#first are again an attempt to match the show style

[jamiepaige]

Constant Companions Closeup #2: NOT QUITE THERE

(also on spotify!)

b-b-back once again

Round two of the Constant Companions Closeups - a series of in-depth dives into the songs off of my latest album, Constant Companions! Yesterday was track one, Dyad - today is track two, Not Quite There, featuring the incomparable telebasher!

This one's a bit of a dark horse relative to the rest of the album, but it may very well be my personal favorite song on the entire thing so dammit let's Yap

---

For the uninitiated, this song pulls heavily from a song off my previous album called Gummyworm, both in vibe and by very directly quoting its synth motif.

Both of these songs deal with two sides of the same emotional coin. I actually don't want to go into too much detail about it - I feel like the lyrics spell things out clearly enough - but I will say this:

When it's all you know, it's easy to believe that a love that isolates you, a love that doesn't respect you, a love that hurts is better than no love at all.

You deserve better. There are always people who genuinely want what's best for you, who want you to feel truly loved. It certainly isn't always easy - it's genuinely good if your interpersonal relationships have a little friction sometimes - but love should make your life brighter.

You deserve a love that's fair.

---

The original version of this song was actually intended to be on Bittersweet alongside Gummyworm. The original concept for that album had a whole heady concept involving duality, songs reflecting each other, the two halves basically being reprisals of each other... Ultimately, I'm glad I scrapped that idea, because it was waaaaaay too much for me to manage after a couple years of barely making music. Maybe I'll revisit it someday though?

The drums on this song are sampled from an Instagram post by Louis Cole, where he's doing this crazy one-handed hi-hat blast by holding a drumstick sideways. I'm a drummer and that shit genuinely scares me a little like i dont know how he does half the things he does its fucked BUT. I bring this up because he's one of my biggest inspirations as a musician! I'm really big on jazz in general, in case my love for spicy chords wasn't enough of an indication, but his specific brand of freaky hyperactive bullshit just does it for me.

Seriously, go watch his band KNOWER play their song Overtime. Absolutely insane performances across the board. also Clown Core

This whole song is really just my attempt at matching some of that hectic jazzy energy with my own style of music, so I figured it only made sense to make it another collab with another musician making delightfully frantic jazz bullshit - the legend herself, telebasher! I really am such a massive fan of her work, and I struggle to think of anyone who plays guitar quite like she does. We previously worked together on another Bittersweet track, Asemic Speech, and her guitar work is a major reason why that song is still one of my favorite I've ever released!! She's just built different like listen to this oh my god!!!!

Lastly, since this song was one of the first written for this entire project... it is admittedly a case of me shoehorning the album's leitmotif in after the fact. It's a little forced when it shows up in the backing vocals! But, the choir of vocal synths during the guitar solo served an additional purpose - my own voice doesn't show up on the album again for another four entire songs, and this would've otherwise been the only song on the entire album that didn't feature any vocal synths. Thus did I attempt to bridge the gap, as it were. Hopefully it makes the final product feel more natural!!

Either way, that's all for today's post.... i think.... which means that tomorrow.... we're gonna rot.... for clout

[ilonacho]

Sash n Boo feat. my adult designs updated💕

[rizsu]

megumi's a "whatever," boyfriend. not in the sense that he has an attitude, but in the sense of agreement to your actions. you want him to buy you that korean corndog? sure, whatever. you want to match keychains with him? not quite his style, but it's whatever.

megumi's also an "i don't know," boyfriend. he never knows. he lives by the saying that ignorance is bliss, and it constantly leaves him in a state of confusion. he doesn't know how he got to the nail salon, but apparently he's found himself attempting to decide which colour's best.

"megumi, should i get this one or that one for my nails?"

"i don't know. they both look like the same colour," he repsonds, bursting his brain to find the difference.

"it is, honestly, but the shade is different."

"the first one then," he opts for the first choice, still having no idea what the difference is.

one more thing about megumi: he's a "my girl," type of man. believe it or not, he addresses you as "my girl" when you're not around. such behaviour leaves itadori and nobara in shock. the most endearing name of affection they've received from megumi bordered "idiot," or his favourite, "stupid." it's no wonder why they thought he had no capacity to be romantic.

"why are you so down in the slumps?" nobara questions, rounding the corner with itadori who's holding all her bags.

itadori joins in on the questioning, "yeah, you look like you found out spiderman isn't real."

in unison, nobara and megumi sigh heavily. it's only itadori who'd be sad at the fact that superheroes are fictional.

megumi slouches, resting his head on his knees. it bothers the other two that their friend isn't his usual self today.

"seriously, meg, are you okay?" nobara's voice softens to show her genuine concern. it doesn't last long, however. softness doesn't last long when you have the kind of friend who finishes every snack as soon as it's been bought.

"itadori yuuji, put that snack right back where you found it."

"my bad," he apologises, doing as nobara said.

the attention turns back to megumi. his aura radiates sadness — something that neither of the three knows how to deal with. well, it's better to say it than to dwell on it.

"my—" megumi stops himself, sighing at the mere thought, "my girl's mad at me and i don't know why."

"oh," the duo shares a response.

"uh, well, what did you do?" itadori asks, drumming his fingers awkwardly against his thigh.

"i don't know," the sad boy replies.

"do you ever know anything, fushiguro?" nobara pipes in. how are they supposed to help him when he himself has no idea?

megumi sighs heavily again, nobara's words hit him where it hurts the most, "you sound just like her."

"there's no saving him," itadori whispers to nobara.

"you're right. we should call her to deal with this," nobara whispers back, nodding with itadori as she secretly sends you a text.

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹。these traces of love, they outline you | gojo satoru

wc: 12.9k

summary: the 5 times gojo’s sure you’ve changed his life + the 1 time he hopes to change yours. 

contains: f!reader, pronoun she, 18+ nsfw (not super explicit but the act is there), symptoms similar to synesthesia, reader’s cursed technique, sparring, drunk call, pet names (cutie, silly, pretty, baby, loml), nervous feelings, tummy ache, food descriptions, surprise appearance of one character, emotional tears!!, internal thoughts and insecurities.

a/n: primarily in gojo's pov! & best read if you’ve gone through the other parts in the series! (lots of callbacks and references + better context!), lots of songs as inspo (would gladly share if you’re curious!), will add descriptions for the food in the a/n at the bottom!, from conceptualisation to actual writing this piece is my baby!!

collection masterlist: conversations on love +04b (extra). if you're ready (let me) <- you are here

MINORS PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT.

Gojo thinks he might pass out. 

There’s a feeling of unease sitting deep in his gut, nervous and gurgling. His hands have always been restless and fidgety but never this sweaty, and his head feels like it’s floating—even more than that first time he attempted a 24-hour stint on keeping up Infinity. 

It’s eerily quiet in his office as he waits for your meeting to end, the white colon on his digital clock taunting him as it flicks on and off—16:27. 3 more minutes until you finish. 

He paces around the room. 

Attempts at any distraction are thwarted when everywhere he looks, he’s reminded of you. There’s a photo hanging by the door, the mix-and-match of couch cushions in varying hues—all souvenirs you’ve given him from places you’ve been to. The coffee table books hold your touch too, and as he runs his hand over his face. he’s hit with that signature scent, clean and subtle from the hand cream you use.

Waiting in his office today has been absolute torture, but what’s made it more excruciating is the fact that he knows you’re aware of absolutely nothing.

To you, this is just like every other Friday. 

You’d done your usual morning routine, kissed him on the nose with the promise to meet him in his office after work, as you always do. And it feels like a big joke when he thinks about it now, because while he’s been on edge this entire day about it, you really have no clue what’s coming. 

To him, this could change everything with you. 

He’s been feeling it for a while now, the ripple effect of loving and being loved by you—how he can recall every time a single drop of you has shifted something deep within him, marked and colored you. 

There’s not a lot that Gojo wants now that he feels like he truly has it all, but when he thinks about all the times he’s sure you’ve changed his life, he hopes that with this one thing, he can change yours. 

.

.

.

1 — UNDER YOUR TOUCH, WHEN IT GETS TOO MUCH

The weather today is good—sunlight peeking behind cloud pillows and the occasional gust of wind passing through the space you’ve put between you and Gojo. It’s neither too humid nor too dry and though Gojo does get the occasional sniffle from his pollen allergies around this time, he'd woken up earlier completely fine. 

So, the weather today is good, perfect even, for a brush-up on sparring practice. 

You’ve kept a sizable distance away from him since it started, and every attempt he’s made to draw nearer, you’ve only moved away farther—a push-and-pull, an old dynamic that shows itself in the ways you engage in battle.  

Gojo’s hands stay tucked in his pockets, his stance one you know perfectly well as relaxed but still guarded. He’s gotten a lot bulkier than the days you used to spar often, the past few years having filled in all the areas of what used to be slim, lean muscle. He doesn’t move because he knows the style you fight with, how you stay on defense until your opponent charges, utilizing their own strength against them. 

It’s the only way you’ve managed to win against someone as deadly as Gojo, equal-parts lethal in speed and strength. 

So when a cluster of clouds passes by and the sun glares directly into your eyes, Gojo smirks, then bends his knees as he lunges for an attack.

Your senses are sharp and reflexes quick; in the split second that a white-and-black blur appears before you, you attempt a high kick, only for it to be blocked with his forearm. He uses his other hand to twist around your ankle, trying to flip you over, but you see right through his motives. You huff, furrowing your brows as you narrowly escape, slipping your ankle out before he can fully grab a hold of it.

Most of this practice has felt like a stalemate, with the both of you waiting on the other for the most part of the hour. Gojo can see how it’s wearing you down, this entire thing being dragged out, and if he’s being honest—this is exactly what he wants.

Sparring out here with you today, while still meant for actual training, is also just an excuse to do this for old time’s sake—the way you huff and frown, jaw clenched as your fists ball up tightly like you’re doing right now.

He kind of misses seeing you like this, impatient and frustrated, so unlike the tenderness you always regard him with. 

A smile threatens to form on his lips, and he bites it back down. 

You only ever get like this sparring against him. 

The tension breaks when you decidedly throw a punch; it’s a desperate attempt to get the fight moving but he ducks, arm securing itself around your waist as he locks your hip with his. Before you can even comprehend, your body is lifted across his back and lowered down to the grass below—the only thing in sight being two blue skies, beaming at you. 

Somewhere during the commotion, he managed to remove his blindfold, hair let loose, fluffy and white almost like the clouds above you. Gojo isn’t taking this seriously at all; he’s way too soft, having cushioned your fall by carrying most of your weight instead of throwing you down like anyone seriously sparring is supposed to. 

He doesn’t care though. All he really wanted this afternoon was to reminisce with you. 

You’re kept underneath him, one of his arms remains wrapped around your waist while the other cradles the back of your head—and it’s there, that frown on your face, that pout he’s witnessed for years evolve into what it is now. Beads of sweat collect at the crease between your brows, your temples tensing as you breathe out. 

Gojo at 17 would have teased you relentlessly for this, but he feels different now, warmth settling in his chest as he stares; he can’t help it, the words coming out of his mouth—

“You’re so—”

But he doesn’t even get to finish.

Everything around him blurs, green and blue blending in motion before he finds himself on his back, completely flipped over. He’s met with the sight of you, smug smile pulled wide with your hands resting on his chest. And his heart—

Can you feel it under your fingertips? How it’s beating a mile a minute? 

A shiver runs down his spine, the pinpricks of grass tickling the nape of his neck. The shock is tingling, his eyes fully open as he processes what just occurred. 

In the lapse of time he’d been a little too preoccupied staring at you, you managed to inch your leg to wrap around his, locking it at the last minute to flip him over—it lands you where you are now, on his lap, straddling his hips. 

“Sneaky,” he gazes fondly, grin teasing.

You catch your breath, “Do I win?” 

“Only because I let you get too close this time.”

Which is a lie, he knows, because having you near him like this, with some form of touching—you could never be close enough.

You roll your eyes, his fingers grabbing hold of your thighs. The grass pricks at your knees through the fabric of your leggings, and Gojo knows that if you stay like this any longer, it’s going to start to itch.

“Did I hurt you anywhere?” you ask, already assessing him for any point of injury. Your eyes go over his face before trailing down his arms, rarely exposed today in his black compression shirt.

“Yeah,” he pouts, pointing to his lips, all pink and puckered out, “kiss it better?” 

Asking for this is against his better judgment, he’s aware; with the way you’re situated on his lap, this could escalate into something else entirely. You shake your head, swatting at his chest. His grip on your thighs loosens as you get off him, but the curl of your lips is extremely telling. 

As you stand up to dust your knees, Gojo gazes at you fondly. The sun hides behind you from where you tower over him, but the halo effect around your head is just as blinding. 

“Lie down with me,” he pats the space beside him. You quirk your brow but follow anyway. 

He requests, not asks, because the weather today is good, and it’s making him a little bit sentimental, remembering earlier days with you. 

You lie down, positioning your head to align with his. And for a few moments, Gojo doesn’t speak, just looks at you once and smiles before turning to face the sky, hand placed behind his head as he sighs. 

You do the same for a while, this shared silence warm and just right. 

“So rude,” he jokingly tuts, “interrupting me while I was talking earlier…” 

“You shouldn’t have been so distracted then,” you tease back, sneaking a glance only to lock eyes with two skies. 

He wonders if you can tell—how he’s always looking at you in the stolen seconds before you notice him. 

“Well, you shouldn't have been so distracting then,” he holds your gaze. 

It’s incredibly cheesy but a part of you still feels like melting—he sounds so sincere; no lilt, no tease, no Gojo-typical flirting laced into it. 

You scrunch your nose, shifting on your side to face him, the arm used to support your head now resting against your cheek. He follows, taking one last look around him before turning to you. His other hand rests on your hip, fingers splayed out while his thumb draws hearts on fabric. 

You reach for him. 

The gesture is small, just your finger running across his cheek, but it nudges something in him—a memory of you and how you’ve always touched him like this: softly, kindly. 

“Remember when you used to do this?” he takes your hand, long and lithe fingers wrapping around yours as he guides them over his ear. 

Your eyes widen in recognition and he blinks, taking you in as he stares, “Wanna do it now?”

Concern reveals itself in the furrow of your brows, “Is it hurt—”

“No,” he chuckles, already knowing what you’re about to say.

The last time you did this for him, he didn’t even have to ask. One look and you knew—it’d been the night of his final conversation with Suguru. His skull-splitting migraine ensued after bickering with Shoko on what to do with the body. You were there; you heard everything, and when she gave up arguing and left, there was only one thing you could do. 

With his head on your lap by his office couch, you tuned out the sounds. 

He doesn’t prefer you using your cursed technique this way; it takes a considerable amount of your cursed energy to focus its effects solely on another body—and frankly, it’s a waste of time for you to spend all of that on him, at least in his opinion, personally. 

You’d struggled a lot with your technique back in high school, having to learn how to fully manipulate different sonic hues: white noise, brown noise, any and all of it in the entire spectrum. Being able to amplify, distort, reduce, and isolate them into their respective hues covers only the bare minimum when it comes to understanding your technique.

It’s tedious work, and when one of your senses holds so much more power over the others, the information that flows through it can be overwhelming, overloaded even. Sorting through all that noise—he gets it, gets you, and how it must hurt too. 

And yet you, at 17, still figuring out how to grasp it all, came knocking on his door when you noticed he hadn’t come for dinner. Quietly, you placed your hands over his ears and selflessly offered your discomfort for his relief. 

The first time you did this for him, you’d only heard of his migraines from Shoko. You witnessed it yourself when he opened his door and looked so unlike himself: blindfold secured tightly but haphazardly, strands of hair sticking out oddly; his room seemed to be blacked out completely. 

Gojo Satoru is no stranger to sensations beyond what any human should be subjected to, but when you laid your hands on him that day, cursed energy tickling his ears as it flowed through your fingertips—he’d never felt more normal, more human to be able to hear things without conjuring a visual of it. 

It’s almost like you silenced his mind—enough to hear himself, and you, and the buzz of the white noise you’d amplified to flow through him in his blacked out room. 

You’ve gotten a lot better at controlling it now, the task in itself barely causing you any ache or struggle at all. 

“Just like old times,” he nudges you. 

So you keep your hand where he’s left it, covering his ear with your palm as your fingers rest on his temples. Cursed energy flows from your touch, all sounds drowning out. 

He keeps his eyes on yours, watching as your expression shifts with every sonic hue you focus on—an upgrade to your abilities the more you’d gotten the hang of it. 

You concentrate hard for white noise, creating your own mix to emulate radio static, transitioning out to green noise the moment you highlight the sound of birds chirping. Then, you ease it to brown noise, intensifying the soft whistles of the wind to mimic it. 

It’s weird how sentimental he’s been feeling lately—without any trigger or anything, but the more he leans into your palm, the more it gets him thinking. 

Touch had begun as extremely foreign to him—a god revered and valued but never really truly loved, untouchable with infinity, and the pedestal he’s always stood on. 

It was never supposed to be important to him. 

Until you. 

From your kindness that first day, and the many more that followed: of fingers brushing and hand-holding to breaths mingling and bodies moulding, moving—you’ve always touched him in ways no one else has, in places no one’s been able to reach. 

And if it wasn’t important then, completely foreign, it’s important now, so much that he looks for it everywhere, all the time, even. The way you scratch the short bristles of his undercut, fingers dragging down to the nape of his neck; the way you tap his collarbone thrice, run your fingers across his lip, and intertwine your fingers with his at random. 

When Gojo thinks about your touch, he thinks about how gentle it is, with intent and purpose. How it’s always been careful for him but never of him, and that’s made the biggest difference. 

He blinks, and you follow two times, focusing on him. 

All he hears is a heartbeat now, a little too fast to be at rest, but still steady and grounding—

The way he feels when he’s with you. 

Whether it’s his or yours, from your cursed technique or just the blood rushing in his ears, he knows this is pink noise, the one you’d so excitedly shown him when you first mastered it. 

The pink noise that resounded all throughout his twenty-somethings, when he first realized that you meant more to him than what you were. 

.

.

.

2 — WHEN YOU CALL MY NAME

The bed feels cold tonight. 

Gojo’s been staring at the lights on his ceiling for the past 30 minutes, and though his pillow is cool and blanket soft, he’s wide awake—nowhere near falling asleep any time soon. 

He shifts to the side, the space beside him taunting, empty. 

He misses you. 

For the past week, you’ve been off to a much-needed girls trip with Shoko and Utahime. He’d even offered to pay for the entire accommodation—to which you and Utahime declined, while Shoko shrugged, crossing her arms as she snorted, “If he really wants. At least he’s being useful.” 

