomorrow."

right. placements. choso's all about pathology and lab medicine and test tubes, while you get queasy at the mere mention of haemoglobin. and it unsettles you mildly at how your twin brother's eyes light up at the mere mention of a blood test.

"and?" you prod when he starts to drift off again, his attention wandering like it always does.

choso is often like a calm river. slow, broad and lazy.

this time, you pull at his one of his headphone cords to reel him back, "did gojo say anything else?"

choso gives you that dull look, quiet but loaded. like he's already solved a puzzle that you didn't know you were trying to hide. it just makes your stomach twist, "why do you care what gojo satoru says?"

"i don't," you snap, far too fast, like your tongue is racing your brain to a crash site. the lie sits heavy in your throat, thick and obvious.

choso's pale and dry lips twitch, and you wondered what happened to the lip balm you threw into his christmas stocking last year, "should i have told him you could sub in for his team instead?"

"no-one likes a smartass, cho," you grumble, speeding up your steps as your twin leisurely rummages through his fraying backpack for his house keys. you roll your eyes and push ahead, jamming your own keys into the lock before you die of boredom waiting for him to dig through the trash heap that lies at the bottom of his bag, "anyway, i was just asking. you brought gojo up."

choso trails behind you, his tone infuriatingly casual, "you always get weird when someone mentions him. i thought you guys were friends."

"we are friends. and i don't get weird."

"you get so weird. even yuki said so."

"i love yuki, i do. but she has no idea what she's talking about —"

the door swings open, cutting off your false deflection. standing there is yuuji, with half a sandwich dangling from his mouth like he's some kind of feral creature. there's a smear of mayonnaise clinging to his cheek as he yanks a red, track hoodie over his tank top.

"mmph! hey, you guys!" he muffles through a mouthful of bread, waving at you with the enthusiasm that only a teenage boy could muster after inhaling half the fridge.

"where are you off to?" you peer at your younger brother, your eyes zeroing in on his mutilated sandwich. a sandwich that you're certain you made for yourself this morning, leaving it for a study session upon your return.

"track practice," yuuji says, swallowing the last bite whole, "then dinner with fushiguro and kugisaki." he's already halfway down the driveway, sneakers untied and laces flopping on the pavement behind him.

choso narrows his eyes, "got money? or a water bottle? a hat? did you wear sunscreen?"

"i'm good!" yuuji calls back without breaking stride, waving a quick hand at the two of you.

"why don't you hold his hand and walk him to school, mother?"

"shut up," choso grumbles as he brushes past you into the house, throwing you an exaggerated scowl of wounded, elder-brother pride over his shoulder, "why don't you hold gojo's hand to hockey practice?"

your bookbag swings through the air, connecting to the back of choso's oversized head and a loud thud follows.

ACT II. long overdue and lacking a spine

you had been in this library for hours, eyes blurring as the words in your textbook stubbornly refused to make sense. it was all a gross blur of terms and diagrams, and your $8.00 coffee had gone lukewarm an hour ago.

study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that was the plan, no distractions.

your phone, however, had other ideas as it sat innocently next to your stack of notes. you tapped the screen quickly under the guise of a 'quick break' but before long, you were deep into instagram stories. someone's dog, a flyer for a rave that you definitely weren't going to, and then, of course, him.

gojo satoru. on someone's reposted story with a classic, grainy photo of one of the campus's most darling boys. long arm draped casually over some girl. both of them lit in the neon glow of what looked like a party bus. he wasn't even looking at the camera, just flashing that effortless grin that you had seen your entire life growing up. and the girl was gorgeous, obviously. not that you cared about that.

but speak of the devil and he hath appear. a long shadow fell over the table, and you felt the chill in your bones, trying not to shift in your seat.

"go away, gojo," you muttered, not even deigning to look up.

"how'd you know it was me?" his voice is teasing, all light and airy as he's pulling out the chair next to you.

"what can i say? lucky guess," you reply dryly, keeping your eyes glued to the suspiciously-stained textbook. worried that you'll look up and your iron resolve will disappear from one glance at big, blue eyes.

but out of the corner of his eye, you try not to twitch at the sight of the soft, pale blue hoodie that swallows his broad frame whole. thick, white strands of hair that fall gently over his face. and that cloying scent of mint and something faintly sweet that leaves your ears hot and your heart sitting in your throat.

study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that's what you tell yourself in a now failing mantra.

"are you following me today?" you ask, flipping a page with exaggerated nonchalance, like you're not about to tear up pathetically from a stupid crush.

"caught me," gojo says, the grin audible even in his voice, "i just couldn't resist finding you. is that what you want me to say?"

you finally look up, swallowing at unfairly fine features, "saw you were at some party yesterday. i didn't think you'd be on campus today."

gojo just laughs, the sound soft and infuriating, "keeping tabs on me now?" and he's rifling through his bag for something, "or you don't think the library's a good look for me? i'm broadening my horizons. testing the waters."

you narrow your eyes, willing the heat rising in your face to stay put and not crawl into your voice, "i think you're testing my patience. i have a test tomorrow, so if you're here to waste my time..."

"maybe i just wanted to hang out with my friend," gojo says, tearing open a kitkat wrapper in an obnoxious way that echoes through the silent hall, and the crinkle of plastic grates against your nerves, "we haven't seen each other in ages."

"don't you have a lot of other people to hang out with nowadays?" you're mentally beating yourself with a bat at your question, wincing at how it sounds like you keep count of who he hangs out with, and you're pathetically down bad for him. like a 90s singer begging on his knees for a kiss.

"i mean, i could hang out with them," gojo says, breaking his kitkat horizontally like a monster, "but they're not you."

his sunglasses are gone, revealing eyes so blue they look otherworldly, and he's throwing you that smiling, lopsided grin that makes your heart run around a room and bang into the walls. but no. you were not going to let gojo satoru get to you. he probably made every girl feel like this, like they were the centre of his fast-paced universe. until the next shiny thing came along.

besides, gojo satoru dated models. or stunning cheerleaders. the kind of people who looked good under strobe lights, and in the glow of his party bus digital camera pics.

and hey, it's not like you were self-depreciating or awfully insecure. you liked who you were and you would never change it for anyone. quiet and ambitious. reserved, but down for some fun. you'd like to think you were the type of person who saw the world in a beautiful, cinematic light. but it was maddening how gojo satoru seemed to bring out the most juvenile issues in you that had your stomach turning itself into ugly knots.

"gojo," you try to sound as nonchalant as possible, "are you even here to study?"

as in why are you really here? please ask me out.

gojo looks unbothered, unshaken, "coffee. cake. maybe even some flirting, if you're up to it."

the universe hates you. it has a way of delivering what you want right into your hands, when...you don't exactly want it.

you blink at the white-haired man, disbelief bubbling under your skin, "you're not serious."

"why wouldn't i be?"

"c'mon, satoru. everyone knows you're not the actual dating type. you ever been in a relationship that wasn't pr and lasted for more than two weeks?"

absolutely bonkers at how your heart and your tongue are not on the same wavelength at all. it's like your mouth missed the memo and is just firing bullets that have gojo's grin faltering a bit, as a flicker of heated annoyance flashes in his eyes. even hurt, but it's gone too quickly for you to read into it.

"didn't realise that you thought i was that much of a joke," and you're not fond of how gojo's voice is quieter now, and a pretty sneer is dancing across his lips. you're biting your lip before you lose your stupid, petty resolve to not get involved with someone who could truly break your heart.

"if you didn't make everything a joke, it wouldn't be," you snap at him, and you're not even sure what you're angry at. there's no reason to be annoyed, or frustrated or even hurt and snippy with a friend who came and sat with you to catch up.

but you don't want to untangle whatever you're projecting onto gojo satoru, so you let bitter words spill over, "some of us don't have time for your games, gojo. we have real lives to deal with."

gojo's expression shifts completely, and that playful spark in his eyes is replaced with something colder as he stands up and shoves his hands into his pockets, "right." and his tone is clipped, pissed, "got it. no time for games."

you watch as gojo walks away, already tapping away on his phone, but his footsteps are quieter than you expect. part of you wants to call after him, to take back the teeth and claws that painted your words.

but instead, you just look away from him and grimace. you must have pulled an awful, twisted face — for the man sitting across from you leans in and asks if you need to take an aspirin, or if you're low on fibre.

ACT III. between the covers

the bookstore smells faintly of old paper and new ink. a sharp contrast to the chill lingering outside, so the warmth hits you like a welcome blanket. the air buzzes with the muted chatter of customers, and the occasional beep of a cash register.

you're winding your way through the aisles, set on two missions. find that jacket-cover book that you had been wanting for weeks, and to hunt down the manga that yuuji had begged you to pick up for him.

you dart past a couple lingering in front of a 'booktube' bestseller display, narrowing avoiding a child wielding a stuffed dragon that you can only assume is smaug the magnificent from the hobbit. straight into the quieter section of the store, tucked in the back and smack-bang right into —

thud!

your shoulder collides hard with someone else, sending you stumbling back a step.

"fuck's sake. watch it," the person snaps, his tone sharp.

"maybe you should —" you start to retort, before the words die and patter out on your tongue as your mouth goes dry.

gojo satoru, ladies and gentlemen.

he's scowling at you, with sunglasses pushed up onto his head that expose those ridiculously pale eyelashes under the glow of the overhead lights. he's layered on a crisp varsity jacket, over a thick hoodie, all shades of soft blue and grey. and he looks irritated, with thick brows furrowed at you. but you don't miss the faint surprise that flutters across his face when he takes you in.

"seriously?" gojo murmurs, though more to himself, and his voice still holds an edge that has you wilting, "out of all the aisles in this store..."

you blink, caught somewhere between an apology that dances on the edge of your lips, and a bewildered laugh at how the divine powers deliver the worst luck on you. instead, you shove your hands deep into the pockets of your aviator jacket, "sorry. didn't see you."

gojo's shoulders relax, but just barely. as though he's still caught in the heavy fog of tension from your last words to him. but to your mild credit, he doesn't quite look ready to storm out either. progress?

"so. what are you doing here?" you ask, trying to break the ice and pretend that you're not doing internal pirouettes.

"just had to pick up a textbook," gojo mutters, holding up a thin and over-priced looking book on something like...quantum mechanics, "exams are coming up. gotta keep the top spot, you know."

you blink, "you're actually studying?"

gojo raises his eyebrow, lips twitching into the faintest smile, "what? you think i roll into my classes and ace everything through sheer willpower? or i spend all day being a joke and annoying everyone, right?"

you sigh, feeling the frosty, ice-gaze settle once more over you, paralysing you from head to toe, "look, gojo. i don't know what came over me that day," and now you're being sincere, looking away from his narrowed stare, "it's like some crazy, evil monster came over me and it possessed me. i think i incarnated some demon king in me and i said all that mean shit."

he shifts slightly beside you, and you don't miss at how gojo's lower lip juts out at your apology, or how close he is to you right now. "and i was jus' being stupid. swear i don't think you're a joke." you try to pick up some random book, pretending you're very busy as you speak.

but it's very hard to look genuine when you've just picked up a glossy copy of 'stand and deliver: a hard look at fixing male erection problems.'

it earns you a small laugh, light and quick, that has you almost falling to your knees, and you can hear choso's voice in your head. muttering out a dulcet 'i told you so. you want him so bad.' but it's worth it as gojo leans against the nearest shelf, the annoyance from earlier starting to ebb.

and for a moment, gojo studies you and his expression is unreadable. for your part, you're pretending to read the back cover of 'stand and deliver' and some blurb about how this award-winning author managed to help her husband 'get it up' after twenty years of marriage.

but the tension in his posture dissolves, relaxing further and gojo hums, "noted." that's all he says, and an awkward silence hovers. it hovers so uncomfortably, leaving you floundering for a new topic until gojo's voice breaks the silence.

"choso's doing good, yeah? i heard he got a girlfriend."

you smile, "yeah. yuki, she's like really cool. i don't know how he did it."

gojo snickers, "i asked if he wanted to play hockey and i think he's been avoiding me all week."

you try to pretend its not because of how you re-enacted your little spat with gojo, demonstrating the entire thing for your twin brother. who had just called you stupid afterwards. among other not-so-flattering terms, with little consideration for your crushing, beating heart.

"you going to suguru's party next weekend?"

ah, now that's a curveball.

because, again, you are your own brand of cool. or so you'd like to think, so this isn't really a matter of pitying comparison. but geto suguru is like on another level of effortlessly vogue. at least in your eyes. you know that he's gojo's best friend and he delivered a (controversial) and killer project on gene editing last semester. you know that geto's involved with gig photography as a hobby, and thus, has personal access to some of the coolest bands in the city.

and you also know that he occasionally waves a hand to you, but it's not like you actually know the man. it's just mutual association.

"i wasn't planning on it," you hesitate, for you really had been planning to cram through a mid-term session, "but someone asked me to go as their date."

gojo's smile evaporates, "who?"

"naoya zenin," you say cautiously, watching as gojo's face twists. like he's resisting the urge to gag and tear his hair out.

"naoya? he's like a walking billboard for being an entitled cunt," gojo groans, running a hand through glossy hair that has you trailing your gaze over slender, sculpted hands.

you narrow your eyes, "he seemed...okay. smart, i think."

"oh, he's smart. i'm not questioning that," gojo crabs, "he's so arrogant though. i grew up seeing that guy everywhere. our families were like, half friends."

you cross your arms, suddenly defensive, "are you warning me? or just mad that he asked me out?"

gojo seems to flounder for half a second, quick enough that you could miss it and he could deny it, "jealous of naoya? please," and he scoffs as he leans back against the shelf, "i have taste. unlike some people."

"you can't be the one giving me a lecture on dating etiquette. i mean, how many dates do you have lined up for geto's party? two, three?"

gojo gives you a sly grin, "more than that, hah. gotta keep my options open."

"tacky," you wrinkle your nose, trying to pretend that you don't feel like you just guzzled a gallon of curdled milk, "and classless."

"yes," gojo sighs sadly, "and endlessly charming. it's so hard being me," shooting you back a quizzical look as he pulls up to the register, paying for his textbook.

as he paid, you linger near the shelves, pretending to browse while stealing glances at gojo satoru. there was something different about him today, something quieter that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

and on gojo's way out, he pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at you. his expression is still entirely unreadable, his gaze lingering for just a second longer than usual. and then he was gone.

ACT IV. blush confidential

there's a soft hum of pop music wafting from someone's phone, blending in with the rustle of fabric and the hiss of a straightener. your bedroom is a whirlwind of motion and chaos, with clothes thrown over chairs, and pre-game drinks piled up over your vanity.

"i can't believe you're not coming with us," you gripe to yuki, watching as she lounged up on your bed, denim crinkling as she shifted to adjust herself.

"tch, you know i love a good party," yuki grins with sparkling ideas, "but choso and i have a date tonight. he's been texting me about it all day."

you snicke at the thought of your hapless twin, "yeah. he was practically glued to your dm's. ran into the kitchen table twice this morning."

shoko snorts from her spot at the vanity, from where she's running a brush through cropped, chestnut hair, "choso nervous? i need to see that," she catches your eye in the mirror, "do you still have that lip gloss?"

"on it," you're digging into the vast depths of your purse, grazing your wallet and a hal-featen granola bar. stubbing your finger on an opened gel pen, before clutching a small shiny tube that you toss to shoko.

"so," shoko smacks her lips, "how's it going with naoya?"

you blink, pausing in the middle of capping all your drying pens, "what do you mean how's it going? nothing's going."

your friend swivels on her stool, raising a thin eyebrow, "he's your date at this party, right? and why him, of all people?"

"seriously. that guy's got a reputation. and not a good kind, for a very good reason," utahime chimes in from her corner, where she's yanking on a ribbon woven through her hair.

you shrug, suddenly feeling defensive under their collective scrutiny, "hey. he asked, i said yes. it's not that deep."

shoko exchanges a pointed glance with utahime, and both of them looking equally skeptical in a way that has you flushing.

"he's just annoying, you know," shoko points out, "he thinks he's better than everyone else, and half the time? it's just hot air."

"and the other half?"

"still hot air," shoko flatlines, "you can do better."

"anyone's better than gojo," utahime mutters, "you don't want to be stuck with him."

yuki's snickering, and you're doing your utter best to pretend that the mention of gojo satoru doesn't have you crawling up and down the walls like a termite on crack.

