beautiful--macabre

[beautiful--macabre]

fushiguro toji x reader⌇mdni. cw: age gap. sex toy mention. reader and toji are next door neighbors. wc: 1198. a/n: just a silly reworked drabble!

“Got another package of yours, kiddo.”

Toji stands outside your apartment wearing a lazy, lopsided smile. A beat-up shipping parcel is perched in his palms, a paltry peace offering—it belongs to you, after all—but enough to warrant showing up unannounced. You scowl at him; he wishes he could smooth the wrinkle on your brow with a rough thumb. Instead, he stands as steadily as he can.

Holding the door open with your hip, you assess him coolly before turning around and disappearing into your unit without a word. He curses under his breath, catching the door with a foot before it can slam in his face. Seizing on what he believes to be unspoken permission, he steps inside the entryway, shucking off his slides.

He follows you into your cramped kitchen, chuckling when you petulantly snatch the box from his grasp and scurry off to deposit it in your bedroom. He’s already made himself comfortable on your couch when you return. His hulking frame makes your furniture look small, and leaves little space for you. Spitefully, you don’t offer him a beverage or pleasantries—not that he minds.

Always one to wear your heart on your sleeve, you only play nice when he deserves it.

The tension in the air is oppressive, settling between you with stifling weight as you sit in the armchair beside him, rigid as a board, finding a fascinating spot to stare at on the wall.

“So…” Toji swiftly slices the silence with a knife, folding his arms behind his head. His shirt rises with the movement, a sliver of his waist on display, a thicket of jet hair peeking out. For a moment, your mind wanders: creeping along the path of his happy trail, envisioning something you shouldn’t.

“What’d you buy?” His voice is gravel, as nonchalant as he can muster, and it interrupts your thoughts. Your focus snaps back to the present.

“None of your business.” You sniff, pretending to pick at a cuticle.

While it’s obvious that you’re still upset with him, he knows you aren’t playing coy; what you ordered isn’t any of his business. But he’s struggling to make small talk—floundering in the wake of your deafening quiet.

Toji decides to switch tactics. He rests a hand against his temple, looking at you through long lashes. “What’s with the attitude, kid?” 

For the first time since he arrived, your eyes meet his. There you go.

His irises are breathtaking: a lush, verdant forest—easy to get lost in. And they sparkle with mirth. Your frustration with him reaches a boiling point, but you do your best to bring it down to a simmer, exhaling a sigh.

“Why can’t you treat me like an adult, Toji? I’m almost thirty, for fuck’s sake.”

And too fuckin’ cute for your own good, he thinks.

A smirk tucks itself into the corners of his lips like a secret. Maybe it’s the stubbornness that comes with age, but he refuses to crack first. “I’ve got two decades on you. I was getting drunk and pissing money away before you were even born.”

He can practically hear your eyes roll back in your skull. “Okay. So by your logic, I should start calling you ‘old man’—is that right? Would that make you happy?”

He shrugs before spreading his legs wider and crossing his arms. “If that’s what you wanna call me.”

“God you’re so…” you rub your forehead and attempt to calm yourself with a deep breath. “You’re so…indifferent.”

“That right?”

You nod. “Either that or you’re clueless.”

“Clueless,” he parrots, tasting the word on his tongue. He’s been called many things in his life, but “clueless” is new.

It irks you that your words don’t stoke the embers of his anger—Toji understands your frustration. You want to force a reaction out of him. His patience has only grown over the years, however, and when it comes to you? His well of patience is bottomless.

If anything, you terrify him. But you could never enrage him.

“Fuck it,” you mutter to yourself. You brace your hands on your knees. “Still wanna know what I ordered, Toji?”

“I’m all ears, kiddo.”

“A vibrator.”

For a split second, you think he’s going to choke. But your confession simply wipes any and all playfulness from Toji’s expression. He stands up from the couch abruptly, eyebrows knit, jade eyes sharp with an emotion that both of you are afraid to place. 

“You really shouldn’t—” He swallows dryly as you approach him, blocking his exit. 

“I shouldn’t what? Be an adult and buy what I want?”

He shakes his head with a huff. “Shouldn’t tell me somethin’ like that.”

“How come?” 

He’s pinned beneath your earnest gaze, a needle piercing each of his delicate wings, holding him in place. Does he continue to struggle—to risk losing you, to risk harming himself? Or does he give in to a chance at happiness in spite of his past mistakes?

A flash of slick pink darts between his lips as he wets them. “Because…”

“Because what?”

You’re closer now, a mere step away. If he were a younger man, he would cradle your cheeks and pull you into a searing kiss, praying that you would reciprocate. But he’s changed. And the way your chest heaves and your fingers fidget nervously at your sides—like you’re afraid he’s going to reject you—it’s too much for him to bear.

“Because I can’t keep acting like I’m not fucking attracted to you!” he snarls, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. “Do you have any idea how hard it’s been to keep you at arm’s length? Pretending like I don’t live next door to the most beautiful person I’ve ever met and—”

A laugh bubbles in your throat. Once it floats past your lips, it pops—you can’t contain it. Your laughter rings through the dull walls of your apartment, and while Toji wants to be irritated, the sound is infectious; it makes his heart flutter like a damn schoolboy’s. 

“What’s so funny?” he snaps. 

You smile up at him with devastating radiance. The heat from your expression settles into his bones, washing his body in warmth. Your touch, so soft, finds his.

“Give in,” you murmur, raising your entwined hands to brush your lips across his scarred knuckles. “You know I want you. I don’t think I could make my intentions any more obvious if I tried.”

Toji sighs, tugging you toward him so that you stumble into his chest. “Listen. I’m too old for you, and I wor—”

You hush him by pressing your index finger to his mouth. “I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.”

He stares at you incredulously, like he can’t believe you’re real. Finally, he visibly relaxes, shoulders dropping. Why is he surprised? Your boldness is part of what made him fall for you; now, it’s his turn to do some of the work. He leans forward, forehead bumping against yours, lips so close he can taste you.

“Well,” he rasps, “this old man wants to kiss you. Can he?”

Despite yourself, your heart soars. “I thought he’d never ask.”

[beautiful--macabre]

[beautiful--macabre]

the problem with writing and really any sort of creative outlet is that it's impossible not to compare yourself to all the other media you consume and it's so easy to fall into the trap of thinking your own stuff is never good enough and can't compare when in reality all art is expression and just because your style is different from someone else's doesn't make it worse. you will often be your own biggest critic. self-reflection is important - but you can end up stunting your own growth is you just give up instead of giving yourself grace and continuing to practice

[beautiful--macabre]

BREAKING NEWS!

seven | cryptid columns

NOW REPORTING...LOCAL GIRL FUCKED MOTHMAN?

synopsis: sent to get the scoop on a strange cult popping up in a small city near you, you're surprised to discover the (moth)man behind it has more than just charm hiding behind his sly smile. but debunking the local cryptid sightings will be harder than you thought when you're sharing a bed with him!

pairing: mothman!Geto x journalist!Reader

content: mdni, mystery and angst, reader is an investigative journalist, cult leader!geto in a different font lol, cryptid!Geto (he has wings), gojo is plotting, teasing, heavy tension, kissing, touching

art by @/grartsss + divider by @/v6que

It wasn't Suguru you woke up to.

Piercing blue eyes hovering above your face and a dark scowl straining them as you huffed and rolled over under the blankets. The other half of the bed was cold.

It smelled like him though. Or maybe sex.

"Been busy, huh?" Satoru wryly commented, brow twitching as he cocked his head to the side.

"What do you care?" You scoffed, begrudgingly starting to sit up at the realization he wasn't going away. Using the blankets to cover your bare body, glancing around at the room for any sign of the man(?) moth(?) whatever you spent last night with.

"Maybe I changed my mind," He shrugged, and you couldn't tell if he was mocking you or not.

You rolled your shoulders back as you squinted at him, sleepy brain still trying to work out what he was actually saying.

"About what?" You eventually asked, only breaking eye contact to look around the floor for the remains of last night's clothes. Suguru's robe was strewn across the armchair you'd seen Satoru sitting on before - and you gestured for Satoru to get it for you.

But he didn't budge.

"About us."

Your hand went limp in midair.

Feeling your chin slowly turn towards him, the train derailing off the tracks while you watched.

"You're full of shit,* You muttered, shaking your head.

"I'm serious," He shrugged, stepping closer to you than the chair.

"No, you're not," You frowned, brows furrowed and lips straining to hold back harsher words. You got most of Satoru's jokes, but this one wasn't funny.

Was it some kind of weird test from Suguru? Another loyalty thing?

Or was Satoru just a freak who only wanted to fuck a girl after she had sex with his best friend who happened to be his boss?

You swung your legs off the side of the bed, still holding the blanket against your chest, but he stopped in front of you, getting down on his knees by the bed.

"Don't believe me?"

You froze. The line, the marker that screamed too far was only an inch or two away.

His hand drifted closer, about to grab your ankle or maybe lift the blanket. You didn't think he would actually do either until he did.

Your breath hitched, shock registering at the faint feeling of his fingers grazing over your skin, soft where Suguru's were hardened.

"You are serious," You swallowed hard, unable to sift through the heavy weight it felt like he just dropped on your chest. His hands skimmed higher, inching up your calf to your knees. Applying gentle pressure to spread your legs apart.

You considered shutting them.

Thought back to last night - the security you felt with Suguru compared to the instability here. Each touch was a hazard. A risk.

"Mhm," He purred, leaning down to press a kiss against the inside of your knee. But you held the blanket down, kept yourself covered.

"Suguru-" You tried to steady your voice, but you couldn't finish your sentence when his thumb traced a faint shape into your skin.

You shouldn't be considering it before he even said it - but you felt yourself leaning towards a yes.

"You think he doesn't have a some dirty secrets buried out back?" Satoru laughed, and you couldn't tell if he was trying to scare you or of it was just meant to mock you.

"You wouldn't tell me anyway," You spoke slowly, frowning at the smirk on his lips.

"I would," He winked at you, opening his mouth a little wider to lick your leg. "Under the right circumstances."

"Circumstances," You echoed, half a question, although it wasn't the one actually on your mind. What dirty secrets was Suguru hiding? Was Satoru talking about like, tax evasion, or something worse? How many missing people had ended up here that weren't apart of the congregation? What, exactly, was buried?

"How's your story coming along?" Satoru asked, cocking his head to the side like he knew the answer.

You chewed your cheek, nose scrunched up as you hesitated to say it. Truthfully, it was just okay.

Suguru was the story - and he was a book that never opened all the way. He'd tear out a few pages. Let you flick through them. But he picked what you read.

Sure, news of a man with moth wings and cute little antennas would be a big deal. A story about a cult could even score you a documentary, maybe a few awards.

But it could be better.

There was more here - more depth to him and this than just a charismatic man with a few oddities that attracted a crowd.

And you weren't just good. You were great.

You didn't settle.

"What's your offer?" You asked, fingers trembling as you reached down to tether your hands in your hair, to pull him up so you could meet his eyes. They were different. You didn't know what it was - the way they wavered, ice instead of warm water, that said if you dared to wade in it, you might drown.

He chuckled, like he won, like it was a yes. An admission of defeat in three words. Greedy hands trailing over the outline of your body through the blanket, only pausing when he reached your face. He cupped your cheeks, your fingers suddenly loose in his hair, hardly holding on when he leaned in and crashed his lips against yours.

It was rushed. Sucking on your bottom lip and begging for entry, broken breaths between rough kisses. It tasted wrong.

Like a bad decision.

"All I want," He hummed, each word a gasp. "Is you."

You pulled away first, but he just moved to leaving more down your jaw. His kisses were heavy, pressed down hard. He didn't leave hickies, didn't bite - left no trace of himself for Suguru to find.

"You're lying," You accused, a shaky exhale leaving your throat. "I don't believe you."

He shook his head, made a soft little hum like you were being silly.