You’d compromised and agreed that he could pay for an evening out in some nightclub. 

Now, he regrets it. A little bit. Maybe. 

Gojo’s bed is big, a king-size that fits the height of him and all his long limbs, and while it’s comfortable and spacious–supposed good things–he feels anything but comfortable in how spacious and vacant it now feels. 

He turns to the other side, facing his sidetable instead.

The digital clock reads 01:17 and he sighs; you still have a few days left. 

The next time you bring up being away for this long, he’s going with you. Even if he has to spend the entire day on his own, he’ll do it—as long as he gets to end it next to you. 

If he’s really thinking about it, nothing’s stopping him from teleporting there right now. He could hop in quick, give you a hug, hopefully a kiss, and maybe even get lucky if you allow him to steal you for the night. He’ll teleport you right back in the morning and it’ll be like you never left, even. 

He could do it. You can never resist him when he gives you his googly eyes. 

If you’re already back from—

Bzz bzz. His phone vibrates. 

He reaches for it over his night stand, instantly sitting up once he reads that it’s from you—the nickname he just recently changed your contact to. 

(It was always just your name, simple and straightforward, easy to find; when you return, he’s probably going to change it back because you prefer it that way—for safety purposes and everything.

But while he still can, he’s going to keep it like this: a petname with an obnoxious string of emojis that he associates with you.)

1:20 a.m. 

cutie 💞🥺☁️🌸✨

> satoourur are u awaeke??

The corner of his lips curl up, endeared at the image of you hunched over your phone, fingers slipping as you clumsily press the wrong letters. So cute. 

1:21 a.m.

< yes cutie? ( ˘ ³˘) 💕

1:21 a.m. 

cutie 💞🥺☁️🌸✨

> casll?

He stares at it for a good minute or two, trying to decipher this rare, drunken code from you. But before he gets the chance to respond, your face appears on his screen, a photo of you he’d taken months ago, mid-chew special Daifuku.

You’re calling. 

He grins, biting his lower lip. His feet slip inside the house slippers by the side of his bed as he gets up, swiping his phone to answer before holding it against his ear. 

“Miss me already?” he teases, padding out of his bedroom.

“Satoruuu,” you drawl. Definitely drunk, if not tipsy.

Even like this though, Gojo aches when he hears you speak; there’s a twinge that pokes at his ribcage, making him wish he was right next to you.

The music around you sounds muffled, almost as if you’d stepped out just to make this call—another thought that makes him ache.

He walks down the hall towards his kitchen and stops, realizing: if you stepped out of the club, does this mean you’re alone? He trusts you can take care of yourself, but if you’re this inebriated…

“Are you with Shoko and Utahime?” he asks casually, attempting to mask his worry. His hand digs deeper into his pocket, shifting his weight to his other foot. 

“‘Nside,” you slur. 

You don’t actually sound that drunk, more sleepy if anything, really, but his heart still picks up pace. Maybe he should just go to you already. 

“You should go to them,” he urges, continuing his walk to the kitchen. 

“M’be later,” you sigh, and he hears a bit of rustling on your end—a soft curse and a small thud, “w’na talk t’you.” 

Another ache. 

He can picture it: you, in some sidestreet, phone clutched to your ear as you tuck your hair back before sighing, legs buckling as you clumsily drop down to sit. 

“Oh?” he lilts, eyebrow lifting. A smirk forms on his lips, head tilting as he wedges his phone between his neck and shoulder. He reaches for his refrigerator, “Got something to tell me, pretty?”

He doesn’t really know what he’s expecting you to say, maybe a recount of your day, or something funny that he’s bound to laugh at, whatever it is. 

“Just miss you.” 

He wasn’t expecting you to say this—

���in an exhale, with a slight tremble, like it’s been waiting to be let out. Vulnerable. 

There’s another ache, and he nearly drops the water bottle.

He should really just go to you.

His phone nearly slips from his neck, the thump of his heartbeat on rampage as he readjusts it.

He swallows, “I miss you too.” 

And it’s odd, how it sounds when he says it, a bit shaky too. A stillness settles in the room and it echoes off every kitchen equipment and countertop. He can’t even get himself to tease you for this one. 

“I can go there now, if you want,” he offers, almost a whisper, before attempting a chuckle. It comes out flat, tinted a little sad, “Blink twice and I’ll be there when you open your eyes.”

You giggle on the other end, and it fills him in this moment. 

When he looks around his apartment now, steel finish and walls accented black, the backsplash of his kitchen a grayish hue of iron—it reminds him of luxury fit for a bachelor, sleek in its utility. 

He’s lived here since his mid-twenties, and he likes how it’s designed, the colors and feel of it right up his alley. The furniture remains simple, modern and minimalist, filling the spaces of his open floor plan down to the two bedrooms and office space. 

But right now, it feels so empty. 

“Silly,” you chuckle, he can hear your grin forming, affection dripping, “my silly baby.”

Now his heart really aches. 

The subtle static makes you sound unreal, strung together by radio waves; it’s rare enough for you to call him ‘baby’, and for you to say it when he can’t even see or hold you while you do it—it’s cruel; a test of his restraint. 

He rests his back against the kitchen counter, arm coming across his chest to rest under his elbow, supporting the one holding his phone–you–by his ear. His teasing is softer tonight, tinged by yearning, so he hums, “Your silly baby, huh? Any chance it could be your silly ‘Toru instead?” 

The way he says ‘‘Toru’ is a pitch lower, slower, and exaggeratingly more seductive in his banter; it’s what you call him in bed, or by accident, and in the moments you find yourself needing him in ways he can only satisfy by being your lover. 

If you say it, he’s definitely going to teleport himself over. 

You giggle again. 

“S’that your fav’rite one?” you mumble, words blending together. He can imagine your cheek smushed against your knee, arms curled around your legs as you sit on concrete, “‘‘Toru?’” 

When he thinks about it, you aren’t too big on his nicknames—at least, not as much as he is with you. You only call him three things: baby (which truthfully, he had to convince you to), ‘Toru (first whispered in the moment, heat fueling it), and Satoru (since you were 16, weighted and grounding throughout all the years you’ve known him). 

Is ‘‘Toru’ his favorite? 

For obvious reasons, maybe.

But—

“I like everything you call me,” he smirks, shifting his weight. 

“Sweet-talker.” 

He closes his eyes, head tilting back as he leans further—and he swears, he can see you, the image of you rolling your eyes and scrunching your nose seared into his eyelids. 

God damn, he really misses you.

“You love it,” he murmurs.

A beat. He hears the faint honk of a car before you drown it out, sighing. 

“I do,” you whisper, admission ringing in his ears, “I love you, Satoru.” 

He hears this all the time, but tonight it just aches; the way you say things so sincerely, so honestly even in an inebriated state—how you call him Satoru and it’s still weighted, still grounding, like who he is resides right there, in the softness of your lips. 

Gojo’s always been relevant but when you call him Satoru, he feels more than just the name.

If you’re asking about his favorite, he thinks this might be it—in every handwritten note you leave, his name scrawled in your hybrid of semi-print-semi-cursive letters; in every call you pick up, opening always with a ‘Satoru?’, end pitched higher, sweet and curious. 

“C’n I tell you somethin’?” you ask (even when you don’t need to, even when he’s already listening). 

“Let me guess, Utahime has a travel ick and Shoko—”

“Satoru,” you scold, rolling your eyes, but there’s no bite. The next bit you say under your breath, a little fragile, “‘M serious.”

The nervousness sits in his stomach; this conversation feels significant.

He takes a seat on his barstool. 

“Listening.” 

For a while, it’s only your breathing; knowing you, you’re probably thinking, crafting what to say carefully. 

You sigh again, and—

“I worry sometimes,” you admit.

He furrows his brows, “About?”

“That maybe bein’ with me’s a lil’ boring?”

And this… this aches in a different way. 

How can you even think that? 

You chuckle anxiously; he can bet you’re biting your lips, a habit you’ve picked up from him. 

He rests an elbow on his kitchen island, leaning onto it as he tilts his phone closer to his ear. 

“Apologize right now,” he commands, sternness making him feel a little guilty, “that’s the person I love you’re slandering.” 

But you only laugh, real and more relaxed, nervousness dissipating. 

“My bad, my bad,” you play along before mumbling, “‘m just sayin’, there’re lotsa others who are more everythin’ y’know?” 

He wonders what’s got you thinking like this, if it’s triggered by seeing people at the club, perhaps younger and far livelier—how you spent those years of your life exorcizing curses and making a home for two kids. 

“So what? They’re still not you.”

And he means it, genuinely.

Your breath hitches and he grins, swinging around on the bar stool. 

Those years of youth were still fun, he thinks, and it’s precisely because of you—how you’d made the apartment the four of you stayed in as fun and homely as a teen barely pushing twenty could.

You had your fair share of mishaps and adventures—rushed breakfasts and Megumi’s 'my dog ate my homework's. Tsumiki had to miss a day of school once because you accidentally booked her a birthday trip to Disneyland on a weekday. 

(And he got scolded a lot, ‘Satoru’ exhaled with a look. But it would only last a few moments; you can never stay mad at him, no matter how hard you try). 

There was no way you and Gojo had the maturity and responsibility of actual parents (maybe more like inexperienced guardians, really), but you tried your hardest to give Megumi and Tsumiki a home. 

Home, what he’s beginning to realize reminds him of you.

He looks around him now, at the details of his interior, and begins to think of yours—your apartment, a little more wooden and lived-in; there’s a lot more wear but also a lot more love, never empty like his feels right now. 

“If being with you was so boring, I wouldn’t be itching to go to you right now,” he confesses, fiddling with the string of his sweatpants. 

You laugh again before it falls into comfortable silence. 

Muffled conversations and the occasional beep sound in your background. There’s a couple giggling around you and he thinks that could be the two of you—if only he were with you. 

“Satoru,” you call him softly. 

He hums, letting it sink in—the way you say his name, distinct in how you stress his consonants despite the softness around his vowels.

When you say ‘Satoru’, it always feels targeted, speaking straight to who he is. 

“‘M so happy it’s you,” you whisper shyly, but it’s bright—unmistakably smiling, the visual of your eyes crinkling. 

He doesn’t know what’s gotten into you tonight, drunken affection and vulnerable confessions, but there’s that ache again, and all he wants to do is go to you, hold you. Be with you. 

For a while, Gojo’s been resigned to the fact that there are some things he can’t give you: how you’ll never know true peace because he’ll always be linked to jujutsu society; how choosing him means choosing the tumultuous, the unpredictable. 

And while you’ve already told him that you prefer this life with him better, for you to say you’re happy, that it’s him—

He’s thankful it’s you, too. 

Tears collect at his lash line, pools of gratitude, “I love you.”

“Hmm? you’re coverin’ the mic w’your double-chin,” you joke, just to hear him say it again, he knows. 

(There’s no way he has a double-chin from how you complain about his jawline being too sharp all the time). 

“I love you,” he repeats, louder, steadier, pressing it into his phone’s microphone. 

He’ll repeat it again as many times as you want him to. 

You giggle and he echoes it—like that couple from earlier, your own version. 

The clock reads 02:47, and he normally doesn’t like being up this late, barely getting enough sleep as is. But if you’re the reason why, he doesn’t mind staying awake.  

.

.

.

3 — TUCKED IN BED, WHEN I LIE CORRECTED

“Satoru, you can’t keep eating sweets on an empty stomach.”

He turns beside you, the dull rumbling of the Shinkansen hardly masking how loudly he asks, “Why not?” 

An old man seated across the aisle looks your way, grumpy by the folds between his brows—as if he’d been woken up by Gojo’s whining. You bow your head slightly in apology. 

It’s been an early day so far, with you and Gojo catching the first train out from Kyoto to Tokyo. Departing at 06:14 doesn’t exactly leave room for food stops, so all you have are the two water bottles handed out from yesterday’s meeting and a pack of (now) half-eaten Hi-Chew that Gojo picked up from the convenience store last night. 

“You’ll get a stomach ache,” you whisper, with emphasis. 

He fiddles with the stick of Hi-Chew, tossing it between his fingers before popping one piece out. 

The seats in the Shinkansen are spacious enough for Gojo to stretch his long, gangly legs, but despite all the free room in your row, he’s chosen to encroach on your space, sticking to you shoulder-to-shoulder. 

“Nonsense,” he tilts his face, sunglasses sliding a few centimeters down the bridge of his nose, “I do this all the time.” 

And his eye, clear and bright blue amidst the morning haze zipping past the windows of the train, winks at you. 

Heat warms your cheeks; it’s too early for this. 

The moment you look away, hiding your smile, he knows he’s got you. 

. 

Or not. 

Because you seem to have gotten him—

—tucked in bed, nursing this stomach ache that could have been avoided if he just listened. 

To be fair, he does do it all the time: a few candies, sometimes gummies first thing in the morning, last thing at night. So he’s right, it’s nonsense; he probably got this from something else. 

(Even when you’d both eaten the same meals—how you always order to share because you like tasting a little bit of everything). 

Which is why, you insist it’s from the sweets, his beloved Hi-Chew to be specific. And though he wants to, he can’t argue much when he’s curled into a fetal position, clutching his stomach while writhing in bed. 

“I made you tea,” you stand by your bedside, holding out your mug—small cereals patterned all over it. 

He opens an eye, hair mussed up from all his squirming. The pain in his stomach is radiating, a knot that tightens in waves; this is different from the twist-y pop-y sparks of jealousy, and is nothing compared to the sting of multiple slashes. 

Still, it’s a pain he doesn’t understand: a mixture of feeling gassy and bloated, like he needs to run to the toilet only for it to turn out futile. What makes it worse is that when he catches a glimpse of you, a lock of hair perfectly out of place, the sensation in his stomach intensifies—like butterflies flapping (or maybe just another wave of radiating pain). 

“S’hot,” he grumbles, half of his face mushed into the pillow.

The mug in your hand is piping hot, steam lifting from it, and Gojo doesn’t like drinking hot things; he’s burnt his tongue enough times on hot chocolate that he swears any hot liquid is out to get him.

But you don’t know that about him—he’s never told you, he thinks. 

You take a seat on the edge of the bed. 

“That’s kind of the point, baby,” you chuckle, tone doting with a hint of pity, “It has to be.” 

Your hand rests on his thigh, attempting to soothe him. He catches your eye and whines. 

“If I blow on it, will you drink?” you plead, “Please?”

At this point, he doesn’t know what hurts more: this stupid stomach ache or how nice you’re being. 

You could have said ‘I told you so’ the moment his stomach started gurgling when you both arrived in Tokyo—but you didn’t. Instead, you asked him what exactly he was feeling and had him change into his pajamas as you nursed him to bed. Then, you cooked him real food, a bowl of Okayu for his stomach to digest something plain and non-irritable. 

You haven’t stopped moving since you both got back from Kyoto, unpacking both your things while simultaneously darting in and out of your bedroom, checking in.  

How you speak to him is so gentle, caring, doting—even when you have every right to hold it against him. 

He pushes himself up, leaning back on the headrest. You smile, lovely, and beautiful, and every bit healing that it eases the pain a little, somehow. Your mouth forms an ‘o’ as you blow on his tea, scooting closer.

A gurgling sound comes from his stomach again, but it’s manageable, and he bears it as he takes you in—how you’ve barely had the time to change out of your clothes since this morning. You’re tired, he’s sure, but you don’t mention it as you take care of him. 

The bed dips as you draw nearer, bringing the mug to his lips—he’s a grown man and he can definitely do this on his own, but you always take such good care of him. 

Who is he to say no?  

Sips of peppermint coat his tongue, warm as it eases down his throat. He wraps his fingers around yours, drinking a third of the mug before urging you to set it down. 

“I’ll heat up a hot compress,” you motion to get up, placing the mug by your bedside. 

He stops you, grip loose on your wrist. 

“Have you eaten?” 

You stare at him, a little surprised, but you nod.

“Just stay with me, then. Don’t need that thing.” 

Your brows furrow, pouting, “But it’ll help,” 

“Hug me instead,” his fingers play with yours, intertwining, “or I’ll hug you. Either.” 

You shoot him a look, disbelieving, but he musters up a wink, for you, despite the new wave of pain arising. 

“Okay,” you sigh, knowing you can’t exactly argue. As you get up, you land a kiss on top of his head, rubbing his knuckles as you get ready for bed. 

When you come back, dressed in your pajamas, he’s turned to his side, lifting the comforter to welcome you in. You lie face-to-face with him, his arm reaching out to rest on your lower back, pushing you closer. 

“You sure this is enough?” you whisper, breath tickling his chin. 

“Mm, yeah,” he hums, hugging you tighter as he grins, “you’re hot.” 

You hit his arm lightly, and he chuckles.

It turns quiet, then he shifts, resting his forehead against yours. White strands, as pale as your pillowcases, tickle your eyes. 

He nuzzles your nose, hiking your leg up to rest on his hip while slotting his leg between your thighs—like a pretzel, twisted into each other tight. 

“You’re too good to me.” 

He’s said this before, and no matter how much you say it isn’t true—he’ll always think it, believe it. 

You frown, gripping his waist, “I don’t like seeing you in pain, you know.” 

And he thinks you’ve always been like this: hands outstretched farther than his, offering yourself to help carry whatever pain, struggle, or burden you can. You cry for the sadness others feel, share the hurt of anyone who needs it. You’re the pillar, the support for everyone around you—from Yuuji, Megumi, and Tsumiki all the way back to Utahime, Suguru, and Nanami. 

You’ve always been this way, ever since he met you. 

“Does it still hurt?” you mutter, concerned, fingers grazing his stomach. 

It does and it doesn’t—the pain is unfamiliar but he can take it, having gone through far worse. If he’s being really honest, a part of him just likes being babied by you. 

“Better,” he inches back a little, lips curling into mischief, “would definitely go away with some Hi-Chew.” 

You shoot him a look, then pout. 

“Satoru.” 

He figures there are still a few things you don’t know about him: how he really dislikes hot drinks, how discomfort turns him into a whiney, needy baby, and how he remains incredibly stubborn, maintaining what he stands for (but maybe you know this already). 

“Hey, you should be thanking my Hi-Chew’s. It helps with energy when we fu—” 

You swat at his chest in hopes of shutting him up.

He clears his throat, correcting himself instead, “—make love.” 

This is hardly the time or situation to be talking about the other things you do on your bed, given that he’s been out of commission, curled in on himself the entire day on it. But you sigh, resting your palm on his cheek. 

He turns to peck your wrist, hand coming up to cover yours.

