#and i genuinely can’t tell what’s real or not a little bit

[ddarker-dreams]

A Deal's a Deal.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, violence against minor characters, descriptions of anxiety, mentions of alcohol. Word count: 5k.

Next (TBA)

“... Sorry. This one’s no good either.” 

Sighing dejectedly, you sink into your seat. 

You can’t tell if your companion’s disappointed. He maintains a neutral countenance, betraying nothing of his inner thoughts. Still, you study him, awaiting some visual indication before moving the conversation forward. He must sense your intentions, for he catches your gaze and smiles. 

“Should we call it a day? You look tired.” 

“The hell? Isn’t it considered taboo to tell a lady she looks tired?” You grumble. “And here I thought you were Casanova incarnate. You’ve got to work on your charisma stats.” 

Chrollo shrugs halfheartedly. “What point is there if you’re immune to my many charms?” 

“Let’s be real — ‘many’ is overdoing it, a little humility won’t hurt. I commend your budding self-awareness, though. At least we’ve made progress on that front.” 

He hums, offering no rebuttal. You realize that you’ve perked back up, reinvigorated by his goading. He certainly knows how to get people going. Among his defining features, that’s one of the first you recognized; his uncanny way of orchestrating favorable outcomes. 

Sipping your preferred warm beverage, you canvass your surroundings. 

The café’s less crowded than when you came in. There are still a few students typing away on their laptops while consuming a concerning amount of caffeine. In the corner sits an elderly couple, whose order you overheard by virtue of the volume it was placed at — “Give me a regular coffee. Straight black, none of that ‘appaccino, grand venti’ nonsense. Decaf for my wife.” 

(You prayed for the barista’s sanity when he tried explaining the different ways ‘straight black’ could come). 

“... I am losing my touch, aren’t I?” Chrollo murmurs. You snap your head in his direction, having temporarily forgotten his existence. “You prefer older men?” 

You almost choke mid-sip. “Pleh…! That’s it, I’m retiring, good luck sorting your issues out.”

“You don’t mean that.” 

“How I wish you were wrong,” you deadpan. Lifting his phone off the table, you scroll through its contents. There’s nothing new to look at. “An exorcist, huh? You’re positive that’s a real thing?” 

“They exist. They’re just rare, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.” 

“I blame the Protestant Reformation.” 

The skin beneath his eyes wrinkles. “... Cute.”  

His compliment makes you frown. 

“Quit it with the flattery, already.” 

“Flattery implies a degree of insincerity, no?” He challenges. “You of all people should know when I’m being genuine.” 

“You make it sound like I’m a walking polygraph.” 

His lips part and close as he considers his response. “That isn’t how I view you.” 

This guy’s clever with his word choice, you think. Too clever.

Disliking where this conversation might go, you redirect. 

“This ‘Hunter’ site you’ve been using… is there any way for me to access it?”

“Feeling a bit impatient, are we?” 

There’s a patronizing lilt to this tone that has you inhaling sharply. Closing your eyes, you ball your hands into fists, willing your agitated mind to relax. Your goal feels so close. This future you never believed possible dangles above your head, only to recede as if you were Tantalus whenever you grasp for it. Needling Chrollo won’t get you any closer, but at least it gives you something to do, mimicking progress. 

“The Hunter site has various measures in place to prevent account sharing. You don’t want to end up on their radar,” Chrollo retrieves his phone and tucks it into his coat’s pocket. “While your enthusiasm’s admirable, I suggest you leave this part to me.”

You swallow thickly. “... Right.” 

“Are you upset?” 

“No, I’m not,” you rest your hands on your lap. “Just, y’know. Reminded that we’re from two different worlds.” 

Outside the café’s windows, individuals from all walks of life bustle about. Some are on their phones, others chatting with friends, or holding their partner’s hands. It’s a picturesque display of normalcy. They’re likely thinking about what to have for dinner, when to set their alarm for the following day, if they can squeeze out of plans they halfheartedly agreed to over the weekend; you know this because you aspire to live the same way. 

“You’re closer to mine than you think.” 

A fervent disagreement blazes then turns to ash on your tongue. There’s an unidentifiable quality to his stare — neither kind nor outright malicious — almost clinical in its effort to elicit a reaction. You stir in your seat. Despite your time together, he’s as much an enigma as he’d been upon your first meeting. Charming and courteous, yet lacking genuine warmth, like a faux candle. 

“Do you get some kick out of riling me up?”

“Maybe a little,” he admits. “Your expressive nature is endearing. I can’t help myself.” 

His words resonate with such clarity that you can’t help but wish he’d been a little dishonest. 

“I’m not a toy for you to entertain yourself with.” 

His smile makes you squirm. 

“I know you aren’t.” 

“Then what—” you cut yourself off, fearing what might occur if you continue your original line of questioning. “Man, you’re exhausting to deal with. Has anyone ever told you that you have an awful personality?” 

“Few get to be around me enough to comment on its quality.” 

“I’m counting down the days until I’m no longer a member of that inner circle.” 

Before Chrollo can respond, his phone audibly vibrates. Newfound excitement overwhelms you at the sound. He glances at the notification and nods, confirming your speculation. He places it in your eager hands. While you prepare, he steeples his fingers and leans forward, intrigued as always with your work. 

You relax your breathing. This entire process is based on intuition, chasing after faint sensations until your desired outcome manifests. A pliable force thrums through you — what Chrollo refers to as ‘aura’ — awakening from its dormant state. Mindful of your public surroundings, you keep your dominant hand beneath the table. Where there was once nothing, a three-dimensional object rests snugly against your palm. Buttons of varying utility jut outward along its perimeter. This small item, shaped like a cassette recorder, stirs antipathy in your heart. 

Holding down rewind, the cassette whirrs to life. You prepare to record the latest audio note sent in for analysis. 

Instant Replay (One More Time!).

These past few months have seen your ability frequently leveraged. It was your personal conviction to refuse its use, lest paranoia eat away at you. However, freedom from this bondage necessitates further entanglement. You’ve parted with your long-standing morals, primed to pick through the syllables of others for your own purposes. 

Right and wrong no longer concern you. 

All you care about is surrendering this loathsome ability to the man sitting across the table. 

-

The night air is unforgiving in its chill. It infiltrates your layers of clothing with laughable ease, seeping into your marrow and demanding that you shiver as recompense. Gritting your teeth, you pick up your pace, cursing the parking garage’s elevator for being out of order. You knew parking at your friend’s apartment complex was sparse, but this is a new record. 

The heels of your shoes click against the concrete staircase as you rapidly ascend. A pale, yellowish hue illuminates your path, the lights occasionally flickering. The moon must be feeling shy tonight, for it hides behind thick, stationary clouds, refusing the world its silvery guidance.

Upon arriving on the third floor, you hear an ominous crackle in the distance. 

The consequences are immediate. Intuition tells you to pause, goosebumps erupting over your flesh from head to toe. Darkness swallows your surroundings whole in inky blots. Blinking rapidly, your eyes struggle to adjust. You feel around for your phone and turn the flashlight on. The sudden loss of power perplexes you, did the building’s breaker trip? From what you can see, the rest of the street is unaffected. 

You’re about to resume your journey when you feel something cold press against your temple. 

“Don’t move,” a deep voice demands. The roar of a car’s engine echoes nearby, as does the hurried screech of tires. “Not so much as a fucking inch.” 

Anxiety sets your every nerve aflame. You go stiff as a corpse, and perhaps you may have been mistaken for one, if not for the thunderous pounding of your heart. The moisture in your mouth dries up. Tortuous seconds drag on, devoid of any further commands. You’re ready to offer up your purse, wallet, or anything else he insists on, but he’s eerily silent. 

A pair of approaching headlights blind you. 

Is this more than a robbery? You struggle to comprehend the nightmarish events. The man holding you hostage radiates agitation, shifting his weight from foot to foot. In doing so, the barrel drags along your sweat-slicked skin. His apparent sloppiness has you weak in the knees — it’s your life hanging in the balance, why is he acting like the situation is reversed? 

Abruptly, the vehicle veers off course, crashing into a line of parked cars. A terrible cacophony follows. Glass shatters, metal debris shrieks whilst scattering, and car alarms angrily sound in disunity. What you’re witnessing doesn’t feel like real life. Your disbelief is mutual, for the man holding you captive spews curses.

You hear a click by your side; the gun’s safety being disengaged. 

“Shit!” He maneuvers you in the direction of the crash like you’re a shield. “There’s no way we were followed, no way, we did everything perfect—” 

The man never finishes his sentence. 

There’s a wet gurgle, then a wheeze, as something warm splatters on you from behind. Bile rises up your throat as the wretched noises continue. He must’ve fallen to the ground, for you no longer sense his lumbering presence, or feel the cold kiss of metal on your skin. Regardless, you refuse to budge. You squeeze your eyes shut and tremble wildly. 

“There, there. You’re safe now. ♥” A rich baritone speaks from behind. 

His declaration comes out discordant, belying the reassuring contents. You bristle at the new threat that’s presented itself. If what came before was a house cat, then this is an apex predator, the king of the jungle. The air around him feels oppressive, almost noxious. Even without a firearm directed at you, your panic reaches its zenith, soaring to heights untraversed. 

“Hm? Still scared? Ah, that’s right,” he muses to himself. “Chrollo said you’re sensitive to dishonesty. This could be troublesome.” 

“You… you know Chrollo?” 

“So you’re not in a catatonic state — how reassuring.” 

Slowly, you turn around, sensing a distinct lack of ill intent. Flashlight in hand, you try to make sense of what you witness. The scene that greets you is gruesome beyond your wildest expectations. The man who you assume held you at gunpoint has collapsed onto the ground, his jugular slit clean. Blood gushes from the wound like a geyser, forming a crimson puddle around his head. His eyes are wide, bloodshot, nearly bulging from the sockets. Liquids ooze from every visible orifice and a foul odor rises alongside them. This pitiful creature could’ve been your end. Instead, he met his, departing this world in abject terror. 

Unexpectedly, his muscles twitch. Out of reflex, you jump back and yelp. 

“Rest assured, he’s dead as a doornail.” 

“Why…” you wet your dry lips, “What… what just…?” 

While you stumble over your words, the building’s power makes a triumphant return. The lights flash intermittently, then go steady, allowing you an unobscured vantage point. Before you stands a tall, bizarrely dressed individual, with bright red hair. His beady, yellow eyes have a predatory gleam to them that he doesn’t bother suppressing. He holds a playing card in his claw-like hands, the three of spades. 

It’s coated in fresh blood. 

Your eyes fall to the fatal wound on your assailant's throat, the gears in your head turning. 

You take a step back. 

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” With a flick of his wrist, the offending card disappears, though its memory burns strong. “I’m Hisoka, Chrollo’s… colleague of sorts. Now, there’s no need to introduce yourself. I’m well acquainted with you. ♥” 

Is that supposed to make you feel better? 

You couldn’t hide your suspicion if you tried. At the very least, there’s no indication that was a lie. However, his familiarity with you is a double-edged sword. If he’s crafty, he can outmaneuver your ability. Dishonesty isn’t black and white, there are loopholes to avoiding your detection. For instance, one can remain purposefully oblivious, lie by omission, or speak in vague terms. These gray areas pass you by as if you lacked this ‘sixth sense’ to begin with. 

He was lying when he said I’m safe now, you recall. But he doesn’t seem interested in harming me…? Something isn’t adding up.

After much deliberation, you ask, “So you just happened to run into me?” 

“Nope. I’ve been following you,” he freely admits. Your aghast expression makes him laugh. “What’s the matter? You were baiting me for the truth, were you not? You’re welcome to have it. ♦” 

In your heightened state of sensitivity, you sense multiple presences converging nearby. Security guards, if you had to guess. You weigh your options. If you stay here, you’ll undoubtedly be harassed for a story that explains the chaos. Telling the truth would land you in a straight jacket whereas deception guarantees cuffs. Leaving in your car is off the table too, you’d be dubbed an important witness. There’s no way you can claim you drove by the carnage without noticing anything. 

“I can help get you out of this debacle,” he offers. “We’re both seeking the same end — the return of Chrollo’s Hatsu. The latest recording I’ve obtained is most promising. So, I’d rather we don’t continue this conversation in prison. ♣” 

Hisoka takes a step forward and extends his hand.

The security guards are getting closer, you think. There’s no time left.

And so you make your choice. 

-

You didn’t think places like these existed outside of the movies, or maybe you just don’t get around enough. 

You’ve found yourself in what you can only describe as a biker’s bar. The decor is old-fashioned, slightly worn yet authentic. There are pool tables, too many televisions to count, and a functioning jukebox nestled in the corner. Rough-looking men wearing leather jackets make up the main clientele. Fortunately, it’s Hisoka who draws the most attention, his gaudy getup acting as a magnet for the eyes. No one pays you any mind. 

For the second time this week, a weirdo treats you to drinks. The main difference is that this is a depressant and not a stimulant. 

You take hearty sips to calm your nerves. All that happened feels so surreal, like a collection of grotesque images that would be blurred out in a documentary. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. You want to be normal, untethered by the oddity that is Nen, the ‘world’ Chrollo inhabits. You decided long ago that nothing good can come from it. Maybe if you were more adventurous, prone to taking high risks for high rewards. 

But you’re not. 

Endless money, power, and influence don’t sound appealing. Sure, there’s an allure initially, until you consider reality. Lots of money means either lots of taxes or lots of tax evasion. You barely know what a W-2 form is, much less the hoops you’d have to jump through if your income exploded. Power and influence aren’t all they’re cracked up to be either. All that scheming to stay at the top would take away from what makes life truly worth living — reading Wikipedia articles and watching eight-hour-long videos analyzing a video game from two decades ago. 

“Holy shit,” you press pause on the cassette recorder. “This Abengane guy’s the real deal.” 

“Oh?” 

“He’s familiar with getting rid o’ Nen. During his… huh, what’s it called again… oh. Yeah. Audition. Durin’ his audition for Greedy Island—” 

“ —Greed Island.” 

You wave his correction off. 

“—Yeah, yeah, whatever. But, basically, he’s legit. How’d ya even come across this?” 

“Magic. ♥” 

You make a face. “Is everyone who uses Nen annoying?” 

“Some more than others.” 

Speak of the devil. Craning your neck, you’re met with piercing gray eyes. Unlike Hisoka, Chrollo isn’t dressed like he’s auditioning for the circus. Instead, he comes across as a guy who’s going to pitch the worst idea for a startup you’ve ever heard. He’s wearing a dark blazer with a gray turtleneck beneath it, along with white pants and black loafers. You’re about to make your joke known when something about Chrollo’s demeanor changes your mind. Intensity pours off him in waves, giving you pause. 

“Good news, boss. We found your exorcist.”

The title Hisoka uses to refer to him has you tilting your head. He did refer to himself as Chrollo’s ‘colleague,’ but the word boss implies hierarchy. 

“I heard,” Chrollo smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m surprised you’re not rushing back to Greed Island to track him down.” 

He slides into the booth beside you while never looking away from Hisoka. The tension brewing in the air perplexes you. Shouldn’t this news be a cause for celebration? You’ve helped Chrollo search for a Nen exorcist for months now. Chrollo’s been searching for a Nen exorcist for months now. You’re uncertain what reaction you expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. 

“All in due time. I’d hate to cut my time with your little assistant short.”

Hisoka makes a point of looking you up and down. 

Somehow, Hisoka has made Chrollo seem normal by comparison. Disliking the attention, you reach for your drink, only to notice how light it is. Have you already drunk that much? While inspecting the near-empty glass, you realize the room’s starting to feel warm. The stress of what you endured must’ve impaired your judgment. 

What time is it, anyway? Do I have work tomorrow? 

Your watch reads 2:05 a.m.

Shit. 

“I need— need to get going…” 

“Why the rush?” Hisoka questions. “Things were just starting to get interesting. ♥” 

You ignore him and stare Chrollo down, waiting for him to move aside so you can leave. Instead of getting up, he leans closer, pursing his lips. This is the closest you’ve ever been to him. Heat creeps over your face, from your cheeks to your ears. There’s no denying that the bastard’s handsome. Your friends love teasing you about him for that very reason. They never believe your insistence on having a ‘strictly platonic’ relationship, some even have bets for when you’ll end up together. 

Maybe you would’ve considered it if you didn’t know about his Nen proficiency. 

There aren’t any readily available statistics for Nen, but if you had to guess, you’d say most of the population is ignorant of its existence. People who do know about the Hunter’s Association consider it a private enterprise that specializes in exploration and taking on contract jobs. According to Chrollo, this is by design. You can barely go about your day pretending there aren’t superhumans roaming the planet, doing all sorts of crazy nonsense. 

Society would plunge into chaos if the knowledge reached them. 

You hear what sounds like your name coming from underwater. 

Blinking sluggishly, you discover Chrollo’s hand on your shoulder. “Hm? What?” 

“I’ve been calling your name,” he speaks languidly, likely for your benefit. “Are you alright?” 

“Well…” you trail off, pondering the question. “... Mm, yeah, probably not. I gotta get home, and— god, my car— it’s still back there. I don’t want… I can’t…” 

The anxiety you thought you buried resuscitates itself. It’s dull compared to earlier, yet your breathing grows shallow and your hands feel clammy. Your intenses churn like a parasite had been embedded inside. Everything feels far away, as if you’re in a dream, physically present yet mentally adrift. 

You could’ve died. 

You almost died. 

You’d fought desperately to scrub your mind of this knowledge, but the bottle can only do so much. 

“Say, Chrollo,” with a nearly imperceptible motion, Hisoka summons a playing card between his middle and pointer fingers. “If I were to slice her pretty neck, what would you do?”  

The old-fashioned glass Hisoka had been sipping from cracks. 

Pressure invades the air like a thick, heady fog, so tangible in its potency, that the chatter elsewhere dies down. The sudden silence allows for the clinging of billiard balls to reverberate throughout. Patrons glance around, vaguely aware that something is wrong, yet ultimately unable to identify the source. This primal sense of foreboding evaporates as swiftly as it arrives. The lively atmosphere reemerges, until all present seem to have forgotten anything unusual ever occurred. 

Hisoka absentmindedly cleans up the glass shards, piling them into the corner while Chrollo drums his fingers along the table. Chrollo’s jaw is set and the skin between his eyes is pinched in contemplation. 

Hisoka lets out an exaggerated sigh. “This is turning into a bore. I was confident you’d lose your cool, even if just a bit…” 

“Pathetic.” 

The unexpected vitriol has them both turning their heads in your direction. Chrollo blinks, while Hisoka tilts his head, staring at you owlishly. 

He points to himself. “Me?” 

“Yeah, you! You’re like— one of those birds, those showoff birds… dancing with your colorful feathers… ‘nd stuff…” your speech isn’t the most coherent, unaided by the irritation that’s boiling your blood. You leer at him, fed up with everything, especially whatever schemes he’s roped you into. A rough picture is presenting itself, one stroke at a time. To Hisoka, you’re nothing more than glorified bait. You don’t know if he played a role in engineering the evening’s events, but it wouldn’t be a surprise. 

At the very least, he admitted to following you. Even if he was a third party, he could’ve disposed of the impending threat. Instead, he waited, exposing you to bloodshed for his own ends. You wish you could come up with a more scathing insult. Unfortunately, your temple is throbbing and clear enunciation grows harder as your body digests the liquor you inhaled. 

Hisoka looks at Chrollo. “I’m a bird?” 

“She’s calling your bluff,” Chrollo clarifies. “Had you intended to follow up on your threat, she’d know.” 

You’re glad Chrollo realized what you were going for. The diatribe sounded better in your head. Nonetheless, he’s communicated the essence of things, lacking as it is in panache. Hisoka hums, eyeing you like you’d make for a fine appetizer before the main course. 

“You must have kept that detail from me on purpose. What an intriguing ability. ♥” 

Chrollo brushes aside his comment and refocuses his attention on you. “I’ll drive you home.” 

“But my car—” 

“I’ll handle it,” Chrollo reassures. 

He slides out from the booth and stares at you expectantly. You get the sense that trying his patience isn’t a good idea; his encounter with Hisoka must have soured his mood. He helps steady you as you stand, securing his arm behind your back. Neither of you acknowledges Hisoka while making for the door, though you can feel his eyes tracking your every movement. 

Upon emerging from the bar, the cool air you deplored earlier feels like a godsend. You hear cars rushing up and down the street, indicating the presence of a highway. Other than that, you don’t recognize the area. It’s a small, decrepit outlet, featuring shops plastered with neon signs and bars over the windows.

Chrollo ushers you in the direction of a black, unmarked McLaren.

“If you’re gonna do all that, at least get a less basic color… like pink…” 

“I’ll give it some thought.” 

Once you’re in the passenger seat, he fixes the strap of your purse and then buckles you in. It isn’t long until you’re on the road. He stays in the slow lane, mindful to avoid abrupt motions. You recline back and rest your head, hugging your arms close to your body. At the next red light, he sheds his coat, draping it over your person. The cashmere fabric is soft on your skin, embedded with his cologne and warmth. This, paired with the low hum of the engine has your eyelids growing heavy. You try resisting the temptation. 

“Thank you.” 

“Hm? For what?” 

“... Are you serious?” you murmur. “For comin’ to get me.” 

“Of course.” 

Relief rushes over you as the surrounding area becomes recognizable. Traffic is nonexistent this time of night, it shouldn’t be but a few more minutes until you’re home. Then you can crash out on your bed and deal with the existential weight of reality in the morning. Work can fire you for all you care, you just want to sleep. If you were on your deathbed, you’re ninety percent positive they’d ask you to find shift coverage before you croaked. 

Chrollo pulls into your apartment complex, parking as close to the entrance as he can. 

You fiddle with your seatbelt, intending to make the rest of the trip by yourself.

He places his large, calloused hand over yours, preventing further progress. 

“... Chrollo?” 

He doesn’t respond. His thumb rubs slow, steady circles against your skin. You swallow a growing lump in your throat. He hasn’t been himself all night. Or, to be more precise, he’s showing you a side of himself he’s hitherto kept hidden. You always knew there was more to him than he let on. You never wanted to open that Pandora's box, lest your plans be jeopardized. Playing with fire has its risks, yet cauterizing your personal wounds took priority. You don’t know if you have the right to pray the rest of your being doesn’t go up in flames. 

“I assume you’re aware of my fondness for you?” 

“I— well…” you stumble over your words, then meekly ask, “Is now really a good time for this?” 

Chrollo lowers his head and smiles. “No, I suppose not.” 

An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air. 

“One more question, then I’ll let you go,” he looks up at you through thick lashes, an enigmatic gleam passing over his eyes. “Do I frighten you?” 

Your body tenses. He addresses you so softly, so sweetly, had you not witnessed his mouth moving, you would’ve mistaken his voice for belonging to another. Your facilities aren’t functional enough to properly process his query. Perhaps that’s the point — him cornering you at this vulnerable junction. You don’t get why. You don’t think you could even if you were sober. 

Chrollo, for his part, seems to acknowledge he won’t get far in your current state.

Or maybe he gleaned his answer.

He lifts your hand to his lips, where he presses a lingering kiss. You can’t bring yourself to be the first to pull away. He lingers a while longer, as if stuck in a trance. When he does part, the skin tingles in his absence.

“I’ll be in touch.” 

-

For the past week, you’ve carried on as if nothing ever happened. 

It’s easier this way. There are instances where your performance is threatened, like when you ran across a news article detailing the ‘grisly murder of two men at a parking garage on 9th St,’ yet these lapses can be smoothed over. Ignore, distract, forget. This cycle lends you a credence of normalcy and eases you back into everyday life. 