"Sweetheart," He started, and you scooted back in bed. Climbed out and off from the other side, only dropping the blanket when you grabbed Suguru's robe.

It wasn't like Satoru hadn't seen you nearly naked before. He only caught a flash of you before you were tying the silky fabric around you tight.

"I'll bury your secret," You muttered. For now.

The only reason you weren't going straight to Suguru to spill it was because Satoru brought a much more interesting one to your attention.

"Wait," He breathed.

But you didn't turn around. Didn't look back over your shoulder back when you walked out, even if you felt his stare sizzling against your back.

For once, you were thankful for Suguru's disciples being stuck in those stupid blindfolds. At least no one would have to bear witness to your walk of shame.

You watched them all the same. Chatting between each other, hand-in-hand or holding onto the wall on their way to do chores, some glancing over like they heard the sound of your footsteps. How many of them had you talked to - and how long had you missed what was right under your nose?

Were you asking around about the wrong guy this entire time?

Suguru had goals, plans, a carefully crafted dream. But Satoru? You sincerely doubted he was the sort to be satisfied just being second-in-command. So why was he here? Sheer loyalty? Or self-interest?

You only paused when you were in front of your door to look back over your shoulder, just to make sure Satoru hadn't followed you. The coast was clear to continue.

Suguru might be in his office - but it was a risk you'd take. Your phone should still be in there, and what you really needed was to find out if Nanami had gotten that background check yet.

No one was around when you made it to the same door you'd broken into before, your hand hesitating before you slowly pushed it open. Relief trickled in at the realization it was empty inside, everything still neatly organized on his desk. You rushed over to the cabinet, moving fast before you were found out. Getting on your knees to yank open the drawer, just to find something you hadn't considered a possibility.

Your phone and keys were gone.

[beautiful--macabre]

capes (and cock)

no one's coming to save the day...or you

synopsis: you thought being a side kick was bad. until you've been captured by the enemy and find yourself falling for him instead of fighting for a way out.

pairing: yandere!supervillain x former side kick!reader

wc: 3.5k

content: mdni, mostly angst, pretty light smut, yandere supervillain, fem reader, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, mentions of hate sex, oral sex, hair pulling, teasing and heavy tension, manipulation, light mind control, degradation/wearing costumes, jealousy, hurt/comfort

PREVIEW BELOW

If you could have any super power, what would it be? 

It sounded like a grade school question, or something stupid they'd ask to break the ice at meaningless office meetings for team building or whatever other weak excuse they came up with so they had less work to do. 

People always had the same boring answers. Strength, reading minds, flying, blah blah blah. 

No one ever stopped to think of the weaknesses. 

What good was strength if you’d still die if someone slips something in your food? What happens if you can't turn off other people's thoughts? And sure, flying’s fun, until you just-so-happen to fly into restricted air space and someone else takes you down?  

That was the problem with reality. 

It could never measure up to make-believe. 

Fantasies of incredible invincible heroes saving the day, captured in fairy tales and recited to children who still held their faith in a world where the good guys always won, well, they were nice. But false. 

The villains took home a victory or two. Left the shiny, suited hero in shreds on the rubble of cracked concrete. Wrecked buildings and stole whatever they wanted. Reduced cities to rubble and walked away without a scratch. 

You just had the misfortune to be the spoils for the worst of them. 

“It fits,” a gravelly voice mocked you, murmuring in your ear as thick fingers sunk into your hip. His other hand drifted higher, skimming over your breast and then up, up, up. Pinching the thin strap of what could barely be considered a costume between his fingers. 

It was flimsy. 

More like a bikini or lingerie if anything, a perverted and trashy take of his suit, without all the protective armor and actually useful details. You used to have your own costume, one you watched him burn what felt like a lifetime ago. 

Now this was what you wore on the rare occasion he took you out somewhere. 

Dressed up like you were going trick-or-treating as the slutty version of him at a frat party. A pale phantom of the girl who used to put away guys like him every week. Well, not on your own, but still. 

FULL FIC ON PATREON HERE

divider by @/doll-fairy

[beautiful--macabre]

i don’t think anyone is ready for what’s under this cut (coming from me) ….

@everythingseasoning ur gonna wanna b here for this

caleb loooooves prone bone. he presses his pelvis flush against ur ass and rocks his hips back n forth, rubbing his tip sooooo deep inside you. he plants his hands on either sides of your head while u grip his wrists hard enough to leave ur nail indents in his skin.

all the while he leans over you, burying his head in your hair and the crook of your neck, his dog tag tickling ur spine with each thrust as he groans and whines into your ear with each. thrust. whispering, “like that? huh? right there? that’s the spot?” and “that feels good, doesn’t it? it feels soo good for me, too.”

his breaths are so choppy and desperate, his inhales choked and stuttered bcs he loves fucking you so much. he can’t get enough of feeling u squeeze around him while u cry out his name, begging for more. harder. deeper.

and he hits just the right spot every time, making you go dumb with pleasure just by pressing his pelvis against your ass and rolling his hips in circles. he has to bite his lip and squeeze his eyes sooooo tight when he feels you start to twitch and pulse around him as ur orgasm creeps up on you, murmuring, “i know, i know.” when u start to call his name louder in warning.

it’s not just the feeling that drives him crazy, though, it’s the knowledge that HES the one making you feel so good. HES the one about to make you cum. HES the one whose name you’re crying over and over and over on desperate whimpers before you shatter into a million pieces

and he fucks you through it, whispering praises into ur hair between pressing kisses against ur scalp, saying, “yesyesyes” between clenched teeth, nodding dispite the fact that u can’t see him, bcs again, he’s just in disbelief about how good he’s making you feel.

[beautiful--macabre]

"a little something to take the edge off" — with the kaiju no. 8 boys!

filming the "something to take the edge off" trend with your boyfriend (who has no clue what you're doing). based on this post.

featuring: hoshina soshiro, narumi gen, hibino kafka, and ichikawa reno

Phone out and filming, you enter Hoshina's office as quietly as possible during one of your midday breaks. As soon as you cross the threshold, however, he turns to look at you with a signature toothy grin.

"Hey there, Darlin'! What are you up to?" Upon noticing your not-at-all-inconspicuous camera, he cocks his head slightly. Perfect.

With a cheesy grin, you pinch his cheek between your index and middle fingers, prompting him to make a soft "eh?" of confused surprise. He sits there for a moment — entirely at a loss for words — before shifting to bite your index finger, pinching it softly between his teeth.

"What was that for?!" You laugh, pulling your hand away from his mouth. Hoshina's all-too-proud-of-himself grin is still plastered across his face as he, too, starts to laugh.

"I had to!" He exclaims gleefully, leaning back in his chair as laughter racks his entire body, "I mean, what was I even supposed to do?!"

"I don't know, it's just a TikTok trend!"

Hoshina stills entirely, his eyes popping open with an air of mischief that makes you nervous even before he opens his mouth. "Does that mean I can do it to you, too?"

"I mean- Sure?" You say, though you know it doesn't matter what you say, he'll be doing it anyway. Maybe it would be a good idea to lock your office doors for the rest of the day. Just in case.

You sneak up on Narumi while he's gaming: lying on the floor of his room, oblivious to his surroundings. If he notices it when you put your fingers on the back of his neck, he doesn't show it, staying focused on his game and muttering softly to himself.

When he finishes the level and still doesn't so much as look at you, you try a second take — this time pinching his cheek to be a bit more obnoxious. Still no response. Narumi is nothing if not dedicated to his video games, that's for sure.

"Hmph," You sigh dramatically, pretending to talk to yourself, "Guess you don't want to be in my TikTok. Maybe I should go try with Captain Ashiro, or Vice Captain Hoshina..."

"WHAT?!" Narumi whips his head around to look at you, dropping his controller to the floor, "No, no, no, I'll be in your TikTok! There's no need to get either of them to help you!"

At the sight of your boyfriend's exaggerated puppy eyes, you collapse into a fit of laughter, phone abandoned on the floor next to you. "That's it, that's the video!"

"Wha- Babyyyyyy, just do it again, I'll react right this time."

Still giggling, you restart the video feed, approaching Narumi — who's sitting cross-legged on the floor looking not unlike a contented house cat — from the front and pinching his cheekbone. He grins directly at the camera, looking very proud of himself.

"Love you, Baby," He says, looking up at you through his bangs.

"Love you too," You reply, releasing his cheek and ruffling his messy hair, to which he responds by shrinking away with an offended glare.

While the second take was more so what you were expecting to post when you set out to partake in the "a little something to take the edge off" trend with Narumi, the first take was considerably better (no matter what Narumi says) and most definitely getting posted too.

"Kafka!!" You call out as you approach your boyfriend while he jogs his morning laps on the track.

"Hey Babe!" He beams, coming to a halt the moment he notices you.

When you pinch his bicep between your fingers instead of wrapping your arms around him or kissing him, Kafka's face flushes in something between embarrassment and utter confusion. His eyes dart between your finger on his arm and your face, and you can see the cogs turning in his brain in real time. Perplexed, he mirrors you, grabbing tentatively at the arm you're using to film.

"You have really nice arms, did you know that?" You ask.

"I- HUH???" In an instant, Kafka's face turns an even brighter red than it was, your boyfriend reduced to a flustered, blushing mess, "Is- is that what this is about?"

"I guess so," You say between laughs, "It's the 'something to take the edge off' trend, and I think my boyfriend's big biceps do a pretty good job of that!"

For a moment, Kafka just stares at you slack-jawed, the blush on his face refusing to budge. "T-thank you?"

No matter how nice his arms are, his priceless reactions will always be the highlight of your time with him.

Ambushing Reno requires a scheme befitting of a cartoon supervillain. First, you have to set up your phone in the hallway, on top of the door sign (a rather precarious perch), then lure Reno out of his room and toward your phone without seeming too suspicious. And once you're at the perfect spot for the camera...

Bam! You push a surprised and now rather flustered Reno against the wall, caging him loosely with your arm. With your other hand, you pinch his cheek, ensuring your arm is low enough to not block the camera.

"What's this for?" He asks, leaning slightly away from your hand with a perplexed, flushed expression.

Instead of responding, you pinch his nose with a "Boop!" just loud enough to be picked up by the camera, before stepping back with a barely suppressed laugh.

Ichikawa stays in place, back against the wall, dazed. "I am... beyond confused. What just happened?"

"Just wanted to remind you that I think you're cute," you say innocently, grabbing his arm to lead him back down the hallway.'

"And that's why you had your phone there?" He asks, pointing directly at where your phone was (miraculously, still where you put it and not on the floor).

"You saw that?" Though you act astonished, it's not really all that surprising. After all, a phone on the wall is nowhere near ordinary.

"Well, you didn't exactly try to hide it, Love," he says fondly, kissing your cheek, "Now c'mon, let's go get those snacks you promised me."

sillies, all of them.

[beautiful--macabre]

Title: Golden Hour Secrets

Fandom: Kaiju No. 8

Pairing: Gen Narumi x fem!Reader

Rating: General

Word Count: ~3.4k

Summary: Narumi always said he spent his days off gaming in his room. But in reality, he was sneaking away to a cozy little café on the edge of town—where his girlfriend just happened to work. For a year, nobody knew. At least, not until Kafka, Kikoru, and Eiji decided to follow him…

Main Masterlist Here!

The sun was melting into the horizon when Division One’s training hall finally went quiet, the air heavy with the lingering scent of metal and sweat. The light overhead had shifted from white to a soft, honeyed glow, slanting across the polished floors and catching on the sleek edges of rifles and armor stacked neatly along the walls. The hum of distant machinery—the elevator shaft, the muffled chug of cooling systems—mingled with the subtle thud of boots in the hall, footsteps echoing just long enough to remind anyone left behind that the world outside the Defense Force Headquarters still existed. Kafka Hibino leaned lazily against the window frame, chin tilted toward the last streaks of sun, but his eyes were fixed on the far corridor where Captain Gen Narumi had just vanished, hands shoved into his pockets with the ease of a man who feared nothing. He didn’t look like he had just overseen drills that would make most soldiers collapse. He looked… casual. Relaxed. Like someone about to spend his evening doing something he’d never confess to anyone.