“Just because you were fine doing it before, doesn’t mean you always will be,” you whisper, rubbing your thumb across his cheekbone. 

And Gojo thinks he’s right most of the time, if not all the time, but—

“We’re not old, but we aren’t as young as we used to be, you know? Have to take better care of ourselves now…” you continue.

—when you talk to him like this, you humble him. Immensely. 

He’s always known that if he were to give in to anyone, it’d be to you. 

Things are different now, he knows; his considerations have changed too—like how to lay the foundations of a new, ideal jujutsu society, with all the political and diplomatic gymnastics he knows is necessary; what to do with all this downtime, with all this life and no more death looming overhead; there’s also you, where this relationship is headed, what he plans to do. 

“What will I tell everyone when the love of my life, Gojo Satoru, the strongest, gets knocked out by sweets?” 

Then you joke around like this so casually, kissing his nose and calling him the love of your life like it doesn’t bear commitment that spans your–his–entire lifetime—it shakes him a little. 

He holds his breath, eyes staring at yours. You seem completely unfazed—a slip of the tongue maybe, so he lets it go. 

“Okay, okay,” he pinches your nose as you scrunch it, “I’ll try, but no promises.” 

You kiss his wrist in return—the softness of your lips always turning him a little delirious when he feels it. He pulls you closer to his chest, palm pressed to the back of your head as his other arm wraps around you, squeezing you tighter. 

“But don’t complain if I only last one rou—” 

He gets kicked in the thigh. 

.

.

.

4 — WHEN IT'S YOUR WAY OR DOWN THE DRAIN

There’s the right way, then there’s the Gojo way. 

Sometimes there’s an overlap, but most times he’s just unorthodox. Gojo’s always had his own way of doing things, but now, he’s throwing all that down the drain in lieu of doing things your way (which in this case, he’s decided is the right way). 

Between the two of you, you’re definitely better at cooking. 

He isn’t inept at it per se; all these years, he’s managed to get by. It’s just that, he’s only ever made quick, simple things—barely having the time or need to make things on his own when you seem to have an extra plate on standby.

Long cooks like this, for real, big meals aren’t his forte at all. 

This is the fullest his kitchen has ever been, a trip to the grocery store producing bags overflowing with the ingredients he needs. He tightens his apron (yours, actually) by his waist, pale pink a stark contrast to his black shirt and gray lounge pants. It’s tiny on him, barely fitting, but it covers enough to (hopefully) save him from any mishaps. 

With all the ingredients lined up on his kitchen counter, he stares, hands on hips as he contemplates where to begin. 

You’ve mentioned before how his kitchen is every cook’s dream: complete equipment, all high-grade with steel surfaces for easy wipe downs and more than enough real estate to move around. It’s a shame he’s barely used it over the years, either too busy out on missions or lately, too often staying at yours.

The unease makes him fidgety.

There’s an air of confidence that normally surrounds Gojo in everything he does, but it wavers just a bit with this one. 

He has to get this right. 

It’s your anniversary—the third (officially), but the number doesn’t matter as much when the years have always blurred the lines of what you are to each other. 

The past two celebrations were cute and fun, adventurous in how you’d spent the first one on a trail date up north, and the second one fruit picking in a farm, just west of Tokyo—things you’d both done for the first time, together. Now, there’s added pressure because this is your thing; everything on the menu for tonight’s home cooked dinner is based on your recipes. 

You know all of this by heart. And though he’s aware he doesn’t have to impress you, he wants to. 

He glances at the clock: 15:05 in white, 4 hours until you arrive. The table hasn’t been set up yet and he’s barely dressed, an array of ingredients on the table waiting to be transformed into four of your recipes he plans to attempt. 

Gojo is no quitter, but it’d be stupid of him to underestimate how fast time flies. 

He pulls out his phone, scrolling through his contact list—then he shoots a text, pocketing the device as soon as he hits send.

.

In the amount of time between asking for help and said help standing outside his door, ringing the doorbell, Gojo’s managed to do most of the prepwork: slice all the vegetables, set the rice cooker, and mix together all the sauces and glazes so he can set them aside for later. 

“Just type it!” he shouts from the kitchen.

Four beeps sound from the door, a soft woosh following as it opens. Help enters in the form of spiky hair and a deadpan gaze, putting on house slippers by the genkan as he drags his feet to the kitchen counter. 

“Megumi!” 

The younger boy sighs, tucking his hands into the pockets of his joggers, long sleeves wrinkling higher. “Why did you call me?” 

“Oh!” Gojo claps his hands together, “I need your help.” 

Megumi looks him over, eyes zeroing in on the pink apron, then the bowls of sauces and chopped vegetables in front of him. The rice cooker is steaming beside the sink while empty pots and pans line the burners of the stove. 

“With cooking?” Megumi shifts his attention back to Gojo as the older male nods. He mumbles, “You made it sound like an emergency.”

(“Come here now.” in proper punctuation, lacking any of his usual emoticons—only ever being used in the most dire situations).

Gojo furrows his brows, “It is!” 

Megumi stares. 

“Anniversaries are emergencies,” Gojo stares back, holding the silence for a few seconds before he continues, demeanor turned serious, “Think of it as doing this for your Sensei, not me.” 

There’s a crack in Megumi’s resolve that Gojo knows only appears when it comes to you; a soft spot that exists because you’ve always been closer, warmer—an accumulation of all the times you were adamant on being present because the kids deserved someone there, especially when he couldn’t be. 

Megumi sighs, resigned, as he pushes up his sleeves, trudging over to the sink. He turns on the tap, soaping his hands until it suds, “You should have asked Itadori.”

“Yuuji wouldn’t know how it’s supposed to taste though.” 

“Sensei’s recipes?”

Gojo nods, fanning out pieces of paper from the recipe folder you keep in your kitchen drawer, “Your favorites.”

Megumi scrunches his nose, embarrassed as pink tints the tips of his ears. 

His relationship with Megumi has always been a bit weird, a not-quite-parent-maybe-kind-of-distant-guardian-and-good-but-annoying-mentor-slash-benefactor kind of weird. And he’s sure that the boy isn’t too fond of the idea that he knows small, seemingly trivial things about him like his favorite food, but if there’s anything they can settle on, it’s definitely love for you. 

“Do you have another one?” Megumi turns to Gojo, pointing to the hair band pushing back his hair. 

.

There’s a different kind of care in cooking that he’s now realizing, coming face-to-face with the pot of dashi he’s just started boiling—a patience that comes with waiting and an efficiency meant for multi-tasking.

During the 30 minutes of soaking the kombu, they split tasks: Gojo takes duty rolling the Temaki on his own, while Megumi seasons the Wagyu and prepares the Sunomono. It’s not long before Megumi is directed to setting up the table as Gojo focuses on the Miso Soup. 

There’s a reference photo, some picture he pulled online. The gray plates and silverware on his dining table match the iron-hued backsplash and steel surfaces of his kitchen, sleek but softened by the vase of red and white camellias from the florist you frequent. 

Megumi doesn’t say anything, frankly because he’s gotten used to walking in on Gojo searching up these things: a youtube video of trail dates and articles of ‘the top 10 best farms for fruit picking’. There was also that time he found Gojo’s browser open on a catalog of lingerie.

(Megumi’s been trying really hard to forget that). 

These aren’t things Gojo’s done before, much less thought of—romance and all. 

But he admits, it’s hard work, wiping off the sweat on his brow caused by the heat from the stove. 

“Why,” Megumi sighs, “Why are you cooking anyway?” He mumbles, adjusting the silverware on the table, “Couldn’t you just reserve some place?”

Most of the cook has been silent, with Gojo too focused and Megumi barely saying a word. So while adding the katsuobushi after the kombu boils, the older male answers. 

“I would have, but she said she wanted to stay home,” he turns away from the pot, leaving the katsuobushi to soak as he shrugs. 

Megumi snorts, straightening out the black tablecloth, “Don’t you have anywhere you want to go?” 

It’s a simple question. Innocent. 

But it hits him then, how what you say follows; how ‘anywhere he wants to go’ is wherever you are, how he’s choosing to cook this meal for you instead of just ordering in—how he’s now considering you, in everything.

This isn’t his strong suit, far from it, really, but because he’s thinking of what you want—suddenly he’s domesticated, cooking for you in hopes of romancing you (even though he already has you).   

You come first now, and he finds that he doesn’t mind. 

He turns back to the stove, straining the soup through a fine-mesh sieve before adding miso paste, dissolving it into the dashi.

“I guess not.” 

The thought stays with him, even as he drops in the tofu, dried wakame seaweed, and green onion. Even as he waits for it to finish cooking, moving the pot atop a different burner while grabbing a spoon to dip in it. 

“Megumi, come taste,” he calls behind him. 

And when the boy sidles up next to him, he feels nervous, fingers trembling as he hands over the spoonful of Miso Soup. He stares at Megumi, eyes wide open, anticipating. 

The boy arches an eyebrow as he takes the spoon, blowing on it gently. He takes a small sip.

“I added less salt because—” Gojo speaks up, a bit panicked, fingers scratching at his nail beds. 

“She’ll like anything you make, even if it tastes bad.”

Gojo’s brows furrow, “Are you saying it’s bad?” 

“Or bland,” Megumi adds, smacking his lips. 

“So it’s bland?”

The horror on Gojo’s face is laughable, but Megumi continues, deadpan. 

“No, it’s okay.” 

Gojo sighs in relief, then pouts, “Don’t mess with me like that.” 

“I don’t,” Megumi sets the spoon down, walking back to the dining table to finish setting up. 

The 18:03 on his digital clock flickers, and the rest of the cook continues: he heats up the skillet for the Wagyu—Matsusaka Beef, grade A-5, heavily marbled, meant to be tender and sweet. Some oil is drizzled onto the pan before cloves of chopped garlic are thrown in, followed by the beef, cut into bite-sized pieces. He adds a bit of soy sauce and red wine, to draw out the sweetness (or so he’s read), then finishes it up by plating it. 

And, there really is a different kind of care in cooking, he’s now realizing; how, when he stares at what he’s cooked in the past hour, he’s thought of you through it all—your preferences, the way you make things. How big meals aren’t his forte, but for you, he tries anyway. 

“Do you need me to do anything else?” Megumi asks, adjusting the camellias in the vase one last time. He takes off his hair band and ruffles his hair, hands tucking inside his pockets immediately after. 

Gojo looks up from the spread of food on the kitchen counter, motioning for the boy to come closer, “Taste test everything with me.”

Lined up are a plate of Temaki, a wooden board of Wagyu, a plate of Sunomono, and a bowl of Miso Soup. For every bite he takes, Megumi follows. And honestly? He thinks everything tastes… okay. 

The Temaki bursts with the sweet umaminess of buttery salmon dotted with ikura, the yellow daikon pickles adding a tart balance that complements the salmon well by simultaneously being sweet and salty. The avocado adds extra creaminess, while the cucumber and corn provide a freshness that lifts everything else. For some added decoration, he uses radish sprouts to mimic leaves on the filler plants of bouquets—the main reason he chose to make this: it looks like the bundles of flower arrangements you keep on your desk. What ties everything together though, is the crunchy, crispy texture of the nori, giving contrast to the creaminess it holds inside. 

There’s a reason why Wagyu is so expensive, and it’s being told in the way it melts into his mouth right now, sweet and tender. He paid a pretty penny for this, but it’s worth it because he can’t wait for your reaction. 

The Sunomono is meant to be a palate cleanser—with sesame seeds sprinkled on it, mild and sweet, while wakame seaweed and cucumbers serve as the base ingredients. The sauce is meant to be light, just a mixture of rice vinegar and soy sauce, seasoned to taste—and maybe his is a little lackluster compared to yours, but he swears you have some form of magic when it comes to cooking. 

After each bite, Gojo looks at Megumi for his reaction—but the boy gives nothing away, face blank and devoid of any emotion. None of them are as good as yours, definitely, but for his first shot at this, they aren’t too bad. He’d pat himself on the back for it. 

“They don’t go together,” Megumi regards the entire spread with his chopsticks. 

All his hard work? Shattered. 

Gojo is dumbfounded. 

It’s too late to change everything now. 

Should he just scrap everything and order takeout? 

“But they’re not bad,” Megumi continues, washing his chopsticks by the sink before heading for the bathroom to change out of the house clothes he’d borrowed in lieu of an apron.

When he emerges, long sleeves and joggers, he asks one last time if that’s all he needs to do, taking Gojo’s nods as a sign to take his leave. The older male remains rooted behind his kitchen counter, frozen from the crisis he’s facing.  

. 

You arrive a little later (thankfully), giving Gojo enough time to figure out this whole debacle. He’s ultimately decided to feel around for how the night goes, then he’ll act accordingly—if you show any sign that you aren’t happy, he has the delivery app ready. 

He dresses in simple slacks and a white button down, fiddling with how he’s rolled it up; the thought of you finally seeing everything he’s prepared for tonight makes him nervous—the table set-up, the ambiance, the food.

(He’s even cleaned up his bedroom).

Then he senses it, faint traces of your cursed energy by the door, and he holds his breath. The beeps on his lock count down the seconds to your entrance; and when he sees you come in, surprised and so amazed at the entire thing, the tightness in his chest eases up immensely. 

All he told you was to wear something nice. 

And, by god you did. 

You walk up to him, pretty and smiling in the simple dress you’d opted for tonight—a midi slip-on with a cardigan thrown on top. Black has always looked good on you, uniform or not, ever since up to now. 

But in white, you’re radiant. Glowing. 

He reaches for you. 

The grin on his face is lovesick as he grabs a hold of your waist. You instantly tiptoe up to kiss him, hands on his shoulders as you land a soft peck that transfers a light sheen of lip gloss onto his lips. The view behind him shows the table set-up, a pop of white and red amidst all the food he’s prepared for tonight. 

Your eyes widen, gasping, “Did you make all of that?” 

He nods, pulling away from you as he grins cockingly, “Call me chef.” 

But he immediately bites his lips, restless as he shifts his weight. He hopes you don’t notice how nervous he is—if you weren’t able to tell from his heartbeat, pressed against his chest. 

“You didn’t have to,” you pout at him, eyes watery as you swipe your thumb across his lips, wiping off the residue of your lipgloss. 

“Guess I’ll just undo everything then,” he chuckles, hands sliding to rest on your lower back, fingers tapping against silk. 

You roll your eyes, and before his hands get the chance to grab you lower, you’re whisking him away, holding his hand as you lead him to the dining table.

He pulls out your chair and you sit, the rare gesture making you giggle. As he settles in the seat across you, there’s a disconnect between the expression on his face and his body language—eyebrows wiggling and lips smirking, meant to be lighthearted and teasing, but he won’t stop fidgeting, shifting as he readjusts his seating. 

As you reach for the Temaki, he sucks in a breath, entirely hyper aware of every move you’re making. When you bite into it, he’s waiting. Anticipating. 

Your eyes fall shut as you chew, humming, then you grin. But when you open them and they catch his, it’s like you can tell—what he’s feeling. The furrow on your brows deepens as you look at him, concerned, “Hey, what’re you thinking?” 

How he hopes he hasn’t fucked this up, this dinner. What if the Miso Soup is too bland? Isn’t at all to your liking? What if the Wagyu’s dried out? Isn’t cooked properly? 

If he can’t get this right, this seemingly simple thing, how can he do everything else? Consider you the same way you’ve always considered him? 

He’s so sure of you his heart could burst at it, but what if he can’t ever come to terms with himself? With what he’s able to—

Then he feels it, your hand on his as you reach for him across the table, rubbing the back of it, soothing. 

He doesn’t even realize how much he’s worrying. 

“Megumi said it doesn’t go together,” he stares into your eyes, breathing slowly, grounding. It’s been a while since he’s given you a non-answer, but you accept it, patiently. 

“Megumi was here?” you ask gently, brow arched curiously. 

He nods, “Asked him to help a bit.” 

You hum, looking back at the food on the table before taking his other hand, soothing, “Well, that’s Megumi’s preference. Mine will be different.”

The smile you give him is warm, like the Miso Soup you’re reaching for right now. He watches you take a sip.

“S’good, better than mine,” You hum and he knows you’re lying but it’s still comforting, the fact that you’d do this for him. 

So if this is your effort for him, he isn’t going to waste it.

The rest of the dinner has you making the most exaggerated sounds, your ‘mmm’s and ‘ooo’s emphasizing how good the food is if he still doesn’t believe it. Your reactions are over-the-top and definitely overplayed, but it makes him laugh—has him grinning in his seat the more he relaxes. 

You help clean up, even though he insists that you shouldn’t. 

“It’s our anniversary, Satoru,” you bump his hip, shooing him away from the table as you stack up the dirty plates. 

When he finishes washing the dishes and turns to find you, sitting atop his kitchen counter, nibbling on a piece of strawberry from the special Daifuku he put out for dessert, he approaches you. 

“Don’t be greedy now,” he rests his hand on your knee, coming to stand in between your legs. You hike your dress up a little bit, just to give him some space. 

You chuckle, cupping your hand under his chin as you feed him; he eats the entire thing, half-bitten by you already. And as the tips of your fingers touch his lips, sticky and syrupy from the strawberry coating, he takes them in his mouth, sucking lightly. 

He holds your gaze.  

“Thanks for doing all this,” you blink twice as he releases your fingers, interlacing them with his, “s’not everyday you have an entire dinner cooked by the love of your life.” 

You say it again—how you call him that so casually. 

What do you mean it’s not everyday you have an entire dinner cooked by the love of your life? 

You do it for him all the time.

He hums, moving closer. His other hand rises higher, kneading the flesh of your thighs through the smooth silk of your midi dress. 

“Thought you were going to spit it out for a second there,” he swallows his nerves. 

“Stop,” you frown, grabbing him by his belt loops before pressing your lips against his forehead, landing a loud ‘smack’, “go away silly thoughts.”

He chuckles when you blow a raspberry on it, laughter easing up as you drag your lips down to the center of his brows, tense from all the worrying earlier. 

You always seem to get it right, he thinks, this whole relationship thing—always knowing what to say. 

He tilts his head up, leaning closer to kiss you on the lips, fully. The breath he lets out mingles with yours, sweet with hints of strawberry, and when he catches your bottom lip you lean back, hands coming to rest on his cheeks. 

You nip on his upper lip, playful but light, and he groans, hand reaching up to slot itself by your neck. 

It’s there, underneath his fingertips, the pounding of your heartbeat. 

As you squirm on the kitchen counter, you pull away for a moment, restless from the growing heat. The action is subtle but dangerous as your cardigan slips off your shoulder, revealing the strap and lace of your lingerie. 

