mahalsuya

[mahalsuya]

i repost this story every time i find it again bc its so damn good

you noticed me ⚾︎

{mlb!megumi fushiguro x f!reader}

summary: megumi fushiguro is one of the best players on the major league baseball team, and when you finally spot him on the big screen after practically dozing off at every game you went to with your girl friend? you were absolutely IN LOVE, but IN DENIAL that he could ever like you back… but he does, and bad.

warnings: MDNI. afab!reader, NASTY NASTY MEGUMI, oral sex, SMUT, pussy eating in locker rooms HEH, mentions of drinking but like tiny just once, reader is oblivious to the way megumi wants her, DOMINANT AF MEGUMI PHEWW, cursing, flufffff!!, barely any angst, DIRTY TALK, pet names, aged up characters.

word count: 12.1k (IK IM SORRY ITS A CUTE ONE THO)

authors note: you GUYSSSS i love megumi fushiguro i want him so bad and i LOOVEEE this fic!! i worked like a little worker bee for days and i really hope it makes you guys happy :] MWAH!!

want more? you can find my mlb!megumi fushiguro masterlist here!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・

megumi fushiguro was the hottest baseball player you had ever seen in your life.

and you didn’t even like baseball to begin with, dozing off at every game your girl friend dragged you to because her boyfriend was on the major league team— but the one time you decided to open your eyes and pay attention to the big giant screen in front of you?

there he was in all of his emo glory.

number eighteen.

focused, half lidded eyes resembling borderline boredom as he waited for the pitcher to throw, his forehead glistening with sweat, flushed red cheeks, and his jet black hair slightly peeking over his forehead from underneath his baseball cap.

“my god—” your hand flew and you gripped your girl friends arm tightly, your jaw to the fucking floor as your eyes were gorilla glued to the screen, her quirking a curious eyebrow at you as she matched your frantic nature.

“what? what is it? who did you see? whats happ—”

you pointed your finger up at the screen, him swinging and hitting a fucking grand slam as he proceeded to get four runs with one hit, the one thing you knew about baseball besides a home run.

“that’s a— that’s a grand slam!” you pointed frantically, probably looking absolutely insane as you stood and screamed your fucking head off.

your girl friend laughed loudly, “you like fushiguro? megumi fushiguro?”

you jumped up and down, your girlfriend astonished and laughing as this was the first time she’d ever seen you energetic at a baseball game.

“he’s friends with yuji!” she yelled over the hollering of the crowd. “we can go to their locker room after and you can say hi! i heard he’s kind of mean though—”

“no!” you spun around, eyes wide and terrified. “i already know he’ll eat me alive then! i’m a loser, i can’t talk to him i don’t have game i—”

she rolled her eyes. “you’ll be fine—”

“no i can’t!” you shook your head frantically. “please he looks like the type to love bomb me and then leave me i don’t think i can handle that—”

she snorted. “are you sure?!”

you hesitated for a moment, biting your bottom lip as your eyes trailed back over to the screen, seeing megumi breathing a little heavy from running the field, his hands on his hips as he scanned the arena.

you sighed through your nose. “yeah i’m sure!”

“suit yourself!”

a year. a year you spent continuing to tag along with your girl friend to their games, staring lovesick and sad at the big screen over megumi, and standing outside far far away from the locker room once they scored another big win and not going in like you used to, waiting for your girl friend to finish up speaking to her boyfriend as you tried your best to avoid the chance of running into megumi.

she finally emerged from the locker rooms one day, a knowing smirk on her face.

“i told yuji.”

you blinked. “told him what?”

“that you like fushiguro.”

“no!” you gasped, a hand flying and smacking over your mouth. “please no im about to experience the biggest heartbreak of my life—”

“oh relax!” she grabbed your arm and practically dragged you towards the locker room doors. “he’s not even here megumi already left, but yuji wants to talk to you.”

“why?!” you exclaimed. “to let me down easy? to tell me he’s sorry on his behalf—”

your girl friend just about threw you in and went in after you as you stumbled, eyes blown wide as the air became humid and heavy, several of the players lounging about and refreshing themselves as the sound of lockers slamming shut echoed through the space— deep, broad voices laughing filling the room as yuji spotted you, his eyes friendly and polite. “y/n!”

you relaxed and smiled, “hi! you guys played really well today!”

“megumi also played really well today.”

“oh my god—” you groaned, throwing your head back as you spun around, heading straight for the exit.

“wait wait!” he laughed loudly, jogging up to you. “sorry sorry.”

“what do you want with me..” you mumbled.

he gave you a half smile. “i wanted to tell you that megumi’s weird.”

you snorted, “elaborate please.”

yuji threw an arm around your girl friend before continuing.

“you know we support your feelings and what you want…” he began.

your eyes narrowed. “why are you guys talking to me like you’re my parents—”

“but—” yuji cut you off. “i’m just gonna be straight with you. i’ve never ever seen megumi interact with anyone, let alone another woman, besides the team.”

“i don’t think i’ve ever seen him have a proper conversation with anyone on the team besides you actually…” your girl friend muttered to yuji.

yuji winced. “yeah…” he turned back to you. “back when megumi and i first got signed, he was really popular and a lot of girls would come up to him after games for his number or just to talk to him.”

“well obviously he’s a greek god,” you grumbled. “this is hurting me man get to the point.”

he sighed. “he basically scared all of them off. didn’t give a single one a chance and was kinda mean... he would either ignore them or straight up just tell them he wasn’t interested without them even being able to get a word in.”

you stared blankly.

“i tried to tell him that he needs to be nicer but he’s just not interested.”

you kept staring.

“that’s why i’m telling you this because we don’t want you to get hurt and i feel like if you try and talk to him he’s gonna be a dick and it might…” yuji looked at you sadly. “it might be a lost cause.”

you blinked.

“y/n?”

“that’s fine!” you squeaked, hands tight at your sides. “a part of me already knew. i read about it in an article, and i’ve seen his interviews.”

your girl friend looked at you with concern filled eyes. “are you okay?”

“yeah!” you waved them off. “why wouldn’t i be?”

“because your eyes are red.”

“ppffttt!” you blew out. “i’m fine! seriously. i never intended to talk to him anyways, i’m too much of a scaredy cat.”

you extended your arms out and engulfed the both of them, squeezing tight. “thank you guys for telling me though, i appreciate it.”

“y/n…” yuji trailed off.

“i’m gonna take off though, i’ll see you guys later, okay?” you waved and opened the door. “love you!”

and you scrammed, your heart in a million pieces.

it’s not like you didn’t already know. you knew, so why were you sad? why did you feel like you just got ran over by a double decker bus? why did you pathetically feel so sad?

this was the reality. you never stood a chance.

so why were you crying?

you continued walking down the hall and towards the main exit, utterly embarrassed at your sobbing and trying your best to hide it as you navigated through several groups of people, your vision entirely blurry as you were basically drowning in your tears.

you had barely escaped the crowd when you spotted a little secluded area in the lobby, trudging over pathetically and plopping down on the coushy seat as you wiped your cheeks, staring at the wall in front of you— a huge glass casing proudly decorated with the teams trophies and awards, gigantic portraits of the players on the team adorning the walls with megumi’s serious beautiful framed face right in front of you just making you feel worse.

you already knew, but regardless of megumi’s stand off ish personality, you liked it. you had curiously browsed his interviews and quotes in articles, and you always laughed at his responses, him almost every time offending the staff without even trying or knowing, and you found it so so funny, it only making you admire him and want to get to know him even more, even if it was just a friendship.

megumi fushiguro was one of the best players on the team in history, and as you closed your eyes, silent pathetic tears still slipping down your cheeks?

he never felt so out of reach.

“here.”

your eyes opened, but you literally could not see jack shit as your tears were still blurring your line of sight, you completely and utterly mortified that a stranger caught you sobbing as you wiped your face quickly in response.

“put on my sunglasses if you don’t want people to see you crying.”

the voice was gruff and lazy, but you could not care less as you took the sunglasses and settled them over your eyes, the lenses so freaking dark that you couldn’t see a single thing— your sight worse than before.

but it relieved you, as you figured no one could see your bloodshot eyes and therefore thankfully not notice you losing your mind over something so stupid.

“thank you,” you mumbled. “sorry.”

“for what.”

you felt the plush of the bench shift next to you, figuring that the stranger man sat beside you as you refused to look in their direction out of embarrassment.

not that you could even see in the first place.

“for looking like a loser.”

the stranger man snorted. “s’fine.”

you wiped your nose with your sleeve, sniffling.

“how do you see in these?” you muttered softly. “they’re making me claustrophobic i can’t see a thing.”

“that’s the point,” he hums.

“how come?”

“i get migraines everyday. they help.”

“oh i see.” you responded softly. “have you ever run into a wall because of them?”

you hear him huff out through his nose. “i did once, when i first got them.”

you giggled gently. “did you bleed?”

“no,” he spoke calmly. “i got a bump on my forehead.”

you snickered, “what? loserrr.”

you stood up and carefully tried to walk around a little, testing out how to guide yourself through the dark lenses and trying to be careful and not bump into a wall (which was literally impossible), your hands out, feeling around.

“jesus christ i’m just kidding now i feel bad. i think im gonna bump myself into a wall too so we can call it even.”

you couldn’t see, but the stranger man’s lips twitched at your comment.

“don’t do that.” he murmured. “sit back down.”

you listened and started making your way over, feeling him reach out and wrap his fingers around your wrist carefully and guide you to the bench, you plopping down on it once you felt it.

“thank you!” you responded sweetly. “…i’m actually glad i can’t see a thing right now.” you perked up, pushing the sunglasses back up over the bridge of your nose.

“why is that.”

“so i don’t have to look at megumi fushiguro’s big portrait in front of my face.”

the stranger man stopped.

“…why?”

“because he indirectly broke my heart.”

you heard a little audible laugh, and you smiled to yourself.

at least someone is having fun right now.

“how did he indirectly break your heart?”

“my girl friend’s boyfriend is yuji itadori. she spilled the beans against my will about how i have a crush on him, and yuji told me that he’s mean and he’ll basically bite my head off and tell me to scram.”

“did he?”

“uh huh,” you nodded. “they were trying to let me down easy, but it’s not like i was gonna try and talk to him anyways. i’ve gone a year without saying anything i can go on and on and on.”

the stranger man hummed.

“he’s so cool though…” you murmured, dazed. “he’s gonna be a hard one to forget about.”

“why do you like him?”

“i feel like im being interrogated,” you giggled.

you felt the stranger man lean back against the wall. “sorry, just curious.”

you copied him and crossed your arms, “mmm… because he’s really good at what he does. i admire that most of all.”

you tilted your head. “everyone berates him for being mean but i like that he’s supposedly mean for some reason…. he’s just serious about his profession and he doesn’t want to waste time. he’s also the hottest man i’ve ever seen so that definitely helps.”

the stranger man laughed a little.

“i don’t know,” you sighed sadly. “maybe i’m just demented. i am demented.”

“if yuji itadori told you the exact opposite about him, would that have encouraged you to go up to him?”

you sat in thought for a moment, but ultimately shook your head. “no. it’s too embarrassing for me and i’m also a big fat wuss so…”

you slid your fingers underneath the lenses and rubbed your stinging sore eyes. “maybe in the next life if i’m lucky, ill be reincarnated as a cool baseball man too and i won’t have to deal with this shit.”

“cool baseball man.” he repeated, tone seemingly amused.

“yup.”

the stranger man sighed. “is this why i found you crying?”

“maayybeee?” you dragged out shyly, your cheeks flushing.

it was silent for a moment, your vision completely black but his on your rosy cheeks, oddly staring that if you could see right now, you’d probably call him a creep.

“i’m sorry i made you cry.”

you jumped back.

“no not you!” you huffed. “have you not been paying attention? catch up man—”

you felt a shadow reach up and tug the sunglasses slightly away from your face, your eyes constricting against the bright lights of the hall as they tried to adjust.

and when they did?

megumi fushiguro was sitting right next to you, a tiny smile on his face dressed in all black with his teams baseball cap on.

your eyes widened dramatically and you slapped both hands over your mouth, beyond horrified as everything you had thought you were telling a stranger about him, you were telling him directly, your brain short circuiting and your body heating up like a fucking hot flash.

“oh my god i’m so sorry!” your voice was muffled, you shaking your head in absolute denial.

you immediately sprung up and grabbed your purse, slowly backing up further and further away from him.

his smile widened.

oh my god.

megumi fushiguro was smiling, a sight you’ve never ever seen during his games, practices, interviews, articles, or magazines as your cheeks increased in shade— wanting to mentally take a picture and remember forever as you knew you’d probably never see him smile like that again.

but he was smiling.

“pretend i don’t exist!” you stammered, “pretend this never happened i’m sorry this is so embarrassing keep winning your games okay and i’ll keep being an idiot far far away from you—”

“where are you going?” he chuckled lowly.

“—you’ll never see me again i’m going home and i’m going on lockdown—”

he laughed through his nose, his lips in an amused smile.

“you don’t have to do that.”

“yes i do—”

“you don’t have to forget me either.”

“that i definitely do—”

you were halfway out of the main entrance doors.

“hold on y/n—”

megumi stood, his long legs walking over to you and you froze.

y/n?

you slowly turned around, your face pale and afraid.

“how do you know my name?” you asked softly.

“your best friend is dating yuji, is she not.”

you nodded, eyes blank.

“i’ve been seeing you inside the locker room after our games for like… two years.” megumi mumbled.

oh.

oh that’s right.

you didn’t actually notice megumi until last year, when you decided to finally open your eyes for once during a game and that’s how you spotted him for the first time on the big screen in front of you, in all of his gorgeous handsome entity.

“oh.”

he raised a hand and pressed his index finger to your forehead, nudging you softly.

“dummy.”

“s-sorry..” you gave him a wobbly bashful smile, your cheeks pinky as you rubbed your red eyes.

his eyes slightly softened and he shook his head. “s’fine.”

megumi continued to stare at you, a stone cold face that always seemed to scare off the teams entire fan base, but only made you feel numb and giddy all over every single time.

you smiled wider then, and megumi’s lips twitched.

cute.

“i’m— i’m gonna go now.”

“do you have a ride home?”

you stopped. “no i was just gonna call an uber—”

he shook his head and walked past you, his shoulder brushing gently with yours with his hands stuffed in his pockets as you turned and stared at him.

he paused and looked over his shoulder.

“you coming?”

your eyes widened. “coming? w—where?”

he rolled his eyes. “i’m taking you home.”

“no!” you shot your hands out. “it’s okay! really! thank you thank you i appreciate it but—”

he stared lazily.

“come.”

you pressed your lips into a thin line and tipped your head down, taking tiny painful steps as you followed after him to the parking lot.

megumi led you from the public parking area to a secluded section around the back of the arena, one you assumed was for players and crew members only as you nervously gnawed on your bottom lip, feeling absolutely sick.

you both continued to walk down until you arrived to a private parking garage, megumi slipping out his keys from the pocket of his hoodie as you approached a shiny black luxurious car sitting neatly in a spot.

his car was really fucking nice, and you figured so being as he was one of the most popular players and probably had more than enough money in the bank— your fingers trembling as you gripped the passenger side door, settling yourself inside his plush cool leather seats and all black interior.

megumi pressed the ‘start’ button and his engine roared to life, the motor echoing through the structure as you clumsily tried to put on your seatbelt, your cheeks growing pinker with each passing second that you just couldn’t get the stupid damn thing to— click—

he reached over across the console and took the seatbelt from you, pulling it over your body and clicking it secure without a word.

“thank you.” you said softly, eyes trained to your lap.

megumi gave you a small nod and backed out of his parking space, driving around a couple of rows before making his way out with the night air softly breezing through your hair as he drove, his dash illuminated with blue lines that ran smoothly across.

“can you put your address in—”

“oh yeah!” you jumped. “sorry—”

you reached over and tapped in your address on his big touch screen, watching the way the gps registered the location and gave him the estimated time of arrival.

forty fucking minutes.

“megumi..”

his eyes looked over at you for a second before turning back to the road.

“hm?”

“i live kinda far from here and i don’t want you to drive the opposite way from where you live.”

you leaned a little, eyebrows pinched. “i can take an uber seriously, this is too much trouble i—”

“you’re already in my car.” he deadpanned.

“i’ll jump out.”

he pursed his lips, trying to suppress a smile.

“i have child lock on.”

“child lock?!” you gawked. “is this what you think of me?”

“you’re a little helpless… and you’re a crybaby.” he mumbled. “child lock stays on.”

you giggled after, your eyes shining and filled with mushy feelings for him as you nodded. “you’re probably right.”

he looked over at you then, and he smiled, softly.

“what do you do?”

you fidgeted. “h—huh?”

“do you um…” he ran his thumb over the top of his gear shift. “do you work? do you go to school?”

he’s asking you?

“i go to school!” you responded shyly but kind. “i go to a college that’s about fifteen minutes from your stadium. i usually go and meet up with my best friend after class if there’s a game.”

he hummed. “are you a big baseball person?”

you grimaced.

do you lie? do you tell the truth? do you roll down his window and attempt to jump out of the car that way?

you played with a strand of your hair. “i— i um—”

he raised an eyebrow.

“i— don’t?”

he cocked his head. “you don’t?”

you shook your head no, completely ashamed of who you are as a person as you covered your eyes.

“i knoww i suuucckkk,” you whined. “the only things i know about baseball are home runs and grand slams— which you did!”

you pointed at him excitedly. “last year! i remember you hit a grand slam! i got so excited that for once i knew what the fuck was going on and why everyone was going crazy…”

you fiddled with your fingers nervously, your eyes trained to the road. “i felt so included.”

he chuckled, and unexpectedly, reached over and gently ruffled your hair.

you then stared at him as he did so, doe eyes wide and cheeks pink.

megumi was truly just beautiful— his smooth face that didn’t have a single blemish on his skin shining under the moonlight, his black spiky hair peeking from under his cap that you had no doubt in your mind was soft and velvety.

you hated that you’d probably do anything for that man.

“i’m sorry i made you cry,” he repeated, you recognizing his words from before.

your eyebrows furrowed.

he was still thinking about that?

you shook your head furiously, “you didn’t! i swear it’s okay. i’m just crazy.”

he huffed out a laugh.

megumi thought you were odd, but in a good way. he thought everything you did was a little funny, as you were jumpy and clumsy and a crybaby and helpless, but he also took note of how polite you were. he noticed how considerate you were of him even though you were really upset, and you were kind of sweet… really sweet actually, your personality something that was totally different from the usual girls that came up to him.

well, the usual girls that used to come up to him back when he first started.

megumi pulled into your driveway and shifted the gear into park, the doors automatically unlocking.

you opened the door and stepped out before leaning down and peeking your head in.

“thank you for the ride!” you said sweetly, a cute smile on your face. “i’m sorry you had to listen to my confession against your will.”

he shook his head. “it’s alright.”

you went in to close the door.

“y/n.”

you leaned back down, “yeah?”

“are you gonna stop coming to our games?”

you gnawed at the inside of your cheek, your eyes darting around the interior of his car nervously.

“i— i don’t think so.”

“good.”

megumi watched you close his door and walk back a bit, him shifting his gear into reverse as the corners of his lips turned a tiny bit upwards.

“i’ll see you then.”

as you watched him pull out and drive away, his engine roaring down the street, you could not stop or simmer down the way your heart raced against your chest, so much so that you were afraid it was going to burst through your chest and literally kill you.

the next time you went to a game, you hadn’t told your close girl friend yet as she led you through the crowd and down to the v.i.p. lower level seats like always, a kind courtesy of yuji’s that he did whenever he could.

as you watched, you embarrassingly spotted megumi almost the minute you arrived, stars and hearts in your eyes as you watched him do his thing and work magic through the field with his absolutely insane batting, strong and purposeful as he barked orders or observed the opposing team for leads.

once his and the opposing team switched sides, megumi looked up as he jogged, his eyes seemingly scanning the v.i.p. front sections until he spotted you.

he raised a hand and gave you a little wave, and your eyes widened as you timidly, hesitantly, gave him one in return— your cheeks turning pink.

“who are you waving at?”

your girl friend pressed a cheek against yours and looked.

“who is- fushiguro?!”

you looked at her sheepishly.

as you recounted the story to her, her eyes bulging out of her sockets and screaming her head off every two seconds, her head snapped to the field.

“i have to tell yuji—”

“no!” you gripped her shoulders. “it’s literally nothing! he drove me home and he probably just feels bad for me.”

“megumi isn’t the type to make a crying girl feel better or drive her home.”

“it’s because he knows that we know yuji.”

“mm i don’t think so..” she scowled, crossing her arms in eventual defeat as she stared straight ahead.

that’s how it went for about a month.

you would come to their games, megumi would wave at you from the field or you would catch his attention and wave at him, and you would briefly speak to him casually just after his games, your conversations with him usually lasting no more than three minutes as he was often pulled by his coach or a crew member.

but even though the conversations were short, they were really nice, and the both of you never seemed to notice the people around you wanting his attention until he physically had to get pulled away.

but you still refused to go inside the locker room, knowing that was surely the place where you had to talk to him for longer than three minutes. you were too scared, embarrassingly so as you bid your girl friend and yuji goodbye from just outside the door before leaving every time, completely unaware of the way megumi would stare expressionless at you from inside.

when your girl friend invited you to the team’s yearly banquet, you flat out said no, decision firm and unmoving as she begged you over and over and over again.

“please please you have to go! you can’t avoid megumi forever!”

“what is the purpose of me going though?” you sighed, shaking your head with a smile at the sight of her dramatically on her knees over you. “for you it makes sense because you’re with yuji but what’s the excuse for me? i’m not anybody’s plus one.”

“yes you are,” she got back up on her feet and wiggled her eyebrows, “you’re megumi’s plus one.”

“bye i wish,” you mumbled, plopping down on your bed.

“okay you’re my plus one, or yuji’s! so he has two plus ones!”

she walked over and sat down next to you, resting her head against your shoulder as she sighed. “please come. you don’t have to talk to megumi okay? fine. but just come with me, i’ll have a better time if you do.”

you gave her a silly smile and thought for a moment, her sad tone swaying you as you finally gave in.

“only if you swear you won’t force me to talk to him.”

she nodded eagerly.

“i swear!”

so you stood there, nervous and biting your thumb as you frantically looked around, dressed in a pretty black off the shoulder mermaid style gown with a high slit exposing your leg— fiddling with your styled hair as you waited and waited and waited for your girl friend to come back from the dessert table with yuji.

you hadn’t seen megumi yet as you were trying to keep on a look out, because the moment you did see him all dressed up? you were sure you were going to start pathetically bowing for him on your knees in front of all these people and end your social life forever.

finally, she came back and handed you a little pastry, you thanking her kindly and taking a small bite.

“wait no!” she gasped, turning her pastry around. “fuck, i got the wrong one. i meant to get the vanilla one this is coconut.”

“i can get it for you this time.” you smiled kindly, her looking at you gratefully as you patted her shoulder, making your way over to the dessert table.

your eyes lit up like stars at the sight of it, grand and luxurious as any kind of pastry you could ever possibly think of was present— neat and gourmet-like, each adorned with elegant toppings as multiple huge chocolate fountain stations ran from the sides.

“hi.”

you jumped and looked to your right, megumi standing there beside you with a bored expression, clad in a polished black button up and slacks, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

you gulped.

“h—hi.”

“i didn’t think you’d come.”

he lazily picked up a tiny slice of chocolate mousse cake and looked at it.

“i was dragged by my best friend,” you puffed out a laugh. “she said i was her and yuji’s plus one or something like that.”

he nodded, biting his cake slice and swallowing.

“you stopped coming inside the locker rooms.”

you faltered.

he noticed that?

“oh yeah! i just—” you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “i’ve been really busy with school so i study right after…”

for some reason megumi eyed you carefully, and your cheeks grew pinker the more he blatantly stared at you as you fidgeted.

“are you—”

“fushiguro!”

you both turned your heads to the source, and you spotted an unfamiliar guy, one who you assumed was on the team with them, smiling enthusiastically and throwing a heavy arm around megumi’s shoulder.

“who’s this? i’ve never seen you talk to anyone besides us!”

megumi only spared him a nonchalant glance before he looked back over at the dessert table.

the unknown man extended a hand out to you, and megumi’s eyes snapped to it.

“hi! i’m takuma!”

you cheerfully took his hand. “y/n!”

“are you megumi’s girlfriend?”

you gawked, guilt and embarrassment already filling your body at the thought of megumi finding that comment uncomfortable and being uncomfortable because of you.

at his own banquet.

“n—no!” you shook your head, eyebrows pinched. “i came with my best friend and yuji.”

takuma unhooked his arm and let it rest beside him. “oh nice! you know yuji as well?”

you nodded, “mhm!”

the rest of the crowd began to take their seats for the awards ceremony segment, and the three of you walked over to your designated table by yuji and your best friend, who’s eyes widened at the sight of you next to megumi.

you all sat, and takuma pointed to the empty seat next to you.

“is anyone sitting here?”

“oh no!” you smiled politely. “it’s empty you can—”

“take mine ino.”

megumi pulled out the chair next to you and plopped down on it, scooting up. “it’s closer to the front.”

huh?

“o—oh!” takuma scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “okay! thanks fushiguro.”

he only nodded in response and stuck his face in his champagne glass, sipping.

and he was right. you watched as takuma navigated through the circular tables before sitting in a seat that was right smack dab in the front.

“that’s really nice of you megumi!” you chirped. “he has such a good view now!”

“mhm.”

your best friend smacked a hand to her forehead with a shake of her head, and you looked at her quizzically.

the awards ceremony was the most fun you’ve ever had, as you were over the moon for all of the players that were awarded prestigious titles and recognitions, and even more excited for yuji and megumi, the both of them combined taking award after award that by the time the event was done, your table was filled to the brim with frames, medals, and trophies.

your doe eyes glowed over megumi’s earnings, pride and admiration bubbling in your chest as you took in the result of his hard work, feeling like he was the most talented person you ever had the privilege of knowing.

he stared at your enamored look.

“you’re so cool, gumi..” you gushed, not even noticing the little nickname you gave him.

but he did.

“cool baseball man?” he responded softly, referencing your words from when you first met.

your eyes snapped to his and you gave him the shiniest smile, nodding quickly. “yeah! cool baseball man.”

megumi looked down at his awards, and after a couple of seconds, picked up a shiny gold medal hung on a baby blue striped lanyard, holding it out for you.

“here.”

your eyes traveled down.

“what?”

“for you.” he pushed the medal forward.

shock crossed your face, and you frantically shook your head, pushing the medal back to him. “no! no megumi that’s yours you earned it—”

megumi rolled his eyes and held on to the edges of the lanyard, effortlessly setting it over your head and around your neck, the medal clinking and twinkling against your chest.

“i have four others. it’s fine.”

“no but—”

he carded his thumbs underneath your hair and gently slid your hair out from beneath the lanyard, setting it delicately over your bare shoulders.

yuji and your best friends jaws were on the floor, but you didn’t notice, too busy ogling over the fact that megumi fushiguro was the kindest person you had ever met, utterly amazed that he selflessly gave you something so precious. you.

your gaze trailed down to the medal, and you softly touched it with the pads of your fingers.

“t—thank you gumi…”

his lips twitched.

you realized then that the music had started and the crowd had already dispersed to celebrate, some dancing in the center while others mingled on the sidelines or hogged the dessert table.

and you spotted your best friend with yuji, the both of them smiling adoringly at each other, laughing and dancing— something bashfully wished for yourself as you grinned softly at them.

megumi followed your gaze, and he huffed an amused small laugh through his nose.

“they met at a party didn’t they?”

you looked to him and nodded, “uh huh! i was with her. she was so scared to talk to him and i literally had to throw her in.”

he scratched his cheek. “i remember. i was there.”

your jaw dropped. “you were?!”

he nodded. “and i remember you too.”

you sat there in silence.

how long had megumi been around in your life without you knowing? how didn’t you ever freaking notice?

before you could press any further, megumi squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his fingers to his forehead in pain, groaning softly.

you jumped, “are you okay? what’s wrong?”

he shook his head. “migraine. the lights are fucking with me a little.”

“oh!” you frantically looked around the table and around him. “where are your sunglasses? the dark ones the ones you ran into a wall with!”

megumi snorted and shook his head again, eyes peeking at you a bit. “it’s fine. i left them at home.”

your eyebrows rose, “you left them?”

he nodded and dropped his hand, sitting up straight and trying to open his eyes fully to seem normal, but his lids only dropped again and his forehead fell to rest against the table.

“i’m sorry,” he mumbled. “just give me a minute.”

“don’t be sorry gumi…”

you figured the rest of the night was going to be like this, and if megumi stayed, he was going to end up dealing with the dull ache in his head for hours on end and not enjoy his banquet.

but you wanted him to enjoy it. this was his night, and you didn’t want him to spend it pissed off and writhing in pain.

“do you want to leave?”

he turned his head to the side and looked at you.

“we can um—” you fiddled with the medal around your neck. “we can go outside? or we can go for ice cream…”

you tilted your head to the side cutely, and you were oblivious to the way megumi’s cheeks went a little pink at the sight.

“ill pay though!” you smiled sweetly. “it’s the least i can do for the medal you gave me.”

he gave you an endearing half smile and nodded.

your eyes lit up. “really?! okay!— wait let me just say bye to my best friend and let her know—”

you quickly stood and walked over to the dance floor, megumi watching after you before picking up his black blazer and holding it underneath an arm, wondering how the fuck he was gonna pick up all of his awards himself.

“y/n!” your best friend gushed. “you’ve been talking to megumi for hours what the fuck is going on—”

you laughed. “nothing! it was nothing but i’m gonna go get ice cream with him!”

“what?!” her and yuji said in unison.

“did he ask you?” yuji pushed.

“no!” your eyes narrowed. “of course not i’m a big fat loser why would he? i invited him because he has a migraine so—”

your best friend hummed, a smirk on her face. “oh i see... use protection.”

“huh?!” your jaw dropped. “no! that’s not—”

“y/n!”

you turned and saw takuma walk over to you, a big smile on his face. “you enjoying the banquet?”

“oh yes! it’s really great!” you smiled kindly. “the dessert table is absolutely insane.”

“right?!” takuma stepped closer to you. “they go all out every year, it’s what everyone looks forward to.”

“i can definitely see why!”

he chuckled and nodded but then turned to you, speaking quieter. “listen um… i was wondering if you were uh— well if you wanted to dance? with me? y’know… maybe get to know each other better and then—”

yuji shoved his lips to your best friends ear.

“he’s stealing megumi’s girl.”

“i know!” she whispered harshly. “what the fuck do we do—”

“i don’t know!”

“well call megumi over—”

suddenly, a tall broad figure walked in between you and takuma, your vision blocked by his back.

“sorry ino,” megumi stepped to the side a little and placed a hand on the small of your back, ushering you towards the exit. “we were just leaving.”

yuji and your best friend gave each other a low high five before their eyes darted around, putting on false ignorance.

“sorry!— it was nice meeting you takuma!” you called from over your shoulder before the both of you stepped out of the venue and into the cool night air.

megumi’s car was parked right out front, him unlocking the doors with a button just like he had done the last time, you noticing how all of his awards were set neatly in the back seat.

“oh i’m sorry gumi! did you carry these over by yourself? i was gonna help you—”

you sat yourself on his passenger side seat, the leather creaking with every movement you made.

he shook his head. “i had my publicist team do it. it’s fine.”

“oh okay…” you mumbled, still feeling a little guilty that you didn’t help him.

you went to reach for your seatbelt when megumi’s arm flew in front of you and grabbed the strap, pulling it over your frame and clicking it securely before his hands wrapped back around the steering wheel, just like he had done a month prior.

you couldn’t make out his expression, as it was blank and stone-like and not a word was coming out of his mouth as he backed out from the parking space, but you smiled at him cutely nonetheless and thanked him.

the nearest ice cream shop was literally down the road from the venue, and the drive took less than three minutes before megumi pulled in and parallel parked on the side of the street.

you both stepped out and walked inside, the shop colorful and vibrant as what looked like twenty different assortments of ice cream were on display, your eyes launching across each flavor excitedly.

“i haven’t had ice cream in a fat minute…” you murmured as you pressed your hands against the glass.

“me neither.”

“which flavor do you want megumi?” you asked him sweetly, your eyes still glued to the flavors that it made him chuckle.

“um…” he stepped forward and scanned the different colors. “i’ll take whatever you get.”

you looked at him and your eyebrows softened, “are you sure? what if you don’t like it?”

the corner’s of his lips turned upward, the sight making your heart skip a beat.

“it’s okay. i trust you.”

you ended up getting your all time favorite flavor that you never skip— cake batter, one that tastes different depending on who’s palette it is, and something you anxiously thought over as you gnawed on your bottom lip and stared, waiting for him to try it as you both sat on a park bench not too far from the shop.

“why do you look like you’re about to cry.” he snickered lowly.

your eyes snapped to his and you giggled. “i might if you don’t like what i picked out.” you plopped a little spoonful in your mouth, the cold ice cream melting and spreading over your tongue as you swallowed. “cake batter is a hit or miss for different people…”

he hummed, “how come?”

“it’s either too sweet or just nasty.”

“i have a sweet tooth.”

your eyes lit up, “so do i! i’m a big sweets person. i love love desserts and chocolate and ice cream… but i’m not the biggest fan of candy.”

“you’re not?”

“i love candy but not how i love sweets… and i wouldn’t randomly pick it out like at the store because i wanted to. most likely i would get a cookie.”

megumi liked how much you talked.

“have you always had a sweet tooth?” he pressed on, looking at his ice cream cup.

you nodded. “have you?”

“not really,” he shook his head. “i didn’t pick it up until i met—” he stopped. “…my dad.”

met his dad?

megumi spotted your confusion and continued.

“my actual dad disappeared. dunno where he’s at. all i’ve heard is that he had a bad gambling addiction so i’m guessing it had something to do with that.”

your eyes softened.

“gojo is kind of like my dad…” he mumbled. “he’s supported my sister and i financially ever since i was maybe five or six.”

“you have a sister?” you murmured, eyes big.

he nodded. “i do.”

he scooped a bit of cake batter ice cream up with his spoon and plopped it into his mouth, smiling softly. “gojo gave me a sweet tooth. he can’t go a day without it.”

you’d never heard megumi open up so much before, and you felt incredibly lucky and special to be the one to hear about his family and share a precious moment with him over eating ice cream, something you wanted to treat delicately and remember for as long as you lived.

“do you like it?” you asked softly, gesturing to his cup.

“i love it.”

you beamed, and he took in your cute smile for a minute as you ate some more on your end.

“i’m sorry about your actual dad… but i’m glad you and your sister got the support you needed when you were young.”

he nodded.

“did he encourage you to do baseball? or was it you?”

“he did initially.” he shook his head. “he was annoying at first, was a cheerleader at every game and was so loud.”

you giggled.

“but i grew to like it… and that’s what i wanted to do for a career. if it wasn’t for gojo’s funding i wouldn’t have been able to.”

you hummed, savoring the ice cream a bit before swallowing. “that’s really nice, gumi. i’m really happy you got the opportunity to grow your skill out like that…” you swirled the ice cream around your cup with your spoon. “what you have is a solid gift, and i would hate to see it not get the recognition it deserves when you’ve worked so hard to make it what it is now.”

you looked at him. “so i’m really, really glad that it does get it.”

megumi stared at you, face blank and a scoop of yet to be eaten ice cream on his spoon, his cheeks growing hot.

“i don’t know why you think so highly of me.” he murmured.

everyone thinks he’s rude.

your eyebrows furrowed. “i don’t think megumi, i know. you’re not a mean person, you’re honest and serious about the important things in your life. and if the medal around my neck that you gave me selflessly doesn’t tell you otherwise? i might have to kill you.”

he laughed, loud, his eyes sparkling. “you might?”

you bit your lip to refrain yourself from freaking out over his smooth laughter. “i might.”

you subconsciously rubbed your hands over your chilling arms then and megumi eyed it before he put his cup down, reaching next to him for his blazer and opening it up as he gently placed it over your shoulders.

you looked at him like he was the world then, doe eyes big and round and shimmering, and megumi felt like he could do anything with that look as long as it came from you— a permanent red tint on his cheeks that was entirely your doing.

“thank you..” you mumbled shyly, your eyes glued to your now empty cup of ice cream on the bench as you clutched the sides of his blazer, the smell of him wafting in your nose that made you absolutely weak.

megumi timidly, slowly, reached up and moved a strand of hair from your eyes then, and you looked up.

“pretty…” he murmured, dazed even.

his hand fell and landed gently on your exposed thigh from the slit of your dress, but instead of moving it, he let it stay there, his hand smoothing over your plush soft skin as he was completely entranced by your heavenly face, his body pulling his lips closer to yours as megumi’s breath quickened with absolute need the higher up his hand trailed up your yummy thigh.

you couldn’t say a word, he practically didn’t let you as his lips pressed delicately and timidly against your plush ones, his mouth moving so slowly and his tongue parting your wet lips for the purpose of devouring more of you, all while his fingertips reached and felt the side straps of your panties— the material alone making him erratic and desperate while his other hand gripped your waist tightly.

your mouths moved faster now, the sounds of wet smacking and lips separating to reconnect with more greed than before muffling your ears as he breathed heavily through his nose, his eyebrows pinched together in pent up everything as he finally had you with him after months of you avoiding him.

and then you pulled away with a wet pop.

“i—i’m sorry!” you covered your mouth. “i didn’t mean to kiss you!—”

what?

megumi’s eyebrows furrowed, both of your chests heaving as his cheeks and lips were blushed red.

he shook his head, “no i kissed you—”

“don’t cover for me gumiii,” your shoulders slumped, your brain so in denial that he could ever like you back that it tricked you into thinking you were the one kissing and all over him. “fuck i’m sorry… that was so disrespectful and— and weird of me and i—”

megumi’s hands slipped away from your body and he shook his head, his eyes dead locked on yours with his eyebrows pinched together. “y/n no you’re not understanding—”

“i’m the biggest creep on the planet man i understand if you don’t ever want to speak to me again—” you covered your face and leaned forward.

megumi stared at you astonishingly as he listened to you ramble apologies and dramatic insults for yourself continuously, his shoulders slowly relaxing and his lips turning into a soft knowing smile, your random speech starting to make absolutely no sense at all and his heart aching at the fact of how naive you were.