“Where do you think he goes?” Kafka’s voice broke the heavy quiet, a low, conspiratorial murmur that still somehow bounced against the high ceiling. His gaze tracked the captain’s retreating figure until it disappeared behind the stairwell, leaving nothing but the faint echo of his boots. There was always something slightly infuriating about Narumi off-duty. He never announced his plans, never invited company, and when asked, he’d simply shrug with a lazy smirk and mutter something about “grinding levels” or “catching up on a raid.” It was almost insulting how mundane he made himself sound when he could have been doing anything—anything—in the city beyond the walls. Kafka’s eyes slid toward Kikoru, who was methodically tightening the strap on her wrist guard, her small frame practically vibrating with barely-contained curiosity.

“He’s hiding something,” she said flatly, her tone sharp but quiet, like the scrape of a knife leaving its sheath. She straightened and flicked a strand of hair behind her ear, the movement precise, calculated. “He doesn’t game twenty-four hours a day. No one does. Not even him.” There was a hint of suspicion in her voice, the kind that came from long weeks of being stonewalled by the enigmatic captain. She had observed him in the field—lethal, brilliant, reckless—and yet, off the clock, he was an empty space they couldn’t fill. She’d even tried to pry once, in her own blunt way, and received nothing but that irritating, lazy grin and a pat on the head that made her want to kick him. “I say we follow him.”

“Follow him?” Eiji Hasegawa’s voice was calm but laced with dry incredulity, his broad shadow falling across the floor as he stepped forward, crossing his arms. The vice-captain always seemed carved from the same unshakable granite as the HQ walls—stoic, disciplined, difficult to move. But even his brow furrowed in faint curiosity as he replayed Narumi’s casual exit in his mind. “You realize if he catches us, he’ll never let us live it down. And he’s… perceptive. He’ll know.”

Kafka pushed off the window with a grin that was far too eager for someone suggesting an outright breach of privacy. “C’mon, don’t tell me you’re not curious! Captain Narumi, Division One’s deadliest gamer-slash-soldier, just casually vanishes for hours at a time and nobody knows what he does? Don’t you wanna see?” He gestured wildly with his hands, already half-whispering like they were planning a heist. “What if he has, like, a secret arcade lair? Or—oh!—a double life! What if he’s secretly a pop idol?”

Kikoru rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t stick that way, but her mouth twitched in amusement she tried to hide. “You’re ridiculous.” She paused, then added with grim determination, “But we’re doing this.”

It didn’t take long before the three of them were slipping out of HQ under the dying light, their steps quick but quiet, hearts thrumming with a strange cocktail of guilt and exhilaration. The city embraced them with the fading warmth of dusk, and the shift from sterile, humming halls to the vibrant, living streets was almost jarring. Neon signs blinked to life with sharp, electric colors, spilling pinks and blues onto the damp pavement. Somewhere, oil popped in a food stall, sending the smell of fried batter and sweet soy sauce into the cooling air. The first crickets began their soft chorus in the strips of greenery lining the pedestrian paths, their song threading between the distant honk of cars and the occasional murmur of conversation from the scattered civilians still on the streets. It was a different world out here—one Narumi seemed to vanish into seamlessly.

Narumi walked like a man who owned the city without meaning to, casual and unhurried, each step landing with a quiet certainty that spoke of instinctive awareness even when he seemed absorbed in the glow of his phone. Kafka, Kikoru, and Eiji followed at a distance, a ragtag cluster of shadows blending into the ebb and flow of pedestrians on the evening streets. Neon signs bloomed above them in vibrant pinks, greens, and soft golden light, reflecting on the wet sheen of the pavement like an artist’s careless brushstrokes. The air was alive with texture—rich and layered—a cocktail of urban life that carried the buttery perfume of a nearby bakery, the faint metallic tang of rain-soaked metal railings, and the ozone bite of an approaching summer storm. A breeze teased at Narumi’s hair, pulling loose strands across his face, but he didn’t so much as glance back, strolling as though the whole city were his private playground. The rhythm of his steps was hypnotic; each shift of weight, each swing of his arm, seemed deliberate without being forced, like a melody only he could hear.

The three trailing him weren’t nearly so graceful. Kafka tried to match the flow of civilian traffic, but his broad frame and fidgeting nervous energy made him stick out like a badly hidden signpost. Every time Narumi paused to check his phone or glance into a shop window, Kafka plastered himself against the nearest lamppost, muttering, “Totally natural. Super normal pedestrian, that’s me,” under his breath, earning a withering glare from Kikoru. She was far better at the game, moving with calculated precision, ducking behind bus stops and carefully timed clumps of commuters, her bright hair tucked under a hood to avoid recognition. Eiji, in contrast, simply trusted his stillness to render him invisible; his quiet presence melted into doorways and shadows with the ease of a predator used to waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Their mismatched styles created a strange, lurching dance in the periphery of Narumi’s world—a trio of ghosts that would have been laughable to any onlooker, but somehow, impossibly, went unnoticed. Or perhaps… willfully ignored.

The first stop came like the opening note of a song they didn’t know they were waiting for. Narumi paused outside a small, corner flower shop whose windows glowed a soft, tender yellow against the deepening blue of the evening. It was the kind of place that looked like it belonged to another era—modest, almost shy in its presentation—yet magnetic in its quiet beauty. Delicate stems leaned toward the glass, a symphony of soft whites, pinks, and bursts of sun-yellow, their petals catching the warm lamplight like tiny, living lanterns. As the door chimed softly and Narumi slipped inside, the trio crept to the edge of the window, crouching in comical unison beneath a planter overflowing with trailing ivy. The scent hit them almost immediately—fresh, green, tinged with sweetness and the faint earthy undertone of damp soil.

“What the hell…” Kafka whispered, voice cracking as he watched through the glass. Narumi was moving with surprising delicacy between the narrow aisles of flowers, his fingers brushing lightly along the petals, the usual sharpness in his posture softened to something almost reverent. He leaned down slightly, inhaling the scent of a pale bouquet as if committing it to memory, then turned to the florist with a grin that was shockingly… bashful. “Is that—Is that a smile?!” Kafka hissed, momentarily forgetting the art of stealth.

“Shhh!” Kikoru smacked his shoulder with controlled precision, eyes glued to the scene. Her breath fogged the corner of the glass, and she wiped it away with her sleeve, muttering, “I knew it. I knew he was hiding something… but I didn’t think it was this.” Her voice carried a strange mixture of triumph and bewilderment, like she had solved a puzzle only to realize the picture on the box was upside down.

Eiji said nothing. His dark eyes flicked over every detail with a soldier’s precision—the casual intimacy of Narumi’s touch on the flowers, the low murmur of conversation with the florist, the way his body language shifted from the confident swagger of a captain to the quiet assurance of a man who belonged here, in this moment, in this ordinary place. There was no trace of the lethal predator who could command a battlefield with a glance; this Narumi was… softer. Human. And for the first time, Eiji felt a twinge of something unexpected—respect tinged with curiosity, like seeing a hidden room in a house you thought you knew inside and out.

They stayed crouched as Narumi left the shop, a small bouquet wrapped in paper tucked under one arm, his other hand shoved into his jacket pocket. The trio trailed him further into the city, tension winding tighter with every step. His next stop was a high-end sweets boutique, the kind with glass cases that gleamed like jewelry boxes and a faint, intoxicating perfume of sugar, cocoa, and caramel that curled through the air like smoke. Kafka nearly choked when he saw their captain lean casually on the counter, gesturing toward a box of elegant, pastel-colored pastries with the ease of a man who had done this before.

“Is this—are we—watching him buy dessert?” Kafka whispered, his hands flailing in a silent tantrum. “He’s supposed to be gaming! Yelling into a headset! Not… not… being a—what even is this?! A rom-com protagonist?!”

Kikoru’s eyes narrowed, sharp as knives, though the corner of her mouth betrayed a hint of amusement. “Shut up, Hibino. I think we’re about to find out the truth.” Her gaze drifted beyond Narumi to the street ahead, where the familiar outline of a café nestled in a quiet corner, its windows aglow with a soft, golden light, the faint murmur of music and the aroma of warm coffee curling out into the night. And as if drawn by a magnetic pull, their captain began walking toward it, the bouquet and pastry box cradled like small treasures in his arms.

The café glowed like a warm beacon at the edge of the street, its amber-lit windows framed by ivy and weathered brick, a slice of quiet comfort nestled against the restless pulse of the city. Evening had settled fully now, the sky washed in deep indigo streaked with the last threads of fading gold. Streetlights hummed to life one by one, their reflections rippling across rain-darkened pavement. From across the street, Kafka, Kikoru, and Eiji froze behind a narrow alleyway, watching as Captain Gen Narumi approached the little café with the same casual, unhurried gait he wore on the battlefield—but softer now, unguarded in a way none of them had ever seen. In one hand, he carried a small bouquet wrapped in brown paper, pale flowers peeking from the folds. In the other, an elegant white pastry box swung with a weightless sort of confidence.

The bell above the café door chimed when he entered, and for a moment, the three soldiers could only watch in collective disbelief. Inside, the world seemed to slow, the quiet hum of soft jazz threading through the warm air, mingling with the rich scent of coffee and sugar. The interior was modest but inviting—polished wooden counters, shelves lined with jars of tea leaves and coffee beans, a few scattered tables beneath pendant lamps that cast pools of honeyed light. And behind the counter, she stood. Y/N. Her hair caught the glow of the hanging lights, her hands mid-motion as she wiped down the counter, until the sound of the bell drew her gaze to the door.

Her face lit up when she saw him. Not just with the polite warmth reserved for customers, but with something deeper, brighter—a spark of familiarity and affection that softened her entire expression. Narumi’s shoulders relaxed the instant their eyes met, his usual lazy smirk curling into something real, something private. He crossed the small space in easy strides, setting the flowers and pastry box on the counter as though placing down treasures.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, the word shaped with a warmth the team outside had never heard from him.

Her laugh was soft, carrying easily even through the glass, and she leaned forward over the counter, fingertips brushing his as she took the flowers. For a heartbeat, everything stilled—the hum of traffic outside, the buzz of neon lights, the muffled city noises—all of it faded under the quiet gravity between the two of them. Narumi leaned across the counter, his hand lifting to cup her cheek, thumb brushing her skin with the kind of ease that only came from long familiarity. He kissed her—slowly, tenderly, like there was no one else in the world—and the three soldiers crouched outside collectively stopped breathing.

Kafka’s jaw dropped so hard it almost hit the sidewalk. “He—he—he’s kissing her,” he wheezed in a voice just barely above a whisper, his hands gripping the edge of the brick wall.

Kikoru’s expression was one of pure, silent outrage mixed with incredulity, like someone had just told her the sky was actually green. “He’s dating someone.” Her voice trembled with the effort of keeping it down, her wide eyes flicking between the window and her teammates.

Eiji, for his part, said nothing. His dark gaze lingered on the scene, absorbing every detail with the quiet weight of a man rearranging everything he thought he knew. The way Narumi’s body curved toward the woman behind the counter, the softness in his half-lidded eyes, the ease in his hand resting against her cheek—it was a revelation. Their fearless captain, the man they thought they knew, existed in a private world that felt almost sacred, and they were voyeurs on the outside looking in.

Inside, Narumi broke the kiss only to rest his forehead against Y/N’s, a lazy grin spreading across his face. She murmured something that made him laugh—soft, genuine, and devastatingly warm. He reached over the counter to draw her into a half-embrace, his fingers tracing absent patterns along her back, and for a moment, the entire café seemed to shrink down to just the two of them, bathed in golden light while the rest of the world stood still.

Outside, Kafka clutched his chest dramatically, whispering, “He’s… he’s boyfriend material.”