"speaking of gojo," yuki drawls, running a comb through a golden sheaf of thick hair, "is he going with anyone to this party?"

you freeze for half a second, before busying yourself with some new body mist that you picked up from a sale, all vanilla and coconut and macademia, "i ran into gojo the other day," and you keep your tone as neutral as possible, "and he said he had a few dates."

"ugh," shoko groans, wrinkling her nose, "of course he does," and utahime mutters an affirmative, exasperated sigh, echoed only by yuki, who pauses mid-brush to look at you sympathetically.

"what?" you snap, defensive, "why are you all looking at me like that?"

shoko tucks a thin strand of hair behind her ear, "well, i mean. you like gojo, right? like really like him?"

"huh?" the question catches you so off guard that you're left sputtering, as the perfume leaves a sharp and awful taste on your tongue, accidentally leaving a fresh spritz into your mouth, and not the curve of your neck.

"oh, blech. absolutely not," you say vehemently, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, "i don't like him like that. not that i think he's awful or anything —"

utahime crosses her arms, white sleeves brushing against each other, "he is awful."

"yes, thank you for that, utahime. but he's just not my type," you finish firmly, "he's loud. he's disruptive. he can't take anything seriously. i can't date that."

yuki gives you a long and knowing look, "oh, he likes you," she says lightly, as though she's telling you a casual piece of news, and not something that has you biting your tongue till iron spills, "he's been crushing on you for so long."

you feel your stomach twist uncomfortable, like little, evil goblins are dancing in your gut, "that's ridiculous," you mutter, fiddling with the clasp of your purse, "if he liked me, he would ask me out properly. and not date half the student population."

"he probably thinks it's fair, because you keep turning him down," shoko says matter-of-factly, standing up to grab her bag.

"i just don't think he's good for you. or anyone," utahime mutters, earning a pinch from you.

ACT V. stereo love

normally, gojo thrived at these parties. suguru was always able to pull a crowd that straddled the line between chic and cool, with just enough alcohol to keep things interesting. the thrum of the bass-heavy music should have been the perfect escape after a gruelling day spent staring at equations, leaving him half-convinced that his course coordinator was plotting against him and wanted him dead.

but now gojo satoru was just jittery, restless. and he hated that.

so for now, he leaned against the kitchen counter with a full cup in hand, watching people spill out of the living room and into the backyard. it seemed that other students had been aching for a party, something to take them off mid-terms and yet here he was, scowling like a storm cloud. he took another swig of his drink, ignoring how his own stomach was doing unexplained cartwheels.

"you good?"

suguru's low voice cuts through the noise, startling gojo enough that he has to tighten his fingers around his cup so sticky beer doesn't spill over pristine tiles.

gojo waves his closest friend and confidante off, "i'm fine. obviously."

suguru's frown deepens, though it's obscured by his loose, choppy dark hair. and there's skepticism painted all over his face, "you're never this quiet at any party. i thought that by now, i would have had to convince you not to jump off the roof."

"you think too little of me."

"you think too much of yourself," suguru drawls, but he's leaning against the counter beside gojo, as leather and cool metal rustle against each other, "so where's your date? or dates, i should say?"

gojo freezes, his cup halfway to his lip, "come again? what are you talkin' about?"

suguru arches a thin brow, "it's practically all over campus, man. apparently, you had several dates with lovely, young ladies lined up tonight. and i tried to defend your fragile honour, said it was too ambitious even for you. but..."

this revelation hits gojo like a punchline that he wasn't in on, and then it clicks for him. oh, he had started that rumour a few days ago. in the bookstore, to you. his brain replays the scene like a cruel, little highlight reel: the way your expression had wavered minutely, just for a moment, when he had straight up lied and claimed that he had a few dates.

truth be told, gojo had only said it to make you jealous, to see if he could ruffle you and play your game even better.

but now the joke was so clearly on him.

because gojo satoru had no dates. and you? you were here with someone who wasn't him.

suguru's following his gaze across the room, and gojo doesn't even bother to hide his petulant interest. he can see you standing near the back walls, laughing at something that naoya zenin, mayor of all things putrid, had said. naoya, with his stupid green roots and louis vuitton jacket, standing just a little bit too close to you for gojo's liking.

but before he can stew in it any linger, suguru's reaching out and pinching his ear. hard.

"ow! fuck was that for?" gojo's yelping, jerking away from his clearly evil, traitrous best friend.

"that," suguru says evenly, "was for looking like a lovesick idiot. pull yourself together, man."

"i'm not lovesick," gojo weakly protests, rubbing his bruised, throbbing ear and moving further away from suguru geto.

"you're not exactly screaming cool and collected," suguru dryly comments, "sulking like a sore loser while your crush laughs at another guy's jokes."

gojo feels his face heat up, just a little bit, because he knows that suguru's hitting close to home, "i don't sulk and do all that whiny shit. second of all, it's not my fault she went with zenin of all people. it's up to her if she wants to be stuck with someone who talks about his family's real estate portfolio as foreplay."

suguru snorts, and it's clear that he's not playing the role of sympathetic best man for life, "you know what's more obnoxious? watching you fuck around like this. you need to figure out how to ask her properly."

"i did all that!" gojo shoots back, throwing his arms up so his drink dances over the edge of the cup, "she said no. each time. you know what they call a guy who can't take a hint? she thinks i'm a loser!"

"and are you?"

gojo narrows his eyes, "am i what?"

"a loser."

"is it easier for me if i just say yes?" gojo half-heartedly gripes, "is that what you want me to say?"

"or," suguru says calmly, "you're a guy who hasn't proven he's worth saying yes to."

gojo groans, tipping his head back so he can block out the vision of his irritatingly wise best friend, "you sound like my grandmother."

"that's not even an insult. your grandmother is on some metal shit," suguru counters, unbothered, "and you sound like a twelve-year old. you can't flirt and sleaze your way through this. if you want her to take you seriously, i don't know how else to say this, you have to stop being...you."

"excuse me?"

"no. stop, don't make that face," suguru scowls, "you know what i mean. stop being a stupid flirt, and be a genuinely better person. otherwise, you're just spinning and burning out your wheels."

"did you pick up a self help book?"

suguru elbows him, sneering, "i'm trying to help you. if you don't want my help, i'm telling her you have an std."

"maybe you should just do that. end my misery," gojo downs the rest of his drink in one go, the burn of cheap beer doing nothing to ease the olympics in his alimentary canal. what's worse is that suguru is right, the bastard always is.

suguru claps him on the shoulder, "relax, satoru. you've got charm in spades. just use it...wisely."

"yeah, yeah. thanks, man," gojo mutters, brushing him off as suguru wanders away, probably to mediate some dumb argument between that big oaf, toji fushiguro and the even bigger oaf, ryomen sukuna. honestly, why were they even invited?

but gojo stays where he is, eyes flicking back to you. away from the distracting curve of your thighs in that skirt, and rather on how interested you look in naoya's stupid, animated gestures. and you look so at ease, but there's something hot and sharp twisting inside his gut.

suguru's soft, measured voice echoes in his head, "prove yourself as a person first."

oh, yeah. gojo could do that. he would absolutely do that. for you, he'd do just about anything, short of donating his vital organs (but he would definitely be considering it). but how hard could it be to be better? more mature? more grounded?

gojo satoru can handle all that. all he had to do was be a dignified, charming man. you know, someone who puts his best foot forward into the world. someone that you might actually consider taking seriously. someone calm and respectful.

if you were happy with naoya zenin, then who was he to interfere? who was he to ruin that for you? even if the guy looked like wile e. coyote when he smiled. even if naoya zenin was the most smug bastard to walk the earth.

gojo scowled at nothing in particular. but the point was that it wasn't his place to meddle. not if it meant risking your happiness. all he could do was be the best version of himself. polite, kind and above reproach. a good and respectful friend.

ACT VI. a shot of love, on the rocks.

"please, i want you so fuckin' bad."

gojo satoru is on his knees. at a party, in the middle of the living room. for you.

you feel like your mind isn't able to process all this fast enough, like your brain is on some pause. the music is still thumping in your head, but not as fast as your poor cardiac muscles as you're rendered frozen from pathetic, piercing blue eyes blinking up at you.

"please," gojo satoru repeats, and his voice vaguely warbles out like he's kinda lost his marbles and —

let's rewind.

five minutes ago, you had been standing with naoya zenin. and despite your initial reservations, you had been entertained. he's sorta witty, and definitely loaded with snarky remarks that cut through the noise of the party. it's hard not to laugh at his biting commentary, although half the time he's skewering people for fun, and the other half? just out of pure spite.

his golden eyes gleam with that edge, the kind of sharpness that makes you think of a hyena circling around its next meal. naoya is definitely full of himself, but it doesn't help that he's also ridiculously good-looking. and he knows how stunning he is, but its bothering him that you're not showering him in enough compliments for it.

still, he's here with you. he's your date. and you're doing your best to remind yourself of that. naoya is the only option you have at the moment, and he's definitely offering you more attention than anyone else tonight.

from across the room, utahime gives you an exaggerated, pained thumbs-up — while shoko shrugs in her usual blithe manner, but she gestures for you to smile more. you plaster on a wider grin, a little too obvious but naoya doesn't seem to notice.

"you know, if you're getting bored of all this, we could always find another room," naoya's low hiss slices right through the bass-thrum of the pulsing room, "do a little more than just talk."

for a moment, it's easy to imagine slipping away with him. but the sharpness in his killer-smile makes something in you bristle, like he's already envisioned you saying 'oh yes, naoya! please take me to bed!' and you shake your head, and give him an amused look.

"maybe later," you say lightly, "not now."

naoya zenin doesn't seem quite offended, but his smile grows wider as he stands up straight again, from where he had curved his tall frame into you, "i'm a patient man. fine by me, 'm gonna get some more drinks."

and you watch as his golden head of hair disappears into the crowd, leaving you all alone while the music blares around you, like a suffocating fog. you rub your temples, wondering if you should just go after naoya and tell him to go to town, something for the night's enjoyment. but before you can go any further, you hear a shout cut through the noise.

"hey!"

you whip around, blinking in surprise at gojo satoru.

but also not quite the gojo that you're used to. the one that you grew up with, and held hands with in kindergarten, one who smiled easy and laughed too loud. it seems he's ditched the oversized hoodies and varsity jackets tonight, opting for a black tee that fits him a little too well and dark cargo pants that only highlight...

you're getting distracted. but it's hard to remain focused, when he's walking towards with you. seemingly determined, as his white hair falls forward over thunderstorm-eyes. for a moment, you're not sure if you’re hearing him over the pounding music, or if it's just your own pulse making everything seem louder.

"i hate that you're here with naoya," gojo says suddenly, and his voice is low and serious, something that you've never really heard from him before.

your brow furrows, "what?"

"i lied about the dates," he continues, as words just jumble out his candy-pink mouth, "i don't have a bunch of dates. fuck, i don't even have one date. i only want to date you."

you blink, and then you blink once more, because again what?

the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and for a moment, you think you might have misheard the man. his blue eyes are wide and earnest, and they're staring right at you.

and before you know, he's on his knees. muscular thighs bending so his knees hit the cool tiles with a heavy thud, hands splayed out for you.

"please," he implores, "you gotta understand. i need you to feel what i feel, because it's not even a passin' thought, i swear. it's not even a stupid crush. this is like —" and he's gesturing wildly with one hand, still kneeling like a knight about to beg for his lady's favour, "this is destiny."

"gojo," you manage, "are you on drugs?"

the white-haired man, bless his sassy heart, rolls his eyes, "no. i'm on beer and vodka. will you please let me finish?"

"yes, but what are you doing?" you hiss, exasperated and sibilant, as more eyes turn to the most ravishing man on campus, who's absolutely off his rocker. and there are phones being pulled out, god help you.

"what am i doing?" gojo smiles, and it's unnervingly wide, "i'm like laying it out all here for you. my love. because that's what you are, to me. like you're everything. and i swear everyone knows this already. should i call you my sun, my moon, my entire universe? it's like time stops when i see you, a-and trust me, i do physics. i know time shit," and he must have caught at how your mouth is flapping open because he suddenly wags a finger, "no! i'm not done. i haven't even told you how the world fades, and all that's left is you glowing. like a star that i can't reach."

he's placing a hand on his broad chest, digging into the tight top clinging to his pectorals, like he's being dramatically wounded, "i have to reach you. i have to be with you."

you're not sure what parts you've processed, or what part of this slow train-wreck has settled in your head, "are you, like, actually begging right now?"

gojo's eyes flash with the intensity of a thousand suns (well, fuck — gojo's awful poeticism is rubbing off on you already). you can hear the low snickers of two men that had been beating the living daylights out of each other half an hour ago, those fuckwits that go by toji and sukuna. you can hear sukuna's deep mutters about how no-one ever would like toji enough to do this for him. and yep, you can hear them scuffle again.

"yes!" gojo booms, and more than a few heads have turned now. you wonder if naoya zenin is watching in the background, and realising that this isn't a battle he wants to pick, "i will kneel for you. like i'd do this shit for eternity, even if my knees hurt so bad right now. but as long as you give me a chance to prove my worth. and my devotion, d-don't forget that! deep as the ocean, endless and vast. and the stars align...oh, how they align for us."

"ah, satoru," you cut in, and you realise that you're now smiling. embarrassment and mild humiliation be damned, there's a quirk tugging at your lips, "you can get up now. this is a bit dramatic."

gojo blinks, not missing a beat, "i'm dramatic because i'm in love, okay? and —" he swivels his head to the crowd, grumbling, "shut up, sukuna! i heard that, i'll beat your wonky ass. you don' know shit about love."

he's turning back to you, all sticky and soothing sugar once more, "where was i? eh, my confession. well, it's all for you. and it's me, givin' you every part of me. beggin' you to see that you're the only one who can break the walls around my heart."

you think that you've completed a full speed-run on every stage of grief that there is to experience, and if the small plink! coming from someone's phone is any indication, gojo's monologue has already made it's way onto someone's private story. and so naturally, everyone will have seen it by tomorrow.

"can you get off your knees? you look ridiculous."

gojo's grin falters for a split second before he straights up, all with a hefty groan as he runs a hand through snowy strands, "ridiculous? i'm being vulnerable as hell, and you think i look stupid?"

"a little," you admit, but you're reaching a hand out to push a strand of thick hair out of his eyes. and it's maddening at how gojo seems to tremble mildly under your touch, at the brush of your fingers against his temple, "kneeling at a frat party is crazy work."

gojo sinks his teeth into a plush lower lip, "that was me trying to show how much i care, and all that sweet shit. you make me lose all my cool, and this isn't even a joke."

"you never had cool, and now you've lost your dignity too," but you're blushing, and it's a giddy feeling at how he's now close enough that you can feel his body heat.

gojo satoru's eyes twinkle, "maybe. but i'd do all that again if it won you over."

"with your future oscar nomination?"

the man shrugs, broad muscles rippling, "he who be a fool for love is far better than he who doth never dare to try at all."

"fair point," you murmur, feeling dizzy in that familiar scent of lemon candies and mint, like the world is swirling around in a heady haze, "do you wanna kiss me to seal the deal?"

"yes please. i think i'm gonna pass out and — mmph!"

you've pulled yourself up, and thrown your arms around his warm neck, drawing gojo into you. crashing your lips into his before either of you can say anything else. it's an urgent, reckless kiss. like a dam has burst and all the pent-up emotions that you've been carrying have finally exploded.

gojo's lips are soft, but demanding, taking more and more air from you. they fit against you with an ease that feels almost too natural. and his broad arms come around your waist with a force that leaves the air punched out of you. he's holding you tightly, as though he's afraid that you'll just disappear if he doesn't keep you close enough.

you can feel the heat of his body against yours, the muscles in his arms that flex as he pulls you in, deepening the kiss. all while his mouth moves against yours with a slow and deliberate intensity, as his tongue parts your lips. all so messy.

when gojo finally pulls away, the last brush of his lips catches your quiet whimper. just as his breath goes ragged, and you're left standing there, dazed, with your forehead resting against his. you can still feel the warmth of his lips on yours, that electricity that's crackling and buzzing through your veins as you giggle.

gojo, however, doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath. he tugs your wrist with a sharp, swift motion. but his grip is firm, not harsh as you pulls you away from the living room, "c'mon. let's get outta here."

shoko's eyes are wide, her jaw practically locked in disbelief, "what the hell just happened?"

utahime's lips curl, "someone took gojo's brain out and replaced it with a clone. ah! geto, what did you do?"

suguru has been standing near the kitchen counter, absolutely floored, and he's shaking his head so hard that he feels a headache forming, "hand on my heart, ladies. i told him not to pull any stunts. swear on destiny's child that i didn't tell him to do all that."