“y/n.”

you stopped. “what.”

he reached over and pulled your hands away from your face. “you’re helpless, you know that?”

“helpless and a creep.”

he laughed and shook his head. “stop it.”

he stood and offered his hand out for you.

“it’s getting late, i’m driving you home.”

megumi decided he would properly speak to you about it the next time he saw you… except he didn’t.

you started avoiding him like the plague again, horrendously horrified about what you believed you had done, thinking that it was better if you stayed away from him and fulfilled your initial task of forgetting him, no matter how much it hurt you.

you didn’t want megumi to ever be uncomfortable or experience what you believed he experienced with you. he didn’t deserve that. he didn’t deserve a pathetic little fan girl that never left him alone and hindered his work on the field, even though you wished so badly you could see him again, as the taste of his lips and mouth never left your fuzzy mind.

you kissed megumi fushiguro.

“oh my god y/n, you’re so stupid.”

“no i’m not! do you really believe megumi could ever like me back? no! absolutely not. i kissed him and i fucked up and that’s it. i’m staying away from him.”

your best friend ran her fingers through her hair and almost tore a chunk out in frustration. “it sounds like he kissed you! he had his hand on your thigh—”

“that was for stability! he—”

“no it was to feel you up!”

you shook your head side to side with your arms crossed. “nope nope nope nope—”

“y/nnnn!”

as for megumi, the next game he had he looked for you while on the field like he always did, looking forward to seeing your precious face and giving you a little wave… except he couldn’t find you. after the game, he went around the stadium and towards the locker room, inside and back out, the parking lot, his parking lot—

and he couldn’t find you.

this went on for a full three weeks of game after game nearly every day him doing the same exact thing— him getting increasingly more confused and a bit upset at your disappearance, going as far as to staying hours after his games still in his sweaty baseball uniform and cap with hopes that you’ll turn up.

except you never did.

and at the end of the third week, he had had enough.

“oh hey megumi!” your best friend greeted him, her hand fixing around yuji’s hair in the locker room after a game.

“hi.”

he stood there and said nothing, and your best friend eyed him skeptically. “…yes?”

megumi shifted awkwardly. “have you um… have you seen y/n?”

she sucked in a breath. “uh yeah. i saw her this morning.”

“this morning?” his eyes narrowed. “is she okay? why hasn’t she been coming to our games with you?”

“because—” she stammered. “well because—”

“is it our place to say?” yuji muttered.

“is it our place to know?” she whispered back harshly.

“i don’t know!”

“let’s just tell him!”

“but what if!—”

megumi rolled his eyes and huffed. “nevermind. please tell her to come tomorrow, i need to talk to her.”

your best friend gulped and nodded, both her and yuji watching the way he walked away and snatched his cap off, throwing it inside his locker and slamming it shut with his foot before picking up his duffel bag and leaving, not even bothering to change out of his dirt covered uniform.

“i’ve never seen him so stressed,” yuji commented.

“it’s because he likes her and she’s being an idiot…” your best friend sighed sadly.

so when she came to you the next day and told you megumi needed to speak to you, she amplified how upset he was to get you to feel bad and feel the urgent need to come to the game tonight, which you of course did.

and you were worried. so so worried and scared that he was finally going to tell you off for kissing him, to tell you that you sucked and that he never ever wanted to see you again in his life and that you were a disgusting human being—

but the roar of the crowd pulled you from your thoughts, the team winning once again as many began to pack their things and take their leave. you were completely and utterly shitting yourself, petrified and already heartbroken over the fact that megumi was officially going to cut you off as a friend when you hadn’t even had the chance to try and win him over yet.

and the way he played on the field tonight was way more aggressive than normal. he was louder, meaner, and didn’t take his eyes away from the ball or his opponents as he nearly got into a fight with another player, yuji and a few others needing to pull megumi apart and set him aside to cool off— the cameras and reporters having a field day in regards to him.

and that bothered you like nothing else. why the hell were they so excited over him getting angry? to amplify the brand that he upholds as the teams meanest player? as if they’ve never had a bad day a day in their lives? what was the point?

and it was all because of you, you realized.

you made him upset.

you covered your face with your hands and groaned, feeling like you wanted to cry.

“y/n…” your best friend patted your back. “it’ll be fine… he just needs to talk to you! you don’t even know what it’s about.”

“i can take a wild guess.”

she looked at you worriedly before picking up her things. “whenever you’re ready babe… i think he’s in the locker rooms by now.”

she left you there to gather yourself, and you sat there for a couple of more minutes before finally getting up and making your way to the locker rooms.

most of the fans had cleared out by now, and the sun was beginning to set as you passed and squeezed through crew members and news reporters, gnawing at your bottom lip as you turned a corner and spotted the locker room, many of the players already leaving.

just as you had reached your hand up to open the door, a firm voice called out to you.

“y/n.”

you froze, retracting your hand as you turned to look.

megumi stood there at the end of the hall, his baseball uniform still on and his cap dangling from his belt loop, hands in tight fists with his chest rising and falling, an agitated look on his face that you had never seen before.

“h—hi-”

“are you trying to forget me? is that what’s going on?”

your eyebrows furrowed.

“what?”

megumi took stride full steps towards you. “you finally talk to me, you confess to me, you disappear for a month, i wait for you, you finally show up at the banquet looking like the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen in my fucking life—”

he stopped in front of you. “takuma tries to steal you from me, i get pissed off, i fall for you at the park, i kiss you—“ he threw his arms up. “and you disappear again!”

your eyes bulge out of their sockets.

fall?

“you what?—”

“so i’m asking you again,” megumi bent his knees to look at you at eye level, his hands coming up to cup your pink cheeks and his face so close to yours you can make out the exact color of his eyes.

“are you trying to forget me? like you said you would?”

you fidgeted.

“i— i was doing it for you—”

“why for me? i never said—”

the feeling of his big hands on your cheeks was making your heart do backflips and trick shots as your wide doe eyes looked at him.

“because when i kissed you i made you uncomfortable and i don’t ever want you to be so i thought it’d be best if i left you alone—”

“okay let’s fix that right now,” his hands tightened slightly around your cheeks and he readjusted his footing, knees still bent. “i kissed you. if anything i should be the one worried if i made you uncomfortable because i put my hand on your thigh like that and for that i’m sorry.”

“no but—”

“yes y/n. i kissed you because you’re polite and you’re sweet and you’re funny, and you don’t see me as rude like everybody else does. and even though you’re naive and helpless sometimes, i like that you are. i like you.”

“but you’re megumi fushiguro…” you squeaked.

“so?”

“and i’m a loser.”

he laughed so cutely and shook his head, his pearly whites fully shining at you so big that it took you back to the first time he smiled in front of you.

“no you’re not you big dummy.”

he let go of your cheeks and placed his palms flat against the brick wall behind you, cornering you in as he let his head hang low, the top of his spiky black hair the only thing in your line of vision.

“i don’t know how else i can make you see…”

he sounded so exhausted, and your heart clenched.

“was it—” you timidly placed your hands on his shoulders. “was it actually you that kissed me?”

he nodded, head still hung.

“and do you actually like me? like— like more than a friend…”

“way fucking more,” he mumbled.

you bit the inside of your cheek as you tried to contain yourself from screaming.

you couldn’t believe it. the megumi fushiguro, number eighteen, the most handsome man you’ve ever seen and the kindest one you’ve ever met… liked you.

“i could’ve sworn i kissed you..” you spoke softly, trailing off.

“you didn’t.” his voice was firm. “i kissed you and i put my hand up your thigh…” his forehead lifted to rest on the crook of your neck as he sighed a deep breath.

“i told— i told takuma to scram at the banquet because i got jealous that you were talking to him more than me. i saw you crying in the hall that first time we spoke and i recognized you and i went up to you because finally—”

he picked his head up slowly, eyes serious. “finally, you noticed me.”

he was so close that your nose brushed gently with his.

“you’re so dense y/n…”

megumi’s eyes flickered to your lips, “i’ve wanted you since the party.”

“the party?” you murmured.

he nodded. “the party where your friend first met yuji.”

your breath hitched as you felt his hands slide down the wall and snake over your hips, holding you tightly against him as the shock of his words made your body numb and tingly.

since the party?

it all seemed to click into place then, every single moment megumi tried to get you to look at him, to talk to him, in his own discreet way that you were completely oblivious to. and you were so fucking caught up in this fog of denial, that a person like megumi could never be interested in a person like you, that it made you push him away for the longest time without even giving yourself a chance.

you were so fucking stupid.

your arms slowly wrapped around his broad shoulders, the rough feeling of his baseball uniform underneath your fingertips and arms as you pressed your nose up against his shoulder shyly, feeling so incredibly bad for avoiding megumi for so long.

“i’m sorry…” you mumbled. “i’m sorry i was so oblivious gumi.”

you felt him shake his head from the crook of your neck silently, the vibration of his heart beating rapidly against you making you sweat and melt at the same time.

“don’t be.”

“i just—” you struggled. “i just thought you didn’t like me like i liked you and i wanted to respect your space…”

“i understand,” he muttered. “but i don’t want you to respect my space anymore.”

you held him tighter.

“and—” your voice was slightly muffled by his shoulder.

“hm?”

“i liked it when you put your hand on my thigh…”

megumi stilled, you playing the night he kissed you over and over in your head again like you’ve done since it happened— the thought making you nervous and timid.

he gripped you tighter.

“did you?”

you nodded, “mhm.”

megumi without parting from you, slipped a hand under your shirt and soothed his fingers over the bare skin of your torso, your breathing stuttering, his rough hand radiating warmth.

“what else do you like.”

you gripped the fabric of his uniform.

“i like… i like the way you kissed me. and how you touch me… like right now.”

your voice was so so soft, practically a whisper as he seemed to shiver under your words, wanting more.

“what else.”

“you,” you mumbled. “your body… your hair… your face… your hands… the way you talk to people.”

“you want me?” he murmured breathlessly.

“more than anything.”

“what else do you like?”

you leaned your head back a little and pressed your lips to his ear. “the way you play ball.”

he hummed, “you like the way i play baby?”

you nodded, your heart hammering.

he lifted his face from the crook of your neck and shamelessly pressed his lips to your cheek, murmuring.

“you wanna see what else i can do?”

“what— what else?”

megumi’s face remained pressed against your cheek as he let both of his hands now snake underneath your shirt and upwards, slowly but roughly groping the cup of your tits over your bra, feeling you up as you gasped.

“uh huh..” he pressed an open mouthed wet kiss to your pink fuzzy cheek. “‘cause i can do a lot more than just be your cool baseball man.”

he roughly spun you around and pushed you up against the wall, his hands coming back up to your breasts to grope you as he shoved and rubbed his hardened clothed dick against your perky ass, your tiny skirt riding up and revealing your pretty pink panties that made him absolutely feral.

“gumi!” you gasped. “s—someone could see—”

“i don’t fucking care.”

megumi buried his nose further into the back of your neck and your hair, him being a little pervert in the most delicious and intoxicating way possible.

he dragged his mouth up against your skin and latched on to the nape of your neck, sucking and biting sloppily against it as he marked you aggressively, no doubt in your mind that a purple bruise would follow soon after as his hands slipped under your bra now, pinching your hard nipples meanly and laughing when you jumped.

you moaned and whined against the wall, your body trembling as you felt your slick arousal slip from your hole and dampen your panties, choked up embarrassment coating your face as he shoved his fingers down your skirt without warning.

“you’re soaked baby…” he whispered. “and all because i grabbed your tits?”

“megumiii…” you whined, and you squeaked as he quickly slipped his fingers in between your pussy lips and pinched your clit.

“gumi,” he corrected. “fix it.”

“g—gumi—”

“good, pretty baby...” he praised, his dick rock fucking solid against your ass at the way his fingers slipped and slid in between your lower lips without much effort, both of your chests heaving and panting as your brains frazzled erotically.

the sounds of footsteps echoed from the end of the hall and you both immediately froze, a gasp slipping past your lips before megumi quickly covered your mouth with the same hand that was just fingering you.

“shh.” he kissed the back of your head.

if anyone were to walk in and see the sight before them— megumi with his crotch pressed up against your ass, a hand pushing your top and bra up, squeezing your bare puffy tit and the other covering your mouth?

they’d drop dead.

without another moment wasted, megumi uncovered your mouth and turned you around, his tongue darting out and licking the patch of wet on your cheek from his fingers before shoving them in his mouth, sucking up your left over juice as he bent down and wrapped his arms around your legs, lifting and throwing you over his shoulder.

megumi was freaky.

your eyes widened as he walked to the double doors of the locker room and kicked it open with his foot, turning around to lock them shut before walking to a corner and setting you down gently on a bench, his palms flat beside you on the smooth wood as he towered over you.

“is— is everybody gone?”

“long gone.” he nibbled at your cheek.

“but— but what if someone wants to come in?—”

he pulled away and got down on his knees. “i’ll tell them to fuck off.”

you panted as he pressed his hands against your thighs and squeezed, spreading them apart slowly with his eyes trained to your drenched cute pink panties.

he slid his hands underneath your thighs and lifted, bending you and pressing your knees closer to you as your back hit the lockers behind you, your hands gripping the bench for dear life.

“has anyone ever seen your pussy?” he gruffed, licking his lips.

you shook your head, embarrassed. “n—no.”

“has any other man touched you the way i’ve touched you?”

“m—maybe in high school?—”

megumi sunk his teeth into your inner thigh and bit you as you yelped.

“thought you liked me.”

“i do!” you sputtered.

“clearly not if you’re being a little whore and letting other filthy men on you.”

your hole clenched.

“that— that was before you!”

he stuck his tongue out and pressed it flat against your pussy covered panties, dragging it slowly and agonizingly up until the tip of his tongue passed and flicked up against your clit, the tip moving around and around your little nub as your thighs shook.

“doesn’t matter.” he let a string of drool fall from the corner of his lips and over your ruined underwear, your eyes fluttering as you felt his warm saliva ooze in between your lips.

“and what about takuma, hm?”

you tried to open your eyes. “ta—takuma?”

“mhm. he was all over you.”

you hiccuped as he wrapped his fingers around the straps of your panties and pulled them down.

“i—”

“bet he wanted to do to you what i’m doing right now…” he hummed. “would you have let him?”

he stuffed his nose into your bare pussy and inhaled deeply, your jaw dropping as you squeezed your eyes shut.

your lack of response caused him to pull away and bite your thigh again, harder.

“would you?”

“n—no!” you shook your head quickly, strands of your hair lightly grazing your face. “i wouldn’t—”

“so who then?” he licked over his bite mark. “who would you spread your legs open for like this and let them see what a nasty fucking girl you are…”

“you gumi!” you hiccuped. “just you—”

“just me?”

megumi finally let his tongue slither itself in between your folds, slowly running over your flaps and clit as your hole continued to squelch out your arousal, pooling on the bench beneath you.

“y—yes!”

he slobbered and spit over your pussy like a starved dog, his face glistening like sugary glazed sweets.

“that’s what i fucking thought,” he hummed. “you gonna try and forget me again?”

“no!” you shook your head. “never! i can’t!”

he gripped your thighs tighter as he absolutely violated your folds then, wet sloshing and slurpings filling the air as he spat and shook his head side to side rapidly on your clit, you squealing and attempting to snap your thighs shut in response, his strong grip not letting you even if you tried.

“i—i can’t!” you cried. “gumi slow please it’s too much—”

“be a pretty baby and stop complaining.” he ran his slimy tongue over your pussy entirely before shoving it inside your hole.

you choked and clasped a trembling hand over your mouth, tears of ecstasy spilling from the corners of your eyes as you squeezed them shut.

you whimpered and moaned and cried so pathetically, so cutely in his ears that he grinned as he pumped his tongue in and out of you filthily.

“you’re so fucking sweet—” he slapped your cunt and you jumped. “good thing i have a sweet tooth.”

your legs shook violently as you began to see stars, your tight hole clenching and sputtering around nothing as you felt your release approaching.

“gumi—” your hand flew back to the bench and you gripped it. “m’gonna cum! i’m— i’m gonna make a mess—”

megumi’s hand shot up and wrapped around one of your thighs so the tips of his fingers met your clit, his digits proceeding to rub and flick it as you climbed and reached your high, a high pitched scream echoing through the steamy locker room as your pussy leaked your sweet cum on his tongue.

you shuddered and jumped at the way he cleaned up your release and swallowed it, running his tongue soothingly over the bite marks on your thighs before coming back up and wiping his glistening face with his sleeve.

megumi leaned in and pressed a gentle loving kiss to your lips, a complete turn around from the feral beast you had in between your legs— you kissing him back with just as much feel and affection.

he pulled back and got back up on his feet, you watching him ditzy as he jogged over to his locker and turned the lock until it clicked open, him rummaging inside for a little before he shut it and came back with a fresh pair of gray sweatpants.

“put these on baby,” he murmured.

you nodded sweetly and took them from him, you slipping off your skirt and pulling his sweatpants over as you watched him bend and look over corners.

“what are you looking for?” you asked softly.

he perked up then and stuck his hand under a bench, pulling out your wet ruined pink panties and holding them up high like a trophy.

“oh my god—” you covered your mouth in embarrassment. “give me those!”

“nope.” he shook his head and walked over to his duffel bag on the floor, unzipping it before stuffing your panties inside. “these are mine now.”

megumi came back up and wrapped his palm underneath your chin, tilting your face up softly before planting a sweet kiss to your swollen lips.

“and so are you.”

and that you were.

you went on many many dates with megumi after that, each and every single one so incredibly lovely and fun, a genuine connection you felt with him and each other that you had never ever felt before in your life, absolutely enamored by the way he gently treated you and made you feel like the only one that mattered in his life.

your best friend was obviously over the moon for you, squealing like a maniac at everything you told her, and always teased megumi about his lovesick face whenever you came to his games or appeared in the locker room to help him change, sort his clothes, or fix his hair.

“megumi…” she snickered. “your cheeks are a little red! are you like— sick?”

he scowled at her and turned the other way, wiping his sweaty forehead as he watched you bounce down the steps cutely and onto the field after one of his practices, a huge smile on your face that replicated on his.

the minute you jumped into his arms, he peppered your little cheeks with kisses as you giggled and ruffled his spiky hair, asking him how he felt about practice and other things after he set you down.

without anyone noticing, a journalist was on the field, and at the sight of megumi fushiguro’s beaming toothy smile as he watched you run to him, they quickly snapped a photo and published it.

one was a perfect portrait photo of his shining white smile (that later became his signature picture) and the other was a photo of his arms out for you as you ran, the both of them causing an absolute uproar that altered megumi’s image from that day forward.

megumi fushiguro was thought to be the meanest player on the team since the day he got signed.

but when he started taking more pictures with fans, kind of stopped offending the people around him, signed more autographs, and smiled occasionally at the paparazzi— all while your pretty self stood right next to him?

megumi fushiguro was sometimes the meanest player on the team.

————————————————————————

want more? you can find my mlb!megumi fushiguro masterlist here!

[mahalsuya]

the babysitter

pairing: megumi x fem reader

summary: you babysat little thirteen-year-old megumi once upon a time, but now, ten years later? you spot him at a club looking way too hot to be your awkward kid from the past. you try to play it cool but end up lowkey embarrassing yourself with some accidental flirting. plot twist: he’s actually a new intern at your job, and suddenly the vibe’s all kinds of heat. after a lot of teasing, tension, and some seriously awkward moments, one night the heat finally breaks—and megumi proves he’s way past kid status.

cw: age gap (4ish years), time skips, power dynamics, sexual tension, piv smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, creampie, teasing, 7.9k wc

the coffee table was covered in greasy pizza boxes — cheese for megumi, pepperoni for you and tsumiki, who was currently flopped upside down on the couch like a melting popsicle, humming to herself with her slice dangling over her face.

you were cross-legged on the carpet beside megumi, pink nails tapping your phone calculator while he aggressively stabbed his pencil at a multiplication worksheet like it had wronged him in another life.

"this is so stupid," he muttered, brows furrowed. “why can’t i just use a calculator like everyone else?”

you gasped, hand on your heart like he’d just offended your ancestors. “excuse me?! megumi fushiguro, did you just try to commit math blasphemy in front of me?”

he stared blankly. “...what?”

you giggled and leaned over to squint at his half-erased answers. “babe, what is this? did you write ninety-nine for nine times nine?”

his face immediately flushed. “shut up.”

you grinned and, without thinking, ruffled his hair.

he jerked away instantly. “don’t do that,” he said, cheeks flaming.

“oh my god,” you laughed, “you’re so dramatic. you didn’t care when i did it when you were nine.”

he didn’t answer, jaw tense, pencil gripped like he wanted to snap it in half. his bangs shadowed his eyes, and he’d gotten taller since the last time you saw him — lanky, a little awkward, but starting to grow into it. thirteen looked weird on him. it made him seem older than he was and younger than he wanted to be.

“ah, y/n! you have no idea how much we needed this, thank you so much for babysitting last minute,” mrs. fushiguro exclaimed, cheeks rosy—probably from a little too much wine.

mr. fushiguro just grunted in greeting, wandering over to play-wrestle with megumi and swipe one of his slices.

you popped up with a bubbly little wave. “hi! don’t even worry about it, the kids were angels.”

megumi looked personally insulted by that.

tsumiki chirped from the couch, “we made megumi do math and suffer. it was awesome.”

“doing math on a friday night is illegal,” megumi groaned, still hunched over the table.

“you’re just mad you thought nine times nine was ninety-nine,” you sing-songed while slipping on your shoes.

mrs. fushiguro laughed, digging through her purse. “so, y/n, do you have a boyfriend yet? you’re too cute to be single.”

you laughed, flustered. “not yet, i’m focusing on school right now—finals season is killing me.”

mr. fushiguro emerged with a mouth full of pizza. “that’s good. boys your age don’t know their head from their ass.”

you laughed again, but then megumi grumbled something behind him—loud enough to catch everyone’s attention.

“what does she need a boyfriend for? she has me.”

no one said anything for a second. then mr. fushiguro broke the silence by yanking megumi into a headlock and cackling.

“so you’re into older women now, huh? gotta type already, little man?”

“dad, shut up—!”

“oh, megumi,” his mom added, shaking her head with a smile, “i think y/n needs another seventeen-year-old to call her boyfriend. not a middle schooler in minecraft pajamas.”

you giggled behind your hand, careful not to hurt megumi’s feelings. even tsumiki was giggling watching her older brother get oddly flustered.

“speaking of,” his mom continued, “y/n, can you just double check that tsumiki brushed her teeth? i need toji to look at something in the garage.”

toji blinked, pizza still in hand. “i thought we were doing that tomorrow—?”

tsumiki was already tucked in by the time you padded back into the living room. megumi was standing awkwardly by the hallway now, hands in the pockets of his pajama pants, gaze fixed on the floor.

“hey,” you said gently. “you good?”

he nodded a little too quickly. “you’re not gonna come over anymore, right?”

you blinked. “what?”

“my mom said... tsumiki doesn’t need a babysitter anymore.”

you tilted your head, smile softening. “yeah, she’s getting big. you both are.”

he didn’t reply. just scowled at the floor like it had offended him. you reached out and tugged playfully at his sleeve.

“i’m gonna miss you, gumi,” you said, voice bright but fond. “who else is gonna argue with me about math and threaten to burn my worksheets?”

he mumbled something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch.

you leaned in with a teasing grin, smacked a big pink kiss to his cheek, and said, “you better not forget about me, okay? ‘cause i’m definitely not gonna forget you.”

then you were grabbing your purse and heading for the door, heels clicking cheerfully as you called over your shoulder—

“and stop growing! next time i do see you, you might be 2 heads taller than me.”

megumi stood frozen in the hallway, cheeks burning, hand lifting to touch the faint imprint of your lipstick.

ten years later

the club was packed—sweaty bodies grinding to half-broken trap remixes off today’s top hits, the floor sticky with spilled cocktails and too much cologne. you were deep in the chaos, laughing with your friends between flirty little conversations that ended in free drinks. not trying to pull. just dancing. vibing. glowing.

you were tipsy and stunning—lip gloss poppin', hair perfectly messy, dress barely hanging on. living your life.

and across the dance floor—

“...megumi?”

he freezes like you slapped him. blinks once. twice. because you’re not supposed to be here. you live in a memory, in warm pizza boxes and butterfly clips and highlighter-pink hoodies. you are softness and warmth and the scent of strawberry body spray from the early 2010s. but now—

now you're grown. glowing. sultry. moving your hips to the beat in a way that has no business being legal. and your mouth is still glossy, and megumi is not okay.

you light up. slap some poor guy’s hand off your ass and practically trip your way toward him—your heels clicking like fate. he’s standing by one of the high-top tables, drink in hand, frozen like he’s seen a ghost with a bbl.

you fling your arms around his neck without hesitation, your tits fully pressed to his chest like it’s nothing, giggling in disbelief.

“oh my god—you're drinking?! my baby is drinking?! stop itttt.”

he stiffens. “you—you don’t have to call me—”

“megumi,” you interrupt, dramatically clutching his shoulders. “i babysat you when you still had spider-man sheets. i used to wipe your nose.”

“you absolutely did not—”

“i did! you were like—‘math is stupid’—and you had crusty eye boogers, and now you’re here drinking, looking all…” your eyes drag over him and you wiggle your fingers teasingly. “...grown.”

you pull back just enough to really look at him—and your giggle falters.

because oh. oh.

he’s tall. and broad. and sharp-jawed and annoyingly sexy in that quiet, effortless, completely illegal kind of way.

you blink. "you got hot."

megumi’s brain blue-screens.

"no—i mean—you’ve grown up! that’s what i meant. i used to babysit you!"

you don’t seem to realize how close you are. you’re swaying into him, arm still slung over his shoulders like you’ve done it a thousand times. fingers casually toying with the ends of his hair like it’s your right. like you’re not wearing a backless dress that megumi is painfully aware could slide off with one wrong move.

you, still blissfully unaware, play with the little chain around his neck now. “you work out too, huh? i knew you’d be tall. i remember thinking that when you were like thirteen—‘this kid’s gonna grow up and be hot.’” you laugh like you didn’t just casually ruin his entire night.

megumi stares at you, eyes wide, face absolutely flaming, hands clenched so tightly around his drink it’s a miracle the glass hasn’t shattered.

and then—

“y/n!” a voice calls from the crowd. “there you are!”

yuki slides in out of nowhere, arm snaking around your waist like a protective older sister on a mission. her eyes flick from megumi to your hand on his chain to the way you’re basically draped over him and then back to megumi, whose expression is screaming please kill me right now.

she leans in and stage-whispers, “why are you flirting with a college freshman?”

you blink like she just spoke elvish. “what?? i’m not! that’s—megumi!”

yuki’s brows lift. “...uh-huh.”

“i used to babysit him!” you laugh, slapping megumi lightly on the chest for emphasis. “isn’t that so funny?!”

megumi is dying.

yuki smiles. but it’s tight.

poor kid. he's standing there, stunned, blinking after you like you just set him on fire and walked away.

yuki sighs to herself.

he definitely had a crush on you.

still does.

yuki disappears into the crowd with a look that says good luck, kid, and you're already turning back to megumi with a dazed smile.

"sorryyyy," you giggle, fanning yourself a little. "she’s protective. but isn’t that cute? that she thought i was flirting with you?”

megumi makes a noise in the back of his throat. it might’ve been a laugh. it might’ve been his soul leaving his body. “yeah. cute.”

you don’t even hear him. you're sipping your drink and swaying to the beat again, head tilted, body language loose and open like you belong in the music. the lights shift pink, then blue, then strobe white—each flash catching the sparkle of your jewelry, your glitter gloss, the sweat on your collarbones.

megumi is trying not to look. he is failing.

“god,” you huff, “i feel so old lately. but you—” you gesture at him vaguely. “you’re making me feel ancient right now. you were a child the last time i saw you, and now you’ve got arms and stubble and shit? not fair.”

you set your drink down and stretch dramatically, your chest pushing out and tits practically falling out . you don’t notice the way megumi’s eyes drop—don’t notice the flicker of panic on his face as he forces himself to look away and adjust the front of his pants like he’s trying to pass it off as casual.

he clears his throat. “you don’t look old.”

you beam at him. “aw, thanks, baby.”

baby. oh god. he nearly chokes on his own spit.

the way you say it—so casually—makes something in his chest seize up.

"megumi," a voice calls—bright, amused. it’s another guy his age with pink hair, followed closely by an even bigger and muscular guy with a black man bun. "you good, man?"

pink hair’s eyes flick between you and megumi and light up. he elbows the bigger guy. "yo, he’s so not good. look at him. dude’s malfunctioning."

"i used to babysit him," you offer quickly, like that explains anything. like that makes this less weird.

the big guy snorts. pink hair looks delighted.

"cool," pink hair says. "you babysit all your kids like that?"

you shove at his arm playfully, cheeks hot. megumi is still dead silent, jaw tight, hands in his pockets like if he moves them he’ll do something very illegal.

before you can say anything else, yuki materializes behind you, tugging your wrist. "babe, drink. let’s go. enough flirting"

you squawk, "i was not flirting—he’s megumi! i used to babysit him! and he’s, like, twenty-three now!"

yuki glances at megumi—still stiff, still watching you like you’re made of sin—and hums. "right. poor kid."

you let her drag you away, sipping your drink, heart beating a little weirdly fast. but by the time yuki hands you another daiquiri you’ve long forgotten about your run-in with the kid you used to babysit ten years go.

monday rolls around and you’re in the breakroom, adjusting the office keurig like it’s your sworn duty. your mug says "boss babe, brat edition" in obnoxiously cute pink font, and you’ve just finished swirling your creamer in when yuki sidles up beside you, designer sunglasses still perched on top of her head and an overpriced latte in hand.

“god,” she sighs, “i can't wait for the interns to get here. i’m gonna make them do all my paperwork while i take an extra lunch.”

you laugh into your cup. “it’s barely 9am and you’re already planning your escape.”

“self-care,” she shrugs.

a few more of your coworkers filter in, sleep-deprived and carrying folders. you greet them cheerfully, air-kissing a few cheeks and wishing people a good morning like the workplace princess you are. the heels, the lip gloss, the iced coffee—you’re basically the human embodiment of a good linkedin headshot.

you swipe your tablet from your desk and strut your way to the main conference room, where your poor baby interns are waiting for their intro training—which is just twenty soul-sucking slides of hr compliance and outdated office etiquette. it’s tradition. you consider it a hazing ritual.

you push open the door with a practiced smile, ready to greet the sea of nervous college grads with something cute and perky—

and then you see him.

seated near the middle of the u-shaped table setup, black button-up slightly wrinkled, blue lanyard slung around his neck.

no. way.

your heart stutters, and you blink hard like your brain short-circuited. you double-check the clipboard in your hand like it might say surprise! that boy from the club is also your intern now!

but it doesn’t.

and he’s definitely here. megumi fushiguro. sitting tall and tense, jaw tight, eyes wide.

you don’t even realize you’ve said it out loud:

“…megumi?”

the room falls silent. every intern is now watching you two like this is a k-drama scene.

his mouth twitches. he looks like he might simply evaporate into the floor. “...hi.”

you blink again.

hi??

you’re pretty sure your brain melts a little on the spot. this is the same guy you saw at the club three nights ago—the same guy whose biceps you complimented while slurring something about spider-man bedsheets.

and now he’s here.

wearing slacks.

in your intern orientation.

“oh my god,” you murmur. “you didn’t tell me you were interning here.”

“you didn’t give me a chance,” he says, and you swear—he sounds almost smug.

your mouth drops open a little. you blink at him, stunned and pink in the cheeks, and then remember yourself—right, there are ten other baby employees staring at you, and you’re supposed to be the confident one here.

you clap your hands once, forcing your professional smile back on. “okay! welcome everyone, let’s get started, we’re gonna have so much fun!”

you turn to the screen, clicking your little presentation remote like your life depends on it, and you feel megumi’s eyes burning into your back.

and all you can think is:

this can’t be happening.

tuesday

you’re humming to yourself in the elevator, scrolling through your phone, when the doors slide open and bam—in walks megumi.

alone.

you grin.

“well, well, if it isn’t my favorite little intern.”

he visibly stiffens. “you’ve gotta stop saying that.”

“what? that you’re my favorite?”

“that you used to babysit me.”

you laugh and lean your shoulder against the elevator wall, eyes dragging over him shamelessly.

“sorry,” you say sweetly. “i’ll stop... once i’m no longer picturing those spider-man sheets.”

he groans under his breath.

and you? you don’t notice the way his gaze flickers down to your legs, or the way he’s biting the inside of his cheek when you tilt your head just so.

that night, you’re washing your face and trying to unwind when the memory hits you like a truck: the club.

you groan into your towel.

because yeah, tuesday morning you were all smug and flirty in the elevator, but now you’re remembering just how unhinged you were the first time you ran into him again—like three months ago, at yuki’s birthday thing. loud club, slutty dress, way too many tequila shots. you’d been dancing on him. had your hands on his shoulders. called him “grown now” with a wink. maybe even touched his jaw.

and he just stood there all cool and quiet with that unreadable look on his face while you were acting like a full-blown cougar in heat.

“jesus christ,” you mutter to your ceiling. “i babysat him.”

no wonder he looked at you weird this morning. he probably thinks you’re some thirsty, washed-up ex-babysitter with a weird age gap kink.

you bury your face in your pillow and scream internally for a good thirty seconds.

and maybe that’s why, when wednesday rolls around, you start dialing it back.

you were just trying to get coffee. you swear that’s all you were doing.

but then megumi walked in, sleeves rolled up, forearms all veiny and pretty, with his messy black hair pushed back like he didn’t even try—and your brain short-circuited.

the boy you used to babysit is now a fully grown, hot, adult man. and your body is reacting accordingly.

he mumbles a tired “morning” as he reaches past you to grab a mug, and your breath catches because—what the hell. when did his voice get that deep?

you back up a little too fast and end up knocking over the sugar packet holder. classic.

“you good?” he asks, one brow raised.

“yup,” you squeak, scooping up the mess without looking at him. “totally good. just—coffee. haven’t had coffee. haha.”

he watches you for a second, lips twitching like he’s holding in a laugh.

normally, you’d swat at his arm. tease him. call him a brat.

but instead, you keep your eyes fixed on your mug and tell yourself to get it together.

because this is megumi. you used to babysit him. he probably sees you as some weird big sister figure and here you are practically blushing because he said "good morning."

besides—he’s 23. fresh out of college. probably into girls who go to music festivals and do their skincare routines on tiktok. not a tired 28-year-old corporate zombie whose back hurts when she sits down too fast.

even if he is disgustingly good-looking now. even if he smells like sandalwood and makes your stomach do somersaults.

“okay,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than to him. “we’re dialing it back.”

and you do. you don’t touch his arm. you don’t mention his spider-man sheets. you don’t call him baby megumi.

you grab your coffee and walk out like a respectable adult woman.

and megumi watches you go with the faintest frown on his face.

thursday 

something’s off.

you’re quieter today. still sweet, still smiling, but... distant.

he’s not imagining it. you used to bump your shoulder when you walked past, used to throw him little teasing jabs, used to light up when he said something dry that made you laugh.

now?

now you’re polite. reserved. a little stiff.

and megumi has no idea what the fuck he did.

he finds himself watching you, trying to pinpoint when the switch flipped.

it’s not like he didn’t notice before—how pretty you are. how funny. how you make a stupid office feel like something warm.

but now, it’s like you’ve put up a glass wall. you’re still right there, but out of reach.

and he hates it.

he catches you in the break room again, smiling too tightly while pouring your coffee.

"you’re avoiding me," he says before he can stop himself.

you blink, startled. “what? no, i’m just busy.”

“you’re not busy right now.”

you glance at him, then look away quickly. “i figured you’d want some space. i’ve been kind of... annoying.”

annoying? he wants to shake you.

instead, he just clenches his jaw and mutters, “you weren’t.”

but you’re already slipping out the door with your coffee, head ducked.

and megumi’s left standing there, wondering if he imagined the whole connection. if he hallucinated your teasing smiles and flirty comments and the soft way you looked at him on tuesday.

he pulls out his phone, types out a text to tsumiki.

her: “wait you saw her again???” him: “she works here.” her: “megumi. omg. did you tell her you had a massive crush on her.” him: “no.” her: “does she still wear the glittery lip gloss???” him: “yes.”

he sighs and closes the thread.

friday 

someone in marketing shouts it out first: “drinks after work? to celebrate the new interns?”

everyone’s murmuring agreement. even your boss nods.

you nudge megumi’s arm with your elbow, slowly grinning. “coming out with us?”

he hesitates.

you tilt your head. “come on. you should go.”

“for what?”

“get to know some of us outside our desks and business casual wear”

“i already know you.”

“megumii.”

“…fine.”

later that day, yuki catches you lingering by the copy machine and immediately clocks the way your eyes flick toward megumi when he walks by.

“you good, girly?” she says under her breath.

you wave her off. “fine.”

“you’re not flirting with your baby intern anymore.”

“i was never flirting.”

she arches a brow. “babe.”

you sigh. “he’s just... not a kid anymore. i realized that.”

yuki hums. “and that’s a bad thing?”

“it’s just weird, okay?” you hiss. “he’s 23. i’m almost 28. i used to make him chicken nuggets.”

“okay but now you want him to rail you into next week.”

you gasp. “yuki—”

“tell me i’m wrong.”

you don’t.

happy hour rolls around, and the bar starts filling up with tired salarymen and even more exhausted hourly workers. your office has a long table pushed together in the back, half your coworkers already crowding around with drinks in hand while the rest hover near the pool table.

you chew the inside of your cheek, debating whether or not to get megumi a drink. he’s over by the bar, laughing at something one of the other interns said, posture easy and relaxed.

you weren’t exactly avoiding him. you were just… setting boundaries. for yourself. trying to be normal. professional. and now, being in the same dimly lit bar as him—tipsy and tired and way too aware of how stupid hot he is—feels like a terrible idea.

yuki slings an arm around your shoulder and groans dramatically. “can you please just fuck him already?”

you choke on your beer. violently.