Blue eyes land on familiar pink, one he’s certain he’s caught you in before, but seeing it now, under white, it does something to his brain—blood rushing, ears ringing. 

He leans closer, grabbing you by the waist as he runs his lips against along your neck, nipping on sensitive skin.

“‘Toru,” you gasp, breathy as you grip his shirt. 

“Tell me what else you want,” he murmurs against your skin, muffled. He sneaks one glance at you, pupils blown, before hovering over your temple, lips barely touching, tickling as he whispers, “anything.” 

Your fingers trail lower, pinching at his shirt before you tug, untucking it from his slacks. You turn to him, finding his lips, sliding them over his as you match his rhythm. It’s careful and slow, the way you unbutton his shirt, but it’s like he said—

This is your way; he’ll follow anything you say.

.

.

.

5 — WHEN ALL I SEE IS ME AND YOU

Gojo never thought he’d make this decision all because of your joint streaming subscription. 

It’s a normal weekend, regular in every way possible—just a night in for the both of you. He usually stays over at the end of the week, but it’s been bleeding into the weekdays too, lately. 

The sound of splashing water against tile echoes along the hallway; you normally play songs when you shower, but he guesses today isn’t that kind of day. 

He plops on the couch, pointing the remote to the TV as he selects the streaming app. Normal weekends consist of movie nights, half actually paying attention to the screen, and half paying attention to other things—either way, it ends in falling asleep. 

When the homepage lights up on the screen, he spots two accounts: yours and his. And it’s joint, under one household—your home. 

And he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s been thinking about this more lately: how the past months have been a slow realization coming to terms with himself, and where he sees this relationship going, but the visual in front of him sparks an influx of things he’s been noticing. 

The pajama pants he’s wearing now exist as a pair to a matching set he has with you, but tonight, he’s opted for a white t-shirt because his pajama top is tucked somewhere in the drawers of your bedroom. 

(You keep it with you because you like how it fits more, you say, but he thinks it’s because it smells like him, and you sleep with it when he’s away). 

There’s another pair of chopsticks you always wash now, too, plain bamboo with a ring around the handle, light blue. You’d bought it from a market down the street a year ago, and told him it reminded you of him—how it’s his from now on, in the container of utensils by your kitchen sink. 

He’s always known how intertwined your lives are, a decade and more of learning one another is bound to entangle you somehow. But the past few years have caused knots, impossible to unravel—a thought that doesn’t scare him as much as it used to; a thought he now thinks doesn’t sound so bad as long as it’s with you. 

As long as it’s with you. 

The creaking of the bathroom door snaps him back, the soft pads of your footsteps growing louder as it reaches the living room.

“Oh, you haven’t picked a movie yet?” you ask, ruffling your hair with your towel. 

He puts on a smile, facing you as he hands over the remote, “You pick tonight.” 

.

You barely pay attention to the movie, snuggled up against his chest, constantly looking up to kiss his neck. He’s the same, distracted, but not for the same reasons you are. 

It’s a lot to resist, the way your hands creep under his shirt, warm against his stomach, but the sinking feeling in his gut makes it impossible to focus anywhere else. 

“Not the time?” you tap his cheek, and he tilts his chin down, acknowledging you. The look on your face is anything but disappointed, and it tugs at him, makes him feel guilty that he’s making you worry. That he can’t give you what you’re looking for right now. 

“Maybe later,” he takes your hand, lips grazing your fingertips, “I’ll get ready for bed.” 

You nod, sitting up as he taps your hip. He knows you can tell something’s bothering him—it’s impossible to hide anything from you at this point, but this realization feels like a long time coming, like it’s been brewing, now spilling. 

He gets up, kissing the top of your head before walking to the bathroom. 

When he steps in, it still smells like you—the shampoo and bodywash you use. (Technically, it smells like him too—he’s started using yours because it feels like keeping you with him, everywhere he goes). 

As he finishes brushing his teeth, reaching for his towel hooked beside yours, he remembers how none of this existed when it was just you. You only ever had one hook for one towel, how he used to share it with you only to realize that it would never dry in time for the next use.

Then he found it, some time last year, when he walked in to take a shower and saw a hook installed right beside yours, presumably his. 

The lights are adjusted for him too; fluorescent white too bright, a pain for his Six Eyes. You noticed when you caught him washing his face in the dark, so you changed the bulbs to soft white, tinged a bit yellow, warm. 

And the thing is, he never asked you to do any of this. 

You just… did. 

Because that’s you. 

And it’s making him realize even more how he wants to keep it this way, how he wouldn’t mind if this was the rest of his life, everyday.

.

The mood shifts when you both get in bed, and if you notice it, you don’t tell him. Whatever was bothering him before has settled, his head clear, more focused to reciprocate your earlier advances. 

He’s gentle when he touches you, taking the time to love you. Your clothes come off one by one with no haste at all, slowly, almost painfully. 

But he kisses you all over, leaves marks on places only he can see—by your hip, at the center of your chest, and another one, visible, on your neck below your ear. This is more than what he usually does, but he feels determined tonight.

“Off,” you whisper, as you tug at his shirt, pulling it off before throwing it to the side of your bed. 

He holds his breath when your fingers land on his chest, dragging across his collarbones before you tap thrice. This is a spot you’ve loved so intently, he’s become sensitive to it every time you come close. You leave kisses along it, some wet, others dry pecks, but it makes him shudder all the same, every time. 

As he hovers above you, arm bent by your head, his fingers trace your lower lip, tugging only to let it bounce back; he kisses you, noses bumping, softly at first before it turns hungry—lips overlapping, biting. His tongue runs over your lips, smooth and warm. 

There are more touches, more gazes; lips brushing and breaths mixing. The heat between you is shared, intermingling, and when he’s in you—

—it’s too much, how he feels looking at you right now, like you’re everything, the only thing seared into his memory. 

There’s a life he wants to give you, and though he knows there are others who might be more able to—he can’t let go of you, refuses to. He can’t bear the thought of anyone else being this close, doesn’t even want to think about someone else waking up next to you—the bed hair he always looks forward to, the lazy smile against squished cheeks, the hands that always reach for him, first thing. 

These traces of you have made him want the whole of you, and if this is him being selfish, then so be it. 

His arms wrap around your back, hoisting you up as your legs wrap around him, and you’re both moving, timing in sync, and he’s crying. 

He tucks his face into your neck, and he’s sure you feel everything—wet tears, shuddery breaths, but you don’t say anything. You hold him tighter, fingers scratching his undercut as he gets closer and closer. 

Gojo Satoru is a man of impossibilities. 

And this life he thinks you deserve—he wants to be the one to give that to you. 

.

.

.

+1 — WITH MY KNEES ON THE FLOOR, WHEN I ASK FOR MORE

He shouldn’t even be feeling this way, because what’s the worst thing you can say?

It’s just you. 

It’s just you—

And… maybe it’s because it’s you, that the .01% possibility of you even saying no—

—it makes him feel sick. 

He looks back at the clock: 16:30. The walk from the conference room to his office will take an extra 3? 5? minutes. 

The room feels tighter, smaller, floorboards practically worn down from how much he’s paced around it. 

He’s rehearsed what he wants to say, how he’ll grab your hand and look you straight in the eyes as he does it. Fear and excitement churn in his belly, how he’s imagining the look on your face.

If you were here, you’d tell him to breathe—to follow you with every inhale and exhale. 

If you were here, you’d smile at him, lips curled up softly, gently, the one he loves. 

If you were here—

—the door opens, and you step into the room. 

Now that you’re here, he doesn’t know what to say. 

You stand before him in your uniform, smiling, just as he imagined you’d be. Your eyes crinkle at the corners, sparkling, the way he’s noticed they have since you were 17. 

He must be doing a terrible job hiding how he feels because your demeanor instantly shifts, face contorting into worry, brows furrowed and frown forming. You drop your bag as you walk to him, hands reaching to cup his face. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice hushed and delicate, “Did something happen?” 

Your fingers are warm on his cheeks (or is he too cold?), tilting his head lower so you can look him in the eyes. He can’t breathe, can’t hear you properly; you’re drowned out by the thumping of his heartbeat. 

“Need to tell you something,” he manages to mutter. 

Your eyes widen before you nod, lowering your hands as you speak slowly, “Okay, do you want to sit first? I have water—”

He shakes his head, hand reaching for your wrist, “I think… you should sit.” 

The pause alarms you, your body turning rigid. He has no idea what’s going through your mind, and you give nothing away as you mumble an ‘okay’ while walking to the couch. 

He stays beside you, not too far but still placing a bigger distance than he normally would—for the 0.01% probability that this isn’t what you want, that he isn’t too close, forcing you into an answer you might not want to say. 

The words float in his mind, but none of them string together to form the sentences he wants to tell you. Does he take it from the start? How this whole thing has always terrified him? How he never thought this was meant for him, but here he is, still learning but loving every second of it?

There are things he’s never had to consider before that he cares so much more about now—all because of you, how it’s for you, how he wants to do better by you. 

You call him the love of your life and he hasn’t told you, but you’re that and more for him, too. 

He practiced this, damn it. 

Why can’t he remember a single thing? 

The silence between you is tense, tainted by overthinking on both ends. You look like you’re waiting for bad news, and Gojo’s too stuck in his head, turning over the right words to say instead of reassuring you. 

“I’ve been thinking lately,” he starts, fiddling with his fingers. His feet won’t stop bouncing, knee fidgeting. He’s biting his lips, a tell-tale sign that there’s a lot he isn’t saying.

You place your hand on his knee to calm him down, and he stops bouncing it, looking at you as you muster up a small smile—far from being genuine, but it’s the fact that you’ve mustered it, as if to say: ‘it’s okay, you can tell me; i’ll always want to hear all of it.’ 

He swallows, “This arrangement isn’t working.” 

Your face drops, brows furrowing, “What arrangement?” 

His heart is pounding. 

“I stay over at yours too much.” 

Too much, that mine doesn’t feel like I belong there anymore, he fails to add. 

“I think we need more space.” 

Your hand slides off his knee as you tuck it between your thighs. There’s a frown on your face he can’t seem to figure out, and the fact that you’re giving nothing away, whatever you’re thinking—he’s turning even more nervous right now. 

“Okay,” you finally say, tone flat, “when do you want me to return all your things?”

He tilts his head at you, confused, “What—” 

“Actually, can I…” you shift around, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ears before clearing your throat, “can I ask if it’s something I did?” 

And his heart drops, straight into his stomach. 

It’s not like that at all. 

He’s hit with déjà vu; this conversation feels so familiar, so similar to one he’s had with you before—on the sofa chair across this couch, laying himself bare the same way he is now. 

The couch dips as he scoots closer to you, reaching for your hands. 

“It’s not—”

You scoff sadly, “Please don’t give me the ‘it’s not you it’s me’ thing,” then your tone drops, blinking away your tears, “if you’re going to break up with me, Satoru, just tell me why. Honestly.” 

He blinks. 

There’s a secret Gojo keeps, one he once told himself he’ll never tell you. 

But now seems like it’s fitting—the right time to say it. 

“You remember when I was unsealed?” he moves to the floor, getting down on his knees in front of you. You nod as he rubs circles over your knuckles, “When I first saw you, it was pretty scary.” 

He brings one hand to your cheek, catching a tear with his thumb. You pout, the crease between your brows growing deeper. 

“You ran yourself dry because of me.” 

When he thinks about it now, he still feels guilty. 

He believes that people are accountable for their own actions, and he still believes that with you, definitely—but he knows your reasons, why you acted that way, desperate for hope everyday. And for that, he takes responsibility. 

“I didn’t want that for you, still don’t.” 

Your frown deepens, tears welling up even more. 

Do you still think he wants to do this without you? 

He can’t take this, seeing you cry; he promised himself he wouldn’t be the reason behind this anymore.

“I’m not breaking up with you,” he tells you firmly, surely. 

You blink. 

Then your shoulders drop as you breathe out—what he hopes is relief. When your eyes meet, a little less sad, he sees the stars in them, glinting like they do when you look at him.

This should be his answer already, how much you brighten at the thought of staying with him. But—

“I still think you deserve more,” he brings your hands to his lips, brushing them against it, and as you’re about to interject, he chuckles, “but I’m also too selfish to leave that up to someone else, you know?” 

“Soooo,” his hand reaches for his pocket, fishing around until he feels for what he’s looking for. He takes out his phone, swiping and scrolling until he finally stops, placing it on your lap for the both of you to see, “I’ve been thinking lately…” 

He looks up at you, the two skies you’ve always been drawn to, waiting. The unease in his stomach returns, churning. 

It’s a compilation of properties: houses, apartments, plots of land—all scattered around Tokyo, some central and some further on the outskirts. 

Your eyes widen, tilting your head to the side as you attempt to read what’s on his screen. You turn to him immediately, eyes still watery; the expression on your face is unreadable, a mixture of surprise and confusion, like you don’t exactly know what he means. 

“We don’t have to choose from these, it’s just a few brokers I talked to recently. We can look for others if you want, in quieter areas too—” 

Then you smile, beaming, tears falling from your eyes, “Satoru,” and you breathe out his name but it sounds like I love you.

There’s a quiet life he can’t give you, but he likes this one with you much better too. He takes your hands, placing one on his chest, over his heart, and the other on his cheek. Then, he leans into it, kissing the insides of your wrist before staring back at you sincerely. 

His heart is beating wildly, he’s sure, but if he can continue to make you this happy—

“Make a home with me?”

a/n: food descriptions—temaki is easy hand-rolled sushi, sunomono is japanese cucumber salad.

thank you notes: @stellamancer the actual birthday gift for u :') + @em1e for listening to me talk abt the entire plot and even reading the first few scenes!! + @mididoodles @kissxcore @itadorey @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat for always being so supportive when am sharing my progress posts ilu + @crysugu @soumies @augustinewrites no reason other than i just love u ᰔ i reply so slow when am writing smth...

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[sherewrytes]

Ms. Good Grip

Inspired by this song

If you know you know. If you don't know how you know. Wanted to drop a fic with a more Caribbean inspo.

C.W : smut, Caribbean dialect, overstimulation, Caribbean black reader. Dom ony. Y/N be actin out

Your fav cousin wedding reception was in full swing. Drinks pouring, shots passing, weed smoke in the air all elders already left. You knew your boyfriend Ony wasn't used to Caribbean style parties. The pacing was completely from the usual parties he's used to. He was faded and tipsy, hands gripping your hips catching every whine you threw his way. You were completely bent over, if it wasn`t for your updo your hair would be touching the floor with how far you were bent over. You both took a break from dancing to get some drinks and more food before everyone's greedy ass ate it all up.

The song changed to Alkaline's on Fleek. As soon as you heard,

Whooo gyal yo pum, pum Gyal, yuh pum pum, Gyal, yuh pum pum on fleek.

You joined your other wild ass cousins in the dance circle and began whining. You made sure to position yourself right in front of Ony. You were secretly putting on all this show for him. All the weed and drinks had you wanting him. He looked so good in his semi casual fit You whined slowly at first slowly going lower to match the intro of the song staring him dead in his eyes while he smoked a joint with a bottle of Stag beer in his hand. His shades resting slightly lower on his nose. You watch him beckon you over with a finger, but you ignored him only because you loved riling him up at times, it makes the sex better.

You felt a hand grip your waist; you knew instantly it wasn't Ony's, but you decided to give the guy a lil dance. You cousin Shanice side eyed know mothing " Aye, you always lookin' for problems. You know how Ony's gonna react." You laughed saying "Oh well, small thing."

(Small thing- Trini slang for No big deal)

You heard the Dj scratch and the song changed to Spice's Jim Screechie

You were singing the song loud and clear while throwing it back on the random guy.

"And your gyal a watch you hard, but me no matter that Hold me tight and don't let me go Whine with me and me a whine with you"

You were giving him a wicked whine knowing for a fact that kinda whining is reserved for Ony but you thought "Oh well." The guy had one hand on your hips pulling you back against his hips while almost dry fuckin you on the makeshift dance floor. You felt a hand grab your wrist and pulled you. You looked up and saw it was Ony pulling you off the makeshift dance floor away from everyone.

"You got me fucked up; you know that. Are you goin out of your head or sum." Ony said his voice gruff with annoyance. You on the other hand were turned on by hearin' him this way. You smirked "It's just a dance Ony. I know you're suffering from not accustom. You bein' a black American I know you won't know much about my culture and shit."

You watch Ony's eye widen with annoyance "Oh really, you really wanna go that route with me. Imma give you a last chance to take that shit back." You rolled your eyes and giggled. "Still just a lil dance Ony." You attempted to walk away big mistake.

You knew it was your fault you were now in this situation. Your hands pressed and pinned against the toilet door with your back arched. Ony was feeding deep, hard strokes. You had to way to move, one of his hands pinned your hands against the door while the other was between your spread thighs rubbing your clit.

You felt your wetness run down your thigh, you were making a mess of yourself. You were coming again. You were pleading with him to take it easy on you "Ony 'm sor-sorry...please I can't"

"Nah, you can't, you weren't whining out there on him like you couldn't so nah you gon' take this dick. It's what you wanted right."

You were panting, moaning moaning his name as fucked you harder. You were now pressed against the door, his hand now pressed against the side of your neck. Between the hard slaps of his hips against yours and the song blaring in the background, you were losing your mind. You came twice already and feeling the third one fast approaching. He was rubbing your twitching clit. Rubbing so fast, your squirt was coming out faster than you realized. Your lust filled sobs were shaking your body and his, it only made him want to fuck you harder.

"Ony! Ony! Ouuu fuck I'm sorry 'm sorry please please please slow down." He stopped only to turn you over so you can be face to face as he lifted you up and pinned your back against the door again. You were both face to face. Ony's eyed still red from smoking.

"You always tryna test me and push me Y/N huh. You don't fuckin listen....actin up and showin out for WHO. that dude..playin' too much."

Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as your stomach clenched, you saw Ony smirk and slid his hand between both of your bodies and press down on your stomach. Your eyes widen while tears brimmed the corner. "Ouuu fuck! shit Ony..didn't mean to do it. why you fuckin me like this."

Ony tried to reign in his anger but her couldn't he felt it coming back, only pushing him to thrust deeper and harder "Don't play dumb with me Y/N you know I'm actin' like this."

Between Ony tearin your shit up and the music thumping in the background, you were close to another orgasm, tears now running down your face. Ony's hips practically pinning you between him and the door. Ony leaned in and kissed your tears away.

Ony finds your silence a bit annoying. After what felt like minutes, his hand gripped your throat. Through your teary eyes you could see you pushed Ony a bit to far but then again he knew how you were. He loved you for it.

