#x Male Reader

[lady-ashfade]

⛓️ “Since When?”

Steve harrington x male!reader[Henderson reader! Dustin’s older brother][goth/punk reader? Kinda more 90s style but Shh]

Since when did you start coloring your hair?

Steve couldn’t believe his eyes, or, couldn’t stop them from staring you down. Dustin was busy getting his shit together while you, bathroom door wide open, leaned over the counter table putting dye into the strands of hair.

Your shirt stopped right at your hips, your chain belts and dark low pants showed off the black ink on your lower back… since when did he like that style?

And since when did Dustin’s brother get so hot?

“Can you stop staring at my brother? Oh Jesus-” Dustin hit him with his heave bag and caught sight of you.

“Close the door!” He yelled at you, making you finally turn their way. First you turned with a glare that hit dustin, cold and annoyed then at him- Steve was terrified. And enjoying it.

Slamming the door shut after flipping dustin off, and him returning the gesture, Steve could finally think straight.

“When did he start coloring his hair? And was that a tattoo-”

“Don’t start with me.” Dustin groaned and walked out of the house with Steve on his trails.

[vampmira]

open up what you got in your mind to me. [pt.1 – huntrix]

they've never met someone like you — a mortal who almost knew them .. better than they knew themselves. for the boys, it's annoyingly intriguing. for the girls, it's comforting.

paring(s): huntrix & saja boys x demon expert!gn!reader

warning(s): some movie changes, probably effected lore that makes no sense for the sake of the narrative

request: here ! this is part 1 – i loved it so much i had to make 2 parts hehe ,,, part 2 is here !

your family worked with the demon hunters for generations – mortals who studied the demons, found their strengths and weaknesses, worked as field researcher on demonology alongside the hunter to keep the honmoon safe.

unfortunately, your ancestors were unpowerful beyond their intellect and aura vision. physically, they were weak – protected only by the hunters. becayse of this, there was .. an accident. the demons found the weaknesses of the hunters – their darling researchers, so they did what demons would do.

thousands of years of pages and books and studies were lost in their attack. most information was mentally stored by hunters, but a substantial amount was still lost in physical ink. in modern times, these researchers are almost myths to hunters – legends. however, mythology tales say that the descendents of the researchers have all knowledge of the honmoon and the demons sealed away by it. of course, it remained apart of the stories celine told rumi, mira, and zoey growing up ... all until they met you.

they met you at a hidden pastry shop in seoul, hidden in an alleyway around the same area as that wack doctor zoey had so much faith in

it was the only place open after practice and rumi, as tired as she was, guided the girls in to enjoy the warm lighting and atmosphere

after declining the offers to go to the bathhouse for the 100th time, she thought this could be the perfect way to make it up to them

she ordered a few treats – mochi for herself, a little apple pie for zoey, steamed red bean buns for mira, and matcha for them all

the girls talked quietly, waiting for their order, until you called rumi up to retrieve the neatly wrapped box of sweets

when she came up to you, your fingers wrapped around her wrist, cold and startling

"i'm not sure how you got in here..", her eyes met yours, now void of the warmth you once held when she walked in, "but if a demon is ordering pastries from me, times must have changed." she shuttered under your hushed voice.

"d-demon...?" her skin was fully covered. even though her markings hadn't spread too far yet, she took precautions regardless, worried of the news that might ruin her relationships.

"i noticed your aura when you sat down. though, you don't seem that threatening... and the honmoon is completely intact aroun–"

"how do you..?" her eyes shook, almost pure horror behind them. there's tension between you two, fueled by her anxiety of being seen, of being exposed when her members were just right by the door. you studied her, her friends, and their auras alike, before you half smiled at her.

"my ancestors and yours were... very close." your voice rose, catching the attention of the pink and black haired girls. "do hunters not teach about researchers anymore?"

the three of them surrounded you quickly, eyes bright and curious

things like "we thought they were myths!!" and "you know about the honmoon!?" were thrown at you immediately

you debunked their mythology left and right, spending an hour after closing chatting with them

they felt.. seen? YOU felt seen!

you could finally talk to others about your aura vision and they could FINALLY get their hunter secrets off their chest

maybe it wasn't the best idea to spill it all in such a public place but who else would listen ?

celine got a very chaotic phone call later that night

and you? you got an invite to a luxurious penthouse and a few new friends

since then, you've helped them immensely

your memory was working like an endless library of information

you'd show them old diagrams your greatest great great great great grandparents had tucked away

discuss old journals that survived the attacks that became family heirlooms

told them fun facts about demons

especially to zoey, who seemed very intrigued by the fact that all demons had a weak spot in their chests due to their lack of personal souls

even, eventually, helped rumi tell the girls about her marks

zoey and mira were stunned in silence. rumi's arms were exposed, hands shaking in anxious terror, but you were right by her side. celine told her to always hide them but .. you understood. you accepted her mere minutes after meeting her. maybe the girls would do the same.

"rumi is.. something fascinating." you admitted. it sounded blunt, but you expressed it with a look of soft excitement. "she has mixed blood – the marks of a demon, the voice, soul, and heart of a hunter. she's never once lied about the kindness of her heart... the traits of hunters overpower any demon urges." you spoke for rumi as she stood there, feeling naked and scared under the judging eyes of her closest friends. "she's a pure experiment – but she's no less rumi. her aura proves that."

it took a few hours of conversations, explanations from both you, the expert, and her, the secret holder, but eventually, zoey and mira engulfed her in a hug – promising to keep the secret contained between the four of you. not even telling celine, in case she got them all in trouble. the golden honmoon was so close.. they'd be able to do this together, especially now that they have you.

during the events of the movie, they needed you a lot

but the last thing they wanted was a repeat of the accident

so they kept you their secret weapon ! working with you behind the scenes and away from the actual action

when the saja boys grabbed everyone's attention with their beautiful bodies and alluring voices, you were staring at their markings, especially at the joint fansigning they held

jinu noticed you about as much as he noticed bobby – just another person on staff

that is until he noticed how you stared at him

not ogling, but studying,, writing things down in the notebook you carried, covered in huntrix stickers

be lucky he noticed you over baby or mystery, otherwise you may have been targeted by their powers to throw you and huntrix off

he asked about you to rumi once .. the "mysterious person" on their staff that "always wrote in that notebook"

she was more worried about your safety than opening up to him but .. she thought..

if you helped her reveal herself to huntrix, maybe you could help jinu and the saja boys ?

they never expressed wanting help but she couldn't help but think about it

you hopped on board with her plan in secret, working on ways out of their servitude to gwima

it took a while but you figured that if you could channel your aura vision and hold them above the honmoon when it sealed, they could be healed of their marks too, human disguises left in tact.

it was only a matter of time before you tried it out.

[aspentoast]

nothing hurts more than looking up “x male reader” and finding one fic

And the one fic is either poorly written smut or the best piece of literature you’ve ever read

[boypied]

𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚢

𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚗' 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚌

“you like that?” he whispers in your ear, sending shivers directly down your spine. Peter liked being in control, especially over you. He couldn't help but enjoy watching you squirm beneath his touch.

You nod your head as his thumb traces along your bottom lip, inching further and further into your mouth until you are directly sucking on it.

“That's it. That's my good boy.” he coos out as you make direct eye contact whilst you watch as Peter sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, pure bliss covering his face.

“keep on sucking.” he continues to coo out, and you obey him, wanting to impress Peter. You wanted nothing more than to be his, only his.

“you're such a good, fucking boy.” he grunts out as he palms away at his painfully hard cock whilst pushing his thumb further into your mouth.

“my boy.” he mumbles out as he moves his hand away from his groin and runs it through your hair. he pulls his thumb out of your mouth, and it glistens in the light. Peter brings it up to his mouth and licks up all of your spit.

“meet me in the bedroom. on your hands and knees. naked.” Peter grunts out in a low tone as you leave the room. He waits a couple of minutes before heading off into the bedroom where he will do some of the dirtiest things to you.

𝚋𝚢 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚍

[starboye]

no nut november

trying to get someone like simon riley, a military lieutenant, a tough man who doesn't break under pressure to fail no nut november is a challenge in itself but that doesn't mean it's impossible

the boys had made simon tey and do the while stupid thing, you cant cum for the entirety of november and if you did that you win, so simon decided "what the hell" and went with it, he was two days in and going strong

little did he know the boys paid you to get him to fail, do whatever just get simon to cum, so the first days may have seemed easy to him but after a couple more days he was struggling to not poo a boner every hour

every time you cane around you were bending over in front of him, lingering touches, and hard flirting, and with him having a crush on you and all it just made it all the worst "so hows your day ghost" you look up at him all innocent looking as if you weren't cooking up a plan in your devious brain "it was good just trained so recruits and-" he was cut off by the sight of you blatantly staring at his crotch

"oh sorry you can keep going" you look back up at him, his face plastered with a shocked expression but nonetheless continuing his story before again getting stopped by the sight of you looking him up and down while biting your lip "you okay ghost you look a little red, ever under the mask" you tease and he's quick to run away

your plan was working wonderful and all, and after a couple more days of just teasing and taunting the poor man he had about five days left before he would win but that became so much harder when he saw you in the gym showers after working out, ass all perky, body all glistening and sweaty he just needed that

but no he tried to shake the thoughts away but it was impossible when you just looked so fucking sexy, you caught him staring at you just from the coner of your eyes while you were showering "well are you gonna keep staring or are you gonna come fuck me big boy" you said and in no time he was naked an rushing to get behind you

fucking you like a mad man under the water while hoping no one was in the locker room to hear him groaning and panting while emptying load after load in your once tight hole, just felt so good finally cumming after weeks of no action, not even jerking off

by the end of it you could barely feel your legs and you were so dazed you just feel to the ground so simon scooped you up and took you to the medic "and what happened here" the medic asks "i think he just went to hard in the gym" he awkwardly tries to avoid eye contact "worth it" you chuckle

xoxo, starboye💋

taglist: @mailmango @boypied @ghostking4m @gayaristocrat @addictedtomalepits @staarb0y @crispysoup318 @its-ares @gargoylesworld09 @znerac @r0mcom-8ngel @bbibbiiu @tqrgaryenfilms

[carnalcrows]

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU

pairing: sukuna ryomen x male reader

synopsis: College is hell—but it gets worse when your ex is scheming, your sister just wants to date, and the only guy bold enough to flirt with you might be doing it for a bet. Sukuna is cocky, tattooed, and impossible to ignore. What starts as a setup spirals into something real: a kiss at a paintball park, a night you can’t forget, and a truth that ruins everything.

content warnings: 18+, college au, alcohol consumption, tipsy sex, semi-public sex, morally grey characters, manipulation, betrayal, cheating (implied), emotionally charged sex, lying for personal gain, heartbreak, swearing, slutshaming, emotionally neglectful behavior, public confrontation, yelling, one slap, characters being hot and toxic, unresolved family dynamics, loud party scenes, academic pressure (light), emotionally vulnerable confession in a poem, a little nanami slander, inspired by the titular movie.

word count: 8.0k - art belongs to @/to00fu on tumblr

People didn’t avoid you because you were scary. They avoided you because you made it clear you didn’t want to be spoken to.

No fake smiles. No nodding along. No “haha, yeah” in the hallway. You weren’t mean—you were efficient. Quiet when you could be. Sharp when you had to be. Your sister said it was a defence mechanism. Your last boyfriend said it was unattractive.

You said nothing. And they all took it personally.

So it wasn’t shocking that Gojo Satoru, of all people, took it as a challenge.

