#i need to lie down i need to lie down i need to lie down | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zoro-sremedy · 2 days ago

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My backshots sound like bongos!

Synopsis. Your back hurts and they offer the best service!

Including. Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Toji, Sukuna.

Risk assessment 18+ mdni, smut and crack, stablished relationship, reader is unprotected, spanking, backshots, soft dom/dom vibes.

a/n: i did say a drabble might happen, and obvs i couldn't resist!!! Inspired by this beauty

GOJO SATORU—"LET'S LOOSEN YOU UP"

"My back's killing me. Come break it?"

You're half-joking. Maybe he'll bring a massage gun. Maybe he'll make a dumb pun.

Instead, Gojo shows up at your door thirty minutes later with a devil's grin and a bottle of oil.

"Emergency response team reporting for duty," he says, stepping inside like owns the place.

"You're not serious."

"I'm always serious about back-blowing."

You open your mouth to clarify—massage, not mayhem—but then his hands are on your shoulders, kneading casually while his mouth brushes your ear.

"You're tense," he murmurs. "You need something deep. Penetrating. Therapeutic."

Your protests die in your throat because… okay, his hands do feel good. Strong fingers work under your shoulder blades, slow and firm, and when he kneels behind you, straddling your thighs like it's nothing, you feel his breath hit the nape of your neck.

"Satoru—"

"Shh," he whispers, mouth grazing your skin. "Just breathe."

The shirt comes off first. Then your shorts. Then his hands slide lower, gliding over your hips with oil-slick precision, a finger dips between your thighs, testing your heat, and he lets out a low whistle.

"Damn. Didn't even have to flip you over. You're so ready to be fixed."

You turn your head to glare, but he's already lining himself up. Smiling like the demon he was.

"I hope your insurance covers maximum damage."

And then he's inside.

The first thrust knocks the air from your lungs. The second has your toes curling. By the third, you forget your own name.

He's slow at first—teasing, dragging his cock all the way out just to slam back in until your entire body jolts. One hand holds your hip steady, the other presses between your shoulder blades, forcing you down like this is some goddamn yoga pose.

"Good girl," he groans, rolling his hips. "Look at you. Taking it so well. Gonna break you in all the right ways."

The room fills with the sound of skin slapping, your breathy moans, and his sinful little chuckles every time your body arches under him.

"Feeling better yet?" he murmurs against your neck.

"No," you pant. "Harder."

He growls.

The pace changes. No more play. Just pure, ruinous rhythm—balls slapping your ass, hands gripping your hips like they're handles, the head of his cock hitting the spot that makes you tremble.

You come with a cry, body convulsing, nails clawing at the sheets. Gojo groans, deep and hungry, hips stuttering as he fills you to the brim.

Afterwards, he collapses beside you, glistening with sweat and absolutely zero shame.

"You're welcome," he says, smug.

Your voice is hoarse. "That wasn't a massage."

"Sure it was. I touched your back and blew it out. Multi-tasking king."

GETO SUGURU—"YOU CALLED, MY PRIESTESS?"

It started with a text.

My back hurts. Break it?"

He replies instantly, like he's been waiting for this moment.

"Physically? Spiritually? Emotionally? "Massage, dumbass." "Got it. All three."

You expect a bottle of lotion and a pervy smirk.

What you get instead is Geto Suguru in a black kimono, hair tied up, sleeves loose, and a slow, knowing smile like he just walked out of a shrine and into your depravity.

"Lay down," he says, voice velvet-smooth, already lighting incense like this is a ceremony.

"Is this gonna get weird?" you ask.

He glances over his shoulder, eyes glinting. "You texted me 'break my back' and thought this wouldn't get weird?"

Touché.

Still, you obey. You lie down on the mat he brought—yes, he brought his own mat, wtf—and let him straddle you. His palms are warm. Soothing. Sinfully slow as they glide down your back.

"Stay just like that," he says, voice deepening. "Arms above your head. Legs spread. Back arched—good girl."

Your breath stutters. That was a lot for a massage intro.

"This is how we start," he murmurs, leaning close. His lips brush your ear. "So your body's prepared. Submission is a sacred act."

You snort. "You sound like a cult leader."

"I am." He grins. "And tonight, you're my only follower."

And then you feel it: oil drizzled, fingers gliding down your spine, rubbing slow circles into the small of your back, working lower with every pass. His hands are hot. Intentional. Reverent.

Your brain short-circuits around the same time his hands slip lower, cupping your ass like it's part of the ritual. You try to lift your head, but he presses you down gently.

"Shh," he coos. "Let me heal you."

You're wet. Shamefully so. And he hasn't even touched you where it counts—yet. That changes fast.

One hand stays on the small of your back, grounding. The other slips between your thighs, fingers gliding through slick folds like a prayer. He groans low.

"You were made for worship," he whispers, tracing lazy circles over your clit. "Look at you. Ready to be blessed."

Before you can answer, he shifts up behind you. The rustle of fabric tells you he's already stroking himself, and then—he drags the head of his cock through your soaked folds like he's blessing the altar.

"I'm going to take my time," he says softly. "Make sure you feel eeeevery inch."

And then he sinks in.

You moan—loud. His name, a curse, maybe both. He's huge, thick, and it's all so deep from this angle—his cock hits you from behind like it's meant to change your fate.

"Take it," he murmurs. "Let me ruin you right."

He starts moving. Slow, grinding thrusts at first, pushing you flat against the mat. His palm presses between your shoulder blades, holding you down while he fucks you like a man possessed.

Geto groans like he's the one being ruined. "Fuck, this is divine. Look at you. Face down, ass up—made to be worshipped."

You babble something incoherent.

"Breathe, pretty thing," he coos. "You can take it. You asked for this."

He leans over you, still slamming into your soaked cunt from behind, and kisses your spine like he's reading a prayer off it.

"Gonna fuck you until your back gives out. Until your knees shake. Until this pretty little body remembers who you belong to."

Your moans are broken, loud, begging. Every thrusts slaps against your ass, each one rougher, deeper—until you're shaking under him, climax ripping through you so hard your vision goes white."

"Yeah, just like that," he groans, voice wrecked. "Come all over me, priestess."

He follows with a deep guttural moan, spilling inside you as he grinds his hips against yours, burying himself to the hilt.

You're both panting when he finally pulls out, slick dripping down your thighs, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back again like he's sealing the ritual.

“Feel healed yet?” he asks with a smug smile.

You wheeze. “You shattered me like a fucking cursed object.”

“Mm,” he hums, kissing your temple. “Praise be.”

NANAMI KENTO —"LET ME TAKE CARE OF YOU"

It starts with a simple message:

"My back hurts. You busy?"

He replies two minutes later, like he was already halfway out the door.

"I'm on my way. Don't do anything strenuous."

You think he means a shoulder rub. Maybe even tea and a lecture about taking breaks. You don't expect Nanami to show up in his rolled-sleeve dress shirt, tie secured around his neck, hair just slightly mussed like he ran his fingers through it too many times on the train over.

And that look he gives you? It says he's not here just to fix your posture.

"You could've called earlier," he murmurs, setting his watch on your desk. "You know I'd drop anything for you."

You smile. "Didn't want to interrupt your work—"

"I'll always make time for you."

You blink at the sudden warmth in his voice, but then he steps close. His hands are on your sides, raising goose bumps along the way, pressing softly against your lower back with soothing circles.

"Right here?" he murmurs. "Where it aches?"

"Yeah," you whisper.

"Let me fix it."

You expect pressure. Massage. Something clinical. But instead:

"Assume the position."

You blink. "You mean—"

"Face down. Elbows on the desk. Legs apart."

You do as you're told. Because of course you do. Because something in his tone makes your knees weak and your cunt throb.

He steps behind you, warm hands smoothing up your sides, over your hips, thumbs digging into the tight muscles. His touch is firm. Intentional.

And then—he pauses.

"Your lower back is tight," he mutters, voice deepening. "I'll fix it."

You thought he was going to press his fingers into your skin. What you get is his palm gliding under your waistband, fingers brushing against skin, tugging everything down in one motion.

"Nanami—"

"I said I'd take care of it. Don't talk back."

You gasp. Then you moan—loud—because his hand dips between your thighs, two fingers running through slick folds like he's confirming what he already knew.

"Hm. Wet already," he says, like it's a report he's filling. "I haven't even started."

Then you hear it. The sound of his belt. The hiss of fabric sliding down.