Ony felt your body shivering against his. He kept feeding you deep, hard strokes which you were sure if the music wasn't loud as fuck everyone could hear. He felt his vexation simmering in his veins.

"Ony..please..I love you. I...Ony!" you pleaded. Ony rolled his eyes tired of hearing the same things over and over again come out of your mouth.

"Nah, love me, that's crazy Y/N. Do you really love me Y/N?" "I do Ony! I do. I won't do this shit again I swear...just.."

You were gripping around his dick so tightly he could feel his balls twitching and he fucked you against the door harder. He knew you loved pushing his buttons as much as you loved him. he wrapped your legs tighter around his hips, trying to go deep as he possibly can. You were so overstimulated you were shaking while pressed between the door and him.

"Fuck Y/N you're squeezin' me Gonna nut" you felt him fill you up groaning into your ear. You knew the amount he just came in you would leak out.

Ony sat you on the bathroom counter, helped you clean up then he cleaned up himself. You cleaned your face with make up wipes you had in your bag and reapplied your make up Ony smirked "You gon behave now my love" "Yes Ony I will"

You went back out the wedding party holding hands and smiling.

[genderfluid-insomniac]

Can I request Redson, Mk, Sun Wukong and Mei with a Raiden Ei reader/ s/o? (I can only imagine how they would react to reader pull the sword out of her chest 😭)

Thank you very much if you have time for my request!

Redson, Mk, Sun Wukong, and Mei with a Raiden Ei!reader (separately)

GET PHOTO BANNERS

MK

He’s seen a lot since the day he found the staff and it would be reasonable for him to think he’s seen every weird thing. But one day when he was out on a date with you, another villain of the week attacked right beside you both and you saw a large piece of debris coming towards you. You pulled out your sword from your chest and cleanly sliced the large piece of stone in half.

Meanwhile, MK has thousands of thoughts buzzing around, many of them wondering how he didn’t find out about this sooner. How are you able to do this without cutting your chest? Were you scared to show him your sword chest thing? Why don’t you use it more often? Why did you hide the cool boob sword from him?!

Be prepared for an abundance of questions being yelled at you as he’s fighting off the demon. He’ll deal with priorities later and get lectured about it by Wukong, Macaque, Pigsy, Sandy, Tang, Red Son, Mei, etc (pretty much everyone who cares about his wellbeing)

He will be asking to see it again whenever you’re okay with it and every time it’s like he’s seeing it for the first time. There are stars in his eyes as he admires the skill you have of not hurting yourself but also how gorgeous your blade is. This man is trying his best to hold back the wave of questions due to his confusion on how you actually do it since not one bit of it makes sense to him.

Mei

Genuinely loves it and tries to replicate it or somehow make it known how amazing and impressive she finds your ability.

She is genuinely more in love with you and wants to see you perform to your ability as much as you allow. Endlessly complimenting you about your skills and grace whilst also looking badass.

Despite accidentally injuring herself many times Mei continues to try and replicate it because of how much she wants to be able to do it with you. You and the others will have to stop her from injuring herself too much. Whenever a battle is going on you and her will match your styles, you summoning your glowing violet sword with your girlfriend in tow and mimicking you.

She will constantly ask to see your sword up close and admire the beautiful style of the metal, tracing the intricate designs carved into the hilt and end of the blade. Mei of course loves anything shiny so you might have to steal your sword back because she isn’t going to give it back easily.

Sun Wukong

He probably has the opposite reaction compared to the rest since he’s centuries old and he’s seen a lot of strange things. However, all of that goes out the window when a piece of debris nearly hits you causing you to take out your sword in front of the group and effectively slashing the debris into rubble behind you. You see a look of shock and a failed attempt to push down his excitement now that he knows you’ve unintentionally hidden this amazing and pretty attractive ability of yours.

He’s not going to ask that many questions and plead for you to do it again and again so he can fully see how it works and functions. Of course, the obvious next step is for you both to spar until both of you are exhausted or it comes to a draw and then he’s going to admire your sword while you both rest. The shiny glowy object is very pretty to look at even to you.

When you both are cuddling or relaxing he’ll sometimes ask to “play” with your sword and trace the details or carving in the high-quality steel, being careful it doesn’t cut him because he’d rather not get up from the warm cuddle pile you both have and not so subtly replaying the memory of how you summoned your sword in the first place.

This does mean that you’re going to join MK in training sometimes and momentarily distract Wukong because you are his lover but also he’s still drawn into your swordsmanship skills which causes either of you to get a hit in. He pouts angrily pouts at you while telling MK that he just got lucky and he let it happen to teach him another lesson but neither of you buy a word of that lie.

Redson

Despite everyone else’s reactions, he’s very confused about how this works or even how you don’t get cut every time you do it, and thinking about it makes him go into a spiral of curiosity.

Like MK be prepared for many questions about your ability and the permission for him to examine your sword for a couple of hours, you aren’t banished from his workshop but he’s going to hyperfixed the sword and its ability. So you may not get much attention unless it’s to get him to eat and drink or necessary things because he must find out.

Red Son does find it attractive and is very impressed with your skill as you wield the blade when you’re training or just fighting in general. He is a gentleman so he’s wary of staring at your chest for too long so you can definitely see a light blush on his cheeks if you look at him at just the right time.

Don’t get me wrong he is very impressed with your ability but also wonders if he could somehow improve your ability if you request it. If not then he’s still curious but he does eventually stop given this is a world where magic and demonic bullshit exist and sometimes stuff just doesn’t make sense.

[eustasskidagenda]

anon asked: Hello you <3 your writing style is so smooth, I love it! So, I would like to ask you some smutty fruity juicy smut for Law my man, Kid (maybe it will make you accept this request more easily 😇), and Sanji. Something about how they would react after being teased all the day by their s/o, like bc she’s wearing some suggestives clothes or touching them in public etc. For a female reader, if possible. And regarding the kinks, do as you wish, I trust you with the result. Hope I made the request correctly and tysm for bringing our ideas to life <333 Oh, and you can add some more characters if you want! anon, please.

Hi there! Tysm for your kind words, I'm always a bit uncertain and unconfident when I have to write scenarios in other languages than my native one ;w; So, it means a lot to me ;w; I didn't add more characters bc you already pick two of my personal fav + my ultimate fav ♡. Anyway, the meal is ready, hope it will match your expectations, thank you for requesting!☆

☆Law, Kid & Sanji after being teased all the day by their s/o

CW (generals) : MDNI, f!reader, smut, teasing

WC : 3,3k

Law 

CW : dirty talk, fingering, overstimulation, slight degradation (usage of 'slut'), panties stuffing (mouth)

What a foolish game to tease Law. You know that, don't you? Law could write a complete book about teasing and still have much to say regarding this topic, in fact. So, sure, go ahead and tease him. Taunt him with this short skirt, bend just in front of him to grab the book you "accidentally" let fall, and try to annoy him while he's working in his office. He won't show anything, always keeping his cold and serious attitude in front of others. Law is pretty good when it comes to controlling himself. But inside, oh damn, his blood is boiling with pure desire to make you pay. Law is not one to let things fall, so he wants to avenge and he will do so.

And we all know Law is the king of shenanigans. While working, he would imagine a cruel scenario that would make you turn into a moaning, whimpering, and wet mess. He would keep thinking about it the entire day, holding back a mischievous grin as you continue to tease him. 

In fact, he thinks you're cute. You're putting in a lot of effort to tease him, but you have no knowledge about this topic. But it's fine, he'll teach you how it's done soon enough. 

Despite your attempts to annoy him, he's still working even though it's almost midnight. Even so, you enter his office once more, sitting at his desk, throwing his papers away. And you're wearing a really short skirt, one of his favorites. Slowly, you cross your legs, showing him the panties you're wearing under: again, one of his favorites. "Law, I'm bored" you whine, with wet puppy eyes.

And now the fun begins. Law would use his DF to 'room, shamble' you into your shared bedroom. Obviously, he would also lock the door from a distance. All you can do is wait for him. He won't let you go soon. He would continue working, taking pleasure in the silence and picturing your pitiful whines. 

After maybe two hours, he would finally join you, slowly opening the door to find you lying on the bed, all bored and eagerly waiting for the long wait. As you attempt to jump into his arms and say 'Law, you're here!', he would scowl mad at you and take off his hat without any consideration for you.

The aura surrounding him would only radiate anger and eagerness. "Get on the bed." And this is not a suggestion or a nice request coming out of his mouth, but an order. He rarely commands that directly, but when he does, you better obey really quickly. Honestly, you know it's not time to act like a brat anymore, so you should comply.

First thing first, Law would tie your wrists. "A naughty girl like you doesn't deserve to touch me." With that sentence, he would slowly remove his shirt, taking his time, playing with the buttons, and eventually revealing his bare tattooed chest. The one you love to fondle, kiss, bite, and even leave hickeys on. 

You're already squirming, anticipating being touched, anticipating intimacy with him, anticipating his skin touching yours. "Is there something wrong, y/n-ya?" Ah, yes. He would really take his time, slowly sliding his shirt down the ground, and running his beautiful tattooed hands through his hair. 

As you writhe, your short skirt goes up your thighs, revealing your panties that are already wet. "You're such a pathetic slut. You need me so badly already, y/n-ya?"

He would simply observe how your underwear is becoming more and more wet. He hasn't touched you yet. It doesn't matter if you squirm and beg, he won't care. You did that to yourself. You can try to untie yourself if you want, you're tightly tied. 

"Please Law, I'm sorry! I need you so bad! " 

" And you decided to tease me all the damn day to get my attention? You're such an eager slut. Now shut up and take it." 

Law would love to sit on the edge of the bed, close to you, but not enough to allow you to touch his skin. He would make you feel his presence, enjoying all of your pathetic whistling. And after a certain time, finally, without a word, he would run his skilled fingers along your body, touching you everywhere, avoiding your inner thighs in purpose. The more you contort and arch your back, the more he will tease you. He loves how you crave for his touch. 

As tears of frustration start to prickle at the corner of your eyes, he would roughly pinch your nipple. "Something wrong, y/n-ya?" He's tricky because if you beg for more, of course, he won't obey. And if you keep quiet, he would continue to torture your body, waiting for your answer. "That's how we tease someone, y/n-ya."

His hands would slowly, slowly, taking off your skirt and then, he would hook his thumbs under your panties, sliding them down your legs, inch by inch, revealing your bare pussy and damped folds to his eyes. "Law… I" And brutally, he would stuff your wet panties in your mouth. "Nice girls are the only ones allowed to speak." 

Your muffled complains would be pure music to his ears. He would continue to tease you, his fingers tracing patterns on your lower-stomach. Finally, sliding along your slit. "You're soaking wet for absolutely nothing." Oh, he would love to watch how your dripping core is aching, clenching around nothing, before slowly rubbing his fingers along your pussy.

"You're making a mess on the bedsheets. You better clean them right after I'm done with you. " 

He would push one finger into your pussy while you moan, your mouth still full of your own panties. Law is truly talented, even with just one finger. " One finger. That's all you deserved." 

His middle finger, which is nicely curled, would hit all your sweet spots when he circles your clit with his thumb. He would love to watch you trying to get more friction, more of him, more of his fingers. But he won't comply.

He would be painfully slow, thrusting his finger in and out of your body at an unrealistic slow pace, before brutally pushing in, and then, nice and slow again. Yes, it's frustrating, it makes you tense yourself in anticipation, and it's precisely what he's looking for. 

"See, I've told you one finger would be enough" as you cum violently all around his middle finger, making a mess on the bedsheets, with shivering thighs, shaky breath and pathetic whimpers. 

"I'm not done yet." 

Before sliding two fingers inside you. He would continue to rub your clit, hitting all your sweet spots, making you squirm on the bed as you try to untie yourself. But there is nothing you can do. You're sentenced to take more of his fingers, to cum again and again, your sensitive pussy aching and clenching.  

Then, he would take off his fingers, licking his tattoos covered in your wetness. And if you dare sigh of relief, he would slowly run his fingers along the length of his cock through his pants. 

"Oh, y/n-ya, you're here for a long, long night."

Kid 

CW : Degradation, rough sex, fingering, dirty talk, v!sex, spanking, hair pulling, slight choking, Kid has a filthy mouth, size kink, overstimulation, unprotected sex, mention of anal sex

The master of rough sex.

Kid has absolutely no patience or self-control, and absolutely hates being teased. Whenever you tease him, his honest reaction is to grab you roughly by the wrist, pin you against the closet wall, and just fuck you roughly from behind. He doesn't give a damn if it's in a public place. 

But today is different because he can't have his fun with you. That damn reunion for the 'alliance thing' that he agreed to because of Killer is way too long, and you're teasing him under the table by rubbing your feet against his cock. Or showing him that you're wearing your red panties, his favorite ones. The poor Kid would hold onto the table, his phalanx white due to the intense effort he's making to maintain his composure. 

Don't you dare think about his thoughts right now, because all he can imagine is you being fucked roughly like the little slut you are

The moment the meeting is over, he would try to grab your hips and fuck you immediately. If you manage to escape his grip, sticking out your tongue to mock him before running to the Victoria Punk, oh, damn, you're doomed.

Kid would waste no time looking after you, with clenched fists and gritted teeth. No one would dare approach him because, honestly, his anger is wrapping him up like an aura. And we all know how Kid deals with annoying people. 

He would slam the door of your shared bedroom angrily. Kid would be even madder if you lie on the bed, giggling and pleased with your mischiefs. "Think you're funny, fuckin’ woman?" The way he spits his words in your face is quite frightening. Now, you're not laughing anymore. "'Gonna fuckin' ruin ya" 

That's all your waiting for, right?

With sloppy moves, he would let his coat fall on the ground, take off his shirt, and throw his boots away. Before ripping all of your clothes, including your panties, and crawling onto the bed, his impressive figure looming over you. He would shamelessly use his large metallic arm to crush you onto the mattress. The prosthetic hand would hold your upper body, with two metallic fingers around your throat and the rest wrapping around your waist. "Stay fucking still, slut."

As you squirm and start to moan, turned on by how dominant he's acting right now, he would scowl angrily. "Stop bein' so fuckin' loud" with a rough slap on your inner thighs.

He would love to watch how you look, pinned down and totally helpless. All you can do is take all of him. He would make you spread your legs, pushing your knees away, and force them to touch the bed sheets in a matting press position. 

The sensation of fitting your small body between his muscular thighs would be immensely attractive to Kid. He would slam roughly two thick fingers into your soaking wet pussy without any warning or consideration, hitting all your sweet spots. The only thing you're allowed to do is take it. You won't be going anywhere. Not with his metallic hand holding you still. 

As you moan and beg for more, he would laugh mockingly. "Shut the fuck up, slut." Without a word, he would take off his fingers covered in your wetness and force them into your mouth. "Suck them clean." 

He would probably make you gag and drool a bit, forcing his fingers down your throat, enjoying how tears are starting to prickle at the corner of your eyes. "Thought it would be funny to fuckin' mess with me?" 

After taking off his fingers, he would roughly flip you over on your stomach. "Ass up. Chest down. Now." And, as you comply, he would smash your head against the pillow, forcing your back to arch until your spine hurts. 

Kid would spank you with his heavy hand. The flesh one. Leaving red marks on your cheeks and spreading them apart brutally to watch your tight pussy clenching desperately around nothing.  "You're just a fuckin slut, Y/N, gettin’ soaked just for some fingering." 

Quickly, he would slide down his pants, just enough to free his large cock, leaking in pre-cum, throbbing and twitching with impatience. Then, slamming his hips forward, burying his cock deep inside you, and bullying your cervix with his thick length. "Take it all." As you cry out from how good he's filling you up. 

"Shut the fuck up" burying your head violently against the pillow if you start to moan. And if you continue to muffle, cry out, and whimpers, Kid would wrap his large hand around your throat, squeezing roughly, silencing you. 

He would slam his cock so hard, making your ass jiggle with each thrust, his heavy balls slapping against your wet pussy, with a sloshing, obscene sound. He would make sure you feel helpless under his control, enjoying how your breath becomes shallow and labored as you struggle to get enough air through your nose. "Don't fuckin' mess with me, Y/N. Never." 

He would love to watch how your inside is swallowing his cock, burying himself so deep that it feels like he's pounding your very core. 

"You keep sucking me in, you like my cock that much, lil slut?" 

The headboard slamming against the wall would cause the bed to creak. With his hand, Kid could either slap your ass or hold you still. And sure, his eyes would be glued to his cock, sliding roughly in and out of you, glistening, all covered by your wetness. 

As he pounded into you at a breaking-spine pace, he would grunt loudly and shamelessly, sweat dripping down his face. "Cry out for me all you want, fuckin' whore." 

He would pull you back onto his cock with each thrust, almost tearing you in half. He would use his exceptional stamina to his advantage, plowing into you repeatedly and showing no signs of slowing down. He won't stop if you don't use your safe word for a rough session. 

"Who's fuckin' you so well?" 

His ego would be immensely satisfied if you keep shooting his name.

His hand would grab your hair, pulling it roughly, almost breaking your neck, forcing you to look at him while he fucks you. Squeal for him, cry for him under his unforgiving pace. That's all he wants. "I don't even know why I'm fuckin' you. A slut like you doesn't deserve my cock." 

He would continue until your mind starts to melt into nothingness, leaving bruises all over your skin. Your moans and his low, animalistic grunts would fill the rooms. As you cum all around his cock, he would slap your ass, keep thrusting, and overstimulate you. And brutally, he would cum inside of you, his body shaking with the force of his release. After a few more sloppy thrusts, he would pull out, his member sliding out of you with a loud plop, followed by a large amount of white sticky fluid leaking out of you.

"Keep it in, slut." 

Slowly, his thumb would find its way to your asshole. "This hole deserves some attention too, right, slut?"

Good luck, you just awake a wild beast. He would be delighted to observe your struggle to walk the next morning. That's what you get for teasing him. No one messes with Eustass Kid.

Sanji 

CW : oral sex , fingering (reader receiving), slight food play, squirting, v!sex, Sanji is talking in French here and there 

Okay, but Sanji is almost always turned on by your simple presence. Our poor Sanji would struggle to even breathe if you decided to tease him. His eyes would always be glued to your every move. He would smoke more than usual, attempting to resist the urge to lift this beautiful dress and devour you.

Honestly, he would assume that you're angry with him. "Have I done something wrong today, Y/N?" With wet puppy eyes. 