“yuki!” you whisper-shout, eyes wide as you glance around to make sure no one heard your deranged little menace of a friend.

she just takes another swig from her pint and leans in closer, lowering her voice but still way too loud. “what? you’ve been eye-fucking him since before you even knew he was working here. and you're too naive to notice he’s been eye-fucking you back.”

“i have not been—wait, he’s been what?”

yuki deadpans. “are you serious right now? if you would stop spiraling for like two seconds, you’d see it.”

she grabs your chin, gently but with intent, and turns your head toward the bar—right where megumi’s sitting.

he’s looking at you.

his gaze flicks away the second your eyes meet, but not fast enough to pretend he wasn’t staring. his ears go pink. he says something to the intern beside him, but his whole body shifts like he's been caught.

your stomach swoops.

still, you shake your head. no. nope. nothing’s going to happen. first of all, you work together now. that’s inappropriate. second of all, you used to babysit him, which is… arguably more inappropriate. megumi probably thinks you’re a freak. he’s probably this close to reporting you to hr.

so, you do what any sane, responsible adult would do: avoid him for the rest of the night.

you play pool with the accounting team, gossip with the customer service reps, and keep your eyes anywhere but on megumi—no matter how many times yuki throws you the world’s most pointed looks across the table.

eventually, people start trickling out. one by one. then in pairs. then in carpools. you’re settling your tab and sipping on some watered-down coke when someone slides into the seat next to you.

you look up—and of course it’s him.

megumi. looking warm and flushed and slightly buzzed. his hair a little messy. his shirt rumpled at the sleeves.

“hey,” he says, voice soft and low.

you blink. “hi.”

he’s close enough that his thigh brushes yours every time he shifts.

you’re acutely aware of it.

the warmth of his body. the clean, faint scent of sandalwood and laundry detergent. the occasional flex of his forearm as he nurses his drink.

you’re not even drunk. that’s the worst part.

you’re just buzzing. nerves and want and something heavy curling low in your belly.

“can we talk?”

your stomach dips. you nod once, trying to look normal—cool, even—as if you haven’t spent the past week panicking over every interaction you’ve had with this man.

megumi glances around, then tips his chin toward the hallway leading to the back patio. “out there?”

you follow him outside, where the noise from the bar softens into a low hum behind the glass. the air is cooler out here, a soft breeze carrying the faint scent of street food and cigarette smoke. there’s no one else around.

megumi leans against the railing, arms folded, gaze fixed somewhere out in the distance. you wait, heart beating in your throat.

“you’ve been avoiding me,” he says finally, quiet but direct.

you blink. “i haven’t—”

“yes, you have.”

you pause. then sigh, leaning your back against the railing beside him. “okay. maybe a little.”

he turns his head toward you, jaw tight. “did i do something wrong?”

the way he says it—so genuinely unsure—makes your chest ache a little.

“no,” you say quickly. “god, no. you didn’t. i just…” you trail off, chewing your lip. “i’ve been trying to be professional,”

“i guess i was just scared i was making you feel weird or something this week,” you continue in a murmur, “with all the teasing.”

megumi nods. “i admit, maybe telling half the office i used to wear super mario underwear was a little much at first, but… it’s you. so it’s okay.”

you glance over. “you sure?”

he looks at you for a long beat. then, quietly:

“i’m not thirteen anymore.”

and oh.

it’s like something in the air cracks. sharp and electric.

you laugh, light and disbelieving, because what the fuck kind of answer is that. “yeah, no shit, megumi. i noticed.”

his gaze drops—slowly. from your eyes, to your mouth, then down to your thighs, crossed tightly under the table.

“did you?” he says, voice low.

your breath catches.

for a moment, neither of you say anything. the bar chatter fades to a background blur. you can feel the heat radiating off his skin, the thrum of something heavy and unspoken between you.

you don’t look away.

“why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

megumi huffs a quiet laugh, one that doesn't reach his eyes. “you really don’t get it, do you?”

“…get what?”

he leans in, just slightly. enough to brush his knee against yours. enough to make your pulse stutter.

“i used to wait up on the couch just to see you when you came to babysit. stayed in my room late on purpose so you’d come knock and say goodnight. i used to think about you every fucking day for years.”

you freeze.

your heart is a runaway train in your chest. “‘gumi—”

he smiles, soft but a little self-deprecating. “i used to have dreams about you when i was, like, fifteen. woke up so hard it hurt. and now you’re here. looking like this. wearing pencil skirts and calling me your favorite.”

you stare at him.

he’s not even teasing. he’s dead serious.

and suddenly you can’t breathe.

you feel hot. your skin prickles with awareness. your thighs clench under the table and you don’t know what to do with your hands.

“is this…” you swallow, trying to keep your voice level, “is this you flirting with me?”

“no,” he says simply. “that was me telling you i want to fuck you.”

your jaw drops. you blink once, twice. you’re pretty sure the earth shifts on its axis.

he glances down, then back up. “if that’s not what you want, just say so.”

you don't say anything.

you can't.

because the truth is, your entire body is screaming yes. every nerve ending has been wound tight all week and now he's just offering himself up like this? looking like that?

you scramble to think, to act normal, to not do something that’ll land you in hr monday morning.

but then he says, softly—

“you’re not my babysitter anymore.”

and that’s the last fucking straw.

you grab your purse.

megumi blinks. “wait—”

“come with me,” you say, voice low and tight.

“…where?”

“away from the bar.”

you grab his arm, weaving through the crowd like you’re on autopilot. the second you step outside, you yank him around the corner into the alley behind the bar—hidden from view but still close enough to hear the bass thumping through the walls.

“y/n, i’m sorry— i didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable, i just—”

you don’t let him finish.

your hands fist in the collar of his shirt and you drag him down into a kiss so heated it nearly knocks the wind out of you both.

megumi freezes for half a second—just one. then he’s moving like he’s been waiting for this all night, hands snapping to your waist and yanking you flush against him. you moan into his mouth, high and breathy, already addicted to the way he’s gripping you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

your fingers roam down his chest, tracing every dip of muscle through his shirt until you reach the waistband of his pants.

he shudders. his breath catches.

you break the kiss and pant against his lips, eyes glittering.

“you’re a great kisser, ‘gumi.”

megumi huffs a laugh and presses his mouth to the underside of your jaw. “wish i could say i learned from the best.”

you blush. blush. at him.

looking away, you clear your throat. “do you… wanna come back to my place?”

megumi lifts his head. his eyes are dark. focused.

“i’ll drive.”

the ride to your apartment is tense and silent—at least, on the surface. but his hand stays glued to your thigh the entire time, his thumb stroking just shy of your inner leg. every red light feels like a test. every brush of his knuckle makes you want to drag his hand higher and make him feel how wet you are already.

by the time you unlock your door, you’re trembling. not from fear—but from anticipation. from knowing this is real.

inside, the door clicks shut behind you.

and suddenly, you hesitate.

you falter. your confidence wavers, like the reality of it all is just now hitting you.

“so, wanna drink something?” you murmur, leaning back against the kitchen counter, fingers tapping lightly on the cool surface, heart thudding with that familiar anticipation.

megumi edges closer, voice low and rough, “no, there’s something else i want way more.”

then, without warning, he’s got you caged in—arms wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you flush to him. but this kiss? it’s nothing like that frantic, desperate one at the bar. this time, he’s slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing the curve of your lips with his own.

your legs coil around his waist, heels slipping off as he lifts you onto the counter effortlessly.

he nips your bottom lip softly, making you whimper, hands trailing up your skirt, skin warm against your thighs. meanwhile, your fingers fumble clumsily over the buttons of his shirt, eager and trembling.

he hums against your mouth, kisses getting messy and urgent, swallowing your moans like they’re his oxygen.

finally, his hands find the place you crave most—spreading your thighs wider, teasing the sensitive skin beneath. he smirks against your lips when he feels your knees shake under his touch.

you gasp when his thumb grazes your underwear, just barely brushing over your soaked clit.

“fuck—you're soaked,” megumi groans, breath hot against your skin.

you giggle, breathless, “can you really blame me?”

his eyes flash darker. “no. but i want to hear you say it anyway.”

you part your lips, about to answer, but then his fingers slip beneath the band of your underwear and stroke your slit once—slow, deliberate, teasing—and your brain just short-circuits.

“oh—fuck,” you breathe, hips bucking into his hand. “megumi—”

“you’re soaked for me,” he murmurs, nosing at your jaw. “and i haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

“then touch me properly,” you whimper, shameless now, thighs trembling.

megumi lets out a low groan that vibrates against your neck. “don’t tempt me.”

but he does.

he pushes your underwear aside and slides two fingers into you in one smooth motion, the stretch making you keen as your walls clench tight around him.

“fuck—‘gumi—”

he groans again at the nickname, curling his fingers until your eyes flutter. “you always say my name like that?”

you nod, delirious. “only when i’m about to come.”

he smirks. “good. gonna make you say it over and over.”

you cling to him, nails scraping his shoulders as he pumps his fingers steadily inside you, thumb finding your clit like he already knows your body better than you do. you’re panting now, hips rolling into his touch, desperate for more.

“look at you,” he murmurs, watching your face like he’s memorizing every twitch, every gasp. “so pretty like this. s’like you were made to fall apart in my hands.”

you whimper, thighs trembling against the counter as his fingers curl just right inside you.

“you always look this good when someone touches you, or is it just me?” his voice is low, rough, and just the tiniest bit smug.

you don’t answer—you can’t—not when his thumb circles your clit again and your hips jerk, chasing the pressure. but he knows. he can feel your body answering him.

“you’ve been acting so shy all week,” he mutters, leaning in to kiss along your jaw. “thought maybe you didn’t want me. but this?”

he fucks his fingers into you a little deeper. you gasp.

“this says otherwise.”

your fingers tighten in his shirt, dizzy from how fast he’s unraveling you. “megumi, i—”

“i’ve wanted this,” he breathes. “since that night at the club. since the second i saw you again.”

you moan when his tongue traces the shell of your ear.

“wanna hear you say it,” he growls softly. “tell me you want me too.”

you nod frantically, panting, “i do—i do, i just—fuck—was trying to be normal, and—”

“fuck normal,” he mutters, cutting you off with a kiss, all tongue and heat and claiming. “i don’t want normal. i want you.”

his fingers curl again, knuckles deep, hitting something devastating inside you. you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders, your back arching off the kitchen counter.

“you’re so close, aren’t you?” he whispers, thumb rubbing relentless circles over your clit. “been teasing me all week like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. wearing those little skirts. biting your lip. looking at me like you wanted me to ruin you.”

“i wasn’t—!” you try to argue, but your voice breaks into a moan, heat pooling low in your belly like a rubber band about to snap.

he chuckles darkly, and fuck—you feel it more than you hear it. “no? then what’s this?” he presses deeper, watching your thighs tremble.

your breath stutters. “megumi—please—”

and that does it. that makes something snap in him. the sound of his name falling from your lips all soft and desperate.

“go ahead, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “let go. i’ve got you.”

you fall apart with a strangled cry, legs shaking, his name breaking again and again from your mouth. he watches the whole thing—soaking in every twitch, every breathy whimper, like it's the most sacred thing he’s ever seen.

when your hips twitch from oversensitivity, his touch finally eases—but he doesn’t move away.

instead, he lifts his fingers slowly, admiring how soaked they are, before sucking them into his mouth with a low groan.

your jaw drops. “megumi—!”

he grins, and for the first time since you reunited, you see it—the boy you used to babysit peeking through the man he’s become. all teasing eyes and smugness and deep, aching affection.

“taste better than i ever imagined,” he says.

you blink. “what?”

his smile softens—just a little. “you heard me.”

you’re still dazed, but you manage to breathe out, “you’ve…imagined this?”

megumi leans in again, hand sliding gently to cup your face.

“i’ve dreamed about this night for years.”

your heart stutters in your chest. “you have?”

“every time i ran into someone who reminded me of you,” he murmurs. “every time i walked past some girl wearing strawberry-pink lip gloss.”

his thumb brushes your bottom lip, gaze flicking down.

“but none of them were you.”

you melt—just a little—before he grabs your hand and starts backing toward the hallway.

“come on,” he murmurs, eyes darkening again. “i’m not done with you yet.”

you let him pull you toward the bedroom, heart pounding, thighs still trembling, a little giggly with disbelief.

“megumi—what are you even—?”

he shoots you a look that shuts you right up. “i just made you cum on my fingers. now i wanna do it with my mouth.”

you whimper.

he grins. “yeah. that’s what i thought.”

he peels the rest of your clothing off you, shedding off his own as well, then lays you out gently on the bed like you’re something precious—until he gets between your thighs. then it's like he changes.

megumi kisses down your inner thighs slowly, reverently, hands strong and sure as they wrap around the backs of your legs to pull you closer to the edge of the bed.

“spread for me,” he murmurs against your skin. “wanna see how pretty you are like this.”

you shiver. “megumi—”

“mm-mm.” he glances up through his lashes, mouth just hovering over your soaked panties. “say it again.”

“...megumi,” you whisper, already breathless.

“no,” he says, nosing at the fabric. “gumi. like you did at the bar.”

your breath hitches. “gumi…”

he groans low in his throat, almost like it hurts. “fuck. you have no idea what that does to me.”

and then he’s pulling your panties down in one fluid motion, tossing them somewhere behind him, eyes glued to your dripping pussy like it’s the first real thing he’s ever seen.

“you’ve been wet for me all week, haven’t you?” he murmurs. “bet you were soaked every time i brushed your arm. every time you ran from me.”

his breath fans against you, and you squirm.

“i—i wasn’t trying to tease you—”

he grins, all sharp teeth and dark eyes. “you did anyway.”

and then he dives in.

tongue flat, slow, devastating—lapping through your folds like he’s savoring every fucking second. you cry out, thighs already twitching around his head, but he just groans and presses in deeper, locking your hips down with his arms.

“fuck, gumi—!” your back arches.

he hums against you, and you feel it everywhere. the vibration, the smugness, the feral little edge in it.

“shit—shit—you’re so good at this—”

megumi pulls back just long enough to say, “you think i didn’t practice for this?”

you stare down at him, wide-eyed, lips parted.

“dreamt about this too,” he pants, mouth already glistening. “used to jerk off thinking about how you’d taste. how you’d sound when i had you like this.”

you whimper, hips canting up—and he grins.

“yeah. just like that.”

his tongue circles your clit, soft at first, then rougher, alternating between slow, torturous laps and quick flicks that have you gasping, sobbing, clawing at the sheets.

“you’re—fuck, gumi—you’re so good—nngh—so good at this, holy shit—”

you swear he moans into your pussy, the praise going straight to his cock. one hand leaves your thigh to slide two fingers back inside you, curling just right, stroking you in perfect rhythm with his mouth.

“want you to cum like this,” he murmurs against you. “all over my tongue.”

you shake your head, barely able to speak. “i—i can’t last—if you keep going like that—”

“then cum,” he growls, low and hungry. “fucking cum for me, baby.”

you fall apart with a sob, hips jerking, thighs clamping around his head—but megumi doesn’t stop. he rides you through it, drinking every drop, licking you like he’s memorizing the taste.

when you finally slump back onto the mattress, panting and twitching, he kisses your inner thigh, then your hip, then slowly crawls back up your body.

“still want that drink?” he teases, smirking as he presses his forehead to yours.

you stare at him, dazed. “i’m gonna die.”

he snorts. “not yet. i haven’t even fucked you yet.”

you're still trying to catch your breath, back pressed to the mattress, chest rising and falling with every shaky inhale. your thighs are slick, still trembling from how hard you came, and megumi’s mouth is shiny with you, lips parted as he pants softly against your inner thigh.

he crawls up over you, body caging you in, and you think you might actually melt into the bed with how warm his weight feels hovering there—how safe.

his face hovers above yours, and you expect another kiss, more filthy teasing—but instead, he pauses.

his thumb brushes gently over your cheek. “are you sure you want this?”

the words are soft. careful. not just asking for permission—he’s giving you the chance to change your mind.

and fuck, that nearly ruins you more than anything else tonight.

you nod, voice barely above a whisper. “yeah. i want you.”

he stares at you for a long second, like he’s etching you into memory. then you ask, just as softly, “do you?”

there’s not even a beat.

“i’ve wanted this since forever.”

it’s quiet. barely more than a breath.

and something in you shatters—your heart, your restraint, whatever filter you had left. your fingers grip his jaw and you pull him down into a kiss so deep you feel it in your toes.

“then show me,” you whisper against his lips. “please.”

he doesn’t hesitate.

one hand snakes between your bodies, and he lines himself up, the head of his cock thick and hot as it brushes against your entrance. he watches your face as he starts to push in—slow, deliberate, careful despite the way his jaw clenches from the effort of holding back.

you gasp, arching into him. “megumi—”

“you’re so fucking tight,” he groans. “shit—you feel unreal.”

he buries himself to the hilt in one long stroke, and you swear your brain short-circuits. he’s thick, stretching you just shy of too much, and you swear you see stars.

he leans in, breath hot against your ear. “i’ve thought about this. every night for years.”

you whimper, arms tightening around his shoulders. “you—fuck—you’re really good at this.”

megumi lets out a dark laugh, cock twitching inside you. “i’ve been dreaming about this night since i was sixteen,” he breathes. “no way i wasn’t gonna be ready.”

and then he moves—pulls his hips back and thrusts in deep, setting a rhythm that’s slow but devastating. every drag of his cock is perfect, angled just right, like he already knows your body better than you do.

you choke out a moan. “oh my god—”

“i wanna ruin you,” he grits, snapping his hips a little harder. “wanna fuck you so good you forget every guy before me.”

you whimper, thighs wrapping around his waist. “you already did.”

that breaks something in him.

he growls low in his throat and starts pounding into you, the soft start giving way to pure, feral want. he shifts your legs higher, hits deeper, and suddenly you’re clawing at his back, gasping his name like a prayer.

“mine,” he growls. “you’re mine now.”

“yours,” you sob, head falling back. “i’m yours.”

he sets a punishing pace, the bed creaking under the force of his powerful thrusts. you can only hold on for dear life, nails digging into his flexing biceps as he pounds into you mercilessly. pleasure builds in your core with each drive of his hips.

his hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, rubbing harsh circles that send sparks through your spine. your whole body tightens.

“‘gumi—fuck—i’m gonna—”

“i know,” he grits, never letting up. “give it to me, baby. wanna feel you fall apart around me.”

you shudder.

"i want you to cum inside me," you plead, spreading your thighs wider in clear invitation. "i want to feel you fill me up, ‘gumi. please."

his jaw clenches as he battles with himself for a moment before finally giving in with a strangled curse. it only takes a few more thrusts before he's coming undone.

"fuck, yes," he groans, hips stuttering as he floods your depths with his hot seed. you clench around him, milking every last drop as your own orgasm crashes through you.

you both slump into a sweaty pile, tangled limbs and ragged breaths filling the quiet room. megumi’s fingers trace lazy circles on your back, warm and steady, as he presses a soft kiss to your temple—his lips feather-light against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

“you okay?” megumi murmurs against your skin.

you stay quiet, too out of it, your skin still tingling where his hands roamed, thighs sticky and trembling, breath coming shallow and uneven.

“shit, i knew it. i went too far—fuck,” he rushes, sitting up, searching your face for any sign he messed up.

slowly, you turn to him, sore but smiling, eyes shiny with unshed tears, lips swollen and gloss-smudged. you meet his panicked gaze.

“i’m good,” you whisper, voice raw but sure. “really, i’m more than good.”

he exhales shaky, collapsing back against you, nuzzling your neck, lips brushing over his mark. “fuck, you scared me,” he murmurs.

you pull him down beneath the sheets, arms wrapping his neck. he follows, head on your chest, breath warm and heart still racing.

“you know,” megumi says softly after a moment, “when i said i’ve wanted this forever, i meant all of it—the nice, quiet parts, too. just holding you like this.”

you laugh, slipping a leg over his waist, skin sticky and warm, pulling him impossibly close. the humid night air clings to you both, mixing with the faint scent of sweat and his cologne. “well, you’ve got me now. heads up—i’m kind of addicted to cuddles.”

megumi smiles, that soft, goofy grin that makes your heart flutter, the warmth of his chest rising and falling under your hand. “that sounds perfect.”

before sleep sweeps over you both, you add with a teasing smirk, “not bad for a rookie.”

he freezes, blinking up at you. you grin.

“rookie?”

you shrug, biting your lip like you’re holding back a laugh. “cute, a little clumsy, but with a whole lot of fire. lots of potential.”

his jaw drops a little—you catch the twitch in his eye.

“you’re messing with me.”

you sit up a little, brushing your fingers through his tangled hair, cool against his warm skin. “baby,” you tease, voice soft and playful, “remember, i’m older and wiser.”

he blinks again, still dazed.

you lean close, breath ghosting over his ear, warm and sweet.

“and just wait. tomorrow, i’m gonna show you what you’ve been missing out on.”

megumi’s eyes go wide, stunned and utterly captivated—as if you just handed him the keys to heaven.

you giggle, pressing a kiss to his forehead, snuggling deeper into his heat and the soft rustle of the sheets around you.

[mahalsuya]

this was so yummy so funny so freaky. 10s across the board.

Type Dangerous - R.S.

Synopsis. Five times Ryomen Sukuna’s “wingmanning” family is the biggest cóckbIock in existence, and the one time he finally gets what he wants - you, his nephew’s hot preschool teacher.

Pairing. Ryomen Sukuna x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!teacher!reader, 5 + 1 things, Itadori family shenanigans, unckuna, he has the BIGGEST crush on you, making him blush, face-ríding, síxty-nine, Sukuna with tattoos, PÚSSYDRÚNK Sukuna, he goes feraI, p sIapping, p talking, he’s BIG, chok��ng, tummy buIges, manhandIing, dúmbifícation, creampíes, through pantíes, cúmplay, slight bréeding, getting together, nosy families, lowkey crackfic, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 12.6k

A/N. HEHE TOLD Y’ALL I’D WRITE IT…

“This is my uncle, he just got out of jail.”

“Hell yeah.” Not the most courteous introduction to Yuji’s wide-eyed lil’ friends - but if Jin had bugged n’ blackmailed him into picking the brat up from preschool today then he was going to make sure it never happens again.

And as Yuji starts swinging from Sukuna’s broad, beefy biceps, he grins at his miniature crowd. “He also has tattoos and likes to drink.”

“Hell yeah- don’t forget about the cars, twerp.” Sukuna’s nodding, breezing past the horrified faces of parents that tugged their children at least seven feet away. Seriously, how long was this teacher going to take? He could see your back hunched by another corner of the classroom, hugging a sniffly student goodbye.

“Oh yeah- and he likes driving fast and slashing tires.”

You straighten, probably hearing every word - not that he cared, Sukuna couldn’t imagine who’d want to be around this all day. “Hell ye- oh.”

Until you turned his way.

And Ryomen Sukuna feels his heart drop- right along with the muscular right arm that was stuck out for Yuji to climb all over like a handlebar. And with it, his nephew. 

Who seems quite disgruntled at his sudden meeting with the soft, padded floor of the preschool classroom, standing on his own two feet for the first time since Sukuna had arrived here. He furrows his light brows, “Hey- wha’s the big- oh! Teacher!”

Seems like it runs in the family, Sukuna muses - because all it takes is one glimpse of you starting to head their way before Yuji lights up as brightly as the Sun itself. And to Sukuna, whose nephew was a perpetual Christmas tree, it almost made him wish he wore his usual shades.

At least that would’ve hid the way his crimson eyes sweep up n’ down your figure, languidly. Breath stuttered, mouth partly agape. 

Sukuna’s utterly forgetting himself before he’s called out by one of Yuji’s friends- a squeaky, orange-haired girl no older than five. “Ewwww- why are you red?”

“Shut it, bob-cut.”

“So—” Perfect timing, you sidle up to the bustling little group right as Sukuna spits out the tail end of his sentence. A brow of yours raised, bob-cut? 

And oh- you’re even more perfect up close. Is it really too late for him to enroll in preschool? He didn’t see any age restrictions around, and he could count till ten, surely. Genuinely considering, he’s gulping at the way your pretty eyes narrow. “Jin’s not here today? Yuji, do you know this man?”

The boy in question bounces with excitement, “Of course! This is Sukuna, my uncle who just got out of jail and drives fast cars.”

“Ah- ahah.” Said Sukuna chuckles gingerly, eyes flitting between his beaming nephew and your blank expression. Finally settling on the kid, “Yuji! What have I told you about uh- the benefits of um- safe driving and caring for our fellow civilians on the road?”

And there was Sukuna’s first mistake - asking a question, because surely that was a sign for Yuji to nod solemnly. “That it’s for lame pussies who- mmpf!”

“Ah…” You blink.

The damage was already done- but Sukuna’s clapping a meaty palm over Yuji’s mouth already. Oh, he was smashing this kid’s iPad when they’re home. A thin line of nervous sweat beads down his temple as he stares up at you, “K-kids these days, right, ma’am?”

Yuji frowns, “But you do call them lame pussies who-”

“Yuji!”

“Right right, miss.” The lively girl from before - Kugisaki, he thinks her name was - latches onto your swaying skirts. “And he also likes to drink.”

“And slash tires.”

“Tuna mayo.” 

The crowd mercifully quietens down for a split-second. “…”

Until a grumpy black-haired boy peeks through his bangs at that last line, as if translating. “He says he also sets fires.”

Sukuna never said that - but he doesn’t get a single chance to say so. Too busy staring at the constant knit of your brows, the way your gaze was darting from the children to Sukuna like a tennis match, trying to bite back a smile. “I-is that so?”

“And he has a lotta tattoos.” Yuji pries off his uncle’s muffling palm, back to climbing him like his very own jungle gym. As if to prove his point, he pokes the bulging band of black ink that encircles Sukuna’s bicep. “See?”

And if he was any less devastated about making himself look like an absolute fool in front of his nephew’s pretty preschool teacher, then maybe he’d have noticed that look in your eyes. 

Maybe.

Maybe he’d have seen the slight glint in them as you followed Yuji’s pudgy, directing finger - from the wide tattoos at his biceps, to his wrist, to the circles peeking through Sukuna’s off-white undershirt. So tight that it was like the pale color was nearly painted onto him- if Itadori Jin was the sweet, soft single dad that was always early for pick-up, then Sukuna was just rugged. 

From the dishevelled state of his twinning rosy hair, to the studded piercing on his left earlobe, to the naturally-honed muscles that made him look hulking.

And it almost seemed like you were…checking him out? But surely that was a figment of Sukuna’s imagination, right? Right?

You’re nodding as Yuji looks to you impatiently for approval, “Why, you’re quite right, Yuji.” The corners of your glossed lips curl upwards as you turn to Sukuna - and he feels electricity pang down his body. “Uncles these days, huh?”

Ah, he was gone for. 

It was almost a comical sight, you’re thinking - such a large, towering man well over six feet, speechlessly gawking at you. Leaned forwards, ears red; barely even registering the way his nephew grabs onto the tufts of his coral pink hair like a horse- whispering for the rest of his friends to join in.

Kugisaki makes two treks grabbing onto his sides before she’s looking up and crinkling her nose, “Ew. You’re red again, Mr. Felon.”

“He’s not Mr. Felon, he’s Mr. Tire-slasher.”

Yuji shakes his head, “No, he’s Mr. Mugshot.” Seated upon Sukuna’s broad shoulders, the boy adjusts his body to stick a hand inside his backpack and search. “Would you like to see the mugshot, miss-”

“Okay, time for us to get home.” 

Firmly, Sukuna tries to shoo away the army of toddlers trying to climb him as gently as possible - only four glares, now that’s a record. Nephew still on his back, bag now wrestled into his hand and well away from where Yuji could procure any printouts of his (admittedly flattering) mugshot. 

He’s feeling his heartbeat pick up just a lil’ as he darts his eyes back to you, “I-it was just probation, by the way. Happened to slash some uh- tires…” 

“And also drive fast!” Yuji pipes up happily.

“…That too.” Grouchy face wincing at the amused smile on your face- goddammit he’s never going to be able to show his face here ever again. Sukuna simpers out a wave, making sure to flex his chiseled biceps at you ever-so-slightly - if he couldn’t keep reputation, at least he could make you stare. “See you ‘round, teach.”

“See you around, Mr. Mugshot.”

Fuck. 

.

.

.

“I thought I said I’m not doing shit for the brat’s school again.” 

Jin patiently gestures for him to hush with the swearing in front of the gaggle of children, humming as he keeps handing out sugar cookies - half-off for dealing with Sukuna’s shoddy customer service. “Well, technically, we’re not in the preschool. We’re in the park.”

His younger brother seethes, flicking the ribbons of his pretty pink apron (Jin’s doing, of course.) “Having a damn bake sale-”

“Shush, Ryo. There are children around.”

“Exactly my point!” Was Sukuna the crazy one? He must be the crazy one. And he’s running a grumpy hand through his unruly pink locks- before remembering that one of those damn kids running around this bake sale had called him cotton-candy head and now he’s both irritated and unable to self-soothe.

It’d been Jin’s idea to drag him to the preschool bake sale, held at the nearby children’s park- something about raising money for a talent show.

Honestly, fuck talent shows. It didn’t even take two minutes surrounded by all the fanfare for him to have half the mind to eat those sweet treats himself and just leave-

“Oh hey, you’re Mr. Mugshot.” A little boy wearing a panda mask, one he’s never even seen before, points up at him and giggles as Sukuna glares. Did that nickname really spread?

He’s bending over their frilly pink stall with a damn good word or two about-

“Oh! Jin, thank you for coming.” Before he’s hearing the sound of the pearly gates of heaven, and an angel to accompany right along with it. You. Who’d silently meandered up to their cookie stand with an expression of both delight and concern. Your gorgeous mouth pursing as you stop to think, “And…Sukuna, right? Thank you, too, the children really appreciate the work you’re putting in.”

You remembered his name. He has to hold back a squeal. 

“A-ah, yeah- yeah! Of course, of course.” He’s swiftly leaning over the stall, arms crossed so that you can fully take in the way they streeetch his tight sleeveless turtleneck. 

In the faint distance - honestly, it feels like miles away - he’s hearing the panda-mask boy unsubtly whisper something to his father about how ‘Mr. Mugshot has turned red.’ 

Not! Obviously not- smooth. Ryomen Sukuna is supposed to be smooth, and he’s desperately attacking his features into something that resembles suave nonchalance. “I’m a…real philanthropic type of guy, y’know?” Cocking his head with a smug grin, “So, you come ‘round here often?”

You’re smirking, your giggle sounding like his favorite song. “Well, it is my preschool class.”

Ah, shit. His eyes widen just a fraction, right. 

Scoffing, “Tch, uh, yeah. I knew that.”

So many days spent mentally praying that yet another one of Jin’s work meetings went over time again - just so that Sukuna would have an excuse to see your pretty face. And that’s the first thing he says?

Suddenly, he’s too aware of the ogling toddlers, of the snug pink apron that he was currently donning - and the way your eyes seem to stray down to the gaudy bow settled between his pecs.

At this point, it seems even his brother takes pity on him. Adjusting his glasses with a soft chuckle, “It seems Ryo here had the greatest time at pick-up last week, he only had good things to say about you, ma’am.”

You blink in slight surprise, eyes taking in Sukuna’s large, fidgeting figure. “I’m quite flattered.”

Yes! Sukuna’s pleading eyes snap to the interested twinkle in your eyes, and then to the other man- yes, keep going!

“Of course, Yuji did tell me he was upset he didn’t get to show you his printed mugshot of him. It was all that he could-”

Fuck no! 

Catching the other’s urgent eyes, Jin sputters- “B-but- but, it was just a little vandalism, of course. Just a little ah…a little driving and- eek!” Cutting himself off promptly as soon as Sukuna steps down on Jin’s foot, syllables stumbling, looking ‘round anywhere for any distraction. “Why don’t you- ah! Why don’t you give our lovely teacher here a cookie, Sukuna. Free of charge.” 

You’re waving your hands, oh-so-sweetly, “I could never, please let me pay-”

“Nah, a pretty girl like you? I should give you more, ma.” He could give you a totally different type of cookie but this might just not be the place to say those words out loud- ah, he’s still got it. 

Sukuna’s thumbing out the biggest baked treat between a fluffy tissue and handing it over to you- ready to feel the sweet, sweet graze of your fingertips, if he was lucky.

But oh- it seems like the gates of heaven really have just opened up to him, because instead of taking it from his hands, you’re leaning down and taking a bite. Straight from where he held it. Humming as the candied taste floods your mouth, the soft pushness of your lips taps against the edge of his thumb.

And he wonders how they’d feel on his lips, instead. 

“Ah, sorry.” You’re taking a peek at him through your lashes and maybe he doesn’t still have it because Sukuna feels his breath hitch. “It just looked so good, and my hands are a little…”

And it’s only then that he’s noticing just how many boxes upon bags of things you’d bought from nearly every stall here. Happy to support your students - oh, you really were an angel. 

“Oh, let me.” Ever the gentleman, Jin hastens to move around a few bags so that you’re more comfortable. All while Sukuna can only hold out the cookie and freeze. Slack-jawed. 

Completely ridiculous. 

He doesn’t move a single millimeter, not even when you’re now able to easily grasp the baked good from him. Expectantly waiting, palm raised - while he only ogles you. 

“I uh- let me just-” And it takes Itadori Jin both hands to pry the crumbling cookie from Sukuna’s hands, sighing before wrapping up about two more in apology and handing them over to you. “We do hope you like them, ma’am.”

“Mhm—” Rubbing over the crumbs at the edge of your lower lip with one hand, you look dead-set on Sukuna as you murmur. “It was delicious. My compliments to the chef.”

Sukuna might not have been the chef - baker, whatever you said goes - it was Jin, but he can’t help but feel on top of the world as if he was. Waiting just until you’re out of sight, walking through the sunny Spring park up to the next parent-manned stand, to pump his fist with a low ‘hell yeah!’

“Ryo, you haven’t been this smitten since- well, ever.”

“Daddy, Mr. Mugshot is really weird.”

Sukuna whirls at a few staring parents- “The fuck are you lookin’ at?”

.

.

.

“Remind me why you’re here again?”

“Remind me why you’re here again?”

Arguing with a thirteen-year-old wasn’t very high on Sukuna’s bucket list, and yet, it seemed to happen on a nearly daily basis. He would blame middle school for being the root of Choso’s attitude, but he suspects the new emo look has something to do with it, too.

And maybe the fact that the older man was accompanying one of his weekly visits to Yuji’s preschool playground. Cutting off just the last of Friday’s classes just so that he could walk down the street to see his little brother. Despite seeing him at home every day, but still. 

That’s also what Sukuna himself was here for- of course. Why else would he-

“Ah ah- Kugisaki, what have I told you about using the toy construction hammer for things other than construction? We don’t hit, m’kay?”

Sighing, the way that Sukuna’s towering frame leans against the playground’s cherry blossom tree for support draws such disgust from Choso. Dark eyes flickering between his blushing uncle, and you - in the middle of the sand pit, trying to wrangle a class of toddlers. “You’re pathetic.”

“Shut it, scrawny.”

“Why don’t you just talk to her?”

Sukuna’s life flashes before his very eyes, and strangely it’s mainly made up of every moment where he’s embarrassed himself in front of you. Looking away with a huff, “It’s…complicated.”

The other snickers, “Well, it’s about to get a whole lot more complicated because she’s coming up to us right now.”

Oh, fuck.

Now, he might have had the sense to ‘accidentally’ bump into his oldest nephew just as he was on his route to meet Yuji (Sukuna had memorized his schedule, sauntering by this very block for an hour until he’d run into Choso) - but he didn’t have enough wit for this.

Conversations? With both parties and a classroom of preschoolers participating? 

He was just about ready to race right out of here and leave Choso to the wolves-

“Cho! You’re here as always.” You’re smiling as you waltz up to them, a neat line of toddlers following you as they would a mother duck. Hitting him with your scent of flowers n’ the sunniest of days, “And I see you’ve brought along a guest with you- how are you, Sukuna?”

“F-fine.” F-fine? With a stutter? Sukuna simply bristles at the smirk his nephew shoots his way, already feeling the tips of his pierced ears start to scald bright hot. 

“Bubba!”

Saved by the bell-like shriek of Yuji, enough to make Choso take a few steps over and hug his toddling brother so tight that the former squeals. Checking him over for scratches, dust, stickers- you name it. 

You’re catching the raise of Sukuna’s brows and chuckle, “He is always quite the attentive older brother. You should join us more often, I’m sure Yuji would enjoy having his favorite uncle around.”

Mouth dry, “I’m- I’m his only uncle.”

Yet, your grin still stands - a slight knowing curve in them that makes his brain fuzzy, and his lips just a bit too loose. Did he say he liked drinking again? What a fucking lie, you got him more buzzed than a shot of straight vodka pumping through his nerves. 

And he’s finding himself reaching over to brush a stray petal of cherry-pink from your crown. Blurting out before he can stop himself, “Hey…so what’s your ty- I mean, are you seeing any-”

“She’s mine!” Cuts off an annoying, grating voice - one that understood what you evidently didn’t, with the few syllables that Sukuna had been able to croak out.

And he’s looking over your shoulder to find himself being stared down (stared up at?) by a boisterous, buzz-cut boy slightly older than Yuji. Protectively standing behind you as he glared daggers, “When I’m old like you, she shall be my bride, Mr. Mugshot.”

Huh.

You’re droning out in your nicest tone, wagging your finger. “Now now, Todo Aoi, what have I told you about not proposing to your teachers?”

“To not.”

“And what are you doing?”