ACT VII. i bet we'd have really good bed chem!

gojo satoru has absolutely lost his mind. but you wish that he had lost it a bit earlier, because you're practically pawing at his top now. critically working to make quick work of the tight fabric, letting your fingers run over hard planes of muscles and lower.

right until you're reaching a trail of soft white hairs that disappear into the band of his pants.

"seems like you're just as desparate as me, hah," gojo snickers, and his broad hand is trailing further up your thighs, letting your skirt bunch and crinkle under his ministrations. thick fingers brush over dewy cotton, and you moan.

"s-satoru!"

"you don't even know how long i've w-wanted this," and his hand clenches at the fabric, gripping it so tightly that you fear it may just be on the verge of tearing, but you can only buck your hips into him further.

no longer even mindful of how you must be already dripping onto the palm of his hand, "and i thought you knew. i r-really thought you knew how much i wanted you."

his middle finger is gliding through your damp and searing slit, with clinging strands latching onto his skin as you muffle a whine into his chasing, teasing lips.

it's sending deep, low curls of arousal in thick waves, settling low in your groin and you don't even care what room of the house you're now in, someone's bedroom with a dark, stylish bedspread and vinyls up on the walls.

the force of his large hands drives you down onto the bed, pressing your back onto the soft mattress.

and gojo looks so pleased, at how you're splayed and sprawled out underneath his torso, his hands tugging at your now bare thighs to spread your legs even further. pulling them far enough so they come to rest on either side of his face.

"fuck, she's so pretty. even better than i imagined," and gojo's voice is husky and low, almost strained, "and believe me. imagined her plenty." the sound of drenched cotton being torn rips through the air, slippery and resistant from your arousal.

it's even stubborn as the fabric refuses to budge, until it gives way under the force of gojo's tug, soft and tearing. leaving your pussy open to the cool, cold air. bare for gojo's eyes to rest upon and widen.

his lips brush against your thigh with an uncharacteristic gentleness, one that makes your entrance clench and wink.

but gojo is nothing if not teasing, and he feels light-headed. pressing featherlight kisses to the crevice of your thigh, and then closer to your aching mound. but even he cannot hold off for much longer, and he's pressing a flat, lazy print of his tongue against your cunt.

that first munch sends a burst of tangy sweetness dancing across gojo's tongue, and he thinks he might just bust a load right then and there. the heat of your clenching cunt is almost overwhelming, but hey.

gojo's never been a quitter, and he doesn't care if he creams his pants at this very moment, he needs to hear that sweet whimper of his name from your lips again.

his lips part, blowing a quick breath on your aching clit, right as his fingers begin to press and meld into your syrupy folds. it's got you practically jumping further into him, so wet strands are clinging to the very tip of his nose. and gojo knows that this is heaven. that he's unlocked true paradise.

"satoru, c-can't you...?"

he's too busy running his tongue over your clit, drawing small circles with the very tip of the hot muscle, "can't i what, pretty? don' want me eating you out?"

and you are so adorable, pushing your head up to scowl down at him with furrowed brows, but the flush in your cheeks paints you the most beautiful shade of cherry red. and gojo vows to spend the rest of his life ensuring that this shade never leaves your cheeks.

"can't you get to the eating part? thought that you were gonna — f-fuck! hnngh, 'toru!"

he's pulling your thighs tighter around his head, and he doesn't give a fuck if this is how he goes. suffocated in this tantalising heat, with your fingers lacing themselves into woven patterns in his white hair.

he's lowering his tongue once more into your throbbing pussy, making sure that his pleased vibrations send pleasurable rumbles right through your core.

grinning and slurring his tongue further into you, right as you buck desparate hips over and over. dragging yourself against his chin, so he's sure that the lower half of his face must be glistening with your sweetness.

gojo absolutely thinks he can get used to being like this, at having you angle and force his head further into your cunt. letting you angle and toy at him and use him for your pleasure. he snaps his teeth around glossy strands of arousal, once and then twice, before delving back in.

making sure that his spare hand finds your clit to draw quick flicks and shapes over it, pushing a finger right up against the throbbing hood.

"satoru, ah, satoru! 'toru!" it's all you can even manage right now, just chants and groans of his names, as he's practically sunken your hips into the mattress, while he's on his knees for the second time this night.

"hey, none of that, yeah?" and gojo's gently tugging at your arm. trying to get you to stop muffling your whimpers and cries, because he just needs to hear your adorable sounds. and he needs to hear your bird-like cries when you come undone.

what a joy it is for gojo. to be able to dive between your legs and run his tongue between your folds. he's losing his mind at how your body trembles under his touch, and how he makes the mistake of peering up at you. your lips are parted, open and glossy. and your brows are furrowed, as lashes flutter against your cheek. you have to cum, gojo satoru needs you to cum right now.

and so, he exerts all his effort ten fold into having you finish. it's so sloppy, and so messy. gojo lets his own eyes dip shut, letting himself feel your glossy, glistening cunt pulse around his tongue. and let there be no doubt that gojo satoru is a munch, for he's eating you out in such an ardent manner, and it basically sends you barrelling towards a heart-stopping orgasm, where tears spring to the corners of your eyes.

you needn't have even tried to warn him of your impending climax, for gojo knows in the way that your legs quiver and get sloppier over his face. stars fall over your vision as you heave and toss your head back, muscles rippling as "satoru, satoru!" falls from your lips, long and drawn out as the rest of the world goes dark around you.

you gasp, struggling to inhale as the syrupy air is stolen from your lungs, all while gojo runs his tongue through your folds, head spinning with the dizzying rush of sensation. it's as if you've been swept away, hurtling towards space, weightless and disorientated.

only to crash back into reality as gojo seemingly hasn't stopped letting himself taste all of you, with not a drop of arousal wasted. your back is further pressed into the soft mattress beneath you, and the surge of overstimulated numbness follows, all pleasurable pins and needles and ferocious need.

"look at that, 'm already addicted," gojo coos, almost to himself, scooping a finger through the translucent gloss that leaks from your cunt. bringing it up to his mouth to wrap his tongue around, "think you can handle giving me another one?"

you let out a weak, breathless laugh. your gaze lingering on gojo's face, the soft moonlight that casts an ethereal glow on his features. his chin still faintly gleams, coated in your mirror-sheen and his lips are a plump, rosy red. you part your lips, propping yourself onto your elbows, but before you can form the words, the door slams open with a force that makes your ears rattle.

"i've looked in every fuckin' room in this house, and i swear to everything holy, satoru. if you chose my bedroom, i'm gonna —"

geto suguru's voice cuts off mid-rant, his words dissolving into a strangled, pained gasp as he takes in the sight before him. gojo, kneeling between your legs, wearing a ridiculously pleased grin. just like the cat who got the cream. you let out a squeak, hastily tugging your skirt over you, but it's hard to look innocent when gojo is still unabashedly pawing at your thighs.

geto pales, his jaw going slack, and he looks like he's about to collapse, "god help me. satoru, i'll kill you tomorrow," and then he shoots you both a nasty look, "and you're both paying for new sheets."

"so you and gojo are...dating now?" choso pries, with a tone that is entirely too casual but his eyes are keen. your twin is nursing a cup of coffee while he absolutely demolishes a plate of fried eggs. he had been quiet so far, but it's clear that curiosity gave out and now he's peering at you like a big owl.

you try, or do your very best not to smile too hard. to not look giddy and ridiculously pleased, "yeah, i guess we are," you admit, keeping your voice as level as possible.

choso blinks once, before setting his fork down and shaking his head, "i knew it. it was only a matter of time," he mutters, and without further ado, he resumes shovelling eggs into his mouth, utterly unfazed.

before you can respond, sukuna appears in the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame, his tattooed arms crossed and his expression dripping with disdainful amusement, "oh, i was there," he drawls, sharp fangs flashing in a wicked grin, "that loser pulled the dumbest, most dramatic stunt of all time. got on his knees and everything."

choso freezes mid-chew, raising a thick brow as he glances at the older man with mild interest, "wish i'd seen that," he mumbles through a mouthful of toast.

to your utter astonishment, sukuna nods gravely, his face taking on an uncharacteristically serious look, "yeah. i've got a video if you wanna watch."

your jaw drops as you glance between them, "this is officially the first time that i've ever seen you two agree on anything," setting your mug down with a thud, "if i had known that dating gojo would bring about world peace, i would have done it ages ago and —"

yuuji bounds into the kitchen like an overeager puppy, his blush-pink hair still a mess from interrupted sleep. but he's clapping his hands together like he's just won the lottery, "finally! look at that! everyone's getting along for once."

sukuna doesn't even bother to hide his irritation, shooting yuuji a withering glare. but it's hard to take him seriously when his own pink hair rivals yuuji's in sheer disarray, "don't push it," sukuna warns darkly, grabbing a glass of orange juice and downing it in one morose gulp. he slams the empty, cold glass on the counter before stalking off towards the door, "i'm seriously gonna move out at this rate."

"promise?" choso quips, without missing a bit, "wish you'd stop getting our hopes up and actually do it."

yuuji is undeterred, and he elbows you with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, "you have to invite gojo over all the time now. i like him a lot. he's like super cool."

"of course," you grin, sliding a plate towards him as he eagerly digs in.

and your younger brother beams like the sun itself. right as a mocking, high-pitched voice floats from the other room, "and then we're all gonna be lovesick, and skip around town while holding hands!" right before falling back into sukuna's usual gruff tone that echoes through the kitchen, "god, you're all so insufferable."

your phone buzzes on the table, and you glance down. gojo's contact photo lights up the screen. it's a snapshot from a year or two ago, taken the summer that you both graduated high school. he's standing at the edge of the beach, with the sun dipping low enough behind to catch his white hair. turning it into a halo of glowing light. it's a photo that you never had the heart to change.

satoru 🪐

good morning princess!! my one and only!!!! my sugar plum (too much? i can tone it down but you just can't put a lid on love) hope you dreamed of me 🙂‍↔️ so what are you doing today because i've got abt eight possible things we can cover today starting with [read more.]

"ugh, gross."

sukuna's disdainful drawl cuts through behind you, as an icy finger prods at your phone, trying to scroll up and snoop through your messages. you freeze and slam your phone down on the table. whirling around to come face to face with the world's most judgemental gargoyle sneers at you, "i think i'm gonna throw up."

"get a life, holy fuck."

[didisficrecs]

"You're really going to put up that picture of all things?" Draco drawled.

Hermione turned to him, her eyes sparkling. "We look incredible! Plus, that day was a pivotal moment in our relationship, you know."

Draco's expression softened. "Ah yes, the infamous Ministry Christmas party. How could anyone forget your bushy hair getting caught in my expensive cufflinks?"

"Oh, hush!" Hermione playfully swatted his arm. "If I recall correctly, you were the one who couldn't keep your eyes off me all evening."

"Can you blame me? You were a vision in that dress. Although, I must say, the photographer's timing was impeccable," Draco chuckled, gesturing to the photo.

FLASHBACK

The Ministry of Magic's atrium was decked out in festive glory, twinkling fairy lights competing with the golden gleam of tinsel. The annual Christmas party was in full swing, with wizards and witches from every department mingling, drinks in hand.

Amidst the revelry, a photographer weaved through the crowd, capturing candid moments. His eyes lit up as he spotted a striking couple: a platinum-blond man lounging in an armchair, with a brunette perched elegantly on the armrest.

As he approached, he caught snippets of their conversation.

"Oh, and there's one more thing we have to do before we go back to my loft," Hermione was saying, her fingers playing with the collar of Draco's robes.

Draco groaned dramatically. "Another thing? Granger, I just want you alone. I'd even wager for that Kneazle abomination of yours to join us."

"Mr. Malfoy, Ms. Granger! May I please get a photo of you two?" the photographer called out.

They turned, startled. Hermione's hand flew up, almost covering her mouth in surprise, while Draco's expression morphed into his trademark scowl. The flash went off.

Recovering, Hermione continued, "We have to stop by Molly's. She has our gifts and is expecting us to pick them up before the end of Christmas."

"The Weasleys?" Draco looked appalled. "Oh, you've got to be kidding. There is no way in seven hells I'm going to the carrot-top crew's headquarters."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Funny that you think you have a say. We are going, and that's that," she said sternly.

"Oh no, Granger. You may be the only person who frightens me enough to bend to your will, but I will not stand for the Weasleyssss," he drawled out, annoyance dripping from every syllable.

Hermione leaned in close, her lips brushing his ear. "Once we've finished unwrapping the presents, we can go back to my loft and you can unwrap me," she whispered in a sing-song voice.

Draco's jaw snapped shut, his eyes widening. "Want to head out now?"

Hermione's laughter rang out, drawing curious glances from nearby partygoers.

[didisficrecs]

Fboi!jk WHO’s lowkey in Love with oc🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

[ request a milestone drabble ] 

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  general.  tags.  infuriating college antics and mentions of drinking.  that’s about it.  wc. 0.9k.  beta reader.  n/a.  author note.  ty for the request!  i hope you enjoyed, even though it’s a little sloppy and disjointed.  😐😐 

Jeon Jungkook is many things:  campus heartthrob, surprisingly smart (but exceedingly lazy), the guy who works the front desk of the university’s gym.  He drinks too many coffees a day, keeps a photo of his dog in his wallet, and has a surprisingly big following on social media.  (For his photography and not his thirst traps, which is perhaps the most surprising thing about him.)  

He’s also the guy who shamelessly played you during his first year, wrapping you around his freshman finger as easily as a Red Vine at the movies.  It’s why you don’t like him now, barely tolerating him each time you’re in the same vicinity.

(Unfortunately for you, your friend group overlap is massive - the worst kind of venn diagram.)

“Stop,”  your best friend chides, legs hooked over her boyfriend’s lap, the tip of her finger digging deep into your side, assaulting the sensitive side of your ribs.  You almost knock over your drink with how much it startles you, leg making forceful contact with the bottom of the table. 

Beer sloshes out of its glass, three heads whipping to stare in your direction.  “Sorry!”  You play it off with a wave of your hand, gaze bouncing to Mina’s, brow knit tight over your stare.  “Stop what?”

“Stop glaring at him.”  The way she says it makes it seem stupid - as if the answer is the most obvious thing in the world.  You resent her for it, though not nearly as much as you resent him for existing.  

“I’m not.”

“You are.”  It’s two voices at once, Hoseok chiming in with his girlfriend.  

You resent Jung Hoseok too.  He’s the whole reason you’re stuck here on this Friday night, seated in the kitchen of the frat house.  He’s the one who’d tangled everything together, turning your group of girlfriends into literal girlfriends.  (You’re happy for them, you swear.  Joon is a sweetheart and Yoongi might always seem like he’s bothered but he’s nice too.  Even Hoseok is actually okay.)

“He’s being an attention whore,”  you retort, probably more petulantly than you need to, with needles sticking out of syllables, two year’s worth of history slipping alongside vowels. 

“He’s literally just sitting there.”

Mina’s not wrong - but he’s also flirting.  Shamelessly.  With one of the girls that seem to always be at these things, all chiming laughter and brilliantly white teeth.  You’ve seen her a handful of times, almost always at Jungkook’s side for at least some portion of the evening.  

“Give it a break, ____.”  

You wish you could.  In fact, you’d like nothing more than to not care about Jeon Jungkook and his infuriating antics.  It’d save you a lot of frustrations, make it so much easier to exist on the same campus as him.  

Because as it stands, it’s next to impossible not to be reminded of him, to go a single day without hearing about how great he is with his stupid boopable nose and sparkly eyes.  Every day, from friends or strangers, it’s simp central. 

You hate it.

Jeon Jungkook is good at many things:  passing classes he barely attends (which isn’t that many, because he is actually pretty studious all things considered), making jungle juice that could knock out an elephant, dying his hair pink.  

He’s also apparently really good at pissing people off when he doesn’t mean to.  Call it a skill of his.

One he’d honed with you, nearly three years ago now.  Back when he’d been young and stupid and uncertain, when he hadn’t quite grown into well, much of anything, when he’d had his priorities all messed up.

Maybe he shouldn’t have broken up with you within two months - citing needing to focus on school - and then dated someone shortly thereafter.  Maybe he shouldn’t have seemed to find himself in every class of yours, sitting across the lecture hall listening to the professor drone on and on about statics.  Maybe he shouldn’t have introduced one of his fraternity brothers to someone he knew you knew.