Poor Sanji would be even more confused if you start laughing playfuly and lift up your dress slightly, revealing the elegant lace panties you're wearing today. He would struggle to cook, almost burn the dinner for the crew because his mind would be so dizzy. Oh, he would sacrifice everything to eat you out right here, right now, in front of anyone.

Sanji would cough loudly as you continue to tease him under the table during the diner with the rest of the crew. And once everyone has left the kitchen, Sanji would waste no time locking the door and just grabbing your hips and sitting you on the table. 

Let's remember the broken plates with a minute of silence.

"J'ai tellement besoin de toi, Y/N" (I need you so bad)

He would also ask you what he has done wrong today, and as you laugh and reply 'nothing, I just wanted to tease you,' Sanji would be relieved. "If my pretty girlfriend is needy, then, I have to take care of her. Je vais bien m'occuper de toi." (I gonna take care of you)

Sanji would use the environment to his advantage and cover your body with black chocolate, slowly licking your breasts covered in the warm liquid. "Tasting so good…" 

He would eat and treasure every inch of your skin, sucking on your nipples, pinching them slowly between his thumb and index finger while sucking on the other. Sanji is eager to please you and is happy to finally touch you after a long day of teasing.

He's a starving person, he would never be able to tease you back or just ignore you.

Sanji would slowly slide your panties down your legs. At the sight of your bare pussy, his cock would roughly press against the fabric of his pants. 

He would treat you like a queen even if you've been teasing him for the entire day. After all, you are his queen and you deserve the best.

While you remained on the table, he would ask "Are you comfortable?" and then kneel down and gently run his hands along your inner thighs. He would slowly bury his head between your legs. Being between your thighs is his favorite place. Pure heaven for Sanji.

Sanji, the oral sex king, would take his time, placing soft kisses on your inner thighs, slowly approaching your soaking wet pussy. "My pretty girl is so needy." 

He would eat you out by using his skills to make you moan his name loudly. Please grasp his hair and press his head harder against your lips. When you use him for your own pleasure, he loves it. His tongue flicking against your clit, he would smoothly slide two long fingers inside of you, curling them deeply inside of you. 

Sanji doesn't need anything but his skillful mouth and hands to make you feel good. Your responsiveness is something he loves. He would love to feel your legs wrapped around him as he continues to drink all of your juice as if it were a glass of red wine. 

With a gentle touch, he would intensify the passion, his tongue licking harder at your clit, and his fingers perfectly curled against all your sweet spots. Although he's patient, he's also battling against his own urge to take off his pants and slide his cock deep into your hot and wet pussy.

He would look at you, enjoying how your face is twisted in nothing but pure ecstasy. "You're always making the prettiest noises for me" before returning back to his duty: making you cum.

And that's what you do, squeezing his head between your thighs, grabbing a full hand of blond hair, cumming hard against his lips and around his fingers nicely curled inside you. 

Sanji would drink all of your juice, continue to eat you out, until you cum again. And again. You teased him all the day, now, he can't get enough of you. He wants more, he needs more. He would leave you with your legs shaking and turn you into a pathetic whiny mess. "Too much!" He would continue until you squirt on his face, your mind so dizzy that you can't feel your own orgasms anymore.

Finally, he would stop, licking his lips and glistening with your wetness. "Tu es si bonne, je ne peux pas m'arrêter." (You taste so good, I just can't stop.)

He would not expect you to return the favor. But it would be cruel to leave him with an uncomfortable erection. You're not cruel. Right? 

If you decide to let him slide his cock inside you, he would moan so loudly and shamelessly. The prettiest moans. You just feel so good. 

He would fuck you on the table, in all the positions, worshipping every single inch of your body until you're both exhausted.

[khristie16]

The Fast and Forbidden

Charles is a famous F1 driver with everything one could want: fame, fortune, and fans. But he is missing one thing. Being his new personal assistant changes everything for both of them.

— chaper 1 It is your first day settling in Formula 1 world. You find out there is something off with Charles, but you ignore it. At least you convince yourself to.

disclaimer: yn with "I" pov format x slowburn

Lights were casting a shadow enveloping me as I headed toward Charles's room. My mind went on full speed and palms getting wet, feet suffering from the fancy wearing for this job. High heels clapping was the only thing disturbing this silence. This whole job experience was pestering but there was no choice but moving out from my family.

Butterflies in stomach were at its peak as I started to acknowledge this is our first meeting. Did I feel like a stalker? Standing in front of his door in a hotel he was accommodated? Definitely. But it is better to meet up here then outside with sound screeching and flashing cameras.

Giving myself one big inhale to reach for the door knob, the wooden squeak made me fall few steps behind and muscles stopped moving as Charles was leaving the apartment. Wearing Ray Ban sunglasses does a lot to one's sight evidentially. His presence was getting far away from mine as he was heading towards the elevator.

"Wait!"

The growing distance between us has stopped. With a serious tone and hands pointing at me, "I'll call the security''

My throat got tight and words couldn't pass through. His words were flowing in and out of me as waves of the ocean in the night, making me restless. Time flew fast and I was met once again with his back showing a gray hoodie.

"I'm your new assistant!"

Hope filled my veins. Mind was playing with the possibility of being thrown out displayed as a fan girl. NOT. His turn was so abrupt I was shocked he didn't crack his neck. Sweet, yet deep voice crashed my eardrums making me feel searing.

"YN?"

I nodded and I finally let my lungs chill. Damn, this started easy.

Sides of his lips crooked making me feel not welcomed but I could finally take a breath. The distance got shorter while I remained situated on one position.

"Sorry for that. I'm Charles."

Chuckle left my mouth as I found the introduction nonessential. Hands connected with him leaving warm tickles on my skin and his cologne messing my senses. God, he smelled good.

“I’m sorry, I must have looked like a stalker,” his nod made me feel even worse.

All I could inhale was airy scent torturing me, enlarging the lift going down with no noise to muddle the silence. A sway of sadness ran through my body given the fact I have to do this job. Slow mornings moving my body to the sound of inner peace and calmness enveloping my heart, the safeness growing inside of me as if it would tear me apart if given the chance to expand. Creative days with no rush and restrictions in nature. Looking to the sunlight and warming my skin touching its sleeves. I never in my heart wanted to be this 'empowered independent' woman the society has made.

I lost all the hope when opening the door of SUV myself. Has the chivalry really gone dead? Thoughts were torn off from the noise, exciting screams from Ferrari fans hovering over the car.

"Have you previously done such a job?" His gaze locked onto mine; I tilted my head in an attempt to discern the eye color, but no clear answer emerged. I chose to let the moment slide.

"No experience with the celebrity lifestyle." He nodded reassuringly, expressing confidence that I would adapt well.

The quietude felt like a snare. Knowing he is not the chatty one, I clenched my teeth. Fingers touched the screen on iPad scrolling through files kept for assisting Charles's personal life.

''I've made some changes and saved a decent amount of money''

I skimmed through the palette on the page styling and got myself wondering which of these colors match his.

''Oh, wow,'' resonated through the air. ''I trust your intellect. You are paid for it after all''

The spoken words seared into my ears, yet I acknowledged him for stating the obvious. Almost as if summoned, my mind spilled forth the reasons why I had accepted this job. The whole concept of my future given by my family's idea was the reason. Working for Charles was better than staying home.

My fingers danced across the screen, orchestrating household tasks in his absence, as a cool breeze caressed my skin. I found solace in the fact that within the SUV, I could relish the refreshing chill, outside it was a walk through hell. Speaking of, it felt as though someone had touched me with a hot frying pan against my bare skin. I turned my gaze to the left, only to find his eyes expressing fondness toward my exposed thigh. The fleeting moment of admiration came to an abrupt end as our eyes locked, and I could swear I detected a spark of intensity in his gaze. Its reason unknown to me. The back of my thigh touched the seat underneath as feet touched the floor again.

''We're almost there'' having Ray Ban again.

Leaving the car as the last one, setting feet in the hell delivered a numb pain. Mix of frustration and calling for help left my lips making Charles shot a glance in my direction as I sat there.

"What's the matter?" The genuine tone in his voice caused my shoulders to slump.

''These heels are killing me,'' skimming the pair of Jimmy Choo heels made my lips curl.

I liked to dress. Wear pretty things. But per usual, pretty things cost, coming from a humble background, the prospect of high heels and I seemed like an incompatible pair, especially in the beginning.

My breath caught in my throat as I stared ahead.

"I value my employees; choose something more comfortable next time," he continued through clenched teeth.

''I am supposed to look presentable,'' I retorted.

''You can look presentable while being comfortable,'' with his last words, he turned away, revealing his back—a connection I, regrettably, began to foster too much.

Engaging in Formula 1 is demanding on both the psyche and the body of the driver. This is why considerable effort is dedicated to maintaining optimal physical fitness, the amount of work they put into it is out of this world and one wouldn’t even tell. This misunderstanding often stems from the assumption that individuals who engage in rigorous physical training automatically develop bulky muscles. However, in Formula 1, many drivers maintain a lean physique with a minimal percentage of body fat.

This is one of the reasons I accepted this job—a relatively minor one, but my admiration for these drivers played a part in my decision. even though they don't save lives of others while risking their lives like firefighters do, they still risk a lot.

Sound of chaos lingered around me watching Charles race on the Singapore circuit, my vision blurred as I found myself yearning for something more profound to heighten the level of respect for this man, changing the weight from one foot to another.

Mere fame is insufficient for me to offer respect. A person, regardless of their status, should demonstrate general respect towards women and interact with them using good manners. I ran away from my family because of this and I block any misconceptions this society made. As of now, I have a feeling that something might be off with Charles.

“You’re the new assistant?” I titled my chin up to see a man looking at me. His hair seemed to absorb no light at all. Forming theories about the man—his inclination toward comfortable attire and a penchant for photography—I nodded in acknowledgment and shifted my focus back to the swift cars, resembling nothing more than fleeting smudges.

“I’m Joris, Charles's close friend”

His hand reached out to me and I accepted his offer.

“I believe it’s quite a job huh?”

This man believed that either way I took this job being incompetent or he tried to start a conversation. Either way I didn’t like how he started.

“Job is ok. People are the tricky one”

His silence provided a momentary relief, causing my tense body to ease. Soon after, someone came to my vision.

A blonde-haired woman enveloped Joris in a warm hug, and the sound of French language resonated in the air. Despite my understanding of French, I chose to keep to myself.

“He’s really put it on a whole new level”

Words stopped at my level, their bodies facing mine.

“Yes, this is YN”

Seeing her face, I smiled. I had a break from work, and I preferred not to spend it with people I don't know.

“I’m not surprised though. I’m Carla”

We shook hands but my mind was elsewhere. Her choice of words got my attention. ''What do you mean by that?''

I was told curious creatures get killed fast. I am okay with that. Joris expression fell and my curiosity grew. On the other hand, Carla showed us white teeth. She was giving me the vibe she could sleep like a baby even after spilling everyone's secrets.

“He is focusing on career now, doing a decent work like tidying his room is a distraction for him I suppose”

Laughter filled the space and the way she proceeded those words made me question everything. It was clear that she was his friend, and her disapproval of his decision to hire a personal assistant inclined me to be drawn to her side and trust her perspective. Bad feeling about Charles was not a coincidence.

Legs swept me elsewhere still on the territory of the Ferrari background but as I got consumed by thinking about everything and nothing, I lost the track where I was heading. The lighting changed, and the once resounding sounds of engines and formulas on the track dissipated. A metal door ahead beckoned me, and without overthinking, I reached for the knob, immediately sensing a shift in the atmosphere. Before me stood an elegant kitchen counter and a man donned in a Ferrari shirt. As our eyes met, I instinctively moved to offer an apology, feeling as though my legs were already propelling me towards the exit. However, he was quicker in his response. His warm smile welcomed me and I looked at his wrinkles around the eyes. He could be in his forties and Italian.

''Ciao''

Shyness enveloped me as it displayed on my scrunched eyebrows and crooked lips. I greeted him back.

''I am Andrea''

As the doors finally closed, my hands released their grip on the cold metal beneath my fingertips. ''I'm YN. Sorry If I disturbed you''

His laugher filled the space as If I told him the most hilarious joke ever and he closed the distance while still keeping his spirit up. His arms enveloped me in a warm hug, creating a sensation akin to being in a cozy room illuminated by flickering candles. Indeed, this guy exuded the comforting ambiance of a room bathed in candlelight.

I put the dots together. He is the personal trainer of Charles. He sent me reports about expanses on stuff for Charles's training. For the first time this day, laugh left my lips as this situation seemed so embarrassing to me, but to keep it fair, I haven't encountered any familiar faces since my interview and I got my feet on the Singapore land just today. But I felt immense gratefulness for Andrea. Mind note: I have to buy him candles sometimes. My stomach seemed to have a mind of its own as it growled, and we both erupted in laughter.

''Oh my, let me make you something''

My eyes felt like they were on the verge of falling out, and I fully embraced the mode of sabotaging the mission he had so earnestly accepted. He shook me with more laughing telling me to relax. I stopped harassing him and hopped on the barstool.

''Thank you, but you really don't have to do that'' He kept quiet with a warm smile on his face as his hands worked the magic. I didn't know what he was making, he could poison me for all I care. I did not. My soul hasn't felt this warm since I have flown through the air gate to Singapore. And it is a lot to say when it is a living hell outside there.

''I believe you’re not used to long flights''

I hummed in response and engaged him about my flight. I wanted to keep it short, but my monologue ended with details and meeting with Charles. He furrowed his eyebrows listening to me while fiddling something on the frying pan. Yep, he could easily poison me if he wanted to.

''That surprises me, Charles is always like a sunshine''

First Carla, now Andrea. As if written on a secret paper known only to few, they were describing Charles differently than I have experienced him to be making my head spin. But as long as I keep receiving money so I can leave this job and start the life I want, then I am fine not being included to this 'crew'.

''I noticed how Charles has changed his approach towards career now,'' lingered in not so approving way and I couldn't hold back anymore.

''Change of approach?''

He nodded and I cursed myself for keeping the question short. Just when I accepted the end of discussion, he put the food on a clean plate and continued.

''He's really hard on himself. He has two brothers and lost a father.''

Words hit me like a rock bottom and my breath got stuck for a second. The sound of plate landing on the counter and the smell of the food freed me from my momentary mental drift. Clearing my throat facing the warm smile.

''I knew he has brothers, but didn't know he is the oldest one''

Andrea shook his head immediately placing the utensils next to the plate.

''He is not. He is the middle child, but Charles is just Charles.''

I understood his words and took my focus on the food in front of me. My stomach responded in gratefulness as the egg omelette was filling its smell to my nostrils. Taking a bite resolved in an appreciative moan as Andrea laughed at my reaction, but his smile slowly faded away as I sensed another presence behind my back. I turned my torso with full mouth of the omelette to see Charles in his gear.

The first upper half of the gear was open, hanging itself on the sides of hips showing the fireproof underneath, displaying his toned chest. Red really suited him. Charles had this lazy look in his eyes shooting through my skull telling me something encrypted in a highly sensual manner and as I become aware I'm no longer chewing, I took off my eyes from him to the plate again.

The food sliding down had a hard time doing so and I shifted my focus to Andrea to thank him. Charles moved like a ghost behind Andrea and pulling out the water from the cabinet. Italian language filled the room and I prayed for having the food eaten already.

I found out Andrea was telling the truth; he was like a sunshine.His dimples were on full display, and his delightful chuckle echoed, sounding like a melody to my ears. I didn't wanna melt here on the barstool so I ate like a daredevil. When Andrea noticed me finishing, he reached for the plate.

''Don't worry about it, I wash it''

Frozen on the spot, he took the plate with a polite smile and I thanked him for it. I couldn't help myself looking away from Charles. He was eyeing me while taking a sip of his bottle. Sweat on his forehead made his longer hair stick to the skin in a delicious matter and I felt my knees to buckle soon. Shifting from warm to cold to hot in a second wasn't good for my heart. I excused myself and went anywhere but there.

Two days have passed and the only conversation I had with Charles were short sentences about work. He finished forth in yesterday's race resolving his mood to worsen. I overheard how critical he can be towards himself.

I was shocked how mean he was and upset about forth place out of twenty. But we are separate individuals with different dreams, If I had lost a small amount of money resolving in postponing my leaving and pursuing my dream life, I would be mad as the weather in Singapore is.

Charles told me he doesn't need me for the rest of the evening so I had practically a time off preparing for tomorrow's flight.

[genericpuff]

oh boy it's that time again

when rachel posts 'video progress' of her work and we proceed to dissect it like a frog in 9th grade science class

like ok first the caption of "is persephone the chicken and hades the egg" makes no fucking sense except to anyone who overthinks it and goes "wait is that a reference to the popularly-perpetuated version of the myth where persephone went down to the underworld willingly and hades didn't actually exist???" because if it is ima scream lmao

but MORE IMPORTANTLY-

Here's the transcript of what she's saying in the video:

"I think I've always wanted to write Hades' and Persephone's story because obviously I really like them. It's like very much a chicken and egg situation because I think in the beginning I thought that I was going to use a very abstract black and white style, and I realized it wasn't very enticing or fun for me, um... and I started drawing these very like vibrant characters and as I drew them I understood more about the story the more that I explored the art style, um and I guess an example of that is, y'know, Persephone is like a very bright color um, and the Underworld, is a very dark dark blue, and so when she says she really sticks out so it's just environmental uh processes like that that really helped inspire the direction of the story."

(despite her expanding on the "chicken and the egg" bit it still doesn't make sense imo lmao)

But what we're seeing isn't S1 LO, it's actually from S3 of LO:

But um... you notice anything interesting about the screenshot I just showed you?

That literally looks NOTHING like what we see in the final panel. At the VERY least I think this goes to show how overcooked it becomes in post-production, when they add the canvas layer and hypersaturate the shit out of the colors, but even the blending technique just isn't matching up?

A lot of what she's doing in this video also feels very... non-existent, like she's brushing her pen around but very little is happening so it feels more like her just putting down random brush strokes to try and make it seem put-together but really she's just kind of pushing colors around and/or doing nothing. Especially when, again, what she's painting here looks nothing like the final picture (so at best it's a lot of wasted work??)

And knowing what we know about the assistants drawing the characters separately so that Rachel can rearrange them in the final episode layout... I don't wanna call foul play here, but this feels like yet another attempt on Rachel's behalf to make her process seem more involved than it is by simply redrawing a scene for the performative aspect of it all. It's like the "sketches" in the books looking way too 'clean' for the final product and giving the impression that she just sketched over the final panels to make them look pretty enough for print.