You arch your back instinctively.

"Desperate," he mutters. You just needed an excuse, didn't you?"

You tried to tell him that was not true, that you really just needed to have your back rubbed.

But he lines up. Grips your waist. Pushes in slow.

You choke on a moan. He's thick, long, steady as a metronome as he sinks into you, inch by inch, stretching you open like you were made for it.

Once he's fully inside, he leans over your back. His breath brushes your ear.

"This angle is perfect," he murmurs. "Let me realign your spine properly."

Then he starts moving.

Slow, measured thrusts that build tension like a clock ticking down. Every snap of his hips knocks your desk forward an inch. Every slap of skin against skin echoes off the office walls. His hands hold you in place—no escape, no mercy.

You look up—and catch his reflection in the glass window.

Loosened tie. Muscles flexing. Jaw clenched. Focused.

"Look at yourself," he says. "See what a pretty mess you are."

You do. And it makes you whimper, because Nanami is staring at your reflection too, watching himself fuck you with precision that borders on obsession.

"Taking me so well", he mutters. "Back arched perfectly. You'll thank me for this tomorrow."

You come with a cry, vision hazy, walls clenching hard around him. He groans, pace faltering as he grips your hips harder.

"Fuck—" he hisses, voice breaking as he buries himself deep, spilling inside you with a grunt. "Goddamn…"

Silence. Heavy breathing. His hand rubs lazy circles over your back as you tremble against the desk.

Then—

"Next time," he says, tucking himself away and smoothing your hair, "schedule me in advance. I'll bring proper equipment."

You laugh, breathless. "What, like a foam roller?"

He smirks. "No. Restraints."

FUSHIGURO TOJI —"DON'T TAP OUT NOW"

"Your back hurts?"

He grins like the devil he is as he pushes you flat onto the bed, tugging your hips up with a single hand and yanking your panties down with his teeth.

"Lemme guess. You want me to fix it?"

He doesn't wait for an answer.

You yelp as he flips you onto your stomach, manhandling you like he'd been waiting all night to throw you around. One big hand presses down between your shoulder blades, keeping you chest-down, ass up—exactly how he likes it.

"Cute," he mutters, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds. "You wanted backshots, and didn't think I'd take that literally?"

You barely manage a breath before he thrusts in—deep, fast, merciless. No warm-up. No build up. Just a brutal, thick stretch that makes your eyes roll back and your fingers claw at the sheets.

"Fuckin' tight," he growls, snapping his hips into you with obscene force. "Gonna fuck the tension outta ya', princess."

Every thrust slams your hips forward. The bed creaks. Your moans are barely coherent, but he's eating them up like a man starved.

"Yeah, that's it. "You hear yourself? That sloppy little sound every time I slam into you? Fuck, you love this, huh?"

You try to speak. All that comes out is his name—half a whimper, half a plea.

Toji leans down, his body blanketing yours, cock still driving into you like he's trying to rearrange your guts. His hand fists your hair and yanks your head to the side so his mouth is at your ear.

"Say it," he snarls. "Say you wanted it just like this."

You moan. "I—I did—Toji—"

"That's right. Wanted me to ruin you, huh?" He grins against your skin, all teeth and deranged. "Back's gonna be fucked after this. And not 'cause you're sure. 'Cause I'm planting you on this mattress."

He fucks you harder.

Faster.

Filthier.

You're drooling into the sheets, ass smacking loud with every thrust, your body reduced to trembles as he pounds into you like it's a sport.

"Tap out if it's too much," he says smugly, already knowing you won't.

Because the second he angles his hips just right, your body seizes around him and you come violently, sobbing into the pillow as your thighs quake.

"Fuck," Toji growls, losing rhythm. "Takin' me so good, ma—shit, I'm gonna—"

He buries himself to the hilt, lets out a broken moan, and fills you with a load so warm and thick it drips from around the base before he's even pulled back.

For a second, the only sound is both of you breathing hard.

Then he leans back, slaps your ass, and grins.

“Still sore?”

You twitch.

He laughs.

“Good. We’ll go again in five.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA —"YOU ASKED FOR A GOD, DIDN'T YOU?"

"Back hurts, huh?"

Sukuna laughs like you just said something adorable. The kind of laugh that chills your spine—because he's already behind you, already hard, and already decided what kind of night it's going to be.

You poor thing," he coos mockingly. "Let me fuck the pain right out of you."

You're already chest down, ass in the air, thighs trembling from the first orgasm he barely let you recover from. And now?

Now it's worse.

Because all four of his hands are on you—one spreading your ass, another gripping your throat from underneath, the third one cradling your belly to feel every deep thrust, and the four slapping down over your spine just to keep you pinned.

His cock is buried to the hilt, thick and veiny and monstrously deep, rutting into you with relentless force. Every time he slams in, you jolt forward, breath punched from your lungs, drool slipping past your lips onto the sheets.

"Fuck, listen to you," he growls. "Sloppy, wet, desperate—my perfect little cocksleeve."

You moan something that might be his name, and his laugh turns darker.

"That's right. Cry for me. Moan for me. This is what you wanted, isn't it? On your knees for a god?"

He leans in, tongue dragging up your spine as he pounds into you harder—deep, brutal backshots that make your ass ripple, his name a broken chant on your lips.

"You wanted worship?" he hisses. "Then take it. I'll worship every inch of you—while I fucking ruin you."

He presses kisses to the back of your neck between thrusts, almost tender—if not for the vicious snap of his hips and the way his fingers bruise your skin as he holds you down.

"You think anyone else can fuck you like this?" he growls, voice a gravel rasp in your ear. "Think anyone else could own you like this?"

Your moans are incoherent now, your body a mess of pleasure and overstimulation. Your knees buckle, and he catches you with ease—two hands holding you up, the others lifting your hips back into place.

"Don't you dare fall now," he hisses. "I'm not done. Not until you forget what walking feels like."

Your climax slams into you like a tidal wave—legs shaking, mouth open in a silent scream, everything white-hot. You clamp down around him, and he groans, shoving in one last time before he fills you, cock twitching as he pumps you full.

He doesn't pull out.

Instead, he strokes your trembling sides with surprisingly gentle hands, his voice low and smug:

"You break so beautifully for me."

A pause.

Then his tongue flicks against your ear.

"…Round two, pet?"

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dollishmehrayan · 1 day ago

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# DIFFERENT BATBOYS LOVE LANGUAGES ── .✦ ( batboys but love languages towards s/o )

a/n: so I was of course brewing this up because uh why not, anyways this comes from my brain and not my friends or a anon this time (tsk tsk) but I’m working on a new masterlist which should be finished by maybe? Friday or Saturday because I’m kinda lazy ( it’s finals okay? ) tags : ( batboys x love language )

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦ Words of Affirmation + Physical Touch ( because he lowkey gives me those vibes )

Dick is your personal hype man™. You walk into a room? Boom. “Wow, how does someone like you even exist?!”

He’ll call you “babe,” “love,” “sunshine,” “angel,” and at least five other nicknames before breakfast.

He will send you encouraging texts randomly: “You’re doing amazing, sweetie” ( yes I had to do the Kris Jenner meme I’m sorry 😭😭) even when you’re just sitting in the living room next to him.

The man is a cuddler. Like, you sit down and suddenly he’s on top of you like a weighted blanket of love.

PDA? He invented it. Expect forehead kisses, back hugs, and casual handholding like it’s his job.

JASON TODD ── .✦ Acts of Service + Quality Time

He shows love by doing stuff for you. You mentioned you were out of coffee once? He restocked your entire pantry with your favorite roast.

He acts like he’s grumpy about it though: “Tch. It was on sale. Don’t get used to it.”

If you’re stressed, he’ll silently hand you a mug of tea, rub your shoulders, and let you vent while pretending not to be emotionally invested (he is).

He’s a big fan of quiet companionship. Reading together? Napping in the same room? Sitting in silence while watching reruns? That’s pure love to him.

He won’t say “I love you” every day, but he’ll make you dinner, fix your leaky sink, and threaten your ex all in the same evening.

TIM DRAKE ── .✦ Quality Time + Words of Affirmation

Tim is busy™, but if he gives you his time, that’s his love language in action. You get his full, undivided attention... for like 10 minutes before he needs suddenly do some case.

He’ll always stay up late with you even if he's dead tired just to be in the same space.