(He says maybe but he knows they were all bad choices made by an underveloped brain, too addled by Thursday night pub crawls and a grass is always greener on the other side mentality.)

Sometimes, he feels bad.  He doesn’t miss the way you pointedly ignore him when he’s around, how your expression seems to be stuck in a permanent scowl any time you catch sight of him.

(He’d have to be dumb to not notice all of that and while Jungkook is many things, dumb isn’t necesarily one of them.  Immature maybe.  Impulsive definitely.)

“Where’d ____ go?”  

Someone else asks the question he wants to but keeps caged behind his teeth, hidden past his molars.  

Mina sighs dramatically, pats her boyfriend’s cheek, and shrugs.  “Who knows.” 

But Jungkook knows.  Thinks he knows, anyway.  You’ve left, because you always leave when he does things you hate.  (And you hate everything he does.)  

One day he’ll get the courage to apologise to you, to explain that he still misses you.  He knows it won’t be well-received (why would it be?) but he’ll offer it anyway, awkward and stilted and not nearly as apologetic as it should be.

Today isn’t that day though.

[didisficrecs]

—backseat serenade. (m)

⟶ pairing: taehyung x reader

⟶ genre: punk!taehyung / band au / brother’s best friend au + smut 

⟶ words: 10,790

⟶ rating: 18+

⟶ summary: falling in love and having weekly sex with kim taehyung is wrong for a number of reasons — and, no, that’s not including the whole other issue that he’s also your brother’s best friend

⟶ warnings: multiple sex scenes, slight exhibitionism if u look hard enough, wall sex, car sex, unprotected sex, all the sex (seriously), fingering, pussy slapping (also if u look hard enough), lots of teasing, doggy style, riding, creampie

⟶ disclaimer: this story is another repost of an old one (although it’s basically been entirely rewritten lol)!  

⟶ this is part of the melodrama tour series!

Keep reading

[didisficrecs]

—melomaniac. (m)

melomaniac ⟶ ❝ lover of music ❞

⟶ pairing: jungkook x reader

⟶ genre: punk!jungkook / band au / friends-to-lovers + smut

⟶ words: 13,000

⟶ summary: you’re wholeheartedly, madly in love with jungkook and yet you shouldn’t be because he’s supposed to be your best friend and nothing more. worst part of it all is that you know he’s in love with you too.

⟶ warnings: coarse language, extreme mutual pining but knowing it’s wrong, tattooed and long haired jungkook to feed my fantasies, angsty fluff / smut: needy clingy sex, slight body worship themes, oral sex, overstimulation, squirting, unprotected sex, creampie, cock warming-ish.

⟶ disclaimer: this was a revamp of two old fics I had posted on tumblr on another blog a while ago, so if it seems familiar at all to anyone then that is probably why. also, the song that jungkook sings in this i imagine to be ‘make it right’ (but the one featuring lauv).

Jungkook is late again.

By ten minutes to be exact, but you’re certain no one’s counting anymore except for maybe you. The thought, however, doesn’t come as a surprise when it’s a natural occurrence in his life and even counting the time as it ticks by is a useless endeavour that wastes yours. 

“Where is this idiot?” 

Yoongi says this from somewhere off to your left, seething with subdued irritation. He’s been tapping his foot impatiently from behind the stand of his keyboard from the very second the clock struck twelve and Jungkook still hadn’t shown up; but his usual trademark impatience seems to be rubbing off on everyone else standing about in the room. Although, you can’t quite tell if his peeved mood is really because Jungkook is late or because the storage facility the guys rent by the hour to practice altogether as a band is being used to just stand around purposelessly and listen to nothing but angry breathing. 

Keep reading

[didisficrecs]

knee socks | jjk

⇢ genre: drabble (set in the sdapu!universe)

⇢ pairing: jeon jeongguk x unnamed oc

⇢ word count: nearly 2.0k

⇢ warnings: fluff, mild angst, implied drinking, swearing, unknowingly requited love, this is just a painful slow burn that i wrote while listening to jungkook’s spotify playlist and watching a clip of him dancing in the rain. this is set nine months prior to the events of simmer down and pucker up, which can be read here. also loosely inspired by knee socks by the arctic monkeys.

Nine months prior

The rain fell against the windows of her bedroom with a melody known only by nature and those sleepless minds awake at early hours of the morning. As stormy as it was, though, a single block of moonlight fell across the messy sheets of her bed, tousled hair and open hearts framed in the gentle glow. Two figures, legs and arms intertwined, finding solace in the dreamy companionship that’s a little fuzzy at the edges, just out of touch with actuality but real, all at the same time.

His fingertips stroke her jaw, the contrast of his large hands and her small face never failing to amaze him. He cradles her face in his hands as she takes a shuddering breath and he wipes a stray tear away with his thumb, whispering words of reassurance that dissipate in the dim room.

When she whispers, she sounds so fragile. His heart twists. “Jeongguk?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m scared.”

Keep reading

[didisficrecs]

EREN FICS

(and some other characters)

Read

you say the word, im on the way by @prettyboykatsuki– exes to lovers, angsty smut

easy, baby by @prettyboykatsuki – f2l, heartwarming, smut

1:44* AM – fboy eren, smut, angst

hate fucking eren yeager – smut

to have and to hold – angst, smut

To Be Read

The Boys at Work – angst, smut

ao3 search

[didisficrecs]

ZUTARA FICS

Read

The Sun, the Moon, and the Truth – by thee senlinyu, post war, angsty angst, smut, pining

Purr – modern uni au, TA zuko, zuko pursues katara, sliiiight angst, smut & fluff

Sunshine Riptide – post war, smut, tension

The Sparrowkeet series – angsty angst, one shots, gaang

My faves from the series — Sparrowkeet – e2l kinda, angsty angst I don't have a clue – jealousy Heartbeats (or, Wherein Toph is Smarter and Generally More Awesome Than Everyone Else) – angst A Rush of Blood to the Head – e2l kinda The Fourth Wall (or, The Ember Island Players) – angst

when you say "it's gonna happen now" – modern au, f2l, fluff

it's late and i think it's about time for you and me to get closer – character study, smut, yearning, longing

as if you were on fire from within/the moon lives in the lining of your skin – modern au, rivals to lovers, smut, fwb

To be Read

Journeys – modern uni au

Dancing in the Dark – Ba Sing Se

Twist Me to the Left – modern band au

and expectations she won't meet – modern au, TA zuko

indigo summer – modern au, surfer katara

Lotus Lake – modern boarding school au

The Penance Series – smut

His Majesty Prefers Blue

When The Mask Comes Off

Rumour Has It

This ffnet list This ao3 list

*stories w smut have aged-up characters as far as i know😭

[didisficrecs]

SASUSAKU FICS

Read

The Flip Side — rtn au, fluff

Not Too Late – slight angst, fluff

Like Fire and Leaves – rtn and vampire diaries mix, angsty smut

Patterns – rtn, bickering, tension

Sharp Edge

We Do The Dance Electric – blank period, banter

A fever you can’t sweat out by uchiharvno – rtn angsty angst, smut, angst so so so so good

You make my heart beat faster – rtn

Pockets by pinipig – blank period

this tumblr drabble — emotional dark angsty smut

To Be Read

Exes meeting again after not speaking for years (sorta) by @sun-summoning – rtn

Samsara – tbr, plot driven

Sweethearts – rtn modern college au, tbr

matchmaker, matchmaker…how did you get the girl? by @anthropologicalhands – rtn

Rtn series by brumel – rtn, angst, smut

We Draw the Lines in the Leaves by Lady Momo – rtn

Also anything by KuriQuinn on ao3

[didisficrecs]

To All the Wizards I've Loved Before — Dramione fanfic on AO3

💌🦉📬💕🪄

IT’S HERE! Chapter 1 of TATWILB, my new Dramione Eighth Year adaptation of To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, is now live on AO3.

“𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧—” 𝘔𝘢𝘭𝘧𝘰𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘴, 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘵 𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘣 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥. “𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘮?”

“𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵?”

“𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘸𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳? 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘭. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺.”

If you like love letters, fake dating, a Crookshanks/Draco friendship, and post-war fluff (and, of course, the original movie/book), you’re in good company. This will be 5-6 chapters and regularly updated. I hope you follow along and enjoy! 🫶

Cover 🎨: drawn by hand in Procreate (yes, I was pretty excited about this!) + Canva + Waterlogue (which is fantastic + doesn’t use GAI)

[didisficrecs]

“Against your better judgement, you give in. Just for now. Just for the time being.” PLZ TELL ME THEY ENDED UP TOGETHER

AHFNSJFJ Its a little complicated but eventually yes!!!

[didisficrecs]

What was the final straw for the reader to leave eren in College 💔💔💔💔

oh do u mean for my modern eren? uhh it wasn’t rlly one particular thing but when eren missed a birthday that was lowkey it for them lol

[didisficrecs]

A (fake) Manacled movie poster!

[didisficrecs]

I-

— forbidden fruit (m)

pairing: eren jaeger x fem!reader

contains: nsfw (18+ ONLY) content; minors and ageless blogs please do not interact. dark content - incest/stepcest; eren and reader are stepsiblings, and there’s a year age gap (eren is in his “junior” (third) year of college and reader is in her “sophomore” (second) year. profanity, usage + descriptions of drugs (mostly weed) and alcohol. brief mentions of drunk sex, a scene with sex under the influence; dubcon. oral/handjobs (m. + f. receiving/giving), slight (consensual) voyeurism, masturbation + usage of toys; toxic “relationship” dynamics (eren is possessive. also a jackass and very, very annoying); mentions of virginity loss. infidelity/cheating (not on reader), dubcon filming/recording; phone sex (kinda), unprotected sex/creampies; overstim, orgasm denial/edging. degradation (both verbal and non-verbal; not heavy), petnames, praise. mentions of depression/anxiety, and grieving (a relationship).

word count: 15.2k (good grief.)

notes: i..don’t have anything to say other than a thank you to @alert-arlert. my baby. for listening (tolerating) me talking about this, giving me feedback and beta’ing it even tho it’s not your cup of tea. this took a little over three to four days for me to complete, originally being a piece i posted under a different account a few years ago. it’s become a monster, and i’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing lmfao. i’m afraid that if i tweak it anymore it’ll never see the light of day, so to the tumblr page it goes. if you don’t like it, all i ask id that you don’t tell me and don’t be mean about it. kissing u all on your foreheads and running into the woods as i launch this.

here is the playlist for it. thank you to @/cafekitsune for the dark content divider!

ao3 link.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway tears Eren from his phone screen.

He can hear it through his headphones; the gravel-covered path crunching beneath the rubber of the tires, getting closer and closer to the door; the sound of an engine humming, and what sounds like upbeat pop music playing through the speakers of the car. Some mainstream pop song that has him rolling his eyes.

Plucking his headphones out of his ear, he pauses his music to lean over to the window and peek between the blinds—a sleek, silver car sits in the drive, unfamiliar to him. From the driver’s side steps a woman: tall and pretty. She pushes her sunglasses up onto her forehead, and says something to the other person in the passengers seat, motioning for them to get out and follow before heading to pop the trunk open. Out the figure pulls two large, silver suitcases and a pink duffle bag.

After a minute, the other person steps out. He can tell you’reshort, shorter than him, anyway, and pretty. You're dressed for the summer weather, the heat—wearing a short, light blue dress that comes down to your thighs, and white, open-toed sandals. Also blue.

And, from where he’s looking he can see a bit of your tits peeking out, when you bend over to pick up your luggage. And a peek of your underwear when you bend over to pick your bag up, too.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembers that his dad told him a few weeks before that he was meeting his new girlfriend. That she’s a fashion designer and from across the country after having been away; recently divorced with only a daughter from two marriages ago.

He’d seen pictures of the two of you before, he notes when you step into the foyer, ones of you on lavish vacations to Paris and at dinners in Italy; trying countless flavors of cake while wedding planning and on your breaks from school.

Trips are nice. He’s been on a few before: cruises with his mom or boring business trips to New York to attend conferences with his dad. He has fond memories of the trips with his mom, framing the pictures of them in matching headbands and sunglasses. Like the ones where he was covered in sunscreen because he burned so easily, or the time he accidentally fell asleep while tanning and was pink on one side.

His dad mentioned her name before—something along the lines of Carly? Or Selena? Or…Angelina, or—

“This is Dina.” Grisha reaches to his left to squeeze her hand, shooting her a warm smile.

Dina. Oh, that’s it.

She looks nice, smiling warmly in his direction, but there’s something about it that seems off. He can’t tell if it’s her smile, or something else entirely. Maybe it’s all the money going to her head, literally.

He nods his head in acknowledgment, and climbs down the rest of the stairs. Clicking his phone screen shut, Eren pulls out a chair to seat himself right next to you.

“Son, this is her daughter,” Grisha continues, gesturing to you. “She’s a little younger than you, and she attends the same university as you—” You gave him a small wave, quickly averting your eyes from his intense ones. Cute.

You’re not the first “sibling” he’s had—he has an older brother named Zeke; a half brother from his dad’s previous relationship whose seven years older than him. He’s nice, sure. Eren’s met him a handful of times, talked to him less than that; he wasn’t particularly interested in anything he tried to talk about. Not cars, not action figures, not movies—nothing. He tried to get into baseball for Zeke when he was younger, but to no avail. As far as he knows, he’s off somewhere far; across the country in a city called Marley.

It’s nice to have someone that’s closer to his age.

Eren’s a junior, while you’re a sophomore. You major in biology. So you’re pretty and smart, huh? You even hang around the same people, he realizes, when he snoops on your Instagram. Funny he’s never seen or heard of you before now. If you were this close, why hadn’t you met before?

You recognize him from your football team, the Shiganshina Riots. He’s a quarterback, team captain. You’ve seen him in interviews, sweaty and sticky from games, but still handsome all the same. You know enough about him to know he’s a general health studies major; you’ve had minor run-ins with him at parties while drunk. Babbling something off your ass about how you thought he was cute, him overhearing you gush about him; a year ago, it was normal. Now, it’s not.

Fortunately for you, he doesn’t seem to remember.

He’s been the talk of your friend group for forever, since the first day. It’s hard to blame them, really: he’s pretty. Dark brown hair that comes to his shoulders that he always has tied back in a half-bun; tall, charming, and has a plethora of friends; ranging from the captain of the debate team (a childhood friend, if you remember correctly) to the shorter one that throws loud parties every weekend. The ones that get more rowdy at the end of each semester; the ones your friends drag you to when you’ve been holed up in your room for too long.

He’s here on a full ride scholarship, having been scouted by Coach Shadis and Pixis —the creepy fuck—recruited to play specifically for the Shiganshina Riots.

The rest of Grisha’s words blur in his memory, going in one ear and immediately out of the other; he feigns interest, nods when he’s supposed to. He’s tuned in to you the whole time—you’re nervous, he can tell; likely from the combination of moving in, meeting your new relatives, being asked to play house for who knows how long, with two people you barely know; he can imagine it’d be hard for you. It was hard for him, when his mom moved out. Got remarried, moved away. It feels like it never gets easier.

In the midst of talking, your eyes flit to his for a mere second—widening when you notice he’s staring at you. You flinch, and the corners of his mouth turn into a half-grin. Not expecting him to be watching you, peeking at him from the side. He thinks you’re interesting, someone he wouldn’t mind getting to know. Maybe, just maybe, moving you in won’t be that bad after all.

“They’re moving in—”

“Yeah yeah,” Eren interrupts, waving a dismissive hand and rising to his feet. Padding over to the stairs, he calls back to you, “Just don’t touch my shit and stay out of the way.”

Great. Wonderful first impression made.

He helped you move in—mostly because he was forced to—but, he would be a liar if he said didn’t enjoy it a little bit; you took the room next to his, and he helped you move your desk up to the room and your clothes to your closet.

Over time, he’s learned a few things about you: you’re relatively quiet, tidy and neat, and you do what you’re asked. You have various keepsakes strewn about your room, like a small Eiffel Tower sculpture from one of your vacations to Paris, and a margarita glass gifted to you from your mother after a trip to Belize.

You don’t play loud music or turn your TV volume up, nor do you play video games until ungodly hours of the night. (He’s not even completely sure that you even like video games. Or have more than a few hobbies outside of studying.) When you do talk on the phone, it's in practically a whisper, not leaving much room for him to eavesdrop; you go out with your friends on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, after you’ve all finished your classes and obligations for the day. You enjoy shopping, you like puzzle games. You drink milk like it’s your lifeline, you shower with the water entirely too hot—you’re a lightweight, he learns.