“Proposing.” Stifling a sigh, you realise that it would be yet another chat with Todo’s guardian about the boy’s harmless little puppy crush. 

But before you can direct the conversation back towards anything else, he’s stabbing an accusing index up at Sukuna’s looming frame. “Miss teacher here-” Not quite your name, but close enough. “-and my sweet idol Takada-chan are the only ones I shall marry. You can’t have either!”

“Who the hell…” Sukuna furrows his brows- what was this boy talking about? “Listen, kid, I-”

“Pffft–!” He could recognize that burst of muffled laughter anywhere, and at least Choso was having a grand ol’ time- whispering to Yuji, “Don’t you think this is like those late-night dramas dad pretends not to watch?”

No! Sukuna’s internally groaning. 

“Oh- oh yeah!” An over-hearing Kugisaki bounces at the mention of dramas, “My mommy watches those. Times like this the two guys will fight over the pretty girl.”

Todo puffs up his chest, “Then fight me, old man- I demand a duel!”

“I’m not even thirty?”

“That’s old.” Choso nods.

“You’re thirteen.”

“I’m five!” Yuji jumps up, and immediately his older brother’s pulling his phone out to snap a few hundred photographs at the cuteness. 

Todo stomps, “Fight me, fossil–”

And his young nephew - that traitor - is the next one to shrill with glee at the altercation, clapping his hands once Todo charges forward with a damn war cry to pummel Sukuna’s abs with hits about as fierce as cotton. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

At the slight raise of your brows at the chaos, Sukuna rushes to explain, “Please excuse my nephew’s behaviour, ma’am, I don’t know where he got it from-”

Choso deadpans, “But you’re the one that taught us that the best talk is to talk with your fists because-” The two brothers turn to each other in unison, as if preaching the truth and nothing but the truth. “-we’re no weakass bi-”

“Their father.” Sukuna grits out- okay, maybe that kid’s punches were getting a little more painful. Or maybe it was just the way you were cocking your head at him that made his stomach churn, “Surely.” 

“Defend the honor of your woman, geriatric–!”

Seemingly snapping out of the little reverie of taking in whatever the fuck this was, you clap your hands in that teacherly way to demand silence. “Alright alright, break it up. You wouldn’t want me to take down any of your star points, would you, Aoi?” Tugging away the boy from Sukuna, you grimace up at him. “I’m so sorry about all of- well- this.”

Waving off- remember, Sukuna, nonchalance. Nonchalance. “Don’t worry about it, mama.”

“Y’know how they apologize to each other in the dramas?” Kugisaki speaks up, and honestly, this girl really did speak up at the most inopportune times. She glows at all the attention on her, “They kiss.”

And she was a genius.

An absolute genius, bob-cut!

Yuji - ever his lil’ ally - starts pumping his fist with whoots- “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

Starting up a slight chant within your group, you turn to him in question.

“I uh…” Sukuna starts, tilting his body down ever-so-slightly, until you could could nearly every thread on his dark hoodie. The way his slashing tattoos framing his jaw ripple as he gulps, “You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to, ma- that’s assuming you wanted to do something, and what I meant was-”

It was one second. A singular, heavenly second that your lips graze the right side of Sukuna’s cheek as he rambled - fluttering away right before his skin started to scorch with a blush.

Quite frankly, fuck nonchalance. 

“Ewww, he’s red again. What’s wrong with him?”

“Were you this red when you were setting fires, Mr. Mugshot?”

“He looked nothing like this in his mugshot- wanna see?”

“Salmon.”

Ears tinting a shade that matches his hair, voicebox void of any coherent words, Sukuna barely even functions until he’s hearing the sharp ka-chick! of a camera shutter. Whirling his head ‘round to find Choso with his phone pointed at him, catching him in all his flustered glory. “I’ll send it to the family groupchat.” He turns to you. “And to you on the preschool groupchat.”

Imagine Sukuna’s surprise when he finds you nodding, “Mhm, oh, and I should really be getting the kids back now, it’s almost time for the bell.” Making the kids waddle into a neat line once more, you wave. “Thank you for the visit- do come again, it was quite…interesting.”

And they stare - Choso at Yuji, Sukuna at you - as you and your classroom disappear back within the preschool walls. “No phone for you for two weeks.”

“No hot teacher’s number for you forever.”

Only after a second- “Hey- hey kid. Show me that number again? I’ll make it one week.”

.

.

.

Sukuna had almost, mercifully, forgotten about that damn talent show. 

The bake sale? Gaping at you for nearly five full minutes straight? Never happened. 

And he’d almost convinced himself of that- until the time came for him to be seated right on the very front row of the cozy preschool auditorium. Taking up nearly three chairs as he squeezes himself into the humble seat, arms crossed and scowling. 

“You know…” Jin claps as Yuji and Kugisaki fight to clamber onto stage first, with a reluctant Fushiguro in tow. About to showcase whatever it is that they’d been practising with doves and sticks all week. From the corner of his mouth, “When we had the kiddos over, Megs told me something very interesting the other day.”

“Hm.” Sukuna’s grunts noncommittally when Yuji pulls out a comically large fairy wand - ah, a magic show.

“Something about you duelling with a kid for the hand of a certain someone.”

Letting out a strangled groan, his eyes immediately find you - as they always seemed to do. Stuck on the way you were kneeled by the front of the stage, motivating each little performer tonight. “Y-ya don’t say…”

Jin beams, “You know, you should really ask her out, Ryo- oh! Do you need our help? I can tell you this, the Itadori family makes great wingmen.”

“Ya don’t say.”

Tattletale, Sukuna’s grousing. And just as Fushiguro Megumi finds himself being stuffed into a box - to be sawed in half as all good magicians did, apparently - the older man slowly, menacingly pulls out his prized camcorder. 

Just in time for Fushiguro to glance over and have his face pale at the blinking, recording lens. 

“After all, Megumi did say you were blushing like a- what was it- ‘maiden in love’ that day. How cute.” 

“Ya don’t say.” Sukuna zooms in, right on the black-haired boy’s ashen face once the saw raises high in the air to magically cut him in half. And to make things even worse, he starts pointing at his camera, mouthing through a grin, ‘Oh yes.’ At Fushiguro’s slight shake of his head. ‘You are dead.’

But, alas, it was too good to be true.

And instead of having the little snitch be the casualty in one of Yuji’s magic tricks, the talent show goes shockingly smoothly. Hell, Wasuke slept through only about half of it, which was as much of a compliment as one could get. 

All because of your efforts, surely - and when the entire thing ends with (surprise, surprise) every little brat getting awarded a winning prize, Sukuna finds himself not half-annoyed that he’d actually sat through all of it.

Well, right up until about when it was time for the exhausted preschoolers to be taken home by their families. 

And Yuji comes bounding up to the four with a squealing—“Dadda–! Bubba–! Gramps–! Mr. Mug-”

“Another word out of you and I’m throwing your iPad out the window.” Sukuna grumbles, heart leaping to his throat when he’s spotting your chuckling figure follow up behind his nephew, as if Jin’s elbowing wasn’t a sign enough.

Yuji frowns, “Aw, but I already told everyone here.”

Damn gremlin- but before he can get another word in, you’re already greeting his brother and father with a smile. “It’s so great to see you again, Mr. Itadori- I hope that blood pressure you were telling me about is better now.”

“Ah, ya know- I won’t be dying any time soon.” Wasuke barks out a hoarse noise of laughter, before beadily eyeing Sukuna. “This one, however…”

Your gorgeous face drops in worry, and he doesn’t know whether to whine at his father for letting you make that expression, or giggle because you cared about him. Fuck. “Oh no- everything alright, Sukuna?”

But Wasuke answers for him, “No. Not at all, quite the incurable disease, my dear.”

He watches on in matching confusion with Yuji as Jin lights up beside him, “Ah- ah! Right right, that-” Soothing his face into something pitiful as he turns to you, “That ah- thing that only heh- one person can solve.”

About as subtle as a sledgehammer. 

And just as efficient in bagging the woman of one’s dreams.

Because you only furrow your brows in confusion, “I’m…sorry? What?”

Sukuna’s older brother’s smile tightens in desperation, nervously laughing. “You- you know…that thing?” And you tilt your head, eyes darting between the four as if trying to work out the punchline. “The thing like- the heart condition? No- not something serious but like…the butterflies?” Now looking to Sukuna for help - as if the other man wouldn’t just let him rot in the very grave he’d dug for himself. 

Then at Choso, who’d been quietly attempting to disappear into the wall plaster. Trying not to laugh as he dotes on Yuji, “The doki-doki.”

Jin snaps his fingers, “Yes! Like the doki-doki? The-”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake- he wants to fu-”

“That’s enough for tonight, pa.” It really does run in the family - because in a split-second, Sukuna has his palm clapped over Itadori Wasuke’s mouth. Smile painfully plastic, “Did you take your meds today, dear father? I don’t believe you took your meds today.”

He plunges his sprightly father into Jin’s arms, “Say, Jin, why don’t you get dad his meds.” Making note of the way that you - still thoroughly confused, and now thoroughly off your shift helping each student get to their guardian - were toyin’ with the cute decorations of your car keys. 

Letting his mouth work before his brain could regret anything- “And why don’t I walk you to your car, ma?”

“I- what.” You’re somewhat shocked at being addressed so directly, and at the kindly incline of Sukuna’s head. “Don’t you have a heart condition? I wouldn’t want to exert you, Sukuna.”

Wasuke grunts, “Exert him in another- mmpf-” Hastily shushed by Choso’s palm, more for his sanity’s sake than his uncle’s.

These damn- he narrows a glare down at an unabashedly-eavesdropping Jin and Wasuke. “No. No, don’t worry about it, they were just joking. Ha. Ha.” 

Well…it was quite dark outside the building, even with the surrounding streetlights. And your vehicle might just be a little ways away but it never hurt to be extra safe, did it? Especially when his stature was so intimidating anyways?

And so, you nod. 

And he walks with you.

More like floats beside you on cloud nine, actually. Sukuna’s sure you two made quite a sight in the corridor, if the way passing parents whispered to each other signalled anything - him, with his ears flared red, unable to even look at you directly as you two were alone. You, as perfect as ever.

“Ah- so-”

“What did you-”

You’re both speaking at the same time once you’re out of the school building, laughing into the nearly-empty night air that forms clouds out of your puffs of laughter. The few minutes of a walk to the parking lot seemed like eternity - and Sukuna would have gladly let it be. 

“You speak.” You’re urging.

“No you.”

“You-”

“I refuse.”

“Fine.” Rolling your eyes, you never noticed the way he always seemed to nudge his head ever-so-closely to you whenever you spoke. As if he was hanging onto your every word. “What did you think about the talent show?”

“Brilliant. All because of you, of course- got so much blackmail to use in ten years.” He cackles.

Though, that’s stopped short very soon the nanosecond you’re nudging him playfully. Heat touching heat. And he shivers, “Hit me if this is strange.” Letting the tense air clog his throat, at least, that’s his excuse for it. “But do you remember that thing I meant to ask you that one time at the playground…”

“Yes—?”

“Are you-” Sukuna’s husky baritone cracks and he twists his face into a wince, “D-do you happen to be seeing anyone?”

You blink, and there’s something about the way you look at him that makes him feel like you’re holding back such a smile. How he wished to see it right now. Musing into the silent night air, only thrumming with your footsteps towards the car, “Nope.”

“O-oh.” And if this was any other time, then he’d be embarrassed about how obviously relieved he sounds. How you surely must have picked up on it.

Faking nonchalance, he’s stuffing his hand into the baggy cloth of his ripped jeans, “Cool.” And it was a damn good thing you didn’t have x-ray vision like all the heroes in all those weekend cartoons Yuji watched - because then you’d have seen the way his painted nails dig in so deeply into his palms in pure excitement. Nearly hard enough to draw blood. “Very cool.”

“Very cool.” You’re echoing, now stood by the driver’s seat of your car - just waiting for him to say something. Anything. 

Waiting as he opens his mouth- “What’s your ty-”

“Yuji- Yuji noooo- don’t interrupt your uncle’s k-drama moment- oh, dammit.” Itadori Jin, who’d been chasing after an adventure-hungry Yuji, balks at the way you were both so close. Snatching up his struggling toddler, “Forget about me! We- we never here- go back to doing whatever you were doing!”

And somehow, you lurch apart as if you’d just been shocked. Only now realizing just how warm the temperature of his proximity was, fighting to keep your professional façade in front of your spying audience. 

“I bid you goodnight, Jin- Yuji.” Gesturing out a wave, you’re getting into your ride so quickly that Sukuna thinks he must’ve been dreaming you up. “And you, Sukuna.”

Nevermind- not a dream. 

Definitely not a dream. Because even in his sweetest hallucinations he wouldn’t have been able to make you say his name like that. Almost a purr. Almost batting your lashes.

Almost ripping out his heart from his very chest as you then speed down the road.

“That’s the best ya could’ve done, sonny? Even after I taught you everything to know about wooing a woman?” How very much like Wasuke to manifest from nearly thin air, from somewhere out of the shadows of the building. 

“Not that.” 

“Especially that.”

The older man only waves off Jin’s bemoaning concern about ‘ruining the moment- they had a doki-doki moment!’ “Choso’s in the car, can’t believe I lost a bet to a middle-schooler. Dammit.”

Sukuna’s eyes widen, “You…bet on me?”

“Whaddaya think, sonny?” 

Jin smiles, “Guilty.”

“Gwuilty!” 

“No- no, Yuji, not guilty.”

Wasuke paces away, shaking his head. “Thought I raised you better- keh! Thought I’d get grandchildren from you, too. Tch, now I owe a middle-schooler fifty yen, oh, woe is me.”

It takes a second for Sukuna to register the words, “Wait- only fifty yen?”

“Yeah, that’s just about my belief in you, kid.”

.

.

.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! 

“Oi- oi, Jin. Go get the door.”

“I’m cooking dinner–! Cho, could you get the door?”

“I’m in the middle of homework- ask uncle.”

Sukuna grumbles, why the hell was he the one to always answer that damn door? Honestly, Yuji could buck up and get some experience yelling at sleazy salesmen sometimes. Sprawled out across the TV room couch, he stares at his nephew playing with a toy bow and arrows set on the floor, “Yuji, could you get the-”

“I can hear you, Ryo.”

Dammit- there was a reason why Itadori Jin was the older brother. 

And there was also a reason why Ryomen Sukuna had a reputation in this quaint neighborhood for being a boor - not that that was much of a brag. But at least it explained why he was stomping up to the oak front door, damn near ripping it off its hinges with a growl- “We’re not buying any- oh.”

‘Oh’ was right.

Because standing right there on his porch was a damn sight for sore eyes - you. 

You, with your mouth parted and your brows slightly raised as you looked from the messy bangs of his locks to the oversized sweater he was wearing. You, who doesn’t even flinch about the fact that he’d just answered the door yelling. You, donned in a pretty lil’ skirt that makes him gulp- 

“You okay, Sukuna?”

“No. So how are you doin’ on this fine day, ma? ”

“Oh!” A happy call of your name makes you turn - even though Sukuna just stares, shell-shocked. Jin shoves him bodily out of the way, opening the door wider, “Please- come in, we’ve been expecting you.”

Looking down at the slight stain of something at the hem of his sweatpants, the other man frowns. It’s not like that was news he’d ever forget - so why the hell was he looking like that? “We have?”

“Yes?” Jin’s showing you the way in- only for you to be dragged in by an overeager Yuji anyways. And as the two of you disappear down the halls, he’s turning to his taller brother in genuine confusion. “Did Cho not tell you that we were having Yuji’s teacher over for dinner tonight?”

At Sukuna’s sputtering, Jin wastes no time grasping a nearby broomstick and thumping the wooden end up against the ceiling. “Kamo Choso–!”

And out comes a muffled reply, “I told grandpa to tell him!”

“Haaah? I told Yuji to.”

It sinks in. The fact that you were here, all prettily dolled-up and at their family home - and you’d happened to see him in nothing but a stained, ratty sweatshirt and pants torn down the side of his thigh to show off one tattoo. 

Jin grimaces, “Um…we can still wingman our way through this?”

“I’m gonna kill you.”

Murder does not, in fact, come before dinner; as all good manners dictate. And Sukuna decides that revenge can wait after he’s totally, completely, utterly made you swoon.

“S-so-” Only after a quick change into his best tightly-fitted turtleneck and his silver chains did he dare to show his face ‘round you again. Spritzing enough cologne to almost overpower Jin’s omurice, he tries to smize from where he was sitting right opposite you on the kotatsu. “Nice place, huh?” 

The shot of extra, extra strong sake that Wasuke slides over is a consolation as much as a ‘you’re not in a restaurant, you fool!’ He finishes the cup in one go.

“You do have a very beautiful home.” You’re nodding over at a proud Jin. 

“And the- food- how is the food?” Another cup- what moral support, father. 

“Mmm- amazing, I usually never have the time to cook much for myself with the kids n’ all.”

Which Jin takes as the cue for him to butt in on the conversation, helping it flow as smoothly as an enclosing dam would to a river. “You like kids, huh?” Kicking Sukuna underneath the kotatsu, he rattles the plates. “Our Ryo here also…tolerates children.”

“Really?” You’re teasing, “I couldn’t tell.”

“Why I love kids, yeah.” Sukuna tuts as he lifts his hand to pat the crown of Choso’s head- who only swerves out of the way, food finished n’ leaving the room to join his brother playing. Hiccuping, you were so pretty sat in front of him like this- too pretty, that the vision of you was starting to get blurry. 

And another cup.

He’s jostled by the tap of Jin’s hand on his arms- “And he’s actually quite sweet in his own way once you get to know him. I’m sure dad agrees-” Ignoring Wasuke’s ‘I don’t’. “-that he’d make such a responsible-”

“U-unless you don’t like kids.” Still stuck on that - still. Sukuna downs it and then shakily pours himself another. “In that case, I don’t like kids either. Yeah, can’t stand them.”

And another. 

Jin and Wasuke share a glance between themselves when the hulking man leans over the kotatsu towards you with what sounded suspiciously like a whine. “Would you want kids with me?”

And- 

“Sukuna-”

“W-well—time for Ryo to be put to bed, I think.” Jin hastily stands up, struggling to hoist his oversized younger brother from his seat. Failing, evidently, as in that time he’s managing to gulp down another two or three sake cups. “Dad- a little- help?”

Wasuke only shakes his head gravely at you, “You should know he was switched at birth.”

“We’re nearly identical twins–”

“Twins? What-” Sukuna babbles, “Does she want twins?”

Glassy eyes blinking n’ squinting furiously down at you as if trying to figure out whether you were real. Before ultimately giving up, it seems.

Because he’s stumbling a few unsteady steps forwards, pulled by Jin, before dropping to his knees and toppling his head over your lap, just by the gap of the kotatsu edge and your stomach. He’s nuzzling his face right against your tummy, “Mmm— maybe triplets. Would be the cutest fuckin’ things if they looked anything like hck! her.”

You giggle and he gasps- as if the epiphany had just struck him. “Quadruplets?”

Starin’ down at him, at the rosy blush painting his ears, you’re muttering. “You wish.”

“Dammit- even this hck! illusion of her is fine as fuck. Shit. I wonder if her type is…” 

Trailing off, he looks to his older brother for assistance- who helpfully supplies, “Sad and drunk?”

Wasuke’s contribution- “Zero game- as the kids say?”

“Dangerous?” You pretend to think, assessing over the mountainous heap of a man. “Actually- only pretends to be but is really a softie inside?”

“Yes! That- wonder if he type is dangerous…pretend dangerous. I’d give her all the kids she’d ever want- all big…n’ glowing…” It was almost like the setting of the sun, and just as quietly that Sukuna’s dipping past the edge of consciousness. “And…mine…if she wants. Oh, only if she wants- I’ve gotta- hck!” He turns up slightly to you, “-gotta woo her first, you see? Gotta date her…marry…but- but most of all…” Words slowing, heartbeat still racing whenever he looked at you. “I…just want to love you, pretty girl.”

And with that, he was out like a flickered light. 

With only Wasuke, Jin, and Choso with his camera snooping through the doorway as witnesses for when you’re snaking a hand down to the phone bulging in Sukuna’s pocket. Quickly entering a few coordinates and a date. 

And a heart emoji.

.

.

.

“Oh- oh, shit, mama.” Sukuna’s tongue lays over the sheeny insides of your thighs, throat muddled with groans and the cloying taste of your slick gluing to his rovering mouth.

Honestly, fuck whatever tips his family had made him memorize before coming over for his lil’ ‘talk’ at your cozy apartment, as promised. Because the two of you had barely made out two or three words before Sukuna found himself sprawled on his back on your bed. 

Your knees framing his face, your clothed cunt right near his mouth.

Right near where he’s dotting your skin with hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your entire body tremble. Whimpering over your shoulder, “D-didn’t think you’d be such a tease, Kuna.”

“Because this isn’t real.” He’s breathing out, as if he’s just so sure of that fact. As if he can glide his ringed index down the dampened slit of your folds and drool- because this feels like a dream n’ he was going to savor every moment. “Fuck, there’s no way this is-”

And just at that very moment, he’s craning his head up further between your pretty, pretty legs. Greedy tastebuds darted out just so he can catch the treacly splat! of your leaking slit.

Dampening his tongue n’ drooling all down the edge of his tattooed chin, “Do you even know how many times I’ve imagined this exact moment?”

“Mmm- no-” You’re wrenching out a heady puff of air- spread on your front in the meanest sixty-nine. You gulp down your parched throat as you’re taking in the wet, bulging outline of Sukuna’s erection through his boxers. “But I can guess.”

He was just so big, aching- 

Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t just rock-hard. He was hard enough that he’s sure his round, bawling tip was damn near ready to fall off, twitching oh-so-painfully in his pants as he’s snapping back your soaked panties with a wet thwack!

Just a glimpse of the wet haven you were hiding and he’s groaning throatily, “Guess-” He hisses, close enough that the straight end of his nose slides down your puffy pussylips. Nudging your panties to the side and sniiiiiffing you, “You’ll never be able to guess how badly I want you, pretty girl.”

Never.

Never would you have even been able to register that within mere split-seconds, he’d have one beefy arm looping around your hips to make you sit on top of his mouth.

Slamming the edge of your cunt against his chin, plopping your full weight down until he’s nose-deep between your quivering legs. “Fuck-” Letting the first gush of your saccharine juices flood his throat, lips against lips. “Fuck fuck fuck- what was I even…saying?”

“W-wait–” Your breath hitches, spine arching into such a perfect curvature. You claw onto his meaty thighs in an attempt to regain balance, “You won’t be able to breathe like this, Sukuna-”

“You think I fucking care?”

It’s spat - spat - out right against the swollen nub of your clit. Hazed crimson irises rolling to the veeeery deep, dark depths of his skull at the first long gliiiide of Sukuna’s tongue from top to bottom of your pussy. 

Cheeks hollowed the very moment he’s pushin’ himself even closer, “You think I ngh- can care about anything else?” The very moment he’s tugging you back down - with the full force of his upper strength, hard enough that your heated aches with raw, primal bruises. “Be a good girl n’ put that hah- pussy on my face. Fucking- sit-”

“I don’t- fuuuuck—” Fingers twitching, it’s all you can do to fumble with the drawstrings of his wettened boxers. 

Thighs shaking at every flicker of his slimy tongue swirlin’ and stirrin’ every inch of your outer pussy. Your head muddles with the realization that Sukuna’s tongue was just so long that he could lap at your glisten hole n’ still have enough length left over to snag on your clit. “You’re not going to be the only hah- one-”

Whimpering, you find your eyes blurring up each time the ridged texture of his tastebuds glissade between your folds. Curlin’ in just past the elastic circle of your entrance-

And you’re gasping - but you don’t know whether it’s because of the lecherous intrusion or because of the way you’re pushing down Sukuna’s snug underwear to free his massive cock.

Reddened, swollen.

He’s bulging all solid and girthy that it makes your hole clench ‘round his flexible tongue. The cutest ruby-red at the top of his shaft, forming a gradient all the way down to his tight, heavy balls. Mentally, you’re counting about nine- fuck, maybe even ten damn inches that hit the end of your chin as he springs up. 

And from where you’re straddling him, you can make out what looked like a matching thick, black band of ink around his bulky hilt. 

Letting the polished pink crown of his cockhead smear out a generous dollop of pre, you’re teasing your tongue out just enough to taste the salted caramel taste. 

“You’re so…” Sinking him past your spit-slicked lips, his swabbing mushroom tip is just so big that your jaw aches just by looking at him. Just by fitting him inside, right until his drivelling slit- “-s-sho big, Sukuna.”

“Fuck- fuck-” He’s spitting into your cunt and you find yourself flinching, hard enough that his pearly white canines nip at your thighs and you cry out.

And he’s only holding you back - not letting you shift your restless hips even a single centimeter as he’s eating you out like a man dying of thirst. Dry tastebuds lavishing himself with wads of slick, Sukuna’s stuffing your tight hole with the entirety of his tongue. “You’re m-making me drool.”

You swear you’re feeling the thin line of his wet spittle stain the front of your cunt, whimpering around his bulbous cockhead. “Made ya stutter, too, Sukuna.”

“Ohhhh- talkin’ smart, are we?” Snickering, he lets off a loud spank against the front of your pussy - one that makes your bones reverberate, and your mind numb. Pushin’ back to ride the circling girth of his tongue, to ride him. “Why don’tcha put that mouth into use elsewhere?”

Elsewhere - his cock was so hot and throbbing between your swollen lips. Just the slightest slip n’ slide makes it feel like he’s pulsing all the way at the back of your throat. 

Creamin’ out a spray of syrupy precum that slides down your tongue, “So big- too big.” And yet- it was just so cute how you’re suckling him like your favorite lolly, eyes criss-crossing when you’re trying to take more. He couldn’t even bottom out. “Mmm– dunno if it’ll even all fit.”

“Well…” 

The way he’s drawling out in a smoky tone makes you ponder that this won’t be ending well for you. And Sukuna’s dark chuckle hits your cunt in a murky gust, “You’re takin’ it in from here—” Just at that sultry second, he’s crowning the snug circle of your hole with two fingers. 

Making you break out with a shrill waiiil as he sinks in the thick, calloused curves of his fingerpads. Letting such thick digits stretch you out fully, make your head spin. “So shut it n’ take this looong fucking cock, ma.”

All that it takes for him to plunge a few more throbbing inches past your maw, oh-so-big that you’re drooling down the sides of your mouth already.

Striking the edge of your throat and making you choke on his sheer size, your nose wrinkles as you’re tickled by the curly tendrils of his pinkish hair. “This enough or you want three, pretty girl-”

“I-”

Letting out such a cloying squelch that spurts from your pussy once he’s teasin’ your entrance, “Not you, mama. She wants three.”

Moaning away wildly after each pump of his fingers- Sukuna doesn’t even have to try to dip into each nook n’ orifice. Slamming to fingers down to each knobbly knuckle with a resounding slam- “See? See?” 

So cockdrunk on the feeling of his velvety tongue that you’re only partly registering the way his vocals are higher. Unsteady. 

The way you’re clamping your dewy walls in a cute, squelching smooch ‘round his digits makes his voice fucking crack. “J-just take it a bit- fuck- deeper.” Mindless little half-thrusts up into your heated mouth like he can’t even control it- “You can swallow it up like a reeeeal good girl, can’t you?”

“Mmm—” Purposefully letting off your pretty sounds all over his fleshy girth, “Yes- yes yes yes- more.”

“More?”

“More.”

As if he wouldn’t fucking ruin you if he could. 

“You want more?”

“Y-yes- oh.”

Only to be gifted with such a rude slap of his doughy palm, “Not you.” And he’s waiting for the soppy squelches leaking out from your cunt, the way you’re talking to him from your swollen lips just to continue. 

Squelch after squelch.

Your pleas only spur him to tug at the sweet, softened ring of your cunt, latching his lips over the flexing muscle. “If you say so—” Crooning, you can feel the cold hiss of his metallic rings upon the insides of your thighs. Sukuna’s biceps shifting as he starts to tug them off–

“A-actually-” You’re popping off of the strawberry-pink curve of his cocktip with a plop! a few glittery strings of pre and spit still connecting you lewdly to it. “…Keep them on?”

“Oh. Ohoho- you naughty lil’ thing.” He’s swatting over the slope of your dripping wet pussy n’ giving your clit a good pinch with his ringed fingers. “You like it like this- like- this-?”

He’s spitting out each word into your cunt, thrusting the barrelling tips of his fingerpads to graze just below your pulsating g-spot. “All those mouthy lectures?” In vulgar tandem strokes with the thwack! of his heavy, curvaceous balls slapping your chin. “And you wanna take it like- this- mama? Ohhh, it just makes me wanna…”

Trailing off, Sukuna’s body is just bulky - oh-so-tall that he can bend and reach down to cup your throat with his one free hand. 

Digging five of his fingertips into the side of your throat as he’s holding your neck and squeezing- feeling the cylindrical outline of his cock bulging your poor mouth. Up n’ down, up n’ down- he’s feeling for the precise moments his plump cockhead lodges at the back of your throat. 

“Who’d have known the cute lil’ teacher would be such a slut f’me. Cat got yer tongue, girl, orrrr—s’it just my dick?” Humming over your clit, he’s adding a fourth finger that swabs at the texture of your gummy walls. 

“F-fuck off- ngh-”

“Wha’s that? Try- try and say my name?” Squeezing. Only feeling your ripped, pathetic vibrations. “Can f-feel myself over here.”

With four neatly pushing fingers. 

Pulling back with a sluuurp–! Slowly, just so that you whimper that the knobs of his joints, just so that he can thump right on the target of your g-spot and make you cry out in cute bliss. “So s’only fair that I’m over here, pretty girl.”

“Yes- yes yes yes—” Words bubble out and slur out of your maw, in unison with such sloshing spurts of saliva. 

You’re drooling everywhere - from both pairs of lips. Your mouth over Sukuna’s hard, vein-covered erection, glazing his puffy lines of veins with sap. And your pussy slide-slide-sliiiiding down the gaping area of his mouth, wide open and eagerly lapping up each sloppy drag of your hips.

Faster.  

And now that Sukuna had actually found your most favorite spot, he couldn’t fucking stop.

Not when each whack at that same exact spot makes you splash your sweetened slick all down his throat, not when you were clenching your walls and cryin’ out at the frigid brush of his thick rings.

Again and again, he’s probin’ his crowned fingertips to push against the insides of your pussy, “Don’t think m’gonna last ngh-”

 “Yeah-” And that’s not to say his tongue was letting you off easy, either- simply aching with the feverish state of his movements. But it hurt Sukuna more any moment he wasn’t snogging your glossy cunt, n’ so he’s slapping your clit with a wet one-two. Spank after spank to make your hips jerk back and forth, “Whaddaya want? To cum? S’that it?”

Blubbering over the taste of his slick, sensitive slit, “Yes- yes, please- m’so fucking close.”

“Not. You.” Each word ended with two swats on your simmering pussy, you’re webbing his chin all down with syrupy sap. 

Moving off from your throat with a final squeeze, a bicep tightening ‘round your hips to squeeze you in place. “Not you- but you, pretty girl.” Slickly gliding back and forth all over your pried-open cunt, all over the quivering rim of your hole. Everywhere and anywhere. “Why don’tcha talk louder?”

And it’s not just you riding his tongue dry - it’s Sukuna bucking animalistically upwards, too. Pressing the ridges of his washboard abs up against your front, you’re just fountaining out so much sappy slick that it’s running down to the large mouth that he had tattooed across his stomach. As if both his ravenous mouths were gulping up each of your slick puddles. 

Crooning at the oversaturated squelch that spills out of you- he’s nodding like he’s never heard a sweeter sentence. Nudging his knuckles to bump against your g-spot, “If you say so—”

You don’t get to find out what he’s hearing - but you’re registering the gist soon enough.

Because by then Sukuna has his ringed index swiping your g-spot, coldly massaging that bundle of nerves. Hard. Sloppy. At the very same second he’s settling the fringes of his canines on your perky clit and streeeetching-

“O-oh my god I’m—” Keening out a whimper, your high runs you over like a rollercoaster. And you’re rocking your boneless body to and fro just as much, thumping your thighs into Sukuna’s sharp jawline. 

“Yes-” Clenching around his motions so hard that he has to fight to unstick his digits from the sides of your bubblegum walls, still fucking you through your lecherous high. “Oh, hell yeah, been so good for you, mama- why don’tcha reward me? Use me- hck- use me.”

As if you weren’t thrusting your cunt back into his face in a frenzy already, he’s using the arm holding onto your waist to keep you repeatedly moving. 

Tired-out. Fingers tugging into each crevice of your velvety walls. Cheeks aching and hollow where he’s putting such force on your throbbing clit to suck- “Ride my- mmmf-” Talking with his mouth full, “Ride my fuckin’ face raw- wanted to taste y’cumming on my tongue for so long.”

With your spine arched, you’re pulling off of the bulged tip of his cock just as he’s spewing out a slimy ribbon of ivory white. Just a single drivel of cum- just from the way you’re cumming. 

“God- god fucking dammit.” Sukuna spits, right into your cunt. And he barely even takes his eyes off of your slobbering pussy to snake a free hand down and plug his geysering orifice with his thumb.

Stopping himself promptly from cumming if it isn’t anywhere near your pussy.

But that didn’t mean he was letting you get away.

Oh, no- he’s still pulling you back with inclines of his head like a man addicted. Thoroughly drunk on the heady globs of slick that travelled between your legs, pushing and pushing himself upwards to glue his glossed lips all over your cunt.

You can feel yourself squealing with each lap of his scratchy tongue- the primal overstimulation too much that great droplets of tears take over your eyes. 

“O-oh– fuck- m’so sensitive, Sukuna.” You’re arching your back away- “I don’t know if I- oh!” Only to get pulled back down. Toes curling when this only spurs him to dive himself even deeper, flopping out the flexible end of his tongue to try n’ flit past your squeezing hole. 

Drawling, “Remember those fuckin’ sugar cookies? You taste- hah- even fucking better.”

Sniffling, your spine zings with a few more zaps of electricity as he’s starting to caress your sweetened g-spot once more. 

And the only thing you can do is try and pathetically pry his firmly-planted palm from his lengthy shaft, trying for the life of you to just get another taste-

“Oh. Oh.” Sukuna gasps from behind, pink brows raising. “I see what you’re doing, pretty girl. H-heh…hungry for more, are you?”

He didn’t need any further answer - because the way you’re cutely clenching to glaze his scouring digits tells him more than enough.

And before you know it, you’re finding yourself pulled off of his long, aching cock like some glorified ragdoll. Sukuna was just so large - in every sense of the word - that he could manhandle you with only one arm. 

Clinging onto the side of your waist as he’s sitting up, he makes you straddle the twitchy length of his cock. And now that you were seated upon his lap- oh, could you admire him.

Ryomen Sukuna was a fucking masterpiece. 

From the bands of tattoos circling his biceps, his wrists, straight down to the plush of his sculptured thighs. “Like what you see?” He tilts his head cockily down at you, slouching sexily back on your wooden headboard to let you take in all of his tensed core. 

Glistening pecs all temptingly large, abs ripped. 

“M’gonna get those pretty haaah- fucking initials of yours tatted.” He’s tapping the prominent side of his left v-line with a polished finger, “Right here.”

Climbing further upon his lap, you rest your ass cheeks back against his swaying cock, bobbing so hard n’ proud between your sheeny thighs. Pouting, “Only if you fuck me, Kuna— ngh-”

“Kuna? Tch- you see that lil’ tattoo here, mama?” He sounded as if he was shattering, and he’s leaning back so that you can take a goood, long look at the circular tattoo on his base. Nuzzled by the tufts of his pinkish happy trail, and his tender underside - but it was still there.

Like a target. And Sukuna’s thinking the exact same thing, “You’re gonna take it riiiight- till- here-” Lodging the swollen end of his shaft to plug your hole, it’s such a tiiight fit as he starts bullying inside. “Until- hah-” Feeling a hand down your tummy, your womb. “-here.”

He was going to fit himself until your pretty pussy won’t be able to forget him.

And it takes only seconds for you to be clawing onto his tattooed deltoids for dear life, feeling the inner parts of your thighs slip n’ slide down his own with perspiration. You scramble with the stringy, slightly-torn fabric of your panties still on- “Kuna- Su–Kuna, this-”

“Nah, let it stay.” Snickering, he claws onto the top of your scalp. “You have much…heh- bigger ngh- problems ta worry about, pretty girl.”

Bigger - his prolonged shaft was simply ravaging your walls. Plumply ballooned-up enough that his veiny layer rubs your sweetest spots without even meaning to, and you’re just seeing stars with every inch deeper his mazing cock spears through. “Fuck- fuck, it really is big-”

“Mhm– and you’re going- to take- it all.” Times like this he’s wishing he had just about four fucking hands. Because one’s pushing down, down, down on the lolling top of your head, the other’s pushin’ your trembling thighs apart just so you could straddle his meaty hips. “All hah- say my name. Say my name while you take it-”

And he always did love the way you said his name.

The way you’re letting free a few bubbly spurts of saliva as you’re babbling away–”Sukuna- Su-” Throat clogging up with so many sobs of utter bliss, “Kuna—”

“Again with the ‘Kuna’- s’not my name, silly girl.” Even though each sound of that slurring nickname makes him twitch against your deepest insides. 

But you can’t even hear him properly, eardrums distantly popped until the only thing you can feel is the thump! of your heartbeat between your legs. And the way that his reddened, slick-glazed tip was thrashing your tight insides, “Kuna- ngh, please, Kuna. Wan’ it a-all hck! Inside.”

The swabbing girth of his cock was so fat that he has you stupid with just his size, biceps bulging as he’s pressurizing down on your head. “God-” And you can only blink pathetically once he’s bringing up his free hand to your blurry line of sight. Hissing, “Bite down-” Lips smirking as you plant a kittenish bite, he fucks up into you once to make your force increase. “Bite down harder and take it.”

He wasn’t wasting any time - he didn’t have the fucking patience.

