#Functional Bags for Men | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cuntyji · 29 days ago

Text

MEOW OR NEVER ౨ৎ GETO SUGURU X READER

summary: when your mom told you to steer clear of men, you didn't think she meant all of them - fur, whiskers, and all. but hey, maybe naming your cat mr. pickles was where you went wrong, considering she's apparently a mrs. now. and oh, she's pregnant. great. just fantastic. enter suguru geto, your drop-dead gorgeous neighbor, who's not just good at stealing glances but also at being a reluctant father - well, kitten father. turns out, his annoyingly smug orange menace named gojo's the reason you're now an unplanned (grand)parent. is this co-parenting arrangement going to end in peace, or in pieces? or worse, feelings? spoiler alert: suguru geto's got more than just child support to offer, and he's about to prove it in ways that'll have you questioning who the real stray here is.

warnings & tags: fluff and crack, eventual romance, no angst, geto is a year older than reader, geto is an (international) law student implied to be rich, reader's college program is not specified, strangers to friends to lovers, eventual smut (oral, f & m + 69). cast: geto, catoru (gojo is a tabby cat), yaga, sukuna, choso, yuuji, shoko, brief mention of utahime and nanami.

author's note: how i feel adding a graphic after not touching any editing apps since eight grade: 🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺. first long-fic on here and it is obviously for my @norikuna <3 i had so much fun writing geto, i hope you like this, and yes i named her mr. pickles after your meet-cute fic/s. ‼️ i recommend reading on ao3, as tumblr's formatting this fic very poorly and often times the fic has long paragraphs mashed together. i'm so sorry, but please enjoy!

chapter one: guess who's expecting (hint: it's not you)

when your mother warned you to stay away from men, you didn’t realize she meant all species of men. in your defense, you didn’t even know mr. pickles was…well, a dudette. a full-fledged woman, even.

judging by her usual air of indifference toward the struggles of life—whether it be a broken mug, burnt toast, or the existential dread and fear of capitalism looming over you—you’d assumed she was male. an assumption, it seems, born of sheer hubris. after all, you’d done thorough background checks on everyone else you let into your life. everyone except the stray cat that had waddled into your overpriced studio apartment one rainy night and decided it was hers.

the truth? you didn’t mind. between cramming for your degree and surviving the post-mortem of your relationships (both romantic and platonic, because apparently humans are terrible at consistency), mr. pickles became the one reliable constant in your life. albeit a hairy, aloof constant who occasionally brought you hairballs and dead bugs as sacrificial offerings to her goddess. you, of course, were said goddess.

any normal, functioning adult would have taken her to a shelter, or maybe put up a flyer: “found: one stray cat, bad attitude included.” but you, lonely soul that you were, took her in. except, it hadn’t been that simple. no, the first night you met her was anything but serene.

you were drunk. plastered. wobbling through the door with a bag of takeout in one hand and your heels in the other, ready to collapse onto your bed and dream about a life where rent didn’t cost your soul. but instead of an empty apartment greeting you, there she was. sitting smack in the middle of your living room like some furry squatters’ rights advocate, tail flicking with utter disdain.

you froze, still holding the doorknob, as your eyes locked with hers.

"what the—" you whispered, blinking hard to confirm you weren’t hallucinating. nope, she was real.

the cat let out a long, guttural “yeowwwwwwwwwl,” like she was just as horrified by you as you were by her.

you screamed. naturally. "who are you?! how did you get in here?! security’s supposed to be good—oh my god, is that a rat?"

she screamed back, launching into an impressive round of yowls that rattled your very bones. it became a chaotic symphony of you, still holding your takeout, pointing at her with your shoe, while she darted back and forth in an apparent panic over your panic.

"okay, okay," you gasped after what felt like hours but was probably five minutes. "just—calm down! i’ll call the cops or animal control or—do i even know animal control’s number? is that a thing people know?!"

the cat paused mid-panic, tilting her head as if considering whether you were worth the hassle. then, slowly and with the grace of a self-proclaimed queen, she sat back down.

you stood there, panting, wide-eyed, and still clutching your takeout like a lifeline. "are…are you done? can i move now?"

she gave a single chirp in response.

you blinked. "was that a yes?"

another chirp.

"okay, cool. good talk," you muttered, inching toward the kitchen counter to set your stuff down. "you know, you really picked the wrong apartment to haunt, bro. you don’t wanna hang out here."

she followed you, hopping onto the counter with zero hesitation.

"oh, you’ve got nerve," you grumbled, waving a hand. "get down. that’s…oh my god, is that chicken grease? you’re gonna get salmonella. do cats get salmonella?"

the cat meowed, which you took as a very sarcastic no.

you sighed. "great. now i’ve got a cat."

let’s rewind back to the future, to the moment you found out mr. pickles had a party of tiny paws brewing in her belly. it wasn’t an epiphany that hit you like a bolt of lightning—no, it was a series of increasingly bizarre events that gradually chipped away at your ignorance until the horrifyingly adorable truth came crashing down.

first, let’s talk about “pinking up.” apparently, around 16-20 days into pregnancy, a cat’s nipples turn pinker and more prominent—a fact you learned after a very awkward google search. not that you were actively inspecting mr. pickles’ nipples. that felt…wrong. but you did notice, eventually. the weight gain started subtly, a little extra fluff around her midsection that you brushed off as the result of switching to a premium brand of cat food. "guess the organic kibble’s working," you mumbled one evening as mr. pickles sprawled on the couch like a spoiled heiress. she blinked at you, unimpressed, before rolling onto her side, belly on full display. it was… rounder than usual. suspiciously so. but denial is a hell of a drug.

then came the morning she beat you to the bathroom. literally.

you were nursing a wicked hangover, the kind that makes you reconsider every life decision leading up to the night before. groaning, you dragged yourself out of bed and toward the bathroom, only to freeze in the doorway. there was mr. pickles, perched in your shower cubicle, hurling her guts out like she’d been partying harder than you. "what the—" you started, but she cut you off with another violent retch. you just stood there, slack-jawed, your own nausea momentarily forgotten. "are you… hungover? can cats be hungover?" she ignored you, finishing her business before hopping out of the shower with a nonchalance that screamed you’ll clean that up, right?

and the sleeping? don’t even get started on the sleeping. mr. pickles, your once lively (read: temperamental) companion, now spent her days passed out in the weirdest positions. you’d leave for class, catch her sprawled upside down on the couch with her legs in the air, and come back hours later to find her in the exact same spot. the first time it happened, you panicked.

“mr. pickles?” you whispered, crouching beside her. no response.

"oh my god, are you dead?" you poked her back. nothing.

just as you were about to call your landlord and have him prepare for the worst, mr. pickles let out the laziest, most judgmental yawn you’d ever heard.

then came the personality shift. the mr. pickles you knew—the one who hissed at your laptop every time you opened it, as if microsoft word had committed a personal offense—was gone. in her place was a clingy, purring ball of affection. she started curling up on your lap while you worked, purring loud enough to rival an industrial saw. “awwww, who’s a good kitty?” you cooed, melting into the moment. and then she shed enough fur on your clothes to build a second cat.

but the final straw, the one that shattered your fragile understanding of reality, was the nesting.

you came home one evening to find mr. pickles frantically rearranging your laundry basket, clawing at the clothes and dragging them into a fluffy pile. she paused when you entered, her eyes wild with an intensity you’d never seen before.

"uhh…what are you doing?" you asked, only to be met with a deep, guttural growl. "okay, that’s new," you muttered, backing away slowly. "you do…whatever that is."

it hit you then. the weight gain, the puking, the clinginess, the nesting. oh my god.

"oh my god," you whispered, clutching the counter for support. "mr. pickles is a girl."

your world tilted. memories of every time you called her sir or buddy flashed before your eyes. you were the problem.

you rushed her to the vet the next day, bursting through the door like a contestant on a reality show. "she’s been acting weird," you blurted to the receptionist. "and by weird, i mean…is she pregnant?"

one checkup later, the vet turned to you with a warm smile and uttered the words that changed everything: “congratulations, you’re a mother.”

your jaw dropped. "what? no. no, i’m not. she’s—she’s the mother!" you gestured wildly to mr. pickles, who was now lounging on the exam table like this was all very boring. the vet chuckled. “well, technically, that makes you a grandmother.”

a grandmother. you, a college student, were a grandmother.

as you drove home in stunned silence, mr. pickles stretched out in the passenger seat, her belly looking smugly round. you glanced at her, still reeling.

“does this mean i have to start calling you mrs. pickles now?”

she purred. of course she purred.

chapter 2: welcome to parenthood, kinda

the day after the vet visit, you were a woman on a mission. holding mr. pickles up like she was a fragile artifact, you found yourself wandering the corridors of your apartment building, knocking on doors and attempting to uncover the truth behind your feline’s unexpected condition. sure, your mother raised you single-handedly, but did that mean you had to take on the role of a cat grandmother solo? absolutely not.

the first stop was masamichi yaga, your landlord. you weren’t sure why you started with the most intimidating person in the building, but desperation has a way of clouding judgment. his door creaked open, revealing the towering man himself, wearing a slightly bemused expression. “uhh …good morning, mr. yaga,” you stammered, clutching mr. pickles tighter for moral support. “i—uh—wanted to ask…do you have a cat?” he raised an eyebrow. “a cat?”

“yeah,” you said, awkwardly adjusting your grip on mr. pickles. “because, um, she’s pregnant, and i was wondering if—well, you know…”

yaga blinked at you for a moment, then let out a low chuckle. “no, i don’t have a cat. the only thing i house around here is pandas.”

you stared at him, waiting for the punchline that never came. “...pandas?”

“yup. no cats.”

you decided not to press further. “right. okay. thanks, anyway.” you shuffled away, cheeks burning, as he closed the door behind you with a definitive click.

next, you made your way to choso’s apartment. you’d seen the guy a few times in the hallway—tall, always dressed like he’d just walked out of a corporate ad, with an aura of quiet exhaustion that screamed salaryman. when he opened the door, he looked down at you with mild surprise, a coffee mug in one hand. “hi,” you greeted, feeling oddly self-conscious under his gaze. “i, uh, have a question. do you happen to own a cat?”

choso blinked, glancing at mr. pickles, who let out a disinterested meow. “no, i don’t.”

“are you sure?” you pressed. “because my cat is pregnant, and—”

“i’m sure,” he cut in gently, though his tone held the same weariness you felt every monday morning. “i barely have time to take care of my brothers, let alone a pet.”

“brothers?”

“yeah.” he took a sip of his coffee. “one of them’s a high schooler. the other one…well, he’s sukuna.”

you froze. “wait. sukuna? as in, the scary guy with the tattoos who glares at everyone when he smokes in the hallway?”

choso nodded. “he’s not so bad once you get to know him.”

you had your doubts but decided not to argue. “right. okay. thanks anyway.”

your next stop was shoko’s apartment. you’d always admired her cool, no-nonsense vibe, but the dark circles under her eyes told you she probably didn’t have time for a pet. still, you knocked. when the door opened, shoko stood there, looking like she hadn’t slept in three days but somehow still pulled it off effortlessly.

“hey,” you said, trying to sound casual. “do you have a cat?”

“a cat?” she repeated, leaning against the doorframe. “no. i’m barely home enough to keep my plants alive, let alone a pet.”

you nodded, biting back a sigh. “yeah, that makes sense.”

“why?” she asked, eyeing mr. pickles. “is she yours?”

“yeah. she’s pregnant.”

shoko raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. “congrats, grandma.”

“don’t remind me,” you groaned. “thanks anyway.”

lastly, you tried suguru geto’s apartment. according to the building’s handbook, he was your neighbor on the floor above. but when you knocked, there was no answer. “great,” you muttered, glancing down at mr. pickles. “our prime suspect isn’t even home. what now?”

mr. pickles responded by squirming in your arms, clearly unimpressed with your sleuthing skills.

defeated, you trudged back to your apartment, where the reality of impending grandmotherhood sank in further. with no leads and no one to pin the blame on, you flopped onto your couch, setting mr. pickles down beside you. she stretched lazily, looking far too pleased with herself.

“this is your fault, you know,” you muttered, pointing a finger at her. she responded with a purr, curling up into a fluffy ball of indifference.

great. just great. looks like you were in this alone—again.

evening rolled in, and with it came mr. pickles’s dinner time. lately, you’d been overly cautious about her diet and mood—the whole pregnancy thing and all—but tonight? tonight she was testing your last nerve. there she was, stationed by the door like her life depended on it, yowling dramatically with an almost operatic flair. her tail flicked like a metronome, her cries growing more pitiful by the second. “oh, come on,” you groaned, setting her food bowl down with an exasperated sigh. “what’s with you tonight? you’ve eaten like, three times already.”

mr. pickles, naturally, ignored you, clawing at the door with all the determination of someone who just had to get out. “fine,” you muttered, stomping toward the door. “but i swear, if there’s a stray out there, you can explain yourself, motherf—”

you flung the door open mid-rant and promptly froze.

standing in your doorway was a man. a ridiculously tall, stupidly handsome man with long, silky black hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck and bangs that framed his angular face like he’d just stepped off the cover of handsome landlord quarterly. he wore a plain black sweater, dark trousers, and an expression that was equal parts bemused and apologetic. but your attention snapped to the cat he was holding aloft—an orange tabby with piercingly bright blue eyes that were somehow both smug and indifferent at the same time. “uh…hi,” he said, his voice deep and smooth with an edge of uncertainty. “this yours?”

“that’s…not my cat,” you managed, pointing awkwardly at the tabby.

“figured,” he said, glancing past you into your apartment where mr. pickles was now peeking out, her ears perked and tail bristled like an antenna. “he’s mine. name’s gojo. found him sitting outside my door screaming his lungs out, so i thought maybe…” his words trailed off as his gaze flicked between you, mr. pickles, and gojo. then, realization dawned on his face.

“wait.” he looked at mr. pickles, then back at you. “is your cat…?”

“pregnant?” you supplied flatly. “yep. as of about a week ago, thanks for asking.”

geto—because of course you’d figured out that this very handsome man was suguru geto from the floor above—blinked, visibly processing this information. “huh,” he said finally, his brow furrowing as he glanced at gojo. “but…gojo’s neutered.”

“what?” you blurted, staring at the smug orange tabby who looked anything but neutered. “yeah, had it done ages ago.” geto tilted his head, clearly as baffled as you. “so how the hell…?” you pinched the bridge of your nose, feeling a headache blooming. “you’re saying there’s no way it could’ve been him?”

“not unless he figured out how to reverse a neuter,” geto said dryly, his lips twitching in a bemused smile. you both looked at the cats the—gojo, lounging smugly in geto’s arms, and mr. pickles, glaring daggers from the safety of the couch. “okay,” you muttered, mostly to yourself. “if not gojo, then who? because i don’t exactly let her out, and she’s been acting weird for weeks.”

“well…” geto began, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “he did sneak out a couple of times last month, but i didn’t think—”

“oh my god,” you groaned, cutting him off. “are you telling me your supposedly neutered cat is actually some kind of feline lothario who managed to knock up my cat on one of his escapades?”

“it’s not like i planned this,” geto defended, though there was a hint of amusement in his tone. you shot him a look, but before you could respond, gojo meowed loudly, almost like he was bragging. “great,” you muttered, throwing your hands up. “just great. now i have to deal with kittens, rent, and figuring out how the hell to co-parent with the guy next door who can’t keep his cat under control.”

geto chuckled, his dark eyes twinkling with genuine amusement. “well, if it helps, i’m pretty good with kids. or kittens, in this case.” you stared at him, incredulous. “this isn’t funny.”

“oh, come on,” he teased, his smirk widening. “it’s a little funny.” you groaned again, retreating into your apartment. “this is a nightmare.”

“or an adventure,” geto countered, stepping back into the hallway with a casual wave. “let me know if you need any help. babysitting, moral support, whatever.” and just like that, he was gone, leaving you with a very pregnant mr. pickles, a smug orange tabby, and far too many questions about how you’d managed to land yourself in this ridiculous situation.

the realization hit you as soon as you pressed "send." oh no. oh no, no, no.

did you really just text suguru geto—your neighbor, a man who likely had better things to do than deal with your ridiculous antics a demand for child support? for cats? you flopped face-first onto your couch, groaning into a throw pillow. “what the hell is wrong with me?” mr. pickles, lounging on the armrest, flicked her tail and let out a smug little chirp, as if she’d orchestrated the entire debacle. “you’re no help,” you muttered, rolling onto your back to glare at her.

but it was too late now. the text was sent, sitting in geto’s inbox like an uninvited guest at a party. you imagined him reading it, probably over a cup of coffee in his immaculate apartment upstairs, eyebrows raised in disbelief before muttering something like, what the hell is this?

“what was i expecting?” you asked the ceiling. “a courtroom? with gojo cat wearing a tiny tie and confessing his sins?” mr. pickles yawned, completely uninterested in your spiral.

“ugh,” you grumbled, standing up. “whatever. it’s his problem now.”

bleary-eyed and still half-asleep, you shuffled to the door the next morning to grab the newspaper. the universe owed you at least one boring morning after last night’s embarrassment. but as you opened the door, your sleep-deprived brain screeched to a halt. there, sitting on your front porch, was a 5kg bag of premium cat food, the kind you’d seen in the store once and immediately walked past because it cost more than your monthly grocery budget. “what the…” you muttered, crouching down to inspect it.

taped to the bag was a folded piece of paper with the words “child support :)” scrawled in smooth, confident handwriting. beneath the note was what looked suspiciously like a paw print in ink. you squinted, trying to process the absurdity of the situation. “no. absolutely not. did he—did they actually ink up the cat for this?” you glanced down the hallway, half-expecting geto to pop out from behind a corner and yell “gotcha!” but it was eerily quiet. mr. pickles, who had wandered over to investigate, sniffed the bag and let out an excited meow, her tail curling in approval. “of course you’re happy,” you said, picking up the note and reading it again. “this is like winning the lottery for you.”

you flipped the paper over, looking for more, but that was it. just “child support :)” and a smug paw print. “oh my god,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “he’s good. he’s really good.” you set the bag inside and grabbed your phone, your thumbs hovering over the keyboard. what were you even supposed to say to this? thank you? an apology for being unhinged?

before you could overthink it, a new message lit up your screen.

geto: hope this helps. let me know if you need anything else. gojo says hi.

you stared at the message for a long moment, torn between laughter and mortification.

“what do i even say to that?” you asked mr. pickles, who was now trying to claw her way into the bag of food. she didn’t respond, obviously, but you took her enthusiasm as a sign to type out the least embarrassing reply you could muster.

you: thanks. mr. pickles says hi too. sorry about the text, was half-asleep. really appreciate this though.

a reply came almost instantly.

geto: no problem. wasn’t sure how much to get, so i just grabbed the fanciest one. figured she deserves it.

you snorted, shaking your head. “what are you, cat royalty?”

mr. pickles let out a pleased chirp, pawing at the bag triumphantly, and you couldn’t help but laugh. whatever this situation was, at least mr. pickles was happy. and, okay, maybe suguru geto wasn’t completely terrible either.

you thought life couldn’t get more ridiculous after the whole “child support” stunt. but somehow, suguru geto managed to raise the bar so high that it was practically doing pull-ups in the stratosphere. because when you stepped out of your apartment to grab some fresh air and regroup after being up all night with a cuddly mr. pickles, you realized geto had turned this entire ordeal into a neighborhood event. “did he… throw a party without telling me?” you muttered to yourself, narrowing your eyes as you spotted a small, hand-decorated sign taped to the landlord’s door. it read: "congrats to the new parents: gojo & mr. pickles!”

“new parents?” you said aloud, incredulous.

as if summoned by your confusion, choso’s door creaked open, and yuuji popped his head out, looking entirely too enthusiastic for such an early hour. “hey, neighbor! did you see the banner?” you blinked at him. “banner?”

yuuji pointed down the hallway. you squinted and, sure enough, there it was — a banner strung across the hallway ceiling that read: "welcome baby kittens!!!" in what looked like glitter glue. “oh my god.” you pressed a hand to your forehead. “he didn’t.”

“he totally did!” yuuji grinned, stepping fully into the hallway. “he came by earlier and told me about gojo being a dad. so cool, right? i mean, gojo’s kind of an idiot, but hey, every cat deserves a shot at fatherhood.”

“yuuji,” you said, pinching the bridge of your nose. “he’s not an actual dad. this isn’t a sitcom. it’s just…biology.” yuuji shrugged. “biology, destiny, same thing. oh, by the way, geto dropped off cookies! want one?” you looked down and noticed yuuji holding a plate of cookies shaped like tiny cats.

“what the—did he bake these?”

“nah, i think he bought them,” yuuji said, biting into one. “but still. pretty neat, huh?” you groaned, muttering, “neat isn’t the word i’d use.”

just as you turned to head back into your apartment and escape the madness, there was a loud, insistent scratching at your door. you froze. “don’t tell me…”

yuuji, still chewing on his cookie, pointed. “that’s probably gojo. he’s been making rounds all morning trying to visit your cat. i think he’s really taking this fatherhood thing seriously.” you stormed to your door and there he was—gojo cat, gojo the cat, his bright blue eyes wide and hopeful as he pawed at the doorway like a love-struck romeo. “oh, for crying out loud,” you muttered, scooping him up and holding him at arm’s length as you entered your house. “what do you think you’re doing?” gojo meowed pitifully, his tail flicking as he looked past you toward mr. pickles, who was curled up on her blanket, looking utterly unimpressed. “she’s not interested, casanova,” you told him, turning to yuuji. “can you take him back before he climbs my curtains again?” yuuji laughed, taking the cat from you. “no problem. come on, gojo. let’s give her some space.”

as yuuji disappeared down the hall with gojo, you closed the door and leaned against it, letting out a long sigh. but before you could even sit down, your phone buzzed.

geto: hope you’re enjoying the festivities. gojo’s a little excited, but who can blame him? parenthood changes you.

you stared at the message, your eye twitching.

you: i'm one sleepless night away from snapping. please stop turning my life into a hallmark movie.

geto: don’t be shy. you’re the real hero here, grandma.

you groaned, tossing your phone onto the couch. mr. pickles, who had been watching the entire ordeal with an air of feline superiority, let out a small, smug purr. “don’t you start,” you told her, flopping onto the couch. “at least it’s a long weekend.” but deep down, you knew there was no such thing as peace—not when suguru geto and his ridiculous orange menace were involved.

suguru geto was not having a good day.

he sighed, leaning back against his couch as the familiar hum of embarrassment settled over him. gojo cat, sprawled across the armrest, gave a half-hearted meow, probably to mock him. he’d woken up to him scratching at his front door like a lunatic, yowling for his morning ritual of inspecting the hallway for signs of mr. pickles. the normally smug and self-satisfied orange menace had been acting weird for days—restless, meowing at windows, and straight-up bolting every time geto so much as opened the front door. it had taken geto exactly one trip downstairs to realize why.

you. or more specifically, your cat.

geto hadn’t even known you had a cat until he’d knocked on your door last week, with mr. pickles in the background like some furry empress. now, not only did he know, but he also had the dubious honor of being the grandfather of mr. pickles’ unborn kittens. “how did it even come to this?” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he stared at the glittery “welcome baby kittens!!!” banner he’d put up in the hallway. he knew he was making things worse for himself, but honestly, it was better than sitting in his apartment, spiraling. he sighed, looking down at gojo, who was perched on the armrest of the couch, lazily licking a paw. “you couldn’t just chill, could you?” geto said, narrowing his eyes at the cat. “no, you had to go and ruin my already complicated life. do you know how awkward this is? do you?”

gojo blinked at him, clearly unbothered. “of course you don’t,” geto muttered. “you’re a cat.”

the thing was, geto had genuinely thought he’d be cool about this whole situation. sure, it was a little weird to be co-parenting kittens with the girl he’d had a hallway crush on for months, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t handle it. except he wasn’t handling it. he’d told yuuji. he’d told yaga. he’d even left cookies for shoko. and now half the building knew about gojo’s escapades. “what am i doing?” he groaned, leaning back on the couch and covering his face with his hands. “you know, this is all your fault,” geto muttered, glaring at the cat. gojo, unbothered, blinked lazily.

geto had been a lot of things in his years of life—student, aspiring lawyer, occasional cat dad—but one thing he wasn’t was smooth when it came to you. you, the girl from another department who lived one floor below him. you, the one who always looked like you belonged in a wes anderson movie, with your half-hidden smiles and humour. you, who somehow managed to make even the most mundane hallway interactions feel like they had a gravitational pull. geto groaned, pressing his palms into his face. he was this close to becoming a tragic cliché.

it wasn’t like he’d never tried to talk to you before. he had. there was that one time in the campus library, where he’d psych himself up for twenty minutes only for you to leave before he could string a coherent sentence together. or the time in the cafeteria when he thought about offering you a seat at his table but chickened out because he was certain his friends would tease him for weeks. “this is what rock bottom feels like,” he muttered to himself.

he wasn’t even supposed to live in this building. as an international law major with a full schedule and internships on the horizon, he should’ve been in one of the fancier complexes closer to campus, but fate—or sheer bad luck—had landed him here. not that he could complain. not when you were his downstairs neighbor. he had always figured you were out of reach, though. you had this aura of being completely in your own world—poised, a little reserved, but not in a way that came off as unapproachable. more like you were quietly observing the chaos around you, letting it wash over you like a passing breeze. and he’d been content to admire you from afar. well, mostly content. but now? there was a knock at the door.

geto froze.

“please don’t let it be her,” he whispered, praying to whatever higher power might be listening.

it was you. standing in his apartment building, holding a note he wrote about “child support.”

“hey,” you said, holding up a piece of paper. “you forgot this.”

“oh,” he said dumbly. “right. thanks.”

you stepped inside, looking around at the various cat-themed decorations geto had somehow acquired in the past 24 hours. “so… big fan of cats, huh?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. geto felt his face heat up. “uh, yeah. something like that.” you smirked, crossing your arms. “you know, you didn’t have to go all out like this. it’s not that big of a deal.”

“not a big deal?” geto repeated, incredulous. “your cat is having kittens with my cat. that’s, like… monumental.” you rolled your eyes. “they’re cats , geto. not royal heirs.”

“still,” he said, crossing his arms defensively. “i’m just trying to be responsible here.” you looked at him for a long moment, and geto swore he saw the tiniest flicker of amusement in your eyes. “responsible?” you repeated. “is that why you’ve turned our hallway into a petting zoo?” geto opened his mouth to argue but stopped when gojo jumped down from the couch and strutted over to you, rubbing against your legs like the shameless flirt he was. “traitor,” geto muttered under his breath. you crouched down to pet gojo, a small smile tugging at your lips. “well, at least someone knows how to make a good impression.”

geto stared at you, his brain short-circuiting. “uh, yeah,” he said finally. “he’s… he’s good at that.” you stood up, brushing cat fur off your hands. “anyway, thanks for the food. mr. pickles appreciates it.”

“no problem,” geto said, trying to sound casual. “you know, if you ever need help with… anything, just let me know.” you raised an eyebrow. “like what? cat parenting classes?”

“sure,” geto said, shrugging. “or, you know, anything else.” you gave him a long, considering look before finally nodding. “i’ll keep that in mind,” you said, turning to leave. “thanks, grandpa.”

geto groaned as the door closed behind you. “what am i even doing?” he muttered again, looking down at gojo, who had jumped back onto the couch, looking entirely too smug. the cat meowed, as if to say, you’re welcome.

chapter 3: first we stalk, then we brunch

later in the evening, you found yourself huddled under your comforter, laptop balanced precariously on your knees. mr. pickles was curled up at your feet, occasionally flicking her tail, as if silently judging you. you ignored her. tonight, you had a mission: to do a deep dive into the enigma that was suguru geto. you weren’t proud of yourself, okay? but curiosity had officially killed the cat—or at least put her temporarily out of commission. like any sensible person armed with curiosity and internet access, you turned to linkedin. not instagram, not facebook—linkedin. because nothing screams “serious investigation” like stalking someone’s professional achievements. “let’s see what we’ve got, mr. pickles,” you muttered, typing “suguru geto” into the search bar on the holy grail of professional snooping. mr. pickles perched regally at the foot of your bed, her gaze judgmental as ever. “don’t give me that look,” you muttered. “i’m doing this for you.”

within seconds, his profile loaded up, and your jaw practically hit the floor.

suguru geto wasn’t just good-looking. oh no. he was an overachiever of the highest order. his profile picture was annoyingly perfect: a candid (but totally staged) shot of him sitting at a café, holding a cup of coffee in one hand while looking thoughtfully into the distance, as if he’d just solved world hunger. his headline read:

suguru geto | international law student | aspiring global policymaker | passionate about justice and equality

“ugh,” you groaned, scrolling further. “passionate about justice? who is this guy?” his bio didn’t help matters. it was filled with phrases like ‘dedicated to fostering positive global change’ and ‘committed to bridging the gap between policy and implementation.’

“committed to being annoyingly perfect, maybe,” you muttered, side-eyeing mr. pickles. she let out a half-hearted meow that you chose to interpret as agreement. his experience section was even worse—or better, depending on how you looked at it. a summer internship at the UN where he ‘assisted in drafting resolutions and collaborated with member states on sustainable development initiatives.’ worked as a legal intern at some fancy law firm with a french name you couldn’t pronounce, where he ‘focused on international human rights cases, with a specific emphasis on refugee protection.’ not to mention being a volunteer coordinator for a charity in sri lanka, where he ‘organized relief efforts and distributed supplies to displaced families during the holiday season.’

“okay, mr. pickles,” you said, glancing at the unimpressed feline. “this guy’s either a saint or a robot.” what shocked you most wasn’t his saintly résumé, but the fact that he went to the same university as you. you stared at the screen, stunned. “how the hell did i not know this?” his “education” section confirmed it:

bachelor’s in international law | current student

active member of the debate team and global policy forum

that explains it, you thought. you were a year younger and in an entirely different department—he probably had his head buried in treaties while you scrambled through your own projects. still, the idea of suguru walking the same hallways as you sent your mind reeling. “was he in the cafeteria when i spilled coffee on myself that one time?” you wondered aloud. as you continued scrolling, you stumbled upon his posts. his posts swung wildly between annoyingly inspirational and oddly endearing.

the first was a very cheesy, slightly-too-polished “ringing in the new year” post, complete with a stock photo of fireworks and an unnecessarily long caption: ‘as we close the chapter on another year, let us remember the power of community and resilience. cheers to 365 days of growth, learning, and striving for a better world!’

“uggghhh, gag me,” you snorted, though you couldn’t help but admire how polished it all was.

then there was a post featuring none other than gojo cat sprawled on a cushion, mid-snore. the caption read: ‘cats are not just pets—they are companions, teachers, and sometimes, our greatest confidants. thank you, gojo, for reminding me to appreciate the little joys in life.’

“confidants? really?” you muttered, holding back a laugh. “what secrets are you sharing with your cat, suguru?” the pièce de résistance, however, was a post about his recent trip to sri lanka. it included a photo of him kneeling next to a group of kids, all of them smiling brightly, while he held a giant sack of rice. ‘spending christmas eve here has been a humbling experience. giving is not just about material wealth but about offering hope and kindness. #holidaygiving #payitforward’

“oh, come on,” you groaned. “who even has time for all of this?” mr. pickles let out an approving meow, her ears twitching at the picture. “not you too,” you sighed. just as you were about to close the tab, a final post caught your eye. it was from a few months ago: a blurry picture of the university quad, with a caption that read: ‘sometimes, it’s the quiet moments on campus that remind you why you started this journey. grateful for this space, these people, and this path.’