You’re studious. Bright. Warm. Friendly. Cheery. Committed to your studies, determined to get your education. It seems to come easy to you, like a talent you’d expect for someone like you.

Something he’s not, however, it’s something he respects.

He’s the opposite: he doesn’t fall behind in school, no, but he does struggle. It’s not something that comes easy to him, regardless of how much he wants—er, wanted—it to. He coasts by with C’s, and studies what he studies. Every class he’s taken, Armin’s taken before—and he helps him with studying. That’s good enough. He’s on the louder side, often playing his music through a speaker and chatting on the phone when he’s not yelling through the mic with his friends. He plays the game every night, it seems. At first it annoyed you, but now you’ve just learned to block it (and him) out.

Rarely, do you ever  make a lot of noise. And, even then, a knock on the wall makes you stop.

Sometimes, you spend so much time cooped up in your room that it piques his interest. Eren wonders what you do in there, since you’re so…quiet. Your door’s usually closed, not cracked. But the rare times you do have it open, you’re studying at your desk with your lamp on and headphones plugged in, flipping through the same pages over and over, softly murmuring their contents to yourself. Copying the material repeatedly in your notebook, with your fuzzy pen over, and over, until you know it by heart.

You’re a always on time, straight-A student. Probably never, ever done or even looked at a single drug before—nor even entertained the idea of sex—forever on the straight and narrow, the textbook type. He realizes that he doesn’t know a lot about you, outside of the things in your room. He knows you like Sanrio characters, reading manga, shopping, and listening to music—he doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know your favorite movies or songs, he doesn’t know what you like to eat, or what pisses you off, besides him. You’re as good as a stranger living in the room next to his; a goody two shoes, the ones in those movies, before they have a rebellious streak. He supposes that he didn’t necessarily help, when the first thing he did was shove you away.

Eren wants to get to know you; he’ll have a lot of fun with you.

He brought a girl home today.

You pull open your curtains a little to see. He pulls in his black car, stepping out with a girl in tow. You’ve seen her before—Hitch, maybe, from what you’ve heard—a girl maybe a year older than him, who you presume he met via a match on Tinder. She’s pretty, very pretty. Someone you’ve only said hello to in passing, but heard enough about to know that she’s nice. Friendly.

The click of Eren’s door has something twisting in the pits of your belly—unpleasant, unwelcomed. A reflex that has you picking at the skin of your lip, fighting the urge to get up. To put your pillow between your legs, and press your ear against the wall.

Another thing, is that you share a wall. The same one your beds are on.

Eren swears that while he was fucking her, he heard a moan come from the other side; sounding like you, a whimper of something sounding suspiciously like his name, and not just once. Twice, and loud, like you wanted to be heard.

You wish it was you, instead of her.

You’re curious about what he does at night.

When he comes home late, or sometimes not at all that night, but rather the next day, smelling like several different types of perfume. Covered in countless lipstick marks, hickies, scratches, bite marks—everything. And red eyes, half-lidded, probably from having done every drug even brought to Connie’s parties, the ones he hosts every Friday night.

When his friends are over, and the door’s cracked. Music louder than your heartbeat, vibrating the walls and the hallway outside it. In there, flicking out his tongue and wetting the thin rolling paper, smoothing it out with his fingers when he’s supposed to be studying in his room. The soft click of his lighter, the initial inhale. When he puffs smoke out of his lips — he sees you there, at his door. He knows.

The small buzzing of your toy underneath the blanket you use to muffle it—it doesn’t work, he’s sure you know, and you only ever use it when Mom and Dad aren’t home. When he’s home, with the door cracked enough for him to see you, directly across.

And when you edge yourself, pulling your fingers out when you’re close.

It takes everything in him not to cave, not to fuck you like you deserve. Like someone like you deserves to be fucked, split open on his cock and made to cum as many times as he desires. One day, he’ll ruin you. Bring you to tears and nothing else until you beg him to fill you, mess you up with his cum. Fuck it deep into you, until you can’t breathe.

Maybe he’ll fuck you against a mirror, too; show you just how good you look taking him in, gasping breathlessly every time he sinks deeper and deeper, when you reflexively try to push him out. Leaving finger shaped bruises on your hips, warmth in your thighs, his grip on your neck. How you won’t even recognize yourself as that same girl in those photos, smiling and cheery; instead fucked out and sobbing, poor cunt weeping for him.

The thought has him palming himself through his underwear, biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood.

Fuck. He’s gotta have you. Soon.

You’ll be his goody two shoes. He’ll show you.

“Dude, your brother is like, hot, hot.” One of your friends, Mina, says through the phone’s speaker.

“Mi,” you rub your forehead, exasperated, “you can’t say that.”

“Why can’t I? He’s not my brother, is he?” Mina starts, cheeks stuffed with food, “he’s your brother—and you’re my friend, therefore I can, legally, call him hot.”

“Stop.”

“No, no she’s right,” Camille interjects, “he’s very, very hot. And if you,” she points a bright red nail at you through the camera lens on FaceTime, “don’t fuck him, I will.”

You choke on your drink, eyes wide, “Excuse me?”

“What? He’s your step brother, not full brother. You’re technically not even related at all—only by, like, the millionth marriage; it’s not weird, it’s simple facts. Plus,” Camille hums, “Meeks knows you want to fuck him too, and so do I,” Camille inspects her manicure, and Mina nods in her camera frame. “So if you’re not, move over so the rest of us can have a turn.”

“Who said that I wanted to fuck him?” You ask incredulously, in pure disbelief. “You talk about him like he’s some high school crush—“

“Because he is!” They say  (yell) at the same time.

“You give him ‘fuck me’ eyes every day! So fuck him already!”

From outside your door, you swear you hear a soft chuckle, and a shadow disappears from under the crack.

“I hate you guys.”

“Aww! We love you too!”

When your little group calls him hot, and tells you all types of things about him: their fantasies, deepest desires, and telling you you’re missing out. Telling you that if you don’t fuck him, they will, all while they try. Eager to succeed.

How you hurriedly try to change the topic, telling them to shut up and stop talking about your brother like that. Your brother, you repeat. Stepbrother, they parrot. Not full, he agrees.

Namely that one friend….Camille, is it? Eren recognizes her from one of his lectures.

Whenever you bring her over, she’s trying to make some pass at him. In the kitchen, where he’s scrolling through some DM request, skimming the message. Tapping to see who sent it—if they’re hot, and replying to see if they’re free tonight. Biting into an apple in his other hand, Camille approaches him, with glossy lips and an all too practiced smile—“You look so good, handsome,” she’ll say, while running her hands over the definition of his muscles in his arm. Nicknaming him handsome amongst the other things she’d call him—Sexy, stunning, Prince Charming, his favorite. She feigns interest, asking him about his gym routine, his frequency, his meal plans; Does he prep? Does he diet? Doing everything in her power to fake like she’s interested in who he really is, to get him to pay attention to her. To get him alone. To get in his pants. To prove a point to you—“Your brother is easy,” she says, “he’s slept with, like, every girl on campus. You have to fuck him. Or I will.”

From where you stand, the expression on your face tells all: you’re equal parts horrified and embarrassed. Fists balled by your side, eyes wide like you’re about to blow a fuse; hell, he can see the smoke coming from your ears. Your heavy breathing, your impatience. You’re two seconds short of stomping your feet at her petulantly; like a child that hadn’t got something they wanted. And if he weren’t staring you in your face right now, he would’ve laughed at you.

Angrily, you huff her name, and you’re a little too quick to yank her by the wrist up to your room, saying something incoherent, in attempt to remind her that she’s here for you and not him. Ignoring her whining as you shove her up the stairs in front of you, pushing her with all of your strength to your bedroom, far, far away from the kitchen. That she’s your friend, not his fuckbuddy. It stirs up a feeling deep in your belly that irks you, and one you’d rather not unpack right now. One you push down, refusing to acknowledge, turning a blind eye to.

And, if Eren Jaeger didn’t know better, he would say that you were jealous. Jealous over the possibility of your brother fucking someone else; someone that’s not you.

Typically, he’d say he’s not interested. She’s not his type, but….he could entertain it, sure. Inflate his ego a little bit. And maybe, he’ll fuck her once. Make her cry out for him just to make you jealous. Leave marks on her to rile you up. Get you to feel something. Leave his door cracked just for you to see her riding him, raw. Revel in the fire in your eyes, the determination to get back at him. And maybe see those ‘fuck me’ eyes they were talking about, too.

It’s funny, he thinks, watching your reactions. You’re an enigma.

But, there’s something that’s always at the forefront of his mind. Something that nags and eats away at him, at his resolve. Restraint.

You never tell them no.

It’s a Thursday night, and you’re not out with your friends like usual.

Something came up, is what you’d told Mom.

One of the girls couldn’t make it, so you took a raincheck. A weak excuse, but it’s all you had at the time, and she believed you; if anything was bothering you, you’d tell her, you’re sure.

Nodding, you head back up the stairs to your room, where Eren is waiting outside for you; leaning against the wall, with his arms crossed. He’s in a dark green t-shirt, black pants with a black, leather belt, and his black Doc Martens. His centipede tattoo on his arm shows, and you’re drawn to it, flicking your eyes up where green eyes watch you, like murky waters. Dragging lazily over your form, taking in your appearance—you’re just in black pajama shorts and a blue tank top, but you feel exposed nonetheless. Naked. Bare.

You suppose that, to him, you already are.

Eren has a tendency to do that to you, you realize. He’s intense and captivating. Everything he does is entrancing.

And, unfortunately for you, you’re much more aware of it than you’d like to be.

A moment passes before you speak, “What do you want, Jaeger?”

“What makes you think I want somethin’?” He muses, eyes twinkling. A smile dances across his features, like in a stage play. You hardly ever address him by his last name, only doing so when you’re nervous. “For all you know, I could simply be curious about how my baby sister is doing, y’know, since you’re not with your friends n’ all.”

You roll your eyes. “Because I know you.” Eren laughs. Something twists in your belly at that.

Retrieving something from his pocket, he holds it up to you in the light. From it, you make out one of the objects to be his lighter, green and black, with a little ‘E’ written into the bottom. The other, you recognize to be a joint.

“Ever tried it?” Eren asks, curious.

“What….weed?” You say, crossing your arms.

He nods, pinching the joint between his forefinger and thumb, dangling it in front of your face. “Weed,” he repeats, continuing where you don’t, “you see me smoke it every day.” He shrugs. “‘M askin’ if you’ve ever tried it.”

You… haven’t.

You’ve been around it, sure. Some of your friends have tried it, offered it to you, even. All you’ve ever done is one edible that knocked you out of commission for a full 24 hours, and feeling like you were dying. And way, way too much to drink in one night.

The repercussions of which you’re still reaping, given that it’s brought up as a running joke within your friend group every time you go out. It seems like everyone remembers every detail of that night, except for you, of course.

But still you remain, putting on your best poker face. “No,” you say, halfheartedly. “I’ve never done..that,” you wave your hand, noncommittal. Dark eyes narrow on you. It’s technically not a lie, a full one anyway. It’s a half-truth, but somewhat of a truth nonetheless. He eyes you for a moment, parting his lips to say something, but decides against it. It’s good enough for him, anyway.

“D’ya want to?” 

You nearly choke. “Huh?”

“I said, d’ya want to?”

A question that has you looking around, confused. “Are you sure you’re, uh,” you tap your head, “alright up there? Who are you, and what have you done with Eren?”

He rolls his eyes, “Don’t be a dickhead.” He says with a sigh, “Answer me.”

You bite your lip and think for a moment.

Eren Jaeger, whose barely done so much as talk to you for as long as you’ve been here—months now—and as obnoxious and protective over his stash of weed as he is, is offering for you to smoke with him. You. Mr. ‘Don’t touch my stuff and stay the fuck out of my way.’

Him.

Surprised, your eyes flicker from Eren’s to the joint in his hand, and you debate on if he’s truly serious with the question he’s asking you. You figure you must be looking at him like he grew a third head, as his eyebrows raise expectantly.

“I’ve, uh,” you shake your head and hold up your hands. “I’ve never done it before, so I don’t know if I’d be any good—” Eren cuts you off with a snort.

“There’s nothin’ to be ‘good’ or whatever at,” He grunts, pushing himself up off the wall, “I’ll teach you. C’mon.”

He’s never this nice to you, hardly ever willing to talk to you, let alone have you smoke his weed. It’s new, foreign and honestly, you’re a little nervous.

When you don’t move, Eren quirks an eyebrow up at you. “We don’t have all day.”

“Oh, right,” you mumble, and follow him down the hall to his room.

“So how do I do it?” 

Eren grunts at you to repeat your question and flicks off the overhead light to turn on his LED lights. He chucks the remote on the unmade bed and settles down on his sheets, crossing his legs. 

“How do I do it?” You repeat yourself and watch him from where you stand in the doorway, apprehensive. You followed him all the way down the hall, watching as he got comfortable in his room, perched in the open doorway. He raises an eyebrow and you continued, “Smoke weed, I mean.”

“Well, first you c’mere and close the fuckin’ door.” he jerks his head and you take a shaky step in, pushing the door together behind you. It’s just smoking, you tell yourself, how bad could it be?

When he notices you’re still hugging the door, he sighs. “I won’t bite you, you don’t have to sit there lookin’ so awkward.”

“I don’t look awkward.” The words come out more harsh than you’d like.

“Uh, yeah you do. Get closer,” Eren tells you, patting the spot beside him. “Up here.”

Taking a deep breath, you climb onto the spot, hugging yourself as close as you can, avoiding eye contact with Eren.

“Watch me.” Eren says and you nod. The close proximity allows your knees to touch, and your heart flutters a bit inside your chest—absolutely not from him. It’s from--you swallow the lump in your throat--the excitement of trying a new thing, finally seeing what your friends are talking about…

Right.

He puts the joint between his fingertips, cupping his hand around the lighter as he flicks it, holding the burning flame over the twisted end. He rotates it slowly, making sure all the ends burn. He's concentrated - tongue sticking out of his mouth, brows furrowed in complete focus; holding it up for you to see. 

He’s cute when he concentrates, you think. Cute when he’s quiet, too.

Eren puts it to his lips and you, unable to tear your eyes away, watch, mesmerized at him in all his glory. He pulls it away, and you marvel at the ease of which he inhales; smoothly, slowly, letting the smoke fill his lungs. 

And then he exhales slowly, the same pace at which he inhaled. The smoke exits his mouth and feathers off somewhere into the room. In your ears, your heartbeat pounds, encircling you.

You don’t know how long you’ve been staring at him until he laughs and snaps you out of your trance. “What?”

“You’re gaping like a fish,” he adjusts his position and scoots a little further back, stretching out his legs. 

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

“Whatever,” he shifts the joint to his other hand, patting his lap with the newly freed one. “Come sit. I wanna show you something.”

Your eyebrow quirks. “...On your lap?” 

“You said you wanted to learn, right?” You nod. “Then c’mere.”

“Um, okay,” you mumble, reluctantly shifting onto his lap. Bracing your thighs on the sides of his, you’re sitting in his lap, facing him. He holds the joint out for you to hold it, and you do; pinching the top between your fingertips like he did, careful not to squeeze too hard.

Eren puts his hands on the back of your thighs and pitches you forward, completely catching you by surprise. You yelp, and he grins, wide and toothy. “Sorry,” he says in a low voice, like it’s meant for your ears only. His fingers smooth up the backs of your legs, and come to sit just below the swell of your ass, daring. You start to say something, something smart or sarcastic maybe, but it fizzles out on your tongue when he licks his lips; you’re staring, unmoving.

It’s all too much for you to know that you’re inches, if not mere centimeters above his dick. And, if you didn’t know better, you’d bet twenty bucks that he’s rock hard right now. The notion of grinding down on him isn’t lost on you in this moment, remaining at the forefront of your every desire right now.

What scares you, though, is the fact that you know this. And that these ideas, fantasies, whatever they are, don’t scare you. That in itself terrifies you to your core. It’d be so embarrassing to have to explain yourselves if your parents walked in right now—in fact, you don’t think you could explain yourself if given the chance. You don’t know what to say; afraid you'll be reduced to a stuttering mess. He's....not supposed to have this effect on you.

Shame on you.

The crinkle of a water bottle snaps you out of your trance. Eren plucks off the cap and takes a few gulps—you’re too busy watching his Adam's apple move. Asking yourself when he got so…..attractive, all of a sudden. So….very, not…him? Is this just a one-off? A fleeting moment? Is he just..testing the waters with you? Using you? Maybe you’re—

“Watch me, yeah?” —in too over your head. You don’t trust your mouth to speak, so you just nod meekly.