His texts are oddly nerdy poetic: “Thinking about the way your smile short-circuits my neurons. Goodnight.”

Late-night cuddles with conspiracy theories are his go-to. (He enjoys any conspiracy theories whether it be SpongeBob or actual cases or gravity, he likes them because it gives him something to solve)

He may not always say “I love you” directly, but he’ll mumble things like, “You’re the only constant in my chaos” and honestly? That’s peak romance for him.

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦ Gift Giving + Acts of Service

His love language is doing things for you but with a “no big deal” attitude and dramatic flair.

If you say you like something, it becomes a part of your life forever. “You liked that necklace? Here are ten. Wear the gold one today.”

He may not say sweet things often, but he’ll quietly cut your food if you're distracted (or just have some sort of fear of knives like me) . Or fight someone who looked at you wrong.

If you’re tired, he’ll drag you to bed while still denying it: “You require rest. That is all. Now lie down.”

He shows love by protecting you even from yourself. You stub your toe? He’s ready to interrogate the table. “Who hurt you, the table was definitely microchipped to hurt you.”

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fromdove · 3 days ago

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MY JASON TODD PHYSICAL APPEARANCE HEADCANONS !

welcome to my ted talk. go ahead and sit your semi-literate goblin ass down and take notes, because i am about to paint you a portrait of this man so vivid you’ll think i dipped my brush in the lazarus pit itself.

HETEROCHROMIA. one blue eye & one green eye. im a very big and firm believer on this. this is my religion. this is my prayer. jason todd's eyes are my gospel, and I am the devoted disciple on my knees at the altar. he's always had them, before the lazarus pit & AFTER the lazarus pit. (although after the lazarus pit id like to point out that his eyes got a bit brighter especially the green!). i saw fanart once of this—just one image—and it was enough to send me into a trance. my jaw unhinged like a snake

LARGE SHARP ALMOND EYES. eyes sharp enough to cut!! real real real. sharp enough to gut someone in an alley. you get looked at by him and feel like you need to apologize for crimes you haven’t committed yet. yup that. they soften when he looks at you tho bc ur his amazing angel faced baby.

HIS GODDAMN JAWLINE. the kind you see on statues. could cut diamonds. so perfect. brutal. Pythagoras would rise from the grave with a boner, calculator in hand, shaking and crying overwhelmed by the sheer geometry of him. drooling. weeping & erect.

6'4!!!!!!!!!! MY MAN IS TALL. A GIANT. GARGANTUAN. and that’s the final word. idgaf. don’t come in here with that “canon says he’s 6’0” nonsense. fuck canon. canon is a lie built by cowards. they've screwed up my babies too many times to count. my Jason ducks under door frames and casts shadows over people trying to insult him. he intimidates every man in a ten-mile radius just by standing up.

BULKY. (not crazy bulky like those steroid obsessed body builder protein-powder-in-the-veins monstrous freaks but still jacked af. (like in this picture: click here and here) . he’s jacked like a Greek statue, like a renaissance painting of a war god.

white streak. white streak 24/7 for the rest of infinity. all night. every universe. every reboot. i don’t care. Non-negotiable. he got it from the one and only pit. he tried to cut it, dye it, tried everything to get rid of it at first but it just kept growing back and the dye would never work on it somehow ??/ so he just gave up lmao

OKOK his nose. my fave nose to picture jason with is an sightly upturned nose with a bump in the middle. do you guys know what kind of nose im yappin about? here is a visual: click here

ive seen fanart with jason with the j scar and i just think it fits his character and backstory. yes it was from that makeup-smeared tragedy of a circus reject. but fuck him!! this is about jason peter todd. my baby is still hot af anyways so.

SHARP CANINES. BITE ME WITH THEM. LORDDD MOTHERR GODDD. Carnivore-coded. was he born with them? is it a lazarus thing? either way theyre sharp little bastards. He tries to be careful, he reallyyy does but sometimes, mid-kiss, they slip. he nips you. he pulls back, eyes wide, guilt-ridden. you’re breathless. he spews like a million apologizes coz the last thing he wants to do it hurt u. but u dont care bc it feels so goddamn good... STOP ME)

Full lips that look like they’re always swollen from a brawl or a kiss.. with a slight cupids bow. god. yes. the corners/edges of his mouth are sharp (does that make sense?? help). he also has scars extending from the corners that look like smiles, they only stretch a few centimeters out. not that long at all. joker’s parting gift, poetic as it is cruel. OH AND he has the Toji scar !!! this one right here: click here

dark brown hair thats wavy & fluffy heeheheh (2c textured.) not straight, not curly, that luscious in-between mess that stays tousled and tragic and stupidly sexy no matter what. fluffy. thick. ruffles in the wind like he's some sad, angry prince. you run your hands through it and he pretends he doesn’t melt. he is NAWT a victim of the male pattern baldness epidemic. bye no no no no he doesnt bald thanks to the lazarus pit.

THICK DARK & FULL STRAIGHT BROWSSS. IDCCC THIS MAN HAS THICK BROWS. These brows have seen things. They furrow when he’s pissed (which is like always lmao), They’re intimidating, god-tier brows kinda brows. oh oh and theyre also kind of upturned !

his fingers. jesusususususus. Veiny. Long-fingered. Calloused. Worn. His knuckles are always scabbed (from fights). His nails are short, His fingers could snap a neck, but you just want them on your throat for different reasons. And the rings? Thick, heavy, sharp. Some brass. Some iron. they double as weapons. like i just know if someone pisses him off the rings are going to hurt like straight up fucking hell.

this man has long lashes. like long enough to collect dew. Thick enough to cast shadows. curled at the tips. his lashes are criminal. like wtf. theyre the kind that make mascara cry. they frame his eyes and face perfectly

scars all over. he has the autopsy scar on his chest, he has scars on his back too. his face, arms, legs, everywhere. bullet grazes, knife cuts etc..his entire body is a war journal basically

he has eye bags and dark circles which is a given considering what he does and his lack of sleep. They're not “oh, I pulled an all-nighter” eye bags, theyre bruised purpulish blue with a bit of red. u can seen some veins. his eye bags r a little puffy. this paired with his sharp eyes make him look very very intimidating to others but not to u, bc wdym intimidating? he's my angel?? he would never hurt a fly?? tf?

a few extra's!!:

A slight scar on his eyebrow from a fall off a fire escape in crime alley when he was 12. Never stitched it (despite the constant nagging from bruce & alfred). he said the blood made him look cool. (my angel baby i love him)

a voice that’s deeper than you expect. gravelly. like he chewed cigarettes for breakfast and chased them with glass. but it dips soft when he says your name. unbearably soft. traitorously tender.

faint cigarette burn on the inside of his left forearm. from back when he thought pain might be the only thing that made him real. said it was an accident. it wasn’t.

A barely-there tremor in his right hand. Old injury. Nerve damage.

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antianakin · 2 days ago

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No. That's NOT what I'm saying here, AT ALL. Move away from biology and nature being the end all and be all.

First, Leia is Leia. She is not just "Character A with some of Character B sprinkled in." She is her own person with her own motivations and flaws. I am comparing her to Padme because I think the narrative intentionally builds that parallel for us and I find it interesting to look at the ways in which Luke and Leia are deliberately set up to be the successes to their parents' failures. That does not mean that Leia IS "Padme" in any way.

Secondly, Leia would never in any way be fortified by any of Anakin's anything. Anakin is a piece of shit and part of the reason he's a piece of shit IS his self-righteousness. And it's not like Padme didn't have plenty of her own self-righteousness, too. Leia is fortified by BAIL AND BREHA ORGANA, but it's not "self-righteousness" she's fortified by. She's fortified by their passion, their discipline, their wisdom, their kindness, their bravery, their willingness to stand up for what's right without burning down everything around them in the process. She's fortified by their absolute will to remain who they are in a world that wants them to capitulate everything out of fear. Leia learns how to be a good leader because she's raised by two of them.

Thirdly, Leia learns how to be a good leader because she actively CHOOSES to be a good leader when given the options. Leia does not succumb to despair and selfishness the way both of her biological parents do. Leia does not let love cause her to give up something that would allow the rebellion to win the war. She loves Luke, but she lets him go to the Death Star as a self-sacrifice because she knows it's necessary if they're going to win this war and respects the choice he is making in this moment. Padme starts off as someone who chooses to be a good leader, and remains someone who makes that choice SOMETIMES but not all of the time. Padme CANNOT give up Anakin for the sake of the war or anything else. She chooses to exonerate him when he murders children, she chooses to cover his murders up, she chooses to trade Grievous for him despite what that will mean for the war effort and the people who died to capture Grievous in the first place, and she chooses to lie to Obi-Wan to protect Anakin even after she discovers that Anakin committed a genocide and helped destroy the Republic. Padme would never have made the choice Leia makes in ROTJ.