“quiet moments, huh?” you mused, leaning back against your pillows. “maybe he’s not all bad.” mr. pickles let out a disapproving chirp, as if to say, focus on the fact that he’s responsible for my current condition, thank you. and just when you thought you’d seen it all, there was his international cat day post. gojo cat lay sprawled in the background, his belly exposed, looking utterly unbothered. geto had written an almost poetic ode to feline companionship. ‘in a world filled with noise, cats remind us to listen to silence. they are the quiet guardians of our souls.’

you couldn’t help but snort. “quiet guardians? mr. pickles, your baby daddy is a poet now.” mr. pickles gave a soft chirp, as if to say, better him than some nobody. “fine,” you relented, closing your laptop. “maybe he’s not terrible. just… annoyingly perfect.” but as you lay back against your pillows, a nagging thought lingered: why had he never said anything? you’d walked the same hallways, shared the same campus, yet he’d never even made a passing hello. was he too busy, or something else? either way, you weren’t sure whether to be impressed or annoyed. probably both.

suguru geto prided himself on being polished and refined. and he had standards okay? he wasn’t some creep skulking around in the shadows. he was a man of composure, logic, and discipline. but all of that went out the window when it came to you. he is also an upstanding citizen who just happened to know your spotify account, which he checked semi-regularly. for research purposes, obviously. it started innocently enough—getting your instagram handle. no big deal. he hadn’t even followed you right away, worried it might seem weird coming out of nowhere. it was all very calculated: a "friend of a friend of a classmate of a third cousin" pipeline that eventually led him to your public page. a click here, a scroll there, and boom—your instagram aesthetic was forever seared into his memory. but social media wasn’t enough. no, geto was too curious (and maybe just a bit too pathetic) to stop there. this led him to your spotify.

now, he didn’t just stumble upon your spotify profile by chance. this particular treasure hunt began at a house party at the start of the year. utahime had made a collaborative playlist for everyone, and while everyone else just added their favorite songs, geto decided to dive deep. deep as in scrolling through over 150 accounts connected to the playlist just to find yours. “there it is,” he had muttered triumphantly back then, his lips twitching into a satisfied smile. “gotcha.” and from that moment, your spotify profile became his guilty pleasure. your profile picture at the time? a blurry photo of what looked like you holding a glass of wine at some fancy rooftop bar. but the playlists were the real treasure.

your “gym rat” playlist was his favorite, with high energy tracks, peppered with one or two questionable choices. seriously, why was there a taylor swift song in the middle of your workout playlist? your “in the clerb, we all cryin’” playlist was interesting to say the least, comprising of indie ballads, heart-wrenching acoustics, and, for some reason, a single abba track. then there was “road trip,” featuring everything from funky throwbacks to an absurd number of songs by chappell roan. “you’ve got taste,” geto muttered to himself, clicking into the playlists one by one. “questionable taste in some areas, but still…” he often scrolled through your profile aimlessly, not necessarily looking for anything new, but just existing in your world, even if it was through music. tonight, he found himself back on your page, like some kind of masochistic ritual.

his eyes drifted to his chrome tabs, where your spotify was bookmarked for easy access. it was right there, sandwiched between his email inbox, an online soba delivery menu, an article titled “10 Tips for Acing Your Next Law Internship” and a tab about international trade law regulations. “no new playlists,” he murmured, leaning back in his chair. your gym playlist hadn’t been updated in six months (“what happened to your gym rat era?”), and your grwm playlist was untouched. “slacking, hm?” gojo cat, perched on the edge of the desk, gave him a slow blink. “boring night for you too, huh?” geto sighed dramatically, glancing over at gojo cat sprawled on his lap. the feline barely flicked an ear in response. “don’t look at me like that,” geto said, narrowing his eyes at the feline. “this is completely normal behavior. i’m not stalking. i’m just… maintaining a healthy level of interest.”

“it’s not creepy,” he justified aloud, more to himself than to anyone else. “it’s resourceful. i’m just staying informed.” gojo cat stretched lazily, letting out a yawn that sounded suspiciously judgmental. “oh, don’t start,” geto shot back, tapping lightly on the cat’s head. “you’re the reason i even know her in the first place.” geto’s eyes flicked to your “gym rat era” playlist again. still untouched. “what happened to that, by the way?” he asked no one in particular. “gave up? hit your personal best and retired early?” gojo cat pawed at the corner of his laptop, as if trying to close it.

“hey, no,” geto said, swatting the cat’s paw away gently. “i’m in the middle of something important.” his finger hovered over the profile picture you’d updated—something blurry and vaguely artsy. probably taken at a bar or café. he debated clicking it but stopped himself. what was he expecting? some secret hidden bio like “hey, stop creeping”? he sighed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “i’m not weird, right?” he asked the cat.

gojo, being a cat, offered no answer.

“right,” geto muttered. “this is perfectly reasonable. i’m just… interested. it’s not like i’m walking past her door at 3 a.m. or something.” a fleeting daydream crossed his mind—what if the two of you had a shared playlist? something intimate and special, where you both added songs and left little comments. “‘thinking of you when i added this,’” he mused in a mockingly cheesy tone, shaking his head. “god, what am i, thirteen?” still, the thought lingered, making him smile despite himself. just as he began to close the tab, a notification popped up.

[beef_boss_69 has followed you.]

his entire demeanor shifted. “beef boss? beef boss?” geto practically spat the name out. “who the hell—what kind of username is that?” he clicked on the profile, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the new follower. it was a faceless account, with no playlists or followers of its own. “oh, great,” he grumbled. “a bot. or worse, some guy who thinks he’s funny.” he glanced at gojo cat, who looked thoroughly unimpressed. “don’t give me that look,” geto said, pointing at the cat. “you’d be upset too if some guy named beef boss was muscling in on your territory.” gojo cat chirped, which suguru took as a sign of agreement. “exactly,” geto said, nodding to himself. “i mean, what’s next? chicken king 420? pork prince 88?”

he sat back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “i should just send the linkedin request,” he muttered to himself. “rip the band-aid off. what’s the worst that could happen?” gojo cat let out a loud meow, almost as if to say, you’re never going to do it. “shut up,” geto shot back, though there was no heat behind his words. he closed your spotify tab, ignoring the way his stomach twisted at the thought of actually interacting with you. maybe tomorrow, he thought. or next week. or the next time beef boss made a move. as he shut his laptop, he made a mental note: tomorrow, he’d work up the nerve to send you a linkedin request. baby steps, right?

you weren’t even sure what had pulled you out of bed that morning. was it the ungodly racket outside your door? the growing guilt of not actually reading the paper you insisted on having delivered? or maybe just the suspiciously human-sounding yowls of mr. pickles as she nested in the corner of your room? either way, you’d dragged yourself out of bed, eyes half-closed, hair resembling a bird’s nest, and shuffled toward the door in your favorite—read: most embarrassing—pajamas. and there he was.

suguru geto, standing in front of your door in the crisp morning light, wearing an athletic jacket, sweatpants, and the expression of a man who was absolutely not ready for this level of chaos. attached to his hand was a leash, and attached to the leash was none other than gojo cat himself, strutting like he was the king of the neighborhood. “morning,” geto greeted, his tone breezy but his face clearly betraying some inner turmoil. you blinked at him. “is that… is that a harness?”

“yep.” geto scratched the back of his neck. “gojo here insisted.” as if on cue, gojo cat let out an overly dramatic meow, his bright blue eyes locking onto yours. he looked like a lion surveying his kingdom =—or, more accurately, a spoiled housecat demanding tribute. “you’re taking your cat for a walk?” you asked, still half-asleep and very much regretting this encounter. “yeah, he’s been getting a little… restless,” geto said, glancing down at the fluffball who was now trying to paw at your door. “and by restless, i mean clawing the walls like a maniac at 3 a.m.” gojo cat let out another meow, this one louder, and then craned his neck to peer behind you, as if expecting mr. pickles to emerge in all her pregnant glory. “okay, what’s he doing?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at the cat. “probably hoping to see his baby mama,” geto replied with a dry chuckle. you stared at him, your brain still buffering from the sheer audacity of that sentence. “baby mama?”

“look,” geto started, suddenly looking flustered, “i was wondering if you… i mean, if she … maybe we could —”

“spit it out.”

“do you wanna join us for a walk?” he blurted, his cheeks faintly pink.

gojo cat meowed again, clearly seconding the idea. or maybe he was just demanding that you bring mr. pickles along. you sighed, glancing over your shoulder at the aforementioned queen of your household, who was currently sprawled on her side like a beached whale. “she’s not exactly in the mood for exercise.” “please,” geto said, his tone bordering on desperate. “it might do her some good. and honestly, it might keep gojo from trying to scale your window again.” you pinched the bridge of your nose. “fine. but you owe me breakfast for this.”

“deal,” geto said immediately, his relief almost palpable.

after an embarrassingly long five minutes of wrangling mr. pickles into her carrier—complete with angry hisses and a swat to your hand—you emerged from your apartment, looking like you were about to march into battle. “ready?” geto asked, his smile equal parts charming and sheepish. “let’s just get this over with,” you grumbled, hoisting the carrier while mr. pickles glared daggers at everyone in sight. as the four of you set off, gojo cat kept glancing back at the carrier, chirping softly as if trying to woo mr. pickles through sheer persistence. “he’s really laying it on thick, huh?” you said, raising an eyebrow. “like father, like son,” geto joked, then immediately looked mortified at his own words. you snorted, finally cracking a smile. “careful, geto. i might actually start thinking you’re funny.” he grinned, his confidence seemingly restored. “well, miracles do happen.”

mr. pickles, meanwhile, let out a low growl from her carrier, clearly unimpressed with the whole ordeal. gojo cat chirped in response, pressing his face to the mesh side of the carrier in what could only be described as a show of devotion. “is he always like this?” you asked, watching the ridiculous display. “only when he’s in love,” geto replied, shooting you a look that lingered just a second too long. you pretended not to notice the way your heart skipped a beat. “well, he better not get his hopes up. mr. pickles isn’t exactly the romantic type.” geto chuckled. “guess he’ll just have to win her over.” as the morning sun climbed higher, you couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, this whole ridiculous situation wasn’t so bad after all.

geto meanwhile, was mentally spiraling. he didn’t know what was worse—the “like father, like son” line he’d just dropped on you or the fact that you didn’t immediately burst out laughing and leave him and his ridiculous orange tabby in the dust. instead, you stayed, which only made things harder for him. literally. his heart was pounding so loudly he was sure even mr. pickles could hear it from inside her carrier. he was trying to play it cool, but how was he supposed to do that when his so-called son was busy embarrassing the hell out of him? gojo cat was living his best life, pulling on his leash like a dog on a mission. his blue eyes sparkled with excitement as he trotted beside mr. pickles' carrier, occasionally pawing at the mesh as if trying to “connect” with his beloved. mr. pickles, for her part, was clearly over it. she sat in the carrier like a disgruntled queen, her ears flat and her glare sharp enough to cut diamonds.

“your cat’s persistent,” you said, watching as gojo cat did a full circle around the carrier before flopping dramatically on the sidewalk, belly up, in what looked like a plea for attention. “he’s… special,” geto replied, attempting to reel in the leash as gojo cat kicked his legs in the air, rolling onto his side to stare mournfully at mr. pickles. “gojo, stop being weird.” gojo cat let out a pitiful meow, his paws pressing against the carrier like he was performing some romeo and juliet reenactment. “is this normal?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as you crouched to take a closer look. “define normal,” geto deadpanned, tugging the leash again as gojo cat started to nudge his face against the carrier. “he’s just... enthusiastic. about life. and apparently, love.”

“mr. pickles looks like she’s about to murder him.”

mr. pickles, indeed, was having none of it. when gojo cat got too close, she raised a paw and batted at the mesh with a low growl, making geto jump. “okay, timeout,” geto said, scooping gojo cat up with one arm while holding the leash in the other. gojo cat squirmed, letting out a series of indignant chirps as if protesting his removal from the “love of his life.” “you’re really committed to this cat dad role, huh?” you teased, standing back up. “it’s not a role,” geto replied, attempting to adjust gojo cat in his arms as the feline twisted dramatically, his tail flicking with determination. “it’s a lifestyle.” you snorted, and geto decided right then and there that he would endure any amount of humiliation for the sound of your laughter.

meanwhile, gojo cat had decided he’d had enough of the timeout. with a sudden burst of energy, he wriggled free from geto’s grip and made a beeline back to mr. pickles’ carrier. he pawed at it again, letting out a chirp that sounded suspiciously like, notice me, senpai. “jesus christ, gojo,” geto muttered, scrambling to grab the leash. “can you give her some space for five seconds?”

“he’s determined,” you said, your lips twitching as you watched the scene unfold. “i’ll give him that.”

“determined to get us kicked out of the building, maybe,” geto grumbled, finally managing to wrangle gojo cat back.

mr. pickles, now thoroughly fed up, turned her back to the carrier door, her tail swishing in annoyance. she let out a loud, irritated meow, as if to say, enough of this nonsense. “looks like the queen has spoken,” you said, nodding toward mr. pickles. “yeah, well, tell that to this guy,” geto replied, holding gojo cat up like a misbehaving toddler. “i swear, he’s got no chill.”

“takes after his dad, huh?” you said with a sly grin.

geto froze, his cheeks heating up. “i—uh—he’s not my biological—uh…”

you laughed again, shaking your head.

“relax, geto. i’m just messing with you.” but before geto could recover and try to salvage what was left of his dignity, gojo cat let out another loud meow, squirming in his grip. “great,” geto muttered. “and now i’m the guy whose cat ruins his chance to make a good impression.”

“who said it was ruined?” you said casually, your gaze meeting his for a brief, heart-stopping moment. and just like that, geto decided that maybe—just maybe—gojo cat wasn’t the worst wingman in the world after all.

honestly, when you first saw geto on linkedin yesterday—highlighted internships, connections with every fancy-sounding legal firm, and posts that made him look like a diplomatic demigod—you thought, oh, great. another rich boy who probably orders his coffee by listing ten modifications and has never eaten instant noodles in his life. add gojo cat into the mix, and you were sure this guy was going to be the embodiment of an annoying private school kid, complete with a pet who demanded bottled water and artisanal treats. but this? this was unexpected. geto was, dare you say it, fun. the man actually cracked jokes, didn’t have that holier-than-thou attitude, and seemed genuinely nice. how was he even an international law major? weren’t they supposed to be the glorified MUN kids of society?

“so, what do you think of him?” geto asked, glancing down at gojo cat, who was currently doing his best impression of an olympic sprinter, chasing a rogue leaf across the path. “him?” you asked, smirking. “i think he’s a menace to society.”

“hey, that’s my son you’re talking about,” geto said, mock-offended. “like father, like son,” you shot back, and you caught the faintest twitch of his lips. “you wound me,” geto replied dramatically, clutching his chest like you’d just dealt a fatal blow. you laughed despite yourself. “i mean, am i wrong? you’re kind of a menace too, you know. showing up with that “like father, like son” line earlier.”

“that line was gold, okay?” he said, defensive but clearly holding back a grin. “besides, it worked. you’re still here, aren’t you?” you rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “you got lucky. i needed some fresh air.”

“ah, so i’m just a side quest for your morning routine. noted,” he said, looking mock-wounded again. “don’t make me regret this,” you said, though your tone was light. but then, of course, you had to spiral. because what kind of person just casually smells like bamboo? why were you even thinking about how he smelled in the first place? no, focus. you were not about to develop a crush on mr. linkedin extraordinaire.

“so, um,” geto started, scratching the back of his neck. you noticed he did that a lot when he was unsure of himself, which was oddly endearing. “did you, uh, happen to notice we go to the same university?”

“oh, i noticed,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “what i didn’t notice was how i never saw you around campus before.”

“i keep a low profile,” he said quickly, a little too quickly.

“low profile? you? with your fifteen linkedin posts about networking events and charity galas?” you teased. he flushed, and you bit back a laugh at the sight of the ever-composed suguru geto getting flustered. “that’s professional stuff,” he said, looking anywhere but at you. “different vibe.”

“sure, mr. diplomat,” you said, grinning. “but seriously, why haven’t we crossed paths before?”

“well, you’re a year younger,” he mumbled, “and in a different department. plus… i might’ve…”

“might’ve what?” you pressed, leaning in just slightly.

“might’ve avoided you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “avoided me?” you repeated, blinking. “why?”

his face turned a shade darker. “because i didn’t know how to talk to you, okay?” you stared at him, caught off guard by his sudden honesty. for a moment, neither of you spoke, the sound of gojo cat rustling through the bushes filling the silence. “well,” you said finally, breaking the tension with a small smile, “you’re doing fine now.” he looked at you, his expression softening. “yeah, maybe.”

and just like that, the flustered energy transferred to you, because how was this guy suddenly so disarming? you quickly turned your attention to gojo cat, who had now returned, proudly carrying a twig in his mouth like it was some grand prize. “your cat’s weird,” you said, hoping the heat in your cheeks wasn’t too obvious. “takes after his owner,” geto quipped, a little more confidently this time. you snorted, shaking your head. “yeah, well, you’re lucky i don’t scare easy.”

“lucky, huh?” he said, his lips curving into a small, genuine smile.

you groaned inwardly. maybe you were spiraling. if mr. pickles could talk, you’d be subjected to a very long, exasperated lecture right now. and honestly? she’d have a point. because here you were, fumbling in front of what could only be described as a god-sent man—minus his questionable taste in cheesy pickup lines and feline companions. and judging by the way she was scratching insistently against the carrier’s mesh, mr. pickles had had enough. “alright, alright,” you muttered, unzipping the carrier. “but behave, okay? no swatting.”

the minute she stepped out, in all her pregnant, regal glory, gojo cat lost his mind. if there were an olympic event for wooing, he’d be taking home gold, no contest. he was meowing nonstop, his tail flicking like crazy, hopping in excited circles around mr. pickles. “good god,” geto muttered beside you, watching his cat’s antics with a mixture of horror and amusement. “he’s… persistent, isn’t he?”

“persistent? your cat’s acting like he just won the lottery,” you said, watching gojo cat crouch low and wiggle his butt like he was about to pounce. “mr. pickles deserves the best,” geto said with a smirk, his tone dripping with mock sincerity. “she deserves peace and quiet,” you shot back, laughing as mr. pickles calmly let gojo cat have his little moment of excitement before promptly swatting him on the nose.

gojo cat froze, blinking in shock. then, as if nothing happened, he tried again. another swat.

“he doesn’t give up, does he?” you said, shaking your head. “like father, like son,” geto said with a shrug, and you snorted.

“oh, so you’re like that too, huh?” you teased, raising an eyebrow at him. he froze for a second, his brain clearly buffering. then he laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “i like to think i have a bit more self-control.”

“hmm,” you said, pretending to consider. “debatable.”

“harsh,” geto said, placing a hand over his heart like he’d been wounded. things weren’t any better for geto. watching you laugh at his lame attempts at humor was doing something dangerous to his brain. you were so close, and the way your eyes lit up when you laughed…

he couldn’t help it. he felt the same urge gojo cat must’ve felt—like physically shaking, meowing, jumping, doing whatever it took to make sure you were looking at him. but he was a man with poise (he reminded himself), so instead of resorting to anything outrageous, he blushed furiously, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. “you okay there?” you asked, noticing his face had turned an alarming shade of red. “yeah, yeah,” he said quickly, waving you off. “it’s, uh… warm out here.” you glanced up at the sky. it was barely sunny with a light breeze. “sure,” you said, smirking. “totally the weather.”

“don’t call me out like that,” he mumbled, looking away and rubbing the back of his neck again. “you’re cute when you’re flustered,” you said before you could stop yourself, and the words hung in the air for a second too long. his head snapped toward you, eyes wide. “what?”

“i — nothing ,” you said quickly, suddenly very interested in the stray thread on your sweater. “no, no, go on,” geto said, leaning in slightly, his voice teasing now. “what were you saying?”

“i said nothing,” you insisted, but your face was practically on fire. he grinned, leaning back and crossing his arms. “mm-hmm. sure.”

you groaned, hiding your face in your hands. “mr. pickles, save me,” you muttered, but she was too busy fending off gojo cat’s latest round of attention to care. and next to you, geto was grinning like an idiot, his blush finally starting to fade as he realized he might not be the only one spiraling.

amidst the awkward giggles and blushes, your stomach decided it had enough of the coy flirting and declared war. a low, awkward rumble escaped, loud enough for both you and geto to freeze. “was that…?” geto began, his lips twitching.

“no,” you lied immediately, your face heating up. “that was probably…gojo.” as if on cue, gojo cat meowed loudly, almost like he was backing you up. but mr. pickles wasn’t having it, her head snapping toward you with a “you’re kidding, right?” look. geto, bless his golden heart, didn’t press further. instead, he scooped up a very indignant gojo, who was in the middle of another extravagant attempt to woo mr. pickles.

“sounds like breakfast is overdue,” he said, grinning. “my treat, as promised.” you hesitated, watching as mr. pickles, the opportunist she was, pranced toward her carrier with the regal air of a queen boarding her royal carriage. she gave you a look that screamed, what are you waiting for? let’s go, servant.

“uh,” you started, scratching the back of your neck. “so, funny story — i didn’t bring my wallet, and even if i did…” you trailed off, remembering the bleak state of your cashapp. $27.53 stared back at you the last time you checked. it was a miracle you even had that much. “...i wouldn’t be able to afford it.” geto blinked at you, as if you’d grown a second head. “what?”

“yeah,” you said, already feeling the mortifying urge to dig a hole and crawl into it. “i’m, uh, broke. like, hilariously broke. economy, y’know?” you added with a weak laugh. “you think i’m letting you pay?” geto said, looking genuinely offended. “what kind of guy do you think i am?”

“a nice guy?” you offered, unsure where this was going. “no, no,” he said, shaking his head. “a gentleman.”

oh god, the drama. you stifled a laugh. “well, excuse me, mister gentleman. i just didn’t want to assume you’d pay.”

“assume away,” he said, already heading toward the nearest fancy breakfast café like he hadn’t just kidnapped you and the cats. “i’ve got you covered.” you glanced down at mr. pickles, who gave you a look that screamed, hurry up, i want my eggs.

the café, of course, was fancy. fancier than anywhere you’d normally set foot in. as you walked in, clutching mr. pickles’ carrier like a lifeline, you whispered to geto, “you couldn’t pick a normal place?”

“normal?” he asked, arching a brow. “what, like mcdonald’s?”

“that would’ve been perfect, ” you muttered. he just chuckled. “relax. it’s on me. besides…” he leaned in slightly, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “i have a reputation to uphold. international law guys don’t slum it, you know?” you snorted. “you’re so full of it.”

“maybe,” he admitted, grinning. “but you’re here, aren’t you?” you rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling as you followed him to a table, where gojo cat immediately tried to climb onto the nearest chair, only for geto to gently push him back down. “don’t even think about it,” he told the cat, who meowed indignantly. mr. pickles, meanwhile, sat primly in her carrier, surveying the café with a look of mild disdain. she was probably judging the lack of gold-plated bowls. “so,” geto said once you were seated, his tone casual but his eyes warm. “what are you having? and don’t say something cheap to be polite.”

“how’d you know i was going to say that?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at him. he shrugged. “just a hunch. order whatever you want.”

you hesitated, glancing at the menu. everything was overpriced, and you were 80% sure a single pancake here cost more than your rent. “fine,” you said finally. “but if i order the most expensive thing on the menu, i don’t want to hear you complain.”

“deal,” he said, smiling like you’d just agreed to marry him. god, he really was trying to woo you. and judging by the way your heart was doing somersaults, it might’ve been working.

the cafe was everything you imagined a “fancy breakfast spot” would be—muted beige tones, big windows letting in soft sunlight, overpriced art hanging on the walls, and tables filled with people who somehow looked like they owned hedge funds. there were plants too, the kind that didn’t seem real, and a faint jazz tune played in the background. if geto was trying to impress you, he was definitely succeeding, albeit unintentionally making you feel a little out of place. but all of that took a backseat the moment you heard that voice.

“you’re joking,” you muttered under your breath as you caught sight of none other than ryomen sukuna, towering like a goddamn villain straight out of a noir film. the cigarette smell hit first, faint but unmistakable, lingering on his dark uniform. his face twisted into a scowl the second he spotted your table. “ugh, pets,” he grumbled, eyeing the carrier with disdain. “this is why this place is going downhill. who even lets cats in here?”

“good morning to you too, sukuna,” geto said smoothly, leaning back in his chair with a calmness that only pissed sukuna off further. you, on the other hand, were seconds away from panic. this is choso’s brother? you’d seen him before, sure—usually smoking in the hallway and glaring like everyone had personally wronged him. but now? here? as your server? gojo cat immediately picked up on your distress—or maybe he just didn’t like sukuna’s face—because he started growling in geto’s lap. it was the tiniest, most pitiful growl, but sukuna’s eyes snapped to him, narrowing in challenge. “what’s that thing’s problem?” he asked, jerking a thumb at gojo cat. “his problem is you , ” geto said, smiling. “can’t say i blame him.” sukuna shot geto a flat look before turning his attention back to you. “what are you having?” he asked, his tone sharp enough to cut steel.

you panicked, your eyes darting to the menu. “uh… ummm …i’ll have the, uh…” you started, struggling to pronounce the ridiculous name of the dish. “the croissant…something?”

“you mean the croissant aux truffes?” sukuna interrupted, rolling his eyes. “yeah, got it. anything else?” you shook your head furiously, feeling your face heat up. “and you?” sukuna turned to geto, clearly already over this interaction. “my usual,” geto said casually, resting his chin on his hand. sukuna raised a brow, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a mean smirk. “your usual , huh? what’s that again?”

geto froze for half a second, his cool demeanor slipping ever so slightly. “you know what my usual is,” he said, his voice a little sharper. “do i?” sukuna asked, feigning innocence. “must’ve slipped my mind.”

“it’s soba,” geto hissed, his calmness now completely abandoned.

“oh, soba,” sukuna said, nodding slowly like he’d just solved the mystery of the century. “got it. soba. anything else, your highness?” geto glared at him but didn’t say anything, and sukuna walked off, muttering something under his breath about “stupid regulars.” the moment he was out of earshot, geto leaned back in his chair and let out a dramatic sigh. “i’m never coming back here.”

“really?” you asked, raising a brow. “because it sounded like you practically live here.”

“not after this humiliation,” he said, though the way his lips twitched betrayed the fact that he wasn’t as annoyed as he pretended to be. you couldn’t help but laugh, the earlier tension melting away. “for what it’s worth,” you said, “your ‘usual’ sounds pretty fancy too.”

“don’t,” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. “i’ll never live this down.”

from the corner of your eye, you saw gojo cat attempting to claw his way out of geto's lap, probably planning to finish what he started with sukuna. mr. pickles, ever the drama queen, merely yawned, completely unfazed by the chaos. it was going to be a long morning.

sukuna’s approach to serving was efficient, sure, but it was laced with the kind of attitude that made you question why this place hired him in the first place. he practically slammed geto’s soba on the table with a smile so forced it could rival a ventriloquist dummy, and your croissant—although perfect—arrived with a snide comment about “petting zoos” under his breath. you gave him a tight-lipped smile, muttering a quick “thank you,” while geto tried to hide his snicker behind his hand. sukuna walked off, grumbling something about “pretentious cat dads.”

“don’t mind him,” geto said, breaking his chopsticks with practiced ease. “he’s just like that with everyone. well, maybe worse with me.”

“so you’re special, then?” you teased, tearing off a piece of your croissant. “you could say that,” geto replied with a grin, feeding gojo cat a tiny bit of soba under the table. gojo, the shameless flirt, lapped it up happily, ignoring mr. pickles’ death glare from her carrier. things were calm, peaceful even—until the gaggle of women arrived.

they were the type you’d expect to see in glossy magazines: perfectly coiffed hair, subtle but expensive-looking makeup, and outfits that screamed “we brunch in designer clothes.” they made a beeline for gojo cat, cooing and fawning like he was some sort of feline casanova. and, like the attention-seeking traitor he was, gojo lapped it all up, practically preening under their praise. “oh my god, look at him!” one of them squealed, petting gojo as he leaned into her touch. “he’s so cute!”

“what’s his name?” another asked, giving geto a smile that could only be described as predatory. “gojo,” geto said, chuckling awkwardly. “you named him after yourself?” one of the women teased, clearly mistaking him for the egomaniac in question.

“uh, no, actually—”

“oh, sugurruuu!” another one interrupted, clearly recognizing him. “it’s been ages! how have you been?” you raised an eyebrow as the women began circling him like sharks. apparently, they were his seniors from a past internship, which made sense because they had that polished, professional air about them. “we missed you at the office!” one of them gushed. “you were so good at handling those client presentations,” another added, her tone a little too sweet for your liking.

you took a bite of your croissant, trying to ignore the sudden twist in your stomach. it wasn’t like you had any claim over geto, right? and yet, seeing him chuckle nervously and entertain them, even though it was clear he was uncomfortable, made you bristle. beside you, mr. pickles was practically vibrating with irritation, her tail flicking furiously as she watched gojo soak up the attention. she let out a low, guttural growl that you could’ve sworn mirrored your exact mood. “he’s such a ladies’ man,” one of the women purred, gesturing to gojo. “just like his owner, huh?”

“actually,” geto said, his voice cutting through the chatter. he looked at you, his expression unreadable but his tone steady. “this is my partner.”

wait, what?

the table went silent for a moment as all eyes turned to you. the women’s faces fell ever so slightly, their previously cheery expressions dimming as they processed the information. “partner?” one of them repeated, her voice tinged with disbelief. “yep,” geto said, leaning back in his chair with a small, satisfied smile. “we’re co-parenting these two,” he added, gesturing to the cats. you blinked, your mind racing. co-parenting? he wasn’t wrong, technically speaking, but the way he said it made it sound...a lot more serious than it actually was. the women muttered half-hearted congratulations before awkwardly excusing themselves, their heels clicking against the tiled floor as they walked away. once they were out of earshot, you turned to geto, your cheeks burning. “partner, huh?”

“what? it’s true,” he said, a hint of smugness in his tone. “we’re co-parenting.”

“you do know how that sounded, right?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.“sounded perfect to me,” he said, giving you a lopsided grin. you rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. maybe, just maybe, you liked geto a little more than you thought. meanwhile, gojo cat continued basking in his stolen glory, and mr. pickles finally settled down in her carrier, clearly satisfied with how the situation had turned out.

chapter 4: he brought kibble, you brought your heart

the days following your chaotic breakfast outing became a mix of heartwarming absurdity and mild chaos, all thanks to geto and his ever-determined cat.

it started with the pet supplies. one offhand comment about needing more for mr. pickles, and suddenly geto was at your door with an entire armful of toys, treats, and nesting materials. “you said you needed stuff,” he shrugged, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he handed you a bag that looked heavy enough to contain bricks. “this is…a lot,” you said, peering inside. “did you buy out the entire pet store?”

“nah, just the essentials,” he replied, brushing off your comment. “besides, i had to get stuff for gojo anyway.”

the “stuff for gojo” turned out to be a single can of tuna.

then came the vet visits. geto had decided, entirely unprompted, that your vet appointments were now his responsibility. he would show up unannounced, a coffee in hand for you and a carrier for gojo in the other. “i don’t think the vet needs to see gojo,” you’d said the first time he came along. “you never know,” he’d replied, entirely serious. “what if he has sympathy symptoms for mr. pickles? he’s been sneezing a lot lately.”

“that’s because he shoved his face into a pile of dust bunnies,” you deadpanned. still, you couldn’t deny how much easier it was having him around, even if it meant enduring his occasional attempts to one-up the vet with random facts he’d googled beforehand. “you know, some studies say cats feel pain differently during pregnancy,” geto commented as the vet checked mr. pickles over. the vet gave him a flat look. “that’s…not entirely accurate.”