In your hand, he angles the joint toward him; pulling it back to his lips, slowly inhaling. From below, he watches you, as your eyes fall to his lips, watching him intently. He relishes the way you look at him, like he's the most interesting thing you’d ever seen; capturing your undivided and sole attention, making him feel powerful. Sparking a need in him to savor that look, to engrave it in his memory; to hold it forever.

For you to reserve that look, that one specifically, for him and him only. To spoil it so much for you that you couldn’t possibly look at anyone else like that, because they don’t deserve it. Not from you.

Immediately, with that thought, Eren also wonders what other looks he can get you to make.

Holding the smoke in his mouth, Eren raises a hand gup to cup the back of your neck, the other cupping your jaw. You look so pretty, like something from a movie—all doe-eyed, glassy, waiting for him to make his move. His thumb finds your bottom lip, lingering for a moment before tugging it down, opening it slightly. Slowly, he closes the distance. Your eyes flutter shut, and your entire body melts into the kiss—warm and sweet; you taste like the kiwi chapstick you always wear, the one in the pink tube you carry with you everywhere you go. Saccharine and savory, he wants—needs more. Of you, of everything.

Your free hand finds its way in his hair, tugging at his nape; he moans in your mouth, slowly pushing the smoke from his lips, between yours. Exhaling slowly, releasing it but taking in you—greedily, without shame or hesitation.

His hands crawl downward from you, ghosting over your collarbone and your sides; settling down to cup the back of your thighs, pulling you deeper into him, spreading your legs so he fits better between them. Eren drinks every noise from you like water, hungrily swallowing everything and still, it’s not enough for him.

A desire that settles deep within his body, a fire that renders him insatiable, pressing hard enough to bruise as he rolls his hips upward. You gasp, and nearly drop what’s between your fingers—he doesn’t stop. Strong hands keep you in a firm grip, keeping you still as you writhe; inching away from him, sensitive already. Every nudge of him against your clit has you gasping; you’re soaked, through your panties and your shorts. Begging for him to touch you, pleading through your cries.

None of this is normal—a big brother kissing his little sister—but, in that moment, neither of you can complain. 

If you asked Eren, he wouldn’t know how long it’s been since you started. Since he asked you if you’d ever smoked, if you wanted to smoke. With him.

Maybe that was an hour ago. Or two.

Or three.

He’s not entirely sure how you got from point A to B; you were just supposed to smoke, nothing more. Not kiss, not touch, not hug—definitely not get on his lap. But he got bold, daring; ending up with you moaning and writhing underneath him; both high, overstimulated and sensitive, having smoked the rest of the joint the same way—him inhaling and puffing it into your mouth—and in your high, you got feverish. Hungry. In hindsight, he should’ve known it was a bad idea: kissing you like that.  He knew that kissing you was the tip of the iceberg, and the beginning of his descent into madness. The point of no return—that when he got a taste of you, he’s as good as gone. Completely done for.

One hit deep and he caved, despite his better judgment.

It’s like a river that pulls him in, rivulets of water pulling him in, asking him to get lost. Demanding it of him, as the least he could offer to you; before it gets to be too much, before he swims too deep in the river; struggling, he pulls himself up.

“Have,” Eren parts from the kiss, panting, to push your foreheads together when you whine, “have you done this before?”

And technically, yes, you have.

Not the smoking thing, no (a full-truth this time), but you’ve had sex. Once. In your early days of college, at a party Mina dragged you to; some guy whose name you don’t remember, who you were too fucked up to ever hear in the first place. With a guy who didn’t care about you, who you don’t care about. It wasn’t much of a first, if you’re honest.

“Once,” you murmur, cupping his face between your hands, “at a party in my freshman year; Meeks invited me, I was drunk n’ a mess.” Eren begins to pout, and it makes you laugh, genuinely.

“It doesn’t count t’me, I barely remember it,” you peck his lips, “c’n still be you, if y’want,” A do-over.

You can practically see him swell with pride; if he had half a mind to think, he’d call this desire to be important, a desire to possess, to keep; you’re his. Some dumb fuck fucked up, now he gets to take your virginity. Be your proper first—be something memorable for you, in a good way.

In his haze, he grins. “’M make y’feel good, yeah? D’ya trust me, baby?”

“‘course,” you reply, with a grin of your own.

“Good girl,” he praises you, curling his fingers underneath the hem of your shirt to pull it off of you, lifting the fabric of the tank over your breasts, pressing kisses to your warm skin. They’re sloppy, wet kisses—each press of his mouth shoots fireworks throughout your body, electrifying your fingertips. He presses his palms against your sides, leaning down; “my favorite girl,” he tells you, and he means it. Even as he takes a nipple into his mouth and pinches the other with his fingers; you arch your back up into him.

You’re better than anyone he’d ever had before;  something dangerous: intoxicating, addicting, like something he can’t have. Shouldn’t be allowed to have, like something forbidden. Something so sweet, like a strawberry in the sun. Meant to be devoured and savored at the same time.

But, something forbidden must be devoured, after all.

That justifies it in his fucked up brain. Oils the cogs in his mind to spin, to conjure up and fan those flames. He reminds himself that he’s just helping. Teaching. Helping guide you for future partners—for when you move out and get out into the world. Get married. When you’re…away from him.

He is being nothing more than a helping, caring older brother; passing on his knowledge to the next…right?

It’s what he tells himself when he hooks his thumbs under the elastic band of your night shorts, tugging them down your legs. Again, when he kisses your cunt through your panties, peeling them up to tease you; blowing on your clit to tease you when you squirm.

You’re beautiful, like this, while being split open by Eren’s tongue, his fingers. Fisting his hair to push him deeper, to make him stop being so mean. At one point he even flips you—has you sitting your full weight on him while he eats you from below; keeping you still so you can’t run, grinding your hips on his face and saying his name like a chant, goes straight to his dick.

He spends the entire night tasting you—with his tongue, his fingers, figuring out just what makes you lose it; what makes you sound as pretty as you do when you beg him to let you cum and your legs shake from the tension snapping; gushing all over his fingers, dripping down his arms and coating the insides of your legs.

Typically he’d want something, expect something from his partners in exchange for this. But tonight, he’s unable, unwilling to let go of you, nor ask you to do such a thing; he’s selflessly selfish, with a penchant for you instead.

Eren decides then, that his name coming from your pretty lips, words smooth like honey and sweet like a cherry, is all he wants to hear for the rest of his life; all breathy, all because of him.

Something forbidden must be devoured, and devour you he will.

It’s sick, it’s twisted, it’s wrong, but he doesn’t care—he’ll be that. He’s gotten a taste of the forbidden fruit, and he doesn’t want to relinquish it, not ever; especially not to someone that doesn’t deserve it.

Eren deserves it, him and him only.

When you cum a fourth time on him that night, something clicks for Eren. Something he’s already known deep down, he just hadn’t truly acknowledged, maybe.

He cannot give you up, to anyone. Not to a boyfriend, girlfriend, a friend, whomever, whatever. You’re his, you have to be, and there’s this carnal need to keep you; close and away from everyone else.

Since then, you’d been “hanging out” nearly every day.

You’d started rain checking your dates with friends more and more to be with Eren. All over each other as soon as class let out, and suddenly, to your parents, you just magically started “getting along” one day. Neither of them knew what was up, why Eren suddenly took an interest in studying, but they didn’t pay it any mind. Too overjoyed and surprised to hear that you’d become his personal tutor.

You helped him keep his grades up, enough to be able to balance that and being on the football team; so much so that his friends noticed. Connie chalked it up to that sister of his. And, while he wasn’t wrong, he sure as shit wasn’t gonna give him the satisfaction of being right about something for once. Not from him.

Plus he….knows some things too. He’s good enough in sports, like football and basketball. He knows enough to get by and that’s sufficient, he’d say. More than enough for you and, well, you might’ve been his tutor in academics, but he was yours in everything else.

It was during one of your (actual) tutoring sessions, actually, that you asked to suck him off.

In your hunt, you started doing some….research. Pulling up that private tab on your browser, typing in ‘how to give a blowjob’ and ‘how to give head for women’ in the search bar. You knew that it was something you were supposed to—er, expected to do, rather, and you wanted to try something on Eren.

Sitting in your room, door cracked; you’re crossed on your bed, and he’s seated across from you on the pullout ottoman. Text book in your laps, dressed in casual clothes—for him, a black tee paired with a pair of ripped black jeans; for you, a dark, knee length skirt and a sweater, with a pink tank top underneath in case you got too warm during the day.

Something rare for the both of you, as of late. Casually enjoying each other’s company, no touching or kissing, or hugging even. Focusing on school; what you’re good at and he’s not. It should be relaxing for you, a way to wind down after the week you’ve had—filled with nothing but fucking Eren—however, it only served to make you anxious, instead. Eager to touch, to explore his body as he had yours; find out what makes him feel good, like he did for you.

From across the room, Eren pulls you out of your head, “Are you listening?”

“Huh?” you blink, once, twice, before realizing, “oh, I’m sorry—what did you say?”

“I asked if you were listening; I was repeating the stupid shit you told me to say,” he snorts, closing his textbook. “But I guess not.”

“Sorry.” He waves a dismissive hand, leaning against the wall. He crosses his arms over his chest, and that key-shaped necklace he wears glints in the light from your lamp. The very same necklace you’ve thought about dangling over your—

“What’re you thinking about?” He watches you from

the wall, amused.

“It’s just…” you breathe, taking your lip between your teeth; you’re oddly serious, making a face that Eren can’t quite put his finger on, “can I, uh, suck your dick?”

“Is this right?” you ask, from your place between his legs, palming him through his pants. He looks down at you, seated atop the plush covers of your bed while you’re kneeling on the blue circle rug in front of him. Eager to learn, to please; it’s admirable.

“Yeah,” he half moans, involuntarily bucking his hips up to your touch. Eren swallows thickly, forcing his anxiety down, “you can, um, get it out if y’want.” His cock strains against the fabric of his boxers, leaking from the tip. It peeks from the waistband of his boxers, springing free when you peel the material down his thighs—he’s huge, you come to notice. It’s a wonder how that thing is ever going to fit in your mouth, and in you in general.

It’s thick and long; weeping, dribbling precum down the sides, smearing along the head; angry and red. The shaft itself is his skin tone, if not a little darker, and there’s a fair amount of hair too—similar to what you’ve seen before. Bigger than what you’ve seen before.

You watch him with curious eyes as you take him in your hands, observing his face contort when you squeeze. “Am I holding it right? Does it feel good?”

Fuck. “Yeah,” he says, “now you should—shit,” He hisses, doing his best to keep his voice down in order to not tell whoever was home what you were doing. The door to the hall was wide open, a straight shot to seeing the two of you; you on your knees and him half-naked, with his hard cock in your hands. And the both of you liking it. “You can hold it tighter, if you—mm—want; like that,” he breathes shakily when your hold tightens, fiddling with the sheets beneath him. He’s trying to keep it cool, remain calm, but he’s waning. “Keep—keep going,”

Your touch is so hot it’s scorching; torching him from the outside in. Each drag of your hands up his cock has him fighting to keep from cumming fast—it’s a moment of teaching, not weakness. He’s…he’s not normally like this; in fact, he’s never been like this before. He never folds this easily from head—you’re just, really really pretty, and if he opens his eyes to you staring at him like that he’ll cum immediately, untouched; he’s fucked.

Jesus, fuck, why did you have to be like this?

“You can—uh—lick it if you want,” Eren tells you, strained. He’s not good at giving directions gently—to someone genuinely trying to learn; he’s too sensitive; out of his element, uncomfortable. But he’s trying.

He makes the mistake of looking at you when your tongue flits from between your lips, wet, gliding over his slick tip; you’re practically grinning at him, satisfied at having reduced him to almost

nothing after barely doing anything. A simple lick has his balls tightening, almost sending him hurling over the edge; his face does nothing but cheer you on when you lap at him, tongue flat against the frenulum.

He hisses at the contact, forcing himself to tear his eyes away; Eren was trying really hard to keep control, to not fuck your face; but the way you’re looking at him makes it ten times harder. You shift forward on your knees, eyebrows furrowing in concern. Mock? He’s not sure.

“Is everything okay?” You ask, in that silk voice of yours, “you look like you’re in pain.”

“M fine,” he assures you through gritted teeth, “just fine.” You put your hands on his thighs and push yourself upward, close enough to bump his nose with your own; he feels your breath fanning his face. The proximity isn’t helping.

“’ren,” you start, with that nickname that has his stomach doing backflips, “did I do something?” An inflection of genuine concern has him flashing his eyes open; anything remotely teasing in your gaze before has been replaced by worry, that you’ve hurt him or something.

“No,” Eren whispers, shaking his head. His hands come up to cup your cheeks, running his thumbs over the apples; “you didn’t hurt me, ‘m fine; you’re doing really good.”

That has your eyes twinkling. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” he snorts, still holding you when you settle back on your calves and take him in your grasp; carefully observing him for any changes. You’re so cute; almost too cute. If you did anything else, he might cum and ruin it too fast.

“Open,” he taps your lip with his thumb, nudging the tip against your mouth, “put it in f’me, yeah?” Doing as you’re told, you eagerly part your lips, taking him in—the sight of your lips curled around him has his head spinning. Eren can hold out for long, he can, but when it comes to you, he feels like a fucking virgin again.

You’re looking up at him to gauge his reactions, taking him in little by little; “don’t—fuck—you don’t have to take it—ah—all in,” he tells you, not wanting to choke you; you hum and pull back an inch, leaving a ring of lip gloss behind. “But you’re—fuck—taking me so well. ‘M proud of you.”

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he praises you, eyes involuntarily tracing the string of saliva dribbling down your chin. You gather it with your fingers, coating your hand before gripping his cock again, slowly pumping your hand up and down; you work into a rhythm, and run your thumb back and forth over the tip.

Eren watches you carefully with half-lidded eyes, biting down on his lip in an attempt to stifle his sounds—failing miserably; the schlick of your hand over him, the glint in your eye as you stroke and squeeze him, slapping his cock on your tongue wrestles a garbled cry from his throat, and has him flexing every nearly muscle in his body to keep from nutting.

You let a glob of drool fall from your tongue, pooling on the tip, before taking him completely in your mouth; in and out of your mouth seemingly with ease now that you’ve practiced, flattening your tongue to fit more of him in. His hands find their way to the back of your neck as you bob your head up his length; “Baby—baby,” he shudders, lightly pushing at your shoulders, pleading for you to have mercy on him; but you don’t relent.

He’s sure he’s loud, loud enough for the neighbors to hear—but he doesn’t care, he can’t care; you’re swallowing him greedily, fully, and he’s losing his fuckin’ mind. Holding onto the collar of your sweater like an anchor, hunched over you: weak, spineless, crying out for you. The tension building in his tummy is a thread about to snap, being twisted and pulled so tightly; and peering at you through damp lashes is what makes it snap—teary eyed and messy, spit falling all down your chin and gathering in the space between your tits; you look so debauched; so fucked out; so ruined, and so fuckin’ pretty. 

His orgasm comes over him in shockwaves, cum spurting onto your tongue and deep into your mouth; you choke, surprised, but stay until he’s finished, pumping him til’ he’s given you all he has.

Releasing him with a small ‘pop’, you lean back on your legs; running your hands up his thighs, sides—smoothing them up the sides of his neck and jaw to cradle it, lifting it up to look him in the eyes. You’ve ruined him, you can tell. He knows you can—the grin on your face is fuckin’ telling.

“Good?” You ask, a question you more than know the answer to.

“……yeah,” he grumbles and you laugh, pressing a kiss to his lips.

“‘M glad.”

“Shut up.” Embarrassing.

Weeks go by where you’re untouched, left high and dry off Eren’s touch.

You haven’t so much as been in the same room for more than five minutes; he’s reverted to how he was before, when you met. He’s short with you, brash; impatient and unwilling to speak to you—he’s always in his room with his door closed, playing music loud so he can’t hear you. He waits until you’re asleep to come out, avoiding you in any way he can.