The three soldiers crouched like awkward gargoyles in the shadows of the alley, all wide-eyed and breathless, staring through the café window as if watching the climax of a movie they hadn’t realized they’d been starring in. Inside, Captain Gen Narumi existed in another world—leaning over the counter, his forehead brushing against Y/N’s as she laughed softly, his posture loose and content, radiating a warmth they had never seen on the battlefield. He was no longer the unpredictable sharpshooter or the cocky division leader with a controller glued to his hands—he was just a man in love, completely and disarmingly human.

Kikoru was the first to snap out of it, or at least try. “This—this is insane,” she hissed under her breath, words tumbling over each other. “He’s supposed to be… I don’t know, locked in his apartment, yelling into a headset, eating instant noodles, not—not this!” Her voice cracked as she gestured wildly to the soft domestic scene unfolding in front of her.

Kafka’s eyes were still glued to the window, glassy with shock. “He—he bought flowers… he bought fancy sweets… and—look at him! He’s—he’s like some kind of—of—romance protagonist!” His voice broke into a strangled whisper as Narumi pressed another unhurried kiss to Y/N’s lips. “I don’t know who this man is anymore…”

Eiji, ever the stoic, was silent—but his eyes betrayed him, slightly wider than usual, his brows faintly knit in concentration. He watched as Narumi rested his elbows on the counter and listened to Y/N talk, his entire body language soaking in her presence like sunlight. There was a lightness to him, a soft curve in his mouth that was absent from the training grounds and battlefield alike. Eiji felt an unexpected pang in his chest—respect, maybe. Or something quieter. Perhaps even envy. This was the side of their captain no one had been meant to see.

The moment held for a long time, the city’s night sounds distant and muffled, the café’s golden glow like a lantern in a sea of shadow. Then, inevitably, the spell snapped. The small bell above the café door jingled—not from Narumi—but from a customer leaving, and their footsteps splashed through a shallow puddle directly beside the alley where the trio was squatting. Kafka flinched so hard he smacked his back into the brick wall. The sound echoed louder than a gunshot in the otherwise hushed street.

Inside, Narumi’s head turned.

The world slowed. He blinked once, his sharp eyes catching movement outside the window. And then, with the unerring precision of a predator who always saw his prey coming, his gaze landed squarely on the alley.

Kafka froze. Kikoru went stiff as stone. Eiji sighed quietly, as if he’d already accepted their fates.

Through the glass, Narumi’s mouth curved into something between amusement and pure mischief. He leaned closer to Y/N, whispering something that made her glance toward the window, her brows knitting in confusion before a small, knowing smile tugged at her lips. She lifted a hand to her mouth to hide a laugh as Narumi shook his head faintly, like he’d just caught three children with their hands in the cookie jar.

Outside, Kikoru hissed, “He saw us. Oh my god, he saw us.”

Kafka looked ready to faint. “Do we—run?!”

Eiji’s voice was flat, resigned. “We’re already dead.”

Before anyone could move, the café door opened. Narumi stepped out into the night, bouquet paper rustling softly under his arm, his other hand casually tucked into his jacket pocket. The warm café light haloed his silhouette as he tilted his head at them, utterly calm, his grin a mixture of smug and dangerous.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, his voice carrying lazily across the quiet street. “I thought my team had more respect for a man’s day off.”

Kafka shot to his feet like a guilty teenager. “C-Captain! We—uh—this isn’t what it looks like!”

Narumi’s eyebrow arched, amused, as he descended the café steps with a slow, deliberate pace. “Really? ‘Cause it looks like three of my subordinates spent their night spying on me through a window like rejected private investigators.” He stopped just short of them, his eyes glinting under the streetlamp. “Do you… want an autograph, or something?”

Kikoru finally managed to speak, her pride warring with mortification. “We thought—you were—gaming! But you’re…” She flung a hand toward the café helplessly. “This!”

Narumi smirked, tilting his head toward the warmly lit door where Y/N now stood framed in the glow, her arms crossed but her smile soft and fond. “Yeah,” he said simply. “This.” He gave a lazy shrug. “You all could’ve just asked.”

Kafka groaned into his hands while Kikoru sputtered, Eiji closed his eyes, and Narumi just laughed—a warm, real sound—as he sauntered back toward the café, holding the door open like a dare.

“Next time,” he called over his shoulder, “bring flowers first if you’re gonna crash date night.”

And with that, he disappeared into the golden light, leaving his team stunned, soaked in embarrassment, and forever changed by the realization that their captain—their unpredictable, gaming, sharp-shooting captain—was hopelessly, irrevocably in love.

[beautiful--macabre]

Code Red~

♡ Part of the Secretary Series

♡ Gen Narumi x Secretary!(Fem)Reader, 2.3k words

♡ Summary: You're fighting a war inside your uterus. Gen thinks you’re plotting revenge on him in silence. Turns out, it’s just your period.

Something is wrong. EXTREMELY wrong.

Gen doesn’t notice it at first, because he’s too busy trying to fish the last bite of a protein bar out of its wrapper with his tongue while balancing a lukewarm coffee on top of a classified folder. But, he's missed the monday morning briefing meeting, because he had an important date with his bed after gaming through almost the whole night. And somehow, there's wasn't an angry email, shouting or a lecture from you?!

Even he can tell: the vibe is off.

You’re at your desk—technically alive, physically present—but emotionally? Spiritually? You’re gone. There’s a glazed-over, hollow-eyed stare fixed on your monitor, fingers frozen above your keyboard like you’ve forgotten what typing is.

And most importantly: you’re silent.

Gen watches you from the doorway for a moment, waiting. Any second now, you should be tearing into him for being late. For missing the meeting. Or for the coffee stain already blooming across this morning’s intel packet. Or the suspicious tweets he drafted about Kaiju guts looking like abstract art.

But…nothing.

Not even a sigh.

Not even a glare!

You just sit there, curled slightly forward in your chair, cradling your stomach in a way that feels quietly tragic. You're in somewhat of a fetus position...if a fetus could sit. You remind Gen of a Victorian child that's eaten bread for the first time and is now dying from it.

Gen starts walking toward you. Carefully. Like he’s approaching a landmine.

“Hey,” he says, gently. “You good?”

You blink slowly, turn your head in his direction with the speed of someone who’s been hit over the head with a bat, and whisper, “Do I look good?”

Gen stares. “You look like you died three days ago and just now realized it.”

You hum in agreement. “That sounds about right.”

“You want me to get Medical?”

You shake your head once. Then add, quietly, “They’ll just give me water and pretend that’s helpful.”

He crouches a bit to look you in the eye, genuinely rattled. “You haven’t yelled at me all day, and it's already 10 am. I’m starting to think you’ve been replaced by a sad, sick clone.”

You lift your hand, giving him a vague “go away” wave, then let it drop onto your stomach again like it’s made of stone and too heavy to hold up for more than a second.

“Is this, like…” Gen searches your face. “You ate something bad? You got cursed by a Kaiju? Your appendix burst but you’re too proud to admit it?”

“I’m fine." you murmur.

Gen frowns, thoroughly unconvinced. “You said that in the tone of someone begging the void to take them.”

“I just need… a dark room. A heating pad. And possibly divine intervention.”

“…That sounds like dying.”

You sigh. Not dramatically. Just tired. “It’s just...one of those days.”

You press your forehead gently against your desk.

Gen looks around the room like someone might appear and help him. But there’s no instruction manual for this. And definitely no button labeled “Fix Your Secretary.”

Still crouched, he shifts awkwardly. “Is it, like…a girl thing?”

You go still. Slowly tilt your head, just enough to glance at him.

He raises his hands. “Not being weird, just—I grew up in a place with forty boys and no clue about the lives of girls. I’ve never been trained for this situation. I don’t know what this is, but I want to help."

You exhale, long and slow. “It’s fine. You don’t need to fix it. It’s just biology doing its monthly war crimes.”

Gen freezes. “…Is this a period thing?”

You stare at him for a long moment. Then give him the tiniest nod, like it physically hurts to admit it.

“Ohhh. Right. Okay. That’s... That explains. A lot.”

He stands back up, blinking like he’s just unlocked a new achievement. “You deal with this every month and still manage to yell at me? How??”

You don’t answer.

You’ve already returned to staring at your monitor like it personally betrayed you.

Gen watches you for another moment, then grabs a clean hoodie from the back of his chair, walks over, and gently drapes it over your lap like a blanket without saying anything.

You don’t react.

But you don’t throw it at him either.

He counts that as a win.

By lunchtime, Gen has tried everything.

He started by Googling “how to help someone on their period without sounding weird or dying” and went down a rabbit hole of blogs, forum posts, and suspicious Pinterest infographics. Unfortunately, they all contradicted each other.

Some said “chocolate is sacred.”

Others said “avoid sugar, give her soup.”

One ominous post just said, “RUN.”

He tried the chocolate thing first, by sliding a king-size bar onto your desk like he was disarming a bomb. You blinked at it, murmured a weak “Thanks,” and placed it gently aside like you were too tired for even a singular bite of it.

He then tried tea. Warm, herbal, supposedly soothing. You sipped it once, gave a small hum of approval, and then went back to staring into the void, aggressively typing away at your computer.

He tried not breathing near you. That seems to have gotten the best results so far.

But you’re still pale, curled in your chair like a tired question mark, eyes glassy with pain, and Gen has run out of Google suggestions and emotional resilience.

So—against every stubborn instinct in his body—he calls in backup.

[2:24 PM] – Break Room, Emergency!!

Hasegawa doesn’t even look up from his clipboard. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m asking yet!” Gen hisses.

“I know that face,” Hasegawa says. “It’s the face you make right before you admit you’ve broken something or someone.”

Gen glances around, leans in. “Okay. Hypothetically. If someone you work with is on their period and clearly in pain and not acting like their usual scary self, what do you do?”

Hasegawa finally looks up. Blinks. “You’re asking me about periods?”

“You’ve got sisters! You’re emotionally competent! I have nothing!” Gen gestures wildly. “She looks like she’s about to ascend into another plane of existence. I tried tea and chocolate and not being annoying for once, which I thought was peak effort.”

“She didn’t throw anything at you?”

“No. It’s terrifying.”

Hasegawa sighs. “Alright. You seem to be doing something right. My sisters would usually scream at me, then cry before slamming the door. All seemingly unprompted. First: heat pack. Then a comfort item. Something soft, familiar. Also—do not downplay the pain. Just be present. Patient, although that's probably impossible for you...just be quietly useful.”

Gen stares like he’s just received divine revelation. “You’re like a period sensei.”

“Never call me that again. EVER. I'm simply an educated and responsible adult. You should try it.”

“Hard pass, no offense. But thank you.”

You’re not expecting anyone.

You’ve just managed to drag yourself into an oversized shirt and shorts combo, curled up on your bed, emotionally numb and crampy, watching an old Kaiju documentary you’ve seen five times.

A knock pulls you from your thoughts.

You groan softly, debating pretending to be dead.

“It’s me.”

You pause.

Gen?

You shuffle to the door and open it, expecting chaos. Is the office currently on fire? Perhaps another shitstorm on Twitter is the cause of his visit? Or maybe he needs your help with a last minute report?

He’s just standing there. Holding a bag. Dressed in casual clothes, a simple white shirt and grey joggers.

“Hey,” he says. “Permission to enter the war zone?”

You blink, confused, but you step aside.

“I brought stuff,” he adds, stepping in. “Heat pad. Those weird sour gummies you like. A hoodie I didn’t sweat in, promise. Some chocolate...Also, this thing,” he holds up a fuzzy, round stuffed Kaiju you joked about once, because it looks so goofy. “It’s squishy. I dunno. The internet said something about serotonin and comfort.”

You stare at him, baffled.

“You’ve been acting like someone’s stabbing you internally all day.” he explains. “So. I thought maybe... if I can’t punch your uterus as revenge, I can at least try... this.”

You blink again. “How do you know all this?”