You haven’t seen Chrollo since that night. You suppose he’s preoccupied with his arrangements to meet the Nen exorcist. While you don’t know the specifics, you imagine he’ll have to meet this Abengane in person. In the recording, he addressed two men — named Battera and Tsezguerra — where he proved himself qualified to enter ‘Greed Island.’ Aside from a few anonymous forums, information on this mythical game is sparse. All you know is that the price is exorbitant and that Battera obsessively tracks down every copy available. 

Wherever there’s Nen, things inevitably get weird, you think.

You begin tidying up your apartment. First is drying off the dishes, which saw their first use all week for a much-needed home-cooked meal. While doing so, your phone vibrates. You throw the damp rag down in a hurry and check the screen. All you find is a notification about your upcoming menstrual cycle. Sighing, you put your phone down on the counter. 

Chrollo had been truthful when he promised to take your Hatsu for assisting in the return of his. A part of you is relieved by his absence; the other is frustrated. You want to get this over with. It’s like when you have an appointment later in the day and spend the time leading up to it in a limbo, not wanting to get involved in anything until the commitment is over. Is it possible he already took it? Curious, you hold your dominant hand out. You haven’t used Instant Replay since the night at the biker’s bar. 

Aura surges through you, concentrating at the palm of your hand. Much to your disappointment, the light pink cassette tape appears. Maybe it no longer works? As a test, you rewind the recording of the audio Chrollo provided at the café. Once primed, you press play, listening attentively for certain cues. 

“It is my great honor to profess that I, Lilith, can purge you of any ailment, even scourges derived from Nen — for a small donation of…” 

The self-proclaimed Mistress of Panaceas sounds increasingly garbled as her lies surface. Clicking your tongue, you deactivate your ability. Everything remains operational. You don’t know what you expected, you’ve overheard the telltale sounds of lying the past few days. It just hasn’t been directed at you, which weakens the effect. 

Will you really have to endure this the rest of your life? 

Shortly into resuming your task, there’s a knock at your door. 

You ignore it, not in the mood to deal with a neighbor asking for something. After thirty or so seconds, there’s another round of knocking. You suppress a groan. Why can’t the world sense that you’re moody and let you brood in peace? Trudging over, you try to put on a pleasant face, unwilling to lash out on others even if you’re in a terrible mood. Erring on the side of caution, you glance out the peephole. 

Upon doing so, you almost lose your balance.

…

He must’ve decided he kept you waiting long enough.

[shy-writer-999]

1-800-LONELYCHEF . ₊ ⊹ .

Summary: The same man calls you every Friday at 11:30PM. It seems like he has nothing better to do. After months of the same routine, you've started to take a liking to him, which is a problem, considering that he's your client... and you work at a phone sex hot line. WC: ~7k. CW: NSFW content! ANGSTY! Afab reader w/gendered language (she/her pronouns). Masturbation, oral sex. MDNI plz!

“Hello?”

You’re very familiar with the caller on the other end of the line. He calls you once a week—every Friday, after his shift at the bougie restaurant he works at, 11:30PM on the dot.

He must be very attractive, or at least that’s what you’ve garnered over talking to him for many months.

At first, he was evidently too shy to make use of your more… explicit services. This is a phone sex hotline, after all.

He honestly sounded like he just needed someone to vent to. So, you listened, as was your job. After the first few months, you both got more accustomed to one another. His shyness melted away. He got friendlier.

It’s been six or seven months since he first called. You’ve become very fond of him, but you have no idea what he looks like. So, one day, you decide to ask.

“Your voice is so sexy,” you start, giving him a line that you gave everyone, except this time you mean it. “I can’t help but wonder what you look like, Sanji.”

With other callers, you’d have to check what their name is before you say it. But you’re far past that point with him, and every time you say his name it makes his heart flutter.

“Well,” he says. “I’m blonde. And my eyebrows have a little… curl to them. I’m a decent height and I have a bit of a goatee.”

“And what color are your eyes?” You ask, trying to get the full picture.

He notes that question. It’s a thoughtful one. You’re thoughtful, in general. He knows that you are just being nice to him because, well, it’s your job, but also… he can’t shake the feeling that you have a soft spot for him. Do you talk to everyone like this?

“My eyes? Hmm. It depends on who you ask. I don’t know, really. Some people say they’re black, other people say grey, I’ve had a few tell me they’re blue. I’m not sure.”

You hum in response. There’s a beat of silence.

“What sort of eyes do you like?” He asks. He’s cheeky like that. You have the feeling that he has a real soft spot for you, too. Why else would he call you every week? There are plenty of others he could call. But he just sticks with you every time.

You respond. “It depends on who you ask. But historically I have liked guys with black, grey, or blue eyes. Do you happen to know anyone who fits the bill?”

He can tell that you’re smiling. He finds himself blushing, getting giddy for a few moments before he realizes that oh, right, you are at work, and oh, right, he is paying you to talk to him, like the loser he is.

His voice falters a bit the next time he speaks, a couple of seconds later. You know the exact thought that just went through his head. It’s something you are well aware of but… it does make you a bit sad with him. You like him far too much for your own good.

You wonder if you would like the look of him in real life, painfully single as you are. You wonder if he would like the look of you.

You might have a teeny tiny crush on this guy you’ve never met. Teeny tiny is a massive understatement. Just because he’s so consistent—you’ve never met a man as consistent as him—and so kind, and such a gentleman, even on the phone.

But tonight, the call ends earlier than usual. It seems that your open flirtation was a bit too genuine for him. Hit a bit too close to home. He finishes the conversation and dodges your attempt to take it farther.

“Thank you as always, beautiful. It’s a pleasure to talk to you. See you next week.” The phone hangs up abruptly. He’s gone now.

He always calls you beautiful, like everyone else does, but… it just means something coming from him. Maybe because he’s the only caller who has ever wanted to truly know something about you. And every time he hangs up, he says ‘see you next week,’ even though you never see each other. It’s cute.

You find yourself wishing he was still on the line. You’re a bit bummed that he hung up this early, not because you’re going to be left wanting for money (he always overpays), but because you always look forward to talking to him.

When you take the next caller, you’re quickly reminded that Sanji is by far the youngest and kindest of anyone who has ever called you.

---

“Hello?”

He’s on the line again. It’s Friday again, 11:30PM sharp.

You respond, tone warmer than it needs to be, given that you’re speaking to a client. “Hi.”

You’re glad to talk to him. Very realistically, this is the only interesting thing you have to look forward to—it’s not like you can afford to go out and party on the weekends. Or any day, for that matter. He’s your Friday night date every week. That doesn’t escape him.

“How was your week?” He asks, like he always does. He’s the only client who has ever asked you that.

You respond as frankly as you can without overstepping. “Hmmm. It was alright. Pretty boring, in general. It could have been better. How was your week?”

He pauses for a moment. “It was pretty good.”

“Tell me about it.” You prompt, and he begins detailing his week for you, as is your routine.

The things you know about this man’s life are random and vast, among them, you know that he lives in the city next to yours, he eats oats every morning for breakfast, and that he chain smokes as often as he can get away with (which is almost 24/7). You’ve been privy to him trying to cut back on his nicotine intake more than a few times, and he has never forgotten that you cheer him on every time he tries.

Among other things, this week he had to go to work on his usual day off (Wednesday) because the sous-chef called out (again). You can hear him roll his eyes when he says that. You roll them too, even though he can’t see.

He vents about that, and you hear him out.

“The sous-chef sounds like a real asshole,” you say. “Always has. Didn’t he call out a couple weeks ago?”

He laughs out loud at your honesty. “I fucking know, right? And yes, he did. It’s ridiculous.” Then his heart skips a beat. You really do pay attention to what he says.

“They don’t appreciate you as much as they should, Sanji. I bet I could talk some sense into them.” You say, and you both chuckle for a moment.

“What else happened this week?” You follow up, genuinely wanting to know. This man fascinates you. With how charming and sweet he is, it’s a wonder to you that he’s single. Also, the life he lives is quaint. He is a man of routine, a hard worker, and he’s driven. He has a strong and warm personality.

When he replies to your question, you can’t quite make out the tone of his voice—is that reluctance? Hesitation? Shyness? Or awkwardness? It’s hard to tell.

He responds to your question. “Well… I went on a date last night.”

Before you can wonder why, your heart starts to sink. Fuck. You really do have a crush on this guy, don’t you?

You regrettably (internally) acknowledge your disappointment. You do have a massive crush on this guy. And he’s your client. So, get a grip.

Your acting skills have to be excellent for this job. You make good use of them now. “Oh, a date?” You emanate the pinnacle of excitement for him. “How was it?”

This has happened maybe half a dozen times before. The dates always go well but the follow through rate is bad. Obviously. Or else he wouldn’t be here. But every time it has happened, your heart always sinks. Not a fun feeling.

“It went really, really well.” Sanji’s voice is happy. “Might have been the best date I’ve ever been on.” You know he’s smiling right now. Positively beaming. Your heart breaks a bit before you reprimand yourself. You have no right to like this man the way that you do.

He probably wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot-pole if he met you in real life (you tell yourself this, and you know it is a lie, but you try to say it to make yourself get a grip… needless to say, this strategy doesn’t work.)

“How was she?” You ask because you know he wants to talk about it.

“She was thoughtful, kind, and considerate. Very sweet. Kind of like you, actually.” He says, not realizing how much those words make your smile fall. “One of the cooks set us up. Like a blind date. I had no idea what to expect but she was gorgeous. Wow. So funny, too.”

His voice trails off. It’s your turn to talk.

“Awh, Sanji, I’m so glad. You deserve some attention.” Your voice is sugar coated like usual and his heart patters.

The conversation wanders into various topics. The woman he went on a date with is a veterinarian. That sours your mood. She must be real swell. Caring for sick animals and all that stuff. Ugh. The whole topic is forcing you to accept the fact that you like this guy wayyyy more than you should. You have no business having this intense of a crush on him, having this intense of a crush on a man who is, ostensibly, and for all intents and purposes, using you as his rent-a-girlfriend.

The pair of you then talk about relationships—has he ever been in one? (Yes, ages ago.) What is his love language? (Physical touch and acts of service.) What’s his type? (Essentially, you.) You ask him questions and he asks you them back. It’s a nice conversation, an intimate one, one that would have you feeling better if not for the fact that he just happened to have an amazing date.

After a while, the conversation dwindles. You know that he’s in the mood to do what this whole thing is really about—phone sex. When Sanji is in a really good mood or a really bad mood, he takes advantage of your expertise in this area. Tonight is the former.

“Is there anything else on your mind, handsome?” You ask, gauging what he’s up to tonight.

“Mmmm, there is. What are you wearing, gorgeous?”

You smile. He’s cute. Usually, you lie when men ask you this question. But with Sanji you tend to be a bit more truthful. Maybe it’s the fact that you feel like he’s going to get taken off the market soon and never call you again one day, or maybe it’s something else, but you’re getting the urge to be more candid and flirtier with him than you’ve ever been before. Real flirty, not work flirty. You’re getting the urge to step out of whatever character you put on when you pick up the phone.

“Do you want the regular client answer, or the Sanji answer?” You say, bold and not giving a fuck. Why not? He can have the real answer, hell, he can have some realness because you’ve talked for so long, and because you like him so much. Like you said, he deserves some attention.

“Oh. How about both?” He’s tickled and intrigued. “I’m flattered that I have my own option.”

“You always do. Well, the regular client answer would be that I’m wearing a babydoll slip dress made of black mesh… with a black lace thong and thigh-high black stockings. Do you like that?” Your voice starts to transform; it starts to drip pure lust, candied in honey and flattery. It’s a well-trained skill. Sanji gets hard almost immediately, tenting his pants and widening his thighs.

“I like it very much.” His voice is getting huskier, thicker. You love it when he sounds like that. His voice really is sexy. He continues. “Now, tell me the Sanji answer.”

“It isn’t nearly as glamorous. Do you still want to know?”

He nods, but it’s not like you can see him. “Of course.”

“I’m wearing a black tank top and blue plaid sweatpants. No bra, but I actually am wearing a black lace thong.” You laugh. “Very sexy, right?”

His voice comes out raspier this time. “It is, though. I much prefer the Sanji answer.”

“You’re sweet.” You say, and he can tell you mean it. “Now, what are you wearing?”

Sanji blushes and his erection strains against the fabric of his boxers. “Do you want the regular client answer, or the You answer?”

You laugh again. “How about both?”

“Well,” he continues. “The regular client answer is that I’m in black slacks and a white button down. A few buttons are undone and my sleeves are rolled up to my forearms. I’m wearing black loafers and black socks. Now, the You answer isn’t nearly as glamorous. Do you still want to know?”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t have a shirt on and I am coincidentally wearing blue plaid sweatpants as well. Can you believe that?”

“No way. Really?”

“Yep.”

“Anything underneath?” Your voice is coy and his erection pulses.

“Yep. I have boxers on. Boring black ones.”

“And what’s going on underneath of those?”

He dryly chuckles and reaches down to rub his hard on for a second. “A lot.”

“Just what I wanted to hear.” You practically purr and he runs his palm over his bulge in response.

He lets out a soft groan that make you feel some sort of way. “Oh yeah? Y’know, even though I don’t really know what you look like, I just know that you’re looking sexy in your pajama outfit right now.”

Your witty reply is stopped short. He’s the only one who is this real with you. Most of the men on the other line tend to be creepy, old, and just downright weird. This is a dying profession, after all. Sometimes the other clients are rude and dismissive, too. But Sanji… you know he really means what he says.

“You’re adorable, Sanji,” you say. “I’d venture a guess that you look pretty good right now, too.”

“Mmmm.” He hums, heartbeat rising as he continues to palm himself. “I wish I could see you right now.”

You can’t tell if this is part of the fantasy. You really did wish you could see him, though.

“What would you do to me…” your voice is smooth as silk. “If I peeled off my tanktop and shimmied out of my sweatpants?”

Sanji’s breath hitches. Something feels realer than usual about this—knowing what you’re wearing right now, what you’re really wearing, is turning him on beyond belief (assuming that you’re telling the truth, but he always chooses to believe that you are).

“If I was there, I’d kiss you, actually.”

His answer catches you off guard. You’re not sure he’s said something like this before.

There is silence for a second. You don’t know how to respond, really. You decide to just respond honestly, without appearances. Fuck it. He’d probably be off the market soon if his amazing date was anything to tell for it, so might as well.

“Wow, that’s really sweet. I’m not sure anyone has said something that nice to me in years.”

He tuts. “That’s my lowest bar of sweetness. I can go much sweeter than that, my love.”

He’s never called you that before, either. You’re starting to forget that this is a work call. It feels distinctly different than one.

“I’d like to see how sweet you can get, Sanji.”

His cock twitches again. Fuck. You really have a way with words. You get him more riled up than anyone he’s ever met before.

You continue. “After you kiss me, what would you do to me?”

“I would kiss every inch of you.”

Your heart melts. Fuck. Is this guy a saint? Where does he get off being so suave?

“Mmmm. That sounds nice. I’d like to return the favor.” Your tone, to Sanji, is effortlessly erotic. The thought of you kissing every inch of him—yes, even those inches—has him grinding the palm of his hand over his cock.

“Sounds even better. Then, if you let me, I’d go down on you.” The blonde is starting to get worked up. You can tell from his voice—when it gets all husky like this, you know he’s about to start touching himself, if he isn’t already.

Also, the fact that he said ‘if you let me’ really struck you. No one had ever said that before in your line of work. He has the tendency to say things you’ve never heard before, and he always surprises you.

“Of course I’d let you go down on me,” your voice gets softer. “What exactly would you do?” You wonder if he’d be any good. Maybe his answer will be elucidative.

“I’d start by kissing up your thighs, one at a time. Then I’d very slowly, very gently kiss your clit. Hopefully it would feel good. After a while, I think I’d be able to tell if you liked it. I’d run my tongue downwards and taste you. And tease you as much as you’re willing to put up with.”

“Mmmm. I think I could put up with a lot.” You let out a breathy sigh. You’re starting to warm up between the legs. With that voice, and those words, and that mental image… it sounds divine. You’re about to let yourself get carried away. It’s tempting.

“Is that so?” Sanji decides to keep going with the fantasy as long as you’d let him. Frequently, this happens the other way around. You usually describe to him, in great detail, what you would do to him. Apparently tonight it would be the other way around.

“In that case,” Sanji continues, “I’d take my time with you. I’d push my tongue inside of you delicately at first, then harder, and switch between that licking your clit.”

You can feel that you’re getting wet. It has only ever been with Sanji that you’ve actually gotten aroused while talking to a client. Usually, you’re as dry as the Sahara when talking to clients. But this man does things to you. Sinful things.

“What else?” You ask, biting your lip and sneaking your hand lower. You decide that, just this once, it’s okay to get carried away.

He can hear it in your voice. The synthetic, sugary (but still very much erotic) tone is dissipating and he’s hearing, for the first time, your voice bathed in genuine arousal. Your breaths are quicker than usual, your tone is less composed, and he can tell that you’re hanging onto his every word.

At the same time that his hand goes under the waistband of his boxers, yours goes under your underwear. He starts to stroke himself, relishing the first ripples of pleasure from his hand, and you do something similar. Each movement of your fingers is accompanied by his voice, by some filthy image he puts in your head.

“When you’re moaning loud enough, I’d press my middle finger into you slowly, to make sure you’re comfortable. After a moment, I’d move my finger and caress you inside a bit, and if it seemed like you liked it, I would press my ring finger into you.”

You start to mimic what Sanji is describing. It feels dangerously good. A barely audible sort of gasping sound falls out of your lips and Sanji hears it. His fist goes faster. He hasn’t ever heard you make that sort of noise before—he’s heard fake moans, sure, they were still hot (and he always told himself they were real). Anything you did was hot. But this sort of noise was the sort that could only be caused by one thing—pleasure.

Sanji’s fist goes a bit faster when he concludes that you may be touching yourself. The idea makes him feel like he’s on fire.

“I’d curl my fingers inside of you and find your g-spot… draw circles around it and press it while I place some kisses on your clit. Would you like that?”

His question catches you off guard—you’re getting lost in the act of fingering yourself.

“Mmmm. I would like that, Sanji.”

“How would I know that you liked it?”

“I’d, fuck,” another soft moan slips out of your lips and Sanji squeezes his cock tighter. “I’d run my fingers through your hair and pull you closer. Buck my hips into your tongue so you, ah, get deeper.”

“What would you say?” His voice is low now, and you can hear a faint sound in the background. He’s fisting his cock to your conversation, which is nothing new, but it brings you more of a rush than usual right now because you’re touching yourself too. “What would you say if you liked how I ate you out?”

“Don’t stop,” you shudder, and it sounds like it would if he was actually eating you out. The noise makes his heart flip. He can hear wet sounds from your end of the phone, too. He can hardly believe his ears, but sure enough, he can make out the noises of you bringing your fingers in and out of yourself.

“I wouldn’t,” Sanji says and then groans. The obscene noise goes straight to your aching core. You’re going to orgasm soon. “I wouldn’t stop until you came all over my face and I licked you clean.”

“Fuck,” you mewl. “That sounds, ah, sounds like it would feel good, Sanji.”

“Does it feel good?” He counters, twisting his hand over the head of his cock. His fist brings down the precum that has been beading at his tip, and the sensation makes his hips rock up inadvertently.

“Mmmmphhh, I—yes, it feels good, Sanji. Feels so good.”

You curl your fingers inside, searching for the spot that Sanji mentioned before. You press on it as you speak. You know he’s going to love the noise you make.

He grunts and throws his head back. He’s going to cum soon. He’s going to cum if you say his name some more. He wants it. “Say that again.”

“Fucckkk, Sanji. Feels so good.”

“I love hearing you say my name. I’m—hah—‘m gonna cum if you do it again.”

“Sanji. Sanji. Sanji, fuck, Saannnjjjiii.” On repeat, you moan his name through your orgasm, which you finally allow to wash over you. He can hear it in your voice, can hear you trying to force his name out of your mouth between keens.

Your voice has never sounded so good. He’s sure now, sure sure, that you’ve been touching yourself this whole time and that you just came. It’s a first for him. He’s suspected your arousal at other times, but this time, it’s a confirmed fact. In an instant, the fantasy fades and he can see the moment for what it is—you’ve thrown away the pretenses, acting skills, and flattery, and, for a handful of minutes, you’ve been 100% yourself with him, more so than ever before.

That’s what makes him cum. Your unreserved sincerity and desire. It’s the hardest he’s cum in a long time—and that’s a high bar, considering the fact that any time he broaches these activities with you he cums hard.

When you’re both panting in the euphoric aftershocks of your orgasms, Sanji whistles. “Damn.”

You hum in agreement. “Wow.”

He cracks a joke. “So, am I supposed to send you an invoice after this one?”

He’s hilarious in general, and this one makes you laugh. “I might allow it.” Your tone is uncharacteristically bashful. You’re about to say something you’ll later regret. “I think you’re the only person who has ever gotten me off over the phone.”

Sanji is taken aback for a second. “Really? I’m honored. And surprised.”

You almost instantly regret oversharing, chuckling awkwardly before you realize that this is a work call, and you should act accordingly. But it’s hard to pull yourself out of the intimacy of this moment and you don’t want to. So… against your better judgment, you don’t.

“I’m impressed, Sanji. Maybe we should do this more often,” you say, and Sanji’s heart thumps again. “You don’t have to only call me once a week, you know.”

“As long as you won’t get sick of me, I would love to. And we can do this again any time, gorgeous. It’s seriously my pleasure. You don’t know what you do to me, it’s only fair that I return the favor.”

While he’s saying the last part, Sanji realizes that this isn’t a favor, really. He tries to brush off that sad feeling for a moment but finds himself wondering what you really think of him.

It’s time for him to go to sleep, he concludes. He’s exhausted after a long shift and a hard orgasm.

“So, same time next week?” His voice is chipper.

“Mhm. I look forward to it, Sanji. See you later.” When the words leave your mouth, you wonder if he feels butterflies, too.

“See you later, sweetheart.”

Sanji hangs up the phone.

In your respective bedrooms, you’re both wondering what the fuck just happened. This call was full of lots of firsts and, little do you two know, the other feels elated.

But Sanji thinks about it more. He weighs his feelings for you against the practical understanding that he is, presumably, nothing more than a client to you. His heart aches at the thought.

And then he looks at his phone. The person who he went on a date with texted him while he was on the phone with you—she’s asking for another date. She says she looks forward to seeing him.

---

A week passes.

It’s Friday again.

11:30PM comes and goes. No call from Sanji.

In a span of over six months, this is the first time he hasn’t called you.

As you sit and wait for him, passing off other phone calls in case he decides he wants to speak to you tonight, your heart starts to sink.

Was last time a mistake?

Ten minutes go by.

Twenty minutes go by.

Many minutes go by. The time is now 12:30AM.

You’re left to conclude that last time was, indeed, a mistake.

You decide to take the night off. Your tears are making it hard to get any work done. You can’t put on that sultry voice and moan at old men in your current state.

There’s no denying it—his absence hurts you. Bad. Especially after last week. Especially after you admitted to him that you had never orgasmed over the phone before, and that you wanted to talk to him more often.

Why hadn’t he called you?

You wrack your brain for possibilities, but one major thing stands out. That date he went on. Maybe he went on another one and decided he liked them better.

Liked them better? You ask yourself after realizing what you just thought. He’s paying you to talk to him on the phone. Get over it. He isn’t going to keep calling you forever. What did you expect after last week? That he would just confess his love, offer to pay all of your bills, and that would be it?

You frown harder, hurting yourself deeper with your own rhetoric. The tears won’t stop.

It’s excruciating to realize that you like Sanji this much. You really like him. You know almost everything there is to know about him, too. And as much as you generally try to avoid giving out personal information, he knows a large chunk about you. Maybe that’s why it hurts so bad.