It makes you sad, leaves you feeling dejected. Rejected. You feel he’s breaking up with you in a way—he doesn’t answer your texts, and your calls go straight to voicemail; you know he’s getting them, because he reads them immediately after.

sent: 10:43 pm | you: ren? (read 10:43 pm)

sent: 10:43 pm | you: i miss you. (read 10:43 pm)

You hover over the keyboard before deciding to type a third message.

sent: 10:45 pm | you: i don’t know if you’re mad at me but

sent: 10:45 pm | you: whatever i did, i’m sorry. i

sent: 10:45 pm | you: didn’t mean to upset you.

(read 10:45 pm)

It goes on like that for a while: Eren ignoring you, reading your messages. Avoiding you at every turn, going so far as to lock his door when he’s gone; and you feel like you’ve made a mistake. Crossed a line, gone too far. A stark feeling of regret simmers beneath the surface, and it makes you sick.

It’s a dark, Friday night.

Eren’s in his room, boots kicked off and dressed in nothing but a black t-shirt and black and white pajama pants. They hang loose around his ankles, but they’re comfortable. Not too long or too short. He’s home alone—his dad and your mom are on some kind of date and spending the night in some expensive hotel up north. He doesn’t know how long they’ll be gone—he doesn’t care. They left enough money for you two to last the week if you had to, and told him to “play nice,” whatever that means. Typical for them, he thinks.

You’re off drinking with some of your girlfriends; at some bar or house party they’ve probably dragged you to despite your feeble protests; taking as many shots and free drinks as you can get before you black out.

You’ve been out for a few hours, since 9. It’s 2 am when he peeks at the clock, flashing at him in red letters on the display. The latest you’ve been out so far is a little past 1, having to get to class early the next day.

The clock in the upper corner of his phone reads 2:04 am when his phone rings. A plain contact, no picture; a single eye roll emoticon where a name would be.  He has to do a double take at his screen; you don’t contact him for anything, usually—as the two of you hardly speak in person, let alone over text.

It rings three times before he clicks the green ‘answer call’ button, holding the device up to his ear. You are at a party: in the background he hears loud music, with bass so heavy it’s giving him a headache. Giggling, and a small, “don’t—!” before a glass crashes to the floor.

It takes a beat before you realize he even picked up.

“C’n,” you start, trailing off in a murmur, “….me up?”

“What?” He sighs. You’re drunk—shitfaced. Off your ass and absolutely not in a state to drive, or even speak clearly. “Can’t hear you, speak up.”

“‘ren,” His breath catches in his throat at the name while you hiccup and giggle at something he can’t hear, “can you pick me up pleaaaaase, pretty pretty—“

“Fine,” He says; a little too harshly, he realizes, when the line quiets. It crosses his mind to apologize, but he shakes it off. “Text me the address,” Eren throws on his jacket, slips into the black Crocs he could find, and plucks his keys off the ring beside his bedroom door, “n’ don’t fuckin’ get off the phone until I see you.”

He pulls up beside you in his car, as dark as the night. He unlatches his seatbelt and comes out, hood tugged over his head—someone says something to him, something he barely hears; a greeting, something, whatever. He figures it’s one of your friends.

You’re wearing that dress, with those black heels. Red bottoms. The dress he gifted you as a sorry Christmas present last year, a last minute gift. A minidress, satin, with thin straps on the shoulders. It shows more of your skin than you’d like, you’d said. Figured you’d never wear it anyway, that it’d be buried in the depths of your closet - but you’re wearing it now. It rides up your thighs, bunching at your hips, the bottom of your ass peeking out, and he sees red; feels green with jealousy. Envy. You look beautiful, stunning, even as unbalanced and clumsy as you are. Blinking up at him with those eyes and a brighter smile than in the pictures of you he’s seen, and he can’t help but wonder.

Did you wear this for him? For someone else? Did….do you look at them like that, too? He’d rather not know the answer.

The tips of his ears grow warm, and he’s at a loss for words. It’s all he can do to blink when you approach him, and catch you on unsteady footing. When your tits squish his chest, he tries so, so hard not to let that go to straight to his dick.

“Get in,” he tugs you toward the door of his car, shoving it open to put you on the seat. You’re clinging to him, whining something about not wanting to leave him; you live in the same house, he reminds you, peeling you off his front. He doesn’t look you in the eyes, scooping your legs into the car and buckling you in; he slams the door harder than he means to, and sees you jump through the tint of his passenger window.

The ride home is long. Feels drawn out, agonizing.

He wasn’t supposed to have to pick you up; you didn’t plan on drinking as much as you did tonight. All you wanted was a night of peace, harmless fun with your girls, since you hadn't seen them in a while—one of your friends was supposed to take you home, but ended up drinking too much herself.

Peering at him through your lashes, you take his appearance in. He still has his hood on his head. Dressed in his night clothes. His eyes are dark, holding an expression you can’t make out; he doesn’t even look at you. Intensely focused on the road, gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles turn white; his brows furrow like he’s irked, angry.

You’ve long stopped saying anything, opting for silence in fear of embarrassing yourself any further; sobering up. The silence in the car is deafening, palpable, and neither of you can break it. You don’t know how.

Eren turns the radio to a random station. Something you know, to make you comfortable. The street lights shine through the windows, briefly illuminating your lap when you pass.

This is the most he's talked to you in weeks, almost months—his anger feels like it’s directed at you, somehow.; that you’re the root cause. And no matter what you do, you can't get him to look at you. To see you.

Each stop light feels like forever. Each green light isn’t fast enough. The wind blowing through the windows doesn’t allow you enough room to breathe, even as you turn towards it, releasing a breath you didn’t know you were holding; absentmindedly  picking at the strings of your dress. 

When the two of you pull into your driveway, he parks the car. He pushes the button to turn the engine off, and the music stops, leaving you right where you started. From the light, you gaze veers to your left, where Eren’s still staring ahead, unmoving.

He gets quiet when something bothers him, you’ve come to note. In the past year, you’ve only seen him so upset a handful of times—each time as foreign as the last. As confusing as the last. You don’t know where it comes from, but never before had it been wholly directed at you.

He’s wordless when he slips out the car. When he clicks open your door and holds out his hand for you to take after you unbuckle yourself; drags you, shakily, to the door; twisting his key in the lock, tossing his shoes to the side, bounding up the steps. Leaving you, alone, in the foyer. In the dark.

You feel you’ll never understand him.

So, you don't try. Not anymore.

You've gone through the stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and finally—acceptance. Some happened thrice before you moved on, others took forever to get to. But, you’ve come out on your two feet, deciding you're not crying over him anymore, wasting time. You've grown to accept your place in his life and his in yours—that which is minimal; nonexistent. A once substantial and monumental position filled by someone you naively believed to be worthy, reduced to dust and ashes. A relationship doomed from the start, destined to crash down on the two of you.

A 'relationship' that shouldn't have been one, you realize. And acknowledge.

You end up taking vacations with your mom as often as before. Visiting new places and seeing new horizons, tasting drinks and partying until your feet hurt—a life that most would think doesn't suit you, and normally, you'd agree. It'd make you uncomfortable and become a recluse; the old you would, anyway. You spend your weeks under the wing of your Ma, rekindling your relationship; her regaining her best friend. You've started going to therapy, smiling more; branching out to new groups of people, enjoying yourself.

Your paths crossed less, and you felt happy.

You even started seeing a new guy, Colt, from a friend of a friend. He’s really nice; a year younger than you, and he works part time at his family’s restaurant; he takes you on beautiful dates, makes the effort to meet your family, to get to know them, to make you happy. But he can’t quite seem to crack Eren.

You’re not surprised.

Sometimes you bring him home—for dinner, or just to lounge; your mom loves him and your dad thinks he’s perfect for you, but Eren….just hates him. He regards him the same way he does you now, despite hardly crossing paths, he finds a way to make you miserable; either by the company he brings home or getting into petty fights with your boyfriend.

Sometimes, when you’re watching TV on the couch with Colt, you feel eyes burning holes into the back of your head.

You don’t mind; you’re over Eren, after all. He’s a thought in the back of your mind, a face in your rear view. So, it doesn’t bother you that much. Anymore.

“So, how’s the boyfriend?” Mina asks; you’re on FaceTime with your friends—Mina and Camille—catching up on weekly “girl talk”. Something you’ve missed dearly.

“Oooh, Colt,” Camille sings, flipping the page in her book; “Tell us, baby sister—have you fucked yet?”

“Camille!”

“Suddenly I’m the bad guy for asking the questions,” Camille sighs, pushing her sunglasses up, “the people want to know! Tell us, tell us,”

Halfway on the kitchen counter, you’re resting with your arms folded underneath your head—grinning, stupidly. “He’s very nice; he makes me happy,” that elicits ‘ooh-la-la’s from your two friends. “He took me on a date to the carnival the other day—he won me a Hello Kitty bear from a strength game,” you laugh, “we’ve…gotten close? I guess? We haven’t like, fucked  fucked yet, but we haven’t not fucked either.”

They gasp in unison, clutching their nonexistent pearls—”Fucked fucked? What ever could you mean?”

Your face gets warm, and your voice drops to a murmur, “we’ve……we fucked, okay? But it wasn’t like—movie sex, or whatever—it was cute,” you push your cheek to the cold marble counter, “he’s really cute…and he knows what he’s doing.”

Mina and Camille cheer loudly, and you bury your face in your arms. “Shut up,”

“We’re happy for you!” they exclaim, “Miss Goody Two Shoes finally got laid,”

“Be quiet!” The three of you laugh again.

You only look up when you hear footsteps retreating, catching Eren’s shadow head up the stairs. Somewhere deep in your heart, it still stings to see him ignore you; to pretend to not notice when he does, to not blink when he’s brought up.

It hurts, but you’ve moved on.

“You okay?” You blink, snapping out of it.

“Yeah,” you look back down at your two friends, “keep talking.”

Haven’t you?

Eren doesn’t know anything.

He doesn’t what he’s doing, or how to feel, or how you feel. He’s spent the last two months in a shell of himself; completely unrecognizable to him, his dad, his friends—his mom, even. Attended every function he was invited to (and those he wasn’t) just to feel something. Something other than pain. Other than the ugly face of regret, anguish. He’s been drunk off his ass and high until the sun comes up, only to pass out and do it all over again the next day—doing lines longer than your hair.

He remembers the concern that painted his mom’s face when she held him, peeling him out of the bed he all but buried himself in.

He hates how he made her feel; how it made her look at him, like she didn’t know him. But his mom, Carla, wasn’t mad at him—she held him like he was five again, after he scraped his knee on the sidewalk. She held his hand gently, carefully, helping him get showered and take care of himself. Giving him his first proper meal in what feels like forever—caring for him beyond the surface; showing him love. A love that doesn’t hurt, that doesn’t fester and billow and explode in his face, fiery and hot like a volcano.

A love that’s unconditional—one he can’t push away; one he can’t ruin, by moral or by will. A gold that stays golden, pure, after everything else turns to ash.

It’s his fault. As usual.

He knew what he was getting into; the ramifications and the backlash he’d get when he found out—he supposes that’s what spurred him to do it in the first place. What kept him going, time and time again, until he was in too deep. And the funny thing is, is that he knew that. He knew he was beyond repair, beyond return. In a place that he couldn’t climb out from, no matter the hands that held him.

It’s what he thinks about when he sees you, full of joy and happy. The best life you’ve ever lived—kissed by the sun and shining like it too, embracing your friends and your family and everyone around you too; giving the same love you’re given in return.

Except to him, of course. And he cannot blame anyone but himself.

Eren is, and he’d never admit it, heartbroken. Jealous. Envious of your new boyfriend. Colt. The man that held you in the same way he did, kissed you like he did. Heard your laugh day in and day out, from sunrise to nightfall. Spending countless nights with you, getting to know you in all the ways—not just what made you happy or sad, or angry.

It's not to say that he’s bitter, because he doesn’t prefer that word. He’s original. The first. The most memorable. He’s got this nagging fuckin’ voice in his head, going it’s not like you, Jaeger; to get so caught up in a girl you can’t think.

And yeah, he’d agree. It’s not like him at all.

He wonders if you think about him too, in the ways he thinks about you. If you still see him when you touch yourself at night; in his mind, the first thing that comes is you. The only thing that works, that he can even get hard for.

He hopes you wish it was him fucking you, and not Colt.

From what he hears at night against that shared wall, he knows he could do better. That he's done better.

If he’s still what your friends talk about in those hushed tones, and in your headphones when it’s late at night; if, when you’re on your vacations, you wish he was there too. Why?

Because he does.

Eren Jaeger pisses you off.

He digs under your skin like a parasite, eating away at you until you snap; prove that you’re all bark, no bite. Until you’re two seconds away from snapping him in half like wood.

All because he won’t stop coming in your room. He does it when you’re not there—you’ve found him in your bed numerous times, fucking up your sheets, putting his outside shoes on your pillows. Shameless when you tell him off for it, fuming, and unmoving when you try to make him get out. He picks the lock to your door when you try to keep him at bay, tipping over your picture frames and tearing your pictures and lights from the walls—he dumps your dirty laundry on the floor, and puts his stinky socks right underneath your pillow.

He’s nasty. Irritating.

A nightmare to live with—and if you didn’t hate him before, you do now. It doesn’t help that this is his first series of interactions with you after he overheard your conversations and met your boyfriend. He started being a little shit right then, going from avoiding you like you had the plague, to invading your personal space.

He’s in your business all the time—stealing shoes and socks from your room while you’re on the phone, hiding your textbooks, giving unwarranted comments about your friends. He grins at you with those dimples when he does it. Bright, like he’d never done anything wrong. Never has done anything wrong in his whole life; squeaky clean.

It makes you sick.

Recently, you’ve found out that he’s gone so far as to poke holes in the condoms you use with your boyfriend, leaving the two of you to go on unnecessarily awkward and long trips to buy Plan B.

The ones stashed in the back of your underwear drawer, which was full when you put it in there, by the way. The drawer that’s progressively gotten lighter and lighter, and you’re having to do loads of laundry and purchase new underwear more frequently.

It just keeps going missing.

Every time your hamper is dumped on your floor, you notice your panties missing. First it was the plain pink ones, then the blue ones, the red ones, and now the polka dot ones you bought a week ago. He’s always watching you, taking your clothes out of the dryer—checking your underwear before you leave, recounting when you think you’ve missed a pair; narrowing your eyes when notice they’re gone.

You’d complain about it to your friends, but they’d just laugh at you; Mina would tease you, and Camille would just tell you to fuck him again. That doesn’t solve any of your problems, never mind the fact that they’re well aware that you have a good boyfriend; a boy actually capable of filling that role. And, if your theory ends up not being true and Eren’s just being a jackass, then you look insane, like you’ve lost your marbles. You can’t do that.

It’s Monday night, and you’re off from classes.

Freshly into the summer, you’re in your pajamas—a simple lavender tank top and a pair of pink night shorts, with the fuzzy black and white socks you bought for yourself—winding down with a glass of mango juice and your favorite reality TV show, The Real Housewives of Sina.

It’s fairly interesting and gets you through the days where you desperately need something to pass the time, to bridge the gap when you’re not doing anything—stuck in the house, and not susceptible to thoughts about you know who. It has seventeen going on eighteen seasons with twenty six episodes, each an hour long. You’re not proud to say that you’ve seen all of them twice before, and are on your second rewatch.

You’re fifteen minutes into the season three finale when you hear a car pull up, blasting music so loud it shakes the pictures on your fireplace. You roll your eyes and angle yourself away from the door, attempting to watch your show anyway.

There’s only one person it could be, you know when he turns his key in the door and comes in, awfully quiet. You give him a second to lock it and run up the stairs like he usually does, but either you’ve missed it somehow, or he doesn’t move at all.

You hope it’s the former, but are sorely mistaken when he rounds the couch, smiling entirely too wide. It unsettles you, understandably; immediately, you’re on the defensive. Expecting him to say something to you, to start something like he always does.

He says nothing—to your surprise. Instead, he climbs onto the end of the couch, opposite to you, and rests his feet on the table; boots and all. He’s in a light blue shirt today, one you didn’t even know he owned, and black jeans with chains dangling from the belt loops. He’s wearing his Docs, as usual, and that key necklace. The tattoo on his right arm is more detailed than you remember, more intricate. It extends from his shoulder, wrapping around his elbow and finishing at the knuckle of his middle finger. It’s quite pretty, you think. Too bad it’s on him.

Too bad for you, anyway.

You realize you’ve been staring too long when his tongue drags over his bottom lip and you follow it without meaning to.

Eren snickers, and you quickly tear your eyes away, focusing a little too intently on the show playing on the flatscreen; attempting to bury any shred of feeling that bubbled up, shoving it back down into the box in which you’ve kept under lock and key, never to be opened again.