“huh, weird,” geto said, leaning back with an entirely too smug grin. “i’ll look into it more. it’s good to stay informed, right?”

meanwhile, gojo cat’s relentless courtship of mr. pickles had reached new, unhinged heights. every day brought a new “gift” for her nesting area, ranging from sweet (a soft sock) to outright concerning (a half-dead lizard that had you shrieking and yuuji wielding a plastic lightsaber like some kind of jedi exterminator). “gojo, no!” you’d yelled, trying to wrestle the lizard out of his mouth. “don’t hurt him!” geto shouted, entirely missing the point as he held gojo back. “don’t hurt him?!” yuuji echoed, brandishing the lightsaber dramatically. “what about me? what if it jumps at me?!”

amidst the chaos, mr. pickles remained the picture of serenity, carefully arranging each of gojo’s offerings in her nesting area like some kind of bizarre art installation. she even started tolerating his presence, which was a minor miracle in itself. “look at them,” geto said one day, gesturing to the two cats as they napped side by side. “they’re like us.” you raised an eyebrow. “one of them brings in literal trash and the other barely tolerates them. which one’s supposed to be me?”

“well, obviously, you’re mr. pickles,” he said with a grin.

“and you’re gojo?”

“exactly.”

you laughed, shaking your head. “geto, you’re ridiculous.”

“and yet, here you are,” he teased, nudging your shoulder lightly.

despite the chaos, you couldn’t deny that your little makeshift family—complete with a sock-stealing, lizard-catching cat and his annoyingly thoughtful owner—had started to grow on you. mr. pickles seemed calmer, you felt more relaxed, and even geto’s awkward attempts at affection were kind of endearing. maybe, just maybe, these two weren’t so bad after all.

but honestly, you should’ve known geto would take a casual dinner and make it look like an event. the moment you opened the door and saw him standing there, you realized just how badly you underestimated the man’s ability to weaponize his looks. he’d ditched the usual button-ups for a fitted black turtleneck that clung to him like a second skin, paired with tailored gray slacks that looked more expensive than your monthly rent. his hair was tied back in a sleek ponytail, but a few stray strands framed his face just enough to be annoyingly perfect. and then there was the smell—some cologne that was equal parts warm and spicy, making your knees wobble like a newborn deer.

“you…uh, look nice,” you managed to stutter, awkwardly gesturing him in. he chuckled, stepping inside. “thanks. figured i should dress up a little since you’re going all out with dinner.” oh, so now it’s your fault for making dinner sound like a five-star experience when it was really just some pasta and garlic bread. meanwhile, your own reflection in the hallway mirror mocked you mercilessly. you were still in your semi-formal college attire: a blazer that was slightly too big, a wrinkled blouse, and pants that had seen better days. you could have changed, but no, you thought you’d save time and effort. bad call.

dinner itself went surprisingly smoothly. mr. pickles and gojo cat managed to coexist at the food station, which was nothing short of miraculous. out of the corner of your eye, you saw gojo nudging a small portion of his food toward mr. pickles, who sniffed it delicately before accepting. “look at them,” geto said with a soft smile, catching your gaze. “sharing like that. think it’s love?” you scoffed, trying to ignore how his smile made your heart race. “or maybe gojo’s just trying to butter her up so she doesn’t swat him later.”

“harsh,” geto replied, leaning back in his chair. “you’re cynical. i like it.”

after dinner, you were about to tackle the dishes when geto, ever the overachieving law student, pulled out his macbook. the glow of the screen illuminated his face as he typed furiously, answering emails and looking like the poster boy for "i have my life together."

“work?” you asked, carrying a stack of plates to the sink. “just a few emails,” he said, not looking up. “one of the partners at my internship sent over some last-minute questions.” you blinked, watching him with mild disbelief. “it’s a friday night.”

“welcome to international law,” he said dryly, fingers flying across the keyboard. against your better judgment, you found yourself… impressed? his focus, his confidence, the way his sleeves were rolled up just enough to show off his forearms—it was annoyingly attractive. “ugh, law students,” you muttered under your breath, scrubbing at a plate. “what was that?” suguru asked, looking up with a smirk. “nothing,” you said quickly, turning back to the sink. “just saying how dedicated you are.” he laughed, the sound low and warm. “you’re bad at lying, you know.”

“and you’re bad at taking a break,” you shot back, trying to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks.

after a few more minutes of typing, geto finally closed his laptop and joined you in the kitchen. “here, let me help,” he offered, rolling up his sleeves further. “you cooked,” he said, taking a plate from your hands. “least i can do is clean up.” you wanted to argue, but the sight of geto, sleeves rolled up, standing beside you at the sink, made your brain short-circuit. “fine,” you mumbled, handing him a dish. “but if you drop one, i’m not forgiving you.”

“noted,” he said with a grin, elbow brushing yours as he worked. as you both washed dishes in companionable silence, you couldn’t help but glance at him every now and then, heart doing a stupid little flutter each time he caught you looking. maybe this dinner wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

geto had never been one to overthink simple things. he prided himself on his ability to stay cool and collected, whether it was during an exam, an internship interview, or wrangling gojo cat after he’d somehow escaped onto a neighbor’s balcony. but here, standing next to you, washing dishes, his heart was doing its best impression of a jazz drummer—completely out of rhythm and far too loud. he tried to focus on the task at hand, scrubbing a plate with the precision of a surgeon, but his brain was too busy short-circuiting over the sheer domesticity of the moment. you, standing next to him, a faint smile on your lips as you passed him a dish. mr. pickles and gojo cat sitting like a mismatched elderly couple in the corner, their rivalry seemingly paused for the evening. this was too much. domesticity was his weakness, and you were unknowingly his kryptonite.

"you know," he started, trying to sound casual, "i’ve been working on my forearms lately. gotta make sure gojo has a sturdy perch when i carry him." your laugh was soft but genuine, and it hit him right in the chest. "oh yeah? is that why you’ve been flexing every chance you get? because i was starting to think you were just trying to flirt." he froze, plate in hand, before turning to look at you with a mock-offended expression. "flirt? me? that’s slander. i’m just a humble man with well-defined forearms doing his civic duty.”

"right," you drawled, rolling your eyes as you handed him another dish. okay, suguru, he thought. focus. this is the perfect moment. ask the question. it’s not that big of a deal. except it was a big deal. because it wasn’t just about asking if you’d like to carpool to college every day. it was about getting more time with you, sharing little moments like this. he cleared his throat, trying to find the right words. "hey, uh…you know how i drive to college every day?" you glanced at him, a little confused. "yeah?"

"and you, uh, also go to college every day?"

"correct," you said slowly, raising an eyebrow.

he could feel his palms starting to sweat despite the soapy water. this was ridiculous. why was he nervous? it was just a question! but somehow, the thought of you saying no made his stomach twist. "so," he continued, trying to keep his tone light, "i was thinking…maybe we could drive together? you know, save on gas, reduce our carbon footprint, that kind of thing." you blinked at him, clearly caught off guard. "you want to carpool with me?"

"yeah," he said quickly, nodding. "i mean, it makes sense, right? we’re both going the same way, and i wouldn’t mind the company. plus, i’ve got this playlist i’ve been dying to share." that wasn’t entirely true. his playlist was a chaotic mix of instrumental lo-fi, 90’s rock and songs gojo cat seemed to enjoy, but he’d happily curate something just for you if it meant hearing you laugh and sing along.

"you’re serious?" you asked, and he swore he could see a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. "dead serious," he said, putting on his best poker face. "it’s a purely logistical decision, of course. nothing to do with the fact that i think you’re great company or anything." you stared at him for a moment before breaking into a laugh, and he felt his shoulders relax just a little. "okay," you said finally. "sure, let’s carpool." he grinned, feeling an almost embarrassing amount of relief. "awesome. you won’t regret it, i promise." as you turned back to the sink, he couldn’t help but steal a glance at you, his heart still doing its offbeat jazz solo. yeah, this was going to be good. better than good, even.

the last dish was set on the drying rack, and with it came the awkward silence that always followed. you and geto exchanged a glance, both of you clearly trying to decide what came next. do you send him off with a polite "thanks for the help," or do you suggest something casual? ugh, why was this so hard?

"soooo," you started, awkwardly fidgeting with a dishtowel. "uh, do you…want ice cream?" geto blinked at you, his expression pleasantly surprised. "ice cream?"

"yeah, you know, frozen dairy, sugar, flavors," you said, waving your hands vaguely like you were describing some rare delicacy. "do international law students even like convenience store ice cream? or are you more into, like, artisanal stuff churned by monks in the alps?" his laugh was low and warm, the kind of laugh that made you feel like you’d just won something. "as tempting as alps-monks-churned ice cream sounds, i’m fine with rocky road if you’ve got it."

rocky road. he’s perfect, you thought as you rummaged in the freezer, pulling out a pint. mr. pickles, ever the queen, trotted over and sat primly by your feet, tail twitching as if she expected you to serve her a scoop. gojo cat, on the other hand, had found a stray spoon to bat around the kitchen floor like it was his life’s mission. you handed geto a bowl, and he graciously accepted before pulling out his macbook and setting it on the table. "mind if i put something on?"

"as long as it’s not UN debates or a soba recipe tutorial," you teased, leaning over to peer at his screen. to your credit, you weren’t snooping—you were just curious about what kind of stuff an international law student kept on their homepage. but the minute you saw it, you froze. nestled among his neatly arranged bookmarks for email, law journals, and a soba takeout joint, was your spotify profile. your brain went into immediate overdrive. oh dear god. oh no. oh yes. wait, what?

you fought the urge to gasp, to point, to scream into the void. instead, you settled for the most nonchalant reaction you could muster. "huh. your bookmarks are so…organized." but your awkward tone gave you away, and geto, sharp as ever, followed your gaze. when his eyes landed on the offending bookmark, he paused mid-scoop, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. "oh," he said, clearly trying to play it cool. "uh, yeah. that’s—uh, for convenience. you know, for when you share playlists and stuff."

"totally," you replied, nodding far too enthusiastically. "makes sense. who doesn’t bookmark their friends’ spotify profiles?" you were lying through your teeth, and you both knew it. but instead of feeling weirded out, your heart felt like it might actually burst. he bookmarked your spotify. this ridiculously attractive, smart, and funny guy has done something so nerdy and cute, and you think you might die. the silence stretched awkwardly until you couldn’t take it anymore. "so…what’s your favorite playlist of mine?" you asked, trying to keep your tone casual but failing miserably.

geto, to his credit, recovered quickly. "probably the one you called ‘in the clerb, we all cryin’.’ it’s got a lot of questionable choices."

"questionable choices?" you gasped, feigning offense. "excuse me, those are carefully curated emotional masterpieces!"

"right, right," he said, nodding solemnly but with a teasing glint in his eyes. "masterpieces like, what was it? ‘torn’ by natalie imbruglia followed by party rock anthem?"

"that’s called range, geto."

he laughed again, and you swore it was the best sound you’d ever heard. meanwhile, gojo cat had successfully cornered the spoon under the fridge, and mr. pickles let out an indignant meow, clearly unimpressed by the lack of attention directed her way. "anyways," you said, clearing your throat and desperately trying to steer the conversation away from how much your soul had ascended, "what are we watching?" he smirked, clearly enjoying your flustered state. "how about a soba recipe tutorial? you know, for research purposes."

"get out of my house," you deadpanned, throwing a napkin at him. but deep down, you couldn’t stop smiling. maybe you did like geto. just a little. or a lot. who’s counting?

the youtube video played on, gordon ramsey passionately dissecting the finer points of why "tiramisu supremacy" should be the law of the land, but you weren’t paying attention anymore. instead, you were hyper-aware of the ridiculously attractive man next to you, lounging on your bed, casually eating rocky road like he wasn’t a complete menace to your sanity. gojo cat had stationed himself at your feet, swiping lazily at a loose thread on your blanket. mr. pickles, in a rare display of domestic harmony, perched regally on a pillow next to geto like she was claiming him as her territory. you could almost hear her smug little cat thoughts: this one? yes, acceptable.

meanwhile, you? you were losing it. somehow—through some strange twist of fate or cosmic joke—your head had ended up resting on geto’s chest. his chest. his sculpted, unfairly perfect chest. you told yourself it was for comfort, or convenience, or whatever excuse your brain could scramble together. oh god, is this okay? what if he thinks i’m weird? or worse, what if he doesn’t care at all?

his arm was just kind of… hovering there, like it didn’t know what to do. his bicep flexed every time he adjusted, and you swore it was on purpose. it’s not on purpose, idiot. calm down. "you good there?" his voice cut through your internal spiral, warm and teasing. you cleared your throat, suddenly self-conscious. "uh, yeah. totally fine. just... comfortable, i guess."

"comfortable, huh?" he echoed, his tone light but his heart doing cartwheels. she’s comfortable. okay. don’t freak out. play it cool. meanwhile, geto was absolutely not playing it cool. this is fine. this is normal. people hang out like this all the time. friends. buddies. totally platonic. on a bed. watching gordon ramsey. with her head on my chest. oh god, i’m dying. his arm was still hovering awkwardly, and it was starting to cramp. should he just—? no. too much. but maybe? before he could overthink it further, you shifted slightly, glancing up at him.

"you can, you know," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. he blinked down at you, dumbfounded. "can what?"

"put your arm around me," you mumbled, cheeks heating up like a furnace. geto’s brain short-circuited. oh god, she said i can. she actually said i can. is this real? am i dreaming? where’s gojo? he needs to see this. wait, no, absolutely not. this is private. oh god, my arm.

"uh, yeah. sure," he finally said, his voice cracking just a little as he tried to sound casual. his arm settled around your shoulders, warm and solid, and you let out a content sigh. meanwhile, internally, he was screaming. this is the best day of his life.

"you’re stiff as hell," you teased, glancing up at him. "sorry, it’s just—i’m not used to—" he fumbled, trailing off. "chill out," you said with a soft laugh, your hand lightly resting on his chest. "it’s just me."

just you. the girl he’d been pining after for weeks. the girl whose spotify profile he’d bookmarked. the girl whose cats he’d willingly co-parented like an idiot in love. he wasn’t even sure how he was still breathing. "yeah," he said softly, his lips quirking into a small smile. "just you."

"hey, are you even watching?" you asked, gesturing at the screen where ramsey was now passionately defending the honor of cannoli. "uh, yeah. totally," he lied, having absolutely no idea what was happening in the video. "oh yeah? then what’s his stance on panna cotta?" you challenged, raising an eyebrow. geto paused for a second, then grinned sheepishly. "panna whatta?" you groaned, laughing despite yourself. "you’re hopeless."

"hopelessly charmed," he muttered under his breath, but thankfully, the loud volume drowned it out. gojo cat let out an exaggerated yawn, curling up at the foot of the bed, while mr. pickles blinked at both of you with what could only be described as approval. and for a brief moment, with you curled up against him, geto thought that maybe, just maybe, domesticity wasn’t so bad after all.

the clock on your bedside table glowed 9:30 pm, the red numbers a cruel reminder that sunday was slipping away. geto shifted slightly, the arm around your shoulders reluctantly moving as if to signal his departure. right. college tomorrow. responsibilities. but neither of you moved. instead, his attempt to lift his arm ended in a poorly executed maneuver that pulled you closer—much closer. suddenly, your face was inches from his, and you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. his breath hitched. oh god. oh no. oh yes. what if he does something stupid? like kiss you? no, bad idea. abort. retreat. pull away. you’ll think he’s weird—

you kissed him first. his brain went blank.

your lips pressed softly against his, a tentative, curious movement that sent every coherent thought in his mind scattering like autumn leaves in the wind. your lip balm—something fruity, maybe peach?—lingered on his lips, blending with the faint taste of rocky road ice cream. his heart stopped, then kickstarted with a force that left him lightheaded. "oh," he murmured against your lips, his voice barely audible. "oh?" you pulled back slightly, a teasing smile quirking your lips. "i — i mean —" he stammered, his cheeks flushing a deep pink. "uh, wow."

"wow?" you laughed softly, your hands sliding up his chest, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt. "shut up," he groaned, but his grin betrayed him as his hands instinctively found your waist, steadying you as you moved to straddle his lap. oh god. oh god. she’s on my lap. this is not a drill. repeat, this is not a drill. "you’re awfully red, suguru," you teased, your tone light, but the way your fingers brushed against his jaw made his pulse race. "yeah, well, you’re—" he cut himself off, his eyes flickering to your lips before meeting your gaze. "you’re unfairly pretty, okay? and i’m trying not to pass out here."

"pretty?" you echoed, feigning innocence as you leaned in closer, your noses brushing. "is that all?" he chuckled, low and breathy. "pretty, gorgeous, unfairly cute. take your pick." before he could spiral into another wave of self-doubt, you kissed him again, and this time, he responded in full. his lips moved against yours, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to savor every second. his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him, his fingers flexing like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. in the background, gordon ramsey’s voice bellowed something about undercooked risotto, but neither of you noticed. this is what dreams are made of, right? he thought. her lips, her taste, the way she’s holding onto me like i’m her favorite person in the world. rocky road and lip balm and… gordon ramsey? okay, ignore that. focus. focus on her.

"you good there, suguru?" you murmured against his lips, your voice laced with amusement. "good?" he echoed, his hands sliding up to cradle your face. "i’m amazing. incredible. best night of my life, no contest."

"you’re such a dork," you laughed, your forehead resting against his. "yeah, well," he said, his smile softening as his thumb brushed along your cheek. "you like this dork."

"i do," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. his heart soared. he tightened his hold on you, his lips ghosting over yours once more as he whispered, "good. because i don’t think i’m letting you go anytime soon." the clock ticked on, but neither of you cared anymore. responsibilities could wait.

just as geto’s lips brushed against yours for what felt like the hundredth time that evening, a loud, synchronized cacophony of meows erupted from the corner of the bed. you both froze.

there sat gojo cat and mr. pickles, staring at the two of you with matching expressions of feline judgment. mr. pickles, her fur slightly puffed and her eyes narrowed, let out an indignant mrrrow that sounded suspiciously like "get a room." gojo cat, ever the instigator, joined in with an exaggerated meeeooowwww, his tail flicking dramatically as if to say, "seriously? right in front of us?"

“oh my god,” you mumbled, burying your face in geto’s neck as he chuckled, the sound rumbling against you. “i think we’ve offended the fur babies,” he said, clearly trying not to laugh too loudly as gojo cat began pacing in circles, yowling like a siren. “offended? they sound like they’re trying to declare war,” you muttered, pulling back reluctantly. “maybe they’re just jealous,” geto teased, his dark eyes twinkling as he reached up to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. “jealous of what?” you scoffed, glancing at the cats. mr. pickles was still bristling like a wronged queen, while gojo cat was now attempting to paw at the edge of the bed for dramatic emphasis.

“of this.” geto smirked, leaning in like he was about to steal another kiss, but mr. pickles let out a sharp hiss, cutting him off. “okay, okay, time out!” you said, waving your hands in surrender. with a sigh, geto released you, though his hand lingered on your waist for a moment longer. “guess that’s our cue.” you followed him to the door, the cats trailing behind like disapproving chaperones. gojo cat let out one last, drawn-out meow as if to say "good riddance," while mr. pickles sat primly by the door, glaring up at geto with all the disdain she could muster. “she’s really protective of you, huh?” geto said, slipping his shoes on. “always has been,” you replied, your hand resting on the doorknob. “probably doesn’t help that you keep bribing her with treats.”

“bribing?” he repeated, feigning offense. “that’s called building trust.”

“sure it is, mr. international law,” you teased, leaning against the doorframe.

he chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “speaking of trust, uh… i’ll pick you up tomorrow? for class?” you raised an eyebrow, smirking. “trying to make this a habit now?”

“well,” he said, his cheeks pinking slightly, “i figured i’d bring you another one of those fancy croissants. and, you know, maybe see you smile first thing in the morning again.” your chest tightened at his words, warmth spreading through you. “smooth, geto.”

“is that a yes?” he asked, his voice softer now, his gaze locked on yours. “yeah,” you said, your lips curving into a smile. before he could step out, he leaned down, his lips brushing yours in a quick but lingering kiss that made your heart race. when he pulled back, his smile was uncharacteristically shy.

“goodnight,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“goodnight,” you replied, watching as he walked away, his hands stuffed into his pockets but his stride noticeably lighter.

as you closed the door, you turned to find mr. pickles sitting side by side, staring up at you with unreadable expressions. “don’t look at me like that,” you said, pointing at her. “you’re the ones who ruined the moment.” mr. pickles let out a chirpy meep , as if to say "i’m just doing my job," before padding back to her nesting area with an air of smug satisfaction. you shook your head, unable to stop the grin spreading across your face. whatever this thing with suguru was, you didn’t want it to end. not now, not ever.

chapter 5: justin bieber and other forms of groveling

you swung the door open, expecting to find a text from geto telling you to come downstairs like a normal person. instead, you were met with him. suguru geto, standing at your doorstep, looking like he’d just stepped out of a gq photoshoot. “morning!” he greeted cheerfully, his voice as smooth as his suit. yes, a suit. a dark, perfectly tailored one that hugged his broad shoulders and slim waist just right, paired with a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the top, exposing just a hint of his collarbone. the whole look was topped off with a skinny black tie and shiny leather oxfords that somehow made you question if you were even allowed to walk next to him. and don’t even get started on his hair—pulled back into a low bun, with a few loose strands framing his stupidly perfect face. “why—why are you here?” you stammered, gripping the doorframe for support because, honestly, this man might be a health hazard. “thought i’d save you the trip downstairs,” he said casually, though his lips curled into a smirk like he knew exactly what he was doing. “besides, i wanted to see you earlier.” great. now your heart was doing this weird fluttery thing, and you hated it. “you know you could’ve just texted me, right? like a normal person?”

“where’s the fun in that?” he quipped, his voice tinged with amusement.

ugh.

the first thing that hit you when you slid into his car—a sleek black bmw z4 convertible with the top down—was the overwhelming scent of car cleaner mixed with him. “did you—did you just get this cleaned?” you asked, wrinkling your nose at the smell. “maybe,” he replied, a little too quickly. you glanced at the dashboard, which was spotless and gleaming. the leather seats looked freshly polished, and there wasn’t a single crumb or speck of dust in sight. well, except for the faint trace of orange fur on the passenger seat. “you missed a spot,” you teased, pointing at the fur. “gojo,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “aw, don’t be mad at him,” you said, grinning. “he’s just marking his territory.”

“yeah, well, he’s not paying for this car, is he?” suguru shot back, though the corners of his lips twitched upward. the car smelled like money, honestly. the leather had that rich, almost intimidating scent, and the steering wheel looked like it had been handcrafted by someone with a phd in luxury interiors. but somehow, there was this comforting undertone of suguru’s cologne—spicy, woodsy, and ridiculously distracting. you tried to act normal, like you weren’t suddenly hyper-aware of how close you were to him in this car that felt way too intimate for a ride to campus. “so, what’s the occasion?” you asked, nodding toward his suit as he pulled out onto the main road. “internship meeting after class,” he explained, keeping his eyes on the road. “wanted to make a good impression.”

“yeah, well, mission accomplished,” you mumbled, more to yourself than him, but he still heard. “what was that?” he asked, glancing at you with a playful smirk. “nothing,” you said quickly, your cheeks heating. as he drove, you found yourself sneaking glances at his hands on the wheel. his sleeves were rolled up just enough to expose his forearms, which looked unfairly muscular for a guy who claimed to “barely have time for the gym.” the veins running up his arms were just… there, taunting you.

“you’ve been working out, huh?” you blurted, unable to stop yourself. he chuckled, a low, warm sound that made your stomach flip. “noticed, huh?”

“kind of hard not to when your biceps are trying to break out of that shirt,” you retorted, trying to sound nonchalant. “oh, this?” he said, flexing his forearm slightly as he adjusted the gearshift, clearly showing off. “ugh, stop,” you groaned, covering your face with your hands. “you’re so annoying.”

“and yet here you are,” he teased, shooting you a quick grin before turning his attention back to the road. as you sat there, half-annoyed and half-smitten, you couldn’t help but think that this man was going to be the death of you.

the two of you sat in the car outside your campus building for a moment longer than necessary. the engine was off, but the atmosphere buzzed with something heavy, something neither of you dared to name yet. geto had one hand draped lazily over the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift, but you weren’t fooled. his jaw was tense, and his thumb tapped nervously against the leather, a small tell that you’d come to recognize. he didn’t want this ride to end. neither did you, if you were being honest. “so,” you started, your voice almost shy. “thanks for the ride.” he glanced over at you, his dark eyes soft but smoldering all at once. “yeah,” he said, his voice low, “anytime.” and just when you thought he’d let you leave, he moved.

his hand—large, warm, and calloused just enough to send a thrill through you—slipped behind your neck, his fingers brushing against your skin in a way that sent goosebumps racing down your arms. the touch was firm but gentle, commanding but tender.

“come here,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

you didn’t even have time to process before he pulled you in, his lips crashing against yours with a fervor that left you breathless. this wasn’t just a goodbye kiss; no, this was something deeper, something that spoke of longing and frustration and a thousand unsaid things. his lips were soft but insistent, moving against yours like he was trying to memorize the feel of you, like he didn’t care that the windows weren’t tinted enough for the scene unfolding inside. his tongue swept against your lower lip, asking, no, demanding entrance, and you couldn’t deny him. the taste of him—coffee from earlier, a hint of mint, and something uniquely suguru—was enough to make your head spin. your hand instinctively came up to his chest, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt as if to steady yourself. but instead of pulling away, he deepened the kiss, tilting his head to get a better angle, and you thought you might actually lose all sense of reality.

when he finally pulled back, it wasn’t abrupt. no, he lingered, his lips brushing against yours one last time, as if reluctant to let go. his breathing was heavy, his cheeks slightly flushed, and when you looked up at him, you saw the faint sheen of your lip gloss smeared on his mouth. his lips—pink, swollen, and thoroughly kissed—were enough to make your brain short-circuit.

“you’ve got—” you gestured vaguely to his mouth, your voice shaky. he raised an eyebrow, smirking in that infuriatingly confident way. “lip gloss?” he guessed, his thumb brushing over his bottom lip like he was testing the feel of it. “yeah,” you mumbled, feeling your own cheeks heat up. “good,” he said simply, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “i’ll keep it.” you wanted to scream, cry, and maybe kiss him again all at once. instead, you just sat there, dazed, as he leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“guess i should let you go now,” he said, though his tone made it clear he wasn’t entirely thrilled about the idea. “yeah,” you managed to say, though your legs felt like jelly just thinking about walking into that building. as you stepped out of the car, the smell of car cleaner and his cologne still lingering around you, you could feel the weight of people’s stares. it wasn’t like fancy cars were a rare sight, but you stepping out of that car, looking thoroughly flustered and kissed? yeah, that was something. you glanced back at him one last time before closing the door. he gave you a small wave, the smirk still firmly in place. “i’ll pick you up later,” he called out, and you swore you heard the faintest hint of smugness in his voice. “yeah, okay,” you replied, trying to sound normal even though your entire body felt like it was on fire. as you walked toward the building, your mind raced with one singular thought: suguru geto was going to be the end of you. and honestly? you were okay with that.

as geto shifted gears and eased into a parking spot, he let out a long breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. "oh, suguru, what a smooth operator you are," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his already-perfect hair. but as his fingers grazed his lips, he froze. oh no.

your lip gloss—that faint pink menace—was still there. he squinted into the rearview mirror, tilting his face left and right like he was analyzing evidence at a crime scene. yup, definitely there. and definitely noticeable.

“cool. love that for me,” he said under his breath, grabbing a tissue from the glove compartment. he dabbed at his lips gently, trying to erase the sheen. but no matter how much he rubbed, it refused to disappear completely. a faint tint lingered, stubborn and utterly humiliating. not that he minded, of course. secretly, he was fighting the urge to giggle like a high schooler who just got his crush’s number. she kissed me, he thought, his inner monologue doing cartwheels. and now her lip gloss is on me. does this count as shared property? do i need to buy her a ring now? he glanced at the building where you’d disappeared moments ago. a soft smile tugged at his lips, but then he caught his own reflection again, and the smile turned into a scowl.

“focus, suguru. you’re an international law student, not a lovesick teen,” he muttered, trying to psych himself up. but then, completely unbidden, the lyrics hit him: shawty’s like a melody in my head that i can’t keep out—

“oh my god, no,” he groaned, dropping his forehead against the steering wheel. “pull it together.” he sat up straight, fixing his tie like he was about to walk into court, not class. still, his thoughts wandered back to the kiss. he could still feel the warmth of your lips on his, the way you tasted faintly of coffee and lip gloss. “yeah, okay, maybe i’m a little lovesick,” he admitted to no one, sighing dramatically. a loud honk snapped him out of his reverie, and he jerked upright, eyes darting around. some guy in a beat-up sedan gave him a look as if to say, get moving, pretty boy.

“right, right, focus,” geto muttered, putting the car into park. but the distraction had already done its damage. in his daydream, he’d nearly considered driving through the building instead of parking near it. and not for the first time. last semester, there’d been that unfortunate incident where he’d been too engrossed in memorizing legal jargon to realize he was barreling toward the curb. it wasn’t his finest moment, but hey, everyone made mistakes. this time, though, it wasn’t legal jargon messing with his head. it was you.

after ensuring his car was perfectly parked (and double-checking for rogue curbs), he checked his reflection one last time. hair? immaculate. tie? sharp. lips? …still faintly pink. he sighed, leaning back in his seat. "well, if anyone asks, it’s my new look," he muttered, smirking to himself. but deep down, he wasn’t bothered. in fact, the idea of walking into his building, pink lip gloss and all, knowing it was from you? yeah, he could live with that.

you glance at your phone for what feels like the millionth time, the lock screen mocking you with its time: 6:45 p.m. every minute that ticks by feels like an eternity. where the hell was geto? the man who swore on rocky road ice cream and cats that he’d pick you up after class. “ugh, liar,” you grumble under your breath, clutching your phone tighter. you dial his number again, half-hoping, half-dreading, that he’d pick up. the line rings once, twice, and then straight to voicemail. “figures.”

the campus courtyard is thinning out now, with most students heading home or to their dorms. you, however, are still standing at the edge of the parking lot, looking like the poster child for loser-core chic. a group of girls you vaguely recognize from your department walk by, their giggles low and conspiratorial as they glance in your direction. one of them nudges her friend and whispers loudly, “see? i told you. you can’t trust law guys. they’re always playing games.” you stiffen, feeling your cheeks heat. okay, rude. but also…they might have a point?