No, you tell yourself. Don’t kid yourself. You know it hurts this bad because you were hoping he liked you for real. You were hoping that this man, who you had never truly met before, who you had never seen, would, against all odds, decide that he wants you, even if he hadn’t seen you.

Fat chance, you tell yourself. Never do that with a client again, and this will never be a problem again.

---

Sanji does not call you back the next week.

Or the next week.

Or the week after that.

Or the month after that.

You are over it by the time the second month rolls around.

It’s pretty good timing, on your behalf. You think you’re really over this huge crush on a man you’ve never seen before. By the fifth month, you’re still telling yourself that you’re over this “crush”.

But that’s a delusion—any time you’re in public and there’s a blonde man, you find yourself scanning his face. Does he have a goatee? Could those eyebrows be considered curly? What color are those eyes?

When you see one that you think might be him, you always work up the courage to speak to them. But it never is Sanji. You would recognize that voice anywhere.

You wonder what you will say to him if he ever calls you again. Or if you see him in person. You decide that if he ever calls you again, you’ll either curse him out or break into tears.

In your most down-bad-hour, you contemplate showing up at the restaurant he is the chef at. You contemplate asking if you can see the kitchen. You just want a glance at him. A glance will keep your heart quiet.

But the joke’s on you—his restaurant is too expensive for you. Truly. You couldn’t afford a drink there if you tried. Okay, maybe just one. But you refuse to stoop to that level of desperation.

You’re a call away from him. He just has to dial your number.

You, on the other hand, have no way of calling or texting him. The service you work through scrambles client numbers before they’re patched through to you. The only way you know it’s Sanji is when he calls, at 11:30PM on the dot, on Friday nights. That’s Sanji time.

But it seems like Sanji time has come and gone.

You can’t shake the feeling that he did you dirty—but then you remember that he doesn’t owe you anything. This is your line of work. Phone sex. And that’s what you had. You just stepped over a boundary that you usually stay far away from. Whose fault is that?

No amount of logic can shake that feeling, though. You develop a little grudge against this man who you will never meet.

That’s what you tell yourself—that you’ll never meet him. But there’s a nugget of hope inside that, someday, he’ll call you. Someday he’ll kiss you. You try to obliterate that nugget though, as it is antithetical to the remedy to your lovesickness that you’re seeking.

Which will come first, him calling you, or you quitting this job that you’ve been meaning to quit for months at this point?

You hate to admit this to yourself, but he’s the only thing that was keeping the thoughts of quitting at bay. Maybe you really will quit this time around.

---

It is a Saturday night and you’re working again. It’s an unfortunately slow night, which sucks, because you really could use the money.

You’re scrolling on your phone, waiting for the next call to come in. It has been three hours with no calls. Guess all the creepy old men have plans tonight, which is such a shame because you need to pay rent soon. Sigh.

Time passes. You check the clock. It’s almost 11:30PM. The time doesn’t remind you of him anymore (well, much).

Maybe if you channel some of your good karma, ask the universe to cut a check of it right now, someone will call you for one long, lengthy conversation. You can help get them off as many times as they want. Five times in a row. You’ll break that record and go for six times if they just pay you. No questions asked.

Sure enough, a call comes through. You check the clock again. It’s been moving at a snail’s pace tonight. It’s 11:35PM. Hopefully whoever this is feels like talking.

“Hello?”

Your heart stops.

It sounds like Sanji for a second. But there’s no way. It’s been five fucking months.

“Hi.” You respond in your sugared up, sultry voice.

“It’s been a long time, gorgeous.”

It is Sanji.

Your heart flutters and your stomach flips. You’re speechless.

Don’t forget your game plans: curse him out or cry. But you can’t bring yourself to do either now that he’s waiting on the other line. You’re about to hang up the phone. You owe this man nothing and he owes you nothing—it’s that simple.

As you go to press the end call button, he speaks again.

“I’m sorry.”

The tears start now. The dam inside of you breaks. Hot tears pour out of your eyes and down your cheeks.

You didn’t think that hearing his voice would have this strong of an effect on you. But the heartbreak that you once thought faded away is now back in full force.

He’s waiting for a response before he hears shuddering breaths from you as you cry. Your tears are all the confirmation he needs—he knows that he was right months ago when he worked up the courage to confess to you. He should have done it. He knows that he was wrong to take the coward’s way out. And he knows he was wrong to tell himself that you didn’t care about him and wouldn’t care when he disappeared, because he was just a client to you. He was so terribly wrong. The sound of your sobs shatters him.

“I should have called you before. I’m so sorry. And maybe you hate me for waiting this long to call you again. I understand if you do. I just couldn’t keep it inside anymore, I—”

“Where the fuck were you?” You cut him off. Your anger is starting to seep through the tears. Maybe the first game plan can still happen. “I waited for you, Sanji.”

He doesn’t even try to think of a comeback or excuse. He tells you plainly what happened and, even though it breaks your heart some more, it makes sense.

“Well… I finally found someone. Last time, after I hung up, I had another date with that person I mentioned, and it went really well. So, we just kept going on dates. It didn’t feel right to keep calling you when things with her were progressing so quickly. We got together, and—”

“I understand, Sanji. That’s all I wanted to hear. Thanks.”

You slam your finger down on the hang up button. Your heart is broken enough as it is. He can keep all that yapping to himself. Good for nothing heartbreaker.

So what, he was with whoever that was. So what, they love each other and have been together almost half a year at this point. So what, he was just a client the whole time and you had gotten your hopes up for nothing and—your catastrophizing is stopped in its tracks when your phone starts to buzz again. You feel like it’s Sanji.

You pick up the phone. It is.

“Wait, wait, don’t hang up, please let me finish, please.”

“What, so you can tell me how much you love your girlfriend? I get it, Sanji. You paid me to talk to you for so long that of course you got sick of it and finally got what you had been after the whole time, a loving, very real partner. I understand that I’m just a service to be used and discarded later. That’s fine. Goodbye.”

“No. Listen to me.” Sanji’s voice is stern and harsh, a tone you’ve never heard from him before. “We got together and then she very quickly dumped me. Do you know what she kept saying to me? She said I was too absentminded. She thought I was thinking about someone else. Dumped me after two months because I couldn’t give her what she wanted. Absentminded.”

His words hang in the air for a few moments while you try to process why the fuck he’s explaining any of this to you and why it matters. He continues. His voice is emphatic, hurried, and nervous sounding.

“And if I’m being honest, I was absentminded. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I know this sounds fucking ridiculous because we’ve never met, and I understand if you tell me to go fuck off because I’m sure this happens to you all the time, but… I can’t get you out of my head. I’ve tried to for months. Three months. I told myself that I was an idiot for falling for someone out of my league. And the crazy thing is, I don’t even have to see you to know you’re out of my league. The way you act is out of my league. YOU are out of my league. You’re thoughtful, and kind, and considerate, and you pause before you respond whenever you talk because I can tell you’re really thinking over your response. And you’re funny. And witty, and charming, and you never once made me feel weird or less than for calling and finding solace in you. I’ve been lonely for years. I make the first move all the time, but it never works out. And I know I fucked this one up, and I know I didn’t have a chance in hell with you to begin with, but I just, fuck, I had to get this off my chest. I love you. I fell for you the first conversation we had. Now please tell me to fuck off.”

You can tell that every word he is saying is sincere and earnest. You can hear the emotion in his voice. While you wipe your tears dry and mend your heart together, you take deep breaths. He can wait for your response. Like he just said, you’re intentional about your responses to people. Every word matters. Especially with Sanji.

“Do you know how bad it hurt after our last conversation to not hear from you again?” You start.

He winces. He knew that was coming.

“I’m so so sorry. I’m so sorry. It was disrespectful of me, and callous, and if you hang up and never want to speak to me again, I understand and I deserve it.”

“You do deserve it.” You say, regaining some composure. “You really do, Sanji.”

“I’m sorry.” You can hear his frown. It’s a cute one. Fuck. His cute words are playing back in your ears too. So, he loves you?

Should you tell him how you feel? How you’ve felt for a long time?

One part of you is screaming at you to get a grip. But the other part—all the other parts—are finally, finally hearing what you’ve been wanting to hear for around a year at this point. That he likes you for you. That he sees you as you, and not some dolled up object of affection that’s only there to get people off and talk dirty to them. It has never been like that between you.

“If I accept your apology, Sanji, what then?”

“I—I actually didn’t think I would make it this far. But if you accept my apology, my next step is to ask you out to dinner with me. And to ask for your phone number. Your real phone number.”

You let out a long, deep sigh. “Sanji. My love. You could have told me these things months ago. It would have saved both of us so much heartbreak. I was devastated. Do you know that?”

You know that he already profusely apologized but you feel like driving it home a bit more. He deserves it. But while you talk, his hopes start to rise. You’ve never called him ‘my love’ before. Maybe that bodes well?

“I’m so sorry. I really am.” He sounds like he means it. You trust him enough to know that he does. Well, fuck it.

“Don’t think I’ll just forget about this because I’m head over heels for you, okay?”

“You—what?” He’s caught off guard. “You are?”

“Sanji. Yes. And you could have found out ages ago. Now, when are we going to dinner? You can apologize to me again then, too. And even if you don’t like what you see, you have to pay for everything. I’m getting an appetizer, an entrée, a dessert, at least two drinks, and whatever else I want. Okay?”

He laughs in relief. “Yes, okay. Yes. Holy shit, I didn’t think you would say that. I wish I could kiss you.”

“Wait—one last thing. If you decide you don’t like me after our date, Sanji, you have to tell me there on the spot. You can’t leave me waiting for another five months. You just can’t.”

“I promise, I won’t leave you waiting. I promise.”

When you hang up the phone a few minutes later (after more twisting the knife), you’re so thrilled that you can hardly breathe.

You can’t believe this is real life. You also can’t believe how quickly you just forgot your dignity, but you’ll unpack that later.

Dinner is set for tomorrow night. 7:30PM on the dot. Sanji is calling out of work, and he’s taking you to the (second) nicest restaurant in town (his is the first, obviously, and he wants to save that for a night where he can really plan ahead and spoil you).

---

When you get to the restaurant, Sanji is already there, waiting outside with a large bouquet of flowers.

He’s more handsome than you could have imagined. Of course he is. You do have great intuition, and you knew from the start that he was sexy. But… goddamn, he is sexy.

It makes sense now what he meant by curly eyebrows. He’s dressed well, too. He’s wearing black slacks and a white button down. A few buttons are undone, and his sleeves are rolled up to his forearms. He has black loafers and black socks. And he smells good. And he smiles good.

He’s so nervous he could puke. He hopes that when he sees you the nerves will melt. But they get 20x worse because he’s enamored with you. You’re beyond his wildest dreams—no number of fantasies could have led him to guess that you look like this.

He’s so obsessed that he starts to stammer before you tell him to calm down, and that he’s making you nervous.

Over dinner, you catch up on everything you’ve missed in the past few months of silence. You fill him in on details in your life that you previously kept to yourself, and he sees a whole new side of you.

At the end of the date, he tells you that he still loves you, that he loves you even more now, and that he’s so so sorry. He says that he’s mesmerized by you, that you’re more than he could have ever dreamed of, and that you can count on him for anything.

You seal the night with a kiss. A long one. It’s so romantic that you feel a bit disturbed with how happy you are after.

And it turns out that yes, this is your big happy ending. You make a perfect pair.

Epilogue: The day that Sanji finally shows off the techniques he told you about long ago, you’re more than satisfied. In fact, it seems like he was actually underselling himself there. You always knew he was the modest type.

thanks for reading! this was inspired by a whole lot of laufey! i hope you liked it. i love sanji so much it hurts me ;(

here's my masterlist if you're interested!

divider courtesy of @cafekitsune tag list @eggrollforyou

[emmg]

sending this anon bc im shy and about to be deranged in ur inbox but i just wanted to say thanks for sharing your Emmrich doesn’t realize he’s a sugar daddy au bc not only is it genuinely delightful (its probably my favorite thing currently updating on ao3, I’m printing out every update grinding it into a powder and snorting it, it consumes almost all of my waking thoughts), but it also has me thinking about a swapped version where Emmrich assumes that rook wants a sugar daddy, someone to bankroll her life while she gets her phd, buy her nice things and pretty clothes, take her to fancy restaurants. (And he’s willing bc this Emmrich is 27% lonelier and 14% less well adjusted and he 100% catches serious feelings almost immediately but tells himself that everything will be fine.) When really rook just wanted to fuck her friends hot PHD supervisor but omg he’s actually really sweet and now they’re dating and in love and he’s totally going to propose when she graduates, he only pays for everything bc he’s a gentleman and he buys her clothes for their dates bc she’s not familiar with the restaurant dress codes.

Will I ever write it? Alas, no I shall not bc I can’t pin down the details or decide what direction i want to take it. (How does the misunderstanding begin? How does it last so long? What does Emmrich tell himself to convince himself that he’s not really taking advantage of her? Is it okay because its not like he’s paying her rent, only buying her pretty things and taking her places, is her phd position payed and she has scholarships? Is it bc she approached him? Has rook begun to wonder why she is always the one to take things to the next level, or does she think he’s just a gentleman who’s letting her set the pace? (it is her first serious relationship after all, but why isn’t he responding to her subtle hints that she want to get married and have kids pretty soon after she graduates?) What does Emmrich think is gonna happen when she graduates? does he think she'll end it amicably, a clean break where they never have to see each other again? Or is he preparing to stick it out as she strings him along until she find someone she wants to date for real this time? Is he continuing as normal until he can’t pretend anymore or is he ramping up the princess treatment in a last ditch effort to make her stay just a little bit longer?)

All I know is that it 100% blows up in their faces spectacularly and I am rotating it in my head 24/7

When I tell you I absolutely inhaled this. I mean I practically unhinged my jaw and swallowed it whole. And now I’m just sitting here, seething with jealousy, wondering why the hell I didn’t think of something this disgustingly perfect myself.

You said you wouldn’t write it, but listen: I need you to. If you ever do, you better tag me immediately, because I’ll be sprinting at full speed, ass-first on a warhorse, ready to gorge myself like a famished beast.

Emmrich was just made to be a sugar daddy ok. He wants to take care of peopleeeee

[jackalhadrurusluvr]

how to cry for help without crying for help

[maskedbyghost]

when simon wakes up in a hospital, the last thing you expect is for him to grab your hand, pull you close, and say, “hey, there you are, love.” his voice is so soft, so sure, it leaves you speechless. you stare at him, half in shock, because this is ghost—simon riley, the one person who’s kept every feeling locked up.

“simon, do you… do you remember anything?” you ask, testing the waters.

he blinks, looking at you with confidence. “of course, i remember. you’re my wife.”

you freeze. his wife? this is new, and you’re not sure where he got the idea, but before you can correct him, johnny walks in, taking one look at the two of you and biting back a grin. he leans in, whispering to you, “maybe just… go with it for now, eh?” he’s got that teasing glint in his eye, and something tells you there’s no harm in humoring simon for a bit, if it can be helpful for his recovery.

so, you go along with it. and to your surprise, simon doesn’t act confused—in fact, he’s more open with you than he’s ever been. suddenly, he’s holding your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, always looking for you, keeping you close, calling you “love” or “darlin’” in front of everyone. he’s even got that soft smile every time you catch his eye, one that makes it hard to remember this isn’t real.

the team’s amused but supportive, playing along with the whole story. simon keeps asking you little things, like what your favorite meal is, or how you usually spend your days when he’s away, as if filling in gaps in a life he believes you share. you find yourself answering with things that feel so genuine, and the way he listens—focused, attentive—feels more intimate than anything you’ve shared before.

one day, you’re patching up a minor scrape on his hand, and he just watches you, eyes soft, like he’s memorizing every detail. “i don’t know what i’d do without you,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. it’s so genuine, so open, that for a second, you forget it’s all just part of his memory loss.

then, one night, he pulls you close, resting his forehead against yours, eyes serious. “do you ever think about us?” he asks softly, like he’s trying to get at something just out of reach. “how we’d be if things were… different?”

you’re not sure how to answer because there’s no script for this. “sometimes,” you admit, feeling a pang of something deep and unspoken. and for the first time, you’re almost grateful he can’t remember—because maybe, just maybe, it’s the only reason he’s letting himself be this vulnerable with you.

as the days pass, you start catching little glimpses, small things that make you wonder if he knows more than he’s letting on. he catches you watching him once, and instead of asking why, he just gives you this little smile, one that feels like he’s in on the secret. and just when you’re starting to think this is all some kind of twisted dream, he pulls you aside.

“i know i’m supposed to remember,” he whispers, “but i don’t want this to end. not yet.”

it’s in that moment you realize the truth. he’s been aware all along—he’s been pretending just as much as you, holding on to this fragile, temporary illusion because, maybe, he needs it just as much as you do.

--------------------------------------------

hii!! i'm backkk!! send some requests plsss, byee <333

@daydreamerwoah @spicyspicyliving

[wow-thisismylifeiguess]

Cryptid Bruce

Martha and Thomas Wayne struggled to have a child for years and Thomas meets a shady man who tells him that a child will come to them soon

Thomas just ‘??? okaaaaaay’s him but in a week, Martha bursts into his office looking frazzled

“We’re being haunted.”

“….”

“Don’t give me that look, Thomas Wayne. The Manor. It’s haunted. Alfred! Tell him we’re being haunted!”

And Alfred comes in, also looking frazzled but to a lesser degree.

The two explain that things are moving around the Manor without any kind of explanation, but Thomas doesn’t believe them. Until he notices things in his office also being moved. The weirdest event is when they start hearing a child’s giggles. No explanation. None.

Not until Thomas, sleep deprived after going over paperwork for one too many hours, pops into the kitchen and…there is a child. Sitting on the kitchen counter.

The child, a boy, turns. Grins. Waves.

“Hi, daddy.”

—

Bruce, they name him, can melt into shadows. He finds it hilarious. Martha thinks she’s going to go grey at her young age. She adores him. Thomas adores him. He’s their son now.

The Waynes have a mysterious child, but they keep their private lives very private, so maybe they just successfully hid a pregnancy? And then a child. For…three years. They think Bruce is three, at least.

Despite how odd of a child Bruce is, they love him dearly. He’s some kind of miracle. A…very weird, possibly magical(?) miracle.

—

Dick thinks his adoptive father is strange. Extremely strange. Bruce makes absolutely no noise when he moves. He doesn’t cast shadows but he seemingly is able to *blend into them*. His smile, whilst genuine, seems a little too sharp.

He thinks he’s a vampire.

Bruce laughs so hard, he doubles over.

“No, but I am the Batman, so I guess you’re not far off.”

“…is this a joke?”

“Nope.”

“A dream?”

Bruce pinches him and Dick yelps.

Bruce doesn’t explain to Dick what he is, because he doesn’t have a clue himself. He just…is.

—

But when Jason comes along, he has a million and one questions. Bruce blinks at him.

“How did you do that? You literally *melted* into the shadows!”

Bruce shrugs.

“No. *No*. Explain.”

“I…can’t.”

“You said no secrets, B!”

Bruce puts his hands up defensively. “It’s not a secret! I really don’t know! It just…kind of happens.”

Jason stares at him. Bruce stands there. He seems to flicker? The edges of his body go a bit transparent and Dick knows he only does that when he’s stressed.

“Leave him alone, Jay. He’s telling the truth. He’s just…like that. But he’s still Bruce.”

It takes Jason two months to accept it. By then, his questions are more from genuine intrigue and wonder. He hides under Batman’s cape and somehow it’s spacious? It can even fit Dick at the same time. No one (but Bruce) can even hear them when they’re under there.

And then one day, when he goes to take a nap under Bruce’s cape, someone else is there.

“….B?”

“…”

“You know what I’m going to ask.”

“…”

“*Bruce*.”

“No real names, Robin.”

“No one can hear me!”

“…I didn’t kidnap him.”

“What his name?”

“Timothy Drake.”

“FROM DRAKE INDUSTRIES?”

And Tim wakes up, rubbing his eyes. He looks exhausted and way too skinny, and all of a sudden, Jason understands why Dick has cooed at him the first night Bruce brought him home.

“Um…hi.”

“B, we’re keeping him.”

Jason doesn’t need to see Bruce’s face to know he’s smiling.

—

Damian just…appears. Bruce suddenly understands his parents’ reactions to his first appearance because nearly the same exact thing happens. Bruce wakes up from a nap. He doesn’t need to sleep very often, something Tim finds incredibly annoying, declaring it to be *unfair*. He wakes up, and curled against his chest is…a boy. Who looks a *lot* like him.

“Uh.”

The child wakes up, blinks at him w striking green eyes.

“Hello Father.”

What the fuck.

Dick slams his way into Bruce’s office, followed by Jason and Tim, who are bickering with each other.

“DAAAAAAAD, THEY WON’T SHU- oh. Steal another kid?”

“…he just appeared.”

“That’s the excuse you used for Jason.”

“No. Literally. I fell asleep. No kid. Woke up. Kid.”

“My name is Damian.”

“That’s no fair. You came pre-named?”

Damian is as odd as Bruce. Actually, he’s weirder. And stabby. Bruce finds him *delightful*. He adores him.

—

Dick is Nightwing, Jason is Red Hood (no death, he just thought it was a cool name), Tim is Red Robin, and Damian’s Robin.

Bruce is Batman. Despite being in his late 30s, he still looks like he’s in his mid 20s.

—

Batman stands in front of a bank robber who’s going on about their evil bank robbing plans. Nightwing pops his head out from beneath Batman’s cape.

“Can you get to the point?”

Red Hood pops out next.

“I’m getting bored.”

Red Robin follows.

“This is sad.”

Damian.

“Scum.”

Batman sighs.

“Why are all of you here?”

“Missed you.”

They all chime in.

The robber.

“How…how the *fuck-?*”

“Language. There are kids around.”

“B, I’m 23.”

“Says the boy taking a nap in my cape. And I was talking about Red Robin and Robin.”

“…’s comfy.”

“I’m eighteen???”

“F- Batman! I am not a child!”

There’s some shuffling sounds, no doubt Red Hood moving over to ruffle Robin’s hair.

“Whatever you say, Tiny Demon.”

And then Red Hood shrieks.

“No stabbing your brothers, Robin.”

“He called me small!”

“…you are.”

“This is insulting, F- Batman. I will grow to be as big as you. No. *Bigger*.”

The robber watches in confusion, mild amusement, and horror.

Batman sighs.

“We’ll talk about this later. Now, you were saying? Blowing up the bank, terrorizing the people.” Batman yawns. “Anything else?”

“Just take me to Arkham. I think I’m insane.”

[antivanwine14]

There is another aspect to the Rookanis romance that I think is really interesting and that is authenticity, especially from Lucanis. Lucanis is not a flirt. He isn’t good at it and he isn’t comfortable with it. The early Rookanis relationship is two people learning to care about each other. There is almost no ‘flirting’ but there is a lot of focus on caring. However, then comes the pantry scene.

Lucanis comes out of nowhere and is suddenly Mr Flirty, sensual and seductive. The scene goes badly, however, and it ends because Lucanis suddenly pulls away and leaves. It left Rook understandably confused and a little hurt. That pantry scene was Lucanis trying to be something he wasn’t. This is a man who has read romances and has watched his cousin operate. He is a people pleased who knows what people want and is trying to be that person. Then Rook touches him and it falls apart (what exactly that touch did is up for interpretation and could be a whole different post). As much as he genuinely cares about Rook at this point, (and I do think he has feelings for Rook by this point) he isn’t comfortable. He has a lot of things going on and there are a lot of things telling him not too. He isn’t ready to take the next steps and he can’t pretend like he is.