If you think "self-righteousness" is what allowed Leia to let Luke go in that moment, then you might need to go watch it again. It's not self-righteousness that saves Leia from Padme's mistakes. It's compassion, something Anakin barely had any of in his adult life and something Padme struggled with by the end. And by compassion, I mean the way the term is actually utilized in Star Wars, a selfless love towards everyone. It's the opposite of attachment, it's an ability to let go of biases in order to show kindness to everybody, no matter who or what they are.

And then of course there's Luke. Again, it is not anything from Padme that saves him. He's never met Padme and, unlike Leia, he doesn't seem to have any kind of latent memory of her nor do the Larses seem to have ever told him any stories about her (not that they'd have had that many to tell, but we know they told Luke that his dad was a smuggler of some kind, so it's not out of the realm of possibility that they could've come up with a lie about who his mother was, we just never hear about it). If Luke is a better Jedi than Anakin, it's not somehow Padme's influence that saves him.

It's the Larses. This is Owen and Beru's down to earth hardworking values coming in. Unlike the Organas, Owen and Beru aren't really represented as these brilliant paragons of virtue. Owen and Beru make mistakes, even in terms of how they choose to parent Luke. But what this does for Luke is it shows him how to LEARN and GROW from his mistakes, something he uses quite a lot during the original trilogy. Luke learns how to be dependable and resilient. When it matters, Luke can rise up and do what needs to be done. He DOES have some of Anakin's darkness in him, that's a major element of his character and his narrative, but it's not his biological mother's compassion that saves him. It's Owen and Beru Lars's values, and it's the Jedi philosophies he was taught by Obi-Wan and Yoda. THAT'S what keeps him from making the same mistakes Anakin did.

Leia is Bail Organa's righteous passion and willingness to enter a fight tempered by Breha Organa's discipline and wisdom.

Luke is Owen Lars's protective instincts towards those he loves and firmness of opinion tempered by Beru Lars's empathy towards everyone she meets and open-minded acceptance of change.

As interesting as it can be to look at how Luke and Leia parallel their biological parents from a narrative standpoint, the two of them as people will always be so much more a product of the Organas and the Larses than Anakin and Padme.

People are SLEEPING on the most interesting Leia & Padme comparisons because there's so much focus on Leia being "like Anakin" because she gets annoyed sometimes and Padme being this perfect moral beacon of truth and justice despite all of her very canonical lies and cover-ups and obstructing of justice.

If Luke is the Jedi that Anakin should've been, then Leia is the LEADER that Padme should've been.

Padme is a hypocrite, proclaiming that all people deserve basic decency and the right to safety, but at the same time allowing Anakin to get away with a mass murder with no consequences by covering it up.

Leia doesn't even let Han get away with being a little bit of an asshole, there's no way she'd let him get away with mass murder. She holds everyone around her to a higher standard, believing in the best of them but also but refusing to accept excuses for cowardice and selfishness.

Padme talks so much about wanting the war to end, but then allows one of the opposition's biggest generals go free just to get Anakin back because she cares about him, causing the war to continue to go on for even longer.

Leia lets Luke sacrifice himself because she knows it's possibly the only way they might have a victory and beat the Empire, even though she knows what he is to her and loves him. She knows what has to be done and respects the choice Luke is making and would never condemn their efforts just to keep him with her.

Padme's story parallels Anakin's, she devolves as the narrative goes on, until she's barely a shell of the person she used to be. That strength and moral clarity she showed as a Queen is entirely gone, leaving only a scared woman pleading with a murderer to come back to her.

Leia's story parallels Luke's, she gains more and more strength and clarity as the narrative moves forward. The bossy young woman we first met has become a confident rebel leader who knows she doesn't have to harden her heart to be strong.

#luke #leia #bail #breha #owen #beru

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ccazimi · 3 days ago

Text

Currit in Sanguine Nostra

pt. 1

cw: vampire hunter!sukuna x vampire!reader, dubcon, enemies to...???, blood (blood drinking, mild gore), violence/torture (electrocution), sadism, usage of a shock collar, petplay, male masturbation, facial, humiliation/degradation, forced submission, piv sex, very mild anal play (more like teasing), hatefucking, creampie, major character death including murder-suicide, angst wc: 12k a/n: i listened to ma meilleure ennemie while writing the ending and lowkey cried ummm also i didn't edit this i'll clean it up tmr sorry if it's a bit rough

songs i listened to while writing this part

me again - 12 rounds

stitch in time - genitorturers

ma meilleure ennemie - stromae, pomme, arcane

You drift in and out of a restless mockery of sleep the next day, dreams pulling you under in ragged fragments. In some, you’re a child again—perhaps the closest you’ve ever come to feeling human.

Sometimes, you used to pretend you were one of them. But the hunger always ruined it in the end.

Hunger.

Your oldest companion…your only companion.

It’s the thing that defines you, that sets you apart. The reminder that no matter how well you mimic them, you don’t belong. Not to the world of the living, nor the dead. You exist somewhere in between—drifting, untethered.

But there are two absolutes in your reality, two anchors in the dark.

Hunger.

And Sukuna.

The man who was your enemy before you even knew his name. The man whose purpose was to end you—but instead, became bound to you, inexplicably and irrevocably. The man who, despite everything, has become just as much a part of you as the hunger itself.

Hunger and Sukuna.

The two things you can never escape.

And now, they’ve become one and the same.

You should have run, should have fed elsewhere, done anything.

But instead, you lay tangled in fever-damp sheets that still smell like him, every nerve fraying, every breath dry with wanting.

You wake with a jolt—head heavy, limbs trembling. His blood still burns through your veins like venom, sweet and spoiled.

You're not just hungry—you're sick.

The room is quiet in the evening that has settled like a bruise.

He hasn’t killed you. Maybe he’s waiting—for you to crawl, beg, break.

You move slowly, swallowing your weakness and forcing your steps to be deliberate.

His scent draws you to the living room… and there he is. Sprawled out on the couch like a predator at rest. Shirt open, glass of liquor dangling between his fingers, looking completely at ease.

Like he’s not the reason you’ve been wrecked for the last twenty-four hours.

The wound on his neck is closed now, but the bruising’s deepened—an angry, violent purple. Evidence of your teeth.

Your throat still burns, your stomach’s a churning knot, but it's deeper than hunger.

It’s worse.

You feel like you're rotting without more of him—yet at the same time, your body is rejecting it.

“What the hell did you put in your blood?”

Your voice comes out hoarse, but steady.

Sukuna doesn't blink. Just tilts his glass, gaze lazily dragging down your body—your flushed skin, the faint tremble in your fingers.

“I didn’t take anything,” he says evenly.

You stare at him, trying to read the lie. But there isn’t one, and unfortunately you believe him. You tasted it last night. There was nothing foreign, just him.

How perfect, then. That the blood that’s rivaled yours for generations would be the one that makes you sick.

And the one you crave more than anything else you've ever tasted.

The irony would be almost funny if it didn’t feel like it was killing you.

But then, another thought pierces through the haze.

“…Not even antivenom?”

You fed from him enough that his mind should be bowing to your will. The average man would become obsessed with you from a single bite, and while Sukuna isn't the average man it's odd that there was no reaction at all.

He snorts. “Don’t need it for a sucker as weak as you. Wouldn’t do shit to me anyway.”

You grind your teeth but force yourself to stay neutral, prowling toward him with slow steps.

“I’m hungry.”

Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, more amused than anything, and lifts his glass for another slow sip.

“That so?”

You swallow your irritation, keeping your voice level.

“Yes.”

Finally, he looks at you fully—his eyes glinting with something sharp, yet cruelly playful.

“And what, exactly, do you think I’m going to do about that?”

Your jaw tightens.

He knows. Of course he does. He always does.

Sees right through you—down to the marrow, to the way your body hums with sickness and longing, wound tight with want.

“I need more.”

You don’t beg, don’t bother to soften it, just lay it bare.

His lips curl.

“Need?”