“poor girl,” another one says, her voice dripping with pity. “she probably thought she was special.” your jaw tightens as you resist the urge to shout back, no, actually, he’s probably just late! maybe traffic, or… or… you groan inwardly. even you don’t buy your excuses anymore. just as you’re debating whether to crawl under a bush and live there forever, your deskmate, nanami kento, approaches. ever the epitome of politeness, he clears his throat softly before speaking. “hey,” he begins, adjusting the strap of his leather satchel. “are you, uh, waiting for someone?”

you force a smile, trying to appear less like a rejected rom-com protagonist. “yeah, uh… my ride’s just running a little late.” nanami’s brow furrows slightly, and he glances at his watch. “it’s been over thirty minutes.”

ouch. okay, way to rub salt in the wound, kento.

he sighs, looking almost…sympathetic? “i could drop you off if you’d like. it’s on my way.”

normally, any sane, self-respecting woman would jump at the chance to be chauffeured home by nanami kento—a man so punctual and reliable, he’s basically a walking swiss watch. but alas, you are neither self-respecting nor particularly sane at this moment. “thanks, nanami, but i’m good,” you say, waving him off with a grin that’s probably more pained than reassuring. he nods slowly, clearly unconvinced but too polite to argue. “alright. take care, then.” as he walks away, you let out a long sigh, your earlier bravado crumbling. “ugh, geto, you’re so dead,” you mutter under your breath, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. by now, the campus is nearly deserted, and the idea of taking the bus home looms over you like a dark cloud. with a resigned sigh, you check the bus schedule on your phone. the next one isn’t due for another 15 minutes. just perfect.

the bus ride home is as glamorous as you’d expect—fluorescent lights that make everyone look vaguely ill, the faint smell of stale chips and rubber, and the occasional bump that sends you jerking forward. you plop into an empty seat, your bag clutched tightly on your lap. a group of teenagers in the back snicker about something, and the guy across from you is humming off-key to whatever’s blasting through his headphones. yeah, this is way better than being driven home in a bmw z4, you think bitterly, rolling your eyes.

the faint scent of orange fur clings to your bag, and you wonder if it’s from gojo cat sneaking into geto’s car this morning. the thought makes you irrationally mad all over again. i bet the car is fine. he probably just forgot or something stupid like that. you lean your head against the window, watching the city lights blur past. the rhythmic hum of the bus is oddly calming, but your thoughts are anything but. what if he’s hurt? a small, worried voice pipes up in the back of your mind. but you squash it quickly. no, he’s just being an idiot.

geto is convinced this is how he dies—not by some massive legal scandal or a tragic car accident, but by sheer embarrassment. the moment the clock hit 6:00 p.m., he knew he was doomed. when the hands of time ticked past 6:45, panic set in. it’s fine, he had told himself, gripping his steering wheel with white-knuckled determination. she probably hasn’t even noticed yet. but she had noticed. oh god, had she noticed. every missed call and unread text was like a dagger to his heart. he could practically feel your disappointment vibrating through his phone. the sheer audacity of his internship, requiring him to sit through endless discussions about treaties and bylaws while you were out there—waiting for him like some rom-com protagonist.

and what does he find when he finally arrives at campus? absolutely nothing. a deserted lot, the soft hum of crickets, and not a single trace of you. he rubs a hand over his face, groaning as he slams his car door shut. great, suguru. really great. not only do you make law students look unreliable, but you’ve also officially cemented yourself as a clown in front of the only person who matters.

so, he does the only thing a desperate man can do: breaks every traffic law ever invented, zipping through yellow lights and cutting corners like it’s his goddamn personal mission to get to the apartment before you disappear entirely. “please don��t hate me,” he mutters under his breath as his bmw roars down the street. “i’ll get on my knees if i have to. maybe not in public, but like…if it comes to that.”

meanwhile, you’re trudging through the dimly lit hallway of your apartment complex, the bus ride home having sucked every last ounce of life out of you. your feet ache, your bag feels heavier than ever, and your faith in men has plummeted to new depths. he didn’t even call back. the audacity, you think bitterly, fumbling for your keys. wasn’t i just defending international law men this morning? god, i’m so stupid.

you’re too busy cursing geto to notice the looming figure leaning casually against the wall by the elevator—sukuna. he smells like croissants and cigarettes, an objectively weird combination that somehow works when it’s him. his uniform—a black button-down rolled up to the elbows and an apron slung lazily over one shoulder—is dusted with flour. “yo,” he greets, his voice low and gravelly as always. you freeze mid-step, praying you don’t look like a drowned rat after that miserable commute. “uh, hey.”

“late night?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow as he takes in your obvious exhaustion. “something like that,” you mumble, trying not to sound as annoyed as you feel. sukuna’s sharp eyes flick to your bag. “bus, huh? thought you were too fancy for public transport these days. what happened to prince charming?” oh great. just what i needed, you think, rolling your eyes internally. “prince charming is currently on my list,” you snap, more to yourself than him. “yikes.” sukuna lets out a low chuckle, his smirk infuriatingly smug. “guess mr. perfect isn’t as perfect as you thought.”

“okay, first of all,” you shoot back, “i’m not having this conversation with you. second, why do you even care?” he shrugs, clearly unbothered. “i don’t. just funny to see you slumming it with the rest of us peasants.” before you can muster a witty retort, the sound of rapid footsteps echoes down the hallway. you both turn just in time to see geto rushing in, his tie slightly askew and his expression one of pure panic.

“there you are,” he blurts, skidding to a stop in front of you. his eyes dart between you and sukuna, his brows furrowing slightly. “oh, now you show up,” you say, crossing your arms. “did you have fun ghosting me for two hours?”

“wait, i can explain—”

“can’t wait to hear this,” sukuna mutters under his breath, earning a glare from you.

geto runs a hand through his hair, his words spilling out in a rush. “i got stuck at my internship, and they don’t let us use our phones— stupid rule, i know—but i swear i tried to get to you as fast as i could. i even broke, like, five traffic laws. maybe six.” you narrow your eyes, unimpressed. “and that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“no! i mean, yes! i mean…” he groans, clearly flustered. “look, i’m sorry. really. i’ll do anything to make it up to you. please don’t be mad.” sukuna snickers, leaning back against the wall. “wow. anything, huh? bold move, law boy.”

“can you not?” you snap at sukuna before turning back to geto. “fine. you can start by explaining why my calls didn’t matter enough for you to pick up.”

“they did matter!” geto insists, his voice rising slightly. “i swear, if i could’ve answered, i would’ve.” sukuna snorts, muttering, “sounds like excuses to me.”

“dude, seriously?” geto snaps, finally losing his patience. “guys, enough!” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “i’m too tired for this. suguru, if you’re really sorry, you can start by leaving me alone for the rest of the night.”

geto’s face falls, but he nods reluctantly. “okay. yeah. i’ll go.” as he turns to leave, sukuna shoots you a smug grin. “guess prince charming isn’t so charming after all.” you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose.

you’re sprawled out on your couch in the most dramatic fashion imaginable, mr. pickles perched on your chest like some kind of feline overlord. her tail swishes back and forth, slapping your face occasionally as if she’s judging you for your life choices. can’t even secure a law student, her gaze seems to say. and honestly? fair. lanas haunting voice croons “the other woman” from your speaker, because of course your brain thought this was the perfect soundtrack to your misery. who is the other woman, his degree? you wonder, staring blankly at the ceiling while mr. pickles kneads your collarbone with zero regard for your comfort. maybe it’s the un charter. maybe she’s prettier than me. you groan, picking up your phone to scroll aimlessly, only to see it light up with a string of notifications. it’s geto.

geto: hey. geto: i’m so sorry, seriously. geto: please don’t hate me. geto: gojo cat is crying.

and there it is, a picture of gojo cat edited with comically large tears streaming down his face. you snort despite yourself.

geto: i can explain. geto: the internship is evil. geto: satan himself probably drafted those treaties. geto: and i had to read them all. geto: sorry :((((

you roll your eyes but feel your lips twitch. the messages keep coming.

geto: look, i even made a playlist called “my apologies” to make it up to you. geto: song 1: sorry by justin bieber. geto: song 2: call me maybe by carly rae jespen. geto: song 3: i’m a fool by cee lo green.

you’re this close to laughing when another message pops up.

geto: please forgive me, i’ll do anything. geto: i’ll even let mr. pickles sit in the bmw.

now you’re grinning. typing back, you send:

you: door’s unlocked.

the next sound you hear is heavy footsteps thundering down the hallway above. you blink. “he’s running,” you mutter, barely containing your laughter. within seconds, there’s a knock at your door, and when you yell for him to come in, the door swings open to reveal a completely disheveled geto. his hair’s a mess, his suit jacket is halfway off his shoulder, and he’s panting like he just ran a marathon. “you’re serious about leaving your door unlocked?” he breathes out, a hand on the doorframe for balance. “why are you out of breath?” you ask, trying not to laugh. “you live one floor up.”

“sprinted,” he replies, straightening up. “priorities.”

mr. pickles hops off your chest with a disgruntled meow, sauntering over to sniff him. she gives a little approving chirp before settling down by his feet. “even mr. pickles forgave me,” he says, grinning like an idiot. “so, am i forgiven?” you lean back into the couch, trying to look unimpressed. “you sent me a justin bieber song.”

“a classic apology move,” he counters, stepping closer. “and gojo cat cried. that’s how sorry i am.” you roll your eyes but hold out your hand. “fine. you’re forgiven.” he takes your hand, pulling you up from the couch into his arms without hesitation. “good. because i’m never missing another ride again. next time, i’m picking you up in advance, like a whole hour early.” you snort. “you’d probably park outside my window and text me to hurry up.”

“absolutely,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “i’ll even bring coffee. and croissants.” mr. pickles lets out a loud, approving chirp. ah, love.

it did feel a little ridiculous, the way you were sprawled on top of geto on your couch, both of you tangled together in a heap of limbs. but neither of you seemed to care. he had one arm slung around your waist, keeping you steady, while his free hand lazily traced circles on your thigh. you were lying chest to chest, close enough to feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek. "you know," he said, voice slightly muffled as he buried his face in your hair, "if i ever screw up like that again, i’m giving mr. pickles full authority to end me. claws out, no mercy." you lifted your head to meet his gaze, one eyebrow raised. "oh, she’d do it too. and with that belly of hers, she’s got some extra power now."

as if on cue, mr. pickles let out a loud, approving purr from her spot at the other end of the room, delicately grooming her very pregnant self. her tail flicked in what you could only assume was satisfaction at being included in this hypothetical revenge plot. geto chuckled, his hands tightening slightly on your waist. "there you have it. mr. pickles as judge, jury, and executioner. i’m officially terrified." you smiled, tracing the line of his jaw with your finger. "as you should be. she takes no prisoners."

“and neither do i,” he murmured, his tone dipping as he tilted his head up to kiss you. the shift in mood was sudden but not unwelcome. his lips pressed against yours with the kind of determination that made you forget how to breathe for a second. his hands slid to your hips, holding you in place as he leaned back against the cushions, taking you with him. "you’re really trying to prove a point, huh?" you teased, breath hitching as his grip tightened. "i don’t think words are enough," he said between kisses, his voice low and smooth. "actions speak louder, right?" and speak they did. his hands wandered lower, firmly grabbing the soft curve of your ass, earning a surprised squeak from you. "suguru," you warned half-heartedly, though your hips involuntarily shifted against him. he grinned up at you, the picture of smug satisfaction. "what? i don’t hear you complaining."

“yet,” you shot back, but your body betrayed you, rolling your hips again as heat pooled in your stomach. "thought so," he said, voice dipping into a near growl. his hands guided your movements, holding you steady as he kissed you again, deeper this time. it wasn’t just apologetic; it was hungry, desperate, and laced with a promise to make up for every missed second. mr. pickles, ever the unbothered queen, yawned loudly from her perch. apparently, the impending chaos was none of her business.

things were absolutely peachy—literally and figuratively—because there you were, straddling geto on your worn-out couch like it was the most natural thing in the world. his tie had been discarded somewhere (you’ll probably find it wedged under the couch cushions next month), and his usually crisp shirt was wrinkled beyond salvation. his hands, warm and firm, roamed over your thighs and hips, eventually settling on your ass, which he seemed determined to commit to memory with the way he kept squeezing. it was flattering, really. all those squats and lugging around mr. pickles’ oversized carrier had not gone unnoticed.

“you’re really into this, huh?” you teased between kisses, nipping at his bottom lip just to feel the soft hitch in his breath. he grinned against your lips, shameless and unrepentant. “what can i say? i’m a man of taste.” his hands squeezed again, making you jolt slightly. “and damn, this is a masterpiece.”

“oh my god, suguru,” you groaned, half-laughing, half-mortified. “you sound like a bad rom-com character.” he tilted his head back, letting out a deep, rumbling laugh that made your stomach flip. “hey, i call it like i see it. can’t help it if i’m honest.”

“yeah, well, your honesty’s about to get you kicked off this couch,” you shot back, though your hands betrayed you, sliding up his chest to cup his face. “oh, c’mon,” he said, leaning up to kiss you again, softer this time, like he was trying to remind you exactly why you hadn’t kicked him out yet. “you’d miss me too much.” and then, because suguru geto couldn’t let a moment of peace exist, he smirked and said, “besides, you’re the grandma of the house. gotta respect my elders.” you froze, pulling back just enough to stare at him with a look that could melt steel. “excuse me?”

“grandma,” he repeated, entirely too pleased with himself. “you know, since you’re mr. pickles’ mom and all. technically makes you—”

“i swear to god, suguru,” you interrupted, cutting him off with a sharp pinch to his side that made him yelp. “do you have a death wish?”

“what? it’s a term of endearment!” he tried, though his laughter betrayed him. “you’re lucky i like nerds,” you muttered, but your lips betrayed you, curving into a reluctant smile as you leaned down to kiss him again. “lucky indeed,” he murmured, hands finding their favorite spot once more. mr. pickles, meanwhile, let out a loud, judgmental meow from her perch, as if to remind both of you who really ran this house.

and geto? geto was panicking. like, full-blown, internal monologue of doom panicking. sure, he looked calm on the outside—well, except for the faint pink creeping up his neck and the way his hands were starting to tremble just a bit against your hips. but inside? oh, it was a mess.

he loves ass. he loves your ass. in fact, he loves you. and while those three facts should be enough to keep him focused and confident, they were doing the exact opposite. because—plot twist—he hasn’t exactly been in the game for a while. “okay, breathe, suguru,” he muttered to himself under his breath, trying to keep his cool as your hands idly played with the collar of his shirt. but your superwoman instincts picked up on everything , and your raised brow as you looked down at him only made things worse. “you good?” you asked, voice soft and teasing, but laced with genuine concern. “yeah, totally,” he replied too quickly, clearing his throat like that would erase the way his voice cracked. “i’m just—uh. just, you know... thinking.” you tilted your head, watching him with that infuriatingly cute little smile that made his stomach flip. “about what? you’re usually a lot smoother than this, geto.”

“oh god, i’m blowing it,” he groaned, letting his head thump lightly against the back of the couch as he finally let the words tumble out. “it’s just... it’s been a while, okay? i’m out of practice or whatever, and now i’m worried i’m gonna, like, disappoint you or something. and that grandma joke? yeah, that was supposed to kill the mood so i could avoid all of this.” you blinked at him, caught between laughter and disbelief. “are you serious right now?”

“painfully.” he sighed, running a hand through his hair, his other hand still planted on your hip. “you’re amazing, and i just... i don’t want to mess this up.” for a moment, you just stared at him, and he could feel himself shrinking under your gaze. but then, the smile that spread across your face was nothing short of wicked. “oh, suguru,” you murmured, leaning down so your lips brushed against his ear. “you have no idea what’s coming, do you?” his breath hitched as your hand slid down to the buttons of his shirt, popping one open with a practiced ease that made his heart skip a beat. “w-what do you mean?”

“i mean,” you said, voice dropping to a low, sultry tone that sent shivers down his spine, “i’m about to make sure you never, ever doubt yourself again. you’re gonna be too busy thanking me to think about whether or not you’re ‘out of practice.’”

he swallowed hard, trying to think of a coherent response, but all that came out was a strangled, “uh — okay.”

“good,” you said simply, shifting your weight and sliding down his lap. and as he looked down at you, wide-eyed and completely at your mercy, one thing became crystal clear to suguru geto: he was absolutely, 100%, in over his head.

diva down? diva down. the diva in question being you. you, the self-proclaimed diva of the century, were currently on your knees, ready to turn suguru geto’s jittery, bashful energy into something far more relaxed—well, if relaxed meant completely wrecked. and honestly? you were thriving. “oh god,” geto let out a breathless laugh, raking a hand through his loose hair as he looked down at you, his cheeks pink and his eyes hazy with anticipation. “you don’t have to—”

“stop,” you cut him off with a teasing smirk, fingers already working on his belt with the precision of someone on a mission. “don’t ruin my moment, suguru.” he laughed again, that soft, breathless kind that made your stomach do flips. “right, wouldn’t dream of it.” as you slid his belt free and popped open the button of his slacks, you couldn’t help but notice how his chest rose and fell just a bit faster, the faintest hint of nerves lingering in his gaze. “you good up there?” you asked, giving him a little grin. “y-yeah,” he stammered, licking his lips. “just... uhh, taking it all in.”

“oh, you’re gonna be taking a lot more than that in a second,” you teased, tugging at his slacks. he groaned, tipping his head back against the couch as he laughed again, but he still lifted his hips eagerly to help you slide the fabric down. and holy shit. those slacks had been doing a lot of heavy lifting, and now, with them out of the way, you were faced with undeniable proof that suguru geto was not just hot, but also packing. “damn,” you muttered, your eyes widening just a bit as you took him in. “what?” he asked, his voice tinged with nervousness, but also curiosity. “nothing,” you said quickly, though your smirk betrayed you. “just... wow.”

“wow?” he echoed, his brows lifting.

“wow,” you confirmed, leaning in closer. “you’re full of surprises, huh?”

he chuckled softly, his hand coming down to rest gently on your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in a way that was almost too sweet for the situation. “i could say the same about you,” he murmured, his voice low and warm. “oh, suguru,” you said with a teasing lilt, your hands bracing against his thighs as you leaned in, letting your breath ghost over him. “you have no idea.” and as you finally got to work, suguru let out a sound that was half laugh, half moan, his head tipping back as his hand slid into your hair. yeah, it was definitely going to be a long night—for both of you. and honestly?

bless men raised by their mothers. or at least men who respect women beyond a surface level, because suguru geto? he was proving himself to be a certified sweetheart even with his brain turned to mush. "god, you're...you're so good at this," he babbled, voice pitched just enough to send a shiver down your spine. "like—ohhh, fuck—you’re perfect. seriously, i don’t know how—fuck—you’re even real."

you couldn’t help but smirk around him, though the sheer earnestness in his tone was making your head spin. suguru wasn’t just moaning—no, he was giving you a running commentary like his life depended on it. and honestly? the mix of his praise, his ridiculous vocabulary, and the raw honesty of his reactions were doing more for you than you cared to admit. "shiiit, babe," he groaned, his hand tightening in your hair as his hips shifted just slightly, like he was trying to hold himself back. "you’re incredible. so... so fucking—god, you’re beautiful." you hummed against him, letting the vibrations travel through him, and the broken moan he let out in response was almost enough to make you moan.“i—fuck,” he stammered, his free hand clenching and unclenching on the couch cushion as though he was trying to ground himself. “i can’t even—fuck, you’re amazing. you know that, right? like, amazing.”

it was ridiculous, really. this level of detailed, horny babbling shouldn’t be hot, and yet, suguru’s desperate, unfiltered honesty was doing a number on you. you’d kiss him if your mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied. “you’re gonna—oh fuck, you’re gonna ruin me,” he rasped, his words punctuated by a low, shaky laugh. “like, actually. no coming back from this. you’re—shit—so perfect, babe. i don’t even know how you’re real.” you glanced up at him briefly, catching the flush on his cheeks and the dazed, almost reverent look in his eyes. he looked wrecked already, and you weren’t even close to finished. yeah, men raised right were a blessing. and suguru geto? he was living proof.

suguru was going to cry. or die. or both. maybe at the same time. because when a simple, god-loving, god-fearing man like him thought of you—his girl, his love—his mind didn’t stop at the surface. no, it wandered far, far into the future. he dared to dream big: marriage, a nice house with you, gojo cat and mr. pickles running the place with their eventual brood of kittens, and maybe, if he let himself get really carried away, a kid or two of your own. but this? this was not in the script. not the way he imagined this happening, not this soon. was he complaining, though? no, not one bit. still, suguru couldn’t shake the way his brain was short-circuiting. what if you thought this was weird? not the moment itself—because, holy shit, this moment was unreal—but the way he couldn’t control the ridiculous rambling bubbling out of him.

“god, you’re... you’re gonna be the death of me,” he stammered, his voice breaking slightly as his hand tightened on the couch cushion beneath him. “seriously. i’m done for. you’ve—fuck—you’ve got me wrapped around your finger. literally, figuratively... h-hell, every way there is.” he let out a shaky laugh, his other hand brushing the edge of your jaw, his touch featherlight like he was afraid he’d break you—or worse, wake up and find out this was all a dream. “you have no idea, do you?” he murmured, his tone softening even as his breaths came uneven. “how much i—fuck, how much i love you.”

that admission was supposed to stay locked in his chest, hidden away alongside the future house and the diary full of thoughts he would probably never admit aloud. but there it was, laid bare in the open. his throat tightened as he watched for your reaction, his heart pounding in his chest like it was trying to break free. his mind raced with every possibility—what if you thought he was moving too fast? what if this ruined everything?

you were going to die. or cry. or both. maybe not in that order, but the emotional whiplash was real. because while you were—let's face it—giving the performance of your life, suguru geto had the audacity to play the wildest card in his hand: he told you he loved you. the words hit you like a sucker punch, making your brain screech to a halt. you paused, pulling him out of your mouth with a slick, obscene pop, a strand of spit still connecting the two of you as you gaped at him like he’d just told you the earth was flat. “wait, what?” your voice was hoarse, a little breathless, and full of disbelief. your hands remained steady on his thighs, but you weren’t about to let that slide. “say that again.”

suguru blinked at you, his flushed face half-covered by the messy curtain of his hair. and yet, somehow, he still looked every bit the breathtaking dork you fell for. “i... i said i love you,” he mumbled, his voice soft, but you could see the telltale signs of his nerves in the way his hands fidgeted at his sides. oh, you knew you won now. your lips curved into a sly, wicked grin, your heart pounding in your chest for reasons that had nothing to do with what you were doing moments ago. “good,” you said simply, your voice low and teasing, before brushing your thumb over his hip bone in a way that made him shiver. “because i love you too, suguru.” the way his eyes widened, his chest hitching in disbelief, was almost enough to undo you completely. but you weren’t done. oh no, not by a long shot.

you leaned in again, doubling down on your efforts with a newfound determination, your mouth warm and eager as you took him back in. this time, you didn’t hold back, letting him feel just how much you meant those words. the soft noises tumbling out of him turned into broken, desperate moans as you let him slide deeper, letting him bump against the back of your throat with a confidence that made his hips jerk. “holy—fucck, baby, ” he gasped, his voice trembling as his hands instinctively tangled in your hair. “you’re—oh my god—i can’t—”

and just like that, he was gone. the way his body tensed, his hand gripping the back of the couch like a lifeline, was all the warning you got before he tipped over the edge, his release hitting you with an intensity that left him trembling beneath you. you pulled back slightly, swallowing and smirking as he looked down at you with dazed, love-struck eyes, his chest heaving. “you okay there, lover boy?” you teased, wiping your lips with the back of your hand as you crawled up to straddle him. he groaned, dragging his hands over his flushed face, but even through his embarrassment, you could see the adoration shining in his gaze. “you’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, but the small, lovesick smile on his lips said he wouldn’t have it any other way.

somewhere in the tangled chaos of his mind, suguru was thinking about reciprocity in customary international law—something about how states are expected to treat each other in kind. why this popped into his head as he helped you up from your knees, he had no idea. maybe his brain was short-circuiting from everything that had just transpired. or maybe it was just his nerdy coping mechanism for the sheer intensity of what was about to go down. either way, he shelved the thought because all he knew—clearly, distinctly, and beyond a shadow of a doubt—was that you needed help. erm, his girl needed help. and suguru geto? he was nothing if not a gentleman. “alright, up you go,” he said, his voice warm and teasing as he hooked an arm around you, effortlessly lifting you.

before you could even fully process what was happening, he threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing, carrying you to the bed. “oh my god, suguru!” you squealed, smacking his back, but there was no real heat behind it. " shh, this is for your benefit,” he said, laughing softly as he adjusted his grip. and with a surprising amount of precision for a man who had just been thoroughly flustered minutes earlier, he tossed you onto the bed. somehow, miraculously, you landed gracefully—no awkward angles or unflattering positions. before you could catch your breath, suguru was already yanking down your pajama shorts, his movements sure and deliberate. his hair, still a little messy from your earlier efforts, framed his face as he looked down at you, his dark eyes filled with a mix of affection and hunger. you smirked, propping yourself up on your elbows. “you know, if you’re really feeling sorry, there’s one thing you could do.” his brows raised, intrigued. “oh? what’s that?”

“sit down,” you said casually, leaning back against the pillows. “because i’m sitting on your face.” suguru froze for half a second, and you could swear you saw his soul leave his body. but then he let out a low, almost reverent laugh, his hands already sliding up your thighs as he knelt onto the bed. “you’re killing me,” he muttered, his lips curving into a grin that was equal parts adoring and wicked. “but if you insist…” and as he settled himself beneath you, looking up at you with pure devotion, he thought to himself—if he had a ring right now, he’d propose without a second thought.

sit on his face? seriously? where the hell did that confidence come from? because let’s be real—have you ever sat on someone’s face before? no? yeah, that’s what i thought. so it really serves you right for hovering over suguru’s face in the most awkward, hesitant way possible after you practically tore your underwear off like a woman on a mission. and suguru, bless his sweet, sweet soul, was waiting so patiently. expectantly, even. until he let out this deep chuckle—low and warm and way too sexy for your own good—and before you could spiral any further into overthinking, he reached up and yanked you down onto his face. oh. OH. there was no time to process, no moment to think, because suddenly the same mouth that usually went on and on about laws, treaties, and whatever international nonsense was now french kissing your cunt like it was his one true calling in life.

you moaned—loud and borderline pornographic—but could you really help it? suguru groaned against you, the vibrations shooting straight through you as his grip tightened on your thighs, holding you firmly in place like he had absolutely no plans of letting you escape. you tried. god, you tried to play it cool. tried to pull a geto on him with a little bit of horny babbling of your own, figuring he’d appreciate the effort. but every time you so much as opened your mouth to string a coherent sentence together, suguru would double down on his actions—his tongue flicking or curling in ways that had you seeing stars—and whatever you’d been planning to say vanished into the void, replaced by high-pitched whines and breathy moans.

“suguru—oh my god—”

he hummed in response, the sound smug and almost teasing as he looked up at you from between your legs, his dark eyes practically glowing with amusement and pride. “you talk too much,” he mumbled against you, the words muffled but clear enough to make your face heat up. and honestly? you’d be offended if he weren’t so goddamn good at what he was doing.

geto was putting in the work. the work. and you? you were trying not to cry or completely lose your mind, but if you did, you had a sneaking suspicion he’d love it more than anything. the man had a thing for drama—especially if it was drama he caused. but in the middle of all this face-sitting, tongue-lapping, thigh-gripping madness, you noticed something else.

geto was hard. painfully so. the sight of him below you was already sinful enough, but the way his erection strained against his boxers, twitching every time you moaned his name, was almost too much. his response time to recover was unreal—maddening, even—but considering it was you on top of him, you liked to think you deserved the credit. and since a wise saying says to love your neighbor as yourself, you decided to help a man out. literally. your hand snaked down between you two, wrapping around his length with a touch that had him freezing for a split second. “what are you—oh, fuck, ” geto choked out, the sound muffled against your thighs as you yanked down his boxers and started stroking him.

he let out a garbled groan and—you couldn’t make this up—spat. he outright spat onto your cunt, the hot slickness dripping between your folds, and you? you loved it. the move earned him a sharp gasp, followed by a breathless laugh as you sped up your hand, squeezing him just enough to draw out those pretty whines you loved so much. “oh my god, suguru,” you teased, voice shaky but teasing nonetheless. “did you just—?”

“shut up,” he grunted, his words nearly swallowed by a low moan as you swiped your thumb over his tip. “you’re the one—fuck—driving me insane right now.” and judging by the desperate way he buried his face against you, tongue moving feverishly as his hips bucked into your hand, you’d say he was enjoying this just as much as you were. but the real kicker? when you came, your body instinctively pressed down against his face, your thighs squeezing tight enough to almost cut off his air supply. geto didn’t complain. not once. if anything, the muffled groan against your cunt and the way he jerked against your hand as he came told you he’d gladly die like this if it came to it. but luckily for both of you, you lived to tell the tale.

once the both of you had managed to throw on some semblance of clothing, clean up, and collapse into the bed, that’s when reality hit geto like a brick wall. what. the. hell. just happened. as he laid there, his arm slung lazily around you, your soft breathing against his chest, his brain decided now was the perfect time to spiral. he glanced over at mr. pickles, who sat perched on the counter in the kitchenette, her tail flicking in judgment. the cat looked like she was debating calling the authorities on him for defiling her beloved owner. oh god. what does this make the two of you?

no, scratch that. the real panic set in when he remembered: he told you he loved you. not in some subtle, cute, roundabout way either. no, it was the full-blown, l-o-v-e type of confession. the kind he wrote about in his secret diary he kept under his bed. the kind that implied white picket fences, shared dreams, and a life together. and judging by the way you were pressed against him, one leg draped over his, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his bare chest (because yes, the formal shirt had been entirely ditched), you were either about to let him down easy or...

oh god.

“you okay?” your soft voice snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts, your hand pausing its movements as you tilted your head to look up at him. he cleared his throat, his cheeks flushing. “uh, yeah. yeah, totally fine.” you squinted at him, your lips twitching like you were trying not to laugh. “you sure? you’re looking a little... out of it.” well, there was no way out of this now. in all his dorkus glory, he blurted out the dreaded question:

“so, uh... what are we?”

the words hung in the air for a second, and geto wanted to melt into the mattress. but instead of laughing or teasing him, you smiled, your expression soft and fond. “what do you want us to be?”

“i mean...” he swallowed hard, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. “i said i loved you, so... maybe something serious?” you grinned, pressing a kiss to his chest. “good. because i’m not letting you go after that performance, lover boy.” and just like that, geto decided he could die happy. even if mr. pickles never forgave him.

chapter 6: the class you’ll never forget

geto woke up feeling like the main character in some rom-com where everything had finally fallen into place. the sun was shining directly on his face, his skin was clear, the tension that had been tying his muscles in knots for weeks was gone, and most importantly, there was you snuggled up next to him. your soft snores were music to his ears, and mr. pickles' contented purring from her nesting area completed the picture. everything was perfect. except for the yeowling.

it started faint, like the distant sound of a car alarm, and grew steadily louder. groaning, geto rubbed his face. “what the hell...?” he suddenly bolted upright, realization hitting him like a freight train. “oh no. oh no, no, no.” you groggily stirred beside him, blinking up at him in confusion. “what’s wrong?”

“gojo,” he groaned, flopping back against the pillows dramatically. “i left him alone in my apartment last night. he probably thinks i’m dead.” you blinked, then snorted. “that’s dramatic, even for a cat.”

but geto wasn’t joking. he’d seen gojo cat throw tantrums over him leaving for ten minutes to grab milk. this? this was abandonment on a grand scale in the eyes of the overly dramatic feline. as if on cue, the voice of your landlord, yaga, boomed from the other side of the door. “keep that cat quiet, or i’m calling animal control!” you gasped indignantly, sitting up. “excuse me! mr. pickles would never—”

“it’s not mr. pickles!” geto groaned, already throwing on his pants. “it’s my overly theatrical—”

just as he was about to open the door to go upstairs, a loud thud echoed from the direction of your fire escape. the two of you froze.

“what was that?” you whispered.

geto peeked out the window, his jaw dropping. “oh my god. no.”

there, perched precariously on the fire escape outside your window, was gojo cat. his tail swished furiously, and he was glaring through the glass like he had just tracked his runaway owner down on sheer willpower alone.

“he... jumped from my window to yours.”

“that’s, like, one story up!” you exclaimed.