However, this is what makes the pastry scene actually really good. This comes after Inner Demons, where he is raw and real and unable to hide anything. However Rook sees this and still supports and cares for him and helps get him on a path towards healing. It doesn’t frightened them away and so Lucanis tries again. However, instead of being his cousin or a character from a romance, he is just Lucanis. He bakes them a pastry he knows will go well with their favorite drink. He doesn’t try for sensual and hot. He is earnest and a little awkward and Rook accepts this. This is the real Lucanis and by accepting the pastry declaration, they are accepting the real Lucanis, not the suave Antivan crow, but the man who likes knitting, wyverns, and cooking.

Lucanis never goes back to that flirty persona, even during and after the romantic scene. His feelings are very clear and he is passionate about how much he cares for Rook, but it is real Lucanis (he does flirt a little bit but never gets to the point of the pantry scene). He does not try to be someone he is not and Rook accepts the person Lucanis is. It is one of the many reasons I adore this romance.

[sushiyuzu]

my turn

warning: fluff + comfort — it is finally your turn to return your devoted love and affection to soft!sylus 🤍

a/n: hi anon! many thanks for ur sweet words and request, i hope you enjoy <3

anon’s request / link: click here

hmm.

you’ve never seen sylus this quiet before.

you’ve always known sylus to be the confident one—the serious, bold, intimidating man who always seems to have everything under control. he’s the one who teases you with his smooth, elegant words, who pulls you close with a charming smile that makes your heart race. but today, you decide it’s your turn to change things up.

he’s sitting quietly in the living room, reading a book with that focused expression he gets when he’s deep into something. you take a moment to watch him, admiring his handsome face and the way his silver hair falls over his forehead. you’ve never seen him look so calm, so peaceful. a playful idea forms in your mind, and before you can second-guess it, you move closer.

you slip into his lap without warning, wrapping your arms around his neck. his eyes widen, his crimson gaze meeting yours with a mix of surprise and curiosity.

“what are you doing?” he asks, his voice low and smooth, the usual edge of authority still there. you smile and lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

“nothing,” you say softly, your lips brushing his skin. “just loving you.”

before he can respond, you kiss him again—this time on the other cheek, then on his jaw, your fingers threading through his silver hair. you can feel his body tense beneath you, his posture rigid like he’s not sure how to handle your sudden affection.

“you’re being... very forward,” he murmurs, his deep voice wavering slightly. clearly, he’s trying to keep his composure, but you can see the blush creeping up his cheeks, the way his eyes are flickering with uncertainty. it’s just so unlike him that it makes you giggle.

“i can’t help it,” you say, tightening your arms around him, your lips brushing against the corner of his mouth. “you’re just so handsome.” your voice is soft and sincere, and you watch as his confident mask slips just a little.

he swallows, his crimson eyes wide as he stares at you, clearly not used to you being this bold.

you decide to push him further, to see just how flustered you can make him. “i love you,” you whisper against his ear, your voice sweet and affectionate. you press a kiss to his temple, then his nose, then his lips. he freezes, his breath hitching, and you can feel the way his heartbeat racing against your chest.

“what has gotten into you?” sylus asks, his usual smooth tone cracking just a bit. he looks genuinely taken aback, his elegant words faltering as you continue to pepper his face with soft kisses. you giggle again, your fingers tracing small circles on the back of his neck.

“just loving you,” you say again, more firmly this time.

“you always take care of me, so now it’s my turn to show you how much you mean to me.” you smile, your eyes shining with warmth, and he blinks at you like he doesn’t quite understand what’s happening.

and that almost makes you burst out laughing.

keyword: almost.

“you’re... ridiculous,” he mutters, his voice low and unsteady, but there’s no real irritation in his tone—only a soft, shaky vulnerability. his hands settle on your waist, holding you like he’s afraid you might disappear. “you’re supposed to be the shy one, not me.”

you smile wider, leaning in to press your forehead against his. “maybe i’m tired of being shy,” you tease gently. “maybe i want you to be the one who blushes for once.”

his eyes narrow slightly, like he’s about to say something clever, but the words seem to catch in his throat. instead, he just stares at you, his crimson gaze searching your face, and you can tell he’s struggling to keep his usual composure. you feel a surge of affection for him—this strong, confident man who’s so easily undone by your love.

so you kiss him again, long and slow, your hands framing his face, your thumbs brushing over his high cheekbones. this time, he doesn’t resist. he melts into the kiss, his hands tightening on your waist, squeezing your flesh gently and you feel him shudder against you. when you finally pull back, his face is flushed, his breathing uneven, and he looks... shy. truly shy, like he’s never been before.

“you’re... unbelievable,” he says softly, his voice a little hoarse, his eyes half-lidded and warm. you can see the struggle in him—wanting to regain control, to be the calm and composed sylus that you know, but your gentle touches are making it impossible for him to act like his usual self.

and it drives him nervously crazy.

“so are you,” you reply, kissing his forehead. you can see him fighting the blush that’s spreading across his cheeks, his eyes glancing away like he’s embarrassed, and it makes your heart swell with warmth. you cup his face, guiding his gaze back to yours, and you can see the way he’s holding back a smile.

“you really are beautiful, you know that?” you say, your voice gentle and sincere. “i don’t tell you that enough.” you lean closer, pressing your lips to his ear. “you mean the world to me, sylus. i love you so much.”

you feel him tremble beneath you, his grip on your waist tightening, and you pull back just enough to see his expression—completely soft, completely open. he’s not trying to hide anymore, and there’s something incredibly sweet about seeing him this vulnerable, this undone by your love.

“you’re going to make me go insane,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper, and there’s a rough, raw honesty in his tone that takes your breath away. he’s not used to being the one overwhelmed, but he’s not pushing you away, either. instead, he leans in, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes closing as he lets out a shaky breath.

“then let’s go insane together,” you say softly, pressing a tender kiss to his lips. he makes a soft sound, almost a whimper, and kisses you back—slow and deep and so full of emotion that it makes your heart skip a beat.

you pull away just enough to see his face—his eyes half-lidded, his cheeks a warm shade of pink, and his expression so soft it makes your chest ache.

“you don’t have to be perfect with me,” you whisper, brushing a strand of silver hair away from his forehead. “i love you just as you are.”

he’s quiet for a long moment, his gaze locked on yours, and then he smiles—a real, gentle smile that makes his ruby eyes shine. “i love you most, sweetie.” he says softly, his voice steady and sincere, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

you smile back, feeling a warmth spread through your chest, and you hug him tight, burying your face in his shoulder. he wraps his arms around you, holding you close, and you can feel the way he’s finally letting go of that careful, controlled exterior. he’s just sylus now—your sylus, the one who loves you with all his heart, who isn’t afraid to show you his softer side.

oh, he’s so in love.

only with you.

just you, forever.

while you’re lost in the warmth of his hug, you suddenly feel his lips touch your shoulder. there’s a small, teasing pause, and then he gently nibbles at your skin—a light bite that makes you shiver. you gasp quietly, your heart fluttering with surprise, but before you can even react, he follows it with a soft, gentle kiss, pressing his lips where he cutely bit you. the touch is warm and comforting, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

“sylus,” you whisper his name, a little surprised but mostly filled with affection, and he laughs quietly, the sound low and sweet. he’s still holding you close, his breath warm against your neck, and you can feel that he’s smiling—like he’s happy to share this new, tender closeness with you.

and deep down, that makes you giddy.

“i couldn’t resist,” he says in a soft whisper, his voice gentle and playful in your ear. his tone still carries a hint of his usual confidence, but it’s softer now. his arms pull you even closer, and you can feel the steady, comforting beat of his heart as you lean against his chest.

“you’re just too tempting,” he adds, his lips brushing your shoulder again. you can’t help but laugh softly, holding him tighter, your arms wrapped around his neck. you lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, feeling warmth spread through you—a feeling of love that fills every corner of your heart.

“and you,” you say softly, your voice full of love, “are absolutely perfect.”

he makes a quiet, happy sound, gently nuzzling his face into your neck. you can feel him smile against your skin, his warmth so close and comforting. his fingers start to trace gentle patterns on your back, moving slowly, and you can tell he’s calm and relaxed. his breathing slows, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, and you feel safe and happy in his arms.

you stay like that, wrapped up in each other’s embrace, for a long time. the room is quiet except for the sound of your breathing, and it feels like the rest of the world has disappeared. his strong, big arms keep you close, and you can feel every bit of him—the warmth of his chest, the softness of his breath, the way he holds you like he never wants to let go.

you lift your head slightly, just enough to look into his sweet eyes. there’s something more softer in them now, something that’s just for you.

only for you.

you lean in and press a gentle kiss to his lips, slow and warm, and he kisses you back, his hand moving up to cradle your cheek. you feel his thumb gently brush your skin, and he deepens the kiss, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

when you finally pull away, his forehead rests against yours, his eyes half-closed and his face relaxed. he looks softer, more open than ever before, and it makes your heart ache with love.

you give him one more quick kiss on the tip of his nose, making him chuckle softly. he tightens his arms around you, holding you so close that you can feel the warmth of his body all around you.

“i love you,” you whisper, and you say it again, over and over, softly against his skin—each “i love you” gentle and full of emotion. he closes his eyes, listening, and you feel the way he relaxes even more, like each word you say fills him with warmth.

he lets out a quiet sigh, pressing another kiss to your shoulder, and you can feel him melt into your touch. his strong, protective exterior has softened, and you can see a slight blush on his cheeks, a sign that he’s a little overwhelmed by all the affection you’re giving him. but he doesn’t move away. he just stays right there, holding you tightly, his face hidden in the crook of your neck, soaking up every bit of your love.

you don’t let go either. instead, you rest your head against his shoulder, feeling his warm breath fanning your skin while his fingers continue to gently stroke your back.

you’re both wrapped up in a safe, warm bubble where nothing else matters except the two of you, and you know that this—being with sylus, being this close—is all you’ll ever need. and you know, in that moment, that this is exactly where you belong—right here in his arms, loving him with all the warmth and affection he truly deserves.

[logans-whore]

I can't stop thinking of Logan. With a reader who has no/very little experience with dating

I’m talking no relationship other than the one “boyfriend” you have when you’re twelve that you dump in a week because boys are gross. 

And this is absolutely me projecting, but when you go so long without having anyone attracted, or interested in you, it fucks with your brain. You start wondering what’s wrong with you, why no one seems to want you, you try everything but still. And you watch everyone around you have their teenage love stories, and can’t help but feel like you’re missing out on that, and can't help but blame yourself. Because there must be something wrong with you if no one wants you

So when Logan seems to be interested in you, you don’t think it can be real. Don’t think a guy as handsome, and sexy, and brave and strong and wonderful as he is can be interested in you.

(And this next bit is specifically for my chubby readers) You look at the other girls on the team, and yeah you’ve been told multiple times that you’re gorgeous, and stunning and pretty by your friends, but you look at their flat stomachs and thigh gaps and the way they fill out their costumes perfectly, and you wonder why on Earth Logan would ever want someone like you when he could have someone like them. And conclude it's a joke of some kind.

And maybe you talk too much, rambling about something only to stop in the middle when you realize not a single person is listening to you.

Logan on the other hand? Has no fucking clue how someone hasnt snatched you up yet. Because to him you are absolutely fucking incredible. You’re kind, sweet and gentle. You’re clever and talented and absolutely stunning. He loves looking at you, at how soft and beautiful you are, loves listening to you talk, the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you love. 

So when you first whirl on him, telling him to stop flirting with you, it isn’t a funny joke anymore, nearly in tears, he’s genuinely dumbfounded.

And let's get one thing straight. This man is not oblivious. He looks at more than he seems to. Notices the way you stare longingly at Jean and Scott, or Rogue and Gambit, at couples in public. See the way you suck in your tummy when around the team in costume, or the way you crop yourself out of pictures in uniform. Notices the way your face falls when you’re talking (And he’s listening, of course he's listening, he loves hearing you talk), and everyone just ignores and talks over you. He notices, and he hates it. 

So when you explain, pouring out all your doubts and insecurities and fears, he listens patiently, before gently saying. 

“Most people are fuckin idiots. You think I give a shit about if you have a tummy or if you talk too much or if you haven't done this before? You’re fucking stunning to me, prettiest thing in the world. I want you, darlin’. And nothings ever gonna change that”

And how can you not kiss him after that? 

Long story short, Logan might be your first boyfriend, but he's also going to be your first husband.

[txjis]

thinking abt toji with a crybaby gf a little extra rn

no one can tell me this man isn’t into the ‘soft’ type. i’m not even trying to project. but i full heartedly believe that he likes the soft girls that have some attitude to them.

cw: MDNI , fem!reader , toji kinda toxic n icky , mention of periods , fake crying , that’s abt it i think.

imagine he’s just spoiled you absolutely rotten, you can count on one hand the amount of times he’s told you “no.” and actually stood his ground on the statement. how could he not give into you? your his sweet little baby, he can’t stand the pout on your face.

but god, when you break out the waterworks?? you could probably have this man doing whatever the fuck you wanted. you knew this too, and you didn’t want him to get used to seeing you cry and whine. so you saved this little trick you’ve learned until there’s something you reaallyyy want, and IF he says no. you know it won’t stay a no.

“c’mon baby, you know i’m saying no because it’s gonna make your stomach hurt.” toji looked over at you, bottom lip jutting out after he just rudely told you no to going back through the drive through to get another ice cream cone after you just practically inhaled yours. and sure, maybe it was immature to cry over ice cream, but you could tell your period was close, you needed that fucking ice cream before you ripped his head off.

“so mean toji.” your lip wobbling a bit while you willed your eyes to start misting over with water. you slammed both of your legs against the passenger side door, shrinking away from him while you sniffled and crossed your arms over your chest. it was dramatic, and you were fully aware of that. but who cares you were his special girl, no one else mattered.

“don’t be like that-“ toji reached out towards your legs, originally trying to place a strong hand on your thigh. he had to lean over the center console the way you tucked yourself against the door so tight. but just before he made contact, you slapped his hand away, turning to glare at him with crocodile tears streaming down your cheeks. “..fuckin’ fine. same flavor?”

you nod as he pulls around to go back through the drive through, he grunts and hands you the cone full of the sweet treat you had just cried over. you take it from him, continuing the pouty act for a few moments until you genuinely start to miss his touch. riding in his car doesn’t feel normal when his hand isn’t in your lap.

toji smirks to himself watching your legs shift closer to him once again through the peaks he was stealing of you occasionally. he places his hand on your thigh and gives it a small squeeze, mumbling a ‘love ya.’

god, he can’t wait until the day he actually wants to tell you no. he can’t wait until he can tell you that he knows what your little ‘trick’ is and how it’s never really worked on him. he can see right through your little head. he wants to watch you stumble over your words and try to explain yourself to him, break you down until you’re begging for his forgiveness. that’s when the real tears come out.

I SAID TOJI LIKES SOFT CRYBABY GIRLS BUT I DIDNT SAY IT WAS FOR A HEALTHY REASON :3 he likes to break them u can’t tell me otherwise

i’d still fuck him icl.

[whispers-whump]

Some writing advice

that I like to use when I write. None of this is meant to be taken as hard and fast rules, they’re just things I like to do/keep in mind when I’m writing and I thought maybe other people would enjoy! <3

Never say what you mean

This is an offshoot of the very common “show don’t tell” advice, which I think can be confusing in application and unhelpful for scenes where telling is actually the right move. Instead, I keep the advice to never say exactly what I mean in stories.

By using a combination of showing and telling to hint at what you really mean, you force your reader to think and figure it out on their own, which makes for a more satisfying reading experience.

You might show a character getting angry and defensive in response to genuine care and concern. You could tell the audience that the character doesn’t see/talk to their parents often. But never outright give the real meaning that the character feels unlovable because of their strained relationship with their parents and as a result they don’t know how to react to being cared for.

Your readers are smart, you don’t need to spoon feed them.

Be sparse with the important things

You know how in a lot of movies there’s that tense scene where a character is hiding from something/someone and you can only just see this person/thing chasing them through a crack in the door? You get a very small glimpse of whatever’s after the character, sometimes only shadows being visible.

Do that in your writing. Obscure the important things in scenes by overdescribing the unimportant and underdescribing the important.

You might describe the smell of a space, the type of wood the floor is made of, the sound of work boots moving slowly across the room, a flashlight in the character’s hand. And there’s a dead body, laying in a pool of blood in the far corner of the room, red soaking into the rug. Then move on, what kind of rug is it? What is the color, patterns, and type of fabric of the rug?

Don’t linger on the details of the body, give your reader’s imagination some room to work while they digest the mundane you give them.

Dialogue is there to tell your story too

There’s a lot of advice out there about how to make dialogue more realistic, which is absolutely great: read aloud to yourself, put breaks where you feel yourself take a breath, reword if you’re stuttering over your written dialogue. But sometimes, in trying to make dialogue sound more realistic, a little bit of its function is lost.

Dialogue is more than just what your characters say, dialogue should serve a purpose. It’s a part of storytelling, and it can even be a bridging part of your narration.

If you have a scene with a lot of internal conflict that is very narration-heavy, breaking it up with some spoken dialogue can be a way to give some variety to those paragraphs without moving onto a new idea yet; people talk to themselves out loud all of the time.

Dialogue is also about what your characters don’t say. This can mean the character literally doesn’t say anything, they give half-truths, give an expected answer rather than the truth (“I’m fine”), omit important information, or outright lie.

Play with syntax and sentence structure

You’ve heard this advice before probably. Short, choppy sentences and a little onomatopoeia work great for fast-paced action scenes, and longer sentences with more description help slow your pacing back down.

That’s solid advice, but what else can you play with? Syntax and sentence structure are more than just the length of a sentence.

Think about things like: repetition of words or ideas, sentence fragments, stream of consciousness writing, breaking syntax conventions, and the like. Done well, breaking some of those rules we were taught about language can be a more compelling way to deliver an emotion, theme, or idea that words just can’t convey.

Would love to hear any other tips and tricks other people like to use, so feel free to share!!!

[runraerun]

Steddie Amnesia Fic: 1/3

-> Part 2 | Part 3 | AO3

cw: lots of head trauma/brain injury/recovery stuff.

Steve wakes up in the hospital with someone snoring loudly on his leg, mouth open, drool getting soaked up into the scratchy hospital blanket over him.

Steve just stares.

It’s… Freddie? No, that’s not right... Eddie! Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson, known delinquent and drug dealer… resting his head on Steve’s lap.

What the hell…?

Steve reaches up with a wobbly, IV-ridden hand to clumsily pat along his head, but instead of meeting messy hair, he meets a thick wad of bandages. He flinches when he hits an especially tender spot.

It’s not much but it’s enough to wake Eddie Munson up with a jolt, and a random jumble of words that sounded something like, “the dice have spoken!”, but Steve can’t be sure. Not with the sharp ringing still going off inside his skull.

“Steve? Steve! Oh thank fuck, Jesus H. Christ, you scared the ever loving shit out of me.” Eddie stood and grabbed at one of Steve’s shoulders, shaking him enough to elicit another wince.

“Oh, damn, sorry. I’m like a fucking bull in a china shop here, man. There’s way too much expensive, breakable shit here. I’m not used to it. I accidentally ripped your IV out the other day... Fuck. The nurses hate my guts.” Eddie chuckles, eyes wide and solely on Steve, talking like they were old friends or something.

But that can’t be right. Steve doesn’t remember saying more than two words to Eddie Munson during the entire time he knew he even existed, and even then it was just to discuss weed prices.

“For real though, talk to me Harrington, how you feelin’, hm? Loopy? Gonna yak again? Apparently they got you on the good stuff,” Eddie flicks a liquid filled bag hanging above Steve and shakes his head, “but they keep cutting you back. Dicks.”

Steve’s eyes try and follow Eddie’s erratic movements but his eyes ache the more he moves them. He blinks against the harsh fluorescents and tries to open his mouth. And thank God, Eddie Munson seems to take this as a sign and shut up.

“What happened?” Steve finally croaks.

One of Eddie’s brows jumps. “You don’t remember?”

Steve gives his head a small shake. Did Eddie hit him with his car or something? Is that why he’s sleeping at his bedside and talking to him like they’re buddies?

“You fell, Stevie.” Eddie makes a whistling noise and mimicks something falling with his hands, then makes a crashing sound when his hand lands on Steve’s bandaged head. “Like a coconut out of a tree. Landed right on that big ol’ melon of yours. There was blood everywhere. It scared the shit out of me and the kids. Especially when you wouldn’t wake up.”

Steve’s throat feels like sandpaper, but he manages to swallow, his throat clicking as he did, and gets out, “The kids?”

Eddie seems to notice, even before Steve can ask, and reaches for a water bottle with a straw already in it, and half chewed. Eddie’s own, no doubt. Against his better judgment, Steve accepts it when Eddie offers it to him. He was just so goddamn thirsty.

“Don’t worry, they’re all fine. They were just shaken up. I’ll radio the little gremlins and give ‘em the good news in a sec.” Eddie’s smile falters a little, seeming lost for words. Like he wants to say something, but can’t quite get it out.

Steve finishes swallowing his few, meager gulps of water before he asks, “What is it?”

“Don’t freak out—“ Eddie begins.

And, okay, that’s exactly the thing you tell someone before they freak the fuck out. Steve’s stomach is subject to a growing, sluggish panic. “What? Dude, tell me—“

“It’s your hair.” Eddie seems genuinely pained at having to deliver this crushing of a blow to Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington.

Steve can hear the beeping from the monitors he’s hooked up to begin to pick up speed as his heart begins racing. “My hair?”

“It’s okay! It’s okay, it’ll grow back! They just had to take a little bit off where the stitches went, you can hardest notice it—well, that’s a fucking lie, you could spot that landing strip from space—but I think if you part it to the other side it won’t look so… y’know.”

“No, dude, I don’t know.” Steve says, eyes wide, brows pinched.

“Like a drunk toddler took a pair of rusty kitchen shears to your mop.” Eddie says, huffing out a nervous sort of laugh.

Steve groans, half due to the bastardization that’s happened to his favorite feature, and half due to the migraine that’s looming on his horizon.

“You’re still pretty, Stevie, don’t worry.” Eddie grins, eyebrows raised, like he’s trying to be cute or something.

That weirdest part is, it’s kind of working.

Steve must have hit his head really, really hard.

The doctors eventually come in and perform all sorts of tests, and he tries his best to comply with them and jump through whatever hoops they make him jump through. He just wants to get the hell out of this hospital bed.

Unfortunately for him, Steve hadn’t exactly aced any of the tests.

In fact, he had failed most of them pretty fucking dismally. He couldn’t remember the date, who the president was, where he lived, couldn’t say the alphabet backwards… although, who the fuck can do that? He stands by that failing grade.

A couple of CAT scans later and it’s clear that Steve’s brain got smacked around a little more than they had originally thought.

Among a pile of other stuff, the thing that sticks out the most to Steve is his diagnosis of something called short term amnesia. They explain it like the past 2 to 3 years has just been wiped from his brain. The last clear thing he really remembers is getting the shit beat out of him by Billy, and then it all sort of gets jumbled. Fragmented. The doctors explain that this is pretty typical for head trauma patients.

He’s a head trauma patient, now.

It’s normal for memories of trauma to link, creating spiderwebs throughout your brain.

Which, that’s great. So when he gets beat up again, there’s always a chance his brain will try and erase his easy, happy years and revert back to a trauma default. Really helpful brain, thank you.

And the thing that sucks the most is that his years after the Billy beat down sound pretty great. Traumatizing, sure, but great. Once the Upside Down shit was locked up, with every scary nightmare fuel monster inside of it, life in Hawkins didn’t sound all that terrible.

He lived with Robin, who’s his best friend, (his ‘platonic soulmate’ even, as she explains it), he’s working a retail job, (also with Robin), and coaches the high school basketball team during the evenings. He’d even been talking with Hopper about joining the force.

Well, he was. Now he’s more or less useless, working full time at re-learning his life, along with a couple of fine motor skills that got glitchy after the fall.