“You look like you have to shit,” he comments, crudely, and you nearly choke.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard what I said,” Eren reaches over to pluck a red grape from the fruit bowl you brought in, “that face makes you look constipated.”

“You’re disgusting,” you scoff.

“Maybe,” he hums, popping a grape in his mouth. “But I’m right.”

“You are not.”

“Are too.”

“Are not,” you huff, and turn up the TV to drown him out.

“Hey,” he calls, and you pretend you can’t hear him.

He calls for you again, and you’re ignoring him; he pokes you with his booted foot, “‘M right.”

“You’re gross, is what you are,” You quip, shoving his foot off your leg, and moving your bowl out of his reach, holding it against your chest in hopes he’ll leave it (and you) alone.

He tuts and sits up, grabbing a handful of grapes—narrowly missing your shirt.

You look at him, and he’s turned away watching the TV, like he didn’t almost grab your tit. Shamelessly chewing on your grapes from your bowl, licking his lips and fingers like he’s putting on a show.

Jackass.

Begrudgingly, you continue bringing your show, trying to ignore Eren’s presence; hugging the arm of the couch and curling into the blanket you brought.

He’s pleased with himself, smug. Happy to have gotten something out of you.

It’s Friday again, and Eren doesn’t have plans. It’s a rare occasion where there’s not a hangout planned, either as a group or solo. Everyone’s busy; everyone except him.

He usually wouldn’t mind—it leaves him time to get stuff done: wash clothes, make himself something to eat, binge a show or two.  Being alone gives him time to think. Time to listen; to sit with his back against the wall and a single headphone in, playing nothing. Phone in hand, open to some random screen.

Tonight, though, he does.

You’re home, too; in your room, talking to your boyfriend.

Colt.

You’ve been talking for a while, but it’s mostly been background noise—only just now truly tuning in; going on about some plans you’re making for the weekend. He’s coming down to visit and bringing his little brother down to meet everyone, meaning he’ll have to fake playing a game of house again. Just peachy.

Somehow, Eren finds himself shuffling off his bed; phone and inhibitions long forgotten. He’s just boiling, jealous. Seeing all shades of red and turning a deep shade of green at the very mention of you with him. From what he knows, Colt’s a nice boy—too nice, he’d say; but Eren’s not known for being the best judge of character. He’s hypocritical, if anything; an understatement.

On all accounts, everything rational says he doesn’t have too much of a reason to hate the boy; that he shouldn’t try to find one either. To Eren’s chagrin, Colt is the “perfect” boyfriend—treats you decently, takes you places; dotes on you like he should. Loves you like he should; a love born of purity, not pollution.

If Eren were rational, he’d listen; ignore what he’s about to do - it wouldn’t even be a thought.

But, rationally doesn’t dull the pain in his heart. It does nothing to quell he ache he feels daily; like ice over a wound. It stings like a tear, a ripped off band-aid.

His brain shuts off when his feet carry him to your door; cracked slightly. He can see the light on your ceiling and your fan spinning, creaking like it always does. Something in his mind tells him that he must look insane right now, but he doesn’t care.

That voice dies out when he pushes your door open. It fizzles out like a spark, and an electric shock takes his place when you meet his eyes as he dashes over to your bed.

You barely have time to tell Colt to hold on, finger missing the mute button when you turn to face Eren, face scrunched. He plucks the device out of your hands, holding it out of reach.

“The fuck?” You yell at him, reaching for it. His skin is hot, searing; burning from the inside.

Do you know what you do to him?

“You’re loud,” he hisses. “Makin’

too much fuckin’ noise talking to your stupid fuckin’ boyfriend.”

“Sorry?” you yelp, when Eren pushes you backward.

“I can’t sleep ‘cause of you; babbling about your ‘plans for the weekend’ and how you’re ‘so excited to see him’,” he mocks you, disgusted. “It’s fuckin sick.”

“It’s none of your  business!” you fire back, rising to your knees to grab your phone, and Eren pulls it further out of reach, dangling it over your head. “Give me my—fuck—my phone!”

“You make it my business.” He tosses the phone across the room, muffling whatever the man on the other side is saying. “We share a fuckin’ wall,” he points, “y’keep me up with that shit; if you’re gonna talk about fucking him, do it somewhere else.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me; since you wanna go around rubbing it in,” Eren continues, red in the face.

“What the fuck is your problem?” You’re angry too, shoving and hitting Eren in the chest, thrashing to get away from him; he narrowly avoids a kick to his balls that he’s sure would put him out of commission forever.

”My problem?” he starts, grabbing your arms when you go to punch him; pushing you backward instead,  you down, climbing over you; in your face, panting, “My problem is you.” Eren pins your arms above your head, leaning in so close that your foreheads touch. There’s a fire flaring in your eyes: hot, a danger; warning him to stay away.

“The fuck’re you talking—“ He cuts you off; switching your arms to one hand, brushing his thumb over your exposed hip with the other, “it’s you,” he continues, voice low, “and these fuckin clothes of yours.”

“You go around the house, wearing shorts so fuckin small your ass hangs out the bottom, y’know that?”

“What?”

“You wear these shirts that your tits hang out of, too,” he groans, slotting himself between your legs, “always like you want someone to see you like that.” he grins, licking his lips. “If I didn’t know any better,” he murmurs, lips by your ear, “I’d say you’re enjoying this, no?”

“Fuck you, Jaeger.” There it goes again: Jaeger. Not jackass, not idiot, dumbass—but Jaeger. It almost makes him laugh, amuses him that you’re just as hungry for him as he is for you; after months of being away from you, pissing you off; he knows the venom in your tone is fake—a show you’re putting on to appease your little boyfriend.

“Tell me, baby sister,” he fiddles with the waistband of your shorts. “does he fuck you better than I did?” He hears your sharp intake of breath—“does he make you cum like me? Does he know what you like—that face you make when you’re close, how you plead when you’re denied; does your boyfriend—what’s his name, Colt?—know that?”

"Eren, stop—“

“He doesn’t, does he?” He continues, hooking his fingers under your shorts. Your eyes flutter shut, you’re desperately trying to ignore how warm your body feels; the way your hips buck when Eren rubs you through your panties, leaning in close to your neck. You’re trying to find something, anything to deny him right now; ignore how your breath catches in your throat when he kisses you and the pound of heartbeat in your ears.

You thought you were over this, over him; buried everything you “were” in the dirt and grate it to ashes. Until now, all you’d felt for him was contempt, anger, at him for deserting you. Leaving you, pushing you away like you’re nothing.

But now, the butterflies in your belly tell you otherwise, and he knows it. You’re fucked up beyond belief, the voice in fhe back of your mind reminds you;

reiterates it when your brother trails kisses from your neck to your collarbone. Nipping, sucking, biting at the skin there; desperate to leave a mark, a reminder. Of who you are and what he’s making you.

You’ve prided yourself on being much better than him, consciously or not—but now you’re stooping to his level, dragged by your ankles to the pits below.

“Eren,” you try again, with fake malice; your voice shakes, and you’re hoping he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t tease you, like he would.

“Mm-mm,” he tuts, sinking his teeth in your skin, “I can’t make you feel good ‘til you tell me who’s better—me, or him?” Your stomach twists into a knot, lurching forward when Eren’s blunt fingernail grazes your clit through the damp fabric. You open your mouth to speak, to tell him it’s not true, that it’d never be true, and tears prick at the corners of your eyes—not of sadness or regret, like they should be, but of frustration. No matter how hard you search, no matter how hard you try, reaching deep inside yourself—you can’t. And that terrifies you.

A flick to your clit makes you jump, and a moan falls from your lips accidentally. Eren smirks against your skin, “answer me, sister.”

Despite yourself, you answer him. Weakly, you mumble, “you.”

It doesn’t please him, only serves to make him push you harder, “Speak up,” he coos, “he can’t hear you.”

“You,” you stammer, rutting your hips against his finger, “you’re better.” Humiliating.

That simple admission, that one word coming from you, is like a safety net lifting. A sign that it’s all solidified, that you’re caving in; breaking down and admitting that you want him. That you’d always wanted him, since the beginning. Adrenaline rushes through him like lightning, rippling through his body like a fever; desire hits him like a truck, inflates his ego like a balloon.

And it feels fucking good.

Eren undresses you, sliding your shirt up and over your head, peeling your shorts off with your panties.

He relishes the fact that you’re completely bare in front of him, save for your socks, and he’s not.

Hungry blue-green eyes take you in; blown wide with lust,  scanning your form like they’ve never seen you before. It makes you nervous—his stare boring into your skin. On instinct you go to cover up, but he stops you, reaching up to take your tits in his hands.

The pads of his thumbs brush the underside of them, moving upward to pinch them between it and his index fingers. Tugging, rolling them over his fingertips, making your nipples harden beneath his touch. The noises you make are music to his ears, escaping you even though you try to muffle them, squirming beneath him. You get louder when he leans down to put one in his mouth, arching your back as he flits his tongue over the bud.

Eren leans back on his calves, a clear string of saliva trailing from his lips. “So pretty for me,” he purrs, and your clit throbs between your legs. His hands smooth over your tummy, down your sides and over your legs. They hook around your thighs and yank you forward, spreading them open. “Look at you,” Eren drawls, dragging his middle finger up your slit teasingly. You whimper when he slides it in, then a second; they’re deep, you feel them. He moves them, dragging them languidly against your walls pushing them in and out. Wet.

“So noisy,” he chides playfully, “all this for me, baby?” He teases, grin plastered on his features. Through your haze, you muster the strength to roll your eyes at him.

“Shut up,” You say, but it wrenches from you like a sob. He laughs. He makes it a point to thrust them faster, sloppier. Stretching you out. Reaching knuckle deep every time they go in, finding your g-spot easily; like he knows you. He bends down to kiss you, swallowing your mewls and licking your lips. A few more drags of his hands has you close, teetering on the precipice of your orgasm; you’re squeezing him, close and he knows it. Shaky fingers curve around his wrist, sharp nails digging crescent shaped marks in the skin. He hisses against your mouth at the feeling, but doesn’t let up. Two more rhythmic pumps send you over - a coil snapping under pressure.

“Eren, please,”

“Please what?”

“Please—“ you quiver, unsteady, “put it in. Please.” He has half a mind to deny you, to make you beg until you can't anymore, but he's not that strong of a man.

You watch him with glassy eyes as he undoes his belt, then his jeans, peeling them off his legs and leaning off the bed to toss them to the side. He's wearing green boxers underneath, and your eyes trace the swell of him. You'd forgotten how big he was, and your eyes widen a fraction when he returns. It'd been a while since you'd last seen him shirtless, let alone naked. He's toned, fit. You can tell he frequents the gym, and that his hard work pays off immensely. He's hot, you think, the twinge of guilt you typically feel is lost in a cloud of lust. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you reach to touch him, to feel the outline of his cock through his underwear. Suddenly your mouth gets dry.

You remember how it felt when you blew him for the first time, how you wondered if he'd ever fit in you; how it'd feel with him in you. A part of you is still curious, after all the this time. You'd never had anything like him before. Sure, you don't have much to go by, but if your boyfriend (ex, at this point) was average, then Eren definitely was not.

He leans backward on his hands as you tug him out of his underwear, tugging it to his knees. He’s heavier in your hand than you remember; precum smeared on the head of him, veins pulsing. He’s thick and long, that you remember.

His breath stutters when you glide him through your folds, sucking in a sharp breath when he bumps your clit. He lets you guide him, coating him with your juices. The two of you do that for a while, him fucking up into your hand and against your pussy, until you’re ready.

“Gonna put it in f’me,” he asks, though it’s more of a statement, “gonna let me fuck you?”

The head of his cock slips in, you both gasp. He pushes in more, and he’s big, every inch stretching you like never before. It stings, aches, but it feels so good. “Taking me so good,” he praises, sinking forward, burrowing deeper and deeper until your hips touch, and he’s all in. You feel him all the way in your belly, pulsing. “Fuck,” he groans, “you’re burning me, baby,”

Shifting himself onto his knees, he grabs your hips with firm hands. He can fuck you better like this, deeper like this. A roll of his hips makes you whine, the drag of his cock inward leaves you hungry. You’re full, even when he’d only been halfway in, he filled you perfectly, like you’re made for him; molded to him. “Oh—oh my god,” you say, breathless, “fuck,”

Eren pulls his hips back, leaving you empty. He goes until the tip is barely in, then he fills you again; hard enough to rock you. Each thrust is heavy and angled. Calculated; fucking deep into that spot in your belly. The one that has your toes curling, crying out for him; squeezing his cock so tight he’s afraid he’ll cum too early.

It soothes that ache, that need. The feeling that no one can hold a candle to. Eren fucks you with a purpose, like you’re his, and his only. The brother you claimed to hate, to have so much disdain and a mouthful of curse words for, breaking you down into pieces.

He’s gripping you hard enough to leave finger shaped bruises, keeping you right there where he wants you. You’ve ruined it for him, he knows. Every time he pushes back in you get tighter, and he has to almost force himself out.  You’re captivating, intoxicating. Moaning his name and begging, pleading for him to keep going—to go deeper, that he’s so big and you’re so full and you love him so much. That Colt, as sweet as he is, doesn’t hold a candle to him.

It makes him laugh, genuine. It fuels what he already knows. What he’s sure of.

You’re close—your pussy is squeezing him tighter, spasming around him; you’ve gone from being coherent to babbling. He reaches down to rub your clit, get you closer. “Eren,” you’re pleading, “oh—“

“I know, baby, I know,” he coos, “pretty little thing.”

His thumbs spread your folds, so he could have a good look at it as he slowly pulled his cock out, slick with your juices mixed with his own. You whine from

the loss of him, sobbing from being denied your release; your body shakes, coming down from being so high, so close, yearning for it. You beg him again, saying ‘please’ real nice, but there’s something he needs from you first.

He holds up your phone, still connected to the call with Colt. He hadn’t hung up the phone, to your surprise. The seconds are still ticking, minutes still counting. He’s silent, save for breathing.

“Break up with him,” Eren says, holding the phone near your face, “tell him the truth, baby; that you can’t be with him anymore ‘cause your brother said so.”

Through a cloud of desperation, you comply, “Colt,” you swallow, “I—I can’t be with you anymore,” you hiccup, “‘m not—“

“Tell him who fucks you better,”

“Eren—Eren fucks me better than you,” The last part comes out in an uneven tone; Eren slaps his cock on your soaked cunt, rubbing back and forth. “I’m in love with him,” you continue, shaking off the guilt, “I’m sorry.”

“Good fuckin’ girl,” Eren commends you, before oh-so slowly pushing himself back in, filling you right back up again. “Fuck,” he hisses, pushing through the first ring of muscle, slick walls swallowing him right up.

“Listen to her,” Eren pushes the FaceTime button and the call rings for two seconds, then picks up; other person’s camera blank. He flips the camera to show you, watching where he’s entering you, then angles it down to show Colt your pussy. “Messy, huh,” Eren says, shallowly thrusting his hips. In the background, you moan, wantonly. “You ever get her to sound like this? To cum like this?”

The camera focuses sharply on him, retracting just enough to ease right back in; setting a slow and steady pace. Every time he pulls out, you leave creamy rings around him, covering him all the way from the base to the head.

“And, I mean,” Eren puts the device in his right hand, and uses two fingers on his left to show Colt what a mess he’s made of you, “she’s fuckin’ gorgeous, isn’t she?” He snaps his hips up, “the best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had,” he grunts, “there’s no one like her. Don’t you agree?”

You’re gasping his name again, and he knows you’re close; each thrust nearly knocking the wind from you. Overstimulated and sensitive, you cum with two more strokes, orgasm ripping over you like waves. Eren fucks you through it, saying something you’re unable to hear—his thrusts lose some of their force but not their rhythm, and you feel him pulsing inside you.

Your head gets fuzzy, thoughts unclear as he fucks you to his release, rutting into you until he’s spurting ropes of cum deep within you. Eren pants, tired, and leans back, pulling out of you. His cum starts to seep out, pooling onto the sheets beneath you. You barely register that he holds the phone up, showing your boyfriend his cum.

You’re too exhausted to care, immediately falling on the pillows behind you, drooping eyelids closing.

“Satisfied?”

The phone hangs up.

On the other side of the screen, Colt’s sitting on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Phone discarded on the floor, he looks down at himself: left hand and stomach covered in his own cum, and he feels gross.

He just watched his ex-girlfriend fuck her brother, and he liked every second of it.