He dropped into the seat next to you five minutes before class, sunglasses still on despite being inside, iced coffee in hand like he wasn’t already vibrating out of his skin.

“Okay,” he said, way too casually, “hypothetical for you.”

You didn’t look up.

“What would it take for someone to date you?”

You blinked once. Turned the page of your book. “A lobotomy.”

Gojo laughed like you were joking. “Nice. So you’re saying there’s a chance.”

You finally glanced at him. He was grinning. Bright, smug, stupid.

You went back to your book. “Whatever plan you’re working on,” you said flatly, “leave me out of it.”

“Can’t,” he said. “Your sister’s dating life depends on it.”

That made you pause. Just a little.

Of course it did.

✧✧✧

Gojo said your sister’s dating life depended on you like it were some minor inconvenience. Like you were the problem, and not, say, your parents’ medieval take on dating logistics.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to. He took your silence as permission.

“So—” he leaned in, like you were co-conspirators and not two people who’d had a total of three conversations ever, “just out of curiosity, are you into guys? Girls? Hot RAs with emotionally complicated backstories?”

You stared at him. He winked.

Thankfully, the professor walked in, saving you from felony assault.

But Gojo wasn’t done.

Later that day, you found Utahime sitting on the quad lawn, phone in hand, surrounded by three empty bubble tea cups and a stack of psych readings she was pretending to highlight.

She didn’t look up when you dropped onto the grass beside her.

“Gojo’s bothering me again,” you said.

“You bother yourself,” she muttered. “I just get collateral damage.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She looked at you. Actually looked. Her face was too pretty to pull off annoyed, but she tried anyway.

“It means,” she said slowly, like you were a particularly stupid lab rat, “I’ve been asked out twice this week. I had to say no both times.”

You blinked. “...why?”

She stared.

“Oh,” you said.

“Yeah. Oh.”

The silence stretched between you.

“I told them you didn’t care if I dated,” she said, half-hopeful. “That you weren’t, like, emotionally invested or anything.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why won’t they believe me?”

Because once, when you were seventeen, you told your mom that if she let Utahime date some slimy little theatre kid named Kento, you’d report them both to CPS. She’d laughed. But apparently the rule stuck.

No dating for Utahime until her older brother—the one who allegedly told his ex to choke on a thesaurus—started dating again.

Flawless system.

“I'm going to die alone,” she said. “And it’s going to be your fault.”

You tipped your head back and closed your eyes. “Tell Mom and Dad I’m gay. Maybe they’ll make an exception.”

Utahime huffed. “You’re not gay. You’re just emotionally unavailable.”

“Same difference.”

There was a beat of silence. Long enough for you to hear the quiet buzz of her phone screen lighting up.

She didn’t say anything, but her tone shifted.

“I’m not giving up,” she said, almost to herself.

You cracked one eye open. “On dating?”

“On you.”

You frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

But Utahime was already standing up, gathering her notes and shoving a half-drunk boba into your hand.

“Drink this,” she said. “You need sugar or something. You’ve been looking extra feral lately.”

You watched her walk off, phone already to her ear. She was smiling. Strategically.

You narrowed your eyes.

That couldn’t be good.

✧✧✧

Naoya didn’t usually come to this café. It wasn’t his scene. Too many broke kids and philosophy majors pretending they were deep because they ordered their lattes with oat milk and wore Doc Martens like they invented rebellion. But today, he made an exception. He had a plan, and it needed someone very specific. Someone fucked-up enough to say yes.

Sukuna sat in the corner, back to the wall, hood up, earbuds in—but not playing anything. Just a signal: don’t talk to me unless you want problems. Naoya talked to him anyway.

He didn’t bother with greetings. Just slid into the seat across from him, like they were equals. Like Sukuna wasn’t already deciding if he wanted to walk out or throw his drink in Naoya’s face.

“You’re bored, right?” Naoya said. “You walk around like nothing matters. Like you’re above it all.”

Sukuna didn’t look up. “You’ve got five seconds to stop wasting my time.”

Naoya smirked. “You know Ijichi, yeah? The older one. Poetry kid. Looks like he hates everyone.”

Now, Sukuna looked at him. Not surprised—just interested enough to pause.

Naoya kept going, casual like he wasn’t holding a knife under the table. “He’s my ex. And he’s been going around acting like he’s too good for everyone now. Like he dumped me. Like I’m the joke.”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow. “...didn’t he?”

Naoya ignored that. “I want you to date him.”

That made Sukuna smile. Or something like it. Barely there. Sharp. “You want me to fuck your ex?”

“No. I want you to make him fall for you. Properly. The whole show. Make him trust you. Think you care.” Naoya leaned in. “Then you dump him. Publicly. Leave him the way he left me. Let everyone see it.”

Sukuna studied him like he was a puzzle with missing pieces. “You want revenge.”

“I want to win.”

There was a long silence. Sukuna tilted his head, just slightly. “What’s in it for me?”

Naoya smiled. “If you pull it off, I’ll owe you. I’ve got connections. People who look the other way. Professors. Admin. You’re smart, but your grades are shit. I can fix that.” He paused. “Or—if you’re more into humiliation—I’ll read one of Gojo’s poems at open mic night. Dead serious.”

That got an actual laugh out of Sukuna. Soft. Cruel.

He leaned back in his seat and cracked his knuckles, slow and deliberate. “You think your ex is dumb enough to fall for me?”

Naoya’s grin curled like a cigarette being lit. “I think you’re pretty enough to make it happen.”

Sukuna tilted his head like the whole thing was beneath him—but maybe still worth his time.

He grabbed his drink, stood slowly, and gave Naoya a look that didn’t say yes or no—just, watch me.

“Sure,” he muttered, turning to leave. “Could use something to do.”

He didn’t wait for Naoya’s reply. Didn’t care.

Because the truth was—he’d already seen you around. And maybe, just maybe, he’d been waiting for an excuse.

✧✧✧

The campus bookstore was one of your favourite places to be ignored.

Not the main one—too many screaming first-years buying overpriced highlighters. No, this one was tucked into the corner of an old side street, half-forgotten and dimly lit. Records lined one wall, poetry chapbooks on the other. The kind of place where no one asked questions if you sat on the floor and read for an hour without buying anything.

You were thumbing through the “melancholy bastard” section—Leonard Cohen, Elliott Smith, the usual suspects—when someone moved into your peripheral vision. Slow. Purposeful. Close enough to make it obvious, not close enough to say hi.

You glanced up. Froze.

He was taller than you expected. Sharper, too. Hair pulled back in a lazy knot, a black hoodie stretched across broad shoulders, sleeves shoved up to the elbow. You recognised him instantly. Everyone did. Sukuna Ryomen wasn’t a person so much as a rumour with cheekbones.

He didn’t say anything. Just flipped through records two rows over like he wasn’t fully aware of your existence—like he wasn’t performing not noticing you.

So you ignored him right back. Or tried to. Until he spoke.

“Pretty sure you already read that one.”

You glanced at the book in your hand. Sylvia Plath.

“Maybe I like rereading things,” you said.

Sukuna’s mouth curled into the ghost of a smile. “Sure. Or maybe you just like being sad on purpose.”

You turned fully to face him. “You following me, or are you just naturally this annoying?”

“Neither,” he said, stepping closer now, not even pretending anymore. “You’re just loud for someone who pretends not to want attention.”

Your jaw clenched. “I’m not loud.”

“You are,” he said, so casually it felt surgical. “But it’s fine. I like loud.”

You stared at him. He stared back, lazy and unbothered, like this entire conversation was just a thing he was trying on for size.

Then he held up a record—slowly, deliberately—like an offering. The Smiths. Of course.

“Not my type,” you said.

He grinned. “Good thing I didn’t ask.”

And then he turned and walked out.

No name. No number. Just static, and you're holding a book that you suddenly can’t read anymore.

✧✧✧

He didn’t come up to you again the next day. Or the one after that. Which would’ve been fine, except now you were aware of him. Aware in the way a body is aware of a bruise: a low ache, something you’d keep accidentally brushing up against.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That the record store thing was nothing. That you weren’t flattered, weren’t intrigued, weren’t still thinking about the way he looked at you like he already knew how the story would end. But then he started showing up.

Once in the library, at the table across from yours. Once in the dining hall, passing close enough to brush shoulders. And once—most irritatingly—in your creative writing elective, which you were sure he hadn’t been enrolled in the week before.

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just… hovered. Orbiting your schedule like it was gravitational. Always on the edge of your attention. Never too obvious. But you weren’t stupid. You’d seen this game before. Some guys flirted with flowers. Others with sarcasm. Sukuna, apparently, flirted with proximity and smirks.

The next time he spoke to you, it was after class, some Thursday afternoon that already felt like a headache. You were halfway down the hallway when he fell into step beside you, calm like you’d invited him.

“You free tonight?” he asked, like you were mid-conversation.

You didn’t even look at him. “Do I look like I am?”

He hummed. “Hard to tell. You’ve got the kind of face that always looks annoyed.”

You stopped walking. Turned to face him. “Are you flirting with me, or just bored?”

Sukuna shrugged, unbothered. “Why can’t it be both?”

You stared at him. He stared back. There was something maddening about the way he held eye contact—like he wasn’t afraid of anything you could say. Like he didn’t believe you could hurt him.

“Look,” you said flatly, “whatever this is? You can stop. I’m not interested.”

He tilted his head. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

He smiled, soft and slow. “Alright.” Then, almost like it was nothing: “You’ll change your mind.”

And then he walked off. No argument. No doubling down. Just that fucking smugness trailing after him like cigarette smoke.

You watched him go, jaw tight, heart doing something it shouldn’t have been doing. You hated people like that. People who were too confident, too casual. The kind of confidence that meant they never really got rejected, only delayed.

Still, you told yourself it was over. That he got the message. That someone like Ryomen Sukuna—someone cold, magnetic, and clearly a walking disaster—wouldn’t waste time chasing someone who wasn’t biting.

You were wrong, obviously.

✧✧✧

Utahime wasn’t sure what annoyed her more—the fact that Gojo had somehow gotten into her French class halfway through the semester, or the fact that he kept insisting it was fate. Not like “divine intervention” fate. More like “we made eye contact one time outside the dining hall and now we have to get married” fate. Which, for Gojo Satoru, was probably the same thing.

Today, he’d positioned himself at the desk next to hers with all the subtlety of a hurricane. Notebook open, sleeve rolled up just enough to show the faint tan line from a friendship bracelet someone had clearly made for him. Probably Utahime’s roommate. Or her professor. Or both.

“Je veux du café,” he said smoothly, pencil twirling between his fingers. “I want coffee. Which I do. Right now. With you.”

Utahime stared at him. “I want a lobotomy.”

Gojo grinned. “How do you say that in French?”

She didn’t answer. Mostly because she didn’t know, and partly because answering would be giving him exactly what he wanted—attention, reaction, eye contact that lingered a second too long.

Which she gave him anyway.

Because she was weak. And he was pretty. And she hated that about herself.

“I cry during movies,” Gojo added, like that would help. “And I recycle. I’m, like, morally irresistible.”

Before she could threaten him with physical harm, Naoya dropped into the seat on her other side like a glitch in the matrix. She hadn’t even seen him come in.

“Utahime,” he said, voice dipped in manufactured charm, “you’re looking…”

“Don’t,” she cut in. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

He smirked. “Feisty.”

Gojo leaned back in his seat, letting his arm drape casually behind Utahime’s chair. “We’re doing adjectives now? I can play. She’s radiant. Intelligent. Dangerously under-caffeinated.”