Gen scratches the back of his neck. “Uh. I might’ve... Googled some things. A lot of things. And then called Hasegawa when Google started sounding like a minefield.”

Your eyes narrow. “You asked Hasegawa for help?”

“I was desperate, alright?” he grumbles. “I even almost texted Hoshina.”

You gasp theatrically.

“I didn’t! I stopped myself. Have some faith.”

You laugh, weak but real. “This is... surprisingly sweet.”

He shrugs. “Look. You save my ass daily. Least I can do is try to return the favor when your internal organs declare war.”

He sits beside you, not touching, but close enough to radiate warmth. Quietly present. Like Hasegawa said.

You sigh, lean slightly against his arm, and close your eyes. “...Thanks, Gen.”

He grins. “Don’t mention it. Or do. In a formal memo. With glitter.”

You swat him weakly.

You're wrapped up in Gen’s hoodie, heat pad tucked under the blanket like it’s your lifeline, when he glances over and says, way too casually,

“So… like. Does a back rub help with this?”

You squint at him. “Are you asking if a massage will fix my uterus?”

“Well, no, I mean—not directly,” he says, scrambling. “But like… I read somewhere that cramps can make your back tense? Or maybe it was legs? Or… your soul?”

You raise an eyebrow.

He shrugs, undeterred. “Point is, I’ve got decent hands. You’ve seen me reload a machine gun blindfolded.”

“I feel like this is different.”

“I’ll be gentle. Promise.”

You hesitate.

Your spine does feel like it’s been replaced with a metal rod, and honestly, your will to live is fading fast enough that letting Gen Narumi awkwardly try to massage your back doesn’t sound that bad.

“…Fine. But don’t get weird.”

He gives a dramatic salute. “Captain's honor.”

You lean forward just enough to turn away from him on the bed, and he carefully settles behind you. His hands hover for a moment—like he’s preparing to defuse a bomb—before gently pulling the hoodie up and resting them on your shoulders.

He starts slow, clearly guessing his way through this, but surprisingly... it doesn’t suck. His hands are warm, steady, and not nearly as rough as you expected. He finds a knot near your shoulder blade and pauses.

“Is this... pain, or just where your stress lives now?”

You hum sleepily. “Both. I think my body’s just made of rage and muscle knots.”

“Explains the yelling,” he murmurs, working the knot loose.

“Careful. I might fall asleep and drool on your hoodie.”

“It’s washable,” he says, like he already factored that in.

After a while, his hands slow, and you feel him shift slightly behind you, settling more comfortably. You lean back instinctively, head landing lightly against his chest.

He doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

“…This is fine, right?” he says eventually. “Just tactical support. Purely structural.”

“Obviously,” you mumble. “Platonic heat distribution.”

“Exactly.”

You both sit there for a beat, basking in the silent lie that this is not emotionally charged.

Then Gen, because he’s Gen, adds:

“I mean, if I cuddle you and you stop wanting to die, that’s technically a medical intervention...right?”

You laugh softly, curling further into the blanket, and him. “You’re unbelievable.”

You open one eye. “You trying to distract me with childlike joy?”

“I’m useful,” he corrects, reaching for the switch on the nightstand. “Now. Since you’re in pain and I’m being selfless—wanna play Mario Kart?”

“I’m trying to beat you while you’re weak. Obviously.”

You smirk. “Good luck with that, coward.”

Ten minutes later, you’re leaning fully against him, legs tangled under the blanket, controllers in hand, screaming at his Banana Peel treachery while he grins smugly into your hair.

Bonus:

Gen wins the third race in a row, thanks to a red shell and what you swear was controller sabotage. You threaten to stab him with a pen. He offers you more sour gummies as a peace offering, which you accept begrudgingly.

At some point, you both go quiet again. The screen goes to the idle menu. The room hums with warm, lazy quiet. Gens arm is still looped somewhere behind you, just in case you need to lean back again.

You do.

You don’t even remember when your head found its way to his shoulder.

Or when his fingers started lightly tracing along your arm—absent, idle, not even thinking about it.

Your eyes drift shut.

His breathing is steady, a low rhythm under your cheek.

You don’t plan to fall asleep.

You just… close your eyes for a moment.

When Gen wakes up, the screen is dark, the room is dim, and your body is still tucked lightly against his side.

Your hand is resting over his chest, like it wandered there in your sleep.

For a second, he panics—because he’s not good at handling soft things.

But you shift a little, murmuring something incoherent, and nudge your head against his collarbone.

He freezes.

Then relaxes.

He lets his head fall lightly against yours, eyes sliding shut again.

Just a nap.

Just for a few more minutes.

That’s all.

Tomorrow, you’ll both pretend it never happened.

You’ll snark at him like usual. He’ll call you terrifying again.

But tonight—just this once—there's only warmth. And quiet. And the gentle, dangerous weight of feelings between the two of you that are not solely platonic.

A/N: Gen would be so clueless, but don't worry, he's a quick learner ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ hope yall like this

[beautiful--macabre]

🏖

[beautiful--macabre]

no. one party anthem

track fifteen: hanging by a moment | prev track< | setlist

two plane tickets to paradise - or perhaps a new circle of hell

synopsis: your best friend has always been an asshole - whether it's in his band or in his bed. him ditching you? nothing new. but when one bedroom door closes, another one opens

pairings: rockstar!Suguru Geto x f!Reader x childhood fwb!Sukuna

content: mdni, angst and fluff! suguru is crashing out lmfao, HEAVY PINING, him and Sukuna both want us back bad, reminiscing/nostalgia, messy relationships, complicated feelings, emotional turmoil, reader repressing feelings, everyone trying to repair relationships lol, even some hand holding wow, confessions of sorts, desperate men, Sukuna is down so incredibly bad it's not even funny anymore guys (songs talked about are not specifically mentioned by name or lyrics so imagine what you want but personally I think of this and this (for the cover)

a/n: art by @winterrbluess + divider by @/d-oie <3 sorry for any missed typos/autocorrect!!

"You're fired."

Suguru regretted a lot of things. Not doing this sooner was one of them.

But he had to start righting his wrongs somewhere.

"You're funny, Sugu," Manami giggled, and for the first time in his life, Suguru briefly contemplated raising his voice at a woman. He wasn't her Sugu. You were the only person who could call him that.

Even if you never did again.

"I'm not joking," He deadpanned. "You're fired."

He watched the gears slowly turn in her brain, like she was finally figuring out how much he couldn't stand her after he'd spent the past few years trying so goddamn hard to hide it. To be the better man and push down his feelings of disdain and handle her so Satoru wouldn't have to. To suck it up and sacrifice his comfort so the band wouldn't be put in a worse position.

Just for all the things he'd tried so hard to protect to get wrecked in the process.

The girls' privacy. His friendship with Satoru. You.

Manami's face shifted. From surprise to hurt to flat-out anger. Shifting behind her desk, nails clicking against the wooden lacquer as she sat up straighter. Pretending to be a professional now.

"You can't fire me," She protested, mouth hanging open as he pulled out the file he prepared beforehand.

"I can, actually," He reminded her, flipping it open and directing her attention to one of the clauses highlighted in the contract he printed out two days ago. "I'm the acting representative for our band. And you violated several clauses in your contract."

One of her carefully-plucked eyebrows twitched, and he could see her attempting to judge how much he knew - and what to say to not reveal more.

But Suguru wasn't the only one who shot himself in the foot lately.

All it had taken was a phone call to convince her that he needed to see her privately for a few minutes. Although he hadn't expected to run into you in the process. He could see the assumption on your face when she showed up, the ache in it.

Suguru didn't have time to say what he wanted to. Not nearly enough minutes to make you understand that he'd give anything to get you back - and meeting with Manami was unfortunately mandatory to making that happen.

He only needed five minutes.

Nodding even when she put her hand on his forearm and planted a kiss on his cheek that felt like poison, insisting on him and the girls joining her for a bite to eat. He agreed, even asking pointless questions across the table from her about marketing their next single before asking for her phone, coming up with some story about getting a new work phone and wanting to give her the number for it.

And it was petty, probably questionable parenting, but he leaned down to whisper and promise Nanako a new toy if she spilled her drink on Manami, and his baby girl delivered.

Manami gasped, halfway through swearing before she caught herself and muttered she had to go to the bathroom to clean up through gritted teeth.

Forgetting her phone was still in Suguru's hand.

He wasn't positive about what he'd find before - but it somehow managed to be worse than he thought.

There were the photos of you and Satoru on there. Not just the one that ended up everywhere, but other more innocent ones where it was obvious you were just chatting. All the after-breakfast photos were there too. All the ones he'd blamed you for.

He hid his frown. Struggled to keep his expression neutral while he waited for her to come back, quickly working to screenshot and send the original files to himself. It didn't take much through her email to find proof of her selling the scummy photos to some sleazy gossip sites too.

But the worst bit was one he hadn't even been looking for.

A notification dropping down from the top of the screen.

Satoru Gojo arrived at: Home.

Suguru had never clicked anything so fast, and felt his stomach sink through the fucking floor when the app loaded - and saw a marker with his name on it too. Currently placed at the restaurant he was on.

Manami had everyone's locations.

What the hell?

It'd taken a while after that weekend to get all the proof lined up - all his facts in a neat folder and lawyers contacted to make sure he checked every box before he cut her off completely. Done legally and by-the-book to keep a snake like her from slithering back in.

"I know you've been tracking us," Suguru calmly said, doing his best to retain that collectedness he used to pride himself on when he was clenching his fist in his lap. "You sold those photos too."

"My job is to keep you in the press," She nervously chittered, her own composure slipping.

"Your job was to also keep my daughters out of it," He bluntly replied.

There was no repairing that. Even if every article and archive was taken down, the photos had been saved and shared thousands of other places. He couldn't erase that.

"It was bound to happen eventually," Manami started to make excuses, not even apologizing for her part in screwing up his life. Not even a goddamn sliver of remorse for exposing his daughters to the public. "Besides, it was good for your image, you-"

"You'll be hearing from our lawyer soon," Suguru shut her up. "Get out before security makes you."

She made a disgusted noise, holding her nose up high and haughty.

But Suguru picked the Gojo office to do it at since all it would take was a text for a guard to come drag her out. This floor was pretty private - reserved soley for the band. A rehearsal studio down the hall and offices for most of the managers and assistants. And now one was soon-to-be vacant.

"Mr. Gojo won't-"

"I need your work phone. Company property," Suguru added, holding out his hand and cocking his head to the side.

She glared at him, fumbling through her purse to find it and scowling as she grabbed it and threw it at his chest.

He caught it, staying in his chair while she went to grab a folder off the desk and he pressed it back down.

"Personal belongings only," he clicked his tongue. Daring her to disagree.

Suguru needed a win. This was as close to one as he could get.

"Fine," She hissed. Slinging his purse over her shoulder and stomping out in her designer heels.

Suguru followed her out, a few steps behind, far enough away that if she decided to whack him with it, she'd miss.

Satoru's dad would probably be pissed.

But his hands were tied. A broken contract and an incoming lawsuit had to make sure of it.

That was the only thing he could count on Gojo Senior to do - cut off the dead weight.

Manami was a liability now. He didn't keep those around long.

"You're a goddamn asshole," Manami turned one last time to send a scathing glare his way.

Satoru was hunched over in a chair, legs spread out, head slowly looking up with one earbud still in to witness the commotion. He watched her leave, a faint flicker of interest in his eyes that he was quick to disguise, glancing back down at a sheet of music in front of him.

Suguru shuffled closer, unsure what to say to the one person who used to always be on his side. Everyone else was out for lunch, missing out on the show.

His best friend looked away like he didn't notice his presence.

"I fired her," He exhaled, but the weight of it still stuck inside his chest. Satoru's head did snap up now, brows furrowed in surprise as the news set in. "Guess we'll need a new publicist."

"My dad's-"

"She sold those photos. Was tracking our locations too," Suguru shrugged. "Probably should sue her."