He leans forward slightly, the lazy shift of weight somehow predatory. “Didn’t take long for you to turn into a little addict, huh?”

Heat flashes under your skin as your fingers twitch.

You hate the way he says it, like this was always going to happen, like it was his plan all along.

“And?” You step closer. “Are you going to give it to me, or just sit there running your mouth?”

His brows rise, mock-surprised. “Oh? You want me to?”

You bite your tongue as hunger claws at you, tight and wild beneath your ribs. Your throat is dry, pulsing, the remnants of his blood still lingering on your tongue—something divine turned rotten by denial.

Sukuna leans back, head tilting as he studies you.

“Tell me, little leech,” he murmurs, voice smooth and dark. “Which ache are you really asking me to fix?”

Your stomach drops, a shiver crawling up your spine, slow as poison.

Because you don’t know. Not really. Lust, desire, hunger—they’ve twisted into something indistinguishable.

It’s all the same in the end. All a craving for him.

But you won’t flinch, won’t give him that.

Instead you sneer at him. “Why don’t you give me what I want and find out?”

His smirk deepens.

“Oh, I already know.” His voice dips, twisting with something cold.

“Bet you couldn’t even sleep, could you? All squirming, all wound up—” He leans in, voice low and cutting, “—fingers weren’t enough, were they?”

Your body moves before your mind catches up.

One moment, he’s lounging there, glass dangling from his fingers like a dare, smirking like he owns you.

The next, you lunge.

Hunger rips through you, primal and brutal as instinct blots out reason. You’re on him in a blink—fangs bared, claws digging for his jaw, desperate to rip it sideways, to expose the throb of his artery.

But Sukuna is faster.

He pivots—just enough to throw you off balance. Then his palm slams squarely into your sternum and he throws you.

Your spine hits the floor with a crack that leaves the walls shuddering, as pain detonates up your back.

You snarl, writhing, legs lashing out to knock him off and he just laughs.

“Poor little thing,” he sneers, voice honey-thick with mockery. “Left to take care of yourself like some neglected pet. And still—”

His knee drives up between your thighs, cruel and deliberate in the way it grinds into that one aching spot. You gasp—body reacting against your will as heat throbs through your core.

“—you came crawling back.”

You twist, head spinning, teeth snapping toward his throat. They clack as they close around nothing when he jerks back just enough to stay out of range.

“Tch.”

His hand clamps your jaw, forcing your mouth open, fingers digging into your cheeks until your breath shudders.

“What now?” he murmurs, low and cruel. “Acting like some wild animal? No pride left?”

You growl, chest heaving.

You despise how your body responds to his weight, how his scent drowns your thoughts, how his pulse sings in your ears like a curse.

You spit his own words back at him, poison-laced. “And you love it.”

His grin splits wider, something dark flickering behind his eye.

“Maybe I do.”

His lips brush your ear—just breath and heat.

“Did you cry for me last night?” he whispers. “Touch yourself to the thought of me?”

One moment of hesitation—just long enough for him to see it.

His grin sharpens, wicked.

“Ohhh… You did, didn’t you?”

Rage detonates.

You snap again, harder, fangs out, strength flaring wild as you thrust your torso upwards.

Impact.

Your back slams into the floor again with a crack loud enough to splinter the wood.

In your stomach, something lurches, your brain pounding with that toxic blood coursing through it.

Still, even in your feverish, sickened state, you can't stop.

You twist like a rabid thing, clawing and bucking, fingers slashing until he catches your arm mid-swing and twists.

The crack of your bone is sharp and awful, pain lancing up your arm like lightning.

You scream—but not from fear.

From fury.

He slams your wrist down, pinning it to the floor. His other hand wraps around your throat and squeezes, cutting off your air.

“Pathetic,” he breathes.

You manage a snarl through clenched teeth. “Fuck you.”

He laughs. Horribly delighted.

“You can’t even touch me,” he mocks. “What, all that hunger, and this is the best you’ve got?”

You lash out again, thrashing as much as you can with any free part of your body.

His hand tightens on your throat.

His voice drops lower, like he's talking in pity to some fucking stray. “You’re so hungry, aren’t you?”

You snap, flailing around again, this time with mild success when your long nails catch his cheek deep enough to draw blood.

There's just a flicker of satisfaction in you before his laughter deepens.

He licks the blood from his lip, eyes glowing with some kind of thrill. “Good,” he growls. “That’s more like it.”

Suddenly he lets go, and that's when you feel it—the pain in your arm, the bone he cracked—it's knitting itself back together.

You feel the muscle realigning, sinew fusing. The sound is low, wet, wrong, and then it’s done. You don't have to look to know bruises are already fading from other parts of your skin, scrapes sealing themselves over.

His eyes flick to your arm, watching the contorted limb revert back to its original state, and something in his expression changes.

Not surprise or fear. More like...intrigue.

Dark, vicious intrigue

You try to spring up again, feral instinct overriding thought, and that's exactly what he wanted.

He catches you mid-motion, spins you, and slams you down, face-first this time. The breath is knocked clean from your lungs.

Before you can recover, he’s on you again, weight crushing your back, knee digging into your spine. One hand knots in your hair, yanking your head back, the other twists your arm behind you—just shy of breaking it again.

You thrash, scream, curse.

He just chuckles.

“I should break you. You’re too stupid to quit.”

Your vision swims red. Maybe because he's partially right.

His knee presses harder into your back, then something cold brushes your neck.

Metal.

Click.

A collar.

You freeze; not from fear, but recognition.

The pressure on your arm eases slightly, just enough for your fingers to reach your throat as you claw at the cool metal. It won't budge.

Beep.

Your pulse spikes.

Sukuna leans close as he clicks his tongue in disapproval. "Try to take it off,” he whispers, “and I might just test it on you.”

You go still, but your eyes blaze.

He trails a slow finger along the edge of the collar. “There,” he murmurs. “That’s better.”

His hand tightens just enough to make you swallow, to make you feel it.

Something inside you snaps in panic, like a wild animal realizing it's been caged in and exploding. Against your better judgement, you try to go for him again.

Another mistake.

The moment your arm swings up, there's pain.

White-hot, searing, blinding pain.

The collar pulses with raw electric current, slamming through your body. You scream as your muscles seize, legs collapsing till your knees hit the floor with a sickening crack.

Your back arches and every nerve burns.

And through the agony, you hear his laughter.

Finally the waves stop and he crouches beside you, watching the way your body twitches from the aftershocks.

“You’re not very bright, are you?” he purrs.

You shake, but you don’t cry. There's a cloyingly sweet smell, and you realize with disgust it's the smell of your flesh cooking.

Your teeth bare as you glare up at him, every breath a battle though your body is already regenerating.

“Oh?” he taunts. “Still got fight left?”

You snarl, body trembling, fangs glinting.

Click.

The second shock hits harder, the healing process interrupted as your whole body jerks, bones slamming against the floor. Your scream rips free, raw and ragged.

Light blooms behind your eyes, fracturing your vision.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Shaking already?”

He watches your fingers spasm, watches the flicker of humiliation in your eyes.

Then, he caresses your cheek.

“Did you really think you could take from me?” he whispers.

You twitch under his touch—still burning, still raging.

But bound and helpless.

Suddenly, beneath the sharp, acrid sting of singed skin, you smell it. That same scent from last night — alkaline and musky.

Your stomach twists as your gaze drops slowly, unwillingly, and there it is — a bulge, obvious and undeniable.

Your breath catches, not from fear, but revulsion as you shudder.

He’s hard.

Your stomach roils. You want to claw his other eye out, rip his throat open, scream.

God, you hate him.

“You get what I decide to give you." His smirk turns into something heinous. "And tonight? You get nothing."

Then, just to drive it home, he pats your cheek and stands, leaving you there—collared, quivering, burning with humiliation, hunger, hatred.

You wake up seething.

Your body aches, your pride is in shreds, and worst of all, the collar is still there. A cruel weight around your throat, snug against delicate skin, mocking you with its presence.

You fumble with it for a few minute, to absolutely no avail as the lock holds, unmoving. No matter how hard you tug, no matter how raw your skin burns, it doesn’t budge.

Fucking bastard.

The door creaks. Footsteps.

You don’t need to look up; Sukuna’s presence is suffocating.

“Morning, pet.”

Your hands ball into fists, nails digging into your palms.

His voice is too amused, too self-satisfied, and it takes everything in you not to lunge at him on sight.

He crouches, tilting his head as if examining you.