Naoya scowled at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be gay?”

Gojo’s grin sharpened. “I’m supposed to be a lot of things.”

Utahime sighed, grabbing her books. “I’m getting coffee.”

“Alone or fake-alone?” Gojo asked, already rising with her.

“You’re following me.”

“I’m practising immersion.”

Naoya frowned. “I could come, too.”

Utahime didn’t answer. She just walked off with Gojo trailing behind her like a heatwave. Naoya watched them leave, something bitter flickering behind his eyes.

Across the room, Geto—Gojo’s longtime friend and reluctant enabler—looked up from his sandwich.

“You’re losing,” he said helpfully.

Naoya turned to him. “Who even are you?”

Geto shrugged. “A prophet, apparently.”

And then he went back to eating like nothing had happened.

✧✧✧

You’d always hated group work. It was academic Tinder—awkward pairings, fake small talk, and someone inevitably doing all the work while the other coasted on vibes and a vaguely tragic backstory. You’d perfected the art of preemptively claiming a seat at the edge of the classroom, angled just far enough to be left out of any “everyone find a partner!” moments.

So when Professor Yaga said, “Pair off for today’s workshop,” you didn’t even flinch. You just opened your notebook and waited for some poor idiot to make eye contact with you long enough to get guilted into joining.

What you did not expect was Sukuna Ryomen to slide into the chair next to you like he’d been assigned to you by the devil himself.

“You’re late,” you said flatly, not looking up.

He shrugged. “I’m unpredictable.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, folding his arms behind his head, “here I am. Partnered with you. Fate’s weird like that.”

You didn’t reply. If you didn’t give him attention, maybe he’d get bored and go haunt someone else.

No such luck.

Sukuna leaned over like he was actually going to read your notes, which would’ve been hilarious if it weren’t also extremely annoying. “So… what are we doing?”

You side-eyed him. “I’m doing the assignment. You’re vibing.”

He grinned. “I like your handwriting.”

“Thanks. I use it exclusively to write insults.”

“Write one for me.”

You turned to him, finally, incredulous. “You want me to insult you?”

“Sure. Most people just talk behind my back.”

You blinked. For half a second, you caught something real in his voice. But then he smiled again, lazy and crooked, like he’d flipped a switch and gone back to whatever version of himself he thought you wanted to see.

You looked away. “I don’t know what your deal is,” you said. “But it’s not working.”

“What’s not working?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely. “The whole dark-and-mysterious routine. The sudden interest in me. The flirting that’s somehow also condescending. Whatever game you’re playing—it’s boring.”

Sukuna was quiet for a beat too long. Then: “Damn. Tell me how you really feel.”

You turned back to your notes. “I did.”

He didn’t say anything for the rest of the class. Didn’t lean in. Didn’t smirk. Just sat there, too still. Too quiet. Like maybe—for once—you’d actually surprised him.

And you told yourself that was the end of it. That you’d won. That this weird little game had finally hit a wall he couldn’t smooth-talk his way around.

But later that day, when you opened your locker, there was a Post-it stuck inside. Black ink. Slanted handwriting.

“I’m not flirting. I just like the way you look when you hate me.” —S.R.

You crumpled it and threw it away.

Then stood there for another twenty seconds, staring at the empty space where it had been.

✧✧✧

You were already regretting everything by the time you got to the front steps of the frat house. The music was so loud it vibrated through your shoes, some bastard remix of a pop song you didn’t recognise, drowning out your thoughts. You tugged at your sleeves, scowled at the flashing lights, and turned toward Utahime. “We’re not staying long.”

She rolled her eyes. “You say that like I didn’t blackmail you into coming.”

“I’m still not sure how you did that.”

“I know what happened in freshman year with that T.A.,” she said sweetly. “And I still have the screenshots.”

You glared. “You are the worst.”

“And yet,” she smiled, “you’re here.”

The house was packed. Someone was already puking into the hedge. Inside, it smelled like cheap beer, weed, and something tragically floral—like a Bath & Body Works exploded. You manoeuvred your way through the crowd, ignoring every attempt at conversation, every accidental brush of arms. You were just here to babysit. To make sure Utahime didn’t end up locked in a bathroom crying because Naoya said something gross about astrology.

And of course Naoya was here. Centre of attention, glittering in that way only rich, boring people knew how to do. He spotted Utahime instantly and made a beeline for her, offering a drink and a smirk that probably worked on freshmen with low standards.

You watched from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, mood already circling the drain. And that’s when you felt it—his presence. Like a shift in pressure, a temperature drop, the back of your neck prickling for no good reason.

Sukuna.

Leaning against the hallway wall, red solo cup dangling from his fingers, eyes on you. Not on the party. Not on the crowd. You.

He didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Just watched you like he was waiting for something. You looked away fast, heart doing something stupid in your chest. You hated that he got under your skin so easily. Hated even more that he knew it.

Time blurred. The music got louder. You ended up with a drink you didn’t ask for and downed it faster than necessary. It burned. You didn’t care.

Another cup. Another burn.

And then—somewhere between your third drink and Utahime yelling “YOLO is dead, stop saying that” at Naoya—you found yourself in the living room, lights flashing, bodies moving around you like smoke, and someone yelling for you to “get on the table if you’re hot.”

You didn’t remember climbing up. Didn’t remember deciding that dancing was a good idea. All you remembered was the heat in your face, the weightlessness in your limbs, and the absolutely feral look Sukuna gave you from across the room.

His expression didn’t change, but his posture did. He stood straighter. The cup disappeared from his hand. His eyes followed you like you were a threat he wanted to keep close.

You moved to the music, loose and loud and lit up with the kind of recklessness you usually buried under sarcasm and disdain. People were cheering. Someone whistled. You didn’t care.

Sukuna was at the base of the table now. Right below you. Watching. Waiting.

You dropped into a crouch, leaned forward, close enough to speak into his ear if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

But you almost did.

Instead, you held his gaze for one beat too long. The kind of look that felt like a dare.

You jumped down off the table, blood hot and your head swimming with smoke and sugar. The crowd swallowed you whole, but your eyes found him instantly, leaning against the wall like he owned it, red cup in hand, lip caught between his teeth.

Sukuna.

His eyes were locked on you. Sharp. Starved.

You didn’t even think—just pushed through the bodies, grabbed his shirt, and muttered something like “upstairs, now.”

He followed.

Didn’t say a word. Just pressed a hand to your lower back and let you drag him through the chaos, up the stairs, into the nearest room with a door you could slam shut behind you.

The lock clicked.

And then your mouth was on his.

It was messy, clumsy at first, all teeth and breath and too many hands trying to touch at once. He groaned into the kiss when you pushed him up against the wall, his fingers tightening on your hips like he’d been waiting for this all damn semester.

Your shirt came off first. His followed. Then yours again, because he wanted to see. Touch. Explore the heat under your skin and the way your breath hitched when his mouth dragged down your throat.

“Fuck,” he whispered, against your collarbone, like you were something sacred and ruined all at once.

You backed toward the bed, pulling him with you. Fell into the mattress, legs tangled, teeth clashing, laughing into his mouth when he groaned your name like it hurt.

When he settled between your thighs, grinding down just hard enough to make your spine arch, you gasped. Grabbed at him. Let your head fall back with a choked sound you didn’t mean to let slip.

“Still hate me?” he asked, breath hot against your jaw.

“Shut the fuck up,” you muttered, pulling him closer.

You didn’t stop touching him. Didn’t stop moving. Your bodies slid together like they’d done this before—like they needed it. Your fingers digging into his back. His mouth on your throat, your chest, your stomach. The way he kissed you after every gasp—like he wanted to savour it. Make sure you never forgot.

And you wouldn’t.

Not the way he whispered your name right before you came. Not the way he held your face when you did. Not the way he kissed you after, slow and reverent, like he hadn’t just destroyed you.

You lay there in silence, bodies warm and wrecked and too tangled to pretend it meant nothing.

And you knew, even then: This wasn’t just a party hookup.

This was the moment you’d remember tomorrow—when it all came crashing down.

✧✧✧

You woke up with the kind of hangover that made you question every life decision from age seven onward. Your mouth tasted like regret. Your head pulsed like there was a rave happening behind your eyes. You blinked at the ceiling for a full minute before sitting up and immediately regretting that too.

Your phone had five missed texts from Utahime, two from unknown numbers, and one photo you had to squint at to realise was you, on a table, mid-dance. Shirt ridden up. Face flushed. Sukuna—barely in frame—standing below, half-shadowed, looking up at you like you were some kind of puzzle he was deciding not to solve.

You deleted the photo. Then deleted the delete.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. People danced at parties. People got drunk. People flirted with dangerous men and almost fucked them in front of fifty witnesses. It was fine.

You were halfway across the quad, hoodie up, headphones in with no music playing, when you saw him again.

Sukuna.

Sitting under one of the older trees near the main lecture hall, legs stretched out, notebook open on one knee. Writing. Or pretending to. His eyes flicked up the moment you got close.

“Morning,” he said, like nothing had happened. No sarcasm. No smirk. Just… the word.

You stopped. Against your better judgment. “Are you stalking me?”

He shrugged. “I was here first.”

“You’re always ‘here first.’ That’s weird.”

He didn’t look at you when he answered. Just kept flipping the stupid lighter in his hand like it might say something for him. “Or maybe,” he said, calm as anything, “we just hang out in the same places.”

You snorted. “We don’t hang out.”

“Tell that to the version of you dancing on the kitchen table last night.”

Your stomach turned. Too fast. Too hard. Like it had been waiting for that line, and now it didn’t know what to do with it.

“You’re not funny,” you said. Too sharp. Too flat.

“I’m kind of hilarious, actually.”

But he didn’t smile when he said it. Not really. He wasn’t doing that thing he usually did—leaning in too close, voice dipped just low enough to make you feel it. He wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t pushing. He just looked tired. Quiet. Like he was standing on the other side of something you couldn’t see yet.

You folded your arms across your chest. “I don’t remember much,” you said. Which wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

He nodded once. No judgment. No sarcasm. Just—“Cool. Then we’ll say nothing happened.”

That landed harder than it should have. You blinked. “You’re not gonna be annoying about it?”

“Nope.”

And he meant it. That was the worst part. No smug grin. No smug anything. He was offering you an out. A clean break. Like he’d already accepted whatever version of this you were willing to give him.

You scoffed, because it felt safer than silence. “Fine. Nothing happened.”

“Exactly.”

You turned to walk away. Fast. Too fast. Like you could outpace the heat still lingering on your skin or the phantom feel of his hands on your waist.

But then, just as the door creaked behind you, you heard him say it.

Soft. Almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it at all.

“But it could’ve.”

You didn’t stop.

But you felt it.

All the way down.

✧✧✧

You were halfway up the metal bleachers when you realised something was off.

It was supposed to be a quiet practice. The field was open, sun bleeding through low clouds, a few students jogging the track, the campus radio playing somewhere in the background. You’d come out here to clear your head, not to be witnessed. Definitely not to be ambushed.

And yet.

The radio cut out mid-song. A pause. Then: feedback. And then—his voice.

“This is probably a bad idea,” said Sukuna, crackling through the speakers like an accidental god.

You froze.

“But you’re ignoring me, and I’m not built for being ignored. So here we are.”

Heads turned. The girl stretching two rows down looked up, confused. A guy on the field pointed toward the press box, where the campus radio station was housed.

You turned slowly.

There he was.

Sukuna, leaning into the mic, half-laughing, one arm resting on the desk like he owned the place. A little breathless. Hair pulled back. That same damn look in his eye.