The lawyer he'd spent half the weekend talking to was already working on it.

"I could've told you that," Satoru snorted, then stopped as if he just pieced together the implications of the rest of it. "Well, the first part, at least."

There was a thick pause - and Suguru tried to remember the last time it'd been like this between them. Back in the rocky days when the band was starting out? Crushing on the same girl in high school? Fighting over a stupid game or who got to go down the slide first?

"How is she?" He finally managed to ask, shoulders stiff. Satoru swallowed hard, eyes shifting down like he'd been caught with the hand in the cookie jar. "You've seen her, haven't you?"

"She's okay," Satoru shrugged. "Not that I should be telling you."

Suguru hated that he was right.

But what could he do? Let you slip further away? Settle for hearing about you secondhand?

He'd spent his life fixing things. That was all he'd ever been good for. So how come he couldn't repair the one thing he broke with his own hands?

"If she still wants to see the girls, do you think you could take them out to lunch with her or something? I'll pay," Suguru slowly said, feeling like a fucking fool for resorting to this. Practically playing co-parents with the woman who he pictured as their mom some day.

He'd never been that great about saying the silent parts out loud. Thought you could feel it. That a touch said more than words could. A kiss could carry his affection better than promises other men had made a hundred times before.

All it took was a sentence to shatter it. Shatter you and him and scrub away the future he'd been fighting for.

It didn't make it any less his fault.

But he still wondered if he'd be replaying the conversation in his head for the next five years.

"I'll ask her," Satoru shrugged.

"Do you think-"

"I really don't want to get involved," He muttered before Suguru could ask. "Besides, it's probably better if you move on."

"I can't," Suguru frowned, brows furrowed as the words sank in. There weren't that many people he trusted. Okay, like, maybe three. But no one's opinion held as much weight as Satoru's did. "I'm still in love with her."

"Does she know that?" Satoru slowly asked, tired circles etched under his eyes as he reached up to ruffle his own hair.

"I tried to tell her," He murmured.

You didn't want to hear and he didn't blame you.

Satoru didn't say anything, chewing on the corner of his lips before shrugging again.

"Look, I know it's weird right now, but do you wanna come over this weekend? Watch movies? Hang out? It's been a while," Suguru suggested, trying to sound casual. You weren't the only person he missed.

Satoru hesitated, and he knew the answer was no.

"I can't," He swallowed, lips pressing together in an apologetic smile.

"Hot date?" Suguru asked, hating himself for thinking that it might be you.

"Going to a festival," Satoru admitted sheepishly.

And Suguru wasn't invited.

He nodded, like it didn't bother him. Like it wasn't something they used to do together. He knew which one Satoru was referring to - they'd been one, before the girls, before the band even had a name, back when they watched a show and thought that should be them up there. Satoru looked back down to the papers in front of him, notes and words scribbled in crooked lines.

"What are you working on?" He gestured, glancing over to look, but Satoru stuffed it in his bag.

"Don't worry about it."

Suguru supposed it wasn't his right to worry about you or Satoru anymore. But sense couldn't stop him.

And what was one more bad decision? How hard would it be to score a babysitter and a last-minute VIP ticket?

Or rather, how hard was he willing to try to fix all the relationships he'd fucked up?

"Packed your shit?"

"Yeah," You grumbled, pushing your sunglasses up in your hair as Sukuna leaned against your doorframe. "You?"

"In the car," He shrugged, looking past you where your suitcase was propped against your couch.

He frowned at the disheveled state of the rest of your living room. Moving boxes scattered around. Half-packed, lazily placed. You made approximately zero progress on finding a new apartment, but Sukuna had somehow convinced the leasing office to agree to let you out of your lease early without a penalty at the end of the month - so staying wasn't an option.

After you got back from this little trip, you'd only have a few weeks to pack your stuff and find a place to move it too.

You barely managed to convince Sukuna to let you leave his pace before. Insisting that you were fine to go back home, that you had to. He bitched about it the entire night. Spent the whole evening throwing you glances and asking questions about your run-in with Suguru. He pulled you aside after Yuki and the rest of the band had passed out - admitted through gritted teeth that she wasn't supposed to tell you yet about Satoru. That he wanted to be the one to, that it was because they actually were working on a song together.

Playing nice, like you asked.

His hand had grazed over your forearm, your back against the wall in his hallway as he attempted to stumble through a stilted explanation, stumbling around something you both knew and wouldn't say.

You shrugged it off the same way you shrugged everything else off.

It didn't change anything. Didn't make it harder or easier to be around him when you hadn't expected anything different.

"I don't like you living here," Sukuna grumbled now, not that you asked. "Probably mold in the walls now."

"Probably," You agreed with a sigh.

"Any luck finding a new apartment?" He asked, stepping in and starting towards the suitcase on the floor. You watched his brow twitch as he picked it up. You waited for a snarky comment about if you put rocks in it, but he held his tongue. It was stuffed full - clothes and accessories and shoes with barely enough space to bring back a souvenir.

You wondered what exactly you'd be coming home from this trip with. Healing? Heartbreak?

"No," You exhaled harder, rubbing the back of your neck and glancing back out into the open hall.

"You could always come back," Sukuna offered, a low grumble that seemed to sit in your chest.

You could always come back.

Five words that he meant in more ways than one. Would it be easy? Could you go back? Be with him?

Did he want to be your best friend? Your boyfriend? Would both ever be an option?

"We should probably head to the airport," You cleared your throat. Your breathing was shallow, sharp. Lungs straining to suck in the air, blocked before the oxygen could reach them.

"Yeah."

You glanced up from your hands up to his face, and something about this image of him sent a pang through your heart, one where he was standing in your living room, suitcase in hand, a hoodie clinging to his shoulder and hiding his hair, jaw locked and dark eyes settled solely on you.

It reminded you of moving in here. When you made him carry in all your boxes, even though there hadn't been many of them back then. Watching him wipe the sweat off the back of his forehead and complain about how much furniture he had to build.

You hadn't asked him to.

But he had anyway.

Spent a weekend with a toolbox he bought to keep at your place, cursing at pieces of wood and bitching about missing screws until it looked like someone lived there. Muttering that all this shit would be a pain in the ass to move out later.

You guessed you'd just hire movers this go-around.

"Keys," Sukuna huffed, and you blinked, snapping out of it as he nodded towards where your keys and purse were still on your coffee table.

"Thanks," You swallowed hard.

You grabbed your keys first, but he beat you to your purse, holding it like it was his.

Locking the door behind you felt like leaving a piece of yourself behind. It wasn't like you weren't coming back - it was just the unshakable feeling you wouldn't be returning the same person.

He carried your stuff down, standing too close in the elevator, his arm brushing constantly against yours while he impatiently tapped his foot.

Stuffed your suitcase on top of his in the trunk, mumbling under his breath that they'd sent all their instruments and stuff ahead of them.

You nodded along numbly, climbing into his passenger seat as he held out your purse for you to take. You readjusted the straps of it, moving your legs to drop it by your feet.

"You've been quiet," He commented, a little irritated.

"Have I?" You dismissed, even though you knew it was true.

You weren't trying to give him the cold shoulder - but being with him, even just like this, it was confusing.

Sometimes, it felt like you were just condemning yourself to more cruelty. Sinking into him, quicksand swallowing you up more with every stare that lingered and searing touch that stained your skin.

It was easier feeling low. When everything was bad, it couldn't get much worse. But healing? Clawing your way to the surface and knowing a wrong step could send you tumbling back down? That was the hard part.

You'd seen Sukuna at seven and seventeen. Been there for his birthdays and bad days. But this version of him, the one that dredged up the dead parts of you and dared you to dream about something different, he felt like a stranger you knew almost everything about.

One that offered something the old him used to hate. Hope.

He always droned on about dragging yourself to get wherever you wanted in life, grinding and gritting your teeth until it was yours despite the cost. And here he was, fingers tapping against the steering wheel, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose while he stole glances over at you.

Stepping back to step forward with you. Give you space where you needed it and staying when he didn't have to.

What were you supposed to do with that?

When Suguru lingered on the back of your mind and the aftermath of sleeping together had shattered your friendship once already?

You used to reach over and change the radio station or slide a CD in the slot without a second thought. But now you were sitting and shivering in the shotgun seat because you weren't sure just how casual this was supposed to be.

Neither of you had ever been good at that anyway.

"You cold?" Sukuna grumbled, glancing over quickly when you rubbed the goosebumps on your arms.

"A little," You muttered.

He switched it to heating, grunting something under his breath about telling him or changing it yourself.

When you got to the airport, he dug one of his hoodies out of his suitcase in the parking lot and pulled it over your head before you could protest. Coming up with an excuse inside to tug you closer to him, scowling at the TSA agent who tried to pull you aside to check your bags.

It felt like some invisible thread was seconds from snapping by the time you actually boarded the plane, first-class. Whether that was courtesy of Sukuna or his label, you weren't sure you should know.

"We should be able to check in once we get to the hotel," He muttered, fiddling with the buttons on the side of his seat to figure out how to work the recline and make room for his ridiculously long legs.

"Okay," You tried to smile, but there was an uncomfortably distinct fluttery feeling in your stomach when he rested his forearm on your armrest. Fingertips tracing a small shape on the back of your hand as he exhaled and looked around the rest of the cabin.

Was Sukuna seriously giving you butterflies? Old feelings stirring up? Or new ones sprouting?

Being stuck next to Sukuna in tin can in the sky didn't make deciding any easier.

"You wanna watch a movie or somethin'?" He grunted, leg bouncing with irritation? Anxiety?

"Shouldn't you, like, sleep?" You asked, glancing out the small window of the plane. The sun was setting outside, thin clouds dotting overhead, your brain throbbing inside the skull from the stress of taking a trip with your former situationship slash friend. When you turned back to Sukuna, his face was a little green, lips pressed together in a thin line.

"I'm fine," He swallowed, but he was clenching his fists.

You didn't know why you did it. Okay, you did, but you couldn't admit it the same way Sukuna couldn't admit he felt sick. Reaching over to uncurl his fingers from where they were digging into his palm, slipping your hand there for him to hold and squeeze instead.

Sukuna was a lot of things.

Your best friend. A rock star. An asshole most of the time. A guy with a body count probably the size of the passenger manifest.

And apparently a nervous flyer.

Not that he was awake long enough to feel the turbulence. Despite arguing otherwise, he passed out half an hour later, a death grip on your hand even asleep.

Snoring softly next to you, lips parted and a little bit of spit collecting in the corner of his mouth that you reluctantly reached over to wipe clean with the sleeve of your (his?) hoodie. He was said your name. Soft. Low. From the back of his throat.

Dreaming about you.

The only time he ever looked content was unconscious. Head at an awkward angle, all those harsh edges of his hidden under the mask of sleep. Eyes shut, lashes fluttering just slight enough to give away the movement underneath them. You could stare. Study his features half the night when he wouldn't be able to catch you doing it.

You didn't mean to doze off too. But he was nudging you awake as people were filing off, your head on his shoulder and his fingers still interlocked with yours. Still foggy, you faintly considered whether strangers might think you were a couple as you yawned and blinked back sleep.

The world felt hazy, the night sky starting to grow lighter through the big airport windows, his hand refusing to let go when he led you outside to catch a late (or really early) cab.

He loaded up your suitcases, keeping you close and insisting you lean on him when you nearly tripped on a crack in the pavement on the way out.

"You're a mess," He muttered, supporting your weight with a hand around your waist as he yanked open the door to the cab's backseat.

"Yeah," You agreed, wishing you had a coffee or any kind of caffeine climbing in. A twinge of hurt was in your voice, not that he'd actually been the one to wound you. He wasn't trying to be an asshole, just trying to tease, to play around like the two of you used to. "I am."

But there really wasn't any going back to those times.

You could sleep on his shoulder and he could mock you without meaning it, but it would never be the same. There was no button you could press or clock you could rewind.