He barely even had the sanity to tease you and edge you for hours on end like he’d always wanted to. Instead fucking up into you like a damn animal- he’s swatting your cunt with the edge of his throbbing cock. Spitting through clenched teeth, “O-oh, if yer gonna ask for all of it then m’not playin’ around, ma.”

You sink your teeth in and nearly scream into the flesh of his forearm, gnawing down right at his tattoo. “Mmmpf- big- nghh–” Unable to fucking take it, the only thing you can do is arch your hips deeper and let his pummeling rams spike your poor insides.

Hitting the very back of your cervix with a wet thwack! that makes your eyes damn near bulge out of your head.

He…bottomed-out. 

“Lemme check now…” Taking a single peek at the way his hilt was all covered up by your bloated folds until he couldn’t see that tattoo anymore. “S’all in.”

And the towering man wasn’t celebrating once he did - he was pumping all his fleshy inches into you like he’d gone feral. 

Eyes dazed and hooded, mouth frothing with a line of silver drool - Sukuna grunts after each singular gliiiide of his watery orifice drawing down the bottom of your pussy. Sloppy. “F-fucking hell, never felt like this- what the…”

“Are you okay- oh god nghh–”

“M’fuckin’ more than okay.” Spitting out crassly, Sukuna swerves his hips off of the rickety bedsprings to drag his cock harder down your cunt. And it just felt so delicious to have his swollen veins stir up your walls, “S’just— who let you feel this good?”

Your honeyed cunt has made him way too pussydrunk that now he’s tattling out everything from his melty mind. And you can only whine– “Heh-” One hand grazing his scorched ear, “You’re blushing, Kuna- better not be ngh- tapping out on me.”

“Tapping out?” Punctuated by a hard spank against the door to your womb - exactly where he said he would be - and then a harder one against your mapped-out g-spot. “Me? Me tappin’ out?”

Blinking through the splotchy whites sparking in your vision, “Y-yeah- fuck!”

SPANK!

Oh-so-hard, he’s swatting your pussy with enough stinging force that it makes glittering drops of slick splash across his slamming palm. “You n’ this smartass pussy are gonna see.” He’s gritting through dangerously grinning teeth, “There’s a fuckin’ reason I’m Ryomen fucking Sukuna.”

Because he’s rude - and he fucks even ruder.

Pounding away upwards into you like he doesn’t care if he’s bruising great purple bruises at the bottom of your cervix. The mattress creaks in fervent protest after each gyration of his hips, “P-please-” The only thing you’re mewling out like a broken record, “I-it just feels so…”

Trailing off, your movements are sluggish as your hand starts to slither down between your rutting legs. Yearning to just touch your neglected clit-

SPANK!

“Oi- and who’d ya think you are to touch- hngh- my pretty girl?” He’s grinning, manhandling you in an instant. Before your candied brain can catch up, Sukuna has both your arms pinned behind your back, chin hitting his cushy pecs. “I’ll touch her when I feel like it-”

Such a fucking tease, at the constant timing of his slimy mushroom tip spearing your cunt like a headlight- Sukuna lifts off one of his hands downwards.

Replacing your own with his roughened fingers, he pinches your poor clit—“Sh-shit m’so sensitive there- keep going, Kuna–”

And at this point you weren’t just drooling you were sheening the entirety of his smooth pectorals with a shiny polish. Letting it smear down the side of your cheek as you drunkenly lean on them like pillows, “Chehhh-” He’s spitting out, staring down at the glistening glaze dripping down to his bumpy abs. “Tha’s supposed to stay inside, pretty girl.” 

“I-inside?” Dazedly, the only thing you can think of were your rummaging insides, the way that Sukuna was fucking you like he hated you.

But it was the complete opposite. And he’s draggin’ on your clit, giggling to himself like he’s in love as he watches you huff n’ puff. “God you love it like this- c’mon, ngh- teach, milk this fucking cock- why don’t ya?”

“I-I am-”

SPANK! 

“Harder, mama, make me feel it.”

With a right spank to emphasize his sentence, he’s jostling his hips upwards so you’re left throwing your head back at the full, stretching impact. Unable to even handle the slightly spring recoil that comes with striking your cervix, he’s bouncing you on his pelvis. 

“S’this what you thought about every- hah- time you saw me?” Taking hold of your neck for a brief moment, he’s spitting doooown your throat. “Wantin’ me to fuck this- ngh- pussy raw?”

And the locked restraint on your neck helps bend you into the perfect geometrical curvature to stare up at him as he collapses forwards. Hot breath wafting your features, you whimper- “Y-yes.”

“Not you.”

“Kuna.”

“I’ve been dreamin’ of this for aaages now-” His clammy forehead crinkles as he’s scratching down your clit with the rough texture of his happy trail. Leaving it all stinging n’ raw to make sure the impact is extra sensual as Sukuna rubs over a slooow ‘K’ right on top. 

Rutting into your poor cunt so hard that the skin surrounding his v-line was all reddened- and he can’t help but take one look and moan. “M’getting that tattooed.” Watching as his mean, curvaceous cock molded your walls constantly to him. “Oh- trust when I say-”

And then a ‘U’

“Fuh-fuuuuck, please-” It almost feels like you’re begging for your damn life by now, lungs ripping with moans every time he’s thumping up. You ride your hips in a sexy figure-eight and feel the way Sukuna’s thumb trembles on your clit. 

A wobbly ‘N’

And you already knew what was headed next- oh, you were already prepared. 

But what you weren’t ready for was the completely vicious way that he’s accelerating his papping hips, so fast that the dark tattoo nuzzling your entrance was almost a blur. Thump after thump- 

You’re falling over until that symbolic inking of a widely-opened maw on his stomach licks up your core. Body twitching with white hot flashes of something electric running through your veins, “F-fuck- fuck, s’not gonna last-”

“S’that soooo—?” Sukuna asks down at your pussy to confirm, and only after a few ‘uh-huh’’s does he bore into your stupidly heart-shaped eyes. Tongue lolling straight out for him to lap up into his own mouth, “She says you’re close-”

A firm ‘A’

Another SPANK!

“-and I say you’re cumming already.”

“Wh-what…”

He’s ending off with a perfect heart shape rolled over your clit. What’s that spell- he’s asking mentally. 

Only for you to mewl wantonly as if you’d just heard. “Kuna- Sukuna- Yes- yes m’cumming m’cumming—” 

It’s like you’re enveloped in a tidal wave - you didn’t know where your orgasm started and where it ended. Just that Sukuna’s moans break into something octaves higher as he fucks you through your bliss.

You claw down the expanse of his flexing back with each burst of pre splattering your gooey insides. Toes curled, eyes all teary. “I-it’s so- hck! Feels too good…”

Turning you into absolute mush every time he pumps his thorough inches into you- and the mean fingers on your nub just tug n’ tug.

And it’s only after a few more of your shrilling whines that you’re still feeling the hot entrance of his shaft plummeting through, your walls squeezing ‘round his flared tip. “I want you to cum, too, Sukuna.”

“F-fuck.” He lets out, softly.

Cupping his attractive face, if you thought you were gone then you weren’t ready for the way that Sukuna looked. Cheeks burning hot and red, mouth parted with overspilling drool, brows furrowed into such an expression that it almost makes you feel shy.

Repeating those very same words, you start sloppily swervin’ your hips straight to his. “Cum inside m- ngh, please?”

All this time and his cute lil’ teacher was still minding her p’s and q’s. 

So, of course, when you’re asking him that nicely- it’s the least he could do to listen. To let out a final, vulgar stroke that has him spilling over the edge.

In great, piling heaps of ivory cum that puddles at the bottom of your pussy. There’s so much of it that your ears ring with the lecherous sluuurp–! as your cunt walls suck up every last steaming drop. 

You can feel it trailing down the insides of your thighs like a waterfall and keen, “Just like that, f-fuck…” Almost like you’re hypnotized, you drag one of his much-larger hands to palm the outside of your tummy. “Can feel it all the way here.”

“O-oh my god…” He’s groaning, eyes drifting off to the back of his head as soon as you’re meeting his tempo. Slamming down to rob his aching balls, milking him all dry - you were overspilling and it still wasn’t enough. “Y’really are a dream.” 

And there’s something about the way he’s sluggishly brushing away a stray bead of perspiration from your temple. Something about that lazy, half-lidded look in his eyes, the complete n’ utter reverence in his tone as he asks- “So…s’your type ‘dangerous’, mama?”

Almost…shy.

Oh, it hits you. He’s pussydrunk.

You’d made big, bad Ryomen Sukuna completely and utterly pussydrunk.

To the point where his studded ears flare a deep crimson once you giggle, “Mmm- pretend dangerous, Kuna.” His eyes shine. You think back to that night at the Itadori household, “And I also remember something about quadruplets?” 

It’s then that Sukuna whimpers. 

Not even pulling out. Not even considering such an impossible feat for even a split-second before he rolls your weakened body over.

Hovering over you now, it’s so easy for his beefy arms to tug your legs over his shoulders. Still shaking. Still suffering from the aftermath of your orgasm as he’s holding them tight and bending down, down, dooooown.

Straight into a mating press. 

Oh, your breath catches.

“Before I pound you until you can’t haaah- walk, mama-” Uncharacteristically, Sukuna gulps as he shifts his crimson eyes away from you. “-m’I giving you quadruplets that’ll have my last name?”

Now that was a round-about way to ask someone out- and he knows it, too. 

But it only makes you shuffle up onto your elbows on the now-ruined sheets, sticking to you like glue. You place a lingering peck on Sukuna’s wobbly, overstimulated lips, “Mm- I love you, too, Kuna.”

Oh, how he loves you. He almost cums right then and there. 

Fuck.

He does. 

.

.

.

“You.”

“You.” Yuji narrows his eyes down at the sight of Ryomen Sukuna towering over the busy preschool pick-up. Trying to look over his broad shoulders for any sign of his father, “Huh? But dadda said he was coming to pick me up today?”

Sukuna gingerly scratches the back of his head, “Yeah, well…listen, twerp- I mean, kid. There’s something I need to-”

Only to be cut off by a dramatic gasp—“Oh no- Did dadda go to jail just like you-”

“No,”

“Did he drive fast-”

“No.”

“Did he drink-”

“No-”

“Did he slash tires-”

“Maybe once?”

And fuck- he really didn’t understand tiny children, because explain to him why the pink-haired boy starts bawling in his arms. Pitiful enough to draw the glares of parents wrenching their own children away from the perpetrator, loud enough to draw the sweet concern of you.

Walking from your station saying goodbye to one other student, “Yuji what- oh!” You’re pressing your lips together to contain your smile as you happen to see who was throwing Yuji on his shoulders to soothe him. Bouncing him lightly until he smiled- and you did, too. “I didn’t expect you so early today, Kuna.”

“Yeah, well.” He’s using Yuji’s palms to cover the pinkish ends of his blushing ears, “Decided I wanted to see ya off from work today.”

Now past grief and straight into utter nosiness- “Wait- what do you mean ‘see off’.” He gasps, “Is she going to ja-”

“Brat-”

“What your uncle means to say, Yuji-” Playfully pinching his chubby cheeks, you try to ignore the gawking stares of every other one of your remaining students as you promptly turn to face Sukuna. Giving him a sweet, sweet peck on his. “-is that you’ll be seeing a lot more of me around.”

Another gasp - well, multiple.

One from Itadori Yuji, who gapes, open-mouthed between you and his uncle - as if wondering how he ever managed to bag you, and wait does that mean you’re his auntie now?

About twenty from your crowd of students, right along with a few whispers. 

“Hey, isn’t that weird Mr. Mugshot?”

“So that’s why Mr. Mugshot was always red- eugh! In my momma’s dramas they don’t get together, they just die.”

Fushiguro frowns, “I would rather die than watch him like this. Gross.”

“Caviar.”

Walking up from the group, Fushiguro tugs on your skirt. Innocently - but Sukuna could feel the evil intent. He just knew that boy was a villain. “Inumaki asks whether you mind that he sets fires, miss.”

What the fuck is with the fires-

And then finally - three distinct, unfortunately familiar gasps that make Sukuna dread turning around. Struggling against it, even as his nephew tugs on his locks of pink hair with a delighted squeal- “Dadda–! Bubba–! Gramps-”

You smile, watching Choso take flustered pictures of his uncle. “How the hell did you even win her over? All of these are going in the blackmail folder. Maybe your wedding presentation too.”

Sukuna bites back a shy blush- turning it into a scowl, “Maybe…”

“Well, I’ll be.” Wasuke nods his head in approval, “All thanks to the ah- ‘wingmanning’ as the kids say. I’ll be expecting at least three grandchildren in the future, sonny. And when I say ‘future’ I mean in nine months-”

“Dad! It’s too early for that.” Jin, ever-the-voice-of-reason, gives you a breezy handshake. “Congratulations- by the way.” And it’s all soft. It’s all sweet- that is, until you’re trying to pull your hand back and he only tightens his grip. Smile still tightly in place, “I will be the kids’ godfather, by the way.”

Settling an arm around you now, You and Sukuna don’t know whether to laugh or stand in shocked silence as Jin finally sets you free - but you don’t have to make the choice.

Because the annoying, grating voice of Todo Aoi breaks through—“Noooooo– my bride!” 

A/N. Hope you have a lovely week <3

Plagiarism not authorized.

[mahalsuya]

in this house, we bark back!

pairing: dad toji fushiguro x mom reader x toddler megumi

synopsis: megumi, a toddler who really takes after his father is convinced by his parents that he will turn into a dog too.

notes: i saw this tiktok and cried laughing, please watch, before or after you read either one works! i cut in like once or twice sorry lmfao. not proofread at all!

it was just past 1 o’clock when you finished lunch for your husband and child. you set bowls on the table and called for your boys.

“toji! megumi! lunch is ready!”, you yelled into your home not sure where either of them were. toji leisurely walked down the stairs with his normal smirk, greeting you with a few kisses and a gentle squeeze on your ass.

megumi and his shikigami dogs came barreling out of the playroom, megumi laughing as the black dog carried him by the tag end of his shirt. when megumi noticed you and his father, he stopped laughing, eyebrows furrowed in disgust. “gross” he muttered under his breath.

toji heard and replied, “i heard that brat. sit down and eat your food.”

you went and grabbed a bowl of cut up strawberries for you all. strawberries are their favorites — like father, like son. megumi, not really knowing how to control his limbs too well being a toddler, flung himself forward towards the bowl of fruit. he knocked several slices of fruit onto the ground where his dogs were waiting. at the sight and scent of the fruit, the dogs began licking at them, eating some. megumi ate one, probably unaware that the one he’d chosen had been licked.

eating food off the ground was a new habit megumi had picked up. he’d seen his father do it a lot (even though you hated it) when he would drop snacks on the ground. monkey see…monkey do.

you turned your nose up at your child until a deafening noise came out of your husband.

“OH MY GOD MEGUMI”

megumi’s eyes went wide and his cheeks turned so red in embarrassment. you were confused as to what your husband was yelling about because… he eats food off the ground (lmfaoo fatass).

“megumi, did you just eat the strawberries your dogs licked?” your husband asked, eyes wide and mouth parted. you’re still confused.

megumi began stammering. he’s only a child doing things like his father, he didn’t know he didn’t something wrong. “y-yeah yeah, i like strawberries and m-mom always says don’t waste food, and you do thi-”

he was cut off by your husband. “you’re gonna turn into a dog now.” you finally caught onto what your husband was doing and had to stifle a laugh. you palmed your face trying to cover your laugh but to megumi, it seemed like you were upset. toji squeezed your thigh under the table and you took that as your cue to butt it.

“gumi.. i thought we told you once your animal friends start showing up, you have to be very careful because bad things can happen” you said lowly, eye brows pinched together, feigning disappointment.

“w-what? what! i didn’t know about that. i’ve done it before!”

you and toji both gasped incredibly loud, jaws dropping. you both murmured “oh my gods”, looking around and exasperated.

toji turned to you saying, “do you think his fur has started growing in?” you replied, “there’s only one way to know”

you stood up and walked behind megumi, checking his back and shoulders underneath his shirt. you slapped a hand over your mouth as toji dropped his forehead on the table.

“mooooomm! stop it! i don’t have fur, tell me i dont!” poor megumi was on the brink of tears.

you backed away from him, his dogs still eating the strawberries strewn across the floor. toji stood up and started backing away too. poor megumi wasn’t sure who to look at. tears began falling. you felt bad but toji? he was having the time of his life.

“is there any medication i can take? is there something i can do? pleaseeeee help me!”

you and toji both walked to your son, hugging him and petting him like he was a dog. this… this sent megumi over the edge. he jumped out of his chair and tried hiding behind the couch.

“baby it’s okay, i’ll still rub your back when you’re a dog. i’ll still feed you your favorite foods, okay? toji, do you think he can still each chocolate or will it kill him?”

megumi’s mouth dropped open in an o. “i don’t know mama. we need to get a cage installed in his room for sure”

megumi was crying and said “please!! we can call someone to help right? please”

toji twisted his face into a confused look. “can you understand him? all i hear is barking”

this really did not help megumi who threw his head back against the couch. his tears stopped. megumi had accepted his fate.

you started barking at megumi, laughing a little in between, toji joining in. you started laughing so you pretend to cry into toji’s chest, until toji laughed so loud it hurt your ears and scared the dogs. he let go of you and buckled over, falling on all fours back heaving with laughter.

you started giggling too and went over to pick up megumi. despite all your teasing, megumi never shied away from your touch. you kissed his temple and rubbed his back. “we’re just kidding gumi, you won’t turn into a dog, okay? i pinky promise!” megumi’s little pinky hooked with yours as toji finally calmed down from laughing.

“wow i’ve really outdone myself now, huh?”

you giggled until you remembered that megumi said he only ate food off the ground because his daddy did it.

“hey, quit eating off the floor! you’re the reason he did it in the first place!”

you quickly turning your attention from megumi to his father made him laugh, his tear stained cheeks bouncing with each giggle.

toji threw his hands up in defense, “hey! how’d this get turned on me!”

with a higher pitch in your voice, you turned to megumi and asked him, “should we leave daddy to clean all this up? hmm, what do you think?”

megumi laughed again resting his head on your chest while nodding. you hummed with delight at his choice.

you adjusted megumi to be looking over your shoulders while you climbed the stairs, leaving toji to clean the dog slobbered floors and lunch off the table. as you walked, megumi stuck up his middle finger at his father, something toji did often.

toji squinted his eyes and returned the gesture, unbeknownst to you. “brat”, he muttered under his breath.

“hey! don’t talk to him like that or i’ll feed you to the dogs”. this really made megumi laugh. he wriggled to get out of your arms and ran up to his room. you sighed and turned around. toji looked at you with pure love and adoration. you rolled your eyes at him and flipped him off.

megumi was as much your child as he was toji’s.

AGHH THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE!! I HOPE YOU LOVE IT!!! reblogs, comments, feedback, and follows, all appreciated!!

dividers by @haonian

[mahalsuya]

When the cute fluff I’ve spent forever searching for suddenly turns into fucking smut

[mahalsuya]

yk the story us tew good when the FLUFF makes you CRY MULTIPLE TEARS.

Tinder's a Bad Idea (And So Is He)

Pairing — Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader

Synopsis — You, freshly single, match with Sukuna, a tattooed gym rat with a profile that screams red flag, by accident. He opens with, “Are you emotionally stable? No? Perfect.” You tell yourself it’s just banter but somehow you’re still texting him at 2 a.m. He won’t stop flirting, you won’t stop giving him sass. It’s doomed, obviously. Right?

Content — modern!au, dating apps, fluff, implied smut, reader's in denial, Sukuna is down bad.

Word count — 5.7k

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Not at Echelon, the overpriced bar with cocktails named after astrology signs and drinks served with tiny clouds of dry ice. Not in a short black dress your ex said was “too much.” And definitely not letting your best friend hijack your phone to swipe through Tinder like she was defusing a bomb.

“He was a dick,” Yuki mutters, jabbing left with the kind of righteous fury only a best friend can muster 24 hours after your relationship imploded. “I don’t care if he had a skincare routine. He cried at Dune but not when he gaslit you. Pathetic.”

You don’t argue. Mostly because she’s not wrong. Also because you’re sipping something called a “Pisces Ascending” and it’s suspiciously strong.

“I didn’t even redownload Tinder for this,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the glowing screen. “It was a joke. You know, post-breakup spiral humour?”

“Well,” Yuki grins, tilting your phone like it’s a weapon, “the algorithm’s spoken. Time to hunt.”

A few more lefts. A few rights. Mostly lefts. And then she freezes. Her eyes narrow.

“Oh my god,” she breathes. “Look at this menace.”

You lean over, peering blearily at the profile.

Sukuna, 28📍 5 miles away Gym rat. Tattooed menace. Not looking for love, just chaos. If you’re emotionally stable, I’m not interested. Also: yes, they’re real. No, I won't tell you how many.

His photos are pure ego. One shirtless mirror selfie that should be a red flag but is somehow hot. One with a beer in each hand at a music festival. One grinning on a motorbike with messy pinkish hair like he just doesn’t give a damn.

Yuki cackles. “He looks like a walking HR violation.”

You snatch the phone back. “Absolutely not.”

You try to swipe left but then your thumb slips.

It’s a match!

“Oh, hell no,” you whisper.

Before you can even exit the app, a message pings.

Sukuna: Are you emotionally stable? You: Absolutely not. Sukuna: Perfect. Let’s make bad decisions together.

You shouldn’t reply. You shouldn’t smile. But it's been a long week and you’re tipsy, and the last time someone texted you after 10 p.m. it was to remind you to grab oat milk.

You: What kind of chaos are we talking? Sukuna: The kind that texts you at 2 a.m. and ruins your plans to stay single. 😈

You stare at the screen.

Yuki peers over your shoulder and groans. “No. Block him. Burn your phone. That man is an emotional car crash.”

You bite your glossed lip, still staring at your screen like it might catch fire. Like he might crawl through it, all tattoos and testosterone and too-cocky grin.

Sukuna’s profile should’ve been a flashing neon sign: DO NOT ENGAGE. CONTAINS UNSTABLE MATERIALS. MAY BITE.

But you’ve had your fair share of hookups. The kind that lasted three weeks and ended with ghosting. The kind that didn’t even bother with names. The kind that left lipstick on hotel pillows and little else. You knew the drill. Knew the risk. And you weren’t exactly planning to fall for someone again, especially not someone like him.

Still. A little banter wasn’t love. And flirting? Harmless.

Besides, your ex cheated on you with someone who said “doggos” unironically and still texted like it was 2014. Emotionally unavailable, self-absorbed and couldn’t even pick a decent playlist for your anniversary dinner. At least Sukuna didn’t pretend to be the good guy.

You tap back into the chat.

You: That’s a bold assumption. Maybe I’m the one who ruins people’s plans.

The dots start typing immediately.

Sukuna: Prove it. I dare you.

You inhale slowly, heart thudding harder than it should for a text from a man who probably has zero intention of holding doors or returning calls. And yet there’s something magnetic. Dangerous. The kind of thrill you only chase when you're freshly wounded and a little reckless.

“Don’t,” Yuki warns, eyeing you like you’ve just picked up a lit match over gasoline. “You’ll regret it. Guys like him? They’re hot for about five minutes and then suddenly you’re crying on my couch eating expired Ben & Jerry’s.”

“I’m not going to meet up with him,” you say quickly. “It’s just texting. I need a distraction.”

She arches a skeptical brow. “Famous last words.”

You don’t answer. You just type again.

You: Okay, Sukuna. What exactly are your ‘bad decisions’ ranked by danger level? I need a menu.

The response is immediate. Too immediate.

Sukuna: 🧨 Level 1: Making out in the back of my car. 🔥 Level 2: Letting me pick the playlist on a road trip. ☠️ Level 3: Catching feelings. 💀 Level 4: Letting me stay the night.

You stare. Swallow. That little zing at the base of your spine is entirely inappropriate and entirely unstoppable.

You: Who said I’d make it past level 1? Sukuna: You’re still texting me. That’s already Level 0: Mistake in Progress. 😏

You stifle a laugh. God, this is so dumb. So impulsive. So not what a freshly heartbroken, emotionally fragile person should be doing. And yet you haven’t smiled like this in weeks.

“Just texting,” you whisper under your breath as you put your phone face-down on the table, heart thumping and cheeks warm.

Yuki sips her drink with a sigh. “This is either going to be a rebound or a romcom. There is no in-between.”

You smile to yourself. “Let’s hope it’s at least entertaining.”

>>><<<

You don’t meet up with Sukuna. Not in the first week. Not in the second. Not even when he starts getting creative with his invitations.

Sukuna: Bar. Friday. 9PM. I’ll be the hot guy making bad choices. You: I already see a red flag in that sentence. Sukuna: Baby, I am the red flag. And yet you still haven’t unmatched me. Curious.

He’s not wrong but you have your rules. And the first is never mix real life with chaos-on-a-motorbike. So you keep it digital. Flirty. Harmless.

You tell yourself it’s just texting. Just late-night banter and middle-of-the-day distractions. You let it become your secret guilty pleasure, one that fits perfectly between legal briefs and over-priced salads, tucked into the dull hours of your nine-to-five.

Sometimes he texts you before you’ve even gotten out of bed.

Sukuna: If you were here, I wouldn’t let you leave the bed. You: I’d be calling HR. Sukuna: Baby, I am HR. Human Recklessness.

You roll your eyes. You laugh. You text back anyway. Because somehow, he makes it easy. He doesn’t ask about your ex. Doesn’t pry into the cracks you’re still trying to patch up. Doesn’t pretend to be deep or gentle or even good. He just exists like a walking, talking temptation with zero expectations.

A few times, you try to ghost him. Let the messages pile up. Tell yourself you’re done. That it’s not healthy, not smart, not sustainable. But then he sends something stupid. Something that makes your lips twitch while you’re elbow-deep in deposition paperwork or scrolling through client emails.

Sukuna: If you were a legal document, you’d be a binding contract. I’d sign in blood. You: That’s... deeply concerning. Sukuna: Tell me you’re not turned on though. You: I’m not. Sukuna: Liar.

You find yourself smiling in meetings. Snorting into your coffee when your boss is talking about quarterly goals.

At night, your phone lights up like a second pulse, always him. Always some new one-liner, some inappropriate joke, some chaotic thought that somehow finds its way under your skin.

Yuki notices.

“Oh no,” she says one night, watching you from across your apartment as you laugh quietly into your wine glass. “You’ve caught feelings for the emotionally unavailable thirst trap.”

“I have not,” you insist. “It’s just texting.”

“Mmhm.” She raises a brow. “Do you text the barista from Pret a Manger every night? No. You don’t. You’re emotionally investing in the human equivalent of a red Solo cup.”

“He’s not even my type.”

“That’s the problem.”

And she’s right, of course. Sukuna is everything you’ve ever avoided on purpose. Loud. Shameless. Arrogant. He probably listens to trap remixes of anime themes and thinks leg day is a personality trait.

You like soft guys. Hard-working guys. The ones who bring flowers on the second date and call their mom on Sundays. Not men who flirt like they’re trying to seduce a war. But still…

Sukuna: Ever gonna let me see you in person, or are we sticking to digital foreplay forever? You: Forever sounds safe. Sukuna: Coward. You: Realist. Sukuna: I bet I could change your mind. You: I bet you couldn’t. Sukuna: 📝 Challenge accepted. You’ll cave, eventually.

You won’t, though. You’ve told yourself that a hundred times already. You won’t fall for a guy like him.

You’ve made that your personal mantra. A sacred little promise, whispered internally every time your phone buzzes with one of his messages, witty, obscene, wildly inappropriate, or somehow, maddeningly charming. You repeat it with religious devotion, clinging to it like armor as if the very words will protect you from slipping.

Because this has always been a game. Just texting. Harmless fun. A buffer between you and the jagged edges of your breakup, between the nights spent dissecting every little betrayal your ex left in his wake. Sukuna, this virtual flirtation, this absurdly hot, tattooed man-child on the other end of a chat window, has been a fantasy. A walking red flag confined safely to your screen.

Until now.

It’s Sunday. A blistering, sun-glazed, humid mess of a day that clings to your skin like a second, unwanted layer. You’re standing in line at a boutique ice cream shop with your older sister and your two-year-old niece, your patience wilting by the second. Your niece is slumped on your hip, warm and heavy and slightly sticky, her tiny arms curled around your neck like a sleepy koala.

Your hair is pulled into a high ponytail to fight the heat, but it’s a losing battle. Sweat dampens the nape of your neck, trailing between your shoulder blades. Your tank top, once cute, now feels like a portable sauna.

Your sister is rattling off a steady monologue beside you, fanning herself with the crumpled receipt from her vegan cookie, complaining about the cost of a scoop of pistachio gelato and launching into an impromptu speech about climate collapse. You nod, murmur responses at the right moments, but your mind is already glazed over. All you want is cold sugar and air conditioning.

Finally, the line moves. You’re two steps from the counter, your niece now half-dozing against your chest and you exhale like you’ve crossed the finish line of a marathon. The air smells like melted waffle cones and artificial strawberries. Someone’s kid is crying in the corner. You feel delirious from the sun, sleep-deprived and half-feral, but at least you’re about to eat.

Then it happens.

A low voice cuts through the noise, amused and unmistakably familiar.

“Well, shit.”

You freeze.

It’s like someone cracked an egg over your spine; a slow, cold awareness drips down your back. The hair on your arms lifts. Your stomach knots. You turn, heart stumbling over itself as you adjust your niece on your hip and face the source of the voice.

And there he is.

Sukuna’s standing a few feet away, smirking like the universe just handed him a victory lap. His hair is even messier in person, dyed a muted rose and damp at the roots, like he just ran his hands through it. He’s wearing a charcoal grey tank top that clings to his body in all the places you hate yourself for looking at, arms tattooed in curling lines and jagged shapes and sunglasses pushed back on his head. His skin is sun-warmed, golden and glistening, like he’s been on his motorbike too long without caring.

He looks, god, he looks exactly like you pictured. And somehow worse for your resolve.

For a moment, the entire ice cream shop narrows to just him. The heat, the children, your sister’s voice, the slow-dripping chocolate from someone else’s cone, it all vanishes. You’re too busy processing the fact that Sukuna, a man you never intended to see outside of texts and carefully curated thirst traps, is here. In your space. In your Sunday.

He grins when you don’t speak right away, eyes flicking over your niece still clinging to you like a sleepy barnacle, then up to your ponytail, your flushed face, your stunned expression.

“You ghosting me in person now?” he teases, his voice velvet and edged with amusement.

Your throat goes dry. You try to summon a witty retort, something that puts distance between you, something that reaffirms your control, but your mouth opens and closes like you’ve just forgotten how to be a person.

“I—I told you I wasn’t going to meet up,” you finally manage, swallowing hard.

Sukuna steps closer, slowly, like he’s enjoying watching you squirm.

“I didn’t say you did,” he says, eyes never leaving your face. “Looks like fate just did me a solid.”

Beside you, your sister abruptly stops her rant. You feel her glance sideways at him, then at you, then back again.

“Who is that?” she whispers not very quietly. You ignore her.

You want to deny it. Want to say something cutting, to put the distance back where it belongs. But your heart is racing in your chest, loud and uneven, and you realise, horrifyingly, that you’re smiling. Not a full smile, not a beam, but the kind of involuntary twitch your face makes when you’re surprised and just a little delighted.

Sukuna notices. Of course he does. His grin spreads wider.

“You look good,” he says softly and the words land like a slow burn in your chest.

You hate the way you react to it. The way your body betrays you with a flutter low in your stomach. The way your heart hiccups, as if desperate to climb out of your chest and throw itself at him. This is not supposed to happen.

You shift your niece to the ground as she reaches for her tiny cone, your hands a little unsteady, your mouth dry. You glance back at Sukuna with as much sarcasm as you can scrape together.

“You stalking me now?” you ask, but your voice is a bit too quiet, a bit too breathless.

He chuckles, stepping into the sunlight slanting through the shop’s open door, his tattoos stark against his skin. “Please. You think I wouldn’t jump at a chance to see that ponytail in person?”

Your sister lets out a laugh, a real one, and takes your niece by the hand, murmuring something about going to find napkins and giving you space.

You glare at him, your chest too tight, your thoughts a storm. “You’re insufferable.”

He tilts his head. “You’ve been telling me that for weeks. Still texting me, though.”

And just like that, the truth hits you harder than the heat ever could. You have been texting him. You have been laughing at his nonsense. You’ve been smiling at your phone like an idiot in elevators and copying whole threads to send to Yuki with a shameful little “okay this one made me laugh.”

You’ve let him in, just a little. Enough that seeing him now, real and physical and solid, feels like a fault line splitting beneath your feet.

You used to say You won’t fall for a guy like him. But now, standing here, ice cream cone sweating in your hand, ponytail dripping at your neck and Sukuna looking at you like you’re his favourite game… you’re not so sure you haven’t already started.

Sukuna is still watching you with something unreadable in his gaze, less playful now and more intent. The smirk lingers, yes, but beneath it, there's a sharpness you haven’t seen before. Like he’s trying to size you up without making it obvious. Like he’s not just seeing you in person for the first time—he’s really looking.

Your stomach tightens under the weight of it. Not unpleasant, but unsettling all the same.

Then his eyes flick over your shoulder, toward the patio where your sister and niece have settled into a shaded table. Your niece is contentedly face-first in her rapidly melting ice cream, while your sister is animatedly texting someone with her free hand and pretending not to glance over at you every five seconds.

Sukuna jerks his chin toward them. “That your kid?”

You scoff, a little too sharply. “What? No. Jesus. That’s my niece.”

He lifts a hand in mock surrender, the corner of his mouth twitching upward again. “Relax. Not like I was judging.”

You arch a brow. “Not that it matters if you were.”

His grin broadens and his voice drops just slightly. “Good. Because I wanna take you out tonight.”

You stare at him. Flat-out stare.

Like he’s just asked if you’d like to join him on his next felony or make out in the middle of the sidewalk. You blink once, slowly, because your brain isn’t quite catching up with his words.

“Wait—what?”

Sukuna’s expression doesn’t shift, except for the slow crossing of his tattooed arms over his chest, muscles bunching under skin you shouldn’t be noticing, but are. His head tilts slightly, brow raised, like you’re the one being difficult.

“I said,” he repeats, cool and casual, “let me take you out. Tonight.”

You try to laugh it off, but it comes out more like a sputter. “Why?”

His mouth twitches. “Why not?”

You gape. “You’re serious?”

He shrugs, like this is the most obvious thing in the world. “We’ve been flirting for, what? Five weeks? Six? You’re cute. I’m hot. Chemistry’s there. Don’t see the problem.”

Your breath catches.

It’s not like you haven’t imagined him saying something like this. Half your texts have walked the line between suggestive and downright scandalous, and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t entertained the occasional mental image of him—shirtless, smug, leaning against a doorway with that stupid grin. But it’s different now. This is real. This is him, standing in front of you, broad daylight, ice cream melting somewhere nearby and inviting you out like it’s nothing. Like he hasn’t just shattered the invisible wall you’ve carefully constructed between fantasy and reality.

“I know a good spot,” he adds, voice low. “Nothing fancy. Just you and me. Off-screen.”

You glance back at your sister, who is watching now with unabashed interest from behind her sunglasses. Your niece is licking her fingers and kicking her legs happily under the table.

You chew your bottom lip, hard.

Everything in you wants to say no. Out of habit. Out of self-preservation. Out of fear. You like order, routine, safety. And Sukuna is none of those things. He��s messy. Loud. Probably allergic to emotional intimacy and definitely the type to kiss like he’s trying to win a dare.

But so was your ex, in a different, less obvious way. And look where that got you. Maybe... maybe you don’t want soft and safe and perfectly curated right now. Maybe a little danger wouldn’t be the worst thing.

Your gaze slides back to Sukuna. He hasn’t looked away, hasn’t flinched. There’s that glint again in his eyes, something unreadable, but not cruel. Something curious.

“Fine,” you say slowly, testing the word on your tongue. “One night. One drink.”

His grin splits wide across his face, victorious and pleased. “You won’t regret it.”

“You’re assuming a lot.”

He leans closer, just enough for you to smell the faint hint of leather and skin-warmed cologne. “Yeah. I do that.”

And god help you but your heart skips.

You hate that you’re smiling as you turn to go, brushing past him with a flick of your ponytail and a warning glance over your shoulder.

“Pick me up at eight. And don’t wear anything with flames on it.”

“Now you’re just being unreasonable,” he calls after you.

But he’s still grinning. And you’re already wondering what on earth you’re about to get yourself into.

>>><<<

You lied to yourself again.

Not a big lie. Just one of those neat little ones you fold into your chest like laundry, tucked away and rationalised into something harmless. One night, one drink. That’s what you told yourself. A deal. A boundary. An exit strategy with a smirk.

Now, somehow, you’re three weeks deep. Six nights out. Four hangovers. Two mornings you swore you wouldn’t let happen. And a version of yourself who keeps checking her phone like it’s wired to her bloodstream.

You haven’t admitted it yet, not out loud. You’re too stubborn. Too proud. You’d rather chew glass than tell Yuki she was right. That maybe, maybe, Sukuna isn't the human disaster you originally branded him as.

But it’s getting harder to hold on to that original image, the tattooed menace from Tinder who flirted like a walking liability and looked like he’d never read a book in his life.

Because underneath the brashness, the cocky one-liners and that shameless “yeah-I-know-I’m-hot” grin, Sukuna is something else. Someone else.

It creeps up on you slowly. One drink becomes two. One night turns into him walking you to your door and making you laugh until your ribs ache. Then another night. And another. Until you start recognising the sound of his bike pulling up, your heart doing this traitorous flutter you pretend not to notice as you check your reflection in the mirror.

You keep telling yourself it’s still casual. Still harmless. Still flirting.

But then he does things. Small things. Unavoidable things.

He remembers stuff you barely remember saying. Like how one night, somewhere between your third cocktail and a rant about work, you offhandedly mentioned your favourite flowers, the white ranunculus that remind you of your mom’s garden growing up. You didn’t think he was listening. You didn’t think he cared.