“You don’t like me. I get it. You think I’m an asshole—which is fair. But you also think I don’t notice things. That I’m not paying attention. And you’re wrong.”

You felt your heartbeat in your teeth.

“You always start your notes on the bottom line of the page. You mouth the words when you read. You don’t laugh out loud unless it’s mean or unexpected. You’re mean when you’re scared. You’re scared when you like someone.”

You were going to kill him.

Not immediately. Not in front of witnesses. But soon.

“So if you’re listening—and I know you are—just know this: I’m not asking for anything. I’m just saying I see you. And I’m still here.”

Then static. Silence. Someone started clapping. A few others joined. The moment cracked open like a dropped plate.

You stood up.

Walked down the bleachers.

And made sure not to look at anyone until you were off the field and back inside.

You didn’t text him.

But that night, you couldn’t stop thinking about the way his voice had sounded through the speaker.

A little unsure.

A little real.

Too real.

✧✧✧

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you muttered, climbing into the passenger seat of his beat-up car.

“Sure you can,” Sukuna said, sliding into the driver’s side like this wasn’t the biggest win of his month. “You’re dying to hang out with me.”

“I’m skipping class, not confessing my feelings.”

“Same thing,” he smirked, revving the engine.

You rolled your eyes and refused to smile.

He didn’t tell you where you were going, but you didn’t ask. You just watched the trees blur past the window and tried not to think about how your chest still ached from hearing his voice on the radio yesterday. Or how he hadn’t pushed you afterwards. No smug comments. No, “so, you like me now?” Just a nod across the quad, like he knew what he’d done and wasn’t going to ruin it.

And then, suddenly—you were here.

It was an abandoned paintball park just off the edge of campus, tucked behind a shuttered rec centre and a forest that hadn’t been trimmed in years. Half the inflatables were sun-bleached. The other half looked like they were waiting to be condemned. It was perfect.

“Is this trespassing?” you asked.

He looked at you. “Do you care?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He pulled two masks and a backpack full of old paintball gear from the trunk and tossed you one.

“Winner gets to ask one question,” he said, already loading his gun.

“What if I win?”

“You won’t.”

You hit him first. Right in the ribs. Yellow paint exploded across his hoodie, and he staggered back, laughing—really laughing—and called you a bitch through the mask. You didn’t stop grinning for ten whole seconds.

It went like that for a while. Running. Hiding. Hitting each other with sharp, wet bursts of colour. At one point, you tripped and rolled behind a bunker, breathing hard. Sukuna slid in after you, tackled you with just enough force to knock the wind out of your lungs, and pinned you there.

You froze.

Paint smeared between you. His mask was off now. So was yours. His eyes were close, wild and bright. His breath hit your face in fast bursts.

Neither of you said anything.

Then—just like that—he kissed you.

Quick. Hard. Like he hadn’t meant to do it until it was already happening.

You didn’t stop him.

You kissed him back.

Your hands fisted in his hoodie, and his mouth tilted against yours, hungry, like he’d been waiting for this moment since the second you told him to fuck off during class that first week.

When he finally pulled away, he looked wrecked. Not from the game. From you.

You swallowed. “I still hate you.”

He grinned. “Sure you do.”

And then he kissed you again.

✧✧✧

It was supposed to be a quick stop. Sukuna had followed you downtown because you wanted “real food, not vending machine garbage,” and somehow that turned into ducking into a cramped little music shop just off the main strip. Guitars lined the walls like trophies, faded band posters tacked behind the counter. The whole place smelled like old wood and warm metal.

You didn’t say anything when you picked one up.

Just grabbed the pair of beat-up studio headphones from the display, plugged in, and sat down on the little stool in the back.

Sukuna watched from a distance, pretending to be interested in a rack of bass picks. But his eyes kept sliding back to you.

The way your fingers moved—confident, casual, muscle memory kicking in like it had never left. Your eyes were half-lidded, head tilted just slightly, as you plucked out something low and slow. Not a song he recognised. Maybe not even a full melody. Just sound. Easy. Yours.

You looked so fucking calm.

So quietly happy.

When you noticed him watching, you smirked and pulled the headphones off.

“Didn’t peg you as the lingering type,” you said.

“Didn’t peg you as the secretly talented type,” he shot back.

You shrugged. “Used to play. Can’t afford one anymore. Not like I’d have time anyway.”

Then you set the guitar back on the wall, careful, like it mattered.

And walked out like none of it had meant anything.

Sukuna stayed behind a second longer.

Long enough to memorise the make. The colour. The way your eyes had gone soft when you played.

He didn’t say anything about it then.

But he remembered.

✧✧✧

Naoya wasn’t a genius, but he wasn’t stupid either.

And something was definitely going on.

He watched them from across the quad—Utahime, Gojo, and that stupid little spiral of tension they tried to play off as banter. Gojo leaning in just a bit too close, Utahime swatting him away, but never really moving. Her eyes lingered. His hands were always busy—spinning a pen, adjusting his sunglasses, reaching for a piece of her attention like it was second nature.

They weren’t dating. Not officially. But it was obvious. Everyone could feel it.

And it pissed Naoya off more than he cared to admit.

He’d asked Utahime to prom in the most low-effort way possible—half a smile and a “You’re free Saturday, right?” by the vending machines. She’d paused for a second, then shrugged. “Sure.” No exclamation point. No heart emoji. Just sure.

Still, he considered it a win. Until later that week, when he overheard Gojo asking her what colour she was wearing so he could “match his tie to her aura.” And the worst part? She laughed. Laughed. The kind of laugh you didn’t fake for social survival. The kind that lived in your throat when someone actually got under your skin—in a good way.

Naoya stared from a distance, fuming silently as Gojo offered Utahime a bite of whatever overpriced pastry he was eating. She took it. Didn’t even hesitate.

That’s when it hit him.

Gojo didn’t care about prom. He cared about winning.

And Utahime? She wasn’t even pretending anymore. Not even a little.

Naoya didn’t say anything. Just watched them walk off, their shadows overlapping on the pavement.

He had a date to the prom.

But he was starting to wonder if he was the only one who didn’t know it was a joke.

✧✧✧

You didn’t expect him to ask.

You’d already decided you weren’t going. Told Utahime you hated crowds, loud music, the idea of putting effort into something that would end with people puking in bushes and fake glitter in your underwear. She didn’t believe you, but she knew better than to push.

And then Sukuna showed up.

At your dorm door. Leaning against the frame like he hadn’t just jogged up four flights of stairs, hair a little messy, a half-wrinkle in his shirt like he’d slept in it and didn’t care. Like always.

“You going to prom?” he asked.

You blinked. “Why?”

He shrugged, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to read a language he hadn’t studied enough. “Figured if I have to suffer through a school event, you should too.”

You scoffed. “Is this your version of asking nicely?”

“It’s my version of asking at all.”

You should’ve said no.

Should’ve shut the door in his face, curled up in bed, and watched something violent while pretending you didn’t care. But the problem was—you did. And the way he was looking at you? Not smug. Not teasing. Just… waiting.

So you said yes.

Quietly. Grudgingly.

And two days later, he picked you up for suit shopping like this was just a thing you did now. Like the two of you had rules. Traditions. Somewhere between enemies and not-quite-lovers.

The shop was tucked behind a row of old bookstores, with mirrors that made you look taller and music that felt like static. You tried on three suits before settling on one that didn’t make you want to punch yourself. Sukuna lounged in the corner chair the whole time, pretending not to watch you adjust the collar, the cuffs, the shoulders.

“You clean up,” he said eventually, like it was a fact. Like it didn’t mean anything.

“You’re staring,” you replied.

He smiled. “Can you blame me?”

You didn’t answer. Just turned back to the mirror, trying not to imagine his hands on your waist again. Trying not to remember the way he kissed you behind that bunker, like he didn’t care who saw. Like he’d been waiting to do it since day one.

Later, you sat cross-legged on your bed while Utahime painted a line of dark eyeliner under your lashes. Her fingers were steady. She didn’t ask you anything, didn’t tease you about your date or your nerves. Just hummed under her breath, like this was something she knew you needed.

Gojo texted her mid-mascara. Something about his tie.

She smiled when she read it. Soft. The kind of smile you used to wear around people you didn’t think could hurt you.

And for the first time in weeks, your stomach sank.

Something about all of this felt too good. Too smooth.

And when things felt this good, something always broke.

✧✧✧

The gym didn’t look like a gym. Not tonight.

String lights dripped from the rafters like stars trying too hard. The floor had been covered in some kind of black satin tarp, and the punch had actual fruit in it, which meant some overworked student council member was probably passed out backstage from exhaustion.

You stood in the doorway, fingers curling into the cuffs of your sleeves, breath caught somewhere between dread and disbelief.

And then you saw him.

Sukuna.

Leaning against the back wall in a suit that looked criminal on him. Shirt half-open. Tie loose. Hair swept back like he’d tried, then gave up halfway. He looked bored. Dangerous. Stupidly hot.

But the second his eyes found you, he stared. Like you were gravity.

“Damn,” he said when you reached him, voice a little rough. “You clean up scary good.”

“You look like you lost a bet with fashion,” you shot back, but your voice was softer than usual.

His grin cracked something in your chest.

You danced. Eventually. Not because you wanted to, but because the song was slow and the room had started to spin, and Sukuna held out his hand like it wasn’t a question. His palm was warm. His fingers were steady. One hand on your waist, one on your wrist, like he was grounding you and holding you hostage all at once.

“I don’t do this,” you murmured.

“Dance?”

“Let people in.”

His grip tightened just a little. “Maybe you should.”

You didn’t pull away.

Across the room, Utahime was laughing at something Gojo said, a crumpled corsage in her hand. Gojo looked so smug that you wanted to throw something, but she looked happy. Like… happy.

Then Naoya showed up.

Lurking on the edge of the crowd like a shadow that hadn’t been invited. Eyes sharp. Smile sharper.

You felt it before you saw him approach—Sukuna going tense, his posture shifting just slightly, like he’d spotted a crack in the floor and knew what was coming.

Naoya didn’t say hello.

Didn’t greet you.

Just looked at Sukuna and said, loudly enough to turn heads:

“So, how’s it feel? Winning the bet?”

The music didn’t stop. But everything else did.

You blinked. “What bet?”

Naoya’s smile widened. “Oh, you didn’t tell him? Thought that was part of the game.”

You looked at Sukuna.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t deny it.

Just stood there. Still. Silent.

And that—that—was all it took.

You stepped back. Out of his reach. Out of his orbit.

He tried to speak—tried to explain—but you were already walking away, mouth dry, vision tunnelling.

Utahime caught up to you in the hallway. “What happened?”

And then behind you: a smack.

Loud. Sharp. Clean.

You turned just in time to see Utahime’s hand drop from Naoya’s face.

“Don’t ever talk to me again,” she said.

Naoya stood there, stunned, cheek blooming red.

Gojo looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

And Sukuna? He was still in the doorway. Still staring after you. Still not moving.

Like maybe if he stayed still long enough, you’d turn around.

You didn’t.

✧✧✧

You stopped answering texts.

Not just Sukuna’s. Everyone’s. Utahime. Gojo. That one guy from chem who always sent you TikToks you never watched. Your phone became a thing that buzzed and blinked and begged for attention, and you left it facedown every time. Like ignoring it could make everything disappear.

The campus felt smaller after that night.

Every hallway echoed. Every classroom felt like a spotlight. Every glance from people who’d heard about the scene at prom—because of course they had—made your skin itch.

And Sukuna?