And then there’s Eddie.

Eddie, who’s apparently also his best friend, only their soulmate link isn’t platonic at all.

The strange and weirdly exciting reality was that Steve Harrington had woken up from his 3-day medically induced coma with not only a full fledged relationship, but a boyfriend.

It’s a lot to digest, and part of him still doesn’t even know how to process it, but hearing the stories being told around him, seeing how Eddie is practically living in his and Robin’s two-bedroom apartment, and just… the way Eddie looks at him?

It’s with love—Steve can see it. Feel it. Eddie’s practically vibrating with it.

What’s even crazier is that when Steve looks at Eddie, he feels the exact same way.

It’s like looking at the stars. Steve’s heart skips a beat when those dark eyes of hit him, and Steve wants nothing more than to make Eddie smile—no, better than that, to make him laugh, just so he can watch Eddie’s adam’s apple bob up and down and hear that manic, unhinged cackle. It’s downright delightful. Steve loves being in relationships like this, where it’s all consuming.

Steve may not have the memories of falling in love with Eddie, but he has all the feelings.

No one talks about it with Steve, of course. Maybe they think it’s going to be too heavy for him to process that he’s into dudes now, but Steve isn’t a big dumb baby. Sure, he’s got a pretty severe brain injury, and yeah, alright, it takes him a minute to remember people’s names sometimes, and he has a harder time controlling his emotions, but he isn’t a complete invalid. Only a little bit of one. He’s working on it, dammit.

And Eddie is so painfully, frustratingly patient with him. He never pushes. He’s clearly letting Steve retrieve his memories before he makes a move, because despite his whole outward appearance, Eddie Munson is a goddamn gentleman. He never so much as reaches for Steve’s hands, but Steve can tell by the way their pinkies graze when they watch movies late at night that he wants to.

Steve can tell by the way Eddie teases him, the way he’s there with him through his recovery, that he doesn’t ever make Steve feel stupid when he asks the same questions over and over again, when he cries at the drop of a hat or when he gets sort of confused about the lay out of his apartment—he doesn’t care about that of that.

Because he’s in love with Steve. It’s so painfully romantic, it brings a painful lump to Steve’s throat every time he thinks too much about it.

The two of them are driving to one of Steve’s therapy sessions, Eddie in the driver's seat, Steve in the passengers, listening to a low racket of some kind of heavy metal music. Eddie always keeps the volume low now, for Steve.

He’s just been so intensely good about everything that Steve needs to try and do something good for Eddie in return. He needs Eddie to know that there’s a light at the end of this tunnel that they’re both currently lost in.

“I’m sorry about this, y’know.” Steve says when they finally pull up the building that has ‘Brain Injury Recover Center’ written on the front. So all the boys and girls with scrambled eggs for brains know where to converge.

“Don’t worry about it, man. I work the evening shifts, remember? My days are free.” Eddie explains, and Steve wonders if he’s had to be told this bit of information a couple of times now. Sometimes it takes a few times before something sticks to his brain now. His short term memory is still majorly flighty. But no, Steve remembers that Eddie bartends at a local bowling alley most evenings. He’s gone a few times. Not to bowl, of course—too much hand eye coordination involved—but just to hang out with Eddie. He’s pretty decent at Ms. Pac-Man though.

Steve shakes his head. He knows his mind must have wandered because there’s been a lull where no one’s spoken. Eddie never seems to care about that though. “I don’t mean about the drive. I was talking about… y’know.”

“Wha’dy’mean?” Eddie mumbles as he backs into his parking space, hand on the back of Steve’s headrest.

Steve sighs and decides to just come out and say it: “I mean having your boyfriend forget everything about you and your relationship. I just… that must be really tough.”

Everything in Eddie Munson comes to a jarring halt, hand frozen over where he’s turned to ignition off.

It’s sort of unnerving—Eddie is always moving, fidgeting. Damn near bouncing off the walls. But now it’s like someone hit the poor guy with a freeze ray gun.

Steve chuckles softly as he reaches out and touches Eddie’s arm, giving him a playful jostle, to loosen him up a little, “it’s okay, Eddie. I know. You don’t have to keep going easy on me. I’m gay! Or, bi-sexual. Whatever.” Steve shrugs, “see? Not falling apart. I can handle being in love with another dude. You don’t need to keep babying me.”

The side of Eddie’s mouth twitches into a downturned smile that he seems to be trying to hide.

“I know, I know. Not just any dude.” Steve rolls his eyes, a smile still firmly on his face. He takes Eddie’s hand from the steering wheel, and Eddie seems to watch it go in a detached sort of awe. Steve wonders if Eddie’s proud of him for being so cool with it all. “In love with you.”

“Steve, I don’t think—

“Wait, just let me finish.” Steve asks, and Eddie blinks and works on closing his mouth. Knows it’s important to let Steve get his thoughts out quickly, lest they be lost to the giant black hole inside of his beat-up brain now. “I know that I don’t remember any of the important stuff with us. Our first date, or our first kiss or, y’know, any of our other first firsts. So maybe it feels like you’re cheating on the old Steve with me? But… Eddie, I know it’s crazy but even though my brain forgot all of the specifics; my heart didn’t. I look at you, and it’s all there. I’m still so into you, dude. I can feel it, even though I don’t remember how I got here. I’m in l—“

“Steve! Stevestevesteve wait, holy shit—!” Eddie’s eyes snap up from his intense stare at the place where their hands are linked. “Steve—”

“Yeah?” Steve prompts when Eddie doesn’t seem to be able to find the words. He runs his thumb gently over Eddie’s knuckles. It feels so nice to finally be able to hold his hand again. They fit together so well, and Steve wonders briefly if it’s some kind of muscle memory.

Eddie opens his mouth a few more times before he remembers how to make the words come out.

“Steve. Buddy. We’re… we’re not dating.”

Steve’s face falls, and he can feel a lump form in his throat, but he keeps a firm hold of Eddie’s warm hand in his own. “Yeah, I know, I know. We haven’t had any time to be a couple. And it’s probably been torture for you, man. You’re so busy taking care of me and making sure I don’t freak out over everything that you’ve clearly been neglecting your own hierarchy of needs.”

Eddie raises a brow.

Steve chuckles, “Shut up. It’s a therapy term.”

Eddie laughs in his throat. “Steve, you gotta slow down and listen to me.”

He turns his shoulders so that he’s fully facing Steve while he reaches his free hand over and tugs at one of his earlobes. “Got your hearing ears on?”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he nods just the same.

“We… we weren’t dating before your accident,” Eddie speaks slowly, his voice warm, gentle. “Hell, I didn’t even know you were, y’know, into dudes like that. Much less me.”

Something throbs dully behind Steve’s eyes. It’s the start of a migraine—the one that makes it hard to process much of anything. Steve squints, trying to make sense of what Eddie’s saying. “…you’re not my boyfriend?”

Eddie shakes his head very, very slowly. “No.”

Steve snatches his hand back like he’s only just now noticed how burning hot Eddie’s hand is.

He settles back in his seat, staring out the front window. The sounds from the outside world are muffled, and everything feels far away and sort of… Made up. Just like everything he’d imagined was going on between him and Eddie. Not real.

He feels painfully detached from reality. Unmoored. Maybe this was the disassociation thing the doctor mentioned might happen…

“Are you sure?” Steve asks, risking another glance over to Eddie, who hasn’t taken his eyes off him for a second.

“Pretty fuckin’ sure.” Eddie snorts.

“Oh, God. This is… I’m—sorry. I’m so stupid. Fuck, I gotta—“ Steve suddenly attacks the door handle with a clumsy fury that has his hand fumbling with the handle for way too long. Fucking busted up, bruised as fuck fucking brain-!

“Steve, it’s okay, dude,” Eddie says from behind Steve, but that’s easy for him to say; he didn’t just humiliate himself in front of his not-boyfriend, definitely-crush, possibly ex-friend—“Steve, wait!”

Steve flees the van on unsteady feet, not daring to look back.

[gloomwitchwrites]

What If 141 and the best enemies to lovers line of all time...

"Who did this to you?"

Cue protective instincts and sexiness

hehe I am giggling!! Okay. Listen. I am fully aware that this is an enemies to lovers trope, but I don't think it applies to all of the 141 guys in that manner. Is there protectiveness? Yes. Is there a bit of spice? Yes, if you squint really hard. Is there also some sweetness thrown in? Absolutely there is. I had lots of fun with this one. I hope you enjoy it!

Presented in four double drabbles.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x 141!Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, brief blood and injury, hurt/comfort, brief suggestive themes, protectiveness, light angst

Word Count: 800

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Who did this?” Kyle bends forward at the waist, pressing a bag of frozen peas to your face. His concern is genuine. You can see that, but it’s strange. The two of you get on, but this is something else.

Kyle looks…angry like your injury personally offends him.

“It’s nothing,” you murmur. “Things happen during sparing. It’s fine.”

Kyle’s frown only deepens. He doesn’t believe you. And why should he? The person you were placed with took it too far. And it was all to impress him as if putting you in your place would somehow grant his favor.

It’s clearly done the opposite. He could care less about your sparring partner.

“It was your sparring partner, wasn’t it?”

You don’t answer. Just press the peas to your forehead a little harder.

This time, Kyle’s frown turns slightly upward. “Jokes on them, ya?”

You glance at him sideways. “How so?”

Kyle is grinning. It’s stunning. All pearly white teeth.

“Because I have my eye on someone else,” he says simply, as if that answers everything.

Though you cannot see yourself, you feel your face growing hot under Kyle’s gaze.

“You shouldn’t say thing like that,” you reply.

“Why? It’s true.”

John Price

“Who did this?”

“Why do you care so much, John?”

You attempt to pull your face out of his grasp but he holds firm.

“Of course I care,” he replies. The two of you stare into each other’s eyes, chests heaving. John is close. Too close. So close he could easily brush his lips against yours.

“I don’t know why,” you murmur.

“You do,” he affirms, authority in his tone.

Do you? Maybe. Perhaps. Deep within yourself you truly know the reason but can’t decide to speak it to the air. That would make this real. Whatever this is between the two of you.

‘Tell me who did this?”

“And do that what?”

“What the fuck I want to them, love.”

“It’s nothing. You shouldn’t worry about it,” you reply, again trying to escape from him.

But John isn’t having it. His other hand hooks around your upper arm, and then you’re pressed closed to him. He is so warm. All strength.

“Let go,” you say, but there is no volume behind it. It is weak. Not even a protest.

“Tell me,” he repeats, head dipping slightly.

Yes. Close enough to kiss.

“Tell me,” he says again, this time softer.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon’s blood beats heavy. It is tinged with metal. A lace of fire that cannot abate.

His boots slap against the linoleum floor. The overhead lights are bright. Clinical. He is a shadow here. A dark specter.

No one stops him. No one glances his way.

And why should they?

He is a man made fury.

There were hands put upon you. A training exercise taken too far. Simon was not there. And he doesn’t know why. Not exactly. But he’s furious. Protective. The fact that he could not stop this only infuriates him further.

To him, this is a failure.

He doesn’t come to a stop. Doesn’t knock. He barges right on in.

The nurse yelps. Spins suddenly. Face red.

You glance up, eyes wide at first but soothing slightly as they land on Simon. You’re bruised. Stitched up.

Fucking hell.

“Out,” barks Simon.

The nurse leaves but stares him down the entire time. He approaches the table, and lightly brushes the backs of his fingers against the wound on your forehead.

“Who did this?” he asks.

“Simon—”

“Which fucker?” he growls, bending forward slightly to look into your eyes.

“Should see the other guy,” you joke, smiling.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny shouldn’t feel this way. He shouldn’t. You’re not his. Even if he wishes it were so.

Every swing of his fist sends the building frustration outward, shooting into the massive boxing bag before him. It’s a poor substitute for the face he truly wants to smash. Several faces that is. Two specifically.

Who did this?

The words slipped from him unbidden. An instant anger. You had only scowled. Told him you could handle yourself. And you can. Johnny knows this. But he’s still fucking pissed about it. Still seething.

All the fucker got was a quick slap on the wrist. A promise to not do it again.

That sits sour in Johnny’s belly.

But you didn’t cave, no matter how much Johnny insisted that he’d take care of it on your behalf. So he is here, punching the shit out of something that isn’t flesh.

He wishes he could take away your pain. Take away the memory. Give it to himself to carry. You don’t turn on your own. There’s no honor in what happened.

But as much as he wants it to be true, Johnny can do nothing.

You are not his.

Even if he wants to be.

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@sapphichotmess @saoirse06 @ferns-fics @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett

@ravenpoe67 @tulipsun-flower @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat @ninman82

@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim

@haven-1307 @voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @spicyspicyliving @keiva1000

@littlemisscriesherselftosleep @statixx-x @umno-yeah @blackhawkfanatic @talooolaaloolla

@sadlonelybagel @kadeeesworld @iloveslasher @sammysinger04 @dakotakazansky

@suhmie @jaggersinclair @jackrabbitem @lxblm @beebeechaos

@no-oneelsebutnsu @kidd3ath @certainlygay @thewulf @lovely-ateez

@pearljamislife @heeheehoohoohahahihi @eternallyvenus @burn1ngw00d @taysarchive

[actiniumwrites]

if you're still doing requests: maybe one of the genshin guys finding out you use their card in tcg? scenario or headcanons is fine, and i have no preference for who you want to write! (i will say i'm fixated in the fontanians rn though)

the perfect pair

synopsis: their reaction to finding out you use their card in tcg

characters: tighnari, cyno, neuvillette, lyney, and wriothesely x gn!reader (separately)

warnings: nothing besides fluff and cyno being an actual maniac for tcg (he’s probably a little ooc but i think it’s funny)

notes: i’m ngl i totally forgot about tcg 😭 i played it SO much when it came out and then barely touched it unless it was for the primos. i gotta finish those achievements still 💀 also i know not every one of these characters has a tcg card but we can just pretend :) thank you for the request!

part two

Tighnari:

Because he doesn’t play tcg very often — at least not as much as Cyno does — he doesn’t find out right away

When he does, it happens at a casual dinner between you, him, and all your friends after Collei asks to play so she can try out some of her new cards

Cyno enthusiastically agrees and you all set up after you finish eating which is when Alhaitham, whose eyes never miss anything, spots a suspiciously similarly looking guy on one of your three player cards

“You seriously have your boyfriend as one of your cards?” he’ll ask with a disbelieving smile, as if he can’t comprehend why you’d have it

You smile and lift it up, proudly nodding as you list off the card’s strengths and the nice backing it came with. You don’t fail the mention the bonus that it comes with your boyfriend’s face on it

Tighnari feels his cheeks warm in slight embarrassment as he turns away in his chair. Even so, he can’t help but find it really cute that you have his card

He even tells his friends to shut up and that they’re just jealous they don’t have his card and that they wish their significant others had them as cards

It actually shuts some of them up, shockingly

Meanwhile, Cyno is in utter disbelief that such a card exists and will try to buy it off of you so he can complete his collection (you don’t let him have it though)

Cyno:

Ah the king of tcg himself

He has the most dramatic reaction for sure. Not even in the sense that he’s embarrassed, or teasing, or whatnot. He’s just straight up shocked

Slams his hands down on the table and his jaw drops as he stands up. You giggle on the other side of the table at his reaction, watching him desperately try to find words

“Where did you even get that?!”

You swear you only see him this expressive when it comes to tcg

“I don’t know, I just found it at a local store when I was passing by,” you shrug carelessly, as if you aren’t going to completely destroy him with his own card in about five minutes

After he gets over the initial awe of seeing himself in his favorite game in the entire world, he’s actually very internally excited, although you don’t get to see that side

He thinks it’s cool that you like using his card and is honored that you’d even choose it in the first place, especially with only three slots (he’s also just happy he’s a main card and not a buff lmao)

And when you do destroy him, he slides you a pen and paper and politely demands you give him the name of the seller so he can track them down tomorrow

Neuvillette:

He doesn’t even play the game so initially, he’s extremely confused why you have a playing card with his face on it

“Fascinating. I did not know they made such games. Is my card good for playing?” He’s genuinely intrigued by it and you find it rather endearing

Because he doesn’t understand it though, he doesn’t necessarily feel any certain way about it. He’s too caught up in the game to realize what it means for you to be using his card

“Yeah, it’s pretty powerful, but it’s representative of real life so that’s expected given your position.”

At that, he feels very flattered. His cheeks will warm a bit, casting a light blush over his features when you speak so proudly of him

He’ll even ask if you have a card of your own hoping to take a bit of the attention off him when he begins to feel more excited about it

You shake your head no and explain that it’s unlikely given people don’t know enough about you to make a full card of you or to sell it

Will later get one made for you without you knowing, only one singular copy worth a priceless amount just so you could have one to match him too <3

Lyney:

Smug little shit

You’re playing with him and his siblings after he invited you over for a date. Lynette and Freminet were bored so you both offered to play a game, to which tcg was suggested by Freminet

You’d played only a few times with them before, which is why you didn’t realize what was such a big deal when you pulled out a card with your boyfriend on it, entirely forgetting it was new and you hadn’t used it with them yet

“Is that…is that Lyney?” Lynette asks, stifling a laugh as she inspects the card. Freminet leans a little closer too in order to get a better look.

And it indeed is, Lyney confirms for himself

“Woah no way, I didn’t know they made this,” he smiles at it, picking it up and spinning it in his hand before smirking at you, “I knew you couldn’t resist this handsome face, even on a playing card.”

You smack his arm faster than Lynette can and snatch it back out of his hand. Lyney pouts and slouches down into his seat as his siblings inquire as to where you got it

Lyney can’t stop staring at you as you tell them, his chest beating faster and faster as you embarrassedly ramble on about why you got it in the first place and how you thought it was cute like a little keepsake

Even though you’d been dating for some quite some time, you both managed to keep surprising one another and falling in love all over again, even if it was over silly things like tcg cards

Lynette sighs as she notices the lovestruck look in her brother’s eyes, “He’s doomed.”

Wriothesley:

He’s weirdly calm about the whole thing. Not like he’d be over dramatic or anything, but I don’t think he’d be as teasing or shocked by it like the others or like some may assume

Wriothesley thinks it’s really cool when he finds it in your collection one day after you left your card case in his office by accident, a few cards slid out with his face popping out on one tucked away in the middle

He’ll examine it before a gentle smile pulls at his lips at the thought of you using it to play against others

He’s almost proud, in a way

When you walk into his office a ten minutes later, realizing you had left your cards and a few other of your things on his desk, you stumble upon him looking at it

“Oh, uh you weren’t supposed to see that yet,” you say awkwardly as you pause in your step and fiddle with your hands, embarrassed he had found it. It was a somewhat new card and you actually wanted to show it to him later

But Wriothesley doesn’t care. Hell, if he had known there was a card out there with him on it, he would’ve bought it for you a long time ago

He’ll just kiss you. A nice, sweet, and to the point kiss as he slides the card back in your hand before pulling away and staring down at you, “You’re cute.”

[peachsayshi]

₊ ⊹ . ݁ MILLION DOLLAR BABY  ₊ ⊹ .

(sex worker!suguru geto x rich girl!reader)

⊹ tags: suguru geto x female reader; nanami kento x satoru; sukuna is reader's ex; character mentions: yuki, mei mei, shoko, toji; alludes to dd/lg relationship (very very mildly) with sukuna; a mix of angst/smut/fluff; domestic; non curse au; reader was in a toxic relationship; reader has daddy issues a bit lol; mentions of troubled past; mentions of death (parental)

:about: you grew up in a supremely wealthy household, but that came with a price. you’ve never had control over your own life, and now your father is set to marry you off. luckily, there's someone else who captures your heart. what does it matter that you pay him for his company?

:note: hi, everyone! this story is finally here, and it's one that's taken me forever to work but I actually loved this piece. I haven't been excited about something I've written in a while. I hope it lives up to all your expectations. comments and reblogs are always appreciated <3 - this fic is one shot, and I am willing to explore stories with the side characters. I'll happily answer any lore questions regarding sex worker geto x rich girl reader, but there will not be a part two or more parts of their story. It is a standalone.

wc: 14K+

The ceiling is covered with hanging irises, each one carefully handcrafted in paper. Edison bulbs dip down from between in staggering heights, illuminating the bar around you in warm light. It’s crowded tonight, clinking glasses and roaring laugher bouncing off the walls and clashing against the bass coming through the speakers. You scan the crowd, anticipation making your stomach flutter, but it quickly eases when you spot a head of golden hair among the audience. 

Nanami is at the bar, looking dapper as usual in a chocolate brown suit offset by a cream colored shirt. He’s drinking a whiskey when you approach him, the amber liquid mirroring the touch of bronze on his cheekbones. You sling your designer purse off your shoulder (the latest splurge of the week) and slide into the seat right next to him. 

“And how was your vacation?” you ask, greeting him with a question and noticing his mouth draw into a firm line. 

“Let’s not talk about it,” he insists, his eyes a little sad which only makes your stomach ache at the sight. 

He’s your closest friend - the only real friend you have. Kento Nanami doesn’t carry two faces. He sticks to the one that he has.  As one of the top investors in the country, he made a name by keeping the rich wealthy. He loathes his job and the pressures surrounding it - a walking hypocrite for despising the life that lines his pockets. 

He can’t find an escape no matter how hard he tries. 

And that's why you’re both two peas in a pod. 

He does, however, like you - not because of your background, but because you don’t try to be something that you are not as well. In a world where you are surrounded by parasites, Kento proved to be a nearly extinct butterfly, quietly fluttering by your side as you both drift across the harsh jungle around you. 

You concede, knowing better than to push his buttons. “Okay, I guess we aren’t talking about it…” 

“Tell me something else. Do you ever know how to walk into the room and not be the center of attention?” 

You smirk as he calls the waiter over.  Your presence easing the twinge of disdain on his face.

“What are you trying to say, hmm?” 

“You look nice tonight. New dress?” 

“New dress, new bag, new nails...” you list off, showing off each expensive purchase as you check them off your list. 

Nanami shakes his head playfully before ordering your usual once the bartender approaches. He angles his body towards you and breathes out a heavy sigh. 

“How are you?” He asks, genuine concern masking his face. 

Your shoulders drop. “I don’t want to talk about it…” 

His expression softens, one hand moving to touch your thigh exposed by the slit of your dress. 

“When do you meet Naoya?” 

He’s the only other person who knows about the pending engagement. The only person who offered you a way out by proposing instead. Despite his stance within the social community, you know that it’s not an offer that you can easily accept. 

Kento wasn’t bred into this world, and that makes all the difference. 

Your father would never accept a man from such a humble background. Especially not one whose offer wouldn't benefit him by any means.

“A few weeks from now,” you reply, eyes shifting to the bartender who passes your drink towards you. “He’s given my father specifications on how I should be presented…” 

Your friend scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Pardon my vulgarity but he just sounds like the kind of guy who wants to swing his dick around. I’m surprised he hasn’t shown up tonight…” 

The opening of the Ayame Lounge & Bar was invite only, exclusive to socialites and the elite. You know that Naoya must have received an invitation, everyone from the Zen’in family was here in attendance including the infamous outcast Toji. 

“He wouldn’t be caught dead here,” you inform, picking up your beverage and taking a small sip. “Naoya likes to uphold “tradition” but we all know it’s just a facade.” 

Kento’s thumb strokes your skin tenderly, worry ingrained in his gentle eyes. 

The two of you spend the night talking, catching up on the little things since his return from a two week vacation in Malaysia. He keeps the conversation light, telling you about his fantastic accommodation and all the food that he ate while he was away. In between you find yourself glancing over his shoulder, your eye on the crowd taking in the people around you. 