And then, a few days later, he just shows up. No warning, no explanation. Just stands there with that half-smile and a loosely tied bouquet in one hand, the petals already wilting slightly in the summer heat.

“These are either your favourite,” he says, offering them to you, “or I just wasted twenty-eight bucks and pissed off a florist.”

You take them. You stare. You feel something splinter, quietly, beneath your ribs.

It happens again. Another night, you’re walking together after grabbing street food near his place. You mention a bakery in passing, some old, obscure little shop from your childhood that you haven’t been to in years. You don’t expect him to care.

The next week, he drags you out of bed on a Sunday morning, half-dressed and half-awake, saying nothing until you’re sitting behind him on his motorbike, your helmet lopsided, your ponytail flapping in the wind.

He takes you there. To that exact bakery. Orders the flaky pastry you forgot you loved. The lady at the counter remembers you by name.

“You act like I don’t listen,” he says, watching you devour it like some relic of your past. “I’m many things, sweetheart. Deaf’s not one of them.”

And then there’s the park. That one gets you the worst.

Because it’s not a big moment. It’s not flashy. Just a quiet evening, the air thick with that late summer haze. You’re sitting on a bench with him, legs curled beneath you, shoes kicked off. He’s uncharacteristically quiet, letting the sounds of cicadas and the distant squeals of children fill the silence. You ask him why he brought you here, this forgotten patch of green on the far side of town.

“You said you used to come here,” he murmurs. “When you were a kid. Said it was the one place you could breathe.”

You remember the conversation. Barely. A sleepy ramble while you were half-asleep on his couch weeks ago, your head in his lap, his fingers tangled in your hair. You didn’t think he’d even been awake.

But he was. And you’re starting to realise—he always is.

So now, when he texts you good morning before your alarm even goes off, or when he sends you a voice note complaining about some guy at his gym with too much cologne and not enough common sense, or when he casually slips his jacket over your shoulders without asking, you feel it.

That terrifying, beautiful little shift.

You’re still trying to play it cool. Still telling yourself you’re not getting in too deep. That you can stop any time.

But then he looks at you a certain way when he thinks you’re not paying attention, like you’re the last thing in the world he expected to want and the only thing he’s not willing to lose.

And you know, god, you know, you’ve lied to yourself again.

It’s not a slow realisation anymore. It crashes into you with the urgency of a runaway train and the unmistakable bite of anxiety curling low in your belly.

Because you need to stop lying to yourself.

It hits you the night his hand finds yours in front of his friends; loud, chaotic people who love him with the same reckless intensity that he carries in everything he does. They tease him when you arrive, but it’s not cruel. It’s knowing. They already know who you are. They already know you matter.

You sit through a dinner laced with inside jokes and stories about a younger, more reckless Sukuna, before the gym rat persona and the flippant Tinder profile. And when they ask how the two of you met, he just smirks and says, “She swiped right. Poor thing didn’t know what she was getting into.”

They laugh. You laugh. But inside, your heart stumbles. Because you do know now. And it’s terrifying.

It’s not just his friends.

It’s your sister calling him by name now, teasing you both as if he’s been around for years. It’s the way your niece reaches out to him without hesitation, climbing into his lap like she’s already claimed him. It’s the flowers he brought your mother the day he met your family, your actual family, not some casual acquaintance brunch, and the way your dad grunted in quiet approval when Sukuna offered to fix the gate in the backyard.

You’re stitched into each other’s lives now. Inextricably. And still, you’ve avoided the question sitting in the centre of your chest, pulsing like a wound.

What are we?

You hold it back for as long as you can. Even when he kisses you with that same deep hunger every time you show up at his door, like he’s been starving without you. Even when he murmurs fuck, missed you against your lips like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Even when he tells you he likes how your hair smells, how you wrinkle your nose when you’re trying not to laugh, how you always lick your thumb before flipping a page. He watches you like he’s memorising every version of you and you still keep pretending you don’t feel it rising in your throat.

Until one night, you can’t anymore.

You’ve just come from work, exhausted and sore, your bag slung heavy over one shoulder and your nerves frayed from a day of back-to-back deadlines. You show up at his apartment without warning and he opens the door with bare feet and messy hair, tattoos half-hidden beneath a black tank top.

He barely lets you speak before his mouth finds yours, hot and unrelenting. He kisses you like he’s anchoring himself and you melt into it, let it pull you under. Somehow, you make it to the kitchen, where the edge of the counter presses into your hips and his hands are everywhere, firm, knowing and slightly greedy.

He bends you over the cool marble like he’s waited all day to do it, murmuring hot, ragged praises into your ear while he fucks into you from behind: You’re so fucking good, baby. You drive me crazy. All mine, yeah?

Afterwards, you’re curled against him on the couch, your cheek resting against his chest, your skin warm and still buzzing with sensation. His arm is looped around your waist, his fingertips tracing lazy circles into your spine. He’s so relaxed, so content, like he could stay there forever.

But your mind is racing. Your heart is climbing its way up your throat.

You swallow.

“Sukuna,” you say, quietly.

He hums in response, thumb brushing your hip. You lift your head just slightly, enough to look at him, not quite sure where your voice is coming from, but needing to speak before the moment slips away.

“…What are we?”

There’s a beat of silence. A pause just long enough to make your nerves spike.

He raises a brow, slowly turning his head to meet your eyes. “What the fuck do you think we are?”

You try to shrug, to play it off, but the words die in your mouth. Something vulnerable rises in your chest, too raw to ignore.

Before you can look away, his hand lifts, big and warm and steady, and he catches your chin between his fingers, turning your face so you’re forced to meet his gaze. The look in his eyes is sharper now, cutting through every smirk and half-joke he’s ever made. His voice, when he speaks again, is low and serious.

“Don’t do that. Don’t act like this is just nothing.”

You blink, and something like panic pulses in your chest, because for the first time he looks afraid too.

“I’ve been showing you how I feel since day one,” he says, fingers brushing against your jaw. “You think I do this shit for fun? Introduce you to my boys? Buy you those dumb little pastries you like? Drive all the way across the city just to watch you eat them like it’s the best part of my day?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Sukuna leans in, his voice gentler now.

“You wanna know what we are?”

You nod.

“We’re mine and yours. That’s what we are.”

And just like that, the last wall inside you crumbles. Because maybe you’ve been lying to yourself this whole time, but he never has.

Sukuna holds your gaze, fingers still firm beneath your chin, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like it’s instinct now, like touching you is just something he does without thinking. He could smirk right now. Tease you, play it off. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans back slightly against the couch pillows, arm still wrapped around your waist, chest rising and falling beneath you. His eyes search your face and his next words come low, careful, but certain. Like he’s been holding them in for a while, waiting for the right moment.

“I deleted Tinder the night you gave me your number.”

The words hit like a soft blow to your chest, knocking the air out of you more than they should. Your brows knit, heart leaping stupidly as you stare at him. “What?”

He huffs a quiet laugh but it’s not dismissive. It’s tired. Honest. “I kept the app, yeah. But I didn’t talk to anyone else. Not after you. You were the only reason I didn’t delete it outright. Only reason I opened it at all.”

You swallow, the lump rising in your throat swelling painfully.

He tilts his head, gaze unreadable but not cold. “You think I’m the type of guy who meets your niece, your sister, deals with your dad giving me the ‘what-are-your-intentions’ look and still has a fuckboy roster waiting in the wings?”

Your heart flips again, but this time it doesn’t feel like panic. It feels like gravity. A pull deeper than your fear.

Sukuna breathes out through his nose, eyes drifting to the ceiling for a second before returning to yours.

“I wasn’t looking for love,” he says, his voice quieter now. Slower. “That whole ‘just chaos’ bullshit in my profile? I meant it. Thought I knew exactly what I wanted.”

He reaches out to brush a loose strand of hair from your cheek, his touch gentle, reverent.

“But then you matched with me. And you gave me hell, and sass, and your number. And then you kept showing up.” A half-smile curls the edge of his mouth. “And suddenly all the shit I thought I wanted stopped making sense.”

He leans in just enough for your foreheads to brush, the air between you thick with everything unspoken until now. His voice drops, rasping against your skin.

“I wasn’t looking for love,” he says again, “but I found it. In you. So stop playing stupid.”

Your breath catches. Your heart pounds so hard it feels like it might bruise your ribs.

You stare at him, chest tight, trembling a little from the weight of it—his confession, your own fear, the rawness of being seen like this. Then, before you can overthink it, before anxiety and habit can drag you backward, you move.

You push yourself upright, one hand pressed to the solid warmth of his chest, the other sliding along the line of his jaw. And you kiss him.

Not like you have before. Not in desperation or flirtation or hunger. You kiss him like a truth.

Sukuna freezes for just a heartbeat, then melts into you with a low sound that’s half relief, half groan, his arms wrapping tightly around your back as he deepens it. His hand slides up to cradle the base of your skull, anchoring you to him, lips moving against yours like he never wants to let go.

When you finally break for air, your nose brushes his, your breath stuttering and your voice is barely a whisper.

“I love you.”

The words land softly, but they hit like a hammer. They make his breath hitch. You feel it, his whole body tensing beneath your fingertips like he’s trying to commit the moment to memory.

His forehead presses harder to yours, his hands gentle but firm, grounding.

“You’d better,” he whispers back, voice husky. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

You exhale shakily, a laugh catching in your throat, and feel his lips press against yours again, softer this time. Slower. Like the beginning of something terrifying and beautiful and completely real.

No more lies.

You don’t even want to lie anymore.

[mahalsuya]

nawt anime related at all but this was too real not to repost

feeling unwanted changes u a lot, tbh

[mahalsuya]

when i want fluff/angst fics and all i’m getting is smut

the struggle is real

[mahalsuya]

[mahalsuya]

this post is for broccoli fans ONLY 🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦🥦 broccoli i love you

[mahalsuya]

i love xreader because i love immersing myself into a story and feeling like i’m actually a part of it, even if the ”you” i’m stepping into doesn’t match the me in real life. i love xreader because i want to kiss my favs. i also love xreader because it’s fun to write stories through that format!!!!!!!! it’s fun to build around the ”you” and give them characteristics, a role to play, feelings to inhibit (that i will also inhibit as i read through it). it’s fun !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! if i wanted to write canonxcanon i would, and if i wanted to write ocxcanon i would. i want to write xreader.

[mahalsuya]

may this love hit me like a truck

hi. can I request a kuroo fic where the reader gets cheated on by another player and she starts to not feel like herself after the heartbreak, more quiet and not so happy, just living thru every day until she meets kuroo and he's like the one that is bringing her spark back. a lovely heart-warming fic with a little angst at the beginning

loved out loud

after being quietly broken by a love that made her shrink, she finds herself healing in the arms of someone who loves her out loud—and never lets her forget how proud he is.

starring. kuroo tetsuro x fem!reader

genre. fluff, romance, timeskip!kuroo

wc. 6.6k

cw. mentions of cheating

author's note: this might have to be one of my faves because it's just too wholesome for me

you were the ace.

the golden girl of your school’s volleyball team.

in your very first year, you took your school—an overlooked name with a history of early eliminations—all the way to the finals of interhigh. spring nationals followed right after. no one saw it coming, not from a school like yours, but it didn’t matter. you weren’t just playing the game—you were changing the story. your spikes were lethal, your reads near psychic, and your hunger for victory bled into your team until they believed they could win too.

and they did. over and over again.

after your debut, everything changed. your name started circulating beyond your region—people talked about you in forums, whispered in locker rooms, kept an eye out at matches. the volleyball world started paying attention, and so did everyone else. even your classmates, who didn’t care much about school sports, began treating you differently. you became someone.

and he didn’t like that. not the way he pretended to.

he was your classmate, one of the regular starters on the boys’ team. at first, things felt harmless—two volleyball players dating, training side by side, teasing each other about drills and warmups. you liked the comfort of it. you liked how easy it seemed. and for a while, he was sweet. proud, even.

until your name started rising faster than his.

he began to shift things quietly—nothing obvious at first. just small, measured remarks.

“you’re lucky the team’s built around you.”

“must be nice getting all that attention just for spiking.”

“people only care about you because you’re a girl who plays well. if it were me—”

at first, you laughed it off. said he was joking. but then came the changes in behavior. he started mentioning you in casual conversations like your success was his. like he was the reason you were getting recognition. he’d talk to other people about “his girl” carrying the team, like it made him look good to be with you.

it was never about you. not really. not unless it reflected something back on him.

he’d interrupt your interviews to get his face in the shot. post pictures of you after a match with captions about “training his star player.” in public, he clung to your shine like he owned it. but in private? he chipped away at it.

told you your sets were too aggressive. that you were “too serious.” mocked how you celebrated wins. picked fights the night before games. rolled his eyes when your team praised you. told you it was a team effort, even when you carried match after match.

and so you started shrinking.

you stopped talking about your own wins. stopped letting yourself be excited. you downplayed your highlights, laughed nervously when your name was mentioned. you let him take up space, even in conversations that had nothing to do with him.

when people asked about your goals, you made them sound smaller. safer. you didn’t want to make him feel lesser. you didn’t want to give him another reason to pick a fight.

and the worst part was—you still wanted to believe he cared. even when his attention was slipping. even when he stayed behind after practice more often. even when he stopped calling, stopped watching your matches, stopped showing up.

you told yourself it was stress. training. school. fatigue.

but in your chest, you already knew.

you found out about the other girl during a training camp in early winter. a rival school’s libero. fast. flirty. loud. you’d played against her once. didn’t think much of her until one of your teammates quietly asked if you were okay—because she’d seen them holding hands by the vending machines behind the gym.

you felt it all sink at once. the weight. the ache. the truth.

you didn’t scream. you didn’t even cry.

you just walked straight to the boys’ team gym after your session and waited until he turned around and saw you standing there.

he looked annoyed before you even said a word. like your hurt was an inconvenience.

you stared him down.

“is it true?” your voice didn’t shake.

he didn't even try to deny it.

he gave a half-shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal. like your question was just another thing he had to deal with after practice.

“so what if it is?” he said. “don’t act like you didn’t see it coming.”

you stood there, still in your practice jacket, hands clenched at your sides. he wouldn’t even meet your eyes. he just kept wiping sweat from the back of his neck with a towel like he was bored, like you were the one making a scene.

“you’ve been too focused on yourself lately anyway,” he added, like he was the victim in all this. “everything’s always about you now—your stats, your plays, your interviews. it’s exhausting.”

your heart didn’t even race. you didn’t feel the sting you expected. just a quiet, cold stillness. like something inside you had frozen instead of broken.

you took one slow step forward.

he blinked at you, but didn’t move.

“you used me,” you said, voice even, detached. “you couldn’t stand me shining on my own, so you kept me close until it made you feel small.”

he scoffed. “don’t act like i didn’t support you—”

smack.

your hand met his cheek before he could finish the sentence. a clean hit. just once. not hard enough to bruise. not loud enough to echo.

just enough to cut through the weight between you.

he stared at you, stunned. not in pain—just in disbelief that you actually did it.

you didn’t look away. you didn’t apologize. you didn’t even tremble.

you just stared right through him. face blank. voice quiet.

“you don’t get to talk about support. not when all you ever did was take what I built and try to make it about you.”

you didn’t wait for a response. didn’t give him another second of your time. you turned around, walked out of that gym, and didn’t look back.

you didn’t cry. not that night. not the next day. not even when your coach pulled you aside and gently asked if you were okay.

you just blinked at him, nodded once, and said, “i’m fine, coach.”

because what else was there to say?

you still showed up. still tied your shoes the same way, still practiced until your limbs ached, still threw yourself into every drill like it was all you had left.

but something was different.

your fire didn’t go out—it just went quiet.

muted. heavy. like someone had dimmed the volume on who you were.

you weren’t smiling at practice anymore.

you didn’t stay behind for extra drills.

you didn’t joke with your team the way you used to, didn’t bounce on your toes before a game, didn’t light up at the sound of the whistle. you just played. because that’s what you knew how to do. because it was the only place you still felt like yourself, even if that version of you was slowly fading.

and your team noticed.

your setter hesitated more before tossing you the ball, like she wasn’t sure if she was sending it to the same person.

your captain watched you when you thought she wasn’t looking. even the first-years kept their distance, glancing at you with soft, uncertain eyes.

they were worried.

they didn’t say anything outright, but the silence was thick with it. they saw how your eyes didn’t shine after a win, how your shoulders stayed tense, how the usual glint in your step had dulled.

you were still their ace. still powerful, still reliable, still you—but not fully. like your body was there, but your spirit was somewhere else, hovering behind you in the shadow of something unspoken.

you didn’t mean to carry it into nationals.

you told yourself you’d locked it all away—the betrayal, the hurt, the way he looked at you like your success was a burden. you trained harder than ever, pushed yourself past every limit, drowned yourself in drills and game footage so you wouldn’t have to think about it. so you wouldn’t have to feel anything and for a while, it worked. you looked fine. composed. sharp. the ace everyone expected.

but heartbreak doesn’t vanish just because you’ve buried it. it lingers in quiet places—behind your eyes when you're staring at the ceiling, in the stiffness of your shoulders before a serve, in the silence you carry even when the gym is full of noise. no matter how much you practiced, you couldn’t outrun the weight of everything you refused to say.

still, you fought. you carried your team match after match, shouldered every pressure without complaint. your teammates never said it aloud, but they noticed the difference—the way you spoke less, smiled less, how your laughter was delayed, like you were trying to remember how it used to sound. your coach noticed, too. you heard it in the pauses when he called your name, saw it in the way his eyes lingered on you during warmups, worried but not pushing. no one wanted to risk breaking whatever thread you were holding onto.

the quarterfinal game had been close. down to the wire. your team was barely holding onto the lead when it happened—your spike, the one that had carried you through the tournament, was read too early. it was blocked. hard.

the moment it landed on your side, your body locked. it wasn’t just the point. it was the timing, the finality of it, the echo of the whistle that followed. you’d lost. just short of the semifinals.

you stood there for a second too long. your teammates came in quickly, reaching for you with tearful eyes and shaky hands. they said things like “you were amazing” and “we did everything we could” but your mind had already started folding in on itself.

you should’ve hit sharper. should’ve feinted. should’ve moved faster. maybe if your head had been clearer. maybe if your heart hadn’t been so heavy. maybe if you hadn’t let someone like him take up so much space in your life.

they never blamed you. not once. in fact, they pulled you into the center of their circle, arms wrapped around you in a tight, protective hold. you tried to stay still, to breathe through it, to keep your face blank the way you had for weeks.

but when one of them whispered “you don’t have to hold it in anymore,” something inside you gave way.

the tears came slowly. no sobs. no dramatic collapse. just quiet, hot tears slipping down your cheeks while you kept your head bowed, letting them hold you.

your coach knelt beside you, his hand gentle on your shoulder. he didn’t say much, just called you by name in a voice softer than usual, like he already knew what you’d been carrying. like he had seen it unravel long before this moment.

you let them cry. let them talk. let them grieve the end of the tournament in their own ways. and when they finally pulled apart and started leaving the court one by one, you stayed behind for a few more seconds. just breathing. just listening to the sounds of celebration from the other side of the arena.

then you turned. walked off the court in silence. not angry. not broken. just... empty.

it wasn’t the loss that gutted you. it was everything that had built up behind it. the weeks of pretending. the way you stopped feeling like yourself. the way you still wanted to scream every time you saw his face in the hallway.

and even now, after all that, the worst part was still the same—you couldn’t figure out why it still hurt so much to care.

you hated that it still clung to you, even after everything he’d done. you hated how some part of you still ached when you thought about the way things used to be—before the lies, before the silence, before he made you feel like you had to earn your place beside him. you’d told yourself over and over that he didn’t deserve your heart, but it hadn’t made the ache go away.

the rest of your team had gone ahead, most of them headed to the locker rooms or out to meet their families in the stands. you didn’t want to talk. not yet. not while your throat was still tight and your uniform still damp with sweat and tears you hadn’t meant to shed.

so you wandered aimlessly through one of the side corridors of the venue, someplace quieter, away from the noise and the flashing cameras. the hallway was mostly empty now, the echoes of footsteps distant and fading.

and that’s when you saw them.

him.

standing a few paces ahead, near the opposite wall.

his arm was around her shoulders. the same girl. the libero from the other school. she leaned into him with a smile like she belonged there, like nothing had ever been secret. he looked relaxed. proud. untouched by any of the mess he left behind.

your breath hitched. you hadn’t faced their team today—different bracket, different destiny. your last game had ended far from theirs. you hadn’t even looked at the other side of the arena. you hadn’t wanted to.

but seeing them like that—so public, so fine—after everything he made you feel, it was like a fist tightening in your chest. not because you wanted him back. not even because you were jealous but because he got to walk away clean. like you never mattered.

you lowered your gaze and sat down slowly on the bench pressed against the wall, your legs suddenly too heavy to stand. you leaned forward, elbows on your knees, hands clasped so tightly your knuckles turned pale.

you didn’t cry. not this time. you just sat there, letting the sound of your heartbeat drown out the world around you.

until a quiet shuffle of footsteps stopped in front of you.

you blinked, glanced up—and a hand appeared in your vision, holding out a cold drink.

condensation slid down the bottle, beads of water catching the light. you looked at it, then at the person holding it.

you didn’t recognize him at first.

but he knew who you were.

and slowly, without saying anything yet, he offered it again. steady, patient.

as if to say: you don’t have to do this alone anymore.

you finally looked up.

he stood in front of you, tall and relaxed, with wild black hair that looked like it defied every attempt to tame it. a few strands stuck out in different directions, messy in a way that somehow suited him. his eyes were sharp but kind, golden-brown and observant, like he noticed more than he let on. he wore a red and black Nekoma jacket, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, collar slightly crooked, and the faintest trace of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“you’re... kuroo,” you said slowly, blinking at him, voice still hoarse from the tears you hadn’t cried.

his eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. “you know me?”

you nodded, sitting up straighter on the bench. “nekoma’s captain. i’ve seen your plays.”

that made something flicker across his face—delight, almost. a lightness in his smile that hadn’t been there a second ago.

“guilty as charged,” he said with a short laugh, finally taking a seat on the other end of the bench, leaving enough space between you but not so much that he felt like a stranger. “didn’t think you’d recognize me.”

“you’re hard to miss,” you muttered, taking the drink he’d offered. the bottle was cold in your hands, grounding in a way you didn’t expect.

“funny,” he said, glancing at you sideways, “that’s what i was gonna say about you.”

you looked at him again. his voice wasn’t mocking or flirtatious—just genuine. like he wasn’t saying it to flatter you, but because it was true.

you let out a soft exhale, something close to a laugh but still tired. “long day.”

“i figured,” kuroo said, leaning back against the wall, letting his shoulders rest. “saw your game. you were incredible.”

“we lost,” you murmured.

“and you still played your heart out,” he replied without hesitation. “that kind of thing doesn’t go unnoticed.”

you didn’t respond right away. your fingers traced the label on the bottle absently.

“it’s not just the game,” you said after a pause, voice low. “it’s everything else.”

he didn’t ask. didn’t push. just nodded once, like he understood without needing the whole story.

“some days hit harder,” he said, his tone quiet now. “and people don’t always see what you’re carrying behind the scoreboard.”

you glanced at him again, and for the first time in days—maybe weeks—you felt something loosen in your chest. not fully, but just enough to breathe a little easier.

“thanks,” you said.

“anytime,” kuroo answered.

and even though neither of you said much after that, the silence that settled between you wasn’t heavy.

it was calm.

and for the first time since it all fell apart, you didn’t feel alone.

you didn’t exchange numbers that day. it had been a quiet encounter, unexpected but comforting—two strangers sitting side by side in a moment of shared stillness. but something about the way kuroo had looked at you, the way he spoke like he truly saw you, stayed with you long after the tournament ended.

a week later, you found a message sitting in your inbox on one of your social media accounts. it was short, slightly awkward, and signed off with a casual “—kuroo.”

“hey. i hope you’ve been doing okay. i should’ve asked for your number that day, but i didn’t wanna come off weird. anyway, just wanted to say again—you played amazing. i meant it.”

you stared at the message longer than you meant to, rereading it twice before replying and once you did, the conversation never really stopped.

he was easy to talk to—witty, warm, and never too serious unless you needed him to be. he’d send you physics memes he knew most people didn’t find funny, then immediately follow them with a dumb cat meme to balance it out. he greeted you good morning like it was second nature and always asked how your day went, even if he was busy with his own.

sometimes you’d find yourself smiling at your phone before even realizing it.

and your teammates definitely noticed.

they’d catch you typing during water breaks, lingering near your bag after practice just a bit longer, your expression softer, lighter. one of the first-years once whispered, “is she… laughing?” like it was some rare miracle. your captain raised an eyebrow during one drill and muttered, “i don’t know who’s cheering you up, but thank them.”

it wasn’t like you’d bounced back overnight. but something had shifted. you were starting to come back to yourself—little by little. your voice was steadier, your focus sharper. you stayed behind after practice again, asked to review your spikes, pushed for harder reps. the heaviness hadn’t vanished, but it was easier to carry now.

then, one afternoon during a long, hot training session, you turned toward the gym doors mid-drill and nearly lost your footing. there he was—kuroo tetsurō, standing just outside, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed and the same stupidly familiar smirk on his face.

he was wearing his nekoma jacket, casual over a plain black tee, hair just as wild as you remembered. his presence didn’t draw a lot of attention at first—until a few of your teammates started whispering, and then gasping when they realized exactly who he was.

you blinked at him, panting and still catching your breath from the last drill.

he waved lazily. “hey. don’t let me interrupt. i just happened to be nearby.”

he didn’t. you finished the set. but your heart was thudding for an entirely different reason.

afterwards, while the others pretended not to stare (and failed spectacularly), you walked over to him, towel around your neck, sweat sticking to your skin.

“you just happened to be nearby?” you asked, skeptical.

“totally,” he said, not even trying to sound convincing. “and also maybe checked your schedule when you mentioned it last night.”

you rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you.

“figured it was about time i said hi properly,” he added, glancing around the gym. “besides, i wanted to see you play when you weren’t carrying the weight of the world.”

you didn’t say anything at first, just looked at him, heart full in a quiet, unfamiliar way. then you nodded and nudged his arm with your elbow.

“then stick around,” you said, already walking back to the court. “practice isn’t over yet.”

and this time, when you looked back, he was still there—watching, smiling, waiting.

kuroo watched you with a quiet kind of pride—the kind that sat steady in his chest, like he knew exactly how much it took for you to stand on that court again.

he leaned against the wall just outside the gym, arms crossed, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he followed your movements with his eyes. you moved with precision, your form sharp and clean despite the weight of a long practice. your voice rang out during calls, steady and clear, and when you landed a perfectly timed cross spike, he couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped him.

he didn’t cheer. didn’t make a scene. he just watched, quiet and present, like you were the only thing in the room worth noticing.

every once in a while, one of your teammates would glance toward the door and whisper something behind their hand, giggling or nudging each other when they caught him still watching. kuroo didn’t mind. he kept his eyes on you, arms loosely folded, gaze warm and unshakable.

you hadn’t noticed it, but he saw the way you started to carry yourself again. the slight bounce in your step, the way your posture didn’t sag between sets anymore. the fire he’d seen dimmed after nationals—it was coming back. and he was proud of you, not just for how well you played, but for every part of you that chose to rise again after being broken.

he stayed until the very end.

until your coach blew the final whistle. until your teammates gathered around for cooldown and wiped sweat from their brows, until your captain clapped you on the back and muttered something that made you laugh softly.

he waited, hands in his pockets, until you finally jogged over to him, towel slung around your neck, hair tied loosely at the base of your neck, strands sticking to your cheeks.

“still here?” you asked, already knowing the answer.

kuroo shrugged with a grin. “would’ve waited even longer.”

and when you smiled at him—shoulders loose, voice light, that same glow he remembered from the first time he saw you play—he knew.

you were healing. not all at once, not completely. but enough to let someone in. enough to let him in.

he walked you home that night. the sun was just starting to dip below the rooftops, painting the sky in soft oranges and pale blues. the air was still warm from the day, and your footsteps matched as you walked side by side, a quiet comfort lingering between you.

somewhere along the way, he pulled something from his bag and held it out to you. your eyes widened when you saw it—a perfectly wrapped salmon onigiri and a small carton of strawberry milk.

“you remembered,” you said, surprised.

he smirked. “of course. you ranted about how every convenience store runs out of salmon first and how strawberry milk is ‘severely underrated.’ pretty hard to forget.”

you took the onigiri with both hands, crinkling the wrapper gently. you were about to thank him again when he reached for your gym bag.

“give me that,” he said, already slipping the strap off your shoulder. “you carried the team today. least I can do is carry this.”

you blinked, halfway through opening your food. “it’s not that heavy.”

“then it’s even easier for me to carry,” he said simply, slinging it over his shoulder like it was nothing.

you rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered.

you started eating as you walked, chewing slowly, and for a moment there was only the crunch of gravel beneath your shoes and the rustling sound of city traffic in the distance.

then, without thinking too much, you reached out your free hand and gently wrapped it around his arm.

kuroo stiffened for a second, his body freezing mid-step. he looked down at you—eyes wide, caught off guard not by what you did, but by how natural it felt.

your grip wasn’t tight. it wasn’t dramatic. just soft. grounding. like you were reminding him you were still there. or maybe reminding yourself that he was.

“you’re okay with this?” you asked quietly, voice half-hidden behind a bite of rice and fish.

he looked at you for a second longer, then gave the gentlest smile you’d seen on him yet.

“yeah,” he murmured. “more than okay.”

and the rest of the walk home felt easier—like the night air had lightened, like the past wasn’t chasing you quite as hard anymore. your hand rested on his arm, warm and familiar, and every so often his fingers would brush against yours like he was memorizing the spaces between them. the salmon onigiri tasted a little better, the strawberry milk a little sweeter, and your heart a little lighter with every step.

this routine continued quietly, gently—late night texts that turned into phone calls, random memes that made you laugh in the middle of class, small meetups between training and school. he’d tease you when you were grumpy after a long practice, and you’d call him out when he forgot to sleep because of work.

even after he graduated, the closeness didn’t fade.

you attended his graduation in the back of the crowd, dressed in your own winter uniform, holding onto a small gift bag with both hands. inside was a new keychain for his gym bag, a protein bar brand he loved but couldn’t find often, and a neatly folded letter sealed with a small sticker of a cat—because you thought it’d make him smile.

when he finally found you outside after the ceremony, tall and a little flushed under the march sunlight, you walked up to him without hesitation and slipped the bag into his hands.

“congratulations, graduate,” you said softly, standing on your toes to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

his teammates, who weren’t far behind, exploded in cheers.

“ooooh, kuroo got kissed!”

“is that her?”

“you’ve been holding out on us, captain!”

he groaned, but the way his smile tugged at his lips betrayed the fact that he was very much not complaining. he gave you a look—somewhere between fond and sheepish—and quietly whispered, “i’ll read the letter later.”

later that day, you found yourself joining his family for lunch. he’d insisted, saying something about how “it’s not right celebrating without the person who kept me sane through all of this,” and how “my mom’s been dying to meet you properly.”

his mother was kind, his father quietly curious, and the entire meal passed with laughter and soft glances exchanged across the table. it felt oddly natural, like you belonged there, like this wasn’t a new beginning but just another step forward.

but the moment that changed everything came a few months later, during summer.

the lanterns from the festival swayed gently above your heads as fireworks cracked softly in the distance. you had met up after your practice, him after a long day of interning for the japan volleyball association. he looked good in yukata—casual but clean, hair a little messy from the summer air, the smell of grilled food and shaved ice clinging to the streets.

you were laughing about something dumb when he pulled you aside near the riverbank, just far enough from the crowd.

“hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly nervous. “can i—say something?”

you blinked, “of course. everything okay?”

he looked at you for a long second, eyes warm and steady.

“i like you,” he said, finally. “i think I’ve liked you since your first year—when you led your team to nationals and spiked like your life depended on it. i didn’t say anything back then. figured it wasn’t the time, especially after everything you went through.”

you stayed still. heart thudding in your chest.

“i wanted to be sure you were okay first,” he continued, voice quieter. “and i didn’t want to be just another person who made you feel like you had to give something back.”

you swallowed, something tightening in your throat.

“but now…” he laughed softly. “now it just feels right. and if you feel the same, i mean, i think you do, then… can i finally ask you out? properly?”

you didn’t speak. instead, you leaned in, cupped his face gently between your hands, and kissed him. soft. honest. like you had been waiting to breathe again.

he froze at first, then melted into it, arms wrapping around your waist like he couldn’t believe this was real.

when you pulled back, you whispered against his lips, “you’re right. i liked you for a while too.”

that night, the sky lit up with fireworks above the river, and underneath them, two hearts finally met at the same rhythm.

kuroo was the best partner you could ask for. he never dimmed your light—he made sure you always shone. he never competed with your strength or your success. he celebrated it. he was proud of every stat, every win, every step you took forward. and it showed, in all the ways that mattered.

during interhigh and spring nationals, he never showed up empty-handed. kuroo came prepared like a one-man support unit—salonpas, extra knee caps and elbow sleeves, cooling pads, finger tape in every width and color. he even carried a compact med kit with your name written on the inside flap, just in case. and without fail, at the very top of his bag, he always had your favorites—strawberry milk and salmon onigiri, fresh and cold.

if he couldn’t be there in person because of his work at the jva, your team manager would walk into the gym with a small paper bag right before warm-ups, and you’d know.

he remembered.

he always remembered.

when you won spring nationals, the rush of the final point barely had time to settle before your team tackled you into a group hug. you were breathless, sweaty, grinning like your face might split in half—and somewhere behind you, someone yelled, “your boyfriend’s gonna lose it when he hears this!”

someone else added with a laugh, “nah, he probably already knew you’d win.”

while everyone was cooling down in the locker room, stretching with exhausted limbs and half-changed into travel clothes, your captain nudged you with her shoulder and said, “you really found the right person for you, huh?”

before you could answer, the door slid open—and as if on cue, kuroo walked in with a group of v-league coaches and sponsors, dressed sharp in his jva id card and blazer, clipboard tucked under his arm. his eyes scanned the room until they landed on you. the second he saw your face, a proud grin spread across his.

he stayed professional, of course, but the way his gaze softened when he looked at you didn’t go unnoticed by your teammates. one of the first-years whispered, “they’re so in love,” and the rest nodded in agreement.

later, after the media buzz died down, he waited outside the gym like he always did. you spotted him from a distance, standing near the exit with something behind his back.

“for the champion,” he said, holding out a bouquet of bright, summery blooms. “you make winning look easy, but i know how hard you worked.”

you took the flowers and leaned into his chest, your forehead resting against the front of his jacket.

“was it obvious i cried after the last set?” you mumbled.

he laughed softly, pressing a kiss to your hair. “maybe a little. but you made everyone in that arena cry with you.”

months later, it was your turn to graduate.

you wore your winter uniform, surrounded by classmates in the same deep navy, school pins glinting under the spring sun. it was quieter than you'd expected—more bittersweet. but kuroo was there, standing at the back with a bouquet of pale pink flowers in hand and his camera already out to take your picture the second you stepped off the stage.

you were approached again that day—more scouts, more offers, more opportunities—and it should’ve been one of the happiest moments of your life.

until your ex showed up.

he hadn’t changed much. still smug, still the same fragile ego hidden under a polished smile. he had hovered near the edge of the crowd, and as soon as the spotlight shifted your way, he started weaving through like he was entitled to share it with you.

you saw him a second too late.

but kuroo didn’t.

he stepped in before the ex could get close, his tone calm but firm, hand casually in his pocket like he wasn’t prepared to throw him over the railing if it came to it.

“you’ve done enough,” kuroo said evenly. “you don’t get to be part of her story anymore. let her have this.”

for a second, it looked like the ex might argue but then he saw the way you were watching—unbothered, unmoved, bouquet still in hand—and something in him deflated. he turned and walked away.

kuroo walked back to you like nothing happened, brushing some hair behind your ear.

“you okay?” he asked.

you nodded, heart full, voice soft. “better than okay.”

and as you stood there in your final year uniform, a medal in your bag and your whole future wide open in front of you, you realized—

the best part of all this wasn’t the title or the victory.

it was having someone like him by your side to witness it all.

years later, not much had changed in the way he looked at you. only now, the boy who once stood at the back of your graduation crowd holding flowers had become one of the youngest division heads in the japan volleyball association. as head of sport promotions, he was responsible for driving the face of volleyball to a new era—one ad campaign, press conference, and sponsored tournament at a time and of course, as fate would have it, the face of the v. league's rising star also happened to be the woman he shared a closet and a kitchen with.

to say he was biased was putting it lightly.

technically, it wasn’t against any formal rule for him to be dating a v. league player. but when your face started popping up in every major volleyball promo, interview opportunities rolled in faster than your agency could respond, and your game highlights were the first to get posted after every match—well, people started talking.

some whispered that you only got this far because of your connection. that maybe it wasn’t all skill. that maybe you were just lucky to have someone in your corner with that much pull.

and each time, he heard it, kuroo took it personally.

he didn’t tolerate disrespect, especially not toward you. and while most of his public persona was smooth-talking and composed, the second someone so much as hinted at your success being anything but earned, he was all sharp eyes and cold words. there were a few times when it escalated a little too far—he might’ve called a coach a “spineless gossip” in a press conference, and during one post-match interview, he very loudly reminded the room that you were statistically top three in blocks and serves that season, with or without his name tied to yours.

the jva had no choice but to issue a warning after the third incident. they couldn’t let him go—he was really good at his job, after all—but he did get scolded like a schoolboy in a conference room once. his official privileges were slightly reduced.

most notably: he was banned from using the jva’s social media accounts.

this was mostly because one night, after a particularly rough match, he got tipsy and tweeted from the verified account, “not naming names but if you think she’s only popular because she’s dating me, maybe try blocking her once. losers.”

the post was taken down within three minutes, but screenshots circulated like wildfire.

since then, the jva account had been taken over permanently by his exhausted, overworked secretary—who, despite being younger than the both of you, probably aged a decade every time kuroo opened his mouth during meetings.