He didn’t vanish. That would’ve been easier. Instead, he showed up.

Everywhere.

Leaning against the locker outside your lecture hall. Sitting on the bench across from your favourite coffee place. Lingering by the library entrance like he didn’t know where else to go.

Sometimes, he tried to talk.

Not loudly. Not the way he used to. He didn’t yell or chase or beg. Just stood there, voice low, hands in his pockets, eyes rimmed red like he hadn’t slept in days.

“I didn’t think it would matter,” he’d said once. “Until it did.”

You didn’t respond.

Another time: “It wasn’t about the bet. Not after I got to know you. I swear to god.”

You walked away before he finished.

He never pushed. Never grabbed your wrist or blocked your path or made a scene.

And that, somehow, was worse.

Because he meant it.

Because if he’d laughed in your face, you could’ve hated him clean. Sharp. Easy.

But he stood there instead—like he’d been gutted. Like you were the one who’d broken him.

It would’ve been poetic if it hadn’t hurt so much.

The worst part was: you missed him.

You missed the stupid smirk. The way he leaned too close when you talked, like he couldn’t hear you unless you were touching. You missed the quiet moments. The half-finished thoughts. The way he said your name, like it was something earned.

But every time you remembered the gym lights, Naoya’s voice, and the way Sukuna didn’t deny it, you wanted to scream.

So you didn’t say anything.

You didn’t say anything.

And Sukuna stood in your silence like it was a cage he built himself.

✧✧✧

Sukuna had never really been afraid of silence. He’d lived in it, grown up in it, learned to weaponise it. But this? This wasn’t silence. This was absence.

A blank space where laughter used to live.

No more text messages with half-spelt insults. No more boots scuffing the tile next to his. No more eyes burning into the side of his face when he said something stupid just to get a reaction.

It was like he’d imagined the whole thing.

And he was losing his mind because of it.

He hadn’t been eating. Barely sleeping. His classes were background noise, the campus a grayscale blur he wandered through in a haze. Every corner reminded him of something. A smirk. A comment. That look—the one from the paintball park, all flushed cheeks and fire.

Gone.

He was in the quad when they found him.

Gojo and Geto. The human embodiment of chaos and judgment. The worst tag team in existence.

“You look like shit,” Gojo said, flopping down next to him on the bench. “Like, more than usual.”

“Thanks,” Sukuna muttered.

Geto sat on the other side. Calm. Calculated. “So. You ruined it.”

Sukuna didn’t answer.

Gojo leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I’m just trying to understand how you managed to fumble that hard. Was the bet worth it? Huh?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Sukuna said, voice low. “Not really.”

“But it was, at first,” Geto said, no venom—just facts.

Sukuna stared at the ground.

Gojo exhaled sharply. “Look. I don’t care how it started. I care that you meant it by the end. And that you let him walk away without a fight.”

“What do you want me to do?” Sukuna snapped. “I already told him it wasn’t about the bet. I told him I was sorry. He doesn’t want to hear it.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Gojo said. “Not yet.”

“So what then? I keep showing up and making an idiot of myself until he forgives me?”

“Maybe,” Geto said. “Or maybe you show him something real. Something that proves it wasn’t just a game to you.”

Sukuna scoffed. “Like what? A fucking song? A love letter?”

Gojo grinned. “Oh my god. Please write him a love letter. I’ll frame it.”

“Be serious.”

“I am,” Gojo said. “You’re in love with him, Sukuna. Do something about it before it’s too late.”

That shut him up.

Because it was the truth.

He was. He was in love.

And he was going to lose you for good if he didn’t stop sulking and start trying.

✧✧✧

The assignment was simple: write a poem. Present it aloud. Be vulnerable. The professor’s words, not yours.

You weren’t going to do it.

But then you sat up the night before, fingers clenched around a pen, and the words came out like teeth.

So now you're standing here.

In front of half the class, with Sukuna sitting somewhere behind you, quiet for once, his presence like static behind your ribs.

You clear your throat.

Your hands don’t shake.

But your voice does.

“I hate the way you look at me,” you begin, tone flat, eyes locked just above everyone’s heads. “Like you’re already in on the joke. Like I’m something you’re about to ruin.”

Someone chuckles. You don’t stop.

“I hate the way you laugh when you’re nervous. Hate how it still sounds good anyway. I hate that I notice that.”

You breathe through your nose.

Don’t look at him.

“I hate the way you sit next to me like we’re not still pretending. I hate that you said it wasn’t about the bet. I hate that I believed you.”

The room is quiet now.

No laughter. No shifting chairs.

Just silence.

You swallow.

“I hate that I miss you when I shouldn't. I hate how you looked at me that night, like I meant something. I hate the paint on my old hoodie because it still smells like you. I hate that I can’t forget you. I hate that I don’t want to.”

Your voice catches.

You let it.

“I hate that I still look for you in crowds. I hate that I still love you.”

You fold the paper. Calm. Controlled.

And walk back to your seat without looking up—without looking at him.

Because if you did?

You might not survive it.

✧✧✧

A guitar was sitting in your passenger seat like it had always belonged there.

You stared at it through the open car door, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Your mouth was dry. Your hands were shaking. You didn’t know whether to scream or cry or smash it over someone's head, and honestly? That was on brand.

“Hey.”

You turned fast, shoulders tense.

Sukuna was standing a few feet behind you. Hoodie pulled over his head. Eyes soft. Like he’d been waiting hours to catch you alone.

“You broke into my car?” you said, because of course that’s what you said.

He lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Spare key. Utahime gave it to me. Under threat of bodily harm, for the record.”

You looked back at the guitar. Then at him.

“I meant it,” he said, before you could fire another round. “What I said. What I didn’t say. I was a dumbass. You know that already. But I meant everything. Every second.”

You exhaled, slow and shaky.

“I hate you,” you said, and you weren’t sure if it was true or not anymore.

“I know.”

“I still hate you.”

He stepped closer.

“I still want you.”

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Your hand fisted in the collar of his hoodie, yanked him forward, and kissed him like you were trying to kill the version of yourself that ever gave a shit about pride.

It was messy. Breathless. A little desperate. The kind of kiss that made up for all the ones you’d missed and then some.

He kissed you back like his life depended on it.

Like he’d been waiting.

When you finally pulled away, both of you dazed and a little stunned, he whispered, “Does this mean I can ride shotgun?”

You rolled your eyes. “Only if you shut the hell up.”

He grinned.

You tossed your bag in the back seat, slammed the door shut, and jerked your chin toward the car.

“Get in, asshole.”

He did.

And this time, he didn’t stop smiling.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

Taglist: @axetivev @yyuinaa @zaynesyumei @sageofspades @onyxmango @puccigucii @the-ultimate-librarian @sooobiinn @sooniebby @i2innie @tintenka1 @timaas-blog @darlinqvi @horrorsbeyondreality @rednugget @lysanderplume @leron1108 @kauo-writez @the0ishere @calgurl @kissenturine @bleedingbl0ssom @gayaristocrat @hyppernovva [comment to be added, or send an ask]

[blond3ang3l]

⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱⋰

Jason Todd who loves kissing your tummy. Your stretch marks were something he couldn't get enough of. Truly you don't know what his fascination with them was. He knew what it was though. They reminded him of the scars that covered his own stomach. Such a small thing about you that you thought nothing of brought him so much comfort. For years he spent so much time hating the things that reminded him of his part. Of what made him be the monster he created as a front. Seeing it on you though changed that. It gave his heart comfort seeing the resemblance, knowing that some part of him will always be with you. Even if you didn't realize it

⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱⋰

[dangerousstrawberryshark]

Part two of the delusional Mark drabble. (This time with his variants)

This is a continuation of the delusional Mark! This time it's with his variants. I hope that I captured how delusional and sick the variants are correctly. Again, I have not watched invincible or read the comics cause I'm a fucking pussy so bear with me plz.

You can read it here! cannibalism is mentioned in this, and guess who (you'll get a cookie)

xxx

Mark left you completely cut off from the rest of the world, destroying any form of communication that you could use, but at least he paid for cable and whatever streaming service you wanted. So you can binge-watch all your favorite shows and movies. He didn't want to die from boredom.

You decided to turn on the news to see what's going on since you no longer have TikTok or Twitter. The news anchor reported multiple attacks on major cities all over the world: Hong Kong, Chicago, London, Moscow, etc. These attacks were caused by one or multiple persons: Invincible.

You turned off the news, taking a moment for yourself as you looked at the blank screen. Your family was in Chicago (or wherever Mark lives), and your friends! You were safe from immediate danger as you were in an isolated place.

Your assumption would be correct if it weren't for the fact that the variants did the same thing to you in their dimensions. Although you tragically died in all of them. Now, they're going to take what's rightfully theirs. Good thing they know where you are.

(They show up at the location Mark took you to.)

Sinister Mark

It was a shame how you died, but it was really your fault! Mark wasn't in the wrong; you were! If you had just been more submissive and compliant, you wouldn't have died. Mark wouldn't have to snap your neck, watching your body go limp before collapsing.

"Why did you make me do that, bunny? Why did you make me hurt you... dumb bunny." Mark mumbled as he held your head, looking at your lifeless eyes. He scoffed and started manically laughing. No, even in death, you weren't going to escape him. He refuses to let you go.

He cannibalized your body, so you'll always be a part of him. You tasted so good... your blood tasted sweet, your flesh was tender, especially the thighs: Mark's favorite part. He savoured your flesh, storing some for later whenever he needed to remind himself of you.

He even kept your head in a jar, pretending to touch it as if you were in front of him. You'll always be with him; death will not separate you from him.

Now, here you were, in front of him with fear in your eyes; the same way you looked at him in his dimension. Mark reveled in your fear, filling his body with dark, primal satisfaction. You looked the same as when he killed you. He wonders if you scream and cry the same way. Oh, just the thought makes him excited.

"I hope, this time, you know better, bunny."

Mohawk Mark

Mark gave you the offer of a lifetime: join the Viltrum Empire. If you had accepted the offer, you would've been granted special status and privileges. You would rule alongside him, be his for eternity. He wholeheartedly believed you would accept it, but you refused. Your refusal caused him to lash out at you. Why did you refuse? You could've ruled the empire with him!

Was it because the other Viltrumites will staunchly disagree with letting an inferior species rule them? He'll just have them killed! You'd have everybody worshipping you! Silence anyone who speaks out or steps out of line!

In a fit of rage, Mark killed you, punching a hole through your chest. He'd killed you like he did with everyone on the Teen Team. Your blood coated his fist as he pulled it out, watching blood spatter and gush everywhere. Your body fell back, your lifeless eyes staring into his. He didn't need you! Mark kept telling himself that as he ruled over the empire while assimilating Earth.

Yet, he spared four human males, dressing them up as you and cutting off their hair to resemble his mohawk. Whenever he fucked them, only your name left his lips as he imagined it was you. Whenever one of the males ruined the immersion, he killed him! Now, Mark has to search the Earth for a replacement.

Like the other variants, he wreaks havoc on mainstream Mark's Earth. Then he wonders if you exist in this universe, you have to. His suspicion was proven correct when he found you in the location where he knew you would be. God, you looked the same, a sexy piece of meat to ravage and fuck.

He watched like a predator, his eyes following your every move as you tried to put some distance and maybe escape, which would never happen. Mark wasn't going to let you slip from his hand again; he was going to force you to be by his side.

"Shit, you're actually alive. Was starting to think you'd die in this shit-hole of a world... and I see you're still a little, whiny bitch boy. Looking untouched, did your Mark not pop your cherry? More for me."