“Oh? No snarling today? No pathetic little threats?” He grins, eyes dancing with delight. “You’re not pouting, are you?”

You whip your head up, glaring daggers.

He laughs. Loud, open, unbothered.

“Ahhh. There it is.” His fingers flick under your chin, forcing your head up higher. “That pissed-off little glare. Always so mad.”

Your lip curls. “I’m going to rip your fucking throat out.”

Sukuna just clicks his tongue.

“Tch. More empty threats? Haven’t we been through this?”

Click.

Pain explodes through your body.

A sharp current crackles through your nerves, muscles locking, lungs seizing as you choke on a strangled gasp. Your vision whites out for a second, fingers digging into the floor you haven't even realized you've collapsed onto.

“You never learn, do you?”

The moment the current stops, your body collapses, gasping, shaking from the aftershocks. Every nerve is burning, but the rage—the rage is blinding.

“Fuck—you,” you snarl, voice ragged, barely above a growl.

Sukuna’s smirk deepens.

"See?" he breathes, trailing lazy fingers along the collar. "That’s why you need training."

Your body tenses.

“You—”

His hand clamps onto your jaw, cutting you off instantly.

"Shhhh." His grip tightens until your teeth grind together, his mocking amusement never faltering. "Did I ask you to speak?"

Fury churns in your chest, a wild, blistering rage—you lash out, but Sukuna’s already waiting for it. The moment you move, his other hand presses the remote.

Click.

Electricity rips through you once again. Your whole body convulses—a ragged scream ripped from your throat as the pain tears through your nerves.

It lasts longer this time. When it finally stops, you double over, chest heaving, limbs trembling uncontrollably.

You snarl, teeth bared, but your body still shakes from the shocks.

"You want me?" he purrs. "Then earn it."

His fingers toy with the collar again, voice dripping with amusement as you pant, catching your breath, feeling your cells renew.

“You do as I say. You behave. And maybe...maybe I’ll reward you.”

Sukuna pulls back, grinning.

“But if you don’t?” His thumb hovers over the remote.

His eyes are bright, thrilled, drinking in your rage, your helplessness.

“Then we keep doing this.” He chuckles. “Again. And again. And again.”

The next day is humiliating.

The collar is tight, an ever-present reminder against your throat. The remote is always in his grip, always a threat, and Sukuna?

Sukuna is having the time of his life.

“Go on.” He gestures toward the floor with a flick of his fingers, voice mocking. “Crawl.”

Your teeth grind.

You stay frozen, muscles coiled, every nerve in your body screaming at you to refuse. To tear him apart, to fight, to kill him.

His smirk widens.

“Oh?” he purrs. “You think you still have a choice?"

Click.

It lasts just long enough to remind you. Sukuna tilts his head, watching you pant through clenched teeth.

“Don’t make me say it twice,” he breathes.

Your breath shudders, hands clenching into fists. Your pride screams at you not to, but the threat lingers, hot and buzzing under your skin.

Slowly, your fingers uncurl and your arms lower as you sink down to your hands and knees.

Sukuna grins, victorious.

“Awww,” he croons, eyes gleaming with delight. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Vitriol burns deep, scalding inside you like a toxin. Your hands shake against the floor, your body tense, humiliated, but you can’t react, not if you want to avoid the next shock.

Sukuna leans back against his chair, watching you like something he managed to capture.

“You know,” he muses, “I think I like you like this.”

Your head snaps up, glaring up at him.

His eye flashes, anticipating your outburst, enough to make you bite your tongue as your body tenses, practically able to feel phantom shocks running through it.

“Ohhh,” he breathes, thrilled. “You almost did it, didn’t you? Almost told me to go fuck myself.”

Your teeth grind harder, muscles locking.

Sukuna snickers. “You’re learning.”

Then, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a black cloth, dangling it from two fingers.

“Put this on.”

You blink. “What—?”

“The blindfold,” he says, voice syrupy and cruel. “Now.”

You hesitate.

He doesn’t even speak this time—just taps the remote with one nail, the silent threat making your gut churn.

With shaking hands, you take the cloth and tie it over your eyes.

Darkness swallows everything, amplifying every other sense. The sound of his breath. The hum of the lights. The subtle movement of air as he shifts nearby. The faint smell of his bodywash.

You're blind now. Vulnerable and open.

You flinch as you hear him move—closer, closer, until the heat of him is almost brushing your skin.

“Good girl,” he whispers beside your ear.

A hand slides along your cheek, then down—and then you hear footsteps, the noise of him sitting back on the couch.

Silence stretches.

You sit there, blindfolded, the floor cold beneath your knees, every inch of your skin crawling with unease.

A soft rustle, like he’s shifting.

“I should invite someone over,” he says idly, like he’s thinking aloud. “Let them see how obedient you are. How pretty you look when you’re quiet.”

He laughs softly at the way you stiffen.

“Relax,” he drawls. “Not today. But maybe someday.”

You hear the clink of glass and ice. A drink being poured.

“Spread your knees.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t move.

Click.

A jolt of pain zips across your spine—sharp, fast, enough to make you flinch and gasp.

“Don’t make me ask again,” he murmurs.

You force your muscles to obey, sliding your knees apart against the floor.

There’s a long, deliberate pause.

You hear him take a sip of his drink, the clink of ice again.

“Hands behind your back.”

Another pause, but you obey.

Your breathing is loud now, uneven, as you sit there, nerves wracked in anxious anticipation.

Sukuna hums in approval as you sit, rage rolling off you in waves as you’re forced to kneel before him like some kind of god.

“Good. Just stay like that, alright?” he purrs, followed by the sound of a zipper being undone.

Your eyes widen beneath the mask of black, like they’re straining to see through the fabric.

“What the fuck—” You pause, reluctantly correcting yourself. “What are you doing?”

Another rustling and then the scent of his pre-spend hits your nostrils, stirring something in you, between your thighs.

“Mm. Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The soft sound of skin being stroked.

You swallow, heart in your throat as you pick up gentle shucking sounds, followed by the sharp hiss of a breath sucked in between teeth.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower, a little rougher.

“But pets don’t get to ask questions. They just need to sit there and look pretty.”

You keep silent, unsure how to feel right now.

You’re still entirely clothed — he could’ve made you undress, touch yourself, do anything at all to get off to. And instead he’s jerking off just at the sight of you helpless and compliant.

Bowed in submission.

“Tell me how much you hate me.”

You blink, straining to pick up any deception in his voice. Some kind of trap, surely.

“I don’t know what you mean…” you mutter unsurely.

A throaty breath escapes him as you hear his pace picking up slightly.

“Exactly what I said. I know you’ve got some nasty little things you’re just dying to spit out.”

You hesitate.

“Or—” The sharp click of his nails tapping on the remote.

Your breath stutters.

“I hate you,” you blurt, chest rising and falling too fast. “I hate everything about you.”

He hums, pleased, the slick sound of him pumping his cock becoming louder, more intense. “Keep going.”

Your throat tightens. “You’re cruel. Sadistic. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

He says nothing.

You push forward, heart pounding, the smell of his pre cum flooding your keen senses, making you salivate even as you spit the venom you hold for him.

“You enjoy watching people suffer. You enjoy watching me suffer.”

A deep groan cuts through the air—low, filthy, pleased. It makes your stomach twist and your skin burn in humiliation.

You know he’s getting off on this, but you can’t help yourself, not when he’s finally given the chance for you to speak your mind.

Your jaw locks. “Ironic they call me a monster,” you snarl, “when a sick fuck like you gets to walk around free.”

“More,” he rasps. The sound of it is hungry, breathless. “Say it like you mean it.”

Your nails dig into your palms.

“I wish you were dead,” you whisper, each word trembling with rage. “I wish you’d choke on your own blood, feel every bone in your body snap, scream until your voice gives out.”

His breathing deepens.

“I want to be the one who ends you,” you hiss. “I want to watch you die slow. I want to see the panic crawl across your face when you realize no one’s coming to save you. I want to be the last thing you see before everything goes dark, before you go burn in whatever hell you’re going to.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Filled only with the sound of him jerking his dick, slower right now.

You hear the couch shift as he leans forward, breath brushing the shell of your ear.

“There she is,” he purrs. “My little monster.”

You flinch.

His hand slides along your jaw—gentle, almost affectionate.

“You hate me,” he murmurs, “but you’re still here. Still kneeling. Still obeying.”