“i’m so sorry,” you often told her during league events, trying not to laugh as she massaged her temples.

“it’s fine,” she sighed, scrolling through the brand calendar. “i've just accepted that i’ll retire by twenty-five and sue him for emotional distress.”

and still, she kept showing up to work.

it became a running joke in the organization to remind him to stay professional whenever you were scheduled to appear. someone even made a laminated sign that hung above his office desk:

“you are the head of sport promotions. please stop live-tweeting her stats.”

but professionalism aside, no one could deny how much he genuinely loved you.

he wore your jersey under his coat during matches. he sent flower arrangements to the bench when you hit new milestones.

and when you got your first v. league MVP award, he cried.

actually cried.

in a blazer.

on live television.

off the court, life with him was just as full.

you lived together in a cozy two-bedroom apartment a few train stops away from the city center, tucked between a small neighborhood bakery and a park with too many cats. he claimed the smaller room as his office, though it was mostly a clutter of volleyball memorabilia and half-empty coffee mugs. your schedules were chaotic—early training for you, late meetings for him—but the routine you built was soft and steady.

he made you coffee in the mornings, always two sugars, and you packed his lunch whenever you had time, sneaking little post-its inside with dumb doodles and worse puns. when you came home sore and exhausted, he had your favorite muscle patches ready by the kotatsu. when he came home stressed and talking about brand launches and press disasters, you pulled him into your lap and made him drink water while you rubbed slow circles into his back.

you’d wake up on weekends tangled together under a messy blanket, one of his legs thrown over yours, his face buried in your neck like you were a pillow he refused to give up. breakfast was whatever he managed to cook without burning—usually eggs or instant rice—and the two of you would lounge in oversized shirts, your jersey on him, his hair sticking out in every direction.

on quiet nights, you’d lay across the couch with your feet on his lap, your textbooks open and headphones in while he typed away on his laptop, one hand mindlessly tracing your ankle. and even in the silence, even with the chaos of your lives outside those walls, everything felt still. full. home.

you’d both worked hard to get here and no matter what anyone said, you knew—you earned every second of this love and he would always, always be proud of you.

because in the end, you didn’t just find love—you found someone who never made you shrink to fit beside him, someone who held your hand with pride and stood behind you with his whole heart.

you finally had the love you deserved—loud, unwavering, and always, always proud of you.

[mahalsuya]

since fifth grade 🔥🔥

In a world of AO3 warriors, I'm forever a Tumblr Trooper...

[mahalsuya]

plot twist: gojo will bath every rabbit (meg asks him)

dadjo I love u (cries while rereading fics)

[mahalsuya]

Toji doesn’t say I love you. He says You done being annoying now? when you kiss him five times in a row, while lifting you up so you can do it better. He says Tch, move over, before tucking your legs over his lap. He says Don’t touch the tab, I got it even when you know he’s down to his last few yen.

You say I love you enough for both of you, anyway.

You notice the money problem before he says anything.

He never lets you pay for anything flashy—Toji’s too proud for that. But the way he gets quiet in front of vending machines, the way he turns down takeout even when your shared fridge is empty, the fact that he pawned his things—except his sunglasses (the ones you once said made him look hot)—it’s all proof.

You corner him one day, arms folded, hair messy from sleep and irritation.

“You’re broke.”

His eyes flick over to you from the couch. Shirtless. Legs spread. That unfairly sexy slouch he lives in.

“‘M not broke,” he mutters, mouth full of toothpick. “I’m just not wasting yen on overpriced pork broth.”

“Baby, you used to bathe in pork broth,” you say, stepping between his knees. “What happened, huh? Job fall through?”

He shrugs. His hands land on your hips automatically.

You soften, just a little. "Y’know I’ll cover it, right?"

He scowls. “Tch. Not your job to baby me.”

“Why not? You baby me all the time,” you smirk, dipping low to brush your nose against his. “You carried me all the way back from that warehouse in Kabukicho when I sprained my ankle and still stopped to buy me dumplings, remember?”

“…You cried, brat.” he mutters.

“So? You kissed my bruises, tough guy.”

He grunts but doesn’t argue. You win. He’s taking you on a ramen date tonight.

It’s almost midnight when you end up at your favorite hole-in-the-wall place in Shinjuku, wedged between a pachinko parlor and a 24-hour karaoke bar.

He scowls at your wallet when you slide it out.

"Don’t."

"Do you want to eat or do you want to stand outside glaring at the menu like it insulted your mother?"

You say it sweetly.

Toji just mutters something about “brats” and shoves his hands in his pockets. But you know he doesn’t mean it. Not when he pulls out your chair before slumping into his own. Not when he picks the garlic shoyu ramen because he remembers you like it. Not when his knee brushes yours under the tiny wooden table.

He eats like he’s starving. You slurp your noodles slowly, watching the steam curl against the night air outside the window.

Shinjuku’s neon glow spills across his jaw. You’re already thinking about kissing it.

"You're staring again," he mutters, not looking up.

You smile. "You're hot when you're broke."

You’re already two bites in when you groan dramatically and slump against Toji’s shoulder. “Ugh. I love you. And I love soup.”

He snorts. “Shoulda told the soup that instead of me.”

“Don’t be jealous of my other boyfriend,” you grin, licking broth off your chopsticks. “He’s hot, steamy, rich—”

Toji grabs your face with one big hand, coming from your other shoulder and smushes it. “You’re lucky I like you even when you’re being a little gremlin.”

You flash him a peace sign with your fingers, still trapped in his grip. “You love it. Admit it.”

He doesn’t respond, but his thumb brushes your cheek as he lets go.

You lean into his side again, warm, full, buzzed off salt and affection. Your legs swing a little under the counter seat.

Later, as you’re leaving, belly full and shoulders bumping with his, you spot them across the street.

A dad and his little girl.

She’s giggling, perched on his shoulders with her hands buried in his hair like it’s reins. He swings her legs a little as he walks. She squeals when he twirls.

It’s such a normal scene. So soft. So… unreachable, in your past.

You laugh.

Toji turns.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you say, brushing it off. “That just looks fun.”

He doesn’t say anything.

But you feel the shift in his chest beside you, he turns back to take a proper look and is back at your side as you start kicking rocks.

You fall asleep in his bed with his arm around your waist, his breath against your neck, and your leg flung over his thick thigh like it’s your rightful place.

You dream of floating.

You’re lounging on his couch, one sock on, one sock missing, hair a mess, scrolling on your phone and harassing him just by existing in his space like a warm, annoying kitten.

"Babyyy" you call. "I want attention."

"You've had attention since you woke up."

"You ignored me in the shower."

"I carried you into the shower."

"And then ignored me."

“You wanna go out?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Get dressed. Wear shorts.”

You squint.

When you're out, he first streches like he slept for thirteen days straight, then looks at you, who just looks at him.

Your face said one thing: Where you taking me you broke anyway.

He crouches right in front of you, turns his back towards you.

“C’mere.”

You laugh. “Toji, wh—”

You’re still in shock two minutes later when he jerks his chin to the side to look at you over his shoulder.

“C’mon.”

“Toji—what the fuck—”

“Shut up. You said it looked fun.”

You slide onto his shoulders with clumsy amusement, thighs hugging either side of his head. His hands hook behind your knees.

Your laugh bubbles up before you can stop it. “You serious? Baby, I’m not five—”

He straightens to full height. You yelp. The street below you looks distant. His neck flexes under your hands.

“Yeah, and I’m not a damn jungle gym,” he snaps, but his grip doesn’t loosen. “But if you wanna be a brat about it, I’ll just run. See how long you last.”

Despite saying that, he first steadies himself, then starts walking slowly.

His massive hands slide up under your thighs, pulling you flush against his neck, legs dangling. It’s a little awkward. Wobbly.

You squeal, grabbing for his head.

"You're carrying me like a child?"

His grip’s adjusting, your balance is off. You’re squeezing his temples with your thighs while laughing hysterically.

“Baby—you’re gonna drop me!”

“You’re gripping my skull like a damn vice—stop kicking.”

“Why are you WALKING like that—?”

“It’s your fault for squirming.”

He moves like he’s stalking prey. Broad shoulders rolling under you, slow and dramatic, drawing attention. A little boy on the corner gasps. A teenager points. A middle-aged woman stares with horror.

You feel ten feet tall.

Actually… eleven.

Toji huffs. “You’re lucky I didn’t make you carry me.”

“I would, if I could,” you say between giggles. “You’re like three of your cheap fridges stacked on top of each other.”

He shrugs.

Toji keeps walking. Through alleys, past convenience stores, under blinking signs. The city stretches below you in all directions.

He even stops by to buy something from a store nearby the road while you made contact with the cats on the roof, petting them when they flinch, when he reaches up a un-wrapped lolipop for you.

"You're insane" you murmur, taking it from his hand, dazed from height and heat and adrenaline.

He adjusts your leg, starts walking back home.

"You liked it. Yesterday. When you saw that guy with his kid."

You go quiet.

"I just thought… maybe no one ever carried you like that. Not for fun."

The streetlights hit him just right. You stare down at his head, at his hair, at this ridiculous, massive, absurd man who pretends like he doesn't care.

Your throat tightens.

“You’re a sap” you say softly, voice cracking.

“And you’re heavy.”

You laugh through your tears and kick his chest. “Asshole.”

“Brat.”

He doesn’t stop walking.

Back at home, you collapse onto the futon, dead weight, a moaning noodle of a girl.

“Dead” you whimper. “You’re dead. Carrying me killed you. You’re a ghost now.”

He looms over you, pulling his shirt off with one hand from behind his neck.

“Nah. You’re the one who’s gonna be dead if you keep talkin’, brat.” he says with that grin that always ruins you.

You tug him down by the waistband.

“I’m always talkin’, baby,” you say. “Still love me?”

He kisses your jaw, then your throat, then down to your collarbone.

“Always.”

[mahalsuya]

homecoming | sam x reader

word count: 3.2k

tags: hurt/comfort , family struggles , reader and sam are married , set somewhere in year 2 (kent is back) , oneshot , intimacy

synopsis: Sleep evades you on nights like these, without Sam by your side.

a/n: i love sam but the allure of angst is too hard to resist!!! sorry babe i still love you 😔

Sleep evades you on nights like these, without Sam by your side.

Your feet are bare as you linger at the entrance of your room. The dimmed light of the living room washes away the darkness of the hour. It's late, the air is cool and damp smelling of night dew—you take a deep inhale. It feels thick as you breathe it in, like smoke is clouding around the room, restricting your breaths.

Sleepless nights were not unusual in your household. Before you married Sam, you hardly slept—the satisfying ache of collapsing into your sheets after a day at the mines was an addiction you couldn’t get enough of. 

Now, you earn enough to afford coming home before sunset. No longer having to worry about how you’d afford the next day. And if you are being completely honest, evenings spent with Sam are far more addicting than the sting of a day’s work. 

The ache is still there. It comes with the profession. Though not anymore the dull humming ache in the muscles and joints of your arms and legs, but a bone deep ache settled deeply curling around your chest. 

Somehow, it stings even more.

It is as if it drags over your heart, catching on every ridge and edge of your bones. Daring to fill your lungs with ichor—hardening like stone around your ribs. No amount of stardrop you swallow can ever relieve the stinging soreness. 

The cushions of the old second-hand couch groan and squeak as you twist and turn atop of them. Perhaps as restless as you are. The light flickers—on, off, on. 

It doesn’t scare you, but it makes you uneasy. You’re long over the notion the farmhouse was haunted, but nights like these make that conviction waver. The nape of your neck prickles—like a person is staring from behind. Sam isn’t here to tease you about ghosts nor curl his arms around you in mock protection. 

He hasn’t been here in hours, hasn’t been present in so long. It feels wrong. It feels like an omen. Your fingers find the back of your neck, brushing over the vulnerable skin. 

You hold a tassel cushion tightly to your chest. Your knuckles whitening with the strength of your grip on it. The strength of your heartbeat is so loud you’re convinced it would be heard without the pillow to muffle the sound. 

Little Vincent is sound asleep, snoring softly away in his dreamland. He looks like the epitome of innocence under the quilted blankets of your bed. It's soft, worn and covered in stitched cartoon-y lions and tigers. A temporary parting gift bundled up in his dinosaur backpack from jodi. Before he came to live with you and his older brother. 

The separation was painful. there were tears—for both him and for his mother. 

(Sam stood next to you then, gripping at your hand so hard you felt it prickling with numbness. You didn’t dare look up to see the tears you know are there, the crystalline tears dripping down his lash line. 

It would’ve made the teardrops in yours fall over too. You’d stay strong for the both of you.)

The entrance door to the farmhouse creaks open and you immediately know it’s him. Relief floods your whole body—to your fingertips to your toes. He's safe, and home at last. You stand up and hurry to him, throwing the pillow to the ground, before the door creaks shut.

The air goes still, calm before the storm. The anticipation before potential terrible news.

(You expect there will be. You can tell by the way Sam slumps, like the weight is physically bearing down on his shoulders.)

Sam is still at the doorway, slumping over you when you wrap your arms around him. He smells of sweat and the cloying scent of rubbing alcohol—something must’ve happened, you think. It smells like the clinic.

The paper bag in his hand loses from his grip, it falls unceremoniously to the ground with a dull thump. You pay it no heed, mentally accounting to pick it up later. Though you note that it lands right over your ‘home sweet home’ doormat. Fitting.  

“Sammy.” you greet him with a chaste peck on the cheek. He barely has the energy to hug back, more so stay steadily upright on his feet. you both sway slightly, suspended in the tranquility of the moment.

You try again, slowing the movement of your lips. “Welcome home, my love. you there?”

His lips move against the skin of your neck, a whisper of a greeting. It is enough for you.

Sam retracts his face from your jaw. There are blue-purple eye bags under his eyes, like bruises. The trademark twinkle in his brilliant green irises have dulled to nothingness. He looks so unlike himself like this, older than his years and so unbearably tired.

And you wish, with all your heart, to take his aches away. To wash them away like ink in water. 

You pull him into the living room with you, the skin of his wrist enclosed in the firm guiding grip of your fingers. He's fragile like this, this sunshine of a man reduced to a shell of his usual demeanor. 

He trails slowly behind you, silent. You say nothing, either; choosing to focus on the rhythmic sounds of your footsteps padding against the floor. In the living room, you dim the lights to a mere whisper of light. 

These days, when he comes home, you’ve built some sort of routine.

You drag him down to you, spread lying down on the length of the couch. Your thighs frame his hips as he melts into the warmth of body. He lays on top of you, his cheekbone against your chest. You watch as his eyes flutter shut, as he presses his ear to the epicenter of your chest—the sound of your heartbeat quieting the swirl of thoughts in his mind. 

You gently remove the woolen beanie nestled on his head—revealing the stringy oily mess of hair under. A sign of how little care he has been sparing himself after his father’s homecoming. You feel your lips downturn into a frown. He hasn’t even been using that hair gel you like to tease and groan about. 

(You lied when you’d say you hated it. You don’t, never did. 

You miss it. You miss the things that make him, him.)

You don’t hesitate in running your hands through the softness of his hair. Your fingers scratch gently on his scalp, eliciting a soft sigh from your weary husband. Eyes watch raptly as his shoulders unwind and ripple. The tension in them melts away with the deft caress of your hands.

Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. Like a knife twisting. You love him, you love him.

Moments pass, the silence is almost comfortable when you ask, speaking it to the silence of the room. There’s a wavering lilt in your voice reassuring him. You aren’t going to push him for an answer. He doesn’t need to respond. Him being safe, home and warm in your arms is all you ever want. All you’ll ever need.

“How are they?” 

(The first night, you and Sam stayed the night in his family home. squeezed in his twin bed with Vincent curled up by his ribs. The little boy couldn’t bear sleeping alone that night, not with the anxiety of his father being back making him pace a mile a minute.

The air in the household had shifted that day.

In the dead of the night, the fire alarm went off—a blaring loud beeping sound from the kitchen. Totally harmless, a malfunction. A disturbance to sleep more than anything.

Except it was not.

You still remember the blood-curdling scream that came from Jodi and Kent's room. The panicked sobs of Jodi as she tried to calm her terror stricken husband. 

You remember the way Vincent clung onto you, like a koala to a tree. You cupped your hands tightly over his ears—he didn’t need to suffer the consequence of it.

Sam removed the fire alarm and Vincent from the house the next morning.)

His voice is hushed when he speaks. A pin could drop and be more clearly heard. “Mom's… getting better.” 

Not getting worse than she already is.

You plant a kiss on the crown of his head, lips soft and adoring on his skin. You ache to take his burden, to take his share of suffering. 

It hurts sometimes, to be right beside him but feel so faraway. Yet like this, feeling every curve and edge of his body—you can convince yourself that it doesn’t.  

“Is Vince asleep?”

“Yes,” you reply, tucking a blond curl behind his ear. His head unconsciously tilts to the room where his younger brother rests. Ever so protective of him even like this. 

Continuing you say, “He was looking for you,” you thread your fingers through the short blond strands at his neck. Sam untenses slightly in your arms, his arms going limp at your sides. “He's been fidgety lately. Restless.”

“He usually is.” his feeble attempt at a joke. Though the rasp in his voice only makes it sound resigned. You purse your lips, eyes tracking back to the cedar wood of your bedroom door on the other side of the room—and the sleeping child behind it.

You stroke Sam's hair, thinking. “More so than usual.”

(You know why. He knows too. Kent wasn’t the same when he returned from the war. He was vulnerable, not the fragile type but vulnerable in the way a ignited bomb threatened an explosion.

Vincent wasn’t either—grown much more from that thumb suckling toddler when he left.

“My dad is coming home soon,” Sam confides in you on that day on that day on the beach. Him standing a few feet away from the shore line, and you; next to him.

“This isn’t how I wanted him to grow up,” his voice cracks with vulnerability. “I—I want him to have a better childhood than I did.”

“He will, Sam. He will.” I know you’ll make sure of it.

His eyes are red-rimmed and raw when he looks at you. All you wanted was to wipe that anguished expression off his face.)

He is silent. All is silent. Tranquility is like a honey thick syrup poured over your chest, smeared all over the expanse of your body. The soft sounds of your synchronized breathing is the only sound you can bear to hear. It makes your eyes droop, the lethargic feeling dulling your senses.

Your hand reaches for his, intertwining your palm with his long-fingered one. You relish in the familiar feeling of his calloused fingertips, earned from afternoons spent with his guitar. His skin is warm, warmer than yours. You give his hand a tentative squeeze, he squeezes back.

“Mom told me to say hi to you both for her,” he tells you, his breathing slow and deep. “She misses him, and you. She’s coming to visit as soon as she can.”

“Vince misses her too,” you sigh, craning your head forward to peek at the top of his head. “It's affecting him, I can tell. Penny's getting worried. She tells me he hasn’t been himself at school.”

All that Sam can manage is a deep intake of breath, then a softer resigned exhale. There isn’t much nor enough for him to say. Your free hand goes to smooth down his back. The muscles there are tough—bunched up and tense.

He shifts between your thighs, baring down heavier on your pelvis. Even as tired as he is, Sam is restless. Always has been, whether it be on his skateboard or with his guitar. You ignore the growing ache in your lower back—it is not your moment, but his. The warmth of his weight on top of you overpower any discomfort you have.

Twirling the stray curl at his neck, you finally ask. Fingers featherlight against his shoulder.  “How… is he?”

Sam stiffens above you, the lean line of his body rigid. He’s clearly distressed with talking about his father. You suck a breath through your teeth, knocking your leg gently against his, giving your silent push for him to continue.

“I can't even lie,” he squeezes his eyes shut and turns his face away. “It isn't good, Doc Harvey says dad’s got PTSD from the war. It's triggered by loud sounds. Remember the time he woke up because of the fire alarm?”

You nod, curling your fingers around his. You try to provide him any semblance of comfort—to reassure him. You love him, always. 

It's painful to see, to watch what he’s going through only by the sidelines. 

Sam looks up at you from your chest, eyes blurry with exhaustion. His jaw tensing ever so slightly, you see the patchy blonde stubble starting at the jut of his jaw. The wrinkle in his brow growing more prominent at the mention of his father. It's a fresh type of wound, raw and open. You dance around the topic, like poking a sleeping lion that threatens to attack at any given moment.

“We’ve transferred him to stay in my old room. He’s been holed up there most of the time. The nightmares are keeping mom up. He wakes up screaming most nights." Sam rasps, squeezing your fingers. He speaks lowly against the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, the heat of his body bleeding through it and into you. 

His voice dissolves into a pained crack when he speaks. “It sucks.”

“It will get better, we can get through it,” you sit up slightly, elbows bent behind you. Sam's been out the whole day. You assume he must be starving and tired. “Do you need anything?”

Sam doesn’t let you up, though. He tugs you back down under him with the gentle pull of his arm. You still in his arms, looking down at him.

“No,” he pleads. “just… stay with me, okay? Let's stay like this, please.”

You swallow, nodding. “Yes, of course.”

You wish you could ease his worries. You wish you could tell him that it’ll be alright and he would believe it.

You love him, more than life itself. Like you are a planet that orbits around him, the sun. You show him so everyday—and will continue to do so with everyday that will come. 

You just wish he’d be more selfish with you.

If he falls, you’ll piece him back together. Glue his bones together with your hands, relying on the familiarity of his being. Anything, you’d do anything.

The matching mermaid pendants resting over his and your collarbone symbolizes that.

“I want to help you, sam. You take all this burden up on your own. please?”

He sits up, back hunched over you. A dim shadow of him filtered over you. You follow him, like you can’t bear to be apart from him. 

“You are, you always have,” Sam softens, gazing at you so reverently you could sob. He looks at you as one gazes at master paintings, like he is in wordless awe of you. 

The room is dark with night. If you strain your ears hard enough, the cooing of the owls filter through the cracks of your windows. The moonlight is scarce, you can barely see the expressions painting his face. Though, you’re sure your expression is as lovesick as his. Practical hearts in your eyes as you stare.

“Looking after Vince is more than I could ever ask for, honey.” he whispers, pinching the hem of your sleep shirt between his thumb and pointer finger. 

“No Sam,” you murmur, taking his face into your hands. your hands frame his face, warming the cool skin of his cheeks. Desperation fills every movement in a plea for him to understand. “I meant you.”

You inhale, relishing the smell of sweat, mint and rubbing alcohol on his skin. The scent smells so comforting, and so familiar. 

You hope he finds that same solace in you as you do with him.

“I want to take care of you,” you say more firmly, stroking him on the skin of his brow bone. “Won’t you let me?”

He stares at you, enveloping your hands with warmer ones. You sigh contentedly at the feeling. They sear into your skin, warming you with the righteous heat of his devotion. 

To you, he is the sun and you have the sun right in the palm of your hands. You know he won’t ever burn you, nor leave your skin red and raw from his intensity. His rays are gentle, a featherlight whisper of a kiss on the expanse of your body.

But the sun never stops shining. It is steadfast in its duty to provide. You worry, will he explode in a grand supernova or crumple into a black hole? 

Either way, you will never allow it. You’d rather douse the sun in the water of the ocean to hold him in your arms. Maybe then, he can finally rest soundly. 

You feel his thumb rub back and forth on the back of your palm, silent and considering. The brush of it melting you against him like a contented cat. A smile graces your lips, you can wait.

Though you do not need to. Sam turns his head and kisses your wrist. His nose bumping into the crease of your thumb. You feel honeyed warmth drip down your heart, collecting in the cavern of your chest.

That's all the confirmation you need.

(There are some days his words fail him. The days his mind is bursting with ideas, so much so it’s difficult for him to convey a singular thought.

That's alright. Perfect, even. Sam has always been better at expressing himself through actions.)

“I love you,” you kiss his forehead, then over each of his eyelids. You want to kiss every inch of his skin until there is nothing left to cover. “so, so much.”

You press your lips to the corner of his. Opting to speak your promise against his skin, to tattoo your undying love into the smooth expanse of it. 

Sam tilts his head, causing his lips to brush completely against yours. He presses them firmer against yours, the taste of spearmint gum heavy on his tongue. You lick the seam of his lips—let me in, let me in. 

“I love you too. more than you know,” he gasps, tearing his lips away. His breath puffing warmly against the skin of your cheek. He declares it as if he’s running out of breath, and it is his final words. A willing sailor drowning in the deep ocean that is you. “More than anything, more than life itself.”

You press your forehead against his. Your eyes meet the depthless green of his. The twinkle is there; flickering and faint but present.

Love is what brought him to you. It’s what keeps bringing him home to you every night. You want to be his refuge, his comfort, his partner for life. 

Your eyes shut, eyelashes fluttering against your cheekbones. “Share the burden with me, Sammy. I can take it.”

At the end of the day, he is all you want. All that you need. If it takes him time, you won’t mind. even if it takes centuries.

Sam captures your lips again. Murmuring his agreement greedily against you. You love him, you love him and he loves you. 

You are the one he comes back to, his spouse. The greatest love of his life. Home isn’t the farmhouse you’ve built a life in—

It’s you, always has been you.

[mahalsuya]

strawberry cream

synopsis: your remote internship at gojo enterprises is going rather well, or you think so, anyway. you sort of relish in how incapable your wildly successful boss is with technology, and at every turn you’re there, prompt and available on slack: his sweet IT intern who pushes her hours to help.

it's all very professional…right?

pairing: ceo!satoru gojo x intern fem!reader

tags: modern au, keeping secrets, SMUT!!, thigh riding, unprotected piv, oral (m!receiving), face fucking (who said that?), sorta rough sex but not really, dirty talk, an overall foulmouthed satoru gojo, creampie, semi-public sex, inappropriate workplace conduct...and one extra tag that i won't say cause it'll ruin the surprise ;)

wc: 11k

a/n: um...so actually what happened was...um...uhhhh

masterlist

18+! mdni <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Satoru Gojo 5:27pm Still not working.

the message blinks at you from your computer screen. 

you really do enjoy your job. you like both of them, actually.

your internship with gojo enterprises came up sort of serendipitously, happening upon a listing for a paid remote IT intern right as you found a truly beautiful apartment on the outskirts of shibuya. you needed more income to cover the rent, and it wasn’t like your other workplace required that you use your degree.

and you’ve found there is something delightful about putting your college years into practice, particularly because it seemed for so long like you never would. rummaging through the backend of one of the most affluent corporations in the country thrills you a little bit, as silly at it sounds. curled up in your duvet and splayed about in silk pajamas, you pry open the metaphorical breakers of an economic giant and fiddle with the wires.

you suppose, as different as this line of work is from your other job on the face of things, it appeals to the same sort of animal in your belly that drew you to nightlife. you like feeling in control, enjoy the subversion of being so pretty and young and self assured.

you are delighted, too, by how often satoru gojo needs your help.

he has lost his email password at least three times in the last two months, accidentally deleted his own profile from the internal website, and filed his income tax forms in the shared google drive. 

each time you have been there, fingers flying over your keyboard in your slack dms as you sort through his technological missteps. it’s only made more entertaining by how intelligent he clearly is—you are under no illusion—it seems simply his single blind spot rests securely over your area of expertise.

he is…not what you expected. he seems to respect you far more than you had anticipated a CEO to respect his remote intern. he knows that, as it relates to IT, you know better. there is no denial of his mistakes, no shame, only a brief request sent your way with a hint of playful self-deprecation. you like him. 

this most recent problem has spanned almost all afternoon. he’s been locked out of his internal account, it seems. you bite back a smile as you respond to him.

You 5:27pm Hmm. I’ve scanned backend three times now, and everything seems to be working. What’s the error message exactly?

Satoru Gojo 5:28pm Says I don’t have permissions.

now you really are smiling, responding immediately.

You 5:28pm Oh, well I can fix that here, but that’s something another admin could have done, too. Probably not a system error. It says here the other admin is Suguru Geto. Would he have changed permissions for some reason?

he drafts a few responses to that before going silent. suguru geto has never needed your help and is thus wholly enigmatic to you, though you know he is satoru’s CFO; you also know—certainly not because you poked around in their personal slack messages—that they are close childhood friends. it wouldn’t be the first time one had attempted a practical joke on the other, the workplace often caught in the middle, though you commend geto for his foresight to humiliate gojo in the only way gojo couldn’t fix himself.

after a few minutes you see him typing again.

Satoru Gojo 5:34pm Yeah ok it was him. He just did it to mess with me. I’m sorry to have bothered you! :/

your laugh rings through your apartment.

You 5:34pm No worries!

and this should be the end of it, really. but the part of you that you reckon satoru gojo shares—a joy in flagrant pettiness—compels you to keep your computer open. your digital landscape is quiet for a few moments, your dms empty. you stretch your arms over your head and yawn.

ping!

Satoru Gojo 5:37pm On second thought, can I get your help with one more thing?

You 5:37pm Of course

Satoru Gojo 5:37pm You’re too sweet for your own good. Your shift ended 7 minutes ago.

you enjoy this, too. rare moments when his personality bares itself in the way he writes to you: the sort of harmless flirtation that you doubt he even notices as he types it.

you’ve known enough womanizers to know he’s harmless. still, you bask in fleeting moments of his digital attention.

You 5:38pm What can I help you with?

Satoru Gojo 5:39pm Can you make his launch button this link?

Satoru Gojo 5:39pm DON’T OPEN IT

you open it immediately.

oh.

oh.

your bottom lip gets caught under your teeth. of course you knew vaguely what gojo looks like, you had sufficiently googled the company when you first came upon the job listing.

and there are pictures of him everywhere, pretty face splashed under headlines like BILLIONAIRE CEO TURNED PLAYBOY?—that article made you laugh, some ten thousand words about a blurry photo taken outside a nightclub, a white head of hair in motion walking out—but still, in all of them he is pressed perfectly into well-tailored suits, hair brushed through and facial expressed tempered, even trained. he looks so professional, so proper, so terribly handsome, but not quite your type. or, really, a stage before your interest.

you like when men like that are disheveled, hair mussed and skin tacky with sweat.

though this photo he’s attached isn’t all that far off.

something stirs, shakes awake between your legs looking at it. you grin with something devious and awful before responding.

You 5:40pm I have to open it if you want me to use it.

Satoru Gojo 5:41pm Is that true?

no.

You 5:42pm Yes?

Satoru Gojo 5:43pm Did you already look?

You 5:43pm Yes

Satoru Gojo 5:44pm You’re fired

You 5:45pm No I’m not.

Satoru Gojo 5:45pm No, you’re not.

with a giddy little grin you do as he asks. it is entirely unprofessional, you know, but you are surely exempt from blame when doing the bidding of the CEO, right?

you link suguru’s login button to the photo, laughing to yourself lightly.

You 5:50pm I did it. 

You 5:51pm I have to admit I’m sort of surprised you’d ask me to do something so childish on your behalf.

Satoru Gojo 5:51pm He started it

You 5:52pm Aren’t you a CEO?

Satoru Gojo 5:52pm Aren’t you my intern?

You 5:53pm My shift ended 23 minutes ago.

Satoru Gojo 5:54pm So then you’ve committed this “childish act” for me out of the kindness of your heart?

You 5:55pm No, actually. I get paid double for overtime.

Satoru Gojo logged off 5:55pm

your heartbeat rings lightly in your ears, you feel like you might have rattled him a little and that delights you to no end.

you wonder what he imagines you look like. surely he could have searched your name, though any photos of your face wouldn’t be attached there. 

there are, of course, ample photos of your face across the internet, most of them behind a paywall, though some of the tamer ones are available for free. but all of them are under a different name.

you had chosen tsukiko, meaning moon child, as your stage name initially as something of a joke. she isn’t an alter ego so much as an exaggerated caricaturization of your femininity, one who feeds on starlight and slinks about in the dark. you delegate the hungrier parts of yourself, the parts that ache and need for things, to her.

your manager at club cabal had spotted you first at a stoplight waiting to cross the street, pin striped pencil skirt down to your knees and shiny black pumps in each hand. you had been looking for months for a full time job, but the market was so saturated by then with IT workers that there seemed to be no space for you. you remember leaning your forehead against the cool metal of the stoplight pole, surely infected with some fifty diseases but you weren’t in a place to mind, when an enormous and glamorously dressed woman approached you. 

you remember so clearly what she said to you, the words cutting through your delirium and sinking sense of defeat: you look absolutely riveting in business clothes.

you barely had the wherewithal to lift your head but nonetheless you had, assessing all six feet of her, draped in fine furs and silk gloves. the whole getup would have looked like a costume on anyone else but she wore it all with such purpose that it looked like the most natural outfit in the world. 

you still cringe thinking about the tactless way you’d simply replied: “huh?”

she had laughed at you, but there was no humiliation in it, she almost seemed endeared to you, amused and halfway pleased by the bleary look on your face. she had handed you an ivory business card, embossed and shiny with her name and her place of work.

長澤長子 (nagasawa hisako)

CLUB CABAL MANAGER

“come to see me if you’d like to make some real money,” she offered, not waiting for your reply before strutting back down the block, coat fluttering in the evening wind like a cloak.

when your savings dipped into the single digits a week later you paid her a visit.

working at the most exclusive hostess bar in tokyo fits you stunningly well. your clients are disallowed from propositioning you, serving you alcohol, offering you drugs, and, most importantly, touching you. you spend your weekday evenings in clothes that could pass as business formal if they were longer—tiny miniskirts and button-ups that urged the plush of your tits to spill out—and entertain the most wealthy business people of the tokyo metropolitan area.

all of them just want someone to talk to, you have come to learn. it helps, naturally, that you arrive to them dripping in sex appeal, but most of your returning clients seem to remember first and foremost the way you speak to them. 

after two years collecting a rather well-to-do roster of exclusive clientele, hisako began operating you out of a private room. 

and there are real, tangible things you have learned from catering to top performers in all fields. you might have majored in math and CS but you know now, too, about the global economy, about agriculture, about the intricacies of factory-owning. 

and you flare bright, a star in spinning orbit, in that subtle performance under the moody lighting of the club. every hand gesture, every curl of your lips, it all means something, and the fine precision has come to excite you. you are untouchable there, a coveted thing, paid to see.

speaking of which, you think, it’s about time to get ready.

you have very few reservations tonight, though you don’t mind much now that you have your own space. you extend your legs across the couch, stilettos hanging off each foot as you tap them to the humming bass of the music. your room sits right off the main hallway, just big enough for a plush, navy couch and a coffee table, wiped shiny between clients. lanterns hang golden and coy at each corner, illuminating your face just enough to provoke your visitors to lean in closer.

you can hear the distinct click of hisako’s heels as they approach your door, and you turn your head on the armrest with a smile to greet her.

“hi baby,” she coos. you sit up and cross one leg over the other, lest she have a client in tow.

“good evening,” you reply with a smile. she leans on the threshold with a conspiratorial grin.

“i have a new client for you. a real big hitter. can you handle him?”

you tilt your head. “are you really asking me that?”

she laughs, full-bodied. “i guess not,” she muses, turning back to send him in. you pull a chilled bottle of sake from a small fridge at one end of the couch and place a glass next to it on the coffee table.

there are about 30 seconds as a client approaches your door when you learn some of the most vital things about them. the weight of their shoes, the sound their clothes make as they walk, whether they make conversation with the other hostesses passing by, all of it is catalogued as you listen. 

the so-called big hitter makes his way towards your door with purpose, though he is in no rush. his footsteps fall deliberately, a hair’s breadth away from heavy but not quite, just fast enough to sound intentional, just slow enough to keep from missing your door. 

the face they make when they enter matters, too. how they assess you, where they look, you cater your posture to their tastes. an interested man is an honest man, you have found, and you learn the most when they want you. 

the door swings open.

fuck.

fuck.

he is so tall he takes up almost the entire doorway, weight leaned on one hip like he’s waiting to be invited in, though surely confident enough to know you will. his suit is bespoke, you can tell from the way it sits just so on his shoulders, and he’s loosened his tie a centimeter or two. he’s one of the most attractive young men you’ve ever seen in your life, which would typically excite you. you love beautiful clients. 

but blinking at you from a few feet away is satoru gojo.

your boss.

satoru gojo.

is at your door.

for one of the first times in your entire career, you have no idea the sort of look pulled across your face. what the fuck are you supposed to do?

you know you have at most one more second before the silence shifts from anticipatory into awkward, and you consume it in full to think. okay. gojo has no clue what you look like, of this much you are almost certain. further, the name on your door is not one he would recognize. by all accounts the person who sits before him has absolutely no relation to his remote IT intern, despite the fact that you’re in fact the same woman. you take stock of his face; if you have any sense left, you think he shows no sign of recognition on your face.

okay. you swallow. refusing him would be a first for you, and by hisako’s description he’s an important client to please. you almost laugh at yourself for that thought; of course he’s an important client to please, he’s something like the wealthiest man in the country. 

what is there to do other than act as though he’s any other customer?

you smile, small and wry, and gesture him inside. gojo nods his head in hello, closing the door behind him and settling gracefully on the other end of the couch. his legs are long and spread so far his knee almost touches yours, almost, and he reclines back into the upholstery like he owns the room. you suppose he could, if he had any interest. he holds a broad hand out to you, smiling sharp and wolfish. he likes you.

“it’s nice to meet you. you can call me satoru.”

if you can push beyond the strangeness of meeting your boss like this, you acknowledge the unique position you have been unceremoniously pushed into. namely, that unlike any other first-time client, you know a great deal about him.

you smile warmly but don’t move your hand to shake his. “it’s my pleasure.”

he wiggles his fingers slightly. “you don’t shake hands?”

“you know the rules, satoru,” you admonish lightly.

he chuckles and lowers his hand. “i guess i was hoping otherwise.”

you move to pour him a glass of sake and feel his eyes trace you as you bend. his irises flit over the swell of your breasts, the arch of your back, though he stays reposed back into the cushions, watching you like a predator. you coach a smile that doesn’t reveal what is becoming clearer to you with each moment: it’s almost fun to have this secret. 

or it would be, if your internship wasn’t on the line.

it may still be, actually.

you cross your other leg over, let the tip of your stiletto hang close to his shin. the muscle of his thigh twitches but he remains still.