“i know!”

gojo cat let out another ear-piercing yeowwww! that sounded suspiciously like he was cursing geto out in feline language. “okay, okay , i’m coming!” geto sighed, sliding the window open to let the cat in. gojo cat pranced inside with all the dignity of someone who had just won an olympic gold medal, ignoring you entirely as he hopped onto geto’s torso and began aggressively kneading his shoulder. “i’m sorry, okay?” geto muttered. “i didn’t mean to abandon you.” gojo cat meowed smugly, his forgiveness conditional.

“so... how mad would you be if i told you yaga still thinks this is mr. pickles’ fault?” you asked, biting your lip to hold back a laugh. geto groaned, flopping back onto the bed, gojo cat still perched on his chest. “this is my life now. cat dad, tenant offender, and boyfriend to the world’s most beautiful woman.” you grinned, kissing his cheek. “and don’t you forget it.”

gojo cat, ever the drama queen, was about to make a grand display of his wrath, his tail swishing like an emperor preparing to deliver a royal decree. but then, he saw her.

mr. pickles. lounging in her nesting area, belly round with her impending litter, she cast him the most witheringly judgmental side-eye known to catkind. it wasn’t even subtle. her disdain radiated like heat off asphalt, and for a moment, gojo cat’s indignant rage faltered. but then, like the suave rogue he believed himself to be, he straightened up, puffed out his chest, and strutted toward her with a confidence that could only be described as delusional. it was all tail flicks and exaggerated steps, as though the very floor beneath him had the privilege of bearing his paws.

and then—smack. the grand feline tumbled, face planting into the ground with all the grace of a wet noodle.

you tried to stifle your laugh, but the sound still slipped out. geto choked back a snort, muttering, “that’s my boy.” mr. pickles, however, did not laugh. no, the dignified queen merely let out a single approving chirp, a sound that might have translated to "pathetic, but amusing." gojo cat, undeterred by his embarrassing mishap, rose with renewed determination. and with the kind of courage that made you question if he had a screw loose, he approached mr. pickles once more, his intentions clear.

“no way,” you whispered.

“he wouldn’t,” geto added, equally mesmerized.

but he did. gojo cat, in what he undoubtedly believed was the ultimate gesture of love, began grooming mr. pickles. grooming her. and she let him.

for a moment, you thought she was going to swipe at him with all the fury of a hormonal mom-to-be. but no. she actually closed her eyes, her purring like a soft motor. it was... surreal.

“did we just witness the biggest romance of the century?” you asked, genuinely baffled. “bigger than us?” geto teased, pulling you closer. “way bigger,” you deadpanned.

as you both watched the unlikely duo share their moment, you couldn’t help but laugh. gojo cat was clearly putting his all into his attempt at love, and mr. pickles? well, she looked like she was actually enjoying it.

“ah, love,” geto sighed dramatically, resting his chin on your head. “even dumber than us,” you added, shaking your head in disbelief.

you were on cloud nine, feeling a level of peace and contentment that only came from having a hot law nerd boyfriend and a cat with enough sass to rival gojo cat himself. geto's bmw hummed quietly beneath you as the two of you cruised toward campus. it wasn’t just the morning coffee kicking in; it was the knowledge that if this man dared to be late—even by two minutes—mr. pickles would end him. like, not even metaphorically. she’d leap on him, claws out, and make him regret. because mr. pickles loved his hair. she loved kneading it, curling her paws into his long, luscious locks as if claiming her personal throne. and honestly? you got it. if you were a cat, you’d do the same. hell, even as a human, you’d do it (and did, regularly).

as he pulled into the parking lot, the goodbye routine began. “don’t forget to text me when your class ends,” he said, already pulling you into a warm hug. “don’t forget to pick me up, or we’re breaking up,” you countered sweetly, earning a laugh from him. “you’re scary, you know that?” he teased, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “and you’re my very gorgeous, very whipped boyfriend,” you shot back, leaning up for a kiss. he wouldn’t dream of ghosting you—not when you were this beautiful, amazing, kind, and, obviously, a little unhinged. as he opened your door and helped you out like the true gentleman he was, he insisted on walking you all the way to the front entrance. his hand rested at the small of your back, a gesture that had you swooning even as you teased him.

“you do know you’re going to be late, right?”

“worth it,” he replied with a grin, bending down to kiss your cheek. but just as you were about to part ways, a booming voice shattered the moment.

“GETO! LAW STUDENTS BUILDING! NOW!”

you both turned to see a very exasperated professor waving frantically at him from across the quad. you couldn’t help but laugh as geto sighed, muttering under his breath about how “love is a battlefield.” he gave you one last kiss, muttered a promise to pick you up later (or else), and jogged off. you watched him go, smiling like an idiot as you whispered, “ah, love.”

the day started fine. better than fine, actually—you left geto’s bmw with a kiss and the knowledge that your cat, mr. pickles, was safe and sound in her nesting area, glaring at gojo cat with the fury only a pregnant feline could muster. but halfway through your lecture on post-modern feminist theories (a riveting topic, truly), your phone buzzed. it wasn’t a normal notification. no, it was the cctv feed suguru had installed as a “gift” to keep an eye on your “queen” (read: your absolute dictator cat). and there she was—mr. pickles—kneading her nesting area with an urgency that sent a chill down your spine.

“oh. oh no. oh dear god.” you whispered, staring at the screen as she let out a war cry that could only mean one thing: grandmahood was happening. you shot up from your seat so fast your desk screeched against the floor. “is everything okay?” your professor asked, startled by your abrupt movement.

“uh, yeah! just — cat emergency! she’s — uh — giving birth!” you stammered, already halfway out the door.

“congratulations?” someone in the back called out, earning a round of laughter you had no time for.

you sprinted through campus like a woman possessed, your backpack bouncing behind you as you cursed yourself for not realizing mr. pickles’ morning mood wasn’t jealousy but labor. and then—because fate had to test you—geto appeared, casually strolling toward the law building with his usual unbothered grace. “babe?” he called out, watching you bolt past him like you were auditioning for the olympics. “no time to explain!” you yelled over your shoulder. he frowned, putting two and two together because, let’s face it, the man’s a genius. “is it mr. pickles?!”

“YES!”

and then he started running behind you.

“suguru!” you wheezed, already out of breath. “GET YOUR CAR!”

“why?” he shouted, effortlessly keeping pace with you.

“because we’re running across a campus that’s like thousand acres and I WILL DIE!”

he paused, muttering something about how you were so dramatic, before pivoting on his heel and sprinting toward the parking lot.

you barely made it to the main road before suguru’s bmw skidded to a stop beside you.

“get in!” he barked, throwing the passenger door open.

“i swear to god, if she starts delivering while we’re stuck in traffic —”

“she’s not gonna start without you,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“cats don’t work like that, suguru!”

“well, neither do women, but here we are,” he shot back, pulling into the driveway of your building.

you bolted out of the car, taking the stairs two at a time while suguru trailed behind with all the urgency of a man who knows he’ll be the one cleaning up whatever mess awaited. when you burst into the apartment, mr. pickles was mid-contraction, glaring at you like, finally, my useless human has arrived. gojo cat, meanwhile, looked terrified, hovering at a safe distance as if he was considering calling 911. “okay, okay, we’re here!” you panted, dropping to your knees beside mr. pickles. suguru followed, looking at the scene with wide eyes. “do...do we call a vet?”

“no! she’s got this. we just have to support her!”

“support her how?”

“i don’t know! emotional support?”

“she’s a cat!”

mr. pickles let out a low growl, silencing suguru’s protests. “okay, okay, i’ll shut up,” he muttered, backing away slightly. the door creaked open, and there stood shoko, still in her scrubs and sporting the exhausted yet curious expression of someone returning from a night shift only to walk straight into chaos. “what’s going on here?” she asked, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. you barely spared her a glance as you clutched suguru’s arm. “mr. pickles is in labor. it’s a whole thing. prayers are appreciated.”

“prayers?” she scoffed, stepping closer. “i’m a doctor. i got this.”

relief washed over you. “thank god, shoko! we could use an actual professional!”

but the moment she peeked over the edge of mr. pickles’ nesting area and caught sight of a tiny kitten halfway out, her calm demeanor shattered.

“OH MY GOD, WHAT IS THAT?!”

“what do you think it is?” suguru deadpanned, visibly unimpressed. “i don’t know! i didn’t sign up for this!” shoko shrieked, stumbling backward and holding her hands up as if warding off an unholy demon.

you blinked at her, utterly dumbfounded. “aren’t you a doctor?”

“a human doctor! this is nature gone rogue! ”

mr. pickles, clearly unamused by shoko’s dramatics, let out a low, guttural growl that sent the so-called professional scurrying back to the doorway. “you’re on your own,” shoko muttered, lighting a cigarette like the events unfolding in your living room weren’t directly her problem. meanwhile, gojo cat, always the overachiever, decided he needed to help. unfortunately, his idea of help involved attempting to paw at the nearest kitten. “don’t even think about it!” suguru warned, his voice laced with exasperation.

but it was too late—mr. pickles, mid-contraction, turned her fiery gaze on gojo cat, who froze like a deer in headlights. one wrong flick of his tail, and mr. pickles let out a feral hiss that could have sent shoko back to med school. gojo cat, realizing he had crossed the line, slinked back to the corner, tail tucked between his legs, his usual swagger replaced with what could only be described as embarrassed defeat. “well, that’s one way to keep him in line,” you muttered.

“this is insane,” shoko said, still watching from the doorway. “how do you people live like this?”

“we manage,” suguru replied, his tone completely void of humor as he massaged his temples.

the next hour was a whirlwind of cat screams, your whispered words of encouragement, and suguru pacing like an expectant father in a sitcom. “should we name one after me?” he asked at one point, earning a glare from both you and mr. pickles as she finally let out one final push, and another tiny kitten entered the world. you let out a relieved sigh, and suguru finally cracked a smile. he was crouched beside you, holding your hand as if you were the one giving birth. “you did amazing,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“she did amazing,” you corrected, motioning to mr. pickles.

“team effort,” he replied with a grin.

and as mr. pickles began cleaning her newest babies, shoko muttered from the door, “you’re all insane. call me when it’s over.”

“you’re the godmother, shoko!” you called after her, earning a muffled string of curses as she disappeared down the hall.

“we’re gonna need so much cat food,” he muttered, pulling you close.

ah, the miracle of life.

a few weeks had passed since d-day—delivery day, or as suguru had renamed it, “domestic chaos day.” the kittens were growing faster than you thought possible, transforming your once peaceful apartment into a battlefield. mr. pickles ruled the roost with an iron paw, while gojo cat’s ego took a daily beating as the kittens bested him at every turn. every time one managed to leap higher, run faster, or swipe his tail just right, his tail would puff up in indignation like a furry balloon. you’d managed to rehome a few of the kittens, starting with shoko.

her kitten—affectionately dubbed “roach” for her uncanny ability to survive despite zero effort—was the perfect match. low-maintenance, unfazed, and perpetually napping. shoko had initially protested, but now you’d catch her sending you pictures of roach curled up in her sink or casually perched on her liquor cabinet.

then there was yuuji. poor, sweet, persistent yuuji. he’d campaigned harder for a kitten than some politicians do for office. the boy went through hoops — begging you, suguru, choso, sukuna, and even mr. pickles. you weren’t sure how he’d pulled it off, but eventually, he was deemed worthy of a black-and-white troublemaker he promptly named “gumi.” the kitten adored yuuji and spent most of his time riding on his shoulders like a parrot, though you suspected yuuji let him get away with far too much.

sukuna, on the other hand, had reluctantly taken the runt of the litter after it refused to leave him alone. “don’t need some damn cat,” he’d grumbled the entire way home. now? the tiny kitten followed him everywhere, even sneaking into his apron pockets after he came back from work. he pretended to hate it, but the soft grumbles about “stupid runt” were always followed by careful, protective pats on the kitten’s tiny head.

but the biggest surprise of all came when suguru decided to make your relationship public—on linkedin. linkedin, of all places.

it had started as a joke. you’d teased him about not “properly asking you out” after all this time, and before you knew it, he’d crafted a three-paragraph-long post about you. “in a comitted relationship with the love of my life, and no, this isn’t a humble brag — it’s a masterpiece,” he’d typed with the fervor of a man defending his dissertation. the post included references to romantic literature, quotes from classic movies, and, somehow, a detailed analysis of how mr. pickles and gojo cat played pivotal roles in your story.

you’d wanted to die of second-hand embarrassment, but the post blew up. colleagues, professors, and even strangers commented, congratulating the two of you. “you’re insane,” you’d told him, hiding your face in his chest as he laughed. “insane about you,” he replied, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

life wasn’t perfect — it was loud, chaotic, and occasionally overwhelming. but with mr. pickles, gojo cat, and your ridiculous yet lovable boyfriend, it was better than you ever imagined.

feline parenthood? best decision ever.

860 notes · View notes

nouearth · 8 months ago

Text

red right hand.

pairing. henry cavill x male reader.

word count. 7.3k.

summary. if there was one thing to give your dad credit for (other than helping create your very existence), it was that he has an insanely hot best friend. it was a universal admiration your neighborhood shared with one another. though, how many actively feasted upon their fantasies regarding that hunk of a man? probably only you, because mr. cavill was more than a crush, he was an addiction. and on one summer day, mr. cavill realized that so were you.

content warning. college!reader, dad's best friend!henry, neighbor!henry, age gap, blowjob (r!giving), degrading, throat-fucking, choking, gagging, spitting, kissing, humiliation, body and muscle worship, rough-play, size difference, dirty talk, verbal, praising, size kink.

The warm wind fanned the sweat off your forehead when you slid your window open. The ledge stained your fingers with particles of dust. Grimacing at the fuzz and simultaneous stickiness, it also provoked a storm of laziness as steel reminders from your dad got caught up in the commotion: CLEAN THE HOUSE.

CAR MAINTENANCE.

STOP ORDERING TAKE-OUT AND COOK.

SORT THE ATTIC.

TIDY GARAGE.

CHECK STOVE IGNITIONS BEFORE LEAVING THE HOUSE.

LOCK THE DOORS.

Ya-dah, ya-dah…

Honestly, how could you check-off any of these tasks with this heatwave currently going on? You were sweating bullets, been sweating enough to bathe in your own salt for days now—which you technically were already doing. It was summer, the long-awaited season after the agony of allergies. A temporary relief to your studies as well, until the humidity hit you like a truck and made you realize that living back in a dorm wasn’t so bad.

At least the building had a functional air-conditioner.

“Uh-huh, yep.” Your dad’s voice was going in one ear and out the other as you rummaged through your cabinets for a snack. Cereal; stale. Canned meat; too heavy. Potato chips; not heavy enough. “Dad, you know you’ve gone on business trips before, right? This isn’t the first time I’ve been alone.”

“I know, but I’m just making sure. It’s a new house, and I’ve been watching these true crime documentaries about men leaving clubs and—“

“Well, the first mistake was going to a sketchy club in the first place…” You muttered, peering into the fridge, and then lingering, because refrigerator air has never felt so cooling against your skin. You duck your head to puzzle yourself into the cold box, dumbfounded that the heat had gotten you irritated enough to claim a bag of deli meat as your bunkmate for the time being. The sound of your dad’s frustrated sigh on the other line curled your frown into a smile, and you laughed, “I’m a big boy. Stop worrying, and go enjoy—Ow!“ You bumped your head against the door on your way out.

“How can I not worry when you just referred to yourself as a ‘big boy?’ Not even a man?!” You never realized how theatric the man was. It was like his presence never left the house, exaggerated hand movements and all wafting the smell of his homemade meals whenever he would scold you in his favorite place: the kitchen. You smiled at the fond memories.

“Good point—“ Though they were made at your old house, you were sure that once he’d returned, your dad wouldn’t be opposed to creating new memories of scolding your ass off on whatever trouble you’d get into. If you do, that is. You’ve grown since then, finding yourself too tired to socialize.

“Remember, spare key’s in the birdhouse. There’s a compartment at the side of it. Hopefully birds haven’t evolved enough to pick it open.”

“If they have, they’d be picking at our locks right now to kidnap me and probably feast on my body.” Luckily, the fridge was stocked before your dad had left. You crucified him for being overly-prepared at times, but for this month, it was an exception. You picked at a slice of deli meat and cheese, and stuffed it down your mouth.

“Not funny, (M/N).”

“I’m kidding, Dad. Lighten up! I know you’re nervous about presenting, but they invited you to talk to an audience for a reason. They like you. Just be yourself, and remember not to speak so fast. Have some water on standby too.” And speaking of the devil, you gulped down a glass of iced water to cool down your body as your dad chuckled in your ear.

“I know, I know, thanks.” A muffled sound on the other end filled the silence, sounds of people passing and cars honking passing through your ear. “Alright, my ride’s here. I’ll call as soon as I get to the hotel, okay? You better answer—Oh! I forgot to tell you! Henry’s coming over later to look at the car.”

“Henry—Oh, Mr. Cavill? He’s in the neighborhood?” The name rattled a familiar feeling inside of your stomach. Something rather warm, suddenly ravenous when you thought about the last time you saw him.

“Actually, he was the one that told me about this house! He lives down the street. But tool’s in the garage if he asks for them, okay?”

“Y-yeah, okay. Got it.” You hadn’t seen him many times. Only when you’d come home from semester breaks, yet the mere mention of his name had you flustered as if he was a long-lost friend or something.

“Okay, gotta go. Love you, and remember, lock your doors! Bye!”

“I will! Bye…” Your phone blinked back to your previous app after ending the call.

You knew he was your dad’s best friend; a divorced father and a bachelor unsurprisngly made a match in heaven.

He was someone that shared your father’s interest in tabletop games and comic books. A replacement for yourself you thought earlier on, but he was way more knowledgeable about those interest than you ever were. You grew up on your dad’s nostalgia. For Mr. Cavill and your dad? These memories altered them who they would be in the future.

He was a friend that would help your dad out on building projects, like that birdhouse he had mentioned. He was a charming man that built the PC you currently use after hearing you complain about the previous laptop you had. And best of all, his looks were as abundant as his kindness. Standing over six feet tall, with a chiseled face that matched an equally sculpted body; he’d been a little crush since you first met him, being the only man who was capable of rendering you utterly speechless.

And in present, the only man who had the power to tighten your briefs and shorts with only a passing thought of his body; muscular and athletic in all the right places. If only your dad could somehow muster up a beach day before summer ended. Either way, the image of his bare body excited you, the blood flow immediately rushing south in agreement. Your dick kissed your shorts at the thought water cascading off his hulking body like meltwater over an ice shelf, freezing you in your place to not-so-subtly gawk.

“Jesus…” Your body couldn’t catch a break, could it? With the ramping heat and the constant sweating, your erection only added fuel to the bonfire that was the pores of your skin. Your cock pulsed madly within the constraint of your briefs, teasing yet begging to be released, to be sheathed from its slick, because it knew you had the key to its relief.

Or rather, Mr. Cavill did.

It was pathetic. You’d been at this for a year now. As much as you were unfamiliar with Mr. Cavill’s disposition, it was certainly the opposite regarding his physical appearance. Though it hadn’t exactly occur to you when this crush of yours had been tiptoeing along the lines of obsession.

Wait, was it an obsession..? No, no, it was just a crush.

You hadn’t done anything wrong. All you had done was browse through his social media—he did follow you, and you mutually pursued—and stalked—no—scrolled through his posts. Thank god, he was an avid poster. Pictures of his selfies, his knack for grilling, his love for his pet dogs, his pride over his geeky hobbies, his friendship with your dad and mutual buddies—all of these pieces attributed to allowing you to get to know him more as you were rotting away on campus, missing life back at home. Like clockwork, looking at his feed brought a sense of comfort, a hope that maybe you could be part of his life as well.

“God, what I’d do to ride that mustache…” You blurted out your thoughts, hyper-aware that you were alone in the house. You’d been waiting for this. You’d been surrounded by your roommates 24/7, and then once break started, your dad wanted to insert himself into your schedules as much as he could before the next semester starts.

As much as you loved them, you needed space. A space bigger than the privacy of your own room. You deserved the whole house to yourself after enduring months of agony from overdue assignments; stress from bickering roommates that led to chaos within the dorm. You haven’t jerked off properly in months, often resorting to a quick session that comforted you on the occasions you’d have to pull multiple all-nighters to get a project done.

You needed relief.

You needed pleasure.

“Fuck,” Your eyes had been fixated on Mr. Cavill’s social media feed as you stripped yourself free of clothing. On one hand, it helped your body cool off from the heat building in the house. On the other, you felt vulnerable, like someone could walk in on you any second, and god, was that a turn-on.

A grid of his life displayed happily before you, and your thumb scrolled aimlessly in pursuit of multiple pictures ingrained in your brain that had your cock throbbing in your palm. You laid flat on the couch, earbuds fit snug in the canals after briefly switching apps to play your favorite porn in the background of your search. Your stomach sunk deep when the man began moaning in your ears. Hot like the blistering sun outside; you can imagine Mr. Cavill breathing against you like that, as you took his cock in like the video you had playing. Your balls pulled when the man grunted, “Right there,” and you couldn’t help but pull at the ache of your cock, then at your balls to fondle at the loose stretch of skin.

“Right there,” you repeated when your thumb paused at the desired video of Mr. Cavill. Another major part of his lifestyle was working out. Strength training, cardio, marathons. You name it, Mr. Cavill did it all, exceptionally well, and the crème de la crème of it all was that he bared his torso for most of his videos. “Fuck, you’re so big… Fuck, fuck…”

It was like watching a warrior prepare for battle. Sweat dripped off the holiest parts of his body as he pumped his muscles with heavy weights. Grunts, heavy and lewd sounds filled your ears while Mr. Cavill powered through his body’s resistance. You wondered to yourself if he could take you like that. Force you to take him with brute strength like the weights in his muscular, veiny hands. You were stroking yourself to him, every part of him, palm slick with sweat and spit. Two fingers would get the job done, stretching you out in preparation for his cock. Though, you knew deep down that it would take more than that. Three, or maybe even four, considering the hunk of a man was seemingly built from metal. The video replayed multiple times before you remembered that he had more than enough content for you to jerk off to. You were barely five minutes in, but this was already more pleasurable than whatever you had endured back at the dorms. Your cock felt pleased, spitting out dribbles of thick pre-cum that loosened the stick of your palm as donation to your generosity.

“Fuck, Henry…” You rarely referred to him by his first name. It felt unusual. You were much younger than him. Addressing someone closer to your dad’s age felt rude, like you were trying to assert your dominance despite your age difference. You were many things, but disobedient was not one of them. However, you couldn’t lie. His name felt polishing to your tongue, something that could improve the taste of dreadful meals if one were to whisper it before taking a spoonful.

His name felt like a miracle.

Your sexual appetite was nourished by the frames of Mr Cavill’s second video. He was completely unaware he was bulging, free-balling in his sweaty shorts while he pursued his vitality through jumping jacks, lunges, toe-touches—cardio galore that made his heavy cock bounce in rhythm. You could tell he was large, gifted with insane girth to the point where you could make out the shape of his cock just from him stretching. And the smell; sweat sticking on thick curly hairs on his chest, and a happy trail that seemed to promise a world of musk if you ever had an opportunity to endeavor upon your curiosities. You were practically salivating for him, saliva pooling where your tongue sank, while your cock leaked. You pumped yourself quicker and harder at the frustration that your desire to taste Mr. Cavill’s cock would remain a pipe dream.

All that left you was your imagination, and your own musk. Pulling up at your glans, you squeezed out thick loads of pre-cum before swiping it with your thumb and tasting it off with a suck. Salty, bitterly pleasant on your tongue, and satiated enough to not let your libido falter at the disappointment that it wasn’t Mr. Cavill’s pre-cum, but rather smolder.

“Oh, fuck my mouth… I need that cock, Mr. Cavill. Please—“ The frames of the third video showcased him flexing his arms and torso. His body bursted with pride, veins surging through every fiber of muscle like they were charging him and his very existence. It was veiny too, wasn’t it? His cock. Large and veiny, like how you’d like it. You would struggle fitting him inside of your mouth while his cock veins pulsed with great pleasure knowing that it was Mr. Cavill’s kink that you couldn’t take him.

No one could.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—“ Your eyes rolled back. The slurping sounds from the porn increased by tenfold as you pumped the volume by a few decibels. Lewd, slick sounds you wished you could perform on Mr. Cavill himself violated your ear drums. Pleasure him. Thank him on your knees for being so kind to your father. For building your PC without compensation. For providing you temporarily relief while you were away on campus, and could only jerk off under the blanket. You were grateful for him. For Mr. Cavill. For his thick arms. For his veiny forearms. For his dashing good-looks. For his muscles. For his strong cock. You’d give yourself to him if you could. Worship every inch of his step, every inch of his body, and that still wouldn’t be enough to show your appreciation towards him.

Your fist tightened. Your other hand had grown limp by now, dropping your phone to the floor by mistake, but you were too fixated on the pleasure your cock was receiving to retrieve it back. You could watch it from where you were laying, just like this, slickly twisting and pumping your cock to the sound of the porn, to the sound of Mr. Cavill grunting simultaneously as if his thick cock was being feasted on like a hungry beast. “Mr. Cavill, please—I’m going to—“

One earbud slipped from the sweat building on your body, but you were close. So fucking close to coming. And when you do, you’d come on your phone.

All over Mr Cavill’s pecs. His abs. His crotch. His face. Anywhere, as long as it was your friendly neighbor, because—

“Enjoying yourself, (M/N)?”

A voice from behind you alerted your body to jolt and whip around upon instinct to defend yourself. Naked or not, you weren’t going to die, not in the hands of a burglar.

Though, as soon as you did, you regretted it. You felt like stone. Cold, hard stone as all signs of life seemingly felt like it had been sucked dry out of your body, with your erection taking up most of the produce surprisingly as you confronted the intruder.

The six-feet, muscular, handsome, and familiar man of an intruder.

“M-Mr. Cavill?! What—When did you—“ You were flustered. Radiant heat blooming like the season of Spring across several patches of your naked body. It also didn’t help that your porn could be heard from earbuds once you took the remaining one out, albeit a bit muffled. And your phone, it was facing the ceiling, looping the video of Mr. Cavill training over and over again. Right before him.

Your body was shaking, physically evident despite your efforts to conceal the tremors as the man stared you down, unfazed by the drama of it all. “Fuck—“ You didn’t know what to turn off first. The porn? The video of him working out? Or maybe dressing yourself should be a priority because—Mr. Cavill was still staring, blues lingering on your naked body, seemingly outlining every drop of sweat that followed the contours of your figure. There was movement that naturally caught your attention.

It was his hand, large and muscular over the center of his shorts. Rubbing, squeezing, fondling at an evidently large mass that made you dry-swallow. You mustered up the courage to finally pause the porn, then clicked your phone off. “H-how long have you been watching?”

“Since the beginning.” He chuckled, stating matter-of-factly. “Your dad told me to come look at your car. Your garage was open. Thought you did that for me, but I guess you really just forgot about closing it considering…” He nodded towards your cock, licking his lips when it acknowledged him with a throb. “Was coming to get you, and I found you like this.”

“And you just watched?!” You sputtered out in distress, hastily dressing yourself back into your clothes, stumbling over your feet in the process. Sweat always made it more difficult to put on clothes.

“Well, I did call you for while I was coming in. You didn’t hear me over your video, and…me, I suppose.” It was smug. Amusing to him that you were in this state of embarrassment after being caught red-handed. You groaned, burying your head into your knees after sitting back down on the couch. The heat was unbearable, but to face Mr. Cavill after being caught jerking off to his videos, you were overcome with horror at the ghastly spectacle of the situation.

“Don’t tell my dad about this,” Your fingers scraped through your scalp out of frustration, but also to keep your head pressed to your knees as they interlaced around you. You refused to even spare one more glance at the man when you felt him practically hovering over you, a gentle smile riding along the coattails of his composure. “…please.”

“I won’t,” Mr. Cavill’s voice sounded clearer, closer than before. Right above you, but still, you maintained your position despite the pleasant scent of his cologne almost breaking away your focus. “Just as long as you suck me off.”

Those final words hit you like a truck.

You were astounded, confused by the turn of the situation. It felt like a taunt, and it was treated as such because it worked. You whipped your head up upon Mr. Cavill’s demand, almost insulted because it was how guys on campus used to taunt you.

What you expected to grace your eyes with was his face; charming as ever with a mustache that was reliable in stirring immense feelings inside of you.

Instead, you were met with a face full of flesh, Mr Cavill’s heavy and large cock. It sported a strong curve, throbbing veins to prove its accelerating lust, with thick balls swinging low to entice you into a hypnotic state. If someone was to grade you upon your predictions, you’d score a perfect mark, because god damn, he was huge. Hairier than you’d expected, though just as arousing, if not more, because this was unexpected for Mr. Cavill as well. He would’ve cleaned himself a bit if he had a plan to meet you under these circumstances.

“I—You’re serious?” With the string of thick pre-cum dripping from the very slit of his head, it seemed like your question was answered. You could smell him. The musk of his pre-cum. It tingled your nostrils, enchanting you akin to what fresh pastries would’ve done for you on normal, non-libido provoking circumstances.

“Does it look like I’m kidding? Come on, I’m waiting. You didn’t even say ‘thank you’ to me in person when I built you that PC for Christmas. It’s the least you could do, right?” Without warning, he took ahold of his cock and tapped the center of your lips with it. Your orbs shook as you looked up at him, hesitant through the tremor of your lips as Mr. Cavill stared back, determined for you to accept his plea offer with some kind of answer—with your mouth preferably. “Been teasing me for so long… Think I didn’t notice the way you looked at me whenever I came over? How you kept massaging your cock under the table during dinner? Always in those shorts too… God, you were begging to be fucked with your thighs showing like that.”

“No—I-You’re my dad’s friend, I can’t—“ Your hand said otherwise with your fingers taking initiative on their own, wrapping over his large cock, right above Mr. Cavill’s fist. It was a two-hander, a fucking two-hander, yet your fingers struggled to close around his girth. “Fuck, you’re so…”

“Your dad doesn’t have to know, right? I won’t tell. You won’t either. We don’t want to hurt him, right?” One of his hands found its way to the back of your head while he took a step closer, bringing his cock closer to your face. Before you could pull away, there was true grit to the palm of Mr Cavill’s hand as he applied pressure to the back of your head, pressing your cheek flush to the underside of his cock. “Look at you, you don’t have the heart to say no, do you? You’re obsessed with my cock, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes, Mr. Cavill…” You were under his control. Locks of your hair bundled under a grip while he ground his cock against your supple skin, making you smell him; his musky cock, the sweat buried in the deep hairs of his pubic area. It was a glorious scene that returned your cock back to its original state of arousal by tenfold.

“You’re going to be a good boy and suck my cock off, right?” Almost in your mouth. You parted your lips open to trap his cock into your mouth with the way he maneuvered your head like a rag doll, a brute strength your nape now, pulling and pushing your head as his cock rubbed against your face, but Mr. Cavill pulled at the last minute, right when you were one lick away from tasting meaty flesh. “Close your mouth. You will open your mouth when I tell you so.”

“I—I—Yes, please...” You were pathetic. He held you still, head tilted upwards to face the ceiling and his towering body while his cock and balls laid over your face like a table runner, a perfect heater to warm his meat. A t-shirt remained on his body, and that was a true testament to his appeal, being able to get you off like this half-naked. You reached down, back to fondling at your sore cock, at the blue balls you’d given yourself earlier, sniffing, inhaling the heavy delightful scent of his sweaty cock. Guess his house was having air-conditioning difficulties too.