His fingers trace the edge of your blindfold.

“Tell me why.”

You stay silent, jaw clenched, blood roaring in your ears.

He tilts your chin up—his grip firmer now. “Tell me.”

“Because you’ll hurt me if I don’t.”

“Exactly.”

The word comes out as a growl, and there a second of stroking and low pants before you feel something splatter against your cheek, taking you by surprise.

Warm. Salty. Bitter.

His cum spills all over your face, some catching across your nose and lips, dripping down. It feels like bugs crawling on your skin, and you have to fight the urge to wipe off the virile fluid now painting you.

It smells like his precum, but stronger. Hotter. Alive.

Finally you feel no fresh spurts landing on you as the sound of his movement slows, replaced only by his breathing, heavy and satisfied.

You don’t realize your lips are slightly parted until some of the cum trickling down your face tickles the curve of your upper lip.

“I should really take a picture of you like this. What do you think, leech?”

You bite your cheek, jaw clenched so hard it hurts. “I think there’s something really fucking wrong with you.”

Sukuna snickers—no shame, no guilt, just cruel amusement. You hear the rustle of fabric, the zip of his fly. The sound makes your gut twist with something shameful. Your thighs press together instinctively, helpless against the dull, throbbing ache between your legs.

It’s sick. You feel sick.

He’s doing this on purpose.

You know he is.

“…Can I take this off?” you ask quietly, voice frayed at the edges. The blindfold itches, clings.

You want to be alone, want to fall into your sheets and do something—anything—to bleed the heat out of you.

He lets out a breath, bored now. You hear him lean back, the lazy clink of ice against glass.

“Mm. Sure. Whatever.”

A sip.

You fumble at the knot behind your head, fingers shaky. The fabric peels away with a damp, dragging sound, and the sudden light—however dim—makes you squint. Your eyes take a second to adjust.

And then you see him.

Sitting in that chair like a king—loose shirt, legs sprawled, drink in one hand. Still watching you with that unreadable, heavy-lidded gaze. Nothing about him says danger, and yet every part of you feels wired to flee.

Instead, you sit there, skin prickling, shame still thick on your tongue.

You expect him to say something cruel. Another jab, another reminder of who holds the leash.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his gaze lowers to your mouth.

“You’ve been good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Didn’t beg. Didn’t bite.”

His eyes flash with something darker, something considering.

“You want a reward?”

“What?”

He doesn’t repeat himself, just sets his drink down, rolls up his sleeve and turns his wrist over, exposing the unscarred skin of his other forearm.

The knife appears like magic, you didn’t even see him grab it.

There's a clean slice, and a ribbon of red swells instantly.

He holds it out to you.

You freeze, contemplating, mind reeling.

“Don’t make me change my mind,” Sukuna says, voice low but sharp now.

You hate him.

You hate him for knowing exactly what this will do to you. For how fast your fangs descend, for the way your pulse howls at the scent.

But most of all, you hate yourself—because your body’s already moving.

You crawl to him.

Every step feels like it costs something, like pride scraped off your ribs, dignity leaking out your eyes. Your knees burn on the floor as you inch forward, closer and closer to where he sits, arm outstretched like an offering from a throne.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink.

You pause at his feet, breath shallow. The scent is dizzying—copper and warmth and him. Your fingers tremble as they curl around his wrist, guiding it down. His blood drips slow, thick, a thread of red down his arm. Your mouth opens.

And when your lips finally touch his skin, something breaks.

The taste floods you instantly—hot and heady and so much more than it should be. Not just nourishment. Not just survival. It’s him, and it’s power, and it’s control, and you hate it. You hate that you moan softly, that your tongue presses hungrily into the wound, that your hands slide up his arm like you’re holding onto something holy.

And worst of all, he lets you.

You feel his fingers in your hair, slow and steady, as he watches.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

Your body shudders at the praise. You want to spit it out. You want to tear your mouth away. But your hunger is deeper than your shame, and right now you're starving.

You drink like he’s the only thing keeping your body from unraveling into ash and dust, knowing full well how ill you'll feel later.

The blood is hot, thicker than it should be, each swallow burning its way down your throat, and your limbs tremble as strength seeps back in—strength that comes from him.

But that’s not what breaks you; it's the sound he makes.

A soft exhale almost a sigh—and his grip in your hair tightens, not to stop you, but to keep you there. Like he’s savoring this just as much, the sight of you on your knees, mouth to his skin.

And something inside you twists.

Not with rage, not with grief, but something worse. Something wet and hungry and needy.

You’re not just feeding anymore.

You’re worshipping. The act changes without you realizing it. It’s not frantic or desperate anymore, the way it was before. The hunger is still there, but it’s become more—soothing, almost tender in its own dark way. Your lips are gentle against his skin, your tongue tracing the wound with a kind of reverence. The movement is soft, almost hypnotic, and it feels like a surrender, a quiet admission that you’ve already given in to him more than you care to acknowledge.

Because you’re already there—somewhere past the threshold of shame, in that liminal space where pain and power collapse into pleasure. Where your body has stopped belonging to your will, and now belongs to.

And finally you pull away, almost against your own will, as the blood continues to course in your veins, heightening every nerve, every sensation. But something about the intensity, the closeness, makes it too much.

The hunger in you, the desperation—it’s suffocating.

You let his wrist go, slowly, and your hands fall to your sides, trembling from the pull of everything you’ve just given away.

Sukuna’s presence hovers over you, almost tangible, his eyes never leaving you. It’s as though he’s waiting for something more—waiting for you to crack open completely. But you can’t. Not like this. Not yet.

You don’t look at him.

Instead, you focus on your breath, on the way your body seems to react to the smallest movements. Heat simmers under your skin, traveling elsewhere, somewhere it shouldn't.

Something urgent, that will need to be taken care of soon.

The room feels too small now, stifling, the air thick with tension and unspoken words. His smirk hasn’t faded, but there’s something cold in his eyes now, something that wasn’t there before.

“You’re weak,” he says quietly, but the words lack their usual bite... they sound almost measured, as though he’s seeing something new in you.

Or perhaps, you’ve shown him too much.

You don’t answer. You can’t bear to hear him anymore.

It’s not even two more days, yet time passes slower when every second feels like torture.

Every waking minute with that fucking collar around your neck, with him making you do whatever humiliating trick that he fancies at the moment.

There’s something uniquely horrifying about being a supernatural being with healing capabilities, yet the capacity to feel pain like any other living creature.

And there’s something unique about the pain of being electrified.

It isn’t like stabbing or burning, no, it’s an invasive type of pain that hijacks the entire neurological system, fires every pain receptor at once, inside and outside.

Put the two together and you get a body that can never adapt—because each time the nerve damage from the shocks is repaired perfectly.

Calluses, scars, numbness— these are adaptive responses. Things you don’t get.

So every click of that remote, every electrocution feels like the first.

No dulling, no immunity. The pain never gets easier—of having every muscle in your body seize, of feeling like your nerves are on fire, smelling your skin sizzle.

And though your body may reset, your brain doesn’t.

The end result is feeling powerless in a uniquely feral way, because the one thing you can’t regenerate is control.

So you bow your head, do what he wants. Endure the humiliation rituals. The demeaning words. You hate them, but you learn that to ignore them is self-preservation.

But then he pushes too far. Sukuna's always been good at finding what really makes you tick.

“God, you’re so weak it’s pathetic.”

And as usual, you don’t reply, keeping your gaze lowered. But it’s his next words, that spark something bitter in you.

“Probably runs in the blood. Mm, what happened to your parents again?” He scoffs as you stiffen. “Killed off by some amateur fucking hunters. Now that’s humiliating.”

There's a shift in you, but you push it down and just stare blankly, at the floor, the wall—anywhere but him.

Anywhere safe.

And yet it festers—that sound in his voice, that smirk you can feel even without seeing it. It grows like pressure behind your eyeballs, a dizzying sensation in your brain.

Because you’ve taken everything—every insult, every jolt, every order barked with that false, velvet calm.

But this is different. He doesn’t just want you obedient; he wants you small.

And for the first time in days, you feel it—a flicker of something wild, a heat that doesn’t come from the shocks.

At first it’s a twitching in your jaw, but then your fingers curl just slightly as it builds like a pressure throbbing in your skull.

You wish you could control it—keep pushing it down, stay smart, stay quiet—but it’s done. The dam breaks.

There's no warning when you abruptly pounce towards him.