I also wanna mention that for some reason she's drawing this on her iPad when she owns a Cintiq. It could be because she was drawing this while abroad in the US for her conventions last fall, but despite clearly being ahead of schedule, she still wound up drawing the final episode the night of-

Oh yeah and btw there are like a million clipping layers for what looks like just a simple drawing of Demeter. And this lines up with our previous theories about her using like 128549021809 layers for literally one character.

And aside from all that her commentary, as always, is very nothingburger, just a bunch of word salad. Like she's literally trying to explain LO's color theory as "well Persephone is bright pink and the Underworld is dark blue so she sticks out! That's all you need to know!"

IDK, I'm not coming to any sort of ironclad conclusion based off this one video, but it does feel like yet another desperate attempt to prove that she does work on LO and doesn't just leave it all to her assistants to do at the last minute. But like... she's kind of screwed in that argument either way, because even if she draws the majority of panels in LO, that just further proves the argument that she's stopped trying.

[hlficlibrary]

HL Fic Library 🩷 Mpreg Fics

Remember to leave kudos and a comment on the fics you enjoyed to show your appreciation! You can find our other recs here.

🩷 Say Something by @kingsofeverything {E, 105k}

At fifty years old and recently divorced, Omega Harry Styles isn't interested in dating. When his doctor suggests a heat and rut matching service, he signs up out of necessity. It’s the only use he has for an Alpha in his life.

Twenty-eight-year-old Alpha Louis Tomlinson aims to change that.

🩷 I Get To Love You by lovelarry10 / @chloehl10 {E, 83k}

A one night stand leaves Harry with a permanent reminder of the night he spent with a stranger.

Louis has no idea who the handsome stranger he took to bed is... until his friends make a shocking discovery.

A baby is on the way, and Louis and Harry have nine months to get to know each other before they become a family...

🩷 I like the way you say my name (when you soak it in grace) by louisismycat / @liminalkittyfics {E, 73k}

“It’s like I’m fucking orbiting around you, you know? Like you’re some huge, beautiful planet, and I’m a piece of space junk lucky enough to be pulled in by you somehow, and now I can’t leave, even if I wanted to. And I really fucking don’t want to leave.”

OR Louis is transferred to a new city to temporarily cover for his counterpart while he is on maternity leave for the next six months.

His new co-workers talk endlessly about Harry, the omega who he’s covering for. And Louis finds himself jealous of whatever alpha as snatched him up.

Until he learns Harry is actually an unmated omega three months out from becoming a single parent.

🩷 Little by Little by nonsensedarling / @absoloutenonsense {E, 65k}

Harry Styles is an omega who works at the London Planetarium, has lived in the same flat for ages, and is happy enough on his own. When he gets home from his first (horrible) attempt at dating in years, a new pregnant neighbor knocks on his door after smelling his cooking. He and Louis quickly become close, but their friendship gets complicated when Harry begins questioning who he is and what he likes.

Or Harry discovers figuring out who you are is more complicated than a potato metaphor.

🩷 Falling For Me Won't Be A Mistake by Rearviewdreamer / @all-these-larrythings {M, 58k}

Harry is married to his job and so overworked that he doesn't know how to stop. All it takes is a forced Hawaiian get-a-away, the warm tropical breeze of the island, and the most beautiful, elusive man he's ever seen to make him remember what living is like outside of work. Well, that, and the little souvenir he accidentally takes home with him.

🩷 Just for Tonight (I can be yours) by @sadaveniren {E, 42k}

Harry, prince of Cestrescir, has been betrothed to Ludvic, prince of Yorvik, since birth. He'd accepted a loveless marriage as his duty to his country, until an accident threw him in the path of a gentle alpha

🩷 I Think You're Already Home by @jaerie {E, 38k}

Seeing Louis Tomlinson today, it would be hard to guess that he was ever once a member of the world's most famous boyband. These days he doesn't even the leave his own house. The truth is he can't leave his own house. He can't even remember the last time just standing at an open door didn't send him into a debilitating panic attack. But, against his friend's advice, Louis is ready to add meaning to his life again. He's ready to start a family. So what if he doesn't have an omega? There are plenty of surrogacy services just waiting to help the rich and famous become parents. He just has to find the right one for the job.

🩷 Endgame by @brightgolden {E, 38k}

Harry has been told all his life how grateful he should be for being born as a male omega, and how blessed their people were because the heir to the throne would be carried by The King.

What they neglected to tell Harry was what would happen if he failed to become pregnant.

OR Where omega Crown Prince Harry Styles is trying and failing to get pregnant for four years, but all that is about to change when courtesan alpha Louis Tomlinson comes into the equation.

🩷 Baby, What a Big Surprise by kiwikero / @icanhazzalou {E, 33k}

As Harry settles into his seat, self-consciously adjusting his shirt over his slightly distended stomach, he can’t help but wonder how he got himself into all this. But he knows, of course he knows. It isn’t exactly easy to forget the moment that changed his entire life forever.

It all started with a party.

Or, the one where shy, quiet Harry has no idea he's a carrier, and a one night stand with the most popular boy in school shows him just how wrong he was.

Featuring Lottie as Harry's best friend, Niall as her boyfriend, and, of course, Louis as the popular boy with a soft spot for his little sister's quirky friend.

🩷 Oops, Baby, I Love You (In That Order) by @fallinglikethis {E, 25k}

Later that night, when he’s lying in bed thinking of all the things he’s longed for in his life, he can’t stop hearing Fizzy’s words in his head. Who says you have to get married?

It’s true, Louis wants to get married one day, to have a spouse to encourage his crazy promotional ideas for his book shop, to have someone to cuddle into at night, someone who will love him even on his moody days. But she’s absolutely right, isn’t she? Who says he has to have that before he can have a baby?

 When he finally falls asleep, he sleeps restfully, having made a very important decision about his future.

 Husband or no, Louis Tomlinson is going to have a baby.

Or The minute Louis Tomlinson decides he don’t need no man to start a family, Harry Styles literally falls into his arms.

🩷 deep in my heart i know there's only you by ballsdeepinjesus {E, 23k}

"Will you do it?” Harry whispers. Louis has to lean closer just to hear him. He furrows his brows and shakes his head, not knowing what Harry means. “Would you donate for me?”

Louis is dumbfounded. “I’m sorry, I thought you just asked if I’d donate my sperm. Can you repeat yourself?”

[harry and louis are best friends who engage in some platonic baby-making. very platonic.]

🩷 tread lightly on my ground by fairytalelights {E, 20k}

No, that's the tragic part of this, the part that makes Harry feel like the universe is playing a cruel joke on him. The father of his baby is exactly right, exactly who he always imagined himself having kids with. He just imagined them married, bonded. Happy. He didn't imagine them barely talking, tip-toeing around each other because neither of them is brave enough to talk about what happened between them. He didn't imagine the father of his child not loving him back.

or, the one where Harry is having Louis' baby, but Louis doesn't know it's his.

🩷 Souls; Plural, Parallel by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup {T, 19k}

Soulmates are rare, the sort of rare that means everyone has a story about a friend's sister's coworker or a brother's roommate's cousin. But the fact of the matter is that most people never meet theirs. It's unfortunate then, that Louis finds out the hard way that he met his soulmate in a club, and the guy never texted him back.

🩷 Come In and Change My Life by lightswoodmagic / @lightwoodsmagic {E, 12k}

He’d had the same neighbours since he’d moved into the building, a lovely, wealthy couple in their late sixties who had always invited him around for tea on Sundays. Martha had dropped off homemade biscuits the day he’d moved in, so Harry figured he may as well repeat the sentiment. He could hear someone getting closer to the door just as a flush ran through his body; oh fuck. His heat was close, too close to be knocking on a potentially unknown alpha’s door, but it was too late. The door swung open, and Harry’s mouth dropped. He’d never been overly interested in football, couldn’t find the fascination in watching men run around after a ball for hours aside from their uniforms, but he knew who this was. Louis Tomlinson, alpha, captain of Manchester United, star in a number of Harry’s heat addled fantasies, was his new next-door neighbour.

Or, Harry and Louis become friends when Harry looks after Louis' cat during away games, until one night at a party changes everything between them. It's just a shame Louis' going to be away for the FIFA World Cup for three months.

🩷 One Minute Old by crimsontheory / @ireallysawanangel {E, 9k}

“And he left you,” Niall interjects, the venom clear in his voice. “That asshole left you high and dry and broke your heart.”

Of course, Niall remembers that. Louis may have told him everything—minus the sexy parts—and Naill, being the overprotective mother friend that he is, took offence to that. “He didn’t break my heart,” Louis refutes. He was hurt and confused by it but he wasn’t heartbroken. And apparently, he’s still hurt by it if the way it felt seeing Harry yesterday was any indication.

“You were pretty smitten with him and then you spent days moping around your apartment after he left. I think that’s called being heartbroken,” Niall points out.

“Okay, okay, I was upset. We get it,” Louis says, trying to move past it. This isn’t ‘poke fun at Louis’ emotions hour’. “Anyway, I called to tell you that he showed up at my door yesterday.”

“To beg for your forgiveness I hope.”

“No, he’s—” Louis stops, unsure how to phrase it. “He’s pregnant. And I’m the father.”

Or, a one-night stand of Louis' that he never thought he'd see again shows up at his door six months later.

🩷 Him & I by notasawrap {NR, 8k}

Louis inhales deeply and... "Maybe we should divorce." He lets go anxiously, without looking at Harry. He can't, Louis can't do this and pretend that it doesn't hurt, that his omega is not dying, but he knows it must be for the best. They have not been working for a while and Louis doesn't think the alpha wants that either. Besides, now there are more things at stake and Louis wants to let go before it's too late for both of them.

Maybe Harry even has some lover and although Louis loves Harry, Louis doesn't think Harry loves him back. Not anymore.

"Why would we do that?" Harry says and sounds really dismayed at the idea. Louis doesn't understand.

or Louis thinks Harry has a lover and he's willing to let's Harry go to be happy with someone else even if it hurts the three of them.

🩷 Game Changer by @neondiamond {E, 6k}

“Did the doctor say what was wrong with you?” “He thought I was pregnant,” Louis scoffs. “Told me to go home and take a test, a pregnancy test, Haz. Can you imagine the nerve it takes for him to even think that?” Harry looks lost in his thoughts for a few seconds. “Did you? Take a test, I mean?” “Of course I didn’t.”

OR: A couple months before playing in his first long-awaited World Cup, Louis finds out he’s pregnant. Harry’s there for the ride.

🩷 The World Will Open Its Arms by @lululawrence {NR, 4k}

Harry scrubbed at the countertop. It wasn’t even dirty, but it was three in the morning and the girl who was supposed to relieve him over an hour ago never showed. He was now on hour ten of his shift and his feet hurt and his back ached and he was trying not to cry, thanks to more fucking judgmental alpha truckers who could smell it on him.

Of course they could. He practically lived at the diner. The entire place reeked of it.

Unbonded pregnant omega.

🩷 seven, seven by @nouies {NR, 1k}

“Hello, baby girl,” Harry says as soon as the nurse places the bundle of joy into his arms. “We’ve been dying to meet you.”

🩷 Holy Guacamole! by bluegreenish / @greenblueish {G, 666 words}

Louis needs to tell Harry something and wearing an avocado Halloween costume is the perfect way to do it.

[nutonmydraco]

✶ 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧. . . 📜 .ᐟ

📂 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ━━ includes: matt sturniolo, chris sturniolo, and more. . .

🪞fluff / 🧚🏻 smut / 🧷 angst / 🐇 a wattpad original

𝗝𝗨𝗦𝗧 𝗟𝗜𝗞𝗘 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗠𝗢𝗩𝗜𝗘𝗦 ‧₊˚ 🎞️ | short series

🎟️ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ━━ in which i write a few short series based on iconic romance and rom-com movies we all know and love <3

i. the proposal ✷ matt sturniolo x fem!reader

y/n is an executive editor for a book company in manhattan, new york. while she may be a powerful woman, many of her workers despise her. when y/n learns that she’s going to face deportation and has to return to canada, she does the unthinkable. she lies through her teeth and reveals to her boss that she’s getting married to her assistant, matt sturniolo.

🪞 / 🧷 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ━━ coming soon in theatres.

ii. 10 things i hate about you ✷ chris sturniolo x fem!reader

on the first day of school, finn instantly falls for the most popular girl in school; cassie. his plan to ask cassie out is destroyed when he learns that she’s forbidden to date until her ill-tempered, hates-all-men, un-dateable older sister, y/n, does. desperate, finn finds a possible match all over the school for y/n until he comes across the perfect one—the ‘bad boy’ with a bad reputation, chris sturniolo.

🪞 / 🧚🏻 / 🧷 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ━━ coming soon in theatres.

iii. to all the boys i’ve loved before ✷ conrad fisher x fem!reader

five times. that’s how many times y/n has fallen in love and for each guy, she’s written a love letter that she keeps hidden in an old box. the letters remain a secret until y/n’s little sister sent all five letters to each guy it was addressed to. y/n was unaware of it until conrad fisher walked up to her one day, the folded paper in his hand. in an attempt to get his ex-girlfriend back, conrad proposes an idea that they should date. well, pretend to.

🪞 / 🧷 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ━━ coming soon in theatres.

iv. roman holiday ✷ matt sturniolo x fem!reader

it’s 1953 and princess y/n has arrived in rome, italy. overwhelmed by her suffocating schedule, princess y/n escapes from the palace in the middle of the night and into the cobblestoned streets of rome. lost and frightened, she runs into an american freelance journalist, matt sturniolo, who shows her what it’s like to live a normal life.

🪞 / 🧷 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ━━ coming soon in theatres.

v. the parent trap ✷ harry styles x fem!reader

divorced parents. two daughters—twins. after meeting at summer camp, anya and juliette devise a plan to switch identities to give each other a chance to spend time with the parent they’ve missed. if their scheme goes well, they have a chance to bring their mom, y/n, and dad, harry, back together and become a family again.

🪞 / 🧷 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ━━ coming soon in theatres.

+ more. . . <3 soon.

𝗗𝗜𝗘𝗧 𝗣𝗘𝗣𝗦𝗜 ‧₊˚ ⛪️ | one shots

🪽₊˚⊹ ━━ in which i write one shots for you! my inbox is open, so if you want to leave a request, feel free to let me know!

NOTE . . . .ᐟ requests that include certain kinks (e.g., piss kink), incest, anal, threesomes, and any other topics i find uncomfortable will be ignored.

i. little black dress ✷ chris sturniolo x fem!reader

❛❛ i wanna see the way you move for me, baby. . . ❞

in an attempt to move on from a brutal breakup with her piece-of-shit boyfriend, y/n gets dolled up for a frat party her friend had begged her to come to. hoping to just forget about it all by getting wasted, y/n is taken by surprise when she meets a frat boy, chris sturniolo, who had his eyes on her and her little black dress from the moment she walked in.

🧚🏻 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ━━ coming soon.

one night stand, fratboy!chris, nsfw

ii. only angel ✷ harry styles x fem!reader

❛❛ it turns out she’s a devil in between the sheets. . . ❞

famous popstar, harry styles, is performing at the 2017 victoria’s secret fashion show and he’s more ready than ever. while performing ‘only angel’, harry is captivated when an angel herself, y/n, steps out to walk down the runway. after the show, harry takes it upon himself to ask if he could take her out for dinner—only to end up stumbling into harry’s hotel room to do more french kissing than talking.

🧚🏻 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ━━ coming soon.

famous!harry, model!y/n, nsfw

iii. juno ✷ chris sturniolo x fem!reader

❛❛ give me more than just some butterflies. . . ❞

rumors have been going around that famous popstar, y/n, and nfl player, chris sturniolo, are dating after months of being spotted together by fans and paparazzis. attending y/n’s show for the first time, chris is taken by surprise by the ‘freaky position’ she does on stage, all while looking at him. of course, fans go insane.

🪞⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ━━ coming soon.

singer!y/n, nflplayer!chris, fluff

iv. i can see you ✷ matt sturniolo x fem!reader

❛❛ and i could see you up against the wall with me. . . ❞

y/n has been thinking about this guy in her english class—his hair, his face, his glasses. they’ve never spoken before, but y/n can’t help but develop feelings for him. maybe it’s the way he talks, or walks, or maybe it’s just his face. y/n finally gets the courage to talk to him, lying that she needs help with an assignment but he sees right through her. the only problem is that he’s her professor.

🧚🏻 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ━━ coming soon.

professor!matt, student!y/n, older!matt, both are consenting adults, y/n is 21+, nsfw

+ more. . . <3 soon.

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗔𝗟𝗖𝗛𝗘𝗠𝗬 ‧₊˚ 📰 | series

☁ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ━━ in which i write multiple series filled with angst, fluff, and smut!

i. don’t blame me ✷ chris sturniolo x fem!reader

❛❛ lord, save me, my drug is my baby. . . ❞

y/n has had a secret admirer for months. every morning is the same thing—a note falls out from her locker, talking about her smile, her beauty, her everything. she throws each note away, and never thinks about it again. after being partnered up with chris, the quiet boy, in chemistry class, she forms a genuine bond with him. things begin to change when boys she has ever dated and her enemies were found in the woods, lifeless.

🧷 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ━━ coming soon.

obsessed!chris, killer!chris, quiet!chris, nsfw, angst, thriller

ii. sweet relief ✷ matt sturniolo x fem!reader

❛❛ it’s just something only we know. . . ❞

y/n has despised her brother’s best friend for years, but no one seems to know why. every time matt comes over to their house, y/n’s mood turns sour. growing tired of it, her brother, jax, forces y/n and matt to spend time together by leaving them at their family’s beach house. with no choice, the two spend the night together, learning to get along. as unexpected feelings surface, both agree to keep their new understanding a secret from jax—for now.

🪞 / 🧚🏻 / 🧷 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ━━ coming soon.

brother’s best friend, enemies to lovers, nsfw, angst

+ more. . . <3 soon.

𝗦𝗟𝗜𝗣𝗙𝗔𝗦𝗧 ‧₊˚ 🩹 | fics

⛓️‍💥 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ━━ in which i incorporate my wattpad fics on tumblr and continue them <3 and also make new fics with designated names for oc’s instead of ‘y/n’ !

i. fool’s gold ✷ chris sturniolo x fem!oc

❛❛ i know your love’s not real. . . ❞

bianca sinclair is the new girl in somerville high school. this being her senior year, she vows to not let boys distract her. that is until she meets chris sturniolo, the football player who’s known for also being a player outside of the field. things take a turn when bianca is asked to tutor chris in spanish and they spend more time together outside of school. in attempt to make his ex-girlfriend jealous and hide the fact that he has a tutor, he asks bianca the unthinkable—for her to be his fake girlfriend.