That’s when you spot him, standing just a few feet away, looking like a demigod among mere aristocrats. His hair is pulled back into a neat bun, a layer of his bangs kissing his forehead. His face is serious, jaw tight and eyes sharp as he focuses on his white haired counterpart. The black tee hugs his torso, his neat slacks cinched by the waist with a leather belt. You can’t help but bite your bottom lip, your mind drifting away from the conversation at hand. 

Your friend notices, of course. Kento is so tuned in to everything around him that he almost can’t help himself. He glances over his shoulder to see what caught your attention, only to instantly turn back around and stare at the whiskey glass on the table. 

The tips of his ears burn red. 

You register the response, knowing exactly what struck him to react in that way. 

Satoru Gojo -  former porn star, turned model, turned mega influencer. With a follower count in the hundreds of millions, he is the world’s hottest it boy. Nobody can deny his sheer beauty - whenever he walks into a room, he manages to steal a glance from every single person within his vicinity. Due to a rare genetic condition, his sapphire blue eyes and frosty white hair earned him the title of “The Prince”, and the people were desperate to share a place by his side. 

Suguru and Satoru were also the best of friends, a fact that Suguru revealed to you one night in bed. The two of them met on set, back when Satoru was still doing adult films. At the time, Suguru was just a camera man and it was Satoru who told him he could increase his earnings if he just performed instead. 

You remember telling Suguru: “it’s crazy how quickly his life changed”

“Some people are just lucky,” he responded, though you easily picked up the bitterness laced in his words. 

What most people don’t know is that Satoru Gojo is also involved with the man seated right next to you. You stumbled upon Nanami’s secret affair by accident when the two of you attended a resort opening by hotel heiress, Yuki Tsukumo. Everyone was invited to stay overnight for the weekend, and the morning after your first night there, you walked over towards Nanami’s room to grab some breakfast. He greeted you in a grey robe with his hair tousled, with hickeys trailing the side of his neck. You quirked a brow in his direction, your mouth forming into a blatant circle when you found Satoru Gojo fast asleep on his bed right behind him. 

The man in question looks away from Suguru towards you and Kento. His brows lifting in surprise when he spots your golden haired friend, but your eyes rest on Suguru who gestures that he will catch Satoru around. 

They both walk in opposite directions. 

You take a sip of your drink, your eyes shifting to Nanami. 

“You’ve got about five seconds to figure out what you want to say because Satoru is walking over here as we speak,” you inform. 

He exhales and straightens his back, his guard entirely up. 

You smile at Satoru when he approaches you, his pearly whites radiant as always. 

“Hi!” He says casually, though you can hear a touch of apprehension in his voice. “Mind if I cut in?” 

“Not at all!” you respond, “Can I get you a refill?” 

His cheeks blush a subtle shade of pink, the tiny gesture making you understand how easily it is to fawn over such a beautiful face. “It’s just soda, but sure” 

“Not drinking tonight?” You continue, glancing between him and Nanami as you wait for your friend to interject. 

“Actually, I’m three years sober,” he explains. 

“Good for you!” You cheer honestly, before turning to the bartender and ordering him another soda. 

From your peripheral vision you see him inch closer towards your friend. 

“I haven’t heard from you in a while,” he states, though his voice comes across as a little small. 

“I’ve been busy,” Nanami curtly replies, and your brows furrow at his unusual tone. 

“Too busy to even say hi?” Satoru continues, his voice low enough that only the three of you can hear each other. 

“Aren’t you here with a date?” Nanami chides, glancing up at him with a mocking eye. 

“Utahime isn’t my date, we both got invited together by our agency…” Satoru answers through gritted teeth. “Besides, I was hoping to spend time with you. I haven’t heard from you since Kuantan…” 

Nanami’s face burns an even brighter shade of crimson, the intimacy of Satoru’s comment flaring his humiliation. 

“Come on,” the white haired prince teases, attempting to ease the discomfort. “Don’t be such a grump. Let’s go outside. Get a little fresh air.” 

You can see that people are starting to stare at the three of you. 

Wherever Satoru goes, eyes follow him. 

While he may be immune to the attention, you can clearly see that Nanami is not. 

“No, thank you.” 

“What? You going to make me beg?” Satoru presses cheekily, but there is a twinge of desperation in his voice. 

“Begging is not difficult for somebody like you,” Nanami bites, and you can’t help but glare at him in shock. 

“Kento!” you chastise, but the look on his face speaks volumes. 

Regret. 

Instantaneous Regret. 

In front of him is a visible hurt that breaks Satoru’s face, like paint slowly chipping away. His eyes gloss over, and he anxiously rubs his hand over the back of his undercut before excusing himself and turning on his heel. 

Nanami covers his face with his palm, while you can only stare at him in disbelief. 

“How can you say that to him? I thought you liked him!” You whisper. 

“I-I didn’t mean to-” 

“You act like you’re ashamed of him whenever he’s around you…” 

Nanami avoids your eye, “How do you think this makes me look? I can’t have people seeing us together. I don’t want the world to swallow me up just because he prefers being gawked at by everyone around him” 

“That’s his job - it’s how he earns a living. I can’t believe you would degrade him over it,” you shake your head, unaware of where your sudden defenses are coming from.

“I know that…” 

“Is that why you don’t want to talk about your trip? Did something happen?” 

The man grows quiet, a sigh escaping him. 

“I broke up with him” 

“You what?” You gasp. 

“It'll never work. Our lives are too different” 

“You didn’t even give him a chance, Ken. He likes you. He really, really likes you.” 

“What chance is there to give? My life would come apart because of him. He would never be truly mine. I would have to share him with the rest of the world day in and day out. And the worst part is that…what should be intimate between us will never be ours either. Do you know that he’s still the highest streamed porn star in the world-” 

“He’s just a person. A person like me and you. Neither one of us chose this life. I didn’t ask to be born into my family, and you weren’t asked to save yours from debt. Yet, here we are. Existing in a world that we had to carve out for ourselves. Don’t you think the same applies to him?” 

You take another sip of your drink, your cheeks warming with anger at your friend’s condescending tone towards Satoru. 

Although, you find your reasons for defending him to be far more self serving. 

“So what if he sells his body? That’s his choice to make. Does it change anything else about him? Does it change his feelings for you?” You lecture, “I can’t believe that you be this ungrateful over skewed morals. If you both care about each other, there is no reason why you can’t be together. Take it from somebody who’ll probably never get the chance. This isn’t something you want to simply let go of, Kento. You’ll regret this decision for the rest of your life.”

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

Nanami downs his whiskey and excuses himself then, your words stinging the microscopic cuts on his heart. You find yourself a little flustered after watching him walk away, unsure of where that outburst even came from. 

The eyes surrounding you look away. 

You know you’ve given everyone within your peripheral area a story to gossip about. One that would be twisted and chewed until there is no morsel of truth left in it. 

Your drink gives you enough liquid courage to socialize and face the music instead. 

You steer your way through the crowd hoping to find one person in particular, but instead you are caught among the net of cliques, old faces, and fake friends. You manage to bypass any pointed questions, passing through each conversation with a forced grin and entertaining the discussions at hand with fluffy anecdotes and petty rumours. 

When you walk away, you know full well that there will be whispers behind your back.

That’s the give and take about this world. Everyone is a vulture secretly waiting to witness the rise and fall of those around them. It’s a vicious circle, which is why nobody ever reveals their true hand in the process.  

You glance around the room, honing in on the handsome dark haired boy you’ve grown entirely too attached too except you spot someone else in between who makes your spine seize.

Your toes curl in your pointed heels. 

Your heart stutters unsteadily. 

Blushed strands, a wolfish grin, and a broad build - Sukuna always takes up far more room than he needs. 

You personally believe it’s because his ego is so massive it requires that extra space. 

You haven’t seen the man in five years, not after the messy relationship that that followed your even messier break up. 

You should have known better than to get involved with him while still so young. 

You remember that version of you. When you first met Sukuna, you were a small rabbit who had accidentally hopped its way into a lone wolf’s den. Twenty one and just embracing the glitz and glamor of the world around you. The man was charming, flirtatious and most of all dangerous. You couldn’t help but return to his lair, especially when he would take the time and effort to approach you at every function, party and gathering that you attended. When you think about your relationship with Sukuna, it fills you with shame until you can only drown in it. There is a reason why you’ve kept it a secret for so long. Even staring at him right now, the dishonor hangs on your shoulder like a weighted sin that you’re burdened to carry for the rest of your life. Every time it hits, the memories play like a movie on hyper speed. 

How often you allowed him to spill his seed all over your body. How often he brought you to tears with his tongue between your legs. How often you would moan the words “daddy” over and over again while riding him. How often you let him manipulate your heart. How often you let him convince you that you were happy.  

That twisted relationship was testament to how broken you were. 

You didn’t even know about his wife who lived in Kyoto until it was far too late. 

Your instinct tells you to turn on your heel and walk in the other direction, but you catch Suguru just up ahead in the crowd and your courage outweighs your hesitation. 

You manage to stride past Sukuna,  a darting feline scurrying towards the safety of a shadow. Your hammering heart steadies itself when the trail of his strong cologne is a safe distance behind you. You nervously clutch onto the strap of your purse, exhaling a quick breath before marching up to Suguru. 

You tap his shoulder twice. 

He spins around, eyes lifting as a smile spreads across his handsome face. 

Like a full moon on a clear night sky. 

“Well, isn’t this a lovely surprise.” 

“I sure hope so,” you remark, biting your bottom lip playfully as you glance at your own feet. 

Suguru chuckles, taking a step closer. “It is.” 

You glance up at him from underneath your lashes, your heart vibrating with pure excitement. You think it’s silly to have such a schoolgirl infatuation over him, especially since you understood the terms that surrounding your relationship. 

You pay him for his company. 

You aren’t supposed to have a crush on man who you employ to have to sex with you. 

Yet, your gut tells you otherwise. Convinces you that the softness in which he speaks is reserved only for you. 

“Are you here with anyone?” You ask a little breathlessly, hoping that you weren’t interrupting him working. 

Suguru shakes his head. 

“Satoru invited me,” he clarifies, and it’s an answer that only makes you giddy. 

“Oh!” You squeak, “well that’s nice. It’s a really exclusive party, make sure you to take it in…” 

His eyes blatantly fall over you, cascading down your body like ink dripping over a canvas. 

Your cheeks warm. 

He’s not even hiding that he’s checking you out, and it triggers the wild desire within you. 

“Are you here alone?” He questions. 

You nod your head, knowing full well that Kento is probably in the midst of a heated conversation with his distraught lover and won’t be returning anytime soon. 

“Why don’t you join us then?” He adds, cocking his head to point at the table behind him. 

You glance over his shoulder, barely recognizing the crowd. 

A fact that seems ideal to you. 

“I’d love to,” you say with a pretty smile, all the while Suguru’s eyes continue sparkling. 

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

The last time you saw Suguru was a few weeks ago, where your heavy heart spilled the news of your pending engagement. 

“An arranged marriage, huh?” he whispered in the dark, his sharp eyes dipping to your naked chest while his delicate fingers carefully pushed the bedsheet further down to your hips.

You inched a little closer into his frame, soaking in the outlines of his chiseled torso and bringing one finger to trace little shapes on his broad shoulder.

Your brows furrowed with annoyance, “yeah, ever heard of the Zen’in family?”

Suguru scoffed, breaking character for only a second but it’s something that you’ve caught him doing more recently. He doesn’t hold his reactions around you as tightly as he used to. The front of this alter ego that he created faltering, which is probably why you find yourself drawn to the person existing underneath the mask of the seducer.

You sigh before continuing your explanation, “my father thinks Naoya Zen’in is a perfect match for me.”

An uneasy expression flickered across Suguru’s face, but he suppresses it before allowing it to linger. 

You lifted yourself up onto your elbow and rest your cheek on your palm. “What is it?”

Suguru mirrors your position, his large hand gliding back and forth over the slope of your hips and waistline which sent goosebumps all over your body. “I’ve heard that Naoya…” Suguru stated, pinching the pads of his fingers lightly against your flesh before leaning forward to kiss the crease between your brows, “can be a handful to deal with…”

You thread your fingers around his neck, your lips finding his jaw where you return a kiss. “And who told you that?” you murmured as the weight of Suguru’s body rolls on top of yours.

You were staring at his devastatingly handsome face from below. The longer you spent time with him the more you began to wonder about his circumstances and a reoccurring thought crossed your mind once more.

Suguru could truly be anything he wanted, but instead he was here making a killing off of fucking lonely women and porn videos.

You don’t judge his choices, but you couldn't help but feel puzzled by the situation especially when you knew the trajectory of his best friend’s career path. 

One photo shoot at a mid-level fashion brand skyrocketed Satoru Gojo’s career and made him a household name. Yet, Suguru Geto was a taboo that was whispered behind closed doors. 

“I have a client who likes to gossip,” he admitted. 

That’s all you got because Suguru kept everything else about his clients confidential. You shivered when his mouth met your neck, his lips sucking along the tender skin that sent goosebumps all over your chest, but there’s an ache in your heart when you consider that if it wasn’t for the signed cheque in your purse, he wouldn’t even be here in the first place.

Not a single man you’ve met in the world compared to Suguru. You’ve never known how sweet lovemaking can be until he fucked you for the time. Not only was he beautiful beyond comprehension, but he was charming and extremely smart. You found yourself enjoying his company beyond physical purposes, and conversations with him turned out to be one of your favorite ways to pass time.

“Think we’ll still get together when you’re a missus?” he teased, his lips trailing lower to your collar bones and hovering just a above your breasts.

The thought of you getting married only made you sick.

“Do you peg me as a terrible wife? a woman who would happily cheat on her husband?” you questioned, your voice trembling when Suguru circled his lips around your hard nipple.

He hummed, drawing out a whimper when he nipped at the bud lightly, his tongue gliding over the hardened nub. 

“No,” he answered, his voice dropping an octave and your mind swirled when you contemplate if that strange tone is actually jealousy. He rested his chin on your chest, his inky hair framing his face in a waterfall of obsidian. “I do, however, peg Naoya as a terrible husband.”

You sank your fingers into his locks, “it doesn’t matter who my father chooses. All these men are the same. Naoya is no worse than the rest. I’m trapped regardless…”

It was the first time you allowed yourself to think about Sukuna when in bed with Suguru. The first time you thought about the last four years and the many men who tried to weasel their way into your heart just for the sake of obtaining status. The discomfort is written plainly on your face. Suguru doesn’t know that seeking him out was your way of taking matters into your own hands, even in just the smallest way. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he responded sincerely, the kindness in his voice the reason why your eyes prick with tears.

You sniffled, using your free hand to wipe away a rogue droplet that freely falls down your cheek. Suguru adjusted his position so he was lying by your side. He didn't say anything but draws you into his chest for a hug, enveloping you in his warmth. You tried hard not to consider the reality of the situation, and accept the gesture freely as you cuddle him.

But the moment of peace is interrupted by a loud vibration. You and Suguru both perked up to stare at his phone buzzing on the side table.

Your heart sank.

Another client.

Suguru reached his arm around to grab the phone, and you closed your eyes to inhale his natural scent, trying to soak him in for as long as you can before he leaves you like he’s done many times before.

To your surprise he simply switched it off, before proceeding to wrap his arm back around you to return to his position.

“You sure you don’t need to take that?” you mumbled, trying to play off your disappointment as casually as possible.

“I’m booked out for the rest of the evening,” he answered nonchalantly, “there’s no reason to respond.”

A tickle in your belly sent sparks all over your skin. “but your cheque only covers the hours we agreed on…”

Two fingers touched the underside of your chin, and Suguru tilted your head up so you were both face to face again. “Don’t worry about it,” he consoled, his thumb lightly outlining your bottom lip, “this is on the house.”

What bliss it was to fall asleep in his arms that night. You recall waking up right before dawn to find him in deep slumber, his strong arm draped protectively across your body with the heat cocooning you from the rest of the world. 

Disappointment shattered you the next morning, when you were greeted by the sun and an empty bed.

You’re not sure when Suguru had snuck out, but you were puzzled to find that your cheque was still tucked away safely in your purse. 

It was the first time he walked away without any payment. 

You still vividly remember his reaction when he met you just a little over a year ago. 

“You’re young,” he blurted, his eyes widening with confusion. 

“We’re around the same age,” you replied defensively, already feeling insecure for having hired him after spending weeks watching his videos. You didn’t even know about his house calls until you heard it from a source within your social circle. "Is this how you greet all your clients?”

Suguru raised his brow in contemplation, “my other clients don’t look like you…”

Over time you learned that he catered to a specific demographic: older divorcees and cheating housewives.

The person you might turn into years from now if this marriage goes through.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

After that night you told yourself that you would schedule another meeting with Suguru to compensate him for his last session.

Right now, all you can think about is your heart hammering when Suguru subtly interlaces his fingers with your own, and leads you through the crowd until you both find a safe spot on the corner of the lounge chair. His group is far too engrossed in their own conversations to notice you both, drunk on the buzzing night and enjoying the many amenities of this exclusive party. 

“You look nice,” you compliment, catching Suguru’s attention while trying to ignoring his knees bumping against yours.

“As do you,” he replies, his voice smoother than velvet. “But you don’t need me to tell you that you’re gorgeous.” 

Oh but I do, you think, masking your excitement with a giggle and casual roll of your eyes. I could hear you tell me that forever. 

Suguru shyly looks down at his lap, hiding his own smile. 

It’s strange, you think, how the two of you are talking. Like this man hasn’t been inside you multiple times and made you cum until you can’t think straight. Like he doesn’t know your body in the most intimate sense.

Like you don’t fund a decent chunk of his salary. 

“Are you enjoying the party?” 

Suguru shrugs, “It’s not too bad. Though, I’m not one for big crowds if I am being completely honest...” 

“Makes sense. I don’ get a kick out of it as much as I used to.”

Suguru angles his body to face you, giving you his full attention. “Why’s that?” 

You sigh, your hands suddenly feeling empty without a drink. You sling your purse off your shoulder and place it between you both, before proceeding to fiddle with the fabric of your dress instead. 

You can lie, but you don’t know how. 

Well, you don’t know how to lie with him. 

Something about starting this contract with Suguru unveiled a level of vulnerability in you that you can’t seem to hide. The first night you both spent together you were a nervous wreck, stumbling and bumbling over words trying to find excuse after excuse as to why a woman of your age would even hire him. By your third appointment, you asked if he could be slow and gentle with you, the emotional scars of your previous relationship a stinging wound. You were desperate for tenderness, and Suguru obliged with your request. By the end you found yourself reaching your climax with tears in your eyes. 

If you were to list out more moments like this, you would simply go on and on. 

You can’t hide your truth with Suguru when it was the first thing you’ve ever shown him. 

“Because it’s a constant reminder that I can be in a room full of people I know and still feel incredibly alone…” you mumble, your gaze catching his. 

His hand finds your thighs, the warmth of his large palm burning through the fabric of your dress. 

“You’re not alone tonight, sweetheart,” he reassures. 

“You don’t have to be so nice…” you insist, suddenly self conscious over his flattery. The same sweetness he bestows upon you when you’re both locked away in a hotel room somewhere, but you didn’t sign off on any bonus transactions tonight. 

He squeezes your thigh and tilts his head. “But I like being nice to you” 

He says it so matter of factly it almost makes you faint. 

Your brows upturn with confusion. “Why?” 

His touch expands upward, grazing over the curve of your thigh, bunching the material of your dress between his fingers. He leans closer, the scent of bergamot wafting up your nose and kissing your neck. 

“Look there,” he states, and you follow the line of his gaze. 

“That woman has been married for fifteen years and her husband never got her off once. And that woman…” he continues, shifting his eyes from body to body, “has a birth mark just above her hip bone. And at the table right behind us,” 

When you turn your face you accidentally bump into the tip of his nose. 

“...are two sisters who pretend they get along well but are currently in a massive fight over their inheritance” 

Your stomach coils with jealousy. “Acquaintances of yours?” 

 Suguru leans back slightly, giving you both room to breathe. 

“Yes, clients…” he confirms, “there’s a few of them here tonight, but you’re the only one who acknowledges me. I’m just a dirty little secret to the rest.” 

Your envy dwindles into sympathy, and you can’t help but let the question slip. 

“How does that make you feel?” 

There’s a twitch in Suguru’s jaw, a hint of scarred pride. You know he has plenty of it, he just hides it well.

The man shrugs, averting his sharp gaze as he downs the rest of his drink. “It is what it is” 

Oh, but that response doesn’t nothing to help your heart, the muscle practically screaming at your brain to do so something and make him feel better. 

Mindlessly, you loop both arms around his bicep, casually resting your chin on his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry if I ever made you feel that way...” 

You’re not sure why you’re apologizing, but you’re hoping it’ll mean something to him. He turns to face you, and if he inched a little closer he could probably kiss you. 

“You are an enigma to me” 

“In what way?” 

He brushes his lips past your own, making you catch your breath for a moment. His mouth trails its way up to your ear, and he whispers a sentence that sends goosebumps running all over your body. 

“In the way that how a woman like you can fit in a life like this” 

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

The night carries on, the pulse of hedonism sending reverberations across the establishment. The crowd grows larger, the air a potion of liquor, expensive cologne, sweat and pleasure. The lights dim, inducing everyone into the trance of the ambience set around them, allowing them to indulge and consume. Your conversation with Suguru feels like minutes, but two whole hours pass with the both you concealed from the crowd. You’re almost mesmerized by him when he talks, cast under an entirely different spell that seems to effect nobody else. His touches turn more intimate the longer you speak, with Suguru securing his arm around your waist and leaning back against the chair as he keeps you tucked into his frame. 

That’s another thing you started noticing - how this man likes to hold you. 

He even did it when you were in bed together last. 

And the time before that. 

And the time before that. 

And the time before that-

If you weren’t surrounded by so many eyes you would simply curl into him, but you find yourself restraining while thinking of what excuse might work to get you both out of here because you just want to be alone with him. 

“Can I get you a drink?” Suguru offers, a wave of disappointment rolling into you as he untangles himself slowly. 

“Just some water...” 

Suguru kisses the inside of your wrist with the reassurance that he’ll be right back, but the public display only makes your cheeks bloom with endearment. 

“Got it” 

When he stands up and walks away is when you notice how the crowd around you has dispersed. Most of Suguru’s party were gone - standing either by the bar or caught in the middle of the dance floor. You can see that there were a few shifty eyes staring at you, and a lump forms in your throat when you realize that by allowing yourself to melt into Suguru it meant that you revealed your weakness to the rest of the wild. 

You take a second to readjust - fixing the hem of your dress before pulling out your pocket mirror and reapplying your lipstick. You fight off any anxious thoughts, sticking a big metaphorical middle finger to whoever was watching you with any hint of judgement. 

Your care for Suguru outweighed their own by tons. 

You just didn’t know how far you had let your guard down until a strange shadow veils over you. 

“Red still looks good on you.” 

Your heart doesn’t sink, it seizes, collapses into itself when you drop the mirror in your hand. His dark chuckle makes your spine tingle with unease. Sukuna kneels to pick up your mirror, his devilish smiling greeting you as you swallow the lump in your throat. 

“What? Cat got your tongue?” He teases, huffing out another laugh when you snatch the pocket mirror from his hand and quickly throw your things back into your purse. 

“I have to go.” 

You bolt onto your feet, only to pause when his contact scorches your forearm. 

“What’s the rush? I’m just saying hi.” 

You shrug him off aggressively, eyes violent and full of fury. 

“I don’t want to say hi to you. As a matter of fact, I hope that we never have to speak again.”  

“C’mon doll, don’t be like that. It’s water under the bridge…” 

His nonchalance enrages in you ways that you can’t describe, but rather than make a scene you smoothly shove him aside before uttering “asshole” and storming off towards the bar. 