Prisoner Mark (his backstory is unknown, so I'm going off on a theory about it.)

He and mainstream Mark were similar when their father told them about his background. He listened to the speech, battled in Chicago, and was beaten until he was unrecognizable. He thought it was over when Nolan left... he could go back to you to shower with love and affection.

He was sorely mistaken when Nolan returned, this time with a fleet of Viltrumites. He was imprisoned for treason, having betrayed the empire and aided the enemy. For a year, he suffered from torture until his body and psyche were irreparably damaged.

He was no longer the same person he once was. He became a vindictive and wrathful man with a seething hatred for his dad... but he still had you in the back of his mind.

You, on the other hand? You suffered a slow and painful death. Mark was the one who cooked and brought you food, so when that stopped, you had to ration until there was nothing left. You cried from pain, but there was no one to hear you. Your body withered away from starvation and dehydration, and bodily functions stopped after a month.

You'd know about the chaos that was happening outside... the Viltrum Empire arrived and conquered the planet, killing anyone who resisted. You would much rather prefer that over dying a slow death.

When Mark was released by Angstrom with the promise of freedom in exchange for ruining the reputation of his counterpart, he took it. It was easy to destroy Moscow... just a warm-up after a year of inactivity, then his mind shifted to you. He wonders if you're alive.

Mark collapsed onto his knees when he found you. His mind was swept by memories of you, touching and holding, and taking you to this undisclosed space to amend problems... it came over him and he pulled you into a hug.

You were confused by the gesture, his large and bulky pressing crushing you, but Mark didn't light up. His scorched head pressed against your neck as he inhaled your familiar scent. His bloodthirsty, vengeful rage was quelled as he only wanted to be by your side.

A wonderful idea came into mind: kill this universe's Mark and kill his father! He'll take the place of Mark in this universe, and he gets to have you! Find his father and kill him! This will knock out two birds with one stone.

"I'm never letting you go..."

taglist: @hiddens-eden @spnfanboy777 @buckyshusband0 @zamfam4272 @raspberryyuuki @maxxioislost @furiousflowercreation @ghostking4m @sluttyhusband @wolf-knights @your-cow-boy @mack-thedork @starboye @boypied @sleep-0-deprived @cronasluvr

Author's note: I was originally gonna write for eight but ran into some complications! Maybe I'll make separate drabbles for them, but I don't know unless y'all request it. Also, halted writing for round 5, gonna start again once Pride Month ends, I just wanted to write some drabbles.

Also, @spicyspiders helped me with this! Shoutout to him!

[hvnty]

𝐒𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲, 𝐈 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐀𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐱 𝐌!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Clark sat at his desk in the Daily Planet, deep in conversation on the phone, discussing a story for the Daily Planet. His brow furrowed in concentration, his glasses sliding down his nose as he adjusted them with a quick push. Meanwhile, you were hidden beneath the desk, the cool surface of the wood pressing against your back. “Yeah, I understand the urgency, but we need to make sure we have all the facts before we publish,” he said, his voice steady and authoritative. The thrill of being so close to him, yet so hidden, sent shivers down your spine. You could hear his voice, smooth as he spoke to a colleague about the latest scoop.

“Yeah, I think we should follow up on that lead,” Clark said, his voice steady, but you could sense a change in his demeanor as you continued your teasing. You took him in your mouth, swirling your tongue around the tip, and he stifled a groan, his grip tightening on the desk. “Uh-huh, that sounds good,” he managed to say, his voice slightly strained. You could see him adjusting his glasses again, trying to maintain his composure. You began to move your head, taking him deeper, and he bit his lip, trying to focus on the conversation. “I’ll get back to you on that,” he said quickly, clearly distracted now. “I just… need to check something.” “What are you doing down there?” he breathed, his voice low and filled with surprise and desire. 

“Just a few more minutes,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to tease him, your breath warm against his skin. Clark’s eyes narrowed playfully, frustration and desire swirling within him. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he chuckled, shaking his head as he tried to refocus on the conversation. Clark’s breath quickened, and he could feel the tension building within him. “I— I really should—” he stammered, but the words fell away as he surrendered to the moment, the call forgotten as he leaned back in his chair, allowing himself to enjoy the pleasure you were giving him.

𝐌𝐫.𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲 © 2025 — reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[malereadermaniac]

(;¬_¬) "Maniac" - Bryce Callahan x Male Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Plot: Bryce will proudly say he dated you "for laughs" and call you a "psycho", a "stalker", or a "maniac". But it's the ginger who shows up at your door drunk and spam texts you; not the other way around...

Note: Inspired by Conan Gray's 'Maniac' AND 'Wish You Were Sober' ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ Also sorry if he's ooc - game isn't out yet and I haven't played the demo!

Warnings: m!reader (no genitalia mentioned) / FDNI Some nsfw mentions but no smut!

You and Bryce started out as friends. All in all, he was pretty chill with you being gay, but he still had his homophobic tendencies and would always make comments. You put up with it, though. You could see through the wrestler's act; you knew that deep down he was having some sort of internal conflict and displacing it onto you.

Your friendship got to the point where Bryce would invite you out to parties. It wasn't that you weren't ever invited before; you just never really had a reason or a desire to hang around a bunch of your drunk classmates in a dirty frat house. You were quite content chilling with your small group of friends. But nonetheless, now that Bryce was inviting you, you were given a reason to go. Could be fun... Right?

Slowly but surely, over a couple months' worth of frat parties, you noticed a pattern in Bryce's behaviour. Your theories and guesses of what made the ginger so insecure and homophobic were answered. The night would always start with Bryce picking you up in his car and pulling up to the function. Sure, near the start of each night, the two of you would hang out, but it took very little to separate the two of you; you would mingle with whoever came up to you, and as soon as Bryce had a drink in hand, he would try to get with girls. Of course, you noticed this. And yeah, it irked you a little, but you didn't really have the right to get annoyed or angry with Bryce; it's not like he was your boyfriend. Bryce, on the other hand, usually didn't even wanna get with whatever girl he was flirting with that night. The insecure man would never admit that he never really felt some sort of spark or even attraction, but he felt obligated to flirt and get 'bitches'.

'trade drinks, but you don't even know her'

The next thing that you were certain would happen is Bryce getting absolutely plastered. For him, that is. You could tell from your first look at the massive hunk that he could handle his drink. So, though the amount Bryce drinks at every party would be enough to put someone into a coma, it just gets the wrestler to a comfortable drunk. Words slurring and knees buckling. You can always tell when Bryce is drunk, and you always notice it. He gets nicer, more honest, and he starts to lose that 'alpha-male' act he always puts on.

'knees weak but you talk pretty fly, wow'

Then, without a doubt, once Bryce spots you in his drunken state, he's all over you. He's slurring every couple of words, he's complimenting you a lot, and he always gets way too close for comfort. You always end up in the corner of some busy room, music quietly playing amongst other people's chatter, as Bryce keeps sipping on his beer and talking to you as if he's trying to chat you up. "Bryce... I think you've drunk a bit too much haha..." You always try to laugh it off. The first few times he did this, you gave Bryce the benefit of the doubt. You assumed he was too drunk to even know it was you, or that he was just being a dick n joking around. But the more he did this, the more he slurred your name specifically, the more he drunkenly mumbled about how shitty he feels and how he feels fake, you realised that wasn't the case. Over time, Bryce would get more confident; his attempts at wooing girls would get shorter and shorter, he'd get drunk quicker and quicker, and he'd flirt with you for bigger chunks of the night. His confidence could also be seen in the moments he shared with you; he'd start to try kissing you (successfully most of the time), and you could swear that one time he was stone-cold sober and just acted drunk so that he could remember everything the next morning. You felt bad, though, like you were taking advantage of the ginger, or even that he was taking advantage of your kind-hearted nature and the way you'd bend to his will whenever you pitied him or took care of him.

'Don't take a hit, don't kiss my lips, and please don't drink more beer'

After most people had cleared out, you would have to peel Bryce off of you and take him to his car to sober up a little. As more parties passed, you noticed that Bryce would drink more and more. You didn't know why he was doing this, and Bryce didn't either, at least consciously; subconsciously, he was drinking more to be drunk for longer, so that he could have an excuse to spend time with you and be himself. But this meant that you would have to deal with a very drunk Bryce; it also didn't help that you were also quite drunk by the end of the night. What would start as lying down in the backseat and drinking water to sober up would always, without a doubt, quickly turn into making out in Bryce's car. He was always the one to initiate it; overpowering you and lying you down beneath him in the backseat, though you never really fought against it. And though you enjoyed every second of it, enjoyed what felt like an answer to the unspoken chemistry between you and Bryce, enjoyed what felt like genuine flirtations and romance, you couldn't help but wish that Bryce was sober during all of this. You could feel that Bryce was letting the mask of his douche personality slip whenever he was drunk, but you knew that he would never do this when sober; he'd never fully take the mask off.

'Save me 'til the part is over, kiss me in the seat of your Rover - real sweet, but I wish you were sober...'

Eventually, after at least an hour of making out and even going a little further, you would pull Bryce off of you and emphasise that you two had to get going. Obviously, the man couldn't drive in his state, so it was always up to you to walk Bryce home. And it was no easy feat. You'd trip and stumble down the road, Bryce's massive arm swung 'round your shoulder as you practically lugged the hunk down the street. Once you'd get to his place, like clockwork, Bryce would always kiss you again, pulling you in close and begging you to stay over. You always felt that it was too late in the night for Bryce to still be drunk enough to be saying stuff like that, but you never questioned him about it.

'trip down the road, walking you home, you kiss me at your door. Pulling me close, beg me "stay over"'

Yet by the next morning, Bryce is always back to how he was before. Acting as if he hadn't flirted with you for hours and let little things about himself slip. Acting as if you two hadn't shared your most intimate selves with each other. Acting as if he doesn't live for and crave your touch. It was a constant loop. And you were getting bored of it. Though, bored's not exactly the right word. Maybe you were tired of it? Exhausted even? Sad? It doesn't really matter. You were done.

'But I'm over this rollercoaster. Honestly, you always let me down. And I know we're not just "Hanging out"'

You stopped putting up with Bryce's shit. Originally, you tried talking to him; you went 'round his place and confronted him about his very polarising behaviour. Bryce, of course, got defensive very quick. He started out by trying to play off his advances and the intimate moments between the two of you as friendly gestures. But when you wouldn't have it, he started shouting and accusing you of being weird. He, of course, threw out a couple of homophobic comments. He called you gross. The man even told you to 'fuck off, don't wanna see your face, scared I'll catch fag-atitis or something'. That really did it for you. You could handle Bryce's obvious displacement and refusal to confront his own emotions and sexuality, but outright insulting you? Oh yeah, that ginger can fuck off.

So, you put some distance between you and Bryce. Well, more like a lot of distance. You stopped texting him back. You stopped talking to him and seeing him in person. And you stopped going to parties with him; you didn't stop going altogether, you just made a point of not going with him or talking to him throughout the night. As you'd expect, Bryce didn't like this. Though they were buried deep, deep down, the wrestler most certainly had some strong feelings for you. But instead of working through his own shit, Bryce of course kept displacing his turmoil and anger at himself, towards you.

The pattern you had noticed and become accustomed to with Bryce had slightly changed. He'd still try to get with girls at the start of the night, but as he drank, instead of going over to you and flirting with you, he starts shit-talking you to all of his guys. He calls you 'crazy', 'some gay guy [he] was nice to and then [you] fell for him', calls you a 'stalker' that he always catches staring at him and says he 'wants you dead' for that.