“I can use your mouth however I want?” He dragged his cock over your face, the head leaking out pre-cum in midst of its journey to introducing itself to every one of your facial features, saving your lips for last.

“Yes,” You gulped at his rousing speech, breathing in the drying musky pre-cum on the perimeter of your skin. “Please fuck my mouth, please—“

“If you’re good, then this can be a regular occurrence, yeah?” You slipped your shorts and briefs off again, jerking yourself off to simply the teasing taunt of his cock, tapping at your skin, brushing over your eyelids, pushing up against your nose. You felt humiliated. You’d been marked by Mr. Cavill, pathetically as it only took his huge cock to make you submit to him. “You’d like that? Sucking your dad’s best friend off?”

“F-fuck, yes…” His cock was a wand to your body. Every time Mr. Cavill was seemingly about to push into your mouth, you willingly opened it to no avail, even if it was obvious that he’d pull away. You could only get off on his scent for so long. He’d draw your tongue out when he squeezed pre-cum out the tip of his cock, right above your pink flesh. It would sink, drip, slowly like syrup, in thick strings, until it wasn’t anymore with the sudden obstruction of Mr. Cavill’s finger swooping in to nick the sticky web, and letting it waste away on the carpet. “Please, Mr. Cavill… I-I’ll be good…”

It was amusing to him, watching you desperately try to taste and watch him in any way you can, to the point of going cross-eyed as he would center his cock in your vision. He waved his cock like a flag as if he had conquered you. Humiliated you with several heavy slaps to your face, thick smacks that you took in whimpering grace because Mr. Cavill had stolen the resources to your insanity.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Mr. Cavill didn’t waste a single second for you to prepare yourself. The pressure on your nape steeled, bruising to make you open your mouth and whimper, and maybe that was the point, because he seized the opportunity to charge his cock inside of your mouth without warning, making you gag on your own desperation. It was a forewarning. A brief prologue on how you should take his cock as he quickly pulled himself out to properly prepare yourself. In the meantime, he slapped your cheek multiple times with the spit you had already layered him with, cooing at how incredible hard and big he was against your dazed face.

“Fuck, your mouth is so warm. That’s it, you can take it. Good boy.” Saliva spilled out of your mouth like a popped water balloon when he pushed himself inside of your mouth again. You couldn’t control it. You couldn’t control what Mr. Cavill had stripped away from you with the strength he had on your neck. Not to mention, the mass of flesh gagging you into oblivion, leaving you completely incapable of stopping him, as if you wanted him to. “Come on, use your hands too. Don’t be lazy.”

“Mm-mmf…” A compliance that was muffled by a slur of slick sounds, but Mr. Cavill knew what you meant. Amusement played on the corner of his lips as you struggled to fit a hand around the base of his sticky cock, sloppily stroking what was left neglected by your mouth, or rather your inability to take in. You suckled on the head of his cock, plump and heavy on your tongue as it throbbed with every lick you provided him. Stroking its slit with the tip of your tongue, you then dug and slobbered over the salty taste of his pre-cum. “So big… Just like I’d imagined.”

You pulled away to marvel at the size of his cock, taking your time to lube his cock with your spit from tip to shaft before your fist flushed to his pelvis to slap his meaty cock on the pouch of your tongue, lewdly flinging your spit in the air. It was your favorite move, often reliable in coercing a reaction out of the men you’d sucked off previously. The roll of his eyes, the flex of his muscles, the grunt from his gut; you slobbered all over his cock, worshipping every inch with your mouth, polishing the cock knob clean with your tongue and stroking what you couldn’t with two deft hands. Mr. Cavill was no different, he was a man with needs like you, with needs like the rest of the men you’d given head to, and you exploited the hell out of it. You loved making them feel in power, making them feel like you were worth time out of their day, despite their original pleas to use your mouth.

He briefly pulled back to rest a kiss on your lips, one that you’d treasure for the rest of your life. Not only was it because it was your first kiss was him, but because of how delicate he was with you. Warm and inviting like he usually was, his large hands cupped at the end of your jaw, holding you as if you were made of porcelain. “Making me so proud right now, fuck. Take in more of my cock, would you? I like it when you gag.”

“Mm-hmm…” They always do. You mumbled against his lips, no longer needing his guidance to finish what you’d started. Your eyes were glued to Mr. Cavill, aroused by the look he was giving you. A famished stare that demanded to be satiated, by means of sheer persistence as you knew it was going to be difficult to down him with your throat.

Mr. Cavill drove a hand into your hair, cuffing the strands to keep you still, to keep you from pulling away, to dominate you. He watched you without an ounce of kindness, muscles flexing, cock and balls hanging obscenely as you found a better position on your knees with a throw pillow guarding you from bruising. “Want you to throat-fuck me, Mr. Cavill.”

“Fuck, who knew you had such a mouth on you…” He sturdied his stance, spreading his strong legs while manhandling your head between them. You licked a stripe over his balls, then the underside of his cock until your tongue reached the scorching skin of his precum-slicked tip. Approaching the end of the journey, your mouth opened wide to welcome Mr. Cavill back into your mouth, and like tugging on a loose knot, you drew out moans from within his gut, his body loosening in turn of your hot mouth. “Fuck, just like that…”

With a thundering heart, and a building pleasure so morbidly big, you sunk and lowered your head lower, taking in Mr. Cavill’s horse-cock like a fleshlight. Crimson rose to your cheeks, to your neck, as you strained to maintain him inside of your mouth. He was too big. You’ve utilized all the tactics you’ve learned on campus, on a few buddies, on your roommates. Breathe through your nose, relax your tongue and jaw, let your saliva drip out. Yet you’d barely taken a few inches more than you had done prior before a couple of gags alerted you to take a breather. Your head pulled back, but it was met with violent opposition as Mr. Cavill brought your head back down to further shove himself down your throat.

“Mmm—gggrgh!” Your body jolted in defense, stiffening your body into an upright position when you couldn’t refrain from gagging on his cock. Your hands braced on his strong thighs for balance, squeezing at the muscly flesh of skin to distract yourself from the uncomfortable stretch your mouth was receiving.

“Fuck, yeah. Fuck, fuck, just like that. You’re taking it like a good boy.” You were making him proud, so fucking proud. You coughed, gagging, almost choked on your own spit, but the stuffing of Mr. Cavill’s large cock simultaneously emptied your mouth of saliva as it all came flooding down your mouth in lewd webs. “Shit, look at that. I’m making your mouth water, aren’t I? Fuck, what a waste.”

He yanked your head back, pulling him out of your throat, and you had never felt such relief. Breathing, exhaling and inhaling deep to compensate for the prediction that Mr. Cavill wasn’t going to let you spare a second of abandoning his cock like that. Your eyes watered, reddened from straining your muscles to make him fit inside of your mouth. You knew there was a shift in the room when you looked up at him like that, glossy in the eyes, tremors involuntarily making your knees unsteady, coughing as you held onto his thighs. He towered over you, you were beneath him, beneath the ravenous gaze he simultaneously terrified and seduced you with. You couldn’t complain now. You did your job. You made him feel powerful like you’d wanted. Dominating, as his cock leaked in your spit, and spit your saliva back onto your face.

“You were fucking hungry for my cock, weren’t you? Look at you. You’re a bloody mess…” With one swipe, he gathered the layers of spit you had generously supplemented his cock with, and smeared it across your face. You took his humiliation with good grace, moaning at your loss of pride with every smear. It deducted the more he messily layered your face with your own spit, but as demeaning as it was, there was immense merit to the satisfaction on Mr. Cavill’s face. “Open up.”

“M-mm, ah—“ Your mouth opened with a vulgar sound. If Mr. Cavill had something to compare it to, it would be like sticking a spoon into a cup of jello, and then scooping its content out. Sweet and glorious to his ears, salty to your mouth as he bought your head forward again, and plunged his cock back down your throat, deeper, and further within the confines of your throat. You squeezed around him, eyes clenched tight while he brought your face flushed to his pelvis, the hairy bush of his public area gentle abrasive against your nose. He smelled as delectable as he tasted. A hint of spice, sweat, salt, you could lick at it if it was made into a popsicle, lap it up if it was in a bowl and you were on all fours, bowing to his feet.

Your cheeks bulged as your mouth churned internally to produce more slime to seemingly ease the slide of Mr. Cavill’s cock thrusting inside of you now. He was careless, half-bent over your head to lock you into a tight embrace while his spit-polished cock rubbed at either side of your cheeks, rut against the roof of your mouth, then thrust himself into the depth of your warm throat. You couldn’t have escaped if you had wanted to. He was too strong. Two hands unrelenting around your head while he packed his large cock deep into your mouth, pelting into your gags and whimpers with fast, sharp thrusts, the sound of his wet dick choking you mutually turning you and Mr. Cavill on. You want to quit, yet he was choking you too good. Water streamed down your cheeks. Whether it was your own spit, sweat, or tears, you couldn’t comprehend it because Mr. Cavill was uncompromising, refusing to yield for your comfort.

You were fucking grateful. That was what had been missing from your college experience. A man. Someone taking charge for once. Someone utilizing you like the whore you made yourself out to be. Mr. Cavill saw right through you, through your taunts from several breaks ago, and he was fucking furious for making him wait.

“Shit, I’m close,” Fucking your mouth furiously. You could get off like this. Fuck, no. You were getting off to this. Fucking your cock with your fist, doing your best to match the pace of Mr. Cavill’s hips. You wanted to look up, to watch his face morph from admiration to animalistic desire as he utilized your throat at his own disposal.

You blinked away your tears, even if they had stung, and gawked at how captivating Mr. Cavill was for being selfish, thrusting into your mouth with one hand keeping your face free of your hair from obstructing his view. A frown permanently framed his mustache, and his dark brows furrowed at the approaching climax. He wasn’t looking at you. Rather, he was scrutinizing your wet mouth as it was jam-packed with his cock. How could a mouth look so pretty while doing something absolutely obscene? How could a throat feel so tight, so addictive, even after piping his cock down its drain several times? How could you let him treat you like this, a complete stranger, completely violate and humiliate you on your knees, like a broken doll whose purpose was to fulfill a man’s deepest desires? Maybe he needed to have a talk with your father. Talk about how broken you were, and that you needed fixing. Spend a nights with him at his house, and he would help you rewire your brain. He’d fix you. Fix you with his cock. With his lips. With his hands. With his body. Your eyes rolled back at the thought, fisting your cock faster, twisting to his heavy grunts as he was nearing closer and closer to the edge of his insanity.

“Mfghm!” Your throat felt raw, the subtlest whimper scratching at your throat like claws on chalkboard. But you persisted, pumping your shaft vigorously, your ears lapping up Mr. Cavill’s constant appraisal for your performance. Good boy. That’s it. You’re taking my cock like how I want it. You want your reward? Fuck, sloppier. Spit on it. Spit on my dick. I like it sloppy.

Sweat pebbled every inch of your skin. You couldn’t take it. It was coming. Your stomach sank and steeled upon the sudden rise of fulfillment, and you quickly released your grip after a final stroke before coming into the air. Thick ropes catapulted upwards, your cock throbbing with every pulse, and your balls emptying itself more and more with a bounce, a twitch, and a jolt. “F-fuck, ugh…”

“Fuck, yeah. Look at all of that cum. Fuck. You came that much just from my cock, look at that…“ Your body spasmed as the carpet soaked up your semen. His voice gruff yet gentle at the same time, making your cock twitch once more before softening.

“Come on, not done yet. Suck me off.” He spat out, tugging your head forward after a quick breather.

Something in you clicked, and you began sucking his cock off like it was your job. Twisting, stroking at the slick shaft while nipping at the head while you caught up to your breath. Suddenly saltier on your tongue as some of your cum had landed on your hand before it was smeared across Mr. Cavill’s dick. You’ve never tasted yourself before, but it was a found contentment you didn’t expect to turn you on.

Then, you took one last breath, cleared your throat, and charged forward. Long, thick inches slid into your throat once more, and you’d hold yourself there upon his final warning, mouth agape, lips pressed into the fur of his pubic hair. Your tongue flattened at the underside of his veiny cock, and your nails dug into the back of his thighs as you felt a thick warmth rush down and coat the inside of your throat. His cock throbbed, and Mr. Cavill’s grunts emptied from his gut with every spill. You could feel every heavy pulse as Mr. Cavill came down your throat in heavy, creamy spurts. You didn’t want to swallow. Not yet. You wanted to savor him. Savor the taste of his cum. You’d pined for it for so long, for all you could know, this could be your last opportunity to properly taste him. Slowly, but surely, his loads rose and pooled in the back of your throat upon barricading it with a tighten of your trachea. The rest of his spurts emptied on your tongue as he pulled himself out, and milked himself to completion.

“Don’t swallow yet.”

You nodded, panting, awaiting for his nuts to be emptied as he flung his cock a few times, hurling drips of cum and your spit over your tongue and face. When he was seemingly emptied out, his gaze fixated on his cum pooled in the back of your throat; semi-translucent and filthily swimming with your own spit, and then Mr. Cavill’s own saliva, as he then spat into your crowded mouth.

“Now swallow.”

You whimpered at the vulgarity of this affair, yet you were highly-aroused by this shame you were feeling. Mr. Cavill’s gaze stilled, anticipating with calm amusement while petting at your cheek. With one clean gulp, you downed your guilt, scrunching your nose when the salty taste of his spunk throttled your tastebuds, and sighed in satisfaction.

“Does your throat hurt?” He was on his haunches, carefully examining your throat as if he had his hand around you from the outside. It was a surprising return to his normal self, at least, the man that you knew as your dad’s best friend. Caring and patient, as he tended to your neck with apologetic kisses, and a gentle massage around your nape, where he must’ve gripped too hard upon your jolted reaction.

“A little… Didn’t take you were one to be rough like that.” Your knees gave out, letting yourself fall back onto your butt knowing that the couch would catch your position.

“Not usually, no… You just… happen to rile me up for some reason.” He was smiling, joining you on the floor, and nuzzling his furry mustache into the crook of your neck as if he wasn’t choking you with his cock a few minutes ago. It was unusual, yet charming. “Seriously, don’t tell your dad, okay?” He whispered into your ear before turning your cheek to look deep in his eyes.

A meaningful stare, a beat of silence, before you spoke, “Only if you promise me something.”

“What’s that?” Mr. Cavill pressed a kiss to your swollen lips, another apology for stretching your mouth without much warning.

“You really meant it that this would be a regular thing if I did a good job?” Mr. Cavill scoffed at first. It was almost embarrassing. Were you being naive? Was this too good to be true? Your cheeks flushed red, and you solemnly casted your gaze downwards, defeated because that was that it felt like. The sound of rejection always came with a scoff, everyone knew that.

“Well, it was going to be a regular thing even if you had accidentally bit my dick off.” He suddenly laughed at how susceptible you were by the smallest actions, and at this moment, you were surprised that maybe this crush wasn’t so one-sided after all. He teased at your frown, kissing the corner of your mouth until it was a smile, and then prodding at your sides when you resisted. “Come on, you couldn’t possibly think this was a one-time thing.”

“Tempting…” You snuck a head in between his thighs, reaching for a certain tool that had brought in so much pleasure and pain to your body. “I don’t know… we don’t talk much. I don’t know you that well.”

“Don’t.” Mr. Cavill teasingly warned, stopping you by taking ahold of your wrist. Though, one step too late, as you already cupped his flaccid cock, tormenting his balls with a few tugs and squeeze of your palm as an act of revenge for your throat. “Well… then let’s get to know each other. No problem doing that, right?”

“Mm-mm, guess not.” Pursing your lips, you nodded, feeling placated by his words.

He sighed into your mouth, kissing you again, licking at the inside of your mouth, tasting your tongue and then your cheek, to soothe his selfish stain on your body with the work of his mouth.

“First, I want to hear you say ‘thank you’ for building that PC of yours before I promise you anything.”

“Jesus, we’re still on this?”

“Yes! Do you know how long that took me?”

“I didn’t ask you to build me one—“

“God, you’re an ungrateful brat.”

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. and if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

#henry cavill x male reader #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x you #henry cavill x y/n #henry cavill x m!reader #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill fic #male reader #x male reader #henry cavill fanfiction #x m!reader #gay reader #bottom male reader #male reader insert #nou.fics

2K notes · View notes

7s3ven · 2 months ago

Text

MAFIA AU! TASK FORCE 141 x MOB BOSS GF! READER

( master list )

Continuation of this

Do y’all want individual oneshots of how you met each of them?

Notes: reader has piercings (ear lobes and navel piercing + gets a tongue piercing), reader has tattoos (tramp stamp + shoulder)

Princess treatment… only the best for their sweetheart.

- There’s nothing these four men won’t do for you. Oh, you want more clothes? Price is already contacting a high-end boutique. You’re favourite YSL heels broke? No worries, Kyle has a back-up pair. You want a tongue piercing to match your navel one? Jonny is already making the appointment. You want a specific type of lobster that’s only found in a foreign country? Simon somehow has it on hand.

- The day you decided to get tattoos is the day Simon stopped functioning. He had his fair share of ink plastered on his skin but he can never look away from that damn tramp stamp on your lower back. It’s hard to concentrate when you stretch and your shirt rides up, giving him a clear view of the taunting tattoo

- It’s no secret that everybody is jealous of your relationship with your boys and vice versa. You’ve seen women eyeing your lovers, attracted to their muscles and tall height

- Trips to the mall are your favourite thing in life. They always have been. It gets better when your lovers start accompanying you. You’re on the phone, rattling to your friend about her unhealthy relationship with her boyfriend

“I don’t see the appeal in him anymore, Miae. I mean, he’s like, a total jerk.” You pause to take a sip from your iced tea, “He doesn’t even treat you with respect. That’s like, the first rule of being a boyfriend! On top of that, his cologne reeks. I literally drown in it every time I’m near him!”

- You best believe your boyfriends are trailing behind you, secretly listening to the conversation and agreeing that Miae should breakup with whoever this guy was

- You’re carrying multiple shopping bags as you stride forward, people subconsciously making a path for you. You look a spoiled heiress with four large bodyguards towering over everybody

- Price, Kyle, and Simon aren’t usually interested in gossip but when they hear about your gossip nights with Jonny, they have to join. They end up listening to you rant about a rather sticky situation your friend is in and when they see you next, they always ask for updates

- Online shopping is a must. What kind of girl would you be if you weren’t debating whether to buy that skirt or not?

- Your apartment has always been… messy. You never find the motivation to clean it and even if you do, you get overwhelmed quickly. Gaz intervenes most of the time, cleaning it for you. He cooks too. And bakes. Anything to see a pretty smile on your face

- Of course, Price bought you the apartment. It was the best (and biggest) one for sale

- All four men have a soft spot for you, doing things they usually wouldn’t just to hear your laugh. And they are the masters of cheering you up when you’re on your period

- If anyone dares flirt with you, it’s over for them. It’s an unspoken rule within the city that you belong to the TF 141 mafia

- The four men love seeing you dolled up. Most of the time, you’re wearing items they’ve bought you. You treat the Dior bag Simon gifted you like a damn puppy

- You are their whole world and you know what they say; ‘happy wife, happy life’. Sure, you aren’t married yet but it’s bound to happen soon. Your friend swore they spotted Price and Simon looking at rings

- Anything you want, you get, which includes new nails. Price adores paying for your nail appointments. The sight of you staring down at your decorative nails in awe when you think he isn’t watching is adorable

- Johnny isn’t so innocent. Yeah, the nails look good but they feel even better being raked down his back

- Kyle is the one surprising you with flowers. You once returned to your apartment only to find it overtaken by nature. He even leaves cute little notes in hidden spots

- Simon is… Simon. He’s not doing outwardly romantic gestures, choosing to keep it behind closed doors. His way of showing his love to you in public is keeping you close, a strong arm wrapped around your waist. Sometimes he lets you sit on his lap, his leg bouncing as a way to preoccupy himself while you scroll through celebrity drama

- They’ll be damned if they let someone else sweep you off your feet. It’s not like you’d leave willingly anyway. They spoil you too good and you feel too safe in their arms to even think of leaving

391 notes · View notes

sea-lanterns · 4 months ago

Text

PSYCHO

synopsis: (slasher! AU) you find yourself at a creepy inn in the middle of nowhere.

featuring: hu tao

rating: 18+ smut (men and minors dni)

warnings: sub! afab fem reader, dom character, stalking, peeping, perverted character, yandere-ish character, ooc character, peepholes, mast.urbation while peeping, breaking and entering, usage of a se.x to.y, fin.gering, shower se.x, degradation, obsessive character, not proofread.

art credits: my hero academia

The rain was heavy and loud, beating down against your windshield as your wipers fought furiously to keep your window clear. Driving out late at night in the middle of a storm was not ideal, however you really wanted to get to your destination soon without having to sleep on the side of the road again, so you continued to press on.

As the minutes passed by, it appeared the rain wasn’t letting up anytime soon, forcing you to seek refuge at any of the nearby motels in the area. Though you were literally driving through the middle of nowhere, your eyes spotted something flickering in the distance; a beam of red light that was unmistakable for a sign. You drove closer, pulling up to the sign and reading it through your watery windshield; “Wangsheng Inn” it read in big bold letters, a beacon of safety in the raging storm around you.

“Ah…screw it.” You grumbled to yourself, pulling into the parking lot of the motel so you could rest for the night. This would definitely take a small dig into your wallet, but at this point anything was better than driving in the storm.

You parked your car and got out in the heavy rain, immediately getting soaked under mother nature’s downpour. You hurried to grab your bags from the trunk and drag them to the dimly lit check-in office in the corner. Through your hurry to get inside as soon as possible, you failed to notice the shadowy figure watching you from behind the curtain, watching as you scrambled across the parking lot to get to the office.

‘Cold cold cold cold’ you mentally cursed yourself and opened the door to the office, the warmth of a nearby radiator hitting your face and making you sigh with relief. Ah…that was better. You hurried inside and shut the door behind you, letting the warmth and dryness of the indoors seep into you while you walked up to the front desk.

Huh, that’s strange. There was no one there. You waited a few moments before looking over at the bell on the counter, underneath a sign that read “Ring for Service.”

So, like any other functioning adult, you tapped it once. Twice. Until finally you heard footsteps shuffling in the room behind the office, the door finally opening and revealing a young woman with a cute smile.

“Ah, hello there!” She greeted rather cheerfully, her demeanor already coming across as cute. “Didn’t expect anyone to be out in this weather. Quite a storm huh?”

“Uh, yes. It really is.” You were taken aback by how energetic she was so late at night, but you chalked it off as just her doing her job. “I would like to check in for the night.”

“Just one night?” The woman smiled peculiarly.

“Ah…yeah. Just until the storm goes away. I’m kind of in a hurry.” You glanced at your watch and noted it was almost 9pm now.

“Awe…I see.” The woman sounded almost…disappointed. “Well in that case, you can have Room 1! It’s right next to this one and it’s vacant, like all our other rooms…”

She laughed off her small joke and extended her hand while she flipped through the guestbook. “Anyways, I’m Hu Tao, proud owner of the Wangsheng Inn.”

“I’m (Reader)” you responded calmly, giving her a small handshake in return. She smiled when you took her hand, seemingly enjoying the feel of your hand around hers. “(Reader)…that’s a pretty name for a pretty girl.”

You smiled nervously at the compliment, wondering if she was flirting with you or not. You wouldn’t mind usually, but right now you were tired and just wanted to take a hot shower and lie down in a warm bed. “Yes…thank you. Uhm, may I get the key to my room?”

“Oh! Of course, of course!” She hummed nonchalantly, grabbing a key off the wall. “You must be exhausted, please make sure to enjoy all the luxuries our rooms have to offer.”

She winked at you and handed you the key, its small weight pushing firmly against your palm. You held it securely in your grip, nodding as you let her escort you to the room next door. The rain outside poured heavily still as you dragged your luggage behind you, opening the door to Room 1 and turning the lights on inside.

Hu Tao soon followed suit behind you as you took in the warm hospitality of the room. Like the office, it was warm and well lit, a comfortable place to stay the night while you waited out the storm. “Here it is, our famous Room 1 suite!” Hu Tao exclaimed jovially. “Does it accomodate to your tastes, ma’am?”

“It’s lovely for such a bargain price. I am surprised you didn’t charge me any higher,” you hummed in astonishment, setting your luggage down on the floor.

“Well, no one really drives through these parts. The Wangsheng Inn is off to the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. I have no choice but to make the rooms cheap,” she smiled softly, looking at you. “Though, I was quite surprised to see you tonight. Out in the storm in the middle of nowhere, what exactly were you doing out there…?”

She leaned in close to you, her face just inches away. Your breath hitched and you felt the hairs on your neck stand up on end, a little creeped out by how prodding she was being.

“Erm…please don’t take this the wrong way but that is my own business to worry about,” you responded firmly. Hu Tao chuckled and took a step back, raising her hands up in surrender. “Right, I apologize. I shouldn’t have been so nosy.” It seemed that no matter what the topic was, Hu Tao always had a smile on her face. Though it was slightly unsettling, you chalked it off as just being her personality. “It’s alright, though…I would like to unpack for a bit. My clothes are soaking wet, so I’d like to change.”

“Of course ma’am. Let me know if you need anything, my office is right next door.” She grinned and walked out of your room, shutting the door behind her. Now alone, you stood in the middle of the quiet room, taking a deep breath and shaking off the unnerving feeling you felt after encountering the manager.

‘What an odd woman…’ you thought to yourself, beginning to unload your luggage and dig through your clothes. ‘Quite attractive…and somewhat charming, if not for being so nosy.’

You sighed and pulled out a few clothes from your suitcase, wondering what to wear to bed before hopping into the shower.

“This should do…” you murmured to yourself, pulling out a pair of pajamas and setting it on the bed. Slowly, you began stripping out of your wet clothes, your skin glistening from the moisture of your clothes, beautiful and refined. As you were busy changing, you suddenly felt as if you were being watched, a feeling of unsettling fear rising in your chest.

…That can’t be right though. You were alone in your motel room, surely your paranoia was just playing tricks on you.

You shrugged off the feeling and began taking off your underwear, eager to step into the warm shower and wash away the grime of today.

In the office room next door, inside the back room where only Hu Tao was allowed to enter, she breathed heavily and watched you through the peephole hidden behind her picture frame, eying the way you slid out of your undergarments rather sensually. On the surface, Hu Tao appeared as a quaint and spry young woman, effortlessly charming with her bright smile and casual demeanor. However, underneath it all; she was just a huge pervert, fingering herself to the sight of you blissfully unaware that you were being peeped on by the innkeeper next door.

‘God…how beautiful,’ Hu Tao thought to herself, unable to contain her sleazy grin as she pressed her fingers deeper against her clit. Her thighs buckled with each forceful motion of her fingers, drooling over the sight of your beautiful body just out on display for her. ‘It’s not often that a pretty lady like her shows up…goodness, I’m a mess.’

Hu Tao stifled a whimper as she pushed her fingers further up her cunt, feeling her velvety walls clamp tightly around her digits. She was a complete mess just watching you, her pants pulled down to her knees while she touched herself imagining various fantasies with that stunning body of yours. The loneliness and isolation of running a roadside inn was really catching up to her as she craved to feel another woman against her body.

“Turn around…” Hu Tao whispered to herself, lusting for the sight of seeing your breasts and full body on display. “Oh fuck please turn around…”

She eyed you hungrily before watching as you turned around to grab a towel, her pussy throbbing at the sight of you exposed before her.

“Nnnh…damn.” Hu Tao licked her lips and fingered herself faster, watching as you went into the bathroom to shower. She didn’t have a peephole to look in there, but she could imagine the warm water cascading down your body, the room all hot and steamy as your body grew slick from the moisture. Hu Tao couldn’t take it anymore, her thoughts were growing stronger and her body’s needs were becoming more urgent.

She slid another digit in, closing her eyes and trying to urge herself to release. No matter how hard she thrusted, or added another finger, or ground against her hand it still wasn’t enough. She needed to have the source right in front of her.

“Well…looks like I’ll be using that spare key after all…” Hu Tao mumbled to herself, sliding her slimy fingers out of her folds and pulling her pants up.

Turning on the shower head, you let out a sigh of relief when you felt the hot water run down your body. All those hours of being cooped up in your old car left your body cramped, an ache present in your muscles as you stretched them out to get them working again. “My back is killing me…” you grumbled, arching your back to hopefully sort out a few knots that have gathered. You took some soap and lathered your body up, relieved at the sensation of being clean again after so long.

Your eyes fluttered shut under the shower head, so lost in your pleasant shower that you failed to hear the sound of your bathroom door slowly opening. Each footstep fell onto deaf ears as the shadowy figure in front of the curtain drew closer, raising something in their hand that looked strangely long and pointed.

The shadow continued to stand there, almost as if they were admiring your silhouette showering like a creep. They stood there for a few more moments of silence, before suddenly yanking the shower curtains open, causing you to open your eyes abruptly.

You let out a scream once you saw the figure in front of you, covering your chest and backing up against the wall. The hardness of the tiled wall hit your back with a cold slam, adrenaline spiking in your veins once you saw who had broken into your room.

Hu Tao? The innkeeper?!

She stood there with that same, chilling smile like always. “I figured your body was quite sore after your journey, so why don’t you let me deal with that for you…?”

Her eyes went half lidded, obsession swirling in her eyes before she raised the object in her hand. Your breath hitched and you immediately let out another scream, raising your hands to shield your body and face from the knife you thought was in her hand. What you expected for pain and bloodshed did not come, however. Instead, only the soft chuckle of Hu Tao’s amusement rang out, causing you to hesitantly open your eyes.

In her hand…wasn’t a knife, no. It was long… but definitely not sharp. Far from it in fact.

Heat rose to your cheeks and you let out a confused whimper. Was…that a sex toy?

“Didn’t think you’d be so terrified of a dildo…” Hu Tao giggled, stepping into the shower with you, still fully clothed. You felt adrenaline spike in your chest as she backed you further against the wall, pinning you there. For a few moments, Hu Tao just stood there, admiring your naked form as the hot water dripped down her face, her wet hair sticking to her skin. If not for how utterly psychotic she looked, you had to admit that her hair all wet really added to her physical appeal…

“Oh, looks like you’ve finally quieted down,” She giggled, slowly tracing the tip of the sex toy up your thigh. “Good girl, can’t have you screaming in fear when you should be screaming in pleasure.”

…Did your pussy just throb? You had no idea what your body was doing right now, a mixture of fear and arousal pooling at your core. “Wh…What are you doing here?” Your voice trembled greatly, unsure if you should fight, flee, or freeze.

“As the innkeeper of Wangsheng Inn, it is my duty to make sure all our guests’ needs are met,” she licked her lips and leaned closer, her breath tickling your own. “Especially for the pretty women we so rarely get.”

She giggled and traced the tip of her dildo a little higher, eliciting goosebumps in their wake as it got closer to your core. The steamy bathroom was not making your desire any less stronger, but although you were already trembling in fear, a part of you felt your knees buckle at the curious temptation Hu Tao had to offer…

“Let me show you a good time…” she purred, the lust glistening in her eyes. It was clear she was heavily attracted to you, “I promise I won’t hurt you…if you don’t want me to.”

You should not have gotten as turned on as you did, but that longing inside you was curious to know just how good this innkeeper really was. Unconsciously, you found your head tilting downwards in a nod, before Hu Tao immediately moved forward to kiss you. Her tongue immediately darted in between your lips, catching you off guard before sliding her fingers up to cup your already wet cunt.

Though her fingers were on the smaller side, they were quite lithe and flexible, gently pinching your clit before rubbing tight circles around your heat to get you to relax. You found yourself bucking up against the innkeeper’s fingers, the hot water amplifying your sensitivity while Hu Tao drooled over how your walls spread so easily for her.