Your frantic eyes search for your solace, of the man who can suture any wound that’s in desperate need of healing. You spot him from behind, noticing that he is speaking to a friend, his shoulder leaning on the bar as he patiently waits to pick up the drinks like he promised. Refusing to look back because you know Sukuna is probably on your trail, you breathe out your apprehension to compose yourself and keep one hand securely on your purse before steadily making your way towards to Suguru. 

You hear the two of them as you draw closer,  unintentionally eavesdropping on the conversation at hand. 

“Who’s the chick?” his friend asks. 

“A friend.” Suguru replies. 

“Which friend?” they press. 

“None of your business…” 

“Ah, one of your desperate clients I’m guessing?” 

You cease before making your presence known.

Stunned; your face boiling with embarrassment. 

“Shut up.” 

“It’s so obvious, Suguru-” his friend scoffs, “she’s practically crawling on your lap. It’s fucking pathetic, don’t you think?” 

Pathetic?

The word splits you into half.

Is that how Suguru sees you? 

Is that how everyone else does to? 

Something clicks then, every memory and act of kindness tainted with the thought the man was simply pitying you. That the root of his good-hearted nature was merely sympathy towards a sad, broken little rich girl. 

Suguru picks up the drink, mumbling a “fuck off” before turning on his heel only to find you standing there stupefied by his friend’s demeaning commentary. Only an idiot would assume that you probably didn’t hear a thing, but Suguru is far smarter than that. Whatever trace of the mask he’s been wearing dissipates then, and you see the genuine concern on his face. He parts his lips but you’re too wounded for an explanation, and you instantly dash past both of them, excusing yourself politely before speed walking your way towards the exit. 

You can hear him call out your name, but there is no way you would let that man see you crying after what was just said. 

Of course he doesn’t like me, you self-consciously deliberate, I pay him to fuck me. 

I pay him to fucking like me. 

A sob leaves you, and you cover your mouth with the back of your hand as you rush past the bouncer and dart out the front door, leaving a crowd of people staring at you with confusion. All of them hoping to make their way inside.

“Must be drunk,” one person says, while another screams at the bouncer “hey, can you let us in?! Someone just left!” 

You strut down the street, desperately trying to maintain your balance as you dab your eyes lest your tears ruin your make up. You hear someone call out your name, half hopeful that it might Suguru but when you glance over your shoulder all you see is the dreadful sight of your ex-boyfriend. 

You keep walking.  “Don’t follow me.” 

Sukuna is quick to catch up, practically jogging down the street and you curse your choice in footwear for slowing you down. 

“Then don’t keep running away.” 

You halt, the man nearly colliding into you from behind. 

“What?!” you spit out as you glare up at him. “What do you want from me?” 

Sukuna arches his brow, the smell of whiskey sticking to him. “The fuck got you so worked up?” 

You wipe away any leftover tears, your indignation towards this man overriding all other emotions. 

“None of your fucking business…” 

Sukuna reaches for your elbow, “Let’s not be testy. My car is in front of the bar. Let me take you home.” 

You already caught that eye sore of a ridiculously expensive sports car when you stepped out of club. “I’d rather walk home barefoot on a bed of hot coals then go anywhere with you.” 

“Don’t be like that, kitten…”

“Don’t,” you snapped, “call me that.” 

“You know I still nothing but love for you, right?” He slurs mildly, “Let me take you back to my place and we can talk-”  

His thumb grazes your elbow gently. Once upon a time you actually believed that his affection was real, but you’re older and wiser to know the truth now. “You miss my pussy,” you crudely admonish, “you don’t give a fuck about me.” 

He pinches your elbow with mild irritation. “Why don’t you tuck those claws back. I’m trying to have a fucking conversation.” 

“If a conversation is what you want, then speak to your fucking wife-” you hiss, striking a cord that makes Sukuna furrow his brows which brings you an odd sense of satisfaction. 

His face falls. 

You huff with approval. 

“What?” your mock, “cat got your tongue?” 

“Is everything alright?” 

You and Sukuna both halt, your heads twisting to face whoever spoke with Sukuna letting go of you faster than you can even blink. You only catch a tiny glimpse of his fear, the terror that somebody caught him in the act. 

Thankfully, it was only Suguru. 

Your body hums with relief. 

One hand is in his pocket, the other keeping a helmet tucked under his wing. His stance is relaxed but his irises are piercing daggers sinking into Sukuna’s skull.

“Everything’s fine-” Sukuna insists. 

“Suguru,” you call out at the same time, instantly going to him and finding your place by his side.

The word pathetic hammers in the back of your mind but you need deal with one problem at a time, and right now you don’t care about looking desperate if it means escaping the shackles of Ryomen Sukuna. 

Suguru’s eyes don’t leave your ex-lover, but he inches closer towards you to assert his ground. 

Sukuna frowns, the expression on his face all too familiar. 

You clutch Suguru’s sleeve, “Nothing to fret over. Do you mind taking me home?” 

He turns to face you, a mixture of worry with a flare of anger on that handsome face.  

“Yeah, I’ll take you home.” 

“Tsk,” Sukuna grumbles with frustration, “Don’t cheapen yourself by fucking off with some whore…” 

A static shock trickles each point of the triangle where you all stand. The hair on the back of your neck stands upright, your attention moving to Suguru whose entire face darkens with a fury that you’ve never seen before. He steps forward, his helmet dropping to his hand like he’s ready to wield it as a weapon, and the target is the spot on Sukuna’s skull that he’s been carefully observing. Your vision goes white imagining the outcome of this blow out, and you can practically hear the crack of the impact if Suguru follows through. 

Despite how much he deserved it, you know just how powerful Sukuna is. 

He would ruin Suguru without any remorse. 

“Suguru,” you beg, stepping forward and clutching onto his shirt as you reel him away from the man before you. 

His nostrils flare, the intoxicating poison of wrath swirling in his irises which quickly diffuses upon finding you. 

“Take me home?” You softly repeat, earnest and sincere, all the while erasing Sukuna from your presence entirely. 

It only takes a few seconds for Suguru to register your request, but he complies by reaching for your hand and knotting his fingers between your own. He grips it protectively, eyes looking straight ahead as he leads you down the street and far away from the chaos behind you. 

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

The patter of your feet colliding onto the concrete surface echoes around you. A part of you is embarrassed, the other ashamed, a third grateful while a fourth shivers anxiously. You’re thankful that Suguru is at least allowing the silence to linger because it’s giving you a chance to settle from the roller coaster of emotions you just experienced. You try not to think about the pressure of his grip, or how the length of his fingers are wrapped securely around yours and instead piece together some semblance of an explanation worthy for him to listen to. 

You eventually decide that you’ll just grab a cab back to your place. That you’ll thank Suguru for playing the role of rescuer, and hand off the cheque that you’ve been holding onto. You won’t be a burden, bother him any longer or a do anything else to force his empathy. 

Suguru pauses in front of a jet black motorbike. The color itself blending into the darkness around you. You clear your throat ready to make your declaration, but you’re silenced when you feel the weight of his helmet press against your palms. 

“Wear this,” he commands. “I’ll take you to my place.” 

Your mouth goes slack, your practiced words shrinking to the back of your throat. 

His place. 

“Your place?” You find yourself whispering your thoughts out loud. 

Suguru reaches for the handle of his bike, tapping his index finger against it, his back facing you. “If you want.” 

He hops on before searching you for an answer. The look animates you back to reality and you nod your head before swiftly putting on the helmet. You find your place behind him, taking a second longer to adjust in your dress. You knot your arms around his waist, your eyes noting his exposed head. 

“You don’t have a helmet.” You point out. 

“I don’t live that far,” he answers back, “besides, I didn’t think I’d be traveling with precious cargo.” 

He taps his palm over your clasped hands. “Hold tight for me, alright?” 

You nod your head, covering your face with the shield visor before resting your cheek against his back. 

Suguru takes off. 

The wind whips against your bare arms, the pressure sweeping between your legs as Suguru swerves between each lane. The city blurs into vivid colors, only resurfacing when you come to an immediate halt at the traffic light. The adrenaline courses through your veins, the exhilarating sensation a thrill that you’ve never experienced before. Unfortunately, the journey was short lived and within twenty minutes you find yourself coming to a halt in an underground parking lot. 

Suguru parks the bike, hopping off before reaching his hand out to assist you. 

Your legs felt like jelly when it hits the surface, and you tumble on your own footing as Suguru reaches his other hand out to steady you by holding your waist. 

“You okay? Was I going to fast?” 

You take off the helmet, attempting to make yourself look somewhat presentable. 

“No, no” you answer a little breathless, “that…that was actually kind of fun…” 

“First time?”

You nod your head. 

Suguru hums. 

He takes the helmet away from you and directs you straight to the entrance of his apartment building. He pulls out an electronic key, and presses it against the elevator door. The elevator pings, the panels sliding open as you both step inside. Suguru clicks the button to his floor and you both stand on opposite sides watching the numbers go up.

Suguru lived in a newer development, you could tell when you walked through the hallway as he stands in front of his apartment door, and uses the same key to grant you both entrance. 

As you enter the hallway, you’re greeted by a wall with mounted iron hooks. There’s five to be exact, each one holding a different helmet with one space empty. Suguru fits the helmet back onto the vacant spot, before glancing over his shoulder and finding you still by the door struggling to take off your heels. 

He returns and kneels before you. His hands carefully moving your fingers away. 

“Let me help with that” 

“You don’t have to-” but you’re interrupted with him patting his thigh in gesture. 

You bite your bottom lip and place one foot against him, careful not to dig your heel into him. 

He delicately unravels the straps around your ankle and slips of the heel with a brush to the back of your calf, making the muscle twitch. 

“Other foot,” he instructs, then repeats. 

After placing your shoes neatly by the door, he stands up and reaches for your hand once more. “This way” 

You take it warmly, and follow him while trying your best not to acknowledge the noticeable height difference with you two standing side by side.

You never paid much attention to it before, you didn't have too really considering you both spent most of your time together in parallel positions. 

Suguru leads you into the living room, and a small gasp escapes you when you are met with floor to ceiling windows. The horizon is of the city skyline, but it’s half blocked by a decent size balcony which is covered in greenery. The scene contrasts the inside of Suguru’s apartment, which is more minimal. To your right is a small dining nook, the light above an accent piece that added some detail to the decor. To your left is a small furniture set, the sage green fabric making you avert your gaze with shame because your recognized that very same couch in most of Suguru’s videos. 

You find yourself quickly staring at your feet. 

“Can I get you anything to drink? Water? Tea?” 

“Tea would be great,” you answer back, returning to look directly at him from underneath your lashes. “Do you have anything herbal?” 

“Mhmm.” 

You follow him into the kitchen and realize that the man keeps his place meticulously clean. The back counter is what catches your attention the most. Suguru has a full serviced at home barista station set up for his own convenience. You pick out the coffee grinder, espresso machine, assortment of tea pots, jars of fresh leaves and coffee bags all neatly organized. 

Suguru pulls out one jar with a hand written label that reads "lemon balm and chamomile". 

You slip off your purse and place it on the counter behind him. “Did you make all these yourself?” 

“My parents used to run a tea shop in Hokkaido,” he answers back. 

“A tea shop?” You squeak, a little too excited from the morsel of information about his personal life that he just bestowed. “That must have been lovely…” 

“It was,” he answers, his voice growing small. 

You watch him fill the kettle with water, before placing it on the electric stove to warm up. He opens the jar, closing the gap of space between you both and lifts it to your nose. 

“Take a deep breath in,”

You oblige, and inhale. 

“Oh my,” you sigh out loud, your fingers subconsciously clasping over his own as your eyes flutter from the aroma of citrus, ginger, flora and subtle spice. It calms every firing nerve in your body. “That smells wonderful” 

When you open them again, you see that Suguru is looking at you thoughtfully. 

“It tastes good too,” he says proudly, and your heart glows at the reaction. “I was a terrible night owl as a kid. Still am, I guess. My mom used to make this to help me go to sleep…” 

“That’s really sweet,” you admit, wondering how lovely it must be to be looked after with such care. 

He slips away again, taking a spoon and putting a generous amount of the blend into a ceramic tea pot. You hear the tea bubble lightly, but your head spins as Suguru cages you in place while you both wait for it to reach the right temperature. Your back is against the counter, his arms by your side. 

“That guy you were talking to. Who was that?” He questions, cutting right to the chase. 

“Nobody important,” you confess, “he’s an asshole.”

“Tell me about it.” 

“I’m sorry about what he said to you. What he called you…”  

Suguru’s fingers dig into the counter, making the muscles in his arms flex with irritation. 

“Don’t apologize for him. Don’t apologize for any of them.” He firmly maintains. “Their words are empty to me...” 

“You almost bashed his head in,” you point out, a tiny smile easing the tension binding around the man before you. 

“I almost bashed his head because of the way he spoke to you-” 

Your eyes widen. 

Was he being protective? You think, but shake your head when you think of what kind of pitiful state you must have been that would cause Suguru to react in such a way. 

Pathetic. 

Your shoulders dwindle slightly and you shake it off to gather yourself once more. 

“He was a terrible mistake. I was young, and stupid. I thought I knew better when I really had no fucking clue…” 

You didn’t realize how bitter you sounded until two fingers press underneath your jaw.

His thumb taps your chin in a featherlight touch. “Is it over? Whatever it was?” 

“Of course,” you answer, the truth acrid on your tongue. “I’m to marry Naoya Zen’in, remember?”

Suguru frowns. “He’s no better. I told you that myself.” 

You circle your hand around his wrist. “I’ll take anyone over Sukuna. Even if that person is Naoya…” 

“Why can’t you just choose?” 

You press your lips together and sigh. “Because it’s a transaction. I’m a token in my father’s universe. If he weds me off to the Zen’in’s then it’s profitable. Good for business…” 

“I’m sure if you speak with him, he’ll understand-” 

“Don’t be so naive,” you answer as you return to meet his gaze. “My father doesn’t love me. He just owns me. I spent most of my adolescence alone while he was busy working or galavanting off with his mistress.  I think he assumed that if he kept shoving money my way, I wouldn’t notice his absence…” 

The kettle sings, making you both jump in place as the water bubbles aggressively and a small spiral of steam releases from the lip. Suguru returns to making your beverage. Picking up the kettle and pouring the hot water into the pot. He places it on a tray, along with a beautiful cup. 

“The tea needs a couple of minutes to steep. In the meanwhile, I’m going to change into something more comfortable.” He announces, “You want some spare clothes?” 

You look down at your designer frock, the material snug on your body. 

“Yeah, I’d like that” 

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror. Suguru’s white shirt falls to your mid thigh, the material a little see through and revealing the bra you had on underneath. You eye the pair of worn boxers he handed to you to wear as shorts, but slyly tuck your bottom lip between your teeth before leaving it behind and walking out with your bare legs on display. 

You’re not quite sure what the plan is here, but you don't see yourself leaving anytime soon.

You head back towards the kitchen where you pick up your purse, your dress folded between your hands carefully. Suguru is opening the door to the balcony, having changed into a cut sleeve shirt that exposes his arms and a hint of his ribs, as well as a pair of loose shorts. When he hears you enter, his attention instantly falls to your plush thighs, a hint of crimson blushing his cheek. 

“Where can I keep my stuff?” You ask innocently, pretending to ignore his reaction. 

“Anywhere is fine,” he answers back, his voice thick. 

He tells you that he’ll wait for you outside, and in the meantime you put down your stuff onto the coffee table in front of his sofa.

You unzip your purse, Suguru’s cheque staring you at you with wide, scolding eyes. 

Pathetic. 

You furrow your brows at the voice inside your head, and swipe the payment before folding it and tucking it securely against your hip underneath the waistband of your underwear. 

You head outside, sliding the window close behind you. 

Suguru is sitting on a deck chair, the two of you camouflaged by the array of his overgrown plants. He pours your cup of tea, the aroma twirling between the current of the wind as he offers it your way. You pick it up, bringing it to your lips and taking a sip. A heavy sigh escapes you, and you remain standing leaning back against the cool glass surface as you stare out into the distance. 

“Like it?” Suguru asks, and you only notice then that he has also brought out a second cup for himself and is pouring his own drink. 

“It’s divine,” you respond. 

“I’m glad” 

The two of you sit in silence once more, mindlessly sipping your tea while contemplating the other person. You’re both at a clear standstill, carefully tiptoeing over the boundary that has so been strictly set in place. 

A reminder of that is the folded cheque digging into your skin. 

“How did you find out about contacting me?” Suguru randomly wonders. 

You look towards him and he shrugs before adding on, “I never asked. I find myself curious.” 

You thrum your nails against the glass cup, taking another sip of your tea before replying, “I saw you at a party with Satoru. I was with a group of friends, and one of them noticed me recognizing you. She asked if I was…familiar with your work. And when I told her I was she informed me that you both were…intimate.” 

“Was it Mei?” 

Your face falls at the blatant disregard of confidentiality. 

“How-How did you know?” 

Suguru huffs, and sips his tea. 

“She’s the only other client I had close to our age. Wasn’t hard to make the connection…” 

“Can I ask you a question?” 

“Go for it,” he replies. 

“I’ve always been curious as to how you wound up doing what you do,” you bite your bottom lip nervously, your hands trembling slightly holding your glass and you hope that Suguru wouldn’t notice your sudden unease. 

“Ah,” he acknowledges, his free hand moving to rub the back of his neck and you can’t help but sneak a peak at his abdomen from the side. “Well, I told you how I wound up making the videos. For a long time I just did solo work, but I knew I could make more money if I had on-screen partners to film with. I had a few good connections with some actresses and hired a friend to make a video with me…” 

You knew exactly which one he was talking about. 

The actress in question was well known, and the video was an amateur clip that was filmed on the very same couch that you walked passed earlier. 

You clench your thighs together. 

You don’t even want to admit how many times you came to that particular video. 

“I didn’t know it would blow up in the way that it did. Shoko and I made a killing off it. We both saw the potential and we wound up doing six full episodes - trying out different techniques, roleplaying in a few…” 

“But you stopped posting after that…” 

Suguru pauses. “How would you know that?” 

You swallow a big gulp of tea. 

“I might have been a big fan of your work before we met.” 

“Really?” He answers with a slight tilt of his head, clearly very amused. 

“I wouldn’t have reached out to just anyone, you know. But I was really interested in...your work, and when I learned about your little side gig. I couldn’t resist…” 

“Well, color me flattered, sweetheart.” 

You swirl the last bits of tea in your cup. 

“So, why did you stop posting?” 

“I kept the videos up. They’re good and I still make revenue with every ad or view. Satoru’s career was picking up around that time, and he had just gotten clean. He needed somebody to hold him accountable so I started tagging along at his events. I didn’t realize how many people would recognizeme. My first client wasn’t even "a client", he gestures with air quotes, "she was just some woman I met and slept with. I woke up the next morning to an empty hotel room. All that she left behind was an envelope of cash…” 

He pauses. 

“I didn’t know what to feel. A part of me was insulted but another part had never seen that much money handed over so easily. The videos were great but what I earned in a day, is what I got in just a few hours. I was in my mid-twenties, just left the brink of making ends meet and desperate for security. I deposited the cash and kept going. Somehow it snowballed into…” he gestures his arms out, “this.” 

He pours himself another cup of tea. “At first I was a little reckless. Took on too many clients it damn near gave me a health scare. So, I started spacing them out. Keeping to a set number a month and maintaining a high price. I didn’t think that so many people would actually pay for my services, but they do...and I'm comfortable.” 

“Does it ever overwhelm you?” 

“Not anymore. Keeping my partners to a minimum helps. I’m safe and get tested regularly, as I mentioned when we first met,” He lifts the teapot your direction to offer you a second cup, and you accept it by approaching him and allowing him to fill your glass. 

“The thing is I went from never knowing when I was going to eat to having three meals a day. I don’t think I’d change that for the world…” 

“What about your family? Your friends?” You find yourself mindlessly asking. "How do they feel about this?"

“Satoru and Shoko are the only ones who know. Everyone else thinks it’s porn that funds my life. As for my family,” Suguru stops, his voice scratchy as he quickly clears his throat. “Well, they don’t have to worry about it. My parents passed away when I was fifteen. It's just been me ever since”  

The tea burns your lip  and your body trembles at the statement. 

“I’m so sorry…” 

He shrugs his shoulder nonchalantly. 

There’s a heaviness in the air, and despite how hard he’s trying to hide it you can see how the memory tears him apart. 

“My mom passed away giving birth to me,” you find yourself disclosing to even the scale, “I think that’s probably why my father resents me so much. He never got a son, and lost his wife in the process” 

“I’m sorry to hear that too…” 

You mirror his shrug. “It’s weird. I find myself curious about her - but there’s a detachment when I look at her. Sometimes I think about how different my life might be if she was still around. Or, if she was just like my father and everything would still be the same…” 

“Well, since we are speaking of hypotheticals,” Suguru moves on, shifting the topic as he angles his body more in your direction. “If you had the freedom to whatever you wanted, what would you do?” 

“Me?” You gasp, shocked by his pointed question. 

He smiles an easy smile, “I don’t see anybody else around.” 

You hum thoughtfully. “This might take a minute…” 

He places his cup of tea on the tray by his side and then pats his free hand on his thigh. 

“C’mere and think.” 

Your heart flies up your throat, pulsing just at the base. “You want me to sit on your lap?” 

Suguru nods his head. 

You gulp down the vessel, returning it back to its place. You glide your way towards him, placing the tea cup just next to his own, before settling down onto his lap. 

Suguru wraps his arm around your waist, securing you close into his frame. 

“Do you hold your other clients like this?” 

He shakes his head no. 

“So, you like holding me…” you bluntly point out, “why’s that?” 

Suguru’s face is directly in front of yours, so beautiful you can almost faint right here in his arms. He fingers dig into your waist, his other arm curving over your thigh and gently drawing circles on your hip. 

“Because you fit nicely against me” 

A swarm of butterflies take flight, making you feel lighter than air. You swear he might kiss you then but instead he returns to his question. “So, tell me what would you do?” 

The answer comes to you far easier than you think. From the moment you saw him tonight, you know the truth in the depths of your heart. “I’d like to run away with you,” you confess before stuttering out, “or-or at least somebody like you. Someone who is kind and sweet and thoughtful...”

Suguru leans back against the chair, lifting up one leg and adjusting your positions. He’s careful not to kick the tray with the tea. 

“And where would we go?” 

You sling your arms around his neck, “anywhere - anywhere but here.” 

Suguru slides his palm over the slop of your rear, slipping it underneath the fabric of his shirt and tracing a line over the dimples on your lower back.

“What would we do?” 

“We could lay outside just like this and watch the stars.” 

He hums, “we don’t get any stars out here in the city...”

“No, we don’t.” 

“What else would we do?” 

His other hand starts to unbutton the front of your shirt, revealing the details of the lace underneath. He cups your right breast, his lips shifting to find your neck. 

“We’d do this too,” you sing merrily. 

“Look at stars and fuck our brains out?” He teases, his teeth nipping at your skin. “Sounds like a dream to me…”

He gropes the fat of your breast, unknotting every single secret. “what else?” 

“We’ll sleep all day, and kiss until we’re bored of one another…” 

The hand on your breast moves to circle your neck, Suguru’s thumb massaging the column. 

“I’d never grow bored kissing you-” 

Your body renders against his touch. “Suguru,” you moan, your lips seeking his own. 

Before you can even meet for the kiss, he mumbles your name and follows up with the claim: “you should run away with me.” 

You giggle, still living in the proposed fantasy. “I’m trying to…” 

“I’m being serious” 

The tone of his voice is the reason why you stop to kiss him, pulling away to face the man before you. 

There's no denying the truth on his face - he is actually quite serious about the declaration. 

You hear the dreaded word once more: pathetic. Pathetic because this man is an expert at fulfilling fantasies, is a professional when it comes to healing the hearts of the lonely.