'You were with your friends, partyin', when the alcohol kicked in. Said you wanted me dead.'

But for all the smack that Bryce would talk to his friends about you, calling you 'desperate' and many other things, you weren't the one yearningly and achingly trying to get back with him. You weren't the one spam texting, you weren't the one drunk-calling, you weren't the one showing up with roses at Bryce's front door. He was. He was doin' all that to you.

When sober, Bryce would go through moments of spam-texting you under the guise of being stressed that you'd 'expose' him for being gay; though in reality, he just needed you to talk to him, to stop ignoring him, to stop treating him like he was nothing. If it were late at night, the texts would get a lot less agitated and a lot more pathetic; mainly single-word texts of 'sorry' that would be deleted by the morning, or if he got real desperate, Bryce would literally beg you to respond. Again, when drunk, Bryce would constantly shit on you around his friends. But once the party's over? He's at your front door, holding a single rose. It's too late to slam the door on the wrestler; his foot already in the door. You listen to his drunken words, apologies, excuses; really, he's just digging his own grave deeper and deeper.

'But you show up at my home, all alone, with a shovel and a rose. Do you think I'm a joke?'

Whilst you do listen to him, you never actually care for Bryce's desperation. He was drunk when he would tell you he loved you, and would take it back the next morning. What's stopping him from doing the same now? You were also well aware of the amount of shit he was chatting on your name, and that didn't really help his case. After every drunken apology and profession of love, you would send Bryce on his way. It hurt you just seeing him around. Having to hear all this? It was killing you. So you would always just tell him to fuck off back to his friends and to keep up his 'alpha-male' shit. It was the truth, after all.

'cause people like you always want back what they can't have. But I'm past that, and you know that, so you should turn back to your rat-pack, tell 'em I'm trash.'

So he does go back to his friends. And the cycle continues. Bryce keeps calling you 'crazy', says that you 'drive [him] mad', calls you a 'psychopathic watcher ', and says that he 'fucked with you just for laughs'. The polar opposite of what he was saying to you the night before. And the polar opposite of what he'll be telling you later that very night, and the night after that.

'Tell all of your friends that I'm crazy and drive you mad. That I'm such a stalker, a watcher, a psychopath. And tell them you hate me and dated me just for laughs.'

'So why do you call me and tell me you want me back? You maniac.'

This wretched cycle went on for a while. But it came to a very abrupt stop when you got a call late one night. The sound of your ringer and the light of your phone screen woke you up. You saw the caller ID and sighed, but you answered anyway; you had already woken up, and Bryce never called this late; he at least had some sense.

He'd wrecked his car. Crashed it into a tree. He sounded really panicked, hyperventilating and sounding like he'd been crying. Bryce discombobulatingly explained that he didn't know who to call, and that he's sorry if he woke you up, and that he gets it if you don't wanna help him, etcetera, etcetera... You felt bad for him; you couldn't deny that. So, against your better judgment, you drove over and picked him up.

You took Bryce home and thought that would be it. Oh, how wrong you were. The ginger begged you to come in, arguing that he was still shaken up; and though you knew you shouldn't, his strong grip on your wrist and the way he looked with desperate eyes into your, it convinced you. You wiped the tears off of Bryce's face and calmly rubbed your thumbs across his pudgy cheeks. You brewed the man a tea and stroked his auburn hair. It was domestic. It was sweet. It didn't last very long.

'You just went too far, wrecked your car, called me cryin' in the dark - now you're breakin' my heart. So I show up at your place right away, wipe the tears off your face; while you beg me to stay'

The sweet moment slowly escalated into an argument. One in which Bryce was calling you 'crazy and dramatic', arguing that you're reading too deep into things.

'psychopathic, don't be so dramatic'

But you argued back. Like usual; you weren't one to take Bryce's shit.

"I thought we had something, Bryce. You told me that it was nothing, and I STUCK BY THAT! I left you the fuck alone. Like you asked! You're the one whose gone fucking manic now. You're the one who keeps coming back!"

That struck a cord. Mostly 'cause it was true, and Bryce really didn't... no, he couldn't hear it right now.

"Oh just fuck off, (name). I'm so done with your gay shit." Bryce mumbled.

You couldn't help but laugh at him.

"Fine. I'll do as you ask. Again. You need to deal with all that internalised homophobia, Bryce. No one gives a shit if you're gay. It's not the fucking 80s!" You get another jab in before you slam the door shut and head back to your place.

Damn. Why did you always say exactly what Bryce couldn't bear hearing, like you could see right through him?

'We had magic, but you made it tragic. Now you're manic, honestly, I've had it.' 'Listen to yourself, think you need to get some help'

And that was it for a while. Like before, you kept your distance, but this time, Bryce also kept his distance. You were honestly shocked. You expected him to at least go back to his desperate self when he got drunk, but no dice. Radio Silence. And you hated it.

Did that make you toxic? Maybe. You didn't exactly care. You hated that Bryce wasn't spam-texting you. You hated that he wasn't desperately trying to get your attention again. But at the same time, you had to be glad; at least this way, he wouldn't use you like some sort of experiment and then pretend like nothing happened the next day.

But after another month or so, a knock at your door grabbed your attention as you were getting ready for bed. The thought of it being Bryce flashed through your head as you unlocked the door. Why were you hoping it was that dickhead? You rolled your eyes at yourself as you swung the door open, but then ate your words when your wide eyes locked with Bryce's sad ones.

"............ugh" You broke the silence with a scoff. "Lemme guess: you're drunk, you hate me, oh but wait you wanna kiss me, oh wait you're not gay. Did I get it right? Can we just skip all that?" It was snarky. Sure. But by this point, Bryce's behaviour pattern was ingrained into your brain.

"I'm totally sober... Please. I wanna talk." Bryce's eyes remained sad and tired.

The sincerity in his voice was jarring. He wasn't slurring. He was looking you in the eyes. It felt totally different to the song and dance you were used to. So you let him in. You let Bryce talk. And holy shit were you left speechless. It was like a completely different person had taken Bryce's body over. He'd grown, or more like he'd self-reflect, so much in the time you two hadn't spoken.

Bryce explained himself. He didn't make any excuses; in fact, he told you that he didn't want to make excuses for himself and that he didn't deserve your benefit of the doubt. He told you how he felt a pressure to conform, to be what his parents and friends and everyone in general expected him to be. He apologised a lot, and told you many times that you didn't desrve all the shit he put you through and how much he regrets playing with your feelings. But what shocked you most was that at the end of Bryce's mini-speech, he came out to you. Sure, it was reluctant. And it was the way he said it with an upwards inflexion near the end that made it sound like a question, as if Bryce was still unsure. But it was still a massive step forward.

This little chat lasted most of the night. Bryce talked a lot, and then listened a lot when you said your part. But all in all, it was definitely productive; Bryce had fully put down the mask and just spoke to you without any sort of act; it was refreshing. It was 4am by the time the ginger left your place. You allowed him a hug before he left, one hug which lasted at least two whole minutes and was incredibly tight. Seriously, you felt like you were being suffocated... in a good way. The way Bryce's massive, muscular body wrapped around you, you felt cozy, safe. You told him that you couldn't move past all his shitty behaviour just because of one apology, and he completely understood; told you that no matter how desperate he was to make things right, he didn't wanna rush you at all. And honestly? That made your heart pitter-patter just a little faster.

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

*WB!reader: Eating instant Maruchan ramen noodles.*

Damian: You know I like noodles...

Wb! reader: Yeah, me too?

Damian: I really like noodles...

Wb!reader: I'm not going to feed you!

*Wb!Reader: Damian is now sitting on your lap, eating your food this cycle will never end. And now the other bats are testing you patients. *

[vampmira]

open up what you got in your mind to me. [pt.2 – saja boys.]

they've never met someone like you — a mortal who almost knew them .. better than they knew themselves. for the boys, it's annoyingly intriguing. for the girls, it's comforting.

paring(s): huntrix & saja boys x demon expert!gn!reader

warning(s:) EVERYTHING IN HERE IS A PART TWO TO THIS !! some movie changes, probably effected lore that makes no sense for the sake of the narrative, a little angst at the beginning

request | tags: @blueberrysquire @akariis4snowball @j0ykill

a/n: this is part 2 !! i had sooo many ideas for huntrix that i had to make another part for the saja boys so that it wasn't so long . this part isn't as good but i liked it so ☆☆☆

that night huntrix defeated gwima was a blur. all you remember was the zombie mob of fans, half of the fight, and the use of your aura vision to raise the saja boys above the honmoon before it glimmered in gold. jinu, who gave his newly found soul for rumi, was practically reincarnated through her sword – standing in front of her post-concert, arms open for her to fall into with tears from the both of them. everyone else? well, they felt lost.

the saja boys weren't sure what to do anymore. jinu was overjoyed, of course, but the boys knew nothing more beyond gwima and their mission. they didn't care much about music, nor their fans – which huntrix still couldn't wrap their minds around – and it's not like they had secret human hobbies. they never had time for that. until now.

post-gwima, they stayed in an apartment near the huntrix penthouse, trying to figure out their new lives. for the most part, they spent most of their time under your watch – to make sure they didn't go cause chaos – but also .. under your study.

you were weird to them

they weren't used to someone other than them.. knowing them

their capabilities, their knowledge, their origins.

actually jinu found your extensive understanding of what he is to be kind of comforting

he noticed how you never really drooled over them

you'd stare, sure, but in the same way an art critic would stare at a painted blue canvas with a smeared red dot in the middle

he felt like that red dot – unexplained but you somehow understood

when he told you about his past, it was a lot for him – talking about his cruel choice

but you.. didn't judge him.

in fact, you wrote it down in your notebook immediately, the one you never let the boys get too close to

he accepted you into his life when he entertained your interest in his history

unlike him, however, the other boys were uninterested

at first anyway

thank jinu for getting them to talk to you btw

it took a little bit of convincing – telling them that you wanted to give them something more than just gwima

even though they didn't want it ...

REGARDLESS they hang out around the penthouse

because they're no longer saja boys (uninterested and unsupported by any demon staff anymore)

they really had nothing to do but mildly annoy your personal space

including being the center of your attention when the girls are out

mira gave you one rule, "living room and bathroom. only." and you've succeeded so far. abby and romance were talking by the large scale windows, mystery was playing some game with baby (and obviously winning), and jinu sat in the middle of the couch, watching whatever movie rumi put on for him. you sat beside him, sketching in your one and only personal researcher book. your pencil drew out what you felt like was the final line in mystery's hair ... before you huffed, erasing it, and trying again.

that was... until the littlest demon startled you.

"mystery, they're drawing you." bored of his game, baby peered over your shoulder, only passively curious and really wanting to mess with you. heads turned at your exposure to the room, especially jinu, who looked over your other shoulder at the sketch you did of him earlier.

"you're.. sketching us?" the direct ask made you a bit nervous, especially being under so many eyes. (kind of. mystery was more just.. generally facing your direction.) "'weakness.. chest?' are you taking notes on us?" you stood up, nearly defensive, turning around to face the couch trio.

"if it weren't for your old friends, i wouldn't have to write it all down again." the boys went quiet, remembering the origin of your knowledge and powers. "i'm just.. tired of keeping it all inside. i need to get it out somewhere."

romance, true to his name, leaned over your shoulder, putting you both in a proximity much closer than you've ever had to experience before.