“Nnnnh fuck, you feel even better than I expected…” she purred, getting lost in the feeling as she speared your warm folds further apart. “Gettin’ so wet for me already…how naughty. Did you touch yourself in here thinking about me? You can’t be this wet and pathetic~”

You grumbled and shook your head no, causing Hu Tao to grin and degrade you further.

“Well…you’re gonna be touching yourself a lot more after this. Gonna have this needy pussy craving to be filled by me everyday.” She laughed and pushed her fingers deeper, filling you up while she thrusted at an uneven pace. Hu Tao was getting so wet and pent up already just watching you, and she knew she had to get to the main event soon if she wanted to climax tonight.

‘Damn…I wanna see her take the toy. She’d be so hot trying to take it.’ Hu Tao bit her bottom lip as her perverted thoughts made their way to her brain. The more she felt her fingers get squeezed by your cunt, the more she longed to see you squeeze the toy she chose for you as well.

“I think you’re wet enough. Let’s move on to the big one, alright?” She stifled a giggle and slid her slick-covered fingers out of you, not bothering to clean them off in the shower water as she stuck them in her mouth instead. “Mmmmpf.” Her eyes filled with lust as she moaned at the taste of you, suckling her fingers rather lewdly to emphasize how much she was enjoying it.

She took her sweet time in cleaning off her fingers, her warm tongue sliding over each digit and making direct eye contact with you while you squirmed under her body. How…deranged this woman was being, and yet you couldn’t help but find her mannerisms extremely attractive at this moment.

“Come on now…let’s get those pretty lips wrapped around the toy…” Hu Tao purred, helping your lower lips slide over the tip before slowly pushing in. “Oh…oh. Look at you taking my cock so well. I picked it thinking of you, you know. I figured a girl like you would prefer more…natural colors.”

She giggled and drooled at the way her realistic-looking dildo sunk deeper into your hole, making you arch your back against the cold tiled wall and moan. In the closed space of the steamy bathroom, your moans echoed in a rather beautiful way, making the sicko moan too with how much your noises pleased her.

“Ahh…moan like that again…” she whined, pushing the toy deeper and watching as it speared you open, slick juices starting to gather at the handle and coat her hand currently holding it. She bit her lower lip and couldn’t resist the urge to push her pants down to finger herself to the sight of you, throwing her head back as she too, was getting lost in the throes of pleasure. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a girl so close to me like this…” she gasped and began thrusting the faux cock at an even faster pace, “I want to keep you to myself. You can’t leave tomorrow, you simply can’t!”

You tried to say something in retaliation to that, but all that came out was a choked out moan, her thrusts growing harsher as the toy inside you began making you grind your body against her hand. Hu Tao complied with your silent needs, grinding her palm against your clit and making you bottom out on the cock so easily.

“Live with me at the inn, yeah? On that old house up on the hill, where it’s just the two of us and the inn in the middle of nowhere…”

Hu Tao moaned as she found herself coming closer to her climax, that same spiraling obsession starting to show in her eyes again.

“…No one to bother us. No one to interrupt.”

She groaned and bucked her hips harder against her own hand, her other hand slamming the toy cock brutally against your hips, almost bulldozing with how hard she was thrusting.

“Just you and me, forever, (Reader).”

She grinned, a small trickle of drool leaking past her lips before you both came at the same time. Hu Tao’s hands were absolutely coated in both your guys’ cum, as well as a combination of the shower water that still rained on top of you. As you panted and came down from your high, your body collapsed into Hu Tao’s, causing her to hold you up in her arms and pull you in for a desperate kiss.

In the bathroom, the echoey moans and wet slaps ceased, with only the sound of the shower water hitting the floor bringing interruption to the silence.

“Poor girl…you must be exhausted…” Hu Tao pouted, reaching over to turn off the faucet as you both stood in the bathtub together, enveloped in each other’s embrace. “Let’s get you dried and dressed up, hm? I can’t wait to tell grandfather that I’ve finally found myself a woman.”

She smiled that same, chilling smile, carrying you out of the tub bridal style and making her way out of the bathroom. The storm had long stopped outside the motel, but for you, the effects of the storm will forever linger at the Wangsheng Inn. As you would soon find yourself not staying for one night like you thought, but for every night for the rest of your life.

#hu tao smut #hu tao x reader #slasher au #genshin smut #genshin x reader #genshin women smut #genshin women x reader #hu tao x you #genshin hu tao smut #genshin hu tao x reader

494 notes · View notes

antiquarianfics · 8 months ago

Text

Shoot Me

Bucky swears he doesn’t like Y/N. In fact, he’s so confident he’ll challenge this: If he likes Y/N, shoot him.

a/n: dude, idk wtf this is. it’s like that one that 70s show scene, but it’s really just a crack fic. idk. this isn’t proofed. it’s late. it’s fluffy. i made you some content. enjoy.

warnings: mentions of gun violence (super minor), not proofread at all

note: I do not own the character Bucky Barnes or any other Marvel affiliated characters.

You do not have permission to copy, repost, or translate my work; however, feel free to like, comment, and/or reblog.

»»———-———-———-———-———-———-———-««

“I don’t like, Y/N,” Bucky says, voice adamant. The man is stoic, glaring at his friend who only shakes his head and laughs.

“Yeah, sure you don’t, Bucky,” Sam replies, tone laced in disbelief. After all, anyone with functioning eyeballs could look at Bucky and see that he liked Y/N. His harsh demeanor always softened around her: he smiled more, laughed more, glared less.

Bucky groaned, kicking off of the wall he’d been leaning against when Sam stands from the table he’d been sat at messing with Redwing.

“I don’t like Y/N,” Bucky reiterated as Sam only shook his head again, walking over to a tool box in the corner of the garage and beginning to rummage through it. “If I like her, shoot me.”

Right as Bucky lets the challenge slip through his lips, Sam turns on his heel to face Bucky, raising his hand in a finger gun and pointing at his friend.

“Pow.”

Bucky just stares at Sam, then his finger gun, then Sam again.

“C’mon, man. Real mature.”

Sam turns back to the toolbox and continues to rummage around for the tool he needs.

“I’m the one not being mature? You’re the one with a schoolboy crush who can’t admit he likes a girl.”

“I do not have a schoolboy crush”

“Right. You have a big macho man crush.”

Bucky scoffs, irritation growing. “Sam,” he warns.

Say lifts up the tool he evidently needs, inspects it, and returns to his seat at the table where he left Redwing and begins to fiddle with the wiring.

“Dude, just suck it up and tell her,” Sam says, ignoring Bucky’s aggression as he always does. “It’s not one sided, I can tell you that.”

Bucky’s eyes widen in surprise and he quickly—too quickly for his own liking and too quickly for someone who does not like you—sits down at the table in the seat beside Sam. Sam just smirks.

“Did she tell you that?”

“No,” Sam says and Bucky rolls his eyes, immediately standing back up and going to resume is original position leaning against the wall. “But,” Sam continues, “unlike you, I’m not stupid. I can tell.”

Bucky ignores the jab, dismissing Sam altogether. There’s no way Sam’s right.

“I don’t know, you’re pretty stupid,” a new voice cuts through the air, a teasing lilt in tone. The two men’s heads turn to the garage’s entrance to see you walking in holding a brown takeout bag and a drink carrier.

Bucky’s lips upturn slightly at your jab at Sam and his eyes soften slightly as they fall on you. Sam notices and rolls his eyes.

“Ha. Ha.” Sam says to you, but he offers you an affectionate smile which you return. “You bring lunch.” You nod and hold it up for them to see before setting it down on the table.

“I love you,” Sam says dramatically, immediately reaching for something to eat. “We’ve been out here all day.”

You laugh at his being over the top but return the sentiment. “So, what’ve you guys been talking about?” You sit down at the table and pull your drink from the drink carrier to take a sip.

Sam chuckles through a bite of hamburger: Bucky (who hasn’t yet moved) looks away. You raise your eyebrows.

“What? Did I miss something?”

Sam swallows his food and washes it down with his drink before answering.

“I shot him.”

Your eyes dart between the two.

“You what?”

“He didn’t actually,” Bucky clarified, amused and endeared by your concern.

“I fake shot him,” Sam clarifies, mimicking the handgun motion.

You scrunch your eyebrows as you attempt to make sense of this picture they’re painting. You turn to Bucky.

“You’re mad because he fake shot you?” You turn back to Sam. “Why did you fake shoot him?”

Sam is grinning like an evil mastermind at this point, Bucky is getting overly acquainted with his shoes.

“He told me to.”

“He told you to?”

“He told me to.”

“Why?” You look between the two of them.

“He said, ‘If I like her, shoot me.’ So I shot him.”

Your eyes widen at the revelation. Bucky likes someone? Who?

“Bucky likes someone?” You turn around completely to face Bucky. “Bucky, you like someone?”

Bucky closed his eyes and look up at the roof of the garage, clearly wanting to disappear from the current situation he found himself in. He ignores the question.

“Bucky, c’mon! If you like someone, you can tell me. Maybe I can help you get a date, or something.” You cringe a little at the suggestion, but you really want to know who he likes. Sure, it will absolutely devastate you if it turns out he doesn’t like you, but you just want him to be happy.

“Yeah, Bucky, maybe she can help you get a date!” Sam teases, innuendo heavy in his words. Both you and Bucky give him a look—Bucky’s warning, yours questioning.

“Just drop it, both of you,” Bucky says dejectedly.

“Just tell her, man. I’m tired of dealing with your moping,” Sam argues.

“Sam,” you say cautiously, eyeing Bucky’s uncomfortable demeanor.

“No, I’m tired of this. He,” Sam points to Bucky, “talks about you,” he points to you, “when you’re not around, and you,” he circles his finger around your face, “talk about him,” he points to Bucky, “when he’s not around. Incessantly. Now, I am going to take the rest of my lunch outside while you two figure this out. I’ll be back for Redwing later.”

You and Bucky stare helplessly as you watch Sam storm out of the garage. Once he turns the corner and is out of sight, the two of you turn to each other. He’s still leaned against the wall, you’re still uncomfortably turned around in your chair facing him.

“So, that girl you like…” You start but trail off, hoping maybe Bucky will confirm the suspicion Sam has planted in your mind but he continues to avoid looking at you. “Sam made it kind of seem like maybe she’s… me?” Your voice sounds so shy and uncertain as you ask the question. You can’t help but cringe a little.

Bucky finally looks up at you, searching your face and attempting to gauge how you might feel. He sees you cringe, though, and he sighs, looking back down at his boots. Of course, there’s no way you could ever like him like that. You notice Bucky pulling away and you start to panic.

“It’s totally okay if she is me, but it’s okay if she’s not. I don’t want you to feel like you have to say it’s me if you don’t actually have any feelings for me, but Sam did kind of make it seem that way. I mean, if you did have feelings for me, though, that wouldn’t be bad.” You’re rambling, full of nerves, but the nervous rambling does pull Bucky’s attention back to you.

“He wasn’t wrong,” Bucky finally admits quietly.

Your eyes shoot up to meet his. “He wasn’t?”

“No.”

“You like me?” You clarify, a grin overtaking your face.

The corner of Bucky’s mouth upturns in a smile. “Only if you like me.”

You stand up from your seat and take a few steps towards him whilst he takes a couple towards you. The two of you find yourselves toe to toe and staring at each other.

“Maybe I do.” Your eyes glance down at his lips and back to his eyes.

Bucky’s grinning now and he hums in response as he gazes down at you. The two of you feel yourself being pulled towards one another like there is some sort of magnetic force you can’t break, and, then, before you know it, your lips are on his. He kisses you softly as if he fears it isn’t real. You attempt to pour months of pent up adoration for him into the kiss. Your lips only part when you both finally need some amount of air; Bucky pulls away and rests his forehead against yours. It’s momentarily silent except for your breathing.

“You really told Sam to shoot you?” You teasingly ask, pulling away just enough to look into Bucky’s eyes.

“Only if I liked you,” he defends. He attempts to sound serious, but he can’t help the smile pulling at his lips. You nod as you briefly consider his response. Then, you make a finger gun and:

“Pow.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x you #marvel x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fic

992 notes · View notes

daydreams-after-dark · 7 months ago

Text

Good things come in small packages

Part 1 | Part 2

Pairing: Mini Han x fem reader

Synopsis: One year ago you purchased a ‘miniature companion’ named Hannie. He’s the size of a Ken doll but alive and horny. But something unexpected happens on your one year anniversary.

Word count: approx 2k

A/n: Hey!!! It's finally here! My Mini Han oneshot (posted in a couple of instalments because I get too excited to share). The idea for Mini Han was born through a conversation with my girl @noellllslut (we always have the most unhinged thoughts). Then I wrote a little "imagining" here (which I’ve incorporated into this fic anyway, so you don’t have to read), which then sparked quite a bit curiosity amongst you sweet/filthy readers. Questions came, and I felt compelled to explore more of this theme.

I hope you enjoy this little fic. It's sweet and smutty, and as I kept writing, I fell in love with our dear y/n and Mini Hannie. I want one for myself tbh.

CW below the cut

CW: supernatural themes, oral sex, sexual acts, sexual themes, voyeurism

You've had your miniature human, Hannie, for almost a year?! You realize, sitting at your work desk as you look at your desktop calendar. You smile and make a note to organize a celebration for just the two of you, and to buy a cheesecake for dessert. Hannie loves cheesecake. Your smile grows. He always manages to get it all over him, then wants to get it all over you so he can lick it off you.

One year this coming weekend. It feels like time has flown, yet at the same time it feels like he’s been part of your life forever. Your heart bursts as you think back to how it all came to be.

You had been lonely. You'd broken up with your long term boyfriend and was feeling sad one night. So you went online to doom scroll, and online shop. You expected you'd end up down a rabbit hole of cat memes and be $500 down in shoe purchases, but instead an ad appeared on your screen.

"Miniature human companions" it said, with images of very attractive men. Miniature men. Were they human? Couldn't be. Were they robots? Probably. They must be really expensive to make which is why they are so small, you'd decided.

You were intrigued, so you researched the company, finding that this new type of 'companion' utilizes cutting edge technology that simulates actual human behavior and bodily functions.

By 4am you'd chosen your companion. His name was Han. He was adorable and attractive, with fluffy black hair and pouty lips, and from the personality trait notes, he sounded like a lot of fun.

"Pay Now". You can still remember the feeling of excitement that ran through you as hit the button to complete your purchase.

When he arrived, he came in a box with air holes, which you found kind of weird considering he didn't actually breathe oxygen. You set the box on your kitchen table, took a deep breath and lifted the lid. You gasped as you peered inside.

A little man, about the size of a Ken doll, sat on a blanket eating miniature crisps out of a miniature chip bag.

"Oh hello!" he looked up at you. "Are you my Noona?" he waved excitedly.

Holy fucking shit. You almost fainted as you stumbled to sit down on a dining chair.

You knew he was meant to talk, but he just seemed so real as he chewed his food then licked the seasoning off his lips like he could actually taste it. His little chest moved with his breath, like he was really breathing. Could he do everything a human can do? You wondered.

"My name’s Hannie." He said standing up and brushing the crumbs off his trousers.

"Um...I-I'm Y/n..." you stuttered, trying to process what you were witnessing,

"You're really pretty, Y/n." He beamed up at you with a gummy grin.

You prepared him a little space of his own, with a makeshift bed, clothing that you had also ordered from the company you purchased him from, and bought a set of Barbie sized cups, plates and furniture. You even bought him a Barbie Dreamhouse to live in, but he preferred to just climb up your full sized furniture and use that.

You studied the information manual that came with him and learned that he could in fact, experience life just as a human did. He needed to eat, sleep, wash, poop. Oh and he could get erections and ejaculate. Wow!

Over the next weeks and months you'd gotten yourselves into a routine, and became really close. He was your best friend. You did everything together, mostly staying at home. You assumed he was some sort of AI, and that's why you got along so well, but the longer he was with you, the more his own interests came to the surface. Like singing and Anime.

He helped you bake, often getting himself covered in flour and other ingredients. You'd watch movies together. Most nights you'd lay on the couch and he'd lay face down on your chest while you watched your favorites. Sometimes you'd feel him get hard against the curve of your breast, and you'd think inappropriate thoughts about him. You'd grow wet between your legs and wish he was able to touch you.

He loved it when you’d brush his hair with a tiny little hairbrush and sit him on your benchtop in the bathroom when you’re getting ready for the day. You know he loved it when you forgot he was there one time and you took a shower in front of him. He got so hard watching you soap up your body.

Sometimes you'd take him out on a picnic somewhere secluded near the ocean so he could freely move about the picnic blanket without fear of being seen. Or he'd sneak into your work bag and scare the shit out of you when you were working.

In the early days, you'd occasionally go on dates with actual men. Mostly to take your mind of your growing feelings for Hannie. You'd bring them home and fuck them in your bed, knowing he was somewhere watching, listening. You'd imagine him getting hard from your noises, and it made you moan even louder just picturing it. You'd imagine it was Hannie inside you too, pounding hard into your cunt, and making you come on his cock.

He was distant with you in the days after. He’d sit around sulking and pouting.

"What's wrong, Hannie?" You asked him after he’d ignored you for three days.

"Noona... it's just…I get so jealous of them." He burst into tears. "I want to do things like that to you. I want to the be the one who makes you come." He sobbed.

Things changed after that. You no longer went out with other men, and you and your miniature companion began to explore a more physical, more sexual, relationship.

From letting you see each other naked, to mutual masturbation, to eventually touching each other and making each other come.

You soon learned that even though Hannie is small, he is extremely talented with his mouth, and he can make you come harder than anyone had ever before.

One morning he noticed that you were still asleep, and very naked. The way you were laying, legs splayed out looked so inviting to him. You’d kicked your blanket off at some point. He couldn’t help himself.

You woke up to a sensation between your legs, and when you looked down you saw him kneeling between your your legs, using his arms to push your pussy lips open and doing his very best to lap at your clit.

“Hannie?” You whimpered. He stopped for a moment to stand up and wave at you, the entire front of his body dripping with your arousal. “I’ve just found my favorite thing to do!” He said enthusiastically and then he was back to being buried against your pussy.

These days, at night time he’ll climb up onto your chest while you’re lying in bed watching videos on your phone. He still loves to nestle against the bulge of your breasts, especially if you’re in a loose satin camisole, and he’ll slide himself under the fabric.

“What do you want to watch, Hannie?” You’ll ask him.

“Porn!” He’ll answer excitedly. The phone is like a giant screen to him and it’s never long before you feel him shimmying his clothes off and rubbing his little swollen erection against your skin.

He’s such a desperate little thing that you let him do whatever he needs to get himself off. Often, he’ll rub his cock along your bottom lip while he humps your tits, or he’ll scramble to suck on your nipple. He does his best to stretch his mouth around it, while he grinds against you and cumming on your soft skin. Then he’ll pass out right there. Poor little tyke gets himself tired.

Some of the kinkier things he gets you to do include tying him up and edging him until his cock becomes so painfully red and engorged that he’s crying. His naked body is delicious to look at, and you love to run the pad of your index finger over his muscles. He’s perfectly toned, his skin honey brown, and his cock is mouth-wateringly big for his frame.

He’s rendered helpless as you stroke your finger gently up and down his body. Then, using the tip of your tongue, you lick his cock carefully whilst shoving your pinky finger into his mouth.

There are times when you’ll dress up in lingerie covered in buckles and straps and he’ll climb up your body like he’s doing some kind of adventure hike. He gets so sweaty and very hard as he explores the terrain of your body.

He really is the perfect companion.

You are broken from your thoughts by your alarm signaling it's time to go home from work, and you hurry home to see your Hannie.

_____________

"Fuck! Hannie! Please... need to come...need one more...please. Don't stop." You pant. It's later that evening, and you're on the verge of your third orgasm with Hannie between your thighs sucking expertly on your clit. He's got your lips spread open as far as he can manage, and he's grinding against your core seeking his own release. Inside your pussy you've got your vibrator egg on full intensity. "Yes!!! Yes...coming!!!" You cry as you arch off the bed as you come all over him.

He quickly climbs up your body, almost slipping off because he’s covered in so much of your cream, and kneels on your chest to pump his cock until he’s spurting cum onto your tongue.

“Tastes so good, Hannie.” You show him your empty tongue, but he’s already collapsed across your body.

You clean him up and put him in his striped pajamas, before you both nestle into bed. You’re used to him sleeping on the pillow next to you now, although it took you a while to stop worrying you’d roll on him in the night.

“Noona? Did you know that tomorrow it’ll be one year since I came here?” He says sleepily.

You roll onto your side and smile. “Yes, actually I do, honey. Have a think about what you’d like to do to celebrate, okay. Anything you want."

He nods. “Yeah, I’ll think about it. But just so you know, it’ll involve me being buried in your pussy.”

————-

Han laid back on the pillow. What would he like to do to celebrate? He’d love to celebrate by being inside you. Properly. Fully.

He wishes he could do the things he'd seen those men you’d do to you all those months ago. To pin your legs up and fuck you so hard the bed would shake. He takes his mind back to when he’d hide on your shelf and watch, fucking into his hand and holding back tears of despair.

What would it be like to bend you over and fuck you from behind? What would it even be like to fuck you at all? He wants to know so bad.

But he does have a special relationship with you, he supposes. Not every guy has to stretch his mouth around a nipple or clit like he has to. Can those men be covered head to toe in your juices? Or lay completely across the bulge of your boob. No. They can’t. Only he can.

He pouts to himself.

He knows he’s got it good, you are his everything. But as he lays on the pillow next you and closes his eyes, he wonders if he’s enough for you? Could you give up real men forever, with real sized cocks that can stretch you out and fill you deep? Would you be okay with never having a boyfriend you could take out in public, or take to family events, or be seen with?

Could you settle for him? A miniature version of a man?

He sighs. "Goodnight, Noona. Love you." He whispers as he leans over and gives your giant lips a kiss.

"Goodnight, my sweet Hannie. I love you too." you reply sleepily.

As he drifts off to sleep he wishes what he always wishes. That he could be human sized and be with you like a proper human.

-----------

The morning sun peeks through your window, landing on your face and causing you to stir. You groan and try to stretch, but a heaviness across your middle keeps you in place. You peer down to find a man's arm wrapped around you, snuggling you tight.

Fear courses through your body, and you scream as you fling the arm off and jump out bed. You grab your lamp, ready to hit the intruder.

"Noona?" The man lifts his head, his dark locks falling around his face.

Your eyes almost pop out of your head when you see the confused look on his face. "Hannie!?" You choke, hands poised to strike.

"Noona? What are you doing?" he peers down at the pillow his head had been resting on, and then down the bed toward his feet. "Why is your bed so small?"

"Hannie?" You whisper, lowering the lamp, letting it drop to the floor.

"Why is everything so small? Wait. Why am I naked? Noona, have you been playing with me in my sleep?" He looks up at you confused and worried. "Noona, why are you looking at me like that?"

His eyes land on his pajamas, torn to shreds next to him. He picks up the scrap of fabric that was his pajama top, and his eyes widen. "Why are my clothes so tiny?"

"Hannie," you take in the man before you, naked and taking up most of the bed. "You're big."

To be continued…

@channieandhisgoonsquad @noellllslut @itsseohannbin @weareapackofstrays @3rachasdomesticbanana @palindrome969 @xxkissesforchanniexx @chuuchuu1224 @fun-fanfics @rhonnie23 @jisunglyricist @strayywayy @armystay89 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @mylittleponeypinkrosieposie @kyunchoni @justforreaders @melochacco @scenuniverse @oddracha @ismokeeweed @galaxycatdrawz @jiminssluttyminx @teddy-stay @kayleefriedchicken @imperfectlyperfectprincess1

#skz smut #Han Jisung x reader #Han Jisung smut #han jisung x y/n #han skz #sorshas fics

928 notes · View notes

gastonluga · 10 months ago

Text

Best Crossbody Bags for Men | Functional Crossbody Bag

Upgrade your daily essentials with our handpicked selection of the Best Crossbody Bags for Men. Explore functional designs tailored for style and functionality.

#best crossbody bags for men #functional crossbody bag #crossbody bag #gaston luga

0 notes

moonstruckme · 3 months ago

Note

Congrats on 8k!!! You deserve all the love and more <3 also the holiday/winter theme is so so so cute!! Literally cannot even begin to describe how much I adore you and your talent and the fact that you give back and share your wonderful writing with us makes me so unbelievably happy <3

Can I request a hot cocoa drabble with Remus and the prompt wrapping paper from the 2nd list? Much love to you!! And congratulations again!!

I adore you! Ty for requesting angel <3

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 653 words

You watch out of the corner of your eye as Remus carefully folds the wrapping paper over itself, lining the triangle up against the side of his box. He curses.

You giggle. “How are you so regimented and so bad at this?”

“Hush.” He rolls his eyes, reaching across you for the tape. “It’s fine.”

“The label is showing,” you say, trying to be gentle but only hitting amused. “You can’t leave it like that, she’s gonna know what it is.”

“I’ll cut a square of wrapping paper to cover that part.”

“Another patch job?” You shake your head at him, grinning. “Rem, I can’t let you bring these to the function. They’re an embarrassment.”

“The function,” says Remus, cutting through the wrapping paper with a pointed slice, “is already going to have gifts wrapped by James, which always look like he’s let Harry do them, and Sirius is most likely going to bring his in bags. I guarantee ours won’t be the worst there.”

“It’s just a little embarrassing,” you murmur, really only teasing him. You start folding a ribbon into gentle curves on the top of your box. “I thought I had this really competent boyfriend, but…”

“Didn’t I tell you to hush?” Remus asks, but his laughter betrays him. The light from your tree smoothes out the lines of his face, his eyes warm and glittering and lashes kissing at the corners. You wish suddenly that you had a camera on hand, but there’s no chance film could capture how perfectly happy he looks.

Remus smooths tape over his patch of wrapping paper with swift, vaguely menacing movements. “I’ll have you know, I am very competent,” he says.

“It’s gonna take a knife to open that with all the tape on it,” you observe solemnly.

“I am very competent,” he repeats, and you suck in a breath when he locks his hands around your ankles, dragging you to him with one swift motion. You can forget how strong Remus is, sometimes. He’s not very physical usually, but you’ve riled him into playfulness. “You ask Lily tomorrow who the most competent man in her home is, and you get back to me on what she says, yeah?”

“Well,” you’re giggling, caught under his stern gaze and bubbling with giddy anticipation, “if you limit it to the men, the bar can’t be very high. Lily and I are more competent than the three of you.”

“How do you figure?”

“You can look at my gifts, for starters.”

Remus has an excellent poker face. He squeezes your calf at the jab, and your nervous giggling intensifies. “We’ll see how you feel about your competence when you make your own tea tomorrow.”

“No wait! Wait.” You get into his lap, trying your hardest to school your features into some sort of contrition. Smooth your hands up and down his shoulders. “I’m sorry. I love you. Have I told you I love you lately?”

“Not without ulterior motive,” Remus says drily.

Your lips turn down in a real frown. “That’s not true.”

“No.” He rolls his eyes, grunting as he pulls you further up his lap. “It’s not, lovely. What, you’re the only one who gets to tease?”

“Mhm,” you hum, teasing.

Remus chuffs like you’re something else, but his lips touching to your nose are gentle. “So what if I’m not the best at wrapping? You can’t make your own tea.”

“I can…it’s just not as good as when you do it.”

“Some could argue that’s a much more everyday sort of competence, dove.”

You make a quiet scoff of protest, not very convincing. Remus smiles. His hands stroke your sides.

“So. We’re going to put my gifts under James and Lily’s tree without complaint, hm?”

You feel your nose wrinkle. “Without any complaint? I feel like some damage control is necessary.”

“Remember your tea.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “Right. No complaints here.”

368 notes · View notes

porkcutletbowl44 · 2 months ago

Text

The Man You Need

Simon Ghost Riley x F!Reader

Tags!: 🔞NSFW. MDNI. unprotected p in v sex(wrap it in foil before you check her oil), dirty talk, creampie, PWP, Insomnia!reader, brief mention of misogyny, semi-public sex, shower sex, reader is also kinda bratty

(Ik y'all are only here for the porn that's why the plot dies quick lmao)

A big thank you to the 200 followers and counting 🫶🏻🩷

• · ────── ·🔞🖤🔞· ────── · •

"Y'look knackered, 'aven't been sleepin' enough?"

Simon's voice forces you to stop staring at the stale scones under the heat lamp, yanking you out of that day dream of falling face first into the breakfast line to get real sleep.

"Just the usual insomnia," you reminded. "What plans do you have today?" You asked, gatherthering the last of your breakfast.

His long strides effortlessly keeping up with your shorter ones. He towers over you as you both approach the table where you both sat normally.

"Just the usual, trainin' new recruits." He answers in the same manner as you, he sits down opposite you. He stretches his long legs out under the table, his calves brushing yours.

His eyes fixed on you like little bugs on your skin, taking in every detail of your face.

"'ow long has it been since y'last slept through a night?" He asks gruffly.

"Saturday." You answered.

His jaw clenches momentarily behind the thin fabric of his balaclava, and his shoulders stiffen.

"Y'mean to tell me its been three days an' you're still functioning?" He retorts, skepticism written on his face. He knows you, and he knows how bad your insomnia gets.

"Yeah. Doesn't help when we have to wake up early."

Simon lets out a frustrated sigh, running a gloved hand over his face.

"You can't survive on 2 or 3 hours o' sleep a day. Y'know you're pushin' it too far. You're going to collapse soon if y'don't get your sleep under control."

He's always stern when he speaks, but with you it's like he's scolding you like a child who doesn't know any better.

You do know better; you've busted your ass to get where you are. You've had to deal with everything in the book to fight to where you are now in the military, and he knows that, he's been there the majority of the time and yet he nags you everyday about something.

"Well I'm trying, Si. Melatonin doesn't work and it gives me bad headaches." You mumbled irritably.

"Doesn't work, eh? An' I can see those bags under your eyes. Headaches too..." He rubs his chin as he looks at you, his eyes calculating. "What 'ave you tried so far, love? I've told you to keep me updated."

"The sleepy tea worked for a little bit, and then it didn't. I tried running before bed, no screen time, benadryl..."

Simon grunts and leans back in his chair, listening to you list all the things you've already tried and don't work, his frustration only seems to grow with this situation— or you?

"Bloody hell. You've tried everythin', 'aven't you? Nothin' seems to work, it's as if your body just won't shut down."

Sometimes this leads to the same thing over and over again, the 'you have to sleep' or, 'why do you do this to yourself?'. You just smile and nod, because yes, you can 100% control this.

"Well, sometimes another thing works, but it's just too much of a hassle." You shrugged, sipping some vitamin water.

Simon's brows furrow as he hears your muttered words. He leans forward, his gaze intense.

"What 'other things?'"

You sometimes keep things from him, and he won't let you get away with it this time. Or, there's the other times you are blunt, disgustingly blunt. You live with a bunch of men, who do not have a filter, that alone has killed yours out of existence.

You blink, fidgeting in place. "Ahem. Me time?"

He's not dense, he knows exactly what you mean and he's not one to back down from anything that usually makes normal people squeamish or "grossed out".

"An" 'ow is it 'too much o' a hassle exactly?" He asks, a slight raise in an eyebrow.

"My hand cramps." You rolled your eyes, it was obvious, who doesn't have that problem sometimes?

He crosses his arms over his broad chest with a humored look, your honesty can be either amusing or completely looked over.

"Your hand cramps, you say? Thas a hell o' a reason."