And still, a part of you had started to think that wasn't the worst thing in the world anymore. That moving forward - and finding a spot in your heart for him again - could be precisely what you needed.

"There's nothing wrong with being a mess," He added under his breath, leaning over you to grab the seat belt and buckle you in.

"I don't know about that," You dryly laughed, rubbing the corner of your eyes.

He shot you a look that said this topic wasn't over. But then the driver asked about where he was supposed to go, and Sukuna had to answer him.

By the time he looked back to continue the conversation, you were resting your head against the glass, eyes closed again, chest slowly rising and falling as you pretended to fall back asleep.

He bought it.

Or maybe he didn't, and decided to just not call you on it. Either way, when you got to the hotel, you let him poke your cheek to 'wake' you up and groggily got out of the car. Trailing a few steps behind him, suitcase rolling over tiny bits of rocks and gravel into the lobby of some overpriced hotel with a built-in bar and restaurant. You were sure there was a pool somewhere - one with warm towels and a hot tub.

"Here you go," Sukuna grunted, holding out two room key cards. One marked 723. A second marked 724. You hesitantly took both, the hard corners digging into your palm as your stare slowly shifted from them up to him. "One for my room too, just in case."

"In case what, exactly?" You tilted your head to the side, sleep still lingering in your tired limbs, voice thick with exhaustion.

He just shrugged. Tired circles under his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a faint smirk.

"Anything."

You slept worse in the hotel than you had on his shoulder.

Sukuna woke you back up a few hours later anyway, not that you'd really been resting. You wrapped a blanket around your shoulders, letting the edges drag along the floor while you dragged yourself to the door, his knuckles still pounding on the other side while you peeked through the peephole.

"Who is it?" You yawned, watching his jaw tighten and then release as he realized you were teasing him.

"Let me in," He held up a bag of food. Breakfast or lunch or whatever meal it was supposed to be time for.

You huffed, flipping the lock and pulling open the door just enough to peer through it.

"You didn't say who it was," You complained and he threw you a half-annoyed look, wedging his foot between the door or frame to keep you from shutting it on him.

"Someone who brought your favorite," He scoffed and you rolled your eyes at him before actually letting him in.

"Set it on the table," You shrugged, sighing as you squinted through the thick-paned windows outside at the sun. "I need a shower first."

"Mind making it quick? Band is meeting in an hour for a rehearsal." He sounded almost as exhausted as you, dropping the bag on the coffee table and collapsing on the corner of the couch. He took up most of it, long legs spread out as he got comfortable and leaned his head back to catch a few more minutes of rest.

"Am I invited?" You hesitantly asked, hearing the awkwardness in your own voice, the slight lilt as you stepped back towards the bathroom.

He chuckled, like you said something absurd before answering in a gravelly voice, "You're always invited."

Today, you'd try to believe him.

Enough that you went with him, hiding behind sunglasses and loose clothes to avoid being noticed by the number of fans probably already in the area for the same reason you were.

To see the show.

And yeah, you weren't really a part of it, but walking into the studio space they'd rented for however long, instruments already there and half the band practicing, it felt like you were a member anyway.

"Gojo's plane should've landed like, two hours ago," Sukuna frowned at his phone, and you were still kind of baffled at the fact they were really going through with it.

Did his dad approve? Did Suguru even know?

"Is he supposed to be here soon?" You asked, leaning over to look at his phone too, just to see back-and-forth texts between two men you never thought would end up acquaintances, let alone friends.

Sukuna would deny it, but the texts, the teasing and trying to get along, all of it looked like a fucking friendship from where you were standing.

He needed one anyway.

"He better be," Sukuna huffed, shutting his phone off and sliding it back in the pocket of his jeans.

The door swung open, but it was just Choso walking through. His hair was down for once, bangs brushing over his forehead and a cigarette dangling between his lips. For a short, painful second, you thought he was someone else.

"Hey," He nodded towards the two of you. His eyes lingered on you longer, and he reached up to take the cigarette out with a small puff of smoke. "Glad you came."

"Yeah, me too," You muttered, and he noticed the way you were looking at the pale stick between his fingers.

"Want one?" Choso offered, using his other hand to dig out the pack from his pocket and hold it out.

After the past couple months?

You were tempted to take one too - but you knew who the taste would remind you of.

"Nah," You shook your head. When the fuck had he picked up the habit anyway? "I better not catch you smoking one of those around Yuji."

Choso's face somehow managed to get paler at your teasing, and he quickly snuffed the cigerette out in the closest ashtray, like the little chubby-legged toddler would somehow stumble through the door.

Which, coincidentally, happened to creak open seconds later, the arrival of a different (man) child apparently summoned by sheer thought.

Sukuna was already scowling.

Satoru's stare immediately slid over to you, a cheeky smirk spreading across his lips as he took off a dark pair of shades.

"Miss me?"

"No," Sukuna answered for you, apparently eager to start arguing as you slipped away to sit on the only couch in the room, even though it kind of reeked of cologne and sex and smoke.

Gojo plopped down on the already sunken-in cushion next to you, a goofy hat pulled over his hair like it would hide the wild white strands poking out underneath it.

"Nice hat," You stifled a giggle, pulling it down lower just for him to lightly smack your hand and laugh.

"Wanna wear it?" He offered, taking it off on his own and popping it on your own.

Sukuna snatched it off, throwing it back at Satoru's chest.

"He probably has lice," He interrupted, scowling as he huffed.

"Do not," Satoru protested, bottom lip pushed out and brows twitching at the accusation.

"Whatever, let's run through the setlist, break, and then we'll practice the ones where you'll be up there with us," Sukuna was glaring, gritting his teeth while he said it.

But Satoru just casually shrugged, unbothered and unburdened.

You heard most of the songs they were performing live before, not that you ever got sick of it. But it was different in an intimate space like this, when Sukuna's eyes kept flicking over to yours, checking for approval or affection in them.

Satoru leaned over three songs in, brushing your hair aside to whisper in your ear.

"Suguru fired Manami," He murmured, and your head swiveled around, blinking at him like you couldn't believe it.

"You're lying," You accused under your breath.

"Nope," He grinned. "She's gone. He found proof that she was the one that sold all those photos of us and the ones with the girls. Gonna sue her and everything."

You held your tongue, stopped yourself from saying anything that might betray yourself. Any traitorous feelings about him that were still stuck under the surface.

Instead, you forced yourself to look ahead, trying to go back to listening like you weren't thinking about what Satoru said. About the fact you had a threesome with them and somehow ended up sitting here with the one that wasn't yours.

"He asked-"

"Um, Satoru?" You murmured, your brain branching off to a new line of rather unfortunate thinking at the reminder of that night. The proof of it.

"Yeah?" He asked like you hadn't interrupted him, face shifting into an almost serious expression.

"Could both of you delete your copies of that tape?" You whispered it, although you doubted Sukuna could hear while he was busy singing and playing.

It just felt wrong to speak. Like a big red sign saying WHORE would start flashing over your head.

"Yeah, sure," Satoru nodded, a small crease between his brows at your soft request.

You had kinda hoped they already had after the breakup, but honestly, you hadn't.

It was still sitting in some hidden folder on your laptop at home, untouched. You'd have to pull it up to delete it, and for some stupid reason, you hadn't been able to bring yourself to do it.

The next song ended, and you started to stand, mumbling under your breath that you were going to run to the bathroom. Concern flashed across Satoru's face, nervously tapping his foot when you got up to go.

Except, when you went out to the hall, you weren't alone.

"Are you okay?"

You glanced back at Sukuna, his guitar still slung across his chest, nose scrunched just a little like he was trying to figure out the answer for himself.

"Fine," You nodded, gesturing back down the hall to the sign marked bathrooms. "I'll be right back."

"Promise?" He breathed, and the absurdity in his sincerity almost made you laugh.

"You want me to promise?" You raised an eyebrow.

"Every time you walk out the door," He hesitated, and you could see he was struggling to find something not sappy to say. Something real and raw. "I wonder how long it'll be until I see you again. If it's the last time."

"Where would I go?" You retorted, tilting your head to the side.

"I don't know," He admitted. "I just want to be wherever it is with you."

"Well, right now, that's the bathroom," You did laugh now, light and soft. Some of the queasiness in your stomach settled, the panic in your veins tempering out as he stepped closer.

"Well, if you decide to make a break for it afterwards, I'll chase you down." You couldn't tell if it was a joke. Not when he was still practically pouting over you going to the toilet without him.

"You wouldn't miss me that much," You rolled your eyes.

"We're about to do the new song. I want you to be the first one to hear it," Sukuna admitted, arms still crossed over his broad chest. "Not like-"

"No live broadcast?" You tried to tease, offering an anxious smile. It was small, but genuine.

"Just you," He muttered, and you wished you didn't know what it meant.

But feigning innocence didn't come easily with him.

He saw through your bullshit.

You'd just never been good at discerning his.

Couldn't tell if this was real or fake - what you wanted it to be.

"I'm coming back," You reassured him, sighing softly. "Five minutes."

And even though you spent three and a half of that staring at your reflection in the mirror practicing expressions in the mirror, you still went back in when you told him you would. Went past all of them and back to your place on the couch, curling up against the armrest to watch like nothing happened and nothing had been said.

Satoru walked back over to take off his sweatshirt, the shirt underneath riding up to reveal the tattoo you'd seen once. You started to look away, but then he tossed it at you to snap your attention back to him.

"You'll like it," He casually said, winking.

"I dunno," You teased, making yourself smile. He returned it easily, laughing a little as you continued, "I can be a bit of a critic, you know?"

"Cut us some slack," Satoru pretended to pout. "Don't we get some points if it's about you?"

You don't know why him saying it so bluntly made your stomach drop. Why all your organs seemed to stop functioning, freezing in place as you tried and failed to breathe.

"Come on," You started to say, low and under your breath, wanting to call bullshit when you believed him.

When you'd known from the second Sukuna pulled you aside in the hall in his apartment, that he was being weird about all of it because it was another attempt at telling you a truth that was too hard to accept.

"All I do lately is sing songs about you," Satoru winked, turning to walk back towards his waiting guitar.

Sukuna was watching you behind one of the mics. Tuning his strings and staring when you looked eyes with him. Waiting for something. For you, maybe.

This song hurt more than the first song did. You couldn't put your finger on why, what specific string or chord or line splayed your heart open and peeled it open for him.

It wasn't quite as haunting. Didn't make you sick to your stomach or stick into your skin like a needle from a shot missing the vein. It wasn't as raw or regretful. But the pain was there. The yearning. Pleading for something he knew he shouldn't have.

Telling you he was in love with you in a song since he couldn't say it directly in a sentence or conversation.

Maybe that was it - maybe it was that you couldn't look away here. Face-to-face and forced to feel it too, the room shrinking into something that barely fit both of you.

It was louder, heavier drums and harder riffs, Satoru singing backup for half of it and a verse of his own to carry - but you knew automatically that it'd be an even bigger hit than either of their last singles.

Did his dad know he was here? Did Suguru?

The song transitioned into another one - a cover that somehow felt even more pointed at you. Enough that you were breathless and shuffling in your seat, barely shouldering the weight of love longing you didn't want to come clean and say you shared.

Then came a couple more of their older songs, Satoru knowing when to step up to the mic and handling some of the backup chords here and there. But his presence was a performance of its own, natural and magnetic, your attention drifting by itself over to him more than it should - much to Sukuna's annoyance. He'd wink and wave and throw you little knowing glances like he thought every word was meant for you.

They sounded better together than you imagined, more natural than it should. How long would it take for photos and videos of them to be replaced every photo and rumor that had been posted before? How long would you have to wait until you were just another forgotten piece of the gossip mill?

You wanted to be happy for him.

So you smiled when they finished and promised that you thought they were amazing. That you loved it. Let Satoru clap his hand over your shoulder and Yuki squeal in your ear and squeeze you tight too.

Pretended that you weren't thinking about the chances Sukuna would be skyrocketed into another new level of fame and you'd be forgotten too.