"then why don't we do something.. a little more fun .. to help you get it all out?"

normally sentences like that from him sound way more suggestive than he means them to be

but this time he came up with an actual solution to release your closed up, ready-to-pop-out-of-your-skin knowledge

they gave you a one way trip to infodump station ! an interview !

they wanted to learn more about you anyways

their fellow demons down below were the ones to wipe out your ancestors

not them

and they make sure you know it too

but they can't help but feel .. a little, tiny bit bad that you're now just a living library

a time capsule, holding onto so much information that you're about to burst 24/7

they had never met a researcher honestly

you intrigued them as much as they did for you

how much did you really know ?? did you know anything or is all this antsy behavior a ploy to make it look like you knew everything when you really knew nothing ??

their disguises were perfectly created to make every little fan fall for their attractiveness the second they looked at the boys

but you never drooled at them or had your eyes pop out of your head

you just always... stared. processing. tracing mindfully.

they didn't know what you were really abut. but they were about to find out. and really test your persona.

romance sat relaced in a chair as you circled him, pencil taking note of everything you noticed. how his markings were sharp, not rounded like rivers, how his skin was cooled, not burning hot. all things you already knew, but you found small comfort in knowing not much changed. you took a deep breath around his hair, nose scrunching up. he smiled, taking your cheek in his hand.

"new cologne." his voice was smooth, gentle. traditionally alluring. "just for you. do you like it?" he turned up his flirtatiousness, pulling you in closely, testing the waters of your focus.. before you turned away to start writing, completely uneffected.

"so many generations and you guys still smell like flames.." you mumbled to yourself.

"would you rather we smell like bubblegum?" baby tried to sass you, but you were too focused on the sharpness of his teeth to care. you stepped towards him, eyes widened.

"can demons still tear apart brick with the force of their canines?" you asked, rather close to his face. for a moment, he almost felt like the flustered one.

"yes..? no? i-i don't know." he crossed his arms, childishly. "i don't go around biting bricks." you jot it down still as you move towards abby. he's deeply relaxed, leaning back on the couch, comfortable shirt riding up to expose his famously toned abs. your eyes trail off of your notebook and they think.. they've got you.

"like what you see?" he teases. "you can touch them, you know." a bold move that brings you closer, nails tracing his skin. they're almost disappointed that abby is the one who stole your attention.. before they realize you're attention isn't stolen at all. you're drawing his markings with careful detail.

"where did yours come from? rumi's started forming on her arm when she was a kid, but they haven't reached her stomach yet. they grow with time, right? how old would that make you then..?" you dissolve into mutters they can barely decipher. "oh!! mystery!" he almost jumps behind the couch when you race over to him, making jinu laugh from the sidelines of their attempts to flirt with you. "i've never seen a demon sparkle! that's new.. is that just you? or is there a whole subspecies of sparkling demons? or is it your human disguise..?" your questions nearly overwhelm him, enough to make him forget how he's supposed to flirt with you, but romance pulls you away, whispering in your ear.

"it's not just him." he smiles, hand on your shoulder. "you're sparkling, too, sweetheart." if anyone could fluster anyone, it'd be him, even if it takes two rounds. his thumb runs against your chin. "you look so cute in this lighting, like a rose."

"speaking of which, what's the flora like down there? are there any? do they eat demons or are they like.. regular flowers? we knew more of demons than of gwima's realm. did they smell? i bet they might have.. would it be nostalgic or torturing?"

the boys share a look, and sigh. you went off into high speed muttering again.

you really were everything you said

uninterested in their flirts and more in knowledge

that almost made them like you more..

in the following times after the interview, they greeted you a bit more casually – sometimes cheerfully, asking if you had any new drawings or trivia you wanted to get off your chest

how did you . tame them !? does the whole hard to get thing actually work !?

it confused the girls wildly

but to see them adjusting to being here through someone who actually understood them instead of lying around, empty and lost, was a pick-me-up in the mornings

one morning, after being delivered a coffee, handsigned by the boys, you felt something click in your head, a sensation you had never felt before, and reached to put it in your notebook immediately

"demons, when properly befriended, like to be understood. they brought me coffee. do demons like coffee??"

[supercap2319]

*Dragon training area*

Snotlout: "Hiccup already killed a Night Fury, so does that disqualify him or...?"

Y/N: "Pretty bold to mock someone for something you’re too scared to even try doing yourself."

Snotlout: "Me? Afraid? I'm not scared of anything. I'm a dragon killing machine."

Y/N: "You cried last week because you got a splinter in your pinkie."

*Snotlout blushes as everyone else laughs, Hiccup giving Y/N a small smile of gratitude.*

[boypied]

𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊, 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?

𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜

HENRY CAVILL x M!READER

MDNI + FDNI, mature content ahead.

WARNINGS: work environment, unprotected anal sex, breeding kink, spanking, bondage kink, anal fingering.

SUMMARY: you're his new intern, and it didn't take long for him to take a liking to you. henry wanted you in ways that would get both of you fired, he knew that you would be hard to get... but henry always got what he wanted.

You gently knock on the large glass doors as you purposely make yourself known to him as you make your way inside. “Y-You wanted to see me?” You nervously stutter out as his dominant demeanour can be quite intimidating, especially since he is your boss and has quite the power over you.

Your eyes flicker up to meet with his, and the moment that happens, your heartbeat picks up, “Mr Cavill... Sir, did you n-need something?” You ask him in a gentle tone, trying to fill up the silence with some sound, but he remains quiet until he reaches his arm out and points to an empty seat opposite his desk that he is sitting behind.

You take the hint, and you immediately sit down, and he continues staring you down, completely intimidating you until a small yet dark smile grows on his face. “Call me Henry... Mr Cavill is too formal for me.” His quite manly features soften the moment he relaxes, and once those words leave his lips, his eyes locked with yours.

Henry stands up and steps away from his desk as he makes his way around it and over to you. He walks past you at an incredibly slow pace as he stands behind you and places either hand on your shoulders as he leans down closer to you and all that you can focus on is his hot breath against your neck. You gently bite at your lower lip as he begins talking.

“Is there anything you needed, sir... I mean Henry.” You repeat yourself again, but you slipped up and called him Sir instead of Henry, and you feel his grip tighten on your shoulders. “Did you listen to anything I say...tut tut tut.” he grunts out in your ear as he releases his grip from you and steps away coming up in front if you and gripping his belt.

Henry begins unbuckling his belt and just stares down at you with a smirk plastered across his face, “Listen... I'm not going to get you to do anything that you don't want to do, but by that look in your eye, it seems like you won't need much convincing.” he says in a dominant way as he pulls off his belt entirely and lets it drop to the floor.

Something just comes over you, like you've just lost control of your body as you immediately slide off the chair and onto your knees in front of him. Your hands slid up his leg and reached the hem of his trousers and slowly pulled them down, revealing his bulging cock, pushing against his underwear. Your eyes widen in shock as you take the sight in.

The thought of him being your boss and how wrong this is slowly disappears from your mind as you grip either side of his underwear and yanking it down letting his thick and long cock spring free. You gently wrap your hand around the tip, and you gently pull back his foreskin to reveal his pre-cum soaked tip, the weight of his cock in your hand was insane.

Your eyes flicker up to meet with his as he slowly begins to unbutton his shirt, revealing his hairy chest and his god-like body. “holy shit.” You mumble out to yourself as you maintain eye contact, but you lean forward and slowly rub the head of his cock against your lips, coating them in his pre-cum. Henry throws his head back from the sudden contact, and his hands reach behind him as he holds onto the desk.

You slowly open up your mouth, parting your lips as your tongue drops out, tasting his pre-cum. You run your tongue back and forward against his slit, getting a salty-like taste that sends shivers down your spine but your cock twitches in your underwear, pushing against your suit trousers.

Henry's hands wrap around the back of your head, and you gently feel his hands pushing on the back of your head, and you can tell that he wants you to deepthroat it so you do it. You push your head forward feeling his cock curve down your throat and your eyes flicker up to meet with his and you see his pecs pushing in and out as his eyes are closed.

Henry is enjoying every single moment of you deepthroating his cock, you continue doing this for a while until you feel his cock start twitching in your throat nearing his release so he pulls out and lifts you up. “I'm going to fuck you... so hard.” he mumbles through his gritted teeth as he practically tears your clothes off your body leaving you naked beneath his touch. Your eyes soften as you bite your lower lip.

Henry bends you over his desk and pulls your hands behind your back as he leans down and grabs his belt, typing up your hands. He spreads your cheeks open as he spits on your hole, lubing it up for himself. He wraps his hand around your mouth and pushes two fingers in, lubing them up as he brings them round and gently pushes them inside your hole.

“So fuckin' tight.” he grunts out through gritted teeth as he pushes past his knuckle and curles them inside of your hole, hitting your g-spot perfectly. He doesn't finger you for long, just doing it too make sure you're stretch enough that his fat cock stretching you won't hurt as much.

Henry pulls out and lines his spit soaked cock up with your tight hole and pushes himself inside whilst holding onto the belt that has restrained your wrists. “Such a....good. fucking. boy.” he grunts out as his thrusts speed up, becoming harder and rougher, and the sound of slapping echoes through his entire office, you push your face against the desk and bite down on your lower lip. “H-Henry!” You whimper.

Time passes on but Henry doesn't slow down, your cum soaked tip rubs against the desk into the puddle of cum that you shot out only moments prior and you finally hear those words that you've been dreaming of him saying, “I'm gonna fuckin' cum!” he yells out as his thrusts become rougher and sloppier as he shoots his thick ropes of cum inside of you.

You gasp out as you feel his cum flood your asshole, your eyes flutter back as you feel him continue pump his load deeper inside of you as he breeds your sloppy hole. He finally pulls out, and you quietly whimper at the feeling of emptiness. He doesn't say as words as he gets changed back into his clothes, and he covers you up in your clothes and carries you bridal style out of the office.

The office is pretty much empty, so no one really notices, as Henry takes you to his car and gently lays you down in the passenger seat as he gets in the drivers seat and he turns to smirk at you, “I hope your ready for round two.” he smirks as he starts the engine and starts driving away from the office.

taglist ' @starboye @dqrkhold @mailmango @ghostking4m @kingchaospostsstuff @crispysoup318 @inhumanshadows @its-ares @gayaristocrat @cronasluvr @twinkedupman @gaefaeyae @sluttyhusband @sleep-0-deprived @lucerowrites1 @ghostinboys

[starboye]

"tojiiii" your moaning could be heard through the whole apartment floor at this pont and toji didn't care whether the neighbors heard or not, he was to busy slamming his thick cock so deep in your hole that you felt it in your stomach

"that's my name baby, keep moaning it for me" he tilted your back upward to deeper fuck you, your arms twisting and messing up the sheets of the previously perfectly made bed, you were just trying to get the house all clean for him before he got off a long mission

but he was more in need of a certain person when he got back, you had barely got to welcome him back before he had you on your back taking every inch of him "fuck fuck fuckkkk" you whined, your head was spinning at this point, getting every pretty little thought fucked right out of your mind

lips all puffy and red from how much toji was making out with you, his multiple loads dripping out of you and onto the already soaked bed, but you gotta say he does look so hot like this, his loose gray sweatpants barely down with his thick cock sliding in and out of your ruined hole

his tight black compression slightly brought up, sat perfectly on top of his beautiful pecs, leaving his rock hard abs out for you to stare at, the way they contort and flex every time he thrusts into you "oh shit baby, you want another load in you hm" he wipes some of the drool from the side of your mouth and licks it off his finger

you lazily nod your head, you could barely make out what he said you just know he was fucking your harder and harder until he came, his thrusts not wavering one bit, it felt so good and neither of you wanted it to stop anyways

xoxo, starboye💋