He chuckles softly, his eyes raking over you, taking in the sight before him. His gaze is heated. Your face can feel it, it's warm, it's like he's putting your face close to a bonfire with that look. For months you two do this... This thing that borders flirty and suggestive but at the same time it doesn't quite feel like either.

"Yeah. Thinking about going down to the store."

His eyes snap up, crossed arms going lose from his chest. He's not stupid; he knows what "going down to the store" means.

"You're talkin' about goin' to get one o' those things." His voice is low, but not quite harsh. He's almost hesitant to say it out loud, but he says it with so much disdain.

You deadpan. "A vibrator, Simon. A vibrator."

The tops of his cheeks flush red beneath his balaclava at your blunt response. You giggle a little, not expecting such a reaction from Lieutenant Ghost. What's the big deal? Did guys not talk about fleshlights? Brand recommendations?

He clears his throat before speaking, a little husky and quiet. No way, are you embarrassing him with girl stuff?

"Y-yeah. One o' those." He stutters, his usual confidence wavering. "Yes, thank you, love. I realize that. I just..." He trailed off, blinking a few times.

"Y'can't be serious. You're goin' to use a toy instead o' asking for help?"

It's like he can't believe you just said that out loud, in a busy mess hall no less. This is what it took? Talking about sex toys to make him awkward?

"Uhm...yeah? I less you have a boyfriend in your pocket waiting for me." you retort.

And yikes, he didn't seem to like that. His eyes squint, probably crinkle in his nose. He paused, leaning forward in his seat, his eyes studying your face closely.

"You don't seriously think y'need a toy instead o' just asking me, do you?"

Why does he sound hurt??

Your stomach does a backflip off your intestines and into a hot tub of oil. He did not just say that. You must be asleep, yes, you must be dreaming.

You giggled, "Good one."

Simon gives a low grumble, his jaw flexing and grinding. This apparently wasn't a laughing matter to him. Is he serious? Your tongue works over your teeth, trying your absolute hardest to be so cool, nonchalant, you don't care you don't care—

"'M not jokin', love. You don't honestly think that a toy would be better than the real thing, do you?"

Of course it's not fucking better. But what choices did you have? Sleep with one of your teammates and then get a dishonorable discharge? Make things awkward in your team?

"Oh... Considering it's illegal to have relationships, yes. A vibrator won't leave me, cheat on me, break my heart... It's perfect." You shrugged— it was for the best anyways.

He knew the rules just as much as you did. And he followed them religiously. What the hell is going on? Why would he just suggest that out of the blue?

"Y'think you'd be better off with a piece o' silicone than takin' the chance on me?"

You pinch your thigh under the table. Nope. You're still here in mess hall, in front of your now cold breakfast, and Simon is still trying to convince you to fuck him.

"Y'wouldn't be satisfied with that thing. You'd get bored, love..." He sounds so sure, and jealous when he speaks of the horrible, terrible, vibrator.

"How would you know?" You quired quickly.

Just to double check. Maybe the sleep deprivation was catching up.

"I know 'cause I know you. You'd get tired o' that thing eventually, you'd want somethin' real."

He paused for a moment, his eyes lidding, darkening, consuming.

"You'd want someone to touch you, love. Not some piece o' plastic an' silicone."

"Yeah, like I'd ever get that," you barked out a laugh out of sheer nerves.

He didn't like that anymore than your last dismissive reply, you may just be convinced about now. So, cue to you squeezing your thighs together in your seat. Acting completely normal. Because everything about this is so normal; your coworker just telling you to come to him for a good fuck to be able to sleep.

"What do y'mean by that? 'ow can you say that with a straight face? Y'don't think anyone would want to touch you? Let y'know 'ow loved you are?" He grumbled, his hands clenching on top of the table.

"Y'think you're so undesirable that nobody would want you? Bloody hell..." He shakes his head.

"Simon, take a look at me." You licked your lips to prevent a shout of frustration, yikes, you do need sleep.

Simon's eyes fly over your form, from head to toe. He took his time studying you, his eyes lingering over the curves of your body, the way your hair fell over your face. There isn't a damn thing wrong with the way you look.

"'M lookin' at ya, love. An' what I see is perfection. So tell me again... what's your damn point?"

Oh, good God. It's real. But this is better than you imagined; you want to make him work for it. All because it's hotter to get a man to work for something, get all riled up.

"What do you see? A cutesy little girly girl? A nice little housewife for a big strong man?" You asked sarcastically.

"I see a woman who's strong, capable, an' bloody beautiful." He glares, offended you'd even think about saying that, "You're not some dainty damsel in distress, you're a force to be reckoned with..."

"My point exactly. Men don't want a chick that's more man than them." You rolled your eyes at just mentioning the delicacy of fragile masculinity these days.

Simon grunted and rolled his eyes, his irritation building into something you might not want to poke at.

"Thas where you're wrong, love." He points his spoon at you. "Not all men are as narrow-minded as y'think. I know damn well I want a woman like you. Strong, feisty, sexy."

"My point, Simon! I don't want some fucking pussy, I want someone whose more man than me." You huff.

You're not entirely implying this trait about him... You just wanna see him work for it.

"You're not goin' to find that in a bloody toy, love. You're lookin' in the wrong place if y'think some plastic will make y'feel better. Y'want a man? You already 'ave a man."

He was right there, willing to give you what you needed. But how far will he go?

"Yeah but... I want something real, too." You tried to explain.

This flirting back and forth was something you enjoyed; but what would it mean in the long run?

"Exactly." He huffed a bit exasperated. "Y'want somethin' real. Somethin' I can give you."

He shifted in his seat, leaning closer to you, his eyes deep and intense.

"Y'don't need a toy, love. You 'ave me. 'M real, an' I want you. Don't settle for some piece o' plastic when y'know damn well what you really want."

Okay then, schizophrenic, game on.

"I want someone stronger than me, someone to give me a reason to act like a woman," You snorted.

You were infuriating at times.

"An' y'think I can't give ya that? Y'think I can't make y'feel like a woman? Like a fuckin' queen?" That retort comes out low, accusing. "I can definitely make y'feel like a woman. Y'don't need someone stronger than you, love. Y'just need me."

Nail on the head with that one; yet how far can you take it? You lean between your elbows, squeezing your tits together to make you look as enticing as possible.

"Do I?" You purr.

Simon freezes in time, his plastic spoon almost falling away from his thick fingers. His hand does scramble for it to his credit but he almost dumps his bowl in the process. You hear him clear his throat roughly, Adams apple bobbing at the hem of his mask before it disappears. You bite your lip with a challenging gaze, would he take it?

"Yes," He replied firmly to cover up his hesitation, "Y'need me, love. Y'just don't know it yet. I can make y'feel things no toy ever could. Think y'need a man t'make you feel like a woman? I can do that, an' I will happily."

You smirk, "You're gonna have to try harder than that,"

"Oh, I will, love. You're just askin' for a challenge, aren't you?"

"You afraid to take it?" You shot back slyly.

He was anything but afraid with that look. He was up for the challenge, and you know he's gonna prove it.

"Baby, 'm not afraid o' anythin' when it comes to you," he replied, his voice low and husky. "As long as you can take what I can give you."

He leaned forward in his seat, his eyes searing into yours. There was danger in his gaze, it only made it all the more delicious.

"Y'think you can 'andle me, love? Y'think you're ready for what I can do t'you?"

"Only if you can prove it." You grin.

Ghost let out a low growl, his eyes darkening at your challenging tone. He thrived on it, it only fueling his drive to prove himself to you.

"Oh, I'll prove it, love. I'll prove it again an' again until y'can't even think straight."

"No, no, prove you're more man than me." You corrected easily.

"Y'want to know why 'm more o' a man than you? I can make y'feel things you 'aven't even imagined before. I'll 'ave you beggin' f'me, addicted t'me."

"I'll be waiting, then." You set the challenge in stone. This was it.

The bear has been poked enough. He was on a mission now.

"You'll be beggin' f'me before the night's over." He boasts smoothly, a promise and a warning all in one.

"If I get a good night's sleep I'll consider keeping you,"

You were maddening, and he both loved and hated the way you pushed his buttons. It was all in good heart; for the most part.

"You're already keepin' me, love. Y'just don't know it yet."

You bite your lip, taking a quick survey of the area before replying. This was getting too good to be true.

"Don't disappoint then, we have..." You glance at your watch, humming, "six hours until lights out."

"Thas more than enough time." He grunts, all smug and cocky behind his mask.

Step one, getting recruit work out of the way. It's boring as fuck, mostly watching the Lieutenant scare the absolute piss out of the fresh meat.

Simon was barking orders left and right, ruthless to the soldiers in training. Almost as ruthless as the sun beating down on them.

You abandoned your spot in the shade, clip board in hand. You balance two water bottles on the wooden board as you approach to offer a beverage.

"Thanks," he grumbles, his eyes darting around to ensure no one witnessed the small gesture just like you.

He took the offered water, downing half the bottle in one go and adjusting his mask back in place. You drag your pin down the clip board to check off what's already done.

"Forty laps?"

"Forty laps."

Simon confirmed with a gruff nod, his gaze lingering on yours for a moment before turning back to the recruits. Despite the challenging heat, he refused to end the training drills early no matter how much you teased him about buying him a little extra on your toy run— Viagra.

You thought it was hilarious, him? Not so much.

"An' they better pick up the pace!" He barked, the deep baritone easily reaching the pirvates' ears.

You circle that box, "And the sixty pull ups?" You breathed a bored sigh.

Simon grunted in annoyance.

"Done."

He informed in a low grumble, his jaw working under the balaclava. It was an excessive amount, but many of the recruits wouldn't even make it halfway through. But he didn't care, he was in a mood. A horny one. When was the last time this guy got laid?

"Wasn't accepting any half-assed attempts, either."

"The rope climbing?" You tap your pen at the box.

Simon glances down at the list, eyeing the scribbles and doodles next to the ticked boxes.

"Done." He replies simply.

You could faintly hear the sound of the recruits groaning and grumbling in pain and exhaustion, you almost felt bad. It was minor flashbacks to your recruitment days, yet Simon didn't seem to have that same sympathy judging by the satisfaction in his eyes.

"Aaannnd... Combat." You hum, one last task left for training.

This was where things get interesting.

"Its last. Need to let 'em rest a bit first. Suppose they earned it."

"Generous," you comment blandly.

"Yeah, yeah. Just keep checkin' off the list. I wanna get these fuckin' recruits dismissed soon. 'M sick o' the heat."

The day dragged on painfully slowly. The heat was relentless until the rain would show up any minute, and he was more irritable than usual. Even the recruits seemed to notice his foul mood, giving him a wide berth whenever he was in their vicinity. You were starting to grow bored of his usual job of scaring the hell out of the recruits, (not so bored when sweat rolls down the thickness of his biceps and the bounce of his tits when he jogs up to the trainees to yell at them) and overall wondering when and how the fuck you're supposed to get laid at this point.

Finally, the training was over. The sun was starting to dip below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow over the compound. The recruits limped and hobbled their way to their assigned lodgings, exhausted and sore.

Simon, on the other hand, seemed like he had even more energy than usual. Despite the long, grueling day, he was somehow wired and restless. You should ask what energy drink he uses after you wrap this up. (Hint: it's the male drive to get some pussy).

As the recruits dispersed, one in particular caught your eye. He was the most arrogant and obnoxious of the bunch, strutting around like he owned the place. You and Simon had seen it countless times before, it got old fast.

"Arrogant little prick," Simon muttered irritably.

You tongue your cheek, "What? Threatened by him?"

It's a pointless taunt— Simon? Threatened? Gosh, it's so fun to get men worked up. Simon's eyes narrow at your comment, a grunt bursting out from him.

"Threatened? Me? Fuckin' hell, no." He grumbles offendedly. "I could take 'im apart within a minute. Can't stand the ones caught up in their own 'ead,"

You hum in agreement. You know for a fact you'd pay to see that one day, and Soap would be right behind you.

"You're lucky you're the most tolerable person 'ere," he adds goodnaturedly.

You backhand his shoulder lightly, "Oh, look, your best friend is coming over!"

And speak of the devil, the recruit struts over with that piece of shit arrogant smirk. Simon rolls his eyes in annoyance as he turns to face the strutting recruit.

"Great. Just what I need," The sarcasm is laid on thicker than the suspicious gravy served this morning at breakfast.

The recruit saunters over, his obnoxious confidence on full display. Simon clenches his jaw, trying to keep his temper in check.

"Sir... Do we have more extensive training available?" He asks slowly, his own ego taking a hold of his tongue.

Simon's eye twitches at the recruit's pompous tone. Extensive training, more like a request for special treatment to feed that ego.

"Extensive training?" He echos roughly, "F'you? Why?"

The recruit shrugs boredly, "I think your ways are a bit old fashioned, too easy,"

Easy, old fashioned? This cocky little bastard doesn't know the first thing about hard work. And he's about to serve himself his very own buffet of living hell from Simon. You distract yourself with the grass below your feet, taking everything you have to not laugh.

"Y'think we make things easy on you?" He sneers, taking a step closer to the recruit. "Y'think you're hot stuff, eh? Well, you're in for a rude awakening, rookie."

Your lips purse, frowning deeply to stop the smile.

"What makes y'think you deserve anythin' beyond the standard training regime, hmm? You 'aven't earned a fuckin' thing yet." He glares at the recruit, his eyes dark and intense behind his mask. "Y'get your fuckin' arse to the barracks. Your extensive training for the next month? You'll be cleanin' the bathrooms before lights out."

The recruit's smirk falters at Simon's orders. He's not used to being talked back to, much less being told what to do. But he tries to maintain his cocky attitude, not wanting to back down in front of you, maybe. Ugh, men.

"Bathroom duty? That's... a little degrading, isn't it?"

Simon chuckles darkly, his eyes dancing with amusement. This cocky bastard was really pushing his luck more than you were. You almost feel bad if it weren't so funny.

"Degrading?" he sneers. "Welcome to the military, rookie. It's not a goddamn country club. Y'think you can come 'ere, demand extra training, an' expect special treatment? This ain't a playground. You're 'ere to learn discipline, not stroke your ego."

You stifle a laugh behind your clipboard. This was too good, and all the more hot to see Simon angry.

Simon shoots a sidelong glance at you, even though he's supposed to be acting tough and intimidating, he seems to let himself crack through the lieutenant role around you.

The recruit, on the other hand, doesn't notice your amusement. He just looks sulkily at Simon, clearly not pleased with the prospect of bathroom duty.

Simon grabs the recruit roughly by the collar, the display of power and dominance making you jump in place. Simon's firm grip on the recruit's collar startles the cocky little punk, his eyes wide in surprise.

"See, this is your problem," Simon grits lowly. "Y'think you're untouchable. Y'think you're better than everyone else. But lemme tell you somethin', wanker... you're not."

The recruit stammers, eyes frozen with fear.

"Disobey your superior officer again an' I'll make sure your walls are covered in you."

He gives the recruit a rough shove, releasing his collar. The recruit stumbles back, shocked out of words.

"Consider that your final warning," Simon growls. "Now get your arse to the fuckin' barracks, rookie."

The recruit seems to shrink under Simon's intimidating aura, his cocky demeanor shattered and squashed to dust. He mumbles a half-hearted, "Yes, sir," before hurrying away.

You check your watch, "Well, today has been fun. It's too bad you only have three hours left."

Three hours left, you say? He hadn't even started yet. Because of training, of course.

"Three hours, huh?" He grumbles, eyes setting in determination. "Don't count me out yet, love. I can do a lot in three hours."

"Hurry it up, or in three hours I'll have a brand new shiny vibrator." You grin cheekily.

"You won't be needin' any damn vibrator if I 'ave anythin' to say 'bout it," he hisses. "I don't need any bloody gadgets to 'elp out."

He starts to stalk towards you, his eyes intense and focused. Your thighs squeeze together, pleased with your outcome.

"Three hours is more than enough time f'me to prove myself, love. An' you'll be beggin' before the clock strikes, guarantee ya that."

"Right," you drawl with a roll of your eyes.

He reaches up with a rough hand, grabbing your chin and lifting it so your eyes meet his.

"Y'think I can't prove myself in three hours, huh? That I need some bloody toy to 'elp me out? I promise you, love, you'll be singin' a different tune."

You giggle teasingly, biting your tongue through your smile.

"Tick tock, Simon." You singsong.

You were mocking him, challenging him, all for this purpose.

"You're playin' a dangerous game, love," he growls down at you, "Y'think you can tease an' walk away with that pretty lil smile on your face. But you're gonna find out real quick that I won't back down, even when you're being a cheeky lil minx."

You smirk dreamily, staring up at him with raw want. You kinda want him to do something extravagant, proving himself just because. When was the last time you had fun like this?

"You're pushing your luck, love," he grunts, his voice gruff with barely concealed desire. "If you keep lookin' at me like that, there ain't gonna be enough time to do everythin' I wanna do to you."

You pull from his hand, turning on your heel as you call over your shoulder,

"I'll be waiting, Si,"

You were taunting him, teasing him, with that sultry little comment and casual tone. You feel his eyes on your ass with each sway of your hips, that naked feeling let's you know he's undressing you with his eyes.

You whip out your phone to look at the time, alas, there's just no way what you want can happen. The rules, regulations, and the severe lack in privacy.

Shooting Captain a quick text for permission to leave base for an hour you head into the higher up showers for some much needed washing of the sweat collected on your body.

As you toss your towel on the bend, your phone buzzes.

'Permission granted. I'll let the team know you'll be out.'

Your heart drops to your ass as you frantically text back—

'Wait no that's not necessary!!!!!'

And then, to your horror, you get a ping in the group text.

Shit.

The team knows youre just going out, but Simon knows. Simon knows you're chickening out from the challenge.

"Fuck!" You hiss, frantically looking around the showers as if there were anything that could help you.

There's nothing. Not the gathered pubes in the moldy shower drain nobody uses, not the faded rusting lockers, not the dirty windows that nobody will ever be able to see out of no matter how much scrubbing

You're fucked.

But how fucked, do we wager? Does this mean Simon will get in his feelings and never talk to you again? Will he out you? (No, it wouldn't ever—) What if he gets revenge?... What kind of revenge?

As you stand there, panic setting in, a voice rings out from the entrance of the shower area.

"What 'appened to three hours?"

You squeak as the door slams, the deadbolt echoing through the room.

You are locked in the showers with Simon.

"What's with the sudden cold feet?" Simon grunts as he rounds the corner, closing the distance between you in slow, measured strides.

"I-I can explain—" you stammer, phone dropping on the bench next to your towel.

He stalks towards you, his steps slow and deliberate. There's a dangerous edge to his gaze that makes your heart beat even faster in your chest.

You're trapped, unable to back away, and he looms over you like a caged beast.

"Explain why you're runnin' away from the challenge you issued, love?" he drawls, stopping just a few feet away from you. "This I 'ave to 'ear."

He crosses his arms as he stands there, his eyes never leaving your face. You're in for it now, his expression seems to say.

You chuckle nervously, gesturing between the two of you, "I mean, realistically it can't ever happen—"

"Who says it can't?" He leans in, his voice dropping to a low, rough growl. "I don't care 'bout the damn regulations, love. That's not gonna stop me from 'aving you."

"Y-You are all about the rules, Si. You follow them to a T— You wouldnt—" you swallow thickly. What have you done to yourself this time.

"I usually follow the rules, yes," he concedes tauntingly, "An' right now, those rules are fuck all to me anymore."

Your tongue suddenly feels heavy in your mouth, "W-What about—"

Simon leans a forearm over your head and slouches down, his eyes darkened by lust and determination.

"What 'bout...?" he mocks, "Y'think I give a damn 'bout those old geezers with their rules right now? All I care 'bout is 'aving you, 'ere an' now."

Simon's free hand reaches up, his fingers lightly tracing your jawline. "I'll show you 'm fuckin' man enough to 'ave you."

While you are speechless, he adds for you to better understand. "It's just you an' me in 'ere."

"But—" you squeak.

Simon's hand moves quick to cup your chin, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

"No," he growls, "We don't need to follow the rules in 'ere. We don't need anyone's permission. We could be loud, we could be rough. No one would ever know."

No one... Would know.

He leans in, his lips hovering just centimeters from your ear. "Just us in 'ere. You tellin' me you'd rather 'ave some stupid fuckin' toy over a man that can fill you up all night long?" His hand slides down to your throat, holding you tenderly but firmly, "Just say yes, love."

You whimper in delight, his eyes flickering down to your shifting thighs.

"Yeah," he purrs, his hand angling your head up against the wall. "Y'know you want it. Y'want me."

You want him more than sleep. You want him more than some real fucking food.

"Y'know you don't need anythin' else but me t' fuck you stupid."

"Yes," you moan.

Simon's eyes gleam with approval, his grip on your chin tightens slightly.

"That's good fuckin' girl," he growls.

He licks your neck through the mask, chest expanding with a deep inhale that crushes you to the wall.

"Say y'want me," he demands in a gravelly whisper.

What is thinking? Why would you have to think?

"Want you s'bad," you whine.

"Fuckin' right you do," he mutters.

His other hand drifts down, slowly tracing down your body until it lands on your waist, shoving you into the shower stall. For a moment, you thought you were going to get a little groping, made a knead here and there. But no, you're just standing like a dumbass in the empty shower stall.

"Strip." He growls.

Your skin erupts with gooseflesh in the bare shower shall, his gaze unwavering as he waits for his private show. He steps closer, his own clothes still on, thick arms folding over his chest.

"Slowly," he commands, "Show me what's gonna be mine."

You pinch the hem of your cargos, and then switch to your shirt.

What the hell do you even start with?

"Trousers first," Simon instructs roughly.

He stands there, still dressed, but his eyes devouring every inch of you as you slowly pop the button.

You slowly shimmy the waist band over the swell of each hip, pushing down to your ankles. Simon's breaths grow heavier as you flick the material off your feet his eyes transfixed on the movement.

"Thas it. Bra next," he commands, velvety smooth, "Nice n' slow. I want t'see all o' you."

Bra? Bra next? Why not your shirt?

You kick the cargos away, your shirt barely covering over your panties as you unclasp the bra through your shirt and maneuver it out from one of the sleeves to hold it in the tip of your finger.

Simon's eyes zero in on your pebbled nipples and pretty panties, the thin fabric doing little to hide your curves.

"Good girl," he purrs, "Now come 'ere."

You're... You're not even done. He motions with his fingers for you to approach him, his eyes dark with need.

"Do the thing," you manage out.

"The thing?" he grunts in an enticing voice, taking a step forward as you gesture to your mouth and nose.

He reaches up and pulls the mask to his nose, revealing his lips.

"Is this what y'want, love?" he asks, running his tongue across his bottom lip.

"Yeah," you breathe as you wet your lips.

Those would taste so good. You just know it.

"Y'want to see m' mouth, huh?" he asks, a smirk playing at the corners of those now revealed lips that show his canines, a chipped tooth, his lower face in general in its scarred glory, "Y'want to see what I can do, love?"

He closes the remaining space between you in a single stride, grabbing you by the back of the neck and yanking you forward.

His free hand grips your jaw, tilting your head up to meet his gaze, his eyes filled with dark hunger that makes your pussy pulse.

His mouth descends on yours, his lips claiming yours in a fiercely possessive kiss. You moan lowly, one of your arms circling his thick waist. He's burning up, hot and sweaty under his clothes that reek of his natural musk.

One of your curious hands ventures down, squeezing at his ass. He breaks the kiss with a surprised grunt, a coy smirk.

"Naughty, that," he huffs, "But I like it. My turn,"

The world before you lunges back, his mouth descending on your neck. He sucks and bites at the sensitive skin, his teeth leaving red marks in their wake.

His hands have a rough exploration, sliding down your skin, pausing just above the waistband of your panties to slide in to the globes of your ass. You stand in your tip toes to lean into him, whimpering at his rough gropes and kneading.

His mouth continues it's path down your neck, his teeth grazing the tops of your covered tits as his hands roughly squeeze and massage your perfect ass.

"Look at you," he growls, "Squirmin' an' I haven't even started."

He pushes your ass up, looking over your shoulder to watch it bounce. His hands slide lower, pulling the elastic of your panties down slightly, "Look at this," he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "You're fuckin' soaked through."

And he's right.

You squeeze your thighs, trying to rid that sticky mess thats unbearably uncomfortable. He tuts, delivering a slap to your ass.

"Tryin' to get yourself off, love?" he purrs, his fingers tracing along the edge of your panties.

You can't tell the difference between the onyx color from his pupils, you can hardly look at his eyes when his mouth is right there and his own tits are in your face. God, you want to nibble on those chapped lips, feel those fat biceps squeeze you as his hips snap on the backs of your thighs—

He backs you up, his hard cock pressing against you through his jeans, "Y'want it?"

"Yes!" You mewl.

"Thas what I like to 'ear, love," he husks, his fingers playing with the crotch of your panties. "Get that shirt off, wanna see those pretty tits finally."

You squirm, pulling your shirt up and off and throwing it somewhere that doesn't matter right now.

"Perfect," he rasps, his hand reaching up to cup your breast, "These are fuckin' nice,"

You arch, eyes rolling at the nice kneading to your sore flesh of being stuck in a bra all day. To your displeasure, freezing water sprays down your body and your uncomfortable groan bounces off the walls until the water warms up.

He's still fully dressed though, his clothes sticking to his muscular frame, accentuating every hard muscle and scar.

"Shower's a bit shitty," he says, his eyes raking your body. "But we don't 'ave to wait for that to get goin'."

Your panties have disappeared into his pocket, you follow the way his fingers shove it in— Your eyes divert to that large bulge behind the zipper.

"I know what y'want," he grunts, his hand moving to the belt and zipper.

Simon pulls down his zipper, the metal teeth parting revealing a black pair of boxers, which does little to hide the already impressive outline of his hard cock nudging up against the waist band.

He pushes his jeans down his thick thighs, his body still clothed in a tight black shirt and underwear drenched in water.

Your saliva glands burn at the sight of his happy trail plunging past the waist band, eyeing that nice size you only got a little feel of on your leg—

"Want a closer look?" he purrs, his hand slowly palming the base of his covered cock, precum bleeding out from the thin fabric on his thigh.

You make a face at him, your face burning with embarrassment

"What's the matter, love? You shy now?" he says with a smirk, his hand continuing to slowly palm and squeeze, "Y'were all full o' attitude today."

His head tilts mockingly, stroking himself for you, enticing you. Pinch yourself again, this might actually be a dream—

"Go on," he rasps, "Feel me."

You follow a trail of water down to his shirt clinging to his body, his drenched happy trail, and then the outline of his cock.

With one hand, you tug the waist band forward, clenching as he sucks in a breath that makes his abs tense.

He leans forward, his mouth hovering over your ear, "Go on," he husks, "Take it out, love."

He leans back, watching you intently, waiting for you to do as told. Maybe you do like to be told what to do in this context. With your other, you pull him free with your eager hand.

He moans, he fucking moans.

"Thas it, love," he husks out, his voice a little strangled. "Feel me up."

His hands rest on the wall behind you, caging you in. He hips rock into your hand, each stroke of your fist pulling the foreskin back.

"You're so big," you whimper.

Simon lets out a deep, gravelly groan as you speak. It just might be the hottest sound you've ever heard. Right next to the time he was lifting heavy dumbbells, letting all those grunts and growls loose.

He looks down at you, his gaze burning with lust and need, "You want it, baby?" he asks, his hips grinding against your hand harder, "Want this big dick?"

"Want it so bad, Si," you mumbled against his lips, your tongue darting out to lick his teeth.

his mouth claiming yours in a rough, passionate kiss. His tongue immediately tangles with yours, his teeth biting and tugging at your lower lip.

"I know you do," he grunts, his tongue slipping past your lips to slide against yours before speaking again, "You've been eye-fucking me all afternoon, love."

His hands start to wander along your body, mapping your curves with rough caresses,

"You're gonna get it," he husks.

One of his hands moves down to your hip as he moves lower, his mouth following the curve of your throat, leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses and bites.

"Want m'cock in that pretty pussy? Or your mouth?"

Where do you fucking think, smart guy?

"In me, inside me, please," you mewl.

His massive paws squeeze your hips to spin you around, planting your hands against the wall.

"Bend over," he growls, his eyes roaming over your body, "'M gonna give you what y'want."

His hands on your hips start to maneuver your body, making you arch your back and hips out.

He runs a hand up your spine, "So pretty," he murmurs as he takes in the sight of your body bent and on display for him.

He steps up behind you, his body flush against your back, his clothes still fucking on and wet and sticking to your body.

"Gonna fill ya up nice n' good," he sucks on his teeth with a low growl, "Been thinkin' o' me all day 'aven't you?"

His hips rock against your ass slowly, his bare cock rubbing on your supple skin.

His hands massage your ass, kneading and squeezing the flesh as you lean on your forearms, moaning as the blunt head notches to your dripping slit.

"Want m'hands all over you," Simon growls against your flesh, his rough palms skimming over your curves, "Mm, relax, yeah? Nice n' easy— Yeah, thas a good girl,"

His hips do a slow, deliberate grind, rocking into you to make room for him as he moves his lips along the curve of your shoulder.

There's slow shallow thrusts, working you open until he takes a deep stroke down to the base. Fuck, he's thick all over, heavy even inside your walls. If you had the brain power, you'd reach below and hold his balls.

"You're so damn gorgeous," he husks darkly, his breath hot against your skin, "I wanted this since I first saw you."

He's so intense he's burning a hole through you with his gaze, his hands still exploring your body, worshiping every curve, every dip, every inch of you.

His hands slide down to the front of your thighs, coaxing your legs further apart, opening you up for him.

"I knew I wanted you the moment you walked in," he breathes, "I knew you'd feel amazing under my hands."

Your cheek presses into the shower wall with a strangled moan,

"S'deep,"

Simon growls at your moan and pushes into you with more force, his hands squeezing your ass to yank you back, spearing you over and over on his cock.

"Fuckin' knew you'd feel s'tight an' good,"

His hand presses on your lower tummy, mouth hot and panting against your shoulder blade. He grabs the back of your hand, his fingers threading through yours and pressing it against the wall.

"Take it, take—this—cock,"

You choke out a moan, slumping against the wall, "please, so close, so close—"

"You gonna come f'me, huh?" he asks, his voice raw and breathless.

It's a lovely sound on him.

"Yes, please, wanna come, haven't came this fast before—" you beg.

He lets out a ragged, possessive growl at your words, his hips piston roughly against your ass, full balls swinging on your clit over and over.

"Come on, pet," he snarls, deft fingers twirling tight circles around your clit.

You whimper loudly, hands sliding down the slick shower walls, hips straining for him as you come hard with a broken mewl.

"That's it, fuck—"

He breaks off in a gutteral moan, hips stilling as he spills inside you. Simon catches you as your legs buckle out from under you, scooping you up against his chest to lean you back against the wall.

You don't even know what just happened in the span of 5 minutes. He's panting hard, his heart pounding against your back.

"Fuck," he growls, burying his face in the crook of your neck, "Fuckin' perfect, love,"

You smile lazily back at him, pawing at his shoulders to pull him in a soft languid kiss, his lips claiming yours in soft, sweet caresses. He melts against your touch, the fierce need from earlier receding now that you're sated. He returns your lazy kiss, his hands gently roaming up and down your back.

"Bloody hell," he mutters against your lips, "Fuckin' perfect, woman." He nips at your neck, "'M not done yet."

Looks like he is the cure to your sleeping problem.

#Idk what this is #go easy on me #i deleted this like 4 times and im somewhat happy with this one #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley #call of duty #cod mw2 #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley cod #simon ghost riley x you

179 notes · View notes