He doesn’t expect it, but instinctively the button on the remote is pressed, and that now familiar pain overtakes your system.

This time however, by some streak of luck, you continue to swipe at him with your flailing limbs, aiming loosely for the remote held midair.

It falls to the ground, and in an instant the shocks stop, your body already putting itself back together.

There’s a single second, one of those few moments where genuine surprise flashes across his face.

A hint of worry even, maybe.

Too late.

Your heel stomps onto it, the material giving way with a brittle crack, and something inside you unhinges with it.

Silence. A flicker of eye contact, and a wicked grin unfurling across your lips.

Then you move, but Sukuna’s already calibrated then, adapted to the new circumstances.

The fight explodes—fast, brutal, feral.

No strategy, no restraint, just raw nerve and muscle and memory. The blur of bodies crashing against walls, teeth flashing, claws slashing. Your claws rake across his side, catching skin along with the cloth and peeling it back with a wet sound that makes your stomach knot, but you don’t stop. He blocks, counters, but you’re not the same thing you were moments ago, not when your blood sings with rage, your limbs moving faster than thought, all sharp instincts and hunger.

He underestimates how long you've been waiting for this, how long you've needed this, how much of your rage you've been collecting.

Your shoulder takes the brunt of a punch that sends you sprawling against the wall. Plaster explodes in a white puff around you, and a rib gives with a sickening crack. Pain lances through your spine like lightning—but you're already up again, fangs bared. Blood clings to your lip, not all yours. Some of it you can taste—copper and heat, familiar now.

Addictive.

No more snarky comments, no more clicks or shocks erupting from the metal around your neck, only the sound of fists hitting flesh, of bone cracking under pressure.

You drive him back, but he’s laughing. He’s grinning—if the borderline maniacal expression on his face can even be called that, something so exhilarated that it makes your own skin buzz, fueling you more.

You feel your body burning, every nerve awake, every injury healing almost as fast as it happens, but not fast enough to avoid pain. No, you feel everything.

But this time, the pain feels almost like catharsis.

You spit blood, swipe your hand across your mouth, and launch again.

You don't know how long you fight, but it must have been long, with the way your strikes start to lose precision. His too. Sloppier now, desperate.

Everything that could’ve been a weapon has been—shattered chairs, broken lamps, jagged pieces of the coffee table now scattered like shrapnel across the floor.

Half the room’s destroyed, maybe more.

Sukuna is a ruin—his body a map of fresh wounds and older ones split open. Bruises bloom along his ribs, one arm hangs slightly looser in its socket, his lip is split, nose flattened, and even the scarred hollow where his eye used to be is bleeding.

You don’t wear your wounds the same way. You heal, yes, but even that comes with a price. Your body screams with fatigue, not just from the blows but from the endless, greedy churn of regeneration.

It’s slower now. Faltering. Some of your skin still glistens with that pale, translucent sheen of half-healed flesh—sticky, pink, leaking the thin serum that comes before blood. Other gashes are raw and red, torn back open mid-repair by the next hit, or the one after.

You're dripping, and trembling, but not from fear.

Every time you think you've hit your limit, your body finds one more burst of energy. And so does he. You’re both running on fumes and fury now, nothing left but nerve and instinct and the memory of pain.

You don’t see it coming.

One second you’re lunging, the next—he catches your momentum, turns it against you. Your back slams into the edge of a wooden table with a sickening crack. Pain explodes through your body, but you barely register it; you're already twisting, half instinct, half calculation—until he’s there again.

His chest crashes into yours, and the next moment, you're pinned. His body drives forward, shoving you hard against the table, the shock collar biting into your throat.

Your breath stutters.

The position feels wrong, and yet, it feels like everything you want, have been wanting—his weight on top of you, something dangerous in his eyes, something hungry.

“Still fighting?” he growls, rolling his hips into yours, slow and heavy, a taunt made of friction. You hate the gasp it forces from your lips.

You bare your teeth. “Fuck you.”

He smirks, all teeth. “Not yet.”

You thrash, but his grip just tightens—like he’s daring you to break.

“You hate this,” he whispers against your ear, his breath electric. “But you’re shaking. Not just from anger, either.”

Your nails carve red into his chest. He doesn’t even flinch. Just grins wider.

“I should kill you,” you hiss.

“You’ve tried.” His hand drags down neck, till your chest, giving one of your heaving breasts a testing squeeze.

“Fuck—Get off me,” you growl, breathless.

“Make me.” The challenge hangs there, hot and sharp, as he deliberately presses the hardness in his pants against you.

You snarl and buck, fury boiling up—but his voice drops lower, more dangerous.

“Mm, keep fighting. It just gets me harder."

A jolt of white-hot shame and arousal flashes through you. The shock collar burns your throat with every movement, but it’s nothing compared to the heat pooling between your legs, desire flaring despite every instinct telling you to resist.

“You’re pathetic,” you whisper, tears burning at the corners of your eyes as he leans in close, split lips ghosting over the corner of yours.

“Makes two of us then, I guess,” he murmurs with a dark laugh.

His lips capture yours in a hard, almost bruising kiss, and you try to resist, but the taste of him is overwhelming, the tip of your tongue automatically darting out to lick the blood seeping from the cut. It's sweeter here.

Your body reacts before you can stop it, your legs wrapping around his waist in spite of yourself, pulling him closer.

And Sukuna relishes it.

Every struggle, every breathless gasp, every moment of broken resistance only makes him more satisfied, more hungry for the fight, for the chaos, for the way you’re teetering on the edge of everything.

“Such a good little pet,” he whispers, his voice low and mocking as he grinds against you one last time.

“Su—kuna, please—” you choke out, unbearable heat burning you all over, more and more slick pooling into your panties as his bulge rubs into you. You hear him exhale when you tightens your legs around his waist further to match his movements with your own undulating hips, grinding your clothed cunt onto his erection.

“Please what?” He breathes, though you can tell he’s barely holding on himself, holding onto every last bit of his self control.

“Please fuck me.”

With those three words his hands are on the waist of your pants, ripping them off, sliding them down along with your panties in a borderline feral urgency. There’s almost a kind of relief when you finally get them off, falling to the ground, feeling your dripping cunt finally freed from the confines of clothing.

His gaze is ravenous—almost mirroring your own hunger—as he pushes you further onto the table, yanking your legs apart to forcefully spread them so he can see the sticky mess between your thighs.

You pant softly as he looks your pussy up and down, eye darkening as it roves over your puffy folds, your leaking hole clenching over nothing, his lip curling into a smirk.

“Aww all this for me?” he coos, before abruptly spanking your swollen clit with one hand. The impact makes you jolt, involuntarily letting out a small whine. “Does my pet need her needy little hole filled?”

You just sob in desperation — that burning, horrible ache only worsening with how close you are. “Y-Yes…”

“Finally honest for once, are we?” he hums, before pushing your legs up all the way to your chest and taking one of your hands to hook it behind your knee. “Here. Keep yourself held open like a good slut. Think you can do that?”

Anger pricks at you again, but you bite your lip and nod quietly, following his instructions to hold both your legs folded into you, exposing your holes to him completely.

Perhaps, if your head wasn’t spinning and so utterly lost in the need right now, you’d have some shame.

You watch with eagerly as he frees his cock, eyes widening and then dropping further in lust at the sight of it.

A trail of dark pink hair leads down to the tattooed base of his girthy length, though what really catches your eye is the glint of metal on the underside of his shaft.

Your mouth falls open a bit in surprise and he drinks in your reaction, smirking at you from over the bridge of his nose as he continues to pump his leaking cock at a relaxed pace. “Drooling just at the sight of my cock like a pathetic mutt, huh?”

Your lip curls back slightly as he provokes you again, clearly intent on not letting you live any of this down. But once again, you resist the urge to say anything back, knowing that if you open your mouth nothing good will come out.

The slightly alkaline smell of his precum hits your nostrils again, flaring up your hunger and the ache in your cunt all at once as you wet your lips, watching him with dark eyes.

Sukuna slaps his hard cock on your cunt once, then twice, humming in satisfaction at the soft gasps leaving your lips with each lewd wet smack.

With all your senses on edge, you become even more aware of the uncomfortable metal still wrapped around your neck.

It annoys you.

“Can you remove this thing?” You shift to show him the collar, slightly out of breath already.

He glances at it, unconcerned as he drags his cock through your slick folds, torturing you with