This was his dream. What he always wanted. What you wanted for him. Because even if you weren't, you still wanted him to be happy, to have the life he'd fought so hard for. Where he wouldn't be stuck with shitty gigs and his songs would be on the radio and he'd receive all the recognition and awards he deserved.

You just weren't really where you fit in anymore.

If a second chance would just end with your heart shattered in a penthouse instead of at a party.

"God, I'm starving," Yuki complained, packing up her drumsticks and snagging her purse.

"Wanna grab a bite to eat?" Choso's suggested, glancing from Yuki over to where you were currently squished between the two men who'd just spent half an hour fucking serenading you.

"I think I'm gonna get a ride back to the hotel," You excused yourself, jutting your thumb back towards the door and stepping back.

"I'll go with you," Sukuna said before you could stop him, following you out - and leaving everyone else behind.

You didn't think it could get more awkward.

"What'd you think?" Sukuna eventually asked as you glanced out the window, and you let go of a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding.

"You guys sounded great together," You skirted around what he was really asking. Talking with your hands and half-rambling so you wouldn't have to answer the question. "It'll go like gold, or platinum, or whatever it's called."

Steal the number one spot in the charts if they released it the same night - although you weren't sure if they would or if it was in some weird legal thing considering you didn't really know much about Satoru's contract.

You'd watched from the sidelines. Support them from there.

That was safe. You couldn't get hurt from there - even if everything about Sukuna made you want to risk it again.

He already spent years putting his career before you. Things were changing, sure, but that was still the path he'd chosen. What he picked.

"But what do you think?" He reiterated right as the car pulled to a stop in front of the hotel.

"Kuna," You exhaled, trying to say it without saying it - kind of like he got around that one little four letter word.

He sucked in a harsh breath, digging through his pocket for a cash tip to hand the driver while you got out. You took the chance to slip out, walking ahead of him and picking up the pace to make it to an elevator before he caught up.

Unfortunately, he actually meant it when he said he'd chase you down.

And while you were busy pressing the lit-up elevator button, he was rushing after you, a hand on your side and a curse under his breath for making him sprint right as the door slid open.

"Caught you," He huffed, holding you tighter like you were his trophy for it.

"You're literally the worst," You lied, looking down at your feet next to his before he tugged you into the elevator.

"Leave me then," He dared. You guessed you'd done it before. "Or tell me to go."

You didn't say anything.

Because deep down, you didn't want him to. Didn't want the distance or to be discarded by him.

He hit the button to your floor, and you knew your silence said the same.

"I don't think I can be in a relationship right now," You admitted as the elevator slowly creaked upwards.

You felt like your admission weighed it down, threatened to make the wires snap and send you both crashing down.

Seconds stretching out slower, disappointment seeping in as you swallowed the lump in your throat. You couldn't tell whose it was. Your own or his.

Just that it felt bad - that everything felt bad when you didn't know what you wanted or what would make you happy anymore.

Being away from him sucked and being with him felt like it was splitting your heart into pieces. You didn't expect him to stitch you back together.

"Let me wait for you." It was as soft as he could get. Raspy and hoarse after singing from for so long.

You bit your tongue. Literally.

The only thing holding yourself from falling apart in front of him.

It was all overwhelming. Being this close to him and knowing you shouldn't couldn't act on it. That disaster was one bad decision away.

The elevator dinged, the door sliding open on your floor, and you were already stepping out, staring at the doors for any distraction and pulling out the key card to Sukuna's room by mistake first.

You felt him behind you when you flashed the correct card to your door, thought about what excuse you could come up with. Another nap? Another shower? Anything?

"Just, wait-" he grunted under his breath, following you in before you could stop him, grabbing your arm before you slipped further away.

The door clicked shut behind you, the faint hum of the electronic lock activating, but you stumbled from the unintentional force of his tug, losing your footing.

It might've happened fast, but Sukuna didn't even try to brace himself.

He was busy breaking your fall.

Was it fate? Or just another example of Sukuna forcing it to bend to his will?

Either way, you both ended up tangled together on the floor of a carpeted hotel room, cities away and somehow nose-to-nose for the first time in months. Years, probably, since you'd been in a position that was intimate instead of just sensual.

His hands were on your side, squeezing softly, his dark eyes shifting from your face down to his shirt on your frame then back up to the one place that used to be forbidden.

Your lips.

He didn't say anything. And you couldn't. Stuck in that stare of his, frozen in place with one palm pressed against the floor and the other on his chest.

You didn't know whose moment of weakness it was. If it was you leaning forward or him craning his neck up, but one second you were staring at him and the next his lips were brushing against yours, unsure and unable to stop the momentum once it crashed into you.

Sukuna tasted sweet. It was nothing like your last memory of it - one where he'd been all bitter whiskey and cigarettes and heat. It was softer, almost anxious. Unlike him in every shape and form.

And once it started, you were struck by the thought you were a fucking fool for ever thinking that a future without him in it was ever possible.

Not when he kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him together.

He only pulled away for a breath, regret immediately shining in his eyes like it hit him that it couldn't be taken back.

"I'm sorry-"

You kissed him before he could finish.

Weight shifting, hips pressing down as your trembling fingers clutched dug into the fabric of his hoodie. Lips parting to let his tongue push past your teeth, groaning into your mouth as if he couldn't help himself. His hands slipped underneath your shirt, held onto your waist like he had to memorize the way each finger fit against your skin.

You briefly broke it, just for a second, about to say something else you shouldn't considering you both already crossed the line. He was leaning up, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips when you heard it.

A knock. And then another. Loud. Annoying.

"Hey, you guys in here?"

How the fuck did Satoru already know what room you were staying in?

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[beautiful--macabre]

when u ask sylus for nudes, he’ll take a vid of him lifting his shirt n showing off his abs, then slowly unbuttons his pants, sliding them down his thighs inch by inch to riiiiight when ur about to see his cock you can SEE is hard through his slacks, he teases u, showing u just the hard base of it…. then he cuts the vid off >.<

[beautiful--macabre]

Gen Narumi Headcanon

Thinking of you @ryescapades

When Gen Narumi games, his avatar is a woman.

His online friends tease him about it all the time; you know that they do, because you’ll be making the bed or folding laundry, and you’ll hear him hiss into his mic some sassy retort. But even despite all their relentless taunting, he never changes his avatar.

He knows he could easily be some macho, muscular man, but he chooses not to be. He wants his avatar to have this particular frame, to have this particular shade of eyes, to have this particular style of hair. He won’t change it for anything.

You don’t mind that he games so often -especially since he’ll frequently pause (or just let his teammates suffer and die if it’s a game he can’t pause) to pull you into his arms and pepper you with kisses so you know he hasn’t forgotten about you- but sometimes you like to give him a hard time anyway, saying that apparently one woman just wasn’t enough for him so he had to make himself another one in game. It isn’t until you peek over his shoulder to see who he’s “cheating” on you with, that you realize his avatar looks exactly like you. That’s your frame. That’s your eye color. That’s your hairstyle.

When Gen Narumi games, his avatar is a woman, and that woman is you. Because why would he want to look at anyone else?

[beautiful--macabre]

narumi gen is so pathetic for his crush.

there he is, sitting comfortably in the rubble as he waits for the rest of the mission to come to an end. his weapon laid down beside him, phone in his hand to get his daily log-in rewards.

“this is l/n from the operation room.” 

you ignored the knowing glances of the officers inside the room. it wouldn’t have been bothering. as one expects to be a committed anti-kaiju defense force officer assigned in the first division, important figures have taken notice of your existence that brought a great contribution to subjugation missions. you maintained the facial muscles to not contort anything near to what you feel right now.

the young man on the large screen immediately perks up at the sound of your voice right next to his ears. narumi stood up and brushed off the dust in his suit. when he was certain, there was no untidiness left in his body — narumi’s hand ran through his hair to push them back.

as if his antics weren't bad enough already, he had to go and give a serious look to the hovering camera.

yet no officers in the operation room are blind. they could clearly see the corner of his lips curl up!

show off!

it wouldn’t have been a bother if captain narumi did not obviously have a crush on you. your superior is seriously making it difficult for you to get stuff done.

“oh, is that l/n i hear?” narumi mused. “i thought you were in the 2nd division. i didn’t know you were back.” he grabs the camera and moves it to his best angle, flashing a smile. “welcome home.”

“i appreciate the gesture but captain…” the blinking red circle moves, your gaze remains fixed upon it.

“yes, do you have something to say to me?”

“…sir, there’s three kaiju estimated to be honju-classified currently on the move in your direction.”

“oh…”

the officers seem more concerned with playing the audience to a budding romance than actually wrapping up the mission.

"what's with the tone? i have a report to submit right after this, captain. take care."

"oh—" narumi realizes, "oh!"

[beautiful--macabre]

sprawled sideways on the couch, legs draped over suguru’s lap and ankles neatly crossed. on the floor, satoru’s nursing a soda, watching your freshly done manicures with suspicious interest. you tilt your hand, let the sunlight catch the curve of your pink and glossy index finger.

“cute, right?” suguru hums, teacup in hand, barely looking. reliable, that one. but it’s satoru you’re really watching. the classic im about to say something perverted face.

“you know what shade that reminds me of—”

“the tip of your dick,” you cut in. “yup. that’s why i picked it.”suguru’s tea exits his mouth in a clean, almost cinematic arc, splattering across a stack of magazines. satoru laughs so violently he folds in half, hand slapping his thigh, soda threatening to go the same way as the tea. “goddamn,” he wheezes, between hiccuped laughter. “you really went there.”you hold up your hand. he high-fives it without missing a beat.

[beautiful--macabre]

loser!satoru says he’s had sex before, swears it even, but you're not entirely convinced. especially when he’s lasting about as long as a virgin.

“it’s literally you,” he groans, burying his face into the crook of your neck. you’re straddling his lap, cupping his face in your hands. his foggy glasses are slipping, but he’s too hard to care.

“what’s that supposed to mean?” you pout, jutting out your lower lip. his breath hitches as you barely roll your hips over his crotch. “it’s not my fault you nearly cum in your pants just from some kissing.”

he manages a weak protest, muttering, “i just mean, you’re really sexy. and also, i haven’t cum in my pants.”

“yet,” you correct, a knowing look on your face. you haven't been dating him for long, and honestly, you wouldn't really mind, if he did. not when you know he'll more than make it up to you later, with his face between your thighs.

satoru digs his fingers into your waist, doing his absolute best to ground himself. he really does want to last for you. he’s been reciting mathematical equations and listing digimon characters in his head.

but his dream girl is right here, in his lap, sitting on the noticeable tent in his pants. it’s too much to ask for. besides, it’s like you’re doing it on purpose, grinding down on his throbbing cock. he’s squirming beneath you, choked whines leaving his throat.

you’re practically riding his bulge with your wet heat, your chest pressed against his face as he gropes at you. you don’t even get a warning before satoru makes a sticky, hot mess in his boxers.

“told you.”

he waves you off. “just means i’ll last longer next time.”

with the way his dick is already twitching against you, it looks like “next time” might be in about thirty seconds.

[beautiful--macabre]

sukuna who works at a lingerie store because…idk he just does. and it works because people always come in just to stare at him but he doesn’t really gaf he just wants money. anyways.

you come in buying a set to surprise your partner and think nothing of him really. Yeah, he’s attractive but you’re unfortunately loyal.

a few days later you return to the store for a refund. on getting your return sukuna asks if there was anything wrong with the product like he was trained to say. your face burns up and you look away, almost ashamed. It’s not any of his business and as staff he’s not inclined to ask but he does anyways because he’s nosey as shit. And that’s when you explain the remarks your partner made about the set and how it didn’t ‘suit’ you.

sukuna frowns and says “Well, I think he’s missing out on one hell of a woman.”

Long story short sukuna ends up fucking you in the same set the back office after his closing shift to show you how much appreciation you really deserve :)