🪞 / 🧷 / 🐇 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ━━ coming soon.

fake dating, footballplayer!chris, madison beer fc

ii. the great war ✷ matt sturniolo x fem!oc

❛❛ my hand was the one you reached for. . . ❞

ellsworth, maine became a silent town days after the sturniolo brothers moved in across the street from adelaide westwood. adelaide can’t help but become more curious about the enigmatic boy who smoked more than he talked, matt sturniolo. fear hovers over the town when a series of murder is reported, and she suspects that matt is the killer. surely, he’s hiding something, right? adelaide makes it her mission to unravel the truth matt seems to be secretive about, that is if he is hiding anything at all, before the whole town drowns in a bloodbath. or worse, before she’s next.

🧷 / 🐇 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ━━ coming soon.

thriller, biker!matt, cindy kimberly fc

© . . . all rights reserved. no part of this publication is allowed to be reproduced or copied. i put a lot of my time, effort, and energy into making all of these possible and the last thing i want is for someone to take my hard work, copy it, and claim it as theirs. in other words, plagiarism isn't tolerated.

💌 below are clickable tags i’ve included to make it easier for you to navigate through my page when i start posting more!

ᥫ᭡.

gian <3

[taintedtort]

prompt ✧ them doing your hair

characters ✧ aether, shenhe, ayaka, xiao, kazuha, wanderer

warnings ✧ gn!reader, reader has hair that’s able to be braided and pulled into a ponytail, so if you’re bald im sorry

a/n ✧ pt2 for you 🦊 anon

AETHER

✧ after you did his hair do many times, he’d gladly return the favor. he knows how nice it feels so of course he wants you to experience it. since he braids his hair every day, he knows what he’s doing. will give you your own braid and you two can match! might also put some little clips in there to make it colorful. was super proud of himself afterwards.

"you look so cute! do you like it?"

SHENHE

✧ she wouldn’t mind playing with your hair at all. if you wanted it in a style, she’d also give you a braid because she’s accustomed to it. but if you just wanted her to massage your scalp she’d do it without question. she wouldn’t put any accessories unless you asked her to.

"play with your hair? of course, sit."

AYAKA

✧ she probably offered first. she’d do a bunch of things to your hair if you let her. you’d be stuck for hours while she put it in different styles and added accessories as she pleased. her nails felt really good against your scalp though so you weren’t complaining. she honestly had the best time and would want to do it again.

"can i do your hair, please?"

XIAO

✧ he‘s got no idea what he’s doing, but since you asked he thought he would at least try. his first couple attempts at doing a ponytail were unsuccessful and you ended up having to demonstrate after he started getting frustrated. after he did it, it looked bad so he just took it down and resorted to running his fingers through your hair instead.

"this is impossible, how do you do it?"

KAZUHA

✧ you don’t have to ask him twice. he‘ll gladly sit for however long you want and comb through your hair. he knows how to braid but he’s pretty slow at it (honestly a win for you, just means he’s playing with it longer). he‘s very gentle and knows exactly how to work his fingers across your scalp, one of the best experiences you’ve ever had.

"does it feel nice? i can tell, you’re dozing off."

WANDERER

✧ he‘d reluctantly agree (he agreed after you asked one time). he wears a hat all day so he isn’t sure how to do a ponytail or a braid, so you’d have to show him. he actually listened and was able to do it after a demonstration and explanation. the whole thing felt sort of domestic, and you could tell he enjoyed it. you two actually sat there a lot longer than you had anticipated. he didn’t fuss the entire time like you thought, just sat quietly and worked on braiding some strands of your hair.

"wait— show me one more time."

[ywnzn]

boy next door ᡣ𐭩 alright?

ᡣ𐭩 song eunseok x fem!reader

ᡣ𐭩 synopsis. in which yn keeps texting a random number life updates, that turns out to be the boy next door.

ᡣ𐭩 warnings. smau parts at the beginning & end, lower case intended, not proofread, mentions of food? a little cheesy 🤷🏻‍♀️

ᡣ𐭩 wc. 531

eunseok giggled at the texts before he shut his phone and slipped it into his pocket, ignoring the way it kept vibrating and turning his attention to the girl who was busy gawking at the cafe's decor.

“looks like you like it here.” he broke her out of her dazed state; to which she smiled sheepishly to. “yeah.. you brought me to a miffy themed cafe, eunseok.. of course i like it.”

of course he had to bring her to anything miffy related. he liked the way she squealed whenever she saw the character. even her outfit had miffy-related things to it, including her famous hair accessory.

“then, i’m glad,” he smiled and leaned back in his chair, tilting his head. “there’s a store i wanna take you to as well. it’s not far from here.” yn nodded and soon after, the waiter came with their orders.

after having brunch together, eunseok took her to a miffy store, again, he had to.

it got hard for him to hide the way her reactions towards things made him smile, so he gave up on doing that as a whole. and a smile was kept on his lips, with occasional laughter here and there.

“oh, seok, look! they have rings,” yn gasped, picking up two rings that she thought matched their styles and turned around to show them to him.

eunseok walked to where she was standing, examining the rings. “do you want them?”

“yeah, i think i’m gonna get both,” she giggled before she moved to the plushie section.

“i’m pretty sure you don’t have any plushies at your place.” yn said, looking around at the different miffy plushies. “does a keychain count?”

yn gave him a judging look and she shook her head:“no, it doesn’t count!”

yn spent the next 20 minutes helping the boy look for the perfect plushie for him, after lots of struggling, the one that eunseok liked was a gray miffy plushie. so they got that along with the rings.

by the end of the afternoon, the two were already walking home because eunseok had evening classes.

yn cursed the moment she planned her outfit because now she was getting cold due to the cool spring breeze.

but of course eunseok noticed the way she shivered, and of course he took his jacket off and draped it over her shoulders.

“you don’t have to.” yn frowned at him, attempting to remove it and give it back, but eunseok shook his head; dismissing her. “i want to.”

“eunseok, is this…” yn spoke after a moment of comfortable silence; earning a hum from the boy. “is this a date?”

eunseok stopped in his tracks, looking at her now with an unreadable expression. “do you want it to be a date?”

yn shrugged, chewing down on her lower lip to silence herself. “yn, do you want it to be a date?” he said, his thumb and index fingers gently holding her chin, tilting her head up.

“…yeah”

“alright,”

“alright?”

eunseok smiled and took his hand off her chin, only to slip it into hers and pulling her to continue walking. “yeah, alright, it’s now considered a date, our first date.”

₊ ⊹ prev | next ⊹ ₊

ᡣ𐭩 notes. ik badtz-maru is not a miffy character but lets act like it is😣

ᡣ𐭩 taglist. [open!] @kyusqult @starwonb1n @teddywook @seunghancore @molensworld @ahnneyong @lecheugo @eternalgyu @rksbae @hakkkuu @wonychu @nakam00t @totheseok @ilovechanhee @strawbaemi @miyawakiblossoms @kgyam4 @sseastar-main @rosesfortaro @dodot04lover @daegale @b-riize @snoopyana @lipsbyive @bludzk1llzyuzu @keilovr @ksywoo @bambisnc @poollabug @rllymark @jinanangel @bunni @drinktaro @wonbinsvlle @lcvehee @snowyseungs

[oletus-writer]

Heyy can I have Wu Chang, Mary and Joseph reacting to their s/o giving their mini pet versions more love and affection then them? They think the pets are too cute to not give attention to

Sorry if I made any mistakes English isn’t my first language :)

I do believe I’ve seen people write for Joseph’s pet receiving more attention than him, but here’s my shot at this.

Wu Chang, Mary, and Joseph getting jealous of their mini versions

Warnings: slight jealousy

Xie Bi’an

At first, he thought the fact that you had a mini Wu Chang as your pet was pretty cute, until you began giving it more affection than you gave him.

Of course, he was happy that you were happy, but the bitter pangs of jealousy began creeping up on him.

‘Qin ai de - ah, you’re playing with your pet again... Well, please don’t let me disturb you.’

He wanted to say something else, but left as you hugged the mini Wu Chang to your chest.

He’d plan dates with only you and him (and Wujiu, if you were also dating him) and amp up the sulking if you had brought your pet with you.

‘Ah, I thought I had specified that this date was only for you and me, but you brought it along… it looks like you love it more than me.’ But of course, this was in a joking tone, no matter how he felt.

Expect a lot more of romantic gestures and pampering, as if he was saying ‘I don’t understand why you give the pet more attention than you give me. Look - I can treat you better.’

Fan Wujiu

Unlike Bi’an, he was kind of annoyed that you had a mini version of him. What to cuddle him? Just ask. Want children? Well, that would be quite a conversation. Everything the mini version of him could do, he could do better.

So, when he saw you pampering the pet more than you gave attention to him, he was quite infuriated. Marching towards you, he snatched it from your hands.

‘Give me affection, then I’ll give you back your pet.’

While his directness can be appreciated, sometimes it would be too much. You explained that it was a harmless pet, and that you were comforting it because it was sad you got chaired first.

Hearing this, Wujiu calmed down and stroked the head of the mini him thoughtfully. ‘I did not expect these tiny things to be capable of feeling emotions. How interesting.’

Still, he’d prefer you go to him immediately after matches, especially since you could potentially get injured.

Mary

Sometimes, Mary would get pretty insecure - was she a good girlfriend? There were many other good candidates in the manor, yet you still stuck by her side. She was sure that you would eventually leave her, so seeing a little pet that looked like her to keep you company reassured her a little bit.

That was until you began giving it more affection than you gave her.

She saw an example of this in a match you had with her - you had asked her not to go easy on you, so she obliged, leading you to be chaired. You were comforting the shivering mini Mary, which made the former queen quite displeased.

‘How dare you! You are my lover first, and then the owner of that pet second. Now, as we wait for your teammates to rescue you, shall we have a lovely chat?’

Slightly puzzled, you were rescued by your teammate and Mary continued to chase you.

Be prepared for intense courting, European style, after you finish every match. She can’t stand someone else sweeping you off your feet, even if it’s a mini version of her.

‘Ma chere/mon cher, I had Emma pick the best flowers for you. Now be a dear and let me braid these in your hair/make you a flower crown.’

Joseph

The Frenchies are very similar in how they react to your pet. How lovely of you to have a little remainder of him every where you go! To By God, why are you giving it more attention than you give him?

He’ll also attempt to win your attention by going on more extravagant dates, and all in all spending more time with you.

‘Beau, would you like for me to show you some recipes that… Claude and I used to enjoy? Can you bring your pet? No, I’m afraid it may cause a mess.’

Out of your sight, he’d be rather petty with his mini version. From glaring to knocking if off the table, he’s not going to accept another competitor. Of course, he’d stop if you asked, begrudgingly, but be sure to reassure him that he’ll be the only one in your eyes.

[bonesandchalamet]

welcome to the final show - h.styles

masterlist

pairings: harry styles x reader!

warnings: fluff

a/n: in my depressed era now that tour is over ☹️

it’s over. it’s somehow a bittersweet ending that for some reason, you never saw actually coming to an end. he’s exhausted, but his heart has never been so full seeing his fans send the love right back to him night after night, and this one seems to get to him more.

family, friends, team members, band members, and even celebrity guests all approach his sweaty body first. fist bumps, high fives, and hugs are all he knows for the next couple of minutes, until the crowd of loved ones part like the sea to reveal you. a kiss would be nice, he thinks to himself. after all, it’s the second most magical thing he could experience after his final performance.

“you did such a good job, h.” you launch your body into his. the smell of his heightened body odor doesn’t bother you in this moment. you just press yourself further into him before pulling away and giving him what he wants. a kiss.

“you enjoy it?” he asks like it’s a ever question. every moment of each show was more than enjoyable, so when he sees you roll your eyes he knows. he knows you loved every second until it was over.

“go get changed.” you point in the direction of his dressing room, and it hits him. the emptiness in his gut appears once again attempting to swallow him. this was over. the performing would actually stop and he could have a break. you can already see the wheels turning in his head, he’s wondering what he’ll do with his free time. he’s never had this much of it since COVID.

“what if I want to stay in this?” he gestures to the gold fringe suit he’s wearing, the vest showing off his beautiful abs and butterfly tattoo. one of his best outfits, you thought to yourself when you saw him enter the stage.

“I won’t mind that.” you smile, cheeks hurting so badly from the whole night of doing so, but you still press on watching his eyes light up at your approval.

you know why he doesn’t want to take it off. it’ll be like admitting the best thing thats ever really happened to be over. that him hearing his fans scream when the lights drop, sing his lyrics back to him, and dance to his songs will be over. the joy he brought to millions upon millions would finally stop. for the first time, he could fly home and have no where else to be later.

“I bet he’ll sleep like a baby tonight.” Anne wraps her arms around your shoulders, a tight smile on her lips and tear stained cheeks that match yours. she’s proud of her sons accomplishments, but she knows he’s ready to go home. she knows he’s ready to sleep in your arms for hours upon hours.

you nod in agreement watching him trot off to Lloyd, his camera hung around his neck showing the band members his photography of the night.

“I got this picture of you, y/n.” Lloyd’s eyebrows wiggle in a mischievous way, harry taps his shoulder with his index finger begging to show him already.

“calm down!” Lloyd laughs, his thumb clicking through the photos until it stops and settles on, what you believe, is an image of you.

harry takes the camera in his hands, a small smile forms on his lips as he stares long and hard at the picture. it’s like if he blinks the image of your visibly tears streaming down your cheeks, bright smile, and pink boa would all go away.

“I love this picture, can you print it out for me?” harry taps the small screen, and he talks with Lloyd like you’re not there. the camera gets passed around to band members again, and your image fades with the millions of other ones.

“was it a good picture?” you ask him when he’s finally moved on from the group and back over to you.

“darling, the best picture ever. going to have it framed forever.” he presses his lips against your temple, arms wrapping around your body, and once again you’re pulled into his sweaty body.

“going to have this night framed for ever as well. it was one for the books.” you watch him nod, arms wrap tighter around you for a second, “now let’s go home, h.”

“I couldn’t have agreed more, let’s go home.”

[xiaoscarasimp]

Horny Drabble 2-Ribbons and Smut

Merry Christmas everyone ^^ I wanted to do a Christmas themed smut piece and this ended up being way longer than intended (but still short)

Cw: afab reader, biting, pet names, choking, degradation, etc etc MDNI pls

“Ah, shit, it's supposed to wrap around this way? No wait, this way?”

You were having problems trying to figure out how to wrap the purple ribbon around yourself; you were starting to look like a hot mess, almost falling over. There was supposed to be a bow on your front, across your chest and it was supposed to be wrapped around your torso, plunging down towards your crotch in a V shape, showing off your soon to be leaking pussy. The thought of seeing your boyfriend's reaction to your “present” to him was already making you excited.

You tried a few more times to wrap the ribbon around yourself, eventually settling for a bow on top of your head, a lacy purple bra and bow on your chest, and matching panties and stockings. There was supposed to be the ribbon around the stockings as well, but you got frustrated on trying to put it on. Waiting for Scaramouche to get home, you wrap up in a warm blanket because your torso was getting cold, despite the fireplace going in the background. The heat starts to make you sleepy and you drift off with thoughts of the long, long night with Scara.

An hour or two later, Scaramouche comes through the door, clearly exhausted from work. You wake up, still a bit groggy and greet him in the kitchen, blanket off, revealing your special Christmas outfit. At first his eyes went wide, then they settled on a lustful gaze.

“My, my,” He coos, pupils blown wide with lust. “What do we have here? My very own personal Christmas slut? Aww, y/n you shouldn't have.” Scaramouche comes over to you and tilts your head up with a finger running under your chin, staring deep into his deep indigo eyes. The storm of lust was just beginning.

“Merry Christmas!” You say cheerfully.

Scara picks you up and carries you to the bedroom princess style. He whispers into your neck how he wants to ravage his present, starting with your breasts. Your boyfriend nibbles at your neck while he is performing his ministrations, lapping at the skin to surely leave a mark. You're already a moaning mess and he hasn't even taken his clothes off; your neck has always been your weak spot.

He carefully, but roughly, puts you on the bed, climbing on top of you, a knee between your already drenched pussy. You moan once the knee hits it and attempt to grind on it, leaving a stain on his jeans. Removing the knee, Scaramouche leans down to kiss you enticingly,passionately, roughly. His lips were the electric jolt your body needed, one of the things your body craved. Thrusting his tongue in your mouth, you two perform a choreographed dance, him taking the lead, nibbling at your lips as you danced.

“Gods, you look so cute underneath me like this,” He temporarily paused his assault on your lips, cupping your face with a smile. Scara then went straight for your neck again, licking a stripe up one side, then kissing and biting down the other.

“S-scara,”you moan, overstimulated already.

“Shh, darling” He coos with a smirk on his face. “Let me have my fun.”

Scaramouche then makes his way down to your breasts, groping one while his tongue swirled around the nipple of the other. The way he was pulling and tugging on the sensitive bud, you swore that he was going to tear it off. Needless to say, you found a lot of pleasure in the pain.

“Please,” you beg. “Please just let me cum.” You were about to cum just from him sucking on your breasts.

“Ah-ah-ah” He tuts. “I need to savor my present and Christmas dinner.”

He dives down towards your pussy, licking it and teasing the clit. Scara thrusted his tongue in your needy, leaking hole, lapping up the juices that spilled forth from it. It’s his ambrosia; the sweetest nectar he could have ever tasted in his entire life. After savoring the taste for a little while he sits up, eyes half lidded, drunk on your pussy and finally lines himself up with your hole. He decides to take it agonizingly slow, plunging in centimeter by centimeter, allowing you to crave it all the more.

“Scara please, hurry up,” you whine.

Big mistake.

“Know your place,” He growls.

Scaramouche's hand finds purchase on your neck, squeezing gently at first. Noticing your reaction of pleasure, he squeezed a bit harder, your walls squeezing him in turn. He knew you liked to play rough sometimes, and tonight was about pleasuring not only himself but you are well.

He starts to thrust slowly at first, each stroke causing tantalizingly slow. It wasn't long before he was thrusting faster and at irregular pace that your hole started sucking him in even more, craving the member in its wake. The sounds of sex reverberate in the room, the plap plap of skin slapping together was making the experience all the better

“Scara,” you moan. “Faster, please!!”

“Such a needy slut for me,” Scaramouche breathes in your ear. “Do it. Cum on my cock like the whore you are.”

Few seconds later, you allow the coil in your stomach to come unwound, cumming on his member. Not long after he filled you up, leaving his dick in your hole to ensure not a drop was wasted.

“Merry Christmas, darling.”