“so what brings you here tonight?”

gojo keeps his eyes on you over his glass as he takes a slow pull. he smacks his lips lightly, shrugging. “i wanted company.”

“do you struggle to find good company?” you tease.

he tilts his head back and forth, thinking, before admitting, “yeah, i guess i do.”

“i find that sort of hard to believe.”

the corner of gojo’s mouth tilts up. “and why’s that?”

you roll your eyes lightly. “you’ll have to work a little harder if you want me to stroke your ego that overtly.”

“i’ll work as hard as it takes,” he fires back, only half joking.

your laugh is breathy and real. he communicates himself rather well over slack, you think. all the cheekiness, all the bite, you have felt moments of it in your communications online. though seeing it all from his mouth is a different beast you are, if you can admit it, becoming increasingly elated to face. how fucking hot he looks while talking is not something easily captured online.

“so what do you do for work, satoru?”

you hope that question is convincing. he didn’t tell you his last name on purpose, you think. 

“i run a business.” his eyes are narrowed almost imperceptibly, and it unnerves you, so you bend at the waist again to refill the sip he took from his glass. the tension in his face goes limp watching the curve of your ass.

“what sort of business?”

“oh, it’s all so boring,” he dismisses, sounding almost disappointed that you’d ask.

you scoff and chuckle all at once. “most of my clients come to talk about their work.”

he extends an arm across the back of the couch, fingers a few inches from your neck but still not touching. you let him.

“i think that’d be a waste.”

“why’s that?”

“i could pay a lot less money for someone who doesn’t look like you to listen to stories about my work.”

you breathe in sharply. he’s fun. “you could pay a lot less money for someone you could touch, too,” you add.

his eyes flit a moment to his hand, so close to your skin, surely sensing the warmth of you, but still making no move to actually feel. it seems almost like he gets off on the not-touching, like that inch of space between you thrills him. he flexes all five fingers.

“i find that pretty boring, too,” he murmurs.

“you don’t like fucking pretty girls?” 

your sudden crassness makes him shift, crossing one leg over the other. he liked that. 

“i suppose i’m just tired of it now.”

your grin grows. “oh, i see, so you’ve fucked too many pretty girls.”

he shrugs with that predatory smile, running his free hand through his hair to muss it slightly. “the waiting’s the best part anyway.”

“so what do you find not boring?” you ask.

he looks at the ceiling in a show of consideration that makes you laugh. his gaze snaps back to you at the sound, immediately preening with it. “you’re doing a pretty good job so far.”

your scoff only sets him alight further, scooting just barely closer to you, angling his legs so they still don’t touch yours. but you’re tucked further into his side now, noses closer, and it makes something animal inside you flex and bite. your thighs squeeze quickly but you track his eyes as they catch the movement.

“see that, right there,” his hair flops to one side, loose now from its gel in all his fussing, “you’re scoffing at me. do you know how rare that is?”

he seems genuinely delighted, whole-heartedly excited by your diminutive little noise.

“oh i see,” you start, “you like being degraded?”

he scrunches his nose and it’s sort of boyish. “no, honestly, not really. i just have so few people in my life that treat me like a real person.”

you chew on this slowly. “so you…” a coy smile breaks through, “you came to a hostess bar for the humanity?” but you can hardly finish your sentence without laughing again, light and amused but real, and he chuckles at himself, too.

“yeah, i guess so.”

you feel his pointer finger brush the skin at the back of your neck and you shudder, narrowing your eyes at him again. he corrects himself immediately, pulling away, and breathing out, “sorry. i forgot.”

you can see on his face that he means it.

“tell me about your life, little moon,” he says, voice low and quieter as it fans over your face. when did you get so close together? both of your bodies contort beyond reasonable expectation to fit so closely without touching.

you have never felt quite so charmed by a client before. whether it’s because you already feel so familiar with him outside of this room or the appeal of harboring this secret you cannot decipher, but nonetheless you are doing things you would normally never allow yourself. you have never leaned so close before, have flirted so overtly with the breaking of a rule you have historically enjoyed.

you want him to touch you. for so many reasons that is a terrible, life-alteringly horrific idea.

you try to speak with him instead.

“little moon?” you ask.

he points to your door. “tsukiko. moon-child,” he clarifies, but something thinly veiled and knowing tugs at his lips.

you hum. 

“but i guess that isn’t your real name, is it?”

something about the low rumble of his voice tickles at your spine, makes you want to arch into his touch. you’re trying so hard to remember yourself, to remember who he is.

“i don’t think it’s wise for me to answer that question.”

he doesn’t miss a beat. “then answer my other one. tell me about your life.” you hesitate and he grins. “or scoff at me again.”

you smile and push an amused breath through your nose. this is a somewhat perilous trap of a question but you don’t show it on your face.

“wouldn’t that ruin the illusion? peeking behind the curtain and all?”

“what illusion do you think i’m under?”

you appraise his face slowly. you suppose you don’t have an answer to that, so you relent to his other question, at last.

“i’m fairly boring outside of this job, actually.”

“i don’t believe that.”

“i spend all my time here and at home.”

“oh, little moon, such a shame. pretty young thing all alone all the time?”

the teasing lilt of his voice, sweeping in that low whisper of a register, makes your thighs clench again. he doesn’t even look this time, only grins a little bigger to show you he knows.

“i’m around people all the time, people are my job,” you argue.

“that’s not the sort of alone i’m talking about.”

you cannot help but want to play this game with him, you lob the ball back, though your voice comes out a fraction more breathless than usual. “what sort of alone are you talking about then, satoru?”

“well i can’t touch you,” you can feel his pointer finger hover over your shoulder again, intentional this time, running a knuckle so close you can sense it without looking, but still not touching. “but is anyone?”

you’re taking in a stuttering breath in an attempt to respond but he continues, lips closer to the shell of your ear.

“surely someone gets to feel this tight pussy, huh?”

you huff out all your air, fuck you’re so wet and he’s looking at you like you can smell it. what the fuck is happening? you have never, ever reacted to a client this way. and better yet, this is your boss.

but rationality slips from your ears and down your neck, you think, because you only shake your head.

pity drips from his voice like honey, every ounce of power you implicitly relinquish to him a thing he takes on with what appears to be great pleasure.

“surely you must have needs.”

“i can take care of myself, but i appreciate your concern.” your double entendre doesn’t dawn upon you until you’ve already said it and he’s laughing with a lewd sort of tenderness. your face burns and you make use of your remaining faculty, looking away from him knowing he cannot tilt your chin back himself.

“uh huh. and how often are you…taking care of yourself?”

“i don’t have to answer that.” that’s a weak retort and you both know it.

“no, you don’t.”

you try to deflect. “i thought fucking pretty girls bored you.”

“i’m not fucking you, am i? unless you’ve had a change of heart about the touching rule.”

“no,” you reply, as firmly as you can manage, though something below your navel is bellowing for him.

“i figured not,” he admits, leaning just slightly further into you, whispering low and hot into your ear, “it’s enough just knowing how fucking wet you are in that little skirt just from the sound of my voice.”

your mouth drops open in disbelief, head snapping towards his, so close your noses almost bump. “i’m not,” you protest, voice clipped. fucking liar. 

“no?”

“no.”

“why don’t you prove it for me?” he taunts softly.

you squeeze your thighs harder, desperate for any sort of friction, anything, but your restraint is waning with him whispering so sinfully in your ear.

“you’re not allowed to touch me,” you remind him again.

“but you can touch me, can’t you?”

this is a suggestion you’ve heard from a few patrons before but it’s a first to feel so tempted to take one up on it. you search his face for anything to tether to, looking for a reason to refuse, but god he’s so pretty and you want him. he has almost as keen an eye as you do, you think, because he sees the moment your trepidation lowers.

“why don’t you get on my thigh and let me feel?”

his legs uncross and he splays them out, a saddle for you. your eyes drop there, and then to the tent in his slacks as they pull tight across his hips, to his face—wild and manic—and then back again. shit. 

you brace one hand on his shoulder, just to see what he’ll do. he tenses with the contact but doesn’t move, doesn’t make to grab at you. you look at each other a moment longer, both of you waiting for something terrible or wonderful or both, and then you’re swinging one bare leg over his, settling slowly on his pant leg, skirt fanned just to the middle of your thigh.

the pressure of his muscle under your swollen clit makes you whimper as soon as you sit down and a breath punches from his lungs but still he does as you have asked, still he doesn’t touch you. he tilts his head to the side, mouth parted. 

“come on, little moon,” he encourages lowly. “use me.” he punctuates it with a little bounce of his leg and you’re gone.

you start slow, dragging your clit on the warmth of his slacks, surely leaving something shiny and humiliating behind but you can’t find it in you to care. you brace your other hand on his other shoulder for balance, rolling your hips faster now, mewling quietly as he watches with rapt attention.

“you’re fucking soaked, aren’t you? that all for me?”

you nod wordlessly but he bounces his leg again. you only barely stop yourself from screaming. “answer me.”

“f-fuck, yes, satoru, f-for you,” you exhale, words stuttering and stumbled as your stomach tenses with your movement. the pleasure whips through your body, coils around your diaphragm and around your hole. you flutter and pulse and surely he feels it, how badly you want to be filled. his fists clench at his sides watching it, cock aching and huge from the looks of it, jumping in time with your little grinds along the fabric.

with each roll you thrust harder, whimpering as the feeling bubbles and smokes inside of you. “fuck,” you whisper, to yourself or to him you do not know.

“fuck you look so fucking—oh that’s it—perfect humping me like a slut,” he groans.

you throw your head back, rolling your hips harder, faster, you need to cum and it’s so close you can taste it, can feel it between your fingers. he takes the opportunity to lean closer to your neck, exhaling slowly on the beating of your jugular.

“i’m so cl-close,” you whine.

he bares his teeth against your skin. “oh baby you really did need it, huh? cumming so fast.”

you nod, all pretenses and attempts at self-possession abandoned. the maw of your heat unhinges its jaw as ecstasy washes over you, hips gone frantic and lost of all rhythm, riding your high as you gush over the fabric of his pants. he moans with you watching it happen, feeling the wet heat spread across his thigh.

with one final sigh you slow to a stop, panting lightly. when you raise your head to meet his eyes again you feel something like sheepishness coiling feverish in your chest but his expression is so open in its wanting that the humiliation doesn’t last.

“fuck,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

with the remaining shreds of your crazed desire you are put upon to slide two fingers past the hem of your panties, collecting your slick where it pools. you raise them in front of his face, shiny and tacky.

“open,” you order softly.

he obeys immediately, gratefully. you press your fingers lightly on his tongue and his eyes almost roll back, half-lidded as he licks your fingers clean, his groaning around them reverberating down your hand. you pull away with a faint pop.

“you are fantastic,” he breathes, as dazed as you are.

you smile something small and honest, slowly disentangling yourself from him to right yourself on the couch again. 

“thank you,” you say, for the compliment and…for everything else, you suppose.

he almost seems nervous now that he’s seen you cum. his cock is still obscenely swollen in his pants, still jumps every time you look at it, but it feels like he’s swallowed his swagger along with your cum. he reaches for his sake cup and takes it all in one swig before standing.

“i’ll…see you again, i’m sure,” he says as he makes for the door. you sort of want to giggle at the absurdity of it all, at this situation you find yourself in. but then he turns back, as if remembering something, and digs through his pocket.

he pulls out a wallet, leather and embossed with the kanji of his name, a tidbit you know but cannot divulge. yes, the fact is slapping you across the face again: this is your boss. 

he throws something to the tune of 150 thousand yen on the table, for the first time looking less than certain about what to do. you think for a moment that he seems like he’s just remembered, there at the threshold and one foot out the door, that this has been first and foremost a transactional encounter. 

when the sound of his expensive shoes walking down the hallway fades into silence—or as close to silence as the club is capable—you hang your head in your hands. what the fuck did you just do?

the next week passes like torture. for the first time in your life you dread going to work, dread seeing him again; even worse you spend equal time hoping he’ll turn up at your private room. satoru gojo plagues you, plagues tsukiko, infiltrates somewhere deeper beyond the character.

to add insult to injury, you are subject to continued messages from him under your real name, a new character borne of necessity under the pretense that you didn’t fuck his thigh last thursday. though you suppose the only benefit to keeping such close contact with him is that you do not have to wonder when he doesn’t turn up for a week after his first appearance; you know he is busy, know he’s working past sunset, and you have the slack receipts to prove it.

he is as hopeless with his computer as he has always been—you suppose a clandestine encounter with a hostess wouldn’t have changed that—and every time he turns to you, endlessly grateful and funny and reverent, somehow, of the ways in which you help him.

like now.

Satoru Gojo 6:06pm Sweet intern

normally you would have logged off by now, but you have the night off from the club, and what better way to spend your evening than with a glass of wine and engaged in a treacherous IT session with your boss and best single-visit client?

you nibble on your lip as you respond.

You 6:06pm Good evening

Satoru Gojo 6:07pm My evening has been terrible.

You 6:07pm More computer troubles?

Satoru Gojo 6:08pm You must think I’m an idiot.

You 6:09pm Definitely not.

Satoru Gojo 6:09pm Helpless?

You 6:10pm Something like that.

oh god. did you just send that? you need to log off. take a week of PTO. do anything other than continue responding while a little tipsy and still fucking horny for him. to his credit, he takes that comment in stride.

Satoru Gojo 6:11pm I appreciate your honesty.

Satoru Gojo 6:11pm And yes, more computer troubles.

You 6:12pm Do tell.

Satoru Gojo 6:13pm Suguru retaliated

You 6:14pm From your retaliation? It’s becoming a vicious cycle.

Satoru Gojo 6:14pm He logged me out of my Partiful account

you almost spit up wine laughing at him.

You 6:15pm Why is your Partiful account attached to your business email?

Satoru Gojo 6:15pm It’s a business party!

You 6:16pm Go ahead and request the Forgot Password email. It should send to the domain admin (me) and I’ll fix it for you. It’ll be a temp password and then you can reset when you log in again.

it’s an easy fix; so many of his requests are. he is never any less grateful.

Satoru Gojo 6:18pm Thank you thank you!

case in point.

you begin to rise from your bed to refill your glass when another ping! lights up your screen. 

Satoru Gojo 6:20pm Do you live in Tokyo?

you pause. is this…still business related?

You 6:21pm Yes

Satoru Gojo 6:21pm You should come by then.

something skittish pokes from behind your ribs. 

You 6:22pm Come to what?

Satoru Gojo 6:23pm This business party. It’s the company’s 100th anniversary. You can come by the office, meet your poor disciples in person

despite everything that still makes you smile. 

of course, you cannot under any circumstances attend. the moment he sees you in person he’ll know, likely firing you in the middle of the party. and he’ll know, too, that the night you met in person, you knew who he was even though he took great care to equivocate. was that a betrayal on your part? should you have suggested he leave that night when he walked in?

it’s all so hazy now, glossed over with your lust and his, the heat a contagion you haven’t quite baptised yourself of.

his message blinks before you still.

You 6:25pm I’m busy that night, unfortunately

Satoru Gojo 6:25pm I haven’t told you what night it is yet

are you the stupidest young woman on the planet? it is so unfamiliar to feel so out of control, your grip slack where it normally tightens, white-knuckled.

you aren’t entirely ready to concede.

You 6:26pm I just don’t do well with people.

lie.

Satoru Gojo 6:26pm I really would like it if you dropped by. You don’t have to stay for long.

you groan aloud.

Satoru Gojo 6:27pm You’ve helped me so much the last few months

Satoru Gojo 6:28pm It’s next Friday at 7pm. Most people will be there straight from work so business formal is fine. I hope you’ll come

the truth—it descends upon you like wrath, venomous and toothy—is that you have no options. you cannot deny the CEO at the company for which you intern three times. you also surely cannot attend, cannot let him see your face. but the former is a more pressing problem, you suppose. maybe it’s the wine, but you feel your resolve bruising into submission.

maybe this is for the best; you’ve saved enough now that you can stay in this apartment long enough to find another job. and was it really sustainable to continue to work alongside gojo after what happened at the club?

the terrible part of you—you’ll never forgive her—wants to think you would sustain this as long as it was viable. but the rest of you acknowledges that the lifespan has arrived at its bloody, inelegant end.

You 6:30pm Okay

there is something deeply ironic about zipping up a pencil skirt of appropriate length in preparation to go see satoru gojo again. your stockings are sheer and black, catching the light where your foot curves into the lowest heels you managed to find in your closet. no matter how you arrange your gray sweater over your torso you feel sort of crude-looking. you have come to associate this style of clothing so closely with the club that you cannot process your silhouette in the mirror as anything other than whorish.

with a manic sort of giggle you think, oh well. you’re getting fired anyway!

you’ve considered, over the last week, feigning sickness or some personal tragedy, all manner of terrible scenarios which would keep you from the party. but in the first place you suspect, after your couplet of dreadful attempts at rejecting the invitation, that he would know outright you were simply trying to weasel your way out of the obligation. 

and secondly, some naive part of you does want to go. the other coworkers you’ve helped online seemed so excited when they found out you had committed to come: yuuji itadori, a new hire who seems entirely incapable of recalling his passwords, kento nanami, a clearly whip-smart high-level employee who harbors a secret fear of pressing buttons he doesn’t understand, ieri shoko, an altogether efficient young woman who simply cannot remember to clock in and out.

you have put in tangible time of your life to help these people, and in turn have forged something like friendships with them. what you had said to gojo that night is true; other than the club, you don’t encounter people much. there is something embarrassingly exciting to you about solidifying, even if only for ten minutes, these little bonds you find you care a lot about.

the gojo enterprises building is enormous and beautifully designed, you notice, as you walk towards the revolving entrance doors. the scaffolding gleams in sleek gray steel, large windows across swaths of floors cleaned to a pristine shine. the lobby is still full of people, even at this hour, shuffling about in all directions along the marble flooring.

nobody seems to pay you any attention, which soothes your nerves slightly. at least only you and him will know you’re a slut. 

you approach a pretty young woman at the front desk, hair cut recently in an auburn bob that suits her face.

“um…hi,” you begin, resting one hand on the counter. “i’m here for the office party?”

she smiles at you easily, like you aren’t about to be fired and potentially publicly humiliated. “wonderful! it’s on the penultimate floor, so just click the second button from the top.”

you nod and thank her, heartbeat increasingly demanding in the cavity of your ribs. a part of you remembers the way gojo acted that night, how pliable and kind he remained even as he paid you and stumbled out. you’d like to think the man you know—both versions—would spare you the degradation of announcing your misdeeds in front of everyone. it’s not like he isn’t lewdly implicated in such an announcement, either.

but you can’t help the slight tremble in your hands as you press on the button and it chimes, thrusting you upwards.

the last thing you consider before the doors open is that he simply won’t mind, that you’ll laugh about it together. it’s a little startling how much you find you’re hoping that he isn’t upset with you. 

and then the doors slide open.

you are reminded, as you wade through the gaggle of people chatting over champagne, that the only person here who knows what you look like is gojo, and even he might not realize at the outset that you are you. you have no way of recognizing your familiar coworkers, and thus no reasonable way to begin conversation with anyone. you make a beeline for the bar.

you assess the room around you from the far end, nursing your champagne with as much poise as you can manage. this floor has only a few, large desks in an open bullpen, surrounded by even larger board rooms flush with long, dark tables and leather seats. at the far left corner you see two single-person offices with plaques by the doors, surely gojo and geto’s offices, you think.

you cannot see gojo anywhere, though you’re unable to decide whether that’s a relief or a disappointment. you scrutinize the crowd so hard you hardly sense the figure approaching at your side until they’re already there. a deep voice clears its throat.

the man you find when you turn is rather beautiful. hair long and dark around his shoulders, face sharp and fox-like, eyes the sort of keen that might frighten someone who didn’t enjoy observant people so much. you give him a polite smile.

“you’re new,” he says simply.

you shake your head. “only partly.” you hold your hand out to shake and tell him your name. “i’m actually your remote IT intern,” you explain.

the man smiles wider, almost secretive, and assesses you quickly. his eyes rake down your form, across your face, but it isn’t hungry so much as it feels vigilant, void of the voyeuristic heat you’re used to. 

he introduces himself: “suguru geto.”

you grin at him, laughing a little. “it’s great to meet you. i’ve been wondering what you’re like.”

he raises one eyebrow. “that so?”

you realize only now that it’s more difficult than you anticipated to speak with attractive men in a different way than how you talk at the club.

“i just mean that you’ve never needed my help. i only know the technologically-challenged of you.”

he chuckles. “you must know satoru well.”

actually, you go back on your previous thought; you are positively indebted to your time at the club. all your practiced grace and easy charm prevents you from choking on your champagne. just barely. 

“yeah, in fact, i do.”

“are you the one who helps him get back at me?”

“guilty as charged.”

he clicks his tongue in his mouth. “i knew he couldn’t have been doing it on his own.”

you take another sip of your drink. “i really am sorry for my participation,” you assure him, “but when the CEO demands you attach a lewd photo to your launch button i don’t have much of a choice.”

geto’s lips tug up at one corner. “so you saw that photo then?”

heat licks over your nose and you hope the fluorescents cover it. “unfortunately, yes.”

“he’ll be so hurt you said that.”

your eyes widen only slightly, but you know he catches it. you try to imbue your voice with the casual leisure you hope to convey. “don’t tell him.”

he clinks his glass against yours with a small, knowing smile. “you have my word.” and then, over his shoulder as he begins to walk back into the heart of the party, he adds: “it was nice to meet you.”

you wave him off politely, leaning again against the bar.

your attention is pulled quickly towards a broad, blonde man as he approaches the bar, another, much younger man seemingly attached to his hip. 

“no, itadori, you can’t handle your alcohol,” the older man admonishes.

“please? it’s the company party, nanamin,” he pouts.

you smile to yourself. two of your frequent flyers.

“look, you’re an adult,” kento sounds wholly unconvinced of this, even as he says it, “but if you’re asking my permission for some godforsaken reason, then i’ll tell you–”

“wait a second,” yuuji stops. it takes you a second to realize he’s looking at you. “aren’t you our IT intern?”

you sputter in surprise. “i–um…yes?”

yuuji beams. “i knew it! it’s nice to meet you in person.” his handshake is so firm and eager it jostles you a little bit. something lost in his online translation is how frenetic of a thing he is, bouncing about in a constant state of buzzing that endears you to him.

“how did you know it was me?”

“he has a weird sense for those things,” nanami interjects, taking your hand next.

“it’s really nice to meet you both,” you smile.

“thank you so much for all your help. i was just mentioning to gojo how i wouldn’t ever get any work done without you.”

“you said that to gojo?” nanami asks disapprovingly, though yuuji doesn’t even seem to register it.

“i know he wanted to meet you, too. i’ll go get him!” he chirps, bounding off between people beyond your reach, not hearing—or choosing to ignore—your feeble oh no you don’t have to!

you turn back to nanami to find an almost pitying look on his face. you scrunch your nose. “is he that bad in person?”

“he’s…a lot,” he qualifies.

you lean an elbow on the counter of the bar, watch your champagne swirl about in the flute. “it’s sort of strange meeting all of you in person,” you admit.

nanami scans the throng briefly again, quickly muttering into his own drink: “into the eye of the hurricane.”

you have only a moment too little to discern what he means.

“—and he keeps taking my champagne away,” itadori grumbles.

lord help you you recognize gojo’s footsteps as they approach, still as certain as you remember them, and the discs of your spine align in a taut stack, but you do not turn to him.

his laugh is easy, unaware, the low scratch of it only a few feet away now, but you learned that night that he watches when he speaks. he doesn’t see you yet, surely still turned and attentive towards yuuji. “probably because you threw up in his office trash can at the last christmas party.”

“i told you, that wasn’t me.”

“who else could it have possibly—oh.” the footsteps stop, and you feel his eyes fall on you.

when you turn your head, a number of things become obvious at once.

he is as handsome as you remember him. melted a little around the edges, tie loose, suit jacket gone and button-up bunched at the elbows to expose his forearms. his scent makes your thighs clench a little, less perceptible under your reasonable skirt, his hair disrupted by the long day and possibly a glass of champagne. the terror of your present circumstances, and the punch of guilt, too, come fettered to how badly you want him. 

the other revelation—or, you suppose it’s more like a reminder—is that gojo is a great deal like you. you can almost see the way he’s counting the moments in his head, taking stock of the time he can allot himself to think, to decide, knowing that this gnawing silence will at some point grow too monstrous too ignore.

in that time the shock meets his eyes first. they widen and then pinch, flitting across your face and down your body, and you do your best not to preen in the attention. and then his lips part a little, any further salutations stone dead in the back of his mouth, swallowed down. he breathes out once, twice, heavy things you think he wanted to attach to words but couldn’t quite manage to animate.

and you want to say something, want to apologize; you almost want to encourage him to fire you now so you can avoid the anticipation and get home before your feet hurt. 

but then something devious pokes out from behind his teeth, something vital and alive, something like a smirk. his head cocks just so, bearing his large hand out.

“it’s so nice to finally meet you in person,” he says, voice so even you could strike him. 

and this is the final cognizance, thrust towards you between his lithe fingers; he plans to enjoy this. beginning, it seems with a cheeky homage to that night, the shaking of hands you refused him once but cannot deny him now. 

you shake his hand firmly, smiling something only he would identify as divergent from polite. he grazes the inside of your wrist with his pointer finger before your arms drop, posture twitching with the feeling of you despite the mundanity.

you nod your head in acknowledgment. “good to see you, sir.”

his tongue pokes briefly on the inside of his cheek. “i trust nanamin has introduced you around.”

“don’t call me that.” nanami sounds exhausted with him already, weighed down further by what you fear is a flicker of recognition. whatever dynamic flare is crackling between you and gojo, nanami’s eyes narrow, just a moment, like he sees it.

“you let me call you that,” yuuji adds unhelpfully.

and even though you’ve come upon this game in the wake of a monumentally terrible decision—or maybe because of that, you’re unsure one way or the other—you let the other proverbial pleaser drop.

“would you introduce me?” you ask gojo.

both his eyebrows jump, something silent exchanged, but he takes little time to seize the opportunity. he rounds beside you to lay a hand on the small of your back, all but delighted to guide you away, pressing only minutely harder than what would be appropriate. enough to remind you that he can touch you now.

“it was nice to meet you both again,” you offer to nanami and yuuji as satoru shepherds you off, but as soon as the pair looks away gojo is leaning down to your level slightly.

you beat him to the punch. “is this really wise?”

low enough that it’s only for the both of you: “definitely not.” he squeezes your side again quickly. “but i think i’d like to show you off to all your lovely coworkers before i fuck you in my office.”

you suck on the back of your teeth and try your best to glare up at him, but it’s hard when your panties stick so tacky to your mound. he bumps into you on purpose, giving you one, ephemeral moment to feel how hard he is in those expensive slacks. 

“can you even wait that long?”

he drops his hand from your back just to graze the swell of your ass, swipe there once with his thumb. “i already told you, little moon…the waiting is my favorite part.”

with what is clearly no small amount of reserved prudence, gojo stays true to his word. he deposits you about the party, peering at you heavy-lidded as you greet the people you’ve thus far only known over email. every time you steal a glance at him he’s already staring, the weight of his gaze so heavy your knees nearly buckle. you feel more supine than you ever have in your life, soft and watched and wanted.

but surely he must know you’re observant enough to notice he is winding you, slowly, to his office. with each new introduction you are a few feet closer to his door; it’s just shy of torture waiting this way. how long has it been since you’ve been fucked? you choose not to answer that question for yourself, though with each step you feel the gluey swipe of your slick between your legs and you cannot deny that you’re greedy to be filled.

still, you do your best to appear something like normal when you walk through the threshold of his office door, when you hear the metal snick of the lock behind you. 

the panel of glass looking out into the bullpen is so frosted you can hardly see through it, a modern design choice that suits the building, and the rest of the room follows suit; a glass coffee table stacked neatly with books, an enormous desk flush with papers and folders and an intercom system, windows that span the outer wall to boast half of tokyo.

gojo stays a moment by the closed door but gives you no direction, so you simply stand in the middle of the room, hands clasped behind your back and waiting for further instruction. you suppose he likes the look of it, because he makes no move to gesture you anywhere, smoothing a hand over his jaw as he watches you.

“get down on your knees for me, baby,” he says simply.

the air punches from your lungs and you bite down on the inside of your cheek but you find your legs curling under themselves anyway. you can’t look way from his face, that crazed manner of watching you a scorching cloak you don’t want to shed. 

only once you’re on your knees does he approach you, reaching a hand to your face to cup your jaw. with a little tug of your jaw your nose is brushing against the bulge in his pants and you exhale over it. he sighs up at the ceiling as you bring one hand up to cup his twitching cock—god it’s so big.

“you’re not mad at me?” you murmur.

he laughs once, sharp and humorless. “oh i’m fucking furious—ah” he’s cut off by your palm applying more pressure, rubbing him in earnest, and his hips buck into your fingers. his right hand weaves into your hair and grips it like a handle, humming at the way you whine.

“so i have rules of my own now,” he finishes. you still and blink back up at his face. “no touching.” you lower both hands and fasten them behind your back again. 

gojo pulls his belt loose and tugs the zipper of his pants down, aching cock jumping up and out. he’s so red it looks like it hurts, curved up a little and as massive as you thought he was, and with one hand he wraps his long fingers around the base, tugging up once, twice. your lips part as precum pearls at the tip and he grips the back of your head, bumping his slit against your lips to gloss them. when you don’t take more than you’re given he groans low, “good girl.”

and then in one, mean thrust, he’s fucking the entire girth of him into your mouth. he’s so big he bumps halfway down your throat, you gasp and sputter around him, spit pooling already and eyes watering but you’re nothing if not determined, swallowing hard around his tip.

“fuck i knew you’d take it,” he growls.

you try to nod but his length pins your head in place, not to mention each of his hands taking a tight grip on each side of your face to start thrusting into your mouth.

he’s loud, so loud that you have moments of clarity when you worry the party will hear, but he’s so fucking long that mostly you dedicate all your attention to taking him without gagging. with each thrust your nose brushes the neatly trimmed hair at his base and you lave your tongue along the underside of his shaft, feeling a vein there that pulses every time you moan around him.

“that’s it, that’s it,” he lets one hand travel down to your throat and wrap there, not pressing so much as feeling himself as he fucks in and out, “swallow—fuck me—swallow around me again, baby.”

you do and he moans wild and honest, almost surprised at how good it feels, and you’re so desperate for anything that your hips start to rock over your own heels. feeling the wet trail you leave on your shoes is vaguely humiliating but the pressure behind your pulsing clit is almost unbearable and you’re afraid he’ll pull out if you use your fingers, still clung together behind you. gojo looks like a deity with his head tipped forward watching you, brows pinched together and mouth agape, droopy eyes sharpening when he sees the little ruts of your hips.

“you fucking like this don’t you?”

you hum out a pathetic mmhmm around his skin and his eyes almost roll back. forgetting yourself you bring both hands up to claw at the vee of his hips but he catches them immediately, thrusting once with a particular malevolence to tell you to behave.

his thrusts are gaining urgency, losing their rhythm, you know he’s close and you can’t tell if you want him to finish or would prefer it be inside of you. most of all, though, you find you want to please him, so you whine one more time around his cock to hear him mewl something broken and desperate. he does.

“fuckfuckfuck i’m g’na cum, i–”

he can’t even finish his own sentence, hips stuttering and growl caught in the back of his throat as he finishes heavy on your tongue. you swallow it all down like a blessing and the bob of your throat makes him pulse a little more, whispering mainly to himself a breathy: jesus. when you pull your lips away slowly a few webs of spit snap down your chin but you let them glisten there.

gojo can hardly allow you enough time to get to your feet, wrapping his arms under yours to haul you up and over his desk. your hands press over files and polished wood and he bends you into a deep arch with one hand. with no less urgency than before his first orgasm gojo rips your skirt and stockings down to your ankles, groaning low at the damp spot in your panties, on display with your legs spread and hips flared out to him.

he uses one finger to pull your thong to the side and you can feel the filthy slide of your slick as it slips around your folds, down your thighs. you can hear the squelching of his hand on his cock again, jerking himself over the remnants of your spit and his own cum, and you tense your legs waiting for him to breach your tight hole.

he chuckles when he sees the cords of your muscles move.

“oh baby,” he coos, “are you waiting to get fucked?”

your fingers pull in and leave crescent marks on your palms. “please,” you whimper, wiggling your hips, “please fuck me.”

“i dunno,” the fwap of his hand is speeding up seeing you present yourself further for him. “i think seeing you like this is enough to—fuckfuck—make me cum again.”

you drop your forehead to the wood to ground yourself but still your words come out like a sob: “i need you satoru please, please.”

“fuck!” again his hand gets quicker, “beg me again baby. beg me better than that.”

“please satoru i need your cock so bad, i need you to fuck me, i–”

in all honesty you don’t know whether it was you begging that did it or the dissolution of his own resolve, but without warning gojo fits his angry tip at your hole and pushes, hips slapping against your ass as he sheaths himself fully in one go.

you both groan in unison, relief and nirvana and the aching heat with her claws in both of you, and satoru holds your head to his desk as he starts to move.

his thrusts now are not exactly like the way he fucked your mouth; he isn’t testing your limits, isn’t using every ounce of his remaining strength, each grind is calculated, slower than before. it almost feels like he’s pausing after each rut to hear the sound you make and learn. that consideration alone is enough to make you clamp down around him, and a moan claps like thunder from his mouth.

“god it’s like fucking a virgin you’re so fucking tight,” he hisses. 

recovering from the burn of the initial stretch you start to incline your hips back into each thrust, the punches of his tip around your walls even harder as you arch to meet him. your arms reach back to feel for him but he only seizes the opportunity to wind them in one hand and hold them to the curve of your spine. 

“was it worth it fucking embarassing me?” he pants out, beginning to bend at the waist to fuck up into harder, words nearly spat onto the wing of your shoulder. “i’ve spent all—fuck—week thinking about it.”

you mewl and hum into the wood of the desk.

“made me feel like a fucking teenager at the club,” he thrusts harder, the sound of his skin on yours louder in your ears, “made me feel like a fucking creep at my job.”

you…what?

somewhere between your insistent moaning you ask him “what—ah! oh f-fuuck satoru—what do you mean a creep?”

he bands one arm around your torso and shifts upright, holding you to his chest as his hips continue to buck wildly, more erratic, more in it. his lips just barely graze the shell of your ear.

“all this time i’ve wanted to fuck my sweet intern,” your mouth drops open in surprise and pleasure and something else, the mounting feeling of ecstasy scintillating through your body, “thinking you were some fucking hermit,” he spits. your ass is surely red from the snapping of his toned hips but you’re so close and the hot tickle of his breath on your face just might be enough to get you there.

he almost seems to hear what you’re thinking, though, because then his free hand is jumping to your swollen clit, rubbing messy circles over and under the hood. “went to the club hoping to—oh yeah baby, squeeze me like that—get her off my mind just for you to fuck me over again,” he spits, but it isn’t angry, not really, he’s just desperately and pathetically close.

your body catches and locks, toes curling into your heels as you start to come undone, the dull pleasure coming first and then that cutting slice of your high. you shudder and pulse and milk him as it washes over you, about to pull him over the cliffside with you.

“i’m g’na fuck my cum deep in this cunt and you’re gonna have to fucking walk out of here with it dripping out of you.”

and then he’s gone too, rutting quick and thoughtless and then exploding inside of you, groaning deep in your ear and arm tight across your chest. he thrusts lazily through it, plugging you with the ropes of his seed, trying to feel the slosh of it in your channel.

the disentanglement of his body from yours is almost silent save for your shared quiet groaning at the overstimulation, an almost self-conscious kiss pressed to your temple as you redress, and the murmuring buzz of the corporate party still going outside. 

fuck. the party.

satoru takes great care righting your clothing, brushing fingers through your hair. he doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t have to—only smiling sort of boyishly as you do the same for him. you try to replicate the easy and rushed tug on his tie from before, the right pleating of his sleeves halfway up his arms. 

really it’s no use. you look like you’ve been railed, you can feel it, and the scent of sex sticks to gojo, supplanting even his cologne. you shrug at him and he laughs softly, muttering a small c’mon as he ushers you back out.

to your surprise and great delight, the party outside seems…normal. people hardly turn when you exit, engaged in their own conversations, a considerable group of them watching yuuji—absolutely plastered now—trying to get nanami to dance. satoru places his hand again on your back one last time and presses there, but it isn’t hungry now. he means it to be comforting, you think, and it is.

or it would’ve been, if your eyes didn’t immediately land on geto, leaned against the wall and watching you both with that serpentine glare. you nudge gojo with your elbow to get his attention.

when they make eye contact suguru only smirks wider. you turn slow and dangerous to satoru, who stands upright like a statue.

“satoru,” you begin, a calm that should frighten him if he’s smart, “what does he know?”

he shakes his head quickly, lips turned down in a dismissal. “nothing.” 

satoru gojo is frustratingly excellent at a great number of things. lying isn’t one of them.

when you return to your apartment that night, legs sore and aching and happy, you flop immediately onto your bed and pry open your computer, single-minded. it only takes a few moments of navigation through the admin channels to find it, a conversation from two weeks after you first started.

Satoru Gojo 3:11pm Hello

Suguru Geto 3:13pm Oh I’m sorry I don’t have any change

Satoru Gojo 3:14pm I need your help

Suguru Geto 3:15pm I’m not a philanthropist

Satoru Gojo 3:15pm I’ll give you 3 extra days of PTO

Suguru Geto 3:15pm What is it

Satoru Gojo 3:15pm You’re not gonna like it

Suguru Geto 3:16pm When do I ever

Satoru Gojo 3:16pm I need to fuck the IT intern

Suguru Geto logged off 3:16pm

~~~~~~~~~~~

to anyone who read to the end dm me you're entitled to a big messy kiss!!

comments and reblogs always appreciated <3 :3