Pulling yourself out of this delusional imagination, you push off him before standing up straight. 

“That’s not funny, Suguru” 

“Who says I’m being funny?” He responds sincerely. 

“What is this? What are we doing? What am I doing? You can’t just-” you lament, pressing your forehead to hand in disbelief as you enter the confines of his apartment, taking a second to breathe. “You can’t just say things like that-” 

He calls out your name again, but the kraken has already been released. 

He follows, tracking into his abode right behind you, all the while watching you stand in the middle of his living room with your quivering hands reaching for the waistband of your underwear.  

“This was a terrible idea. I shouldn’t have-I shouldn’t have gone through with all of this,” you yank out the cheque, showing it to him. “You don’t have to take pity on me. I know I’m just another desperate, pathetic client, alright? I promise you don't have to keep putting up with me and my drama after this. And you sure as hell don't have to keep giving me these mixed messages which only confuse me. I can’t have things getting complicated right before this engagement is about to happen. So, here. Take this cheque and let’s just forget everything else about tonight.” 

Suguru stands there, pensive. His eyes look to the folded paper in your hand, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. Instead of reaching for the paper, he simply walks past you, making you spin on your heel as you follow his movements with sheer bewilderment. 

He heads towards the shelf behind you and pulls out a tiny box. He removes something from it, before walking back and facing you once more. 

“Shit got complicated about eight cheques ago, sweetheart,” he negates, holding the thin stack papers between his two fingers as he brings it to your face. His eyes fall to to the crumpled one you are currently holding, “Well, counting the one in your hand, I’d say nine...” 

You can’t believe it.

You pick up the wad and sift through each paper; each cheque one of yours, the date issued a reflection of your last nine meetings with Suguru. 

None of them cashed in. 

“Why do you still have these?” 

Two hands find your waist, your forearms fall into Suguru’s chest as you stare mindlessly at the cheques fanned out between your fingers. 

“I didn’t have it on my conscious to deposit them once I realized my feelings for you. I'm sorry about what you heard earlier, but what Mahito said doesn't apply to you at all,” he responds. “You stopped being a client to me for quite some time...” 

You look up at him. 

His touch tightens around your waist. “You can’t marry Naoya. Or, you shouldn’t. But if you do, I don’t want us to stop seeing one another. We can work something out…”

“Suguru,” you pine, dropping the papers in your hand, each one twirling onto the ground, thousands at your feet. 

His lips catch yours in a subtle peck, all before circling over your bottom lip and sucking on the plush base. He slides his tongue between your lips, feeling yourcrumple into him as the paper crinkles beneath your feet. You moan feeling the sensation of his tongue slide across yours - he tastes like running across a field of chamomile flowers, like you’re holding a basket of fresh, ripe lemons. 

Like you're savoring the most beautiful sunrise. 

His hands return to finish unbuttoning your shirt, shrugging the material off your shoulders and exposing your expensive lingerie set. He grips your hips, your ass - his touch hungry before pressing his pelvis closer to your frame so you can feel his aching member beneath his shorts. 

You squeak into another kiss when he swiftly picks you up from the back of your thighs and carries you across the living room. 

He places you onto his sofa like you’re made of porcelain, keeping you on the edge as he kneels to the ground, his knees sinking into the rug. Two hands find your inner thighs which he pushes apart to reveal the pretty triangle fabric covering your sweet cunt. He kisses your clit over the material. Once, twice, three times…until you’re sighing into the pillow behind you. His tongue drags up, pressing your clothing against your sex, one hand drawing upward to find yours which he holds lovingly. His index and middle finger hook underneath your underwear, and he tugs it aside to reveal your slick coated pussy. 

He kisses your clit again, leaving a path down your damp lips which only makes you moan angelically. 

“This is why I’d never get bored kissing you,” he coos, “You sound like heaven whenever I do...”

Your only response is a vowel, your hand holding onto Suguru’s for dear life as he returns to eat out with such devotion it almost brings tears to your eyes. You pant softly, his wet tongue making you weep between your legs and he gathers your essence and swallows it to parch his craving. You whine feeling the snap of your underwear pinch into your skin when Suguru lets go of the material to mold his palm over the slope of your pelvis. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, his tongue sinking between your wet folds, lips suckling on the petals of your cunt. 

Your hips arch off the sofa, desperate for friction, but Suguru pins you firmly back down. 

“Easy, easy…” he appeases, “don’t cum just yet. Hold off f’me, just for a little bit…” 

He’s never asked because there was never a reason to. For the most part, he was always there to service you. Allowed you to use his body to get you off as many times as you so desired. 

Your voice breaks, “okay,” you answer, drawing out a long exhale when he dives back in. 

The hand on your pelvis climbs up the steps of your ribs, reaching for band of your bra right at the middle. He curls his finger over the boning, and tugs the material allowing your breasts to spill free. He finds the bud of your nipple and tweaks it between his finger, pinching and pulling the aching nub until your writhing beneath him. 

He slurps and sucks, while you moan and whimper, forcing yourself to hold off for as much as your can but you find that it’s far harder to do when your lower belly quakes as it sits on the brink of release. 

“Suguru, Suguru…” you beg, reaching your free hand to your breast and clenching over his fingers. “Suguru, I can’t-m’gonna cum if you don’t stop…” 

He groans against your cunt, pulling away from your pulsing core and letting go of your hand to wipe the dampness off his chin. 

He licks his lips, drunk off lust and of how you taste. 

He keeps his body upright, drags your legs to secure them around his waist as he straightens your back. His hands unhook your bra from behind, the scent of you strong on his lips as he leans up for a kiss. Your hands fall to his shoulders, your belly fluttering as your sex begs for more stimulation. 

Suguru loosens the bra, allowing it to fall to your elbows before kneading your breasts - his thumb swipes back and forth over your nipples. He devours your cry, wolfs down every panting breath as he moans into the kiss. Your hands slip underneath his shirt, taking in the lines of strong abdomen.

“Take if off,” you plead between breaths, “Take it off, please…” 

Suguru listens, breaking apart from the kiss to toss his shirt to the side while you slip off your bra. Your lover’s hand finds your waist, his fingers pinching into the soft flesh. He leans forward to kiss the side of your neck, making a path down the curve and across the field of your décolletage. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs into your breast, his lips snagging your nipple as his tongue rolls over the bud.

Your fingers curl around the back of his head, loosening his bun as you untie the knot. His hair falls like waterfall, the strands tickling your bare skin. Suguru’s hand slips between your legs, his middle and forefinger meeting your clit. You hiss at the contact, sinking your teeth between your bottom lip when Suguru sucks on your breast while simultaneously drawing circles on the bundle of nerves between your legs. 

Your breath grows heavier, your hips bucking into him from the sensation of his touch. 

“Feels good,” you mumble, “feels so good with you…”   

He shivers, relieving your breast as his lips search for your own. 

He adds more pressure between your legs, increasing the speed while your tongues dance. When your thighs noticeably quiver he slows down, pinching your clit between his fingers as he softly pecks your cheek. 

“The condoms are in my room…” 

Your sharp nails scratch the back of his neck lightly, “I have one in my purse.” 

Suguru nods feverishly, reaching back to the coffee table and rummaging through your purse. He picks out the shiny wrapper, and stands up to take off his shorts. 

“Wait, can I?” You request, gazing up at him with glittering eyes. 

Suguru swallows hard, and nods his head. 

Your eyes dilate rolling his shorts down, focusing on the tent in the fabric and watching his cock spring free and lightly smack his lower belly. Suguru brings the condom to his lips and rips it open with his teeth, but his eyes flutter when your perfectly manicured hands glide up the length of his shaft. 

You trace the prominent vein, your thumb swiping over the pre-cum beading over  the angry tip. You lick your lips, leaning closer to kiss the base and listening to Suguru sigh. 

You’ve only given him a blow job once before, and that was because you asked if you could. Suguru sets no expectations for himself when it comes to work, but that doesn’t mean that you haven’t fantasized about giving him head countless times. 

You wrap your fingers around his length and stroke mildly, your lips fanning over  his cock before reaching the tip. 

“Sweetheart, don’t-” Suguru murmurs in an attempt to stop you, but you’re already enclosing your lips around the head and pressing your tongue over the slit. 

His head falls back as you suck, a curse leaving him. 

You move slowly at first, dragging your tongue back and forth as you stroke the base. Sukuna was far rougher with you when you went down on him, but Suguru is allowing you to take him at your own pace. Inch by inch, until you were bobbing your head back and forth, strings of saliva webbing off his cock and sticking your lips. 

He thrusts once, not rough enough to hurt but the jerk catches you by surprise. 

You carefully release him, mindlessly wiping your bottom lip and the sight makes his cock twitch. 

Suguru pulls the condom out, and rolls it over his shaft. 

He settles onto the empty seta by your side, and you crawl over the expanse of his gorgeous, chiseled body to kiss him once again. 

His circles his fingers around his cock, his other hand guiding your hip as he aligns the tip to your entrance. Your nail nicks his pec when he pushes against the hole, your mouth circling over his own as you lower down his shaft. 

He fills you up so, so good. Makes your body vibrate with unshakeable desire. 

He groans until he bottoms out , the hand on your hip dipping down from your pubis to your lower belly like he’s trying to outline how deep he actually is before returning it back in place and securing his other hand on the opposite hip. 

Your breasts flatten against his chest, your hands holding on to his strong shoulders for support as you roll our hips.

Suguru works in tandem with your rhythm to fuck you passionately. 

His lips find yours once again for a final kiss, before the two of you get caught up in the moment when he swiftly picks up the pace. 

His hips arch violently, while yours sink - your bodies moving silk. 

“Unghh, oh god, yes-yes-yes~” you moan. 

Suguru’s grip almost feels painful, you know for a fact that he’ll be marking your hips with a few bruises. “Gonna cum-” he rasps, “s-shit, I’m fucking close-fucking close-” 

Your pussy tightens, practically holds his dick in a death grip that makes release a broken moan. His cock contracts upon his release, the sensation bringing you to the edge of yours as the muscles in your lower belly and inner thighs spasm around him. You leave crescents on his skin, your bodies shaking as you both take a second to breathe coming down from your climax. 

You collapse into him, his arms circling behind you, with his racing heart pulsing into your own. He moves so you’re laying side by side, your body sandwiched between him and the couch since he takes up most of the room. You rest your cheek against his shoulder, feeling him grow soft inside you.

Your stuttering breath finally finds a resting poin when he brings your hand and holds it against his heart. 

“Where do we go from here?” You whisper with a kiss to his neck. 

“Whatever you decide, we’ll figure out.” Suguru answers sincerely. 

“I can’t marry Naoya,” you admit out loud, shocked for actually saying it for the very first time. “And I can't share you with anyone else - it already kills me having to do so.” 

Suguru looks down at you, a reassuring smile resting on his lips. “There won’t be anyone else.” 

“I can't just...leave. I can't just drop everything and walking away. It isn’t going to be easy-” you add on, “It’ll take me some time.” 

“I can wait” 

“It might get messy…” 

“When is it ever not?” 

“But we’ve never been in a relationship-” you insist, logic breaking through the barrier of your happiness. “How do we know if this will even work out properly? What if this thing between us fades?” 

“I guess we’re both taking a gamble here…” 

You both stare into the other’s eyes. 

“Do you think it’s worth the risk?” You ask. 

Suguru’s face softens but he leans forward to kiss your forehead. 

“I think it’s worth a try.” 

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

TWO YEARS LATER

“You running out on Naoya on your wedding night is still the hot topic.” Kento explains over the phone, “People kept bringing it up, and for whatever reason they just can't seem to get over it.” 

The guilt in your stomach twists into a very small knot, over time the size of it has shrunk to a point where you not longer carry any remorse regarding your scheming behavior. 

You had a plan, and the plan worked. 

"Let's not forget who was there to help..." you contend, disregarding the negativity surrounding your decision.

After you and Suguru spoke, you decided to carry on the facade, agreeing to the engagement and soon after the wedding with Naoya Zen'in. All the while you and Suguru were busy planning your way to cut and run. He cashed in your unsigned checks, and you pilfered a decent amount of the wedding budget which you kept into a seperate savings account.

You played the role as obedient daughter well, and no one was the wiser. 

“Besides, I maintain that it's still the best decision I ever made,” you reply, stepping out of your room and into the kitchen where you are greeted by the sound of clinking dishes.  

Your eyes shift to Suguru - his hair far longer now, flowing beautifully down his back, the front layers tied into a small bun. You smell dinner in the air, and your stomach grumbles with anticipation. 

Nanami doesn't reply, but you can hear that he's distracted from the television in the background. 

“What are you watching?” you ask your friend. 

The man simply sighs. 

“Nothing.” 

“Doesn’t sound like nothing with that reaction. Is it Satoru’s new drama show?” 

At the mention of his best friend you notice your lover glance over his shoulder, quietly tilting his head to direct you towards him. You smile his way, your feet pattering against the hardwood floor as you move closer to him. He bundles one arm around your shoulder, keeping you close while continuing to sauté the vegetables in the pan. 

He kisses the top of your head. 

“It’s all the rage,” you add on to your phone call, “Suguru and I plan on watching the next episode tonight.” 

Kento remains quiet. 

You release yourself from Suguru’s grasp, and instead hop onto the kitchen counter right next to him.

He reduces the heat and picks up the lid before covering the pan. 

“I’m guessing you two haven’t-” 

“No,” Kento curtly replies. “Not since that night…” 

“I’m sorry” 

“Don’t be,” he responds with frustration. “I screwed it up” 

“You know I could just ask Sugu too reach out-” 

“ Don’t,” Kento sighs regrettably. “It doesn’t matter. I heard he’s moved on” 

You quirk your brow, your eyes shifting to Suguru who was back to chopping some fresh herbs. 

“Oh?” 

“It’s for the best I guess,” Kento reassures. “He should be happy with whoever-the-fuck he chooses.” 

“You deserve happiness too, Kento.” 

“You can be happy for the both of us,” he replies, gulping down a drink. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. I’m meeting my lawyer for dinner.” 

“When are you going to visit us next?” 

“Probably around November, December. I just need a few things to ease up on my end-” 

You bite your bottom lip, “I look forward to it.” 

“Take care, love” 

“You too, Ken.” 

You hang up the phone and lean your head against the cupboard as you watch Suguru rinse his hand, a trail of crimson spiraling down the faucet.  

“I cut my finger” 

You pick up a clean towel by your side, and gesture him towards you. 

Suguru extends his thumb out, and you curl the fabric over to keep pressure on the small cut. 

“You ought to be careful” 

“Your legs are a distraction,” 

You stare up at him playfully, and he leans down to kiss the corner of your lips. 

“How’s Nanami?” 

Your lover is indebted to your friend. If it wasn’t for Nanami, the two of you wouldn’t have been able to set up this comfortably. He’s the one who found you the humble two-story abode in Hokkaido, and was also the person who set up your personal bank accounts while ensuring that you would both have a safe and quick getaway on the night of your almost-wedding. 

“Fine, I think-” you reply, before removing the towel to check the damage. Thankfully, it wasn't anything serious. A little deeper than a paper cut.“Licking his wounds over a broken heart, but fine.” 

Suguru reaches for the drawer next to you, and pulls out the emergency band aids. You reach for the box in his hand, taking out one and removing the plaster from the back. You secure it around his cut, and Suguru holds your fingers between his. 

He arches down to kiss your brow. “Thank you, sweetheart.” 

“You’re welcome, handsome” 

“Dinner will be ready in a few if you want to set the table” 

You nod your head in acknowledgement, and drop down onto the ground before proceeding with your task.

You set the place mats down, a bowl for the soup and another for the rice and cooked vegetables. Your finger traces the rim of the one in front of your seat, a tiny chip from when you accidentally dropped it in the sink while cleaning it a few weeks ago. 

Fragments of these blemishes are all around you - making you almost forget that you once lived in a perfect, curated bubble. But you would take these flaws over everything else. These markings may be worn, but they are a reminder of the home you've been building.

A home that is entirely yours. 

“Baby, you want a drink?” Suguru calls from the kitchen. 

“Melon soda, please” you reply, placing the bowl down. 

“We’re out, I’ve got to pick some up tomorrow.” 

“What are you having?” 

“A beer,” he chuckles, and it sends a tremor of joy between the valves of your heart. 

“I’ll share yours” 

Suguru pulls out the bottle, cracking the cap off as he pops it using the side of the kitchen counter to do so. 

You two meet each other halfway in the space that you've been nesting in. Suguru’s eyes never leave yours when he takes the first sip, and once done he passes the chilled bottle towards you.

“Am I ever going to have you back in the kitchen helping me with dinner?” 

You shake your head no, and bite at the lip of the bottle before taking a sip. “I thought we agreed I was a hazard after the raw chicken fiasco and the almost-fire debacle…” 

He laughs, “no, you agreed. I said it wasn’t a big deal” 

“You just said that because you love me,” you respond, pressing the bottle into his chest as he takes it from your hand. 

“That goes without saying…” he answers, slinging his arm around your waist and pulling you into his frame. 

You lift yourself up on your toes, and kiss his nose. 

“Do you think it’s worth the risk of me attempting to cook for you again?” You whisper against his lips. 

Suguru smiles, a hand cupping your cheek as he leans forward to seal his reply with a  kiss. 

“I think it’s worth the try” 

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

tag list: @rottiens @an-ever-angry-bi @mononijikayu @brownskinnedgirll

[luveline]

oh my god Jade I love coworker James!!! can we please see Remus and Sirius actually catching them !:)))

thank you for requesting! fem, 1.3k

James Potter is eating his lunch in peace when you find him in the staff kitchen. It was nice to eat in silence —he won’t get any of that now. 

“Hi, lovely,” he says. 

“Stop,” you say instantly, pulling the fridge door open to extract your lunch. James watches the curve of your shoulder, your arm, even your leg as you bend to grab your Tupperware before straightening out. 

“What are you having?” 

“Can’t we eat in mutual, agreeable silence?” you ask. 

James thinks about it, but when you’re around he can’t seem to keep his mouth shut. “No, maybe tomorrow, though.” 

“Brilliant.” 

You sit down —in the chair next to his, he’d like to point out, and not the one opposite— and open your Tupperware. You have a salad with what looks like diced tofu, grilled and honeyed, salt and pepper cracked over dressed leaves of kale and lettuce. 

“That looks good.” 

“You’re so healthy, I thought I’d outdo you,” you say, popping your foldable fork from the Tupperware lid. 

“You’ve managed it.” James is eating chicken katsu in wraps with a chilli sauce, lettuce, and finely sliced tomato. For his afters, he has three bags of crisps and a tangerine he’s going to share with you, two slices to one.

For a little bit, you both chew and say nothing. After a few minutes he reaches under the table to hold your thigh. A few minutes more and you’re letting your leg fall against him, smiling around bites of salad. 

“Do you wanna come over tonight?” he asks. 

“Maybe you should come to mine?” you ask, a shade of timid. “I know you’ve never been, it’s not nice as yours is, but at least Sirius won’t walk in on us.” 

James wonders if that means what he thinks it does, or if you’re just sick of being kissed and then shot away from. If it means the first thing, he really needs to ask if you want to be his girlfriend. Like, today. He’s worried you’re gonna say no, but he doesn’t want you thinking that intimacy from him is casual, because it really won’t be. 

“We can get dinner first?” he suggests, feeling along your knee gently. 

“Where do you want to go?” 

“Where do you want to, pretty girl?” 

You shift ever so slightly in your chair. “I don’t know. Where’s somewhere nice? Or do you want casual, like, the Chinese buffet by the cinema? It’s quite nice in there.” 

“I wanna go wherever you fancy,” he says. He’s flirting, or not flirting but affectionate, his voice velveteen as he ducks his head. He wants to find your hand and kiss it. He loves kissing the tips of your fingers, but it’s a sure fire way to get you to lean away from him. He knows you like it, evidenced by your smile, and by your willingness to give him your hand again the next time. “Do you think we can just–” he shouldn’t ask here, should he? He does it anyhow. “I want it to be a date. Like, a proper, actual date we own up to.” 

“Like we tell everyone we went?” 

“Not right now, not if you don’t want to. Just between us then. It’s a real date.” 

Something moves in your neck. You bite your lip but let it fall back into place as you say, “Yeah, okay. A real date.” 

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Yeah, okay,” you repeat. “I’d really like to.” 

“You would?” he asks softly. 

You turn in your seat to check the door, before leaning into his lap, and pressing a quick, careful kiss to lips, just a little to the side and up, your mouth aligned to the corner of his and the skin beneath his nose. 

“So, somewhere nice, then,” you say as you sit in your seat properly. 

James hooks his ankle behind the leg of your chair and drags you as close as he can possibly get you without yanking you into his lap. “I genuinely don’t care where we go, I just wanna go with you.” He gestures for you to come back, his hand rising to your shoulder. “I could kiss you stupid right here, I hope you know.” 

“That’s not funny,” you say, laughing despite yourself. 

He wasn’t making a joke, but he supposes he’s coming on strong. “I could, but I won’t. I’m too nice and you probably taste like kale anyways, which would be a punishment for me I don’t deserve.”

“Not the most flavourful vegetable, is it?” 

He laughs softly against your lips. One second he’s not going to kiss you here, and the next it’s as though his body decided all on its own. He smiles too much to kiss you properly, but a kiss is a kiss. Kissing you is like electric and fireworks, and honey and sugar, and all manner of cliche things. It’s like a long day ending. It’s like your heart and his are the same, for just those few seconds together. 

“You don’t taste so bad,” he murmurs. 

“You could’ve let me have a drink first.” 

“Where’s the fun in that? Come on, kiss me again.” 

“No, no, ‘cos I don’t like that spicy sauce you put on your wraps and–”

He laughs again, you’re laughing just as loudly, tipping your head to the side as he wades in from the other. 

The kitchen door opens with a whack. You spring apart from one another guiltily, too little too late as the man in the door makes his shock known. 

“Where you just–” Sirius grins like a Cheshire Cat. “You were kissing! I knew it! I can’t–”

“Well you didn’t know it, did you?” Remus asks, giving Sirius a dirty look. “I’ve only tried to tell you ten times that I think there’s something going on with them, they’ve been holding hands. But no, Sirius Black knows everything about James Potter, like I didn’t grow up with you both too.” Remus gives his boyfriend a good glower and makes his way to the fridge.

You immediately fluster, bringing a hand to your eyes as though that might undo what’s been done. 

“We weren’t kissing,” James says. 

“No, then what were you doing, James?” Sirius asks. 

“She was checking my teeth for sesame seeds?” 

“With her tongue,” Sirius says smugly. 

“Sirius, don’t.” Remus pulls his vitamin water from the fridge and remembers himself. “Sorry, Y/N. I’m not trying to embarrass you, and neither is Sirius.” 

“Well, she has nothing to be embarrassed about,” James says, laying his hand on your arm. 

“We really weren’t kissing,” you insist. Then, sighing in defeat. “If anything, James was kissing me and I was letting him.” 

“Yes, because you so often just let me do things to you,” he says, stroking the crook of your elbow with his thumb.

“I knew it,” Sirius says happily, smirking like a fiend as Remus forces the vitamin water into his arms. 

“You did not.” 

“I was just trying to throw you off of the scent, Moony.” 

James meets your eyes, still wide with surprise. “I’m sorry. Uh… They won’t tell?” 

You tip your head. “Someone would’ve found out eventually, right?” 

Right? As in, we would’ve kept going, we’re going to keep dating, and eventually more than that? James will have to buy you a very big bouquet of flowers tonight, lest you not believe him. 

“I’m afraid so. At least that’s out of the way,” he says. 

You bring his hand to your chin. You don’t kiss it, but the action alone has butterflies like hornets bouncing around his stomach. Massive bouquet, he thinks. 

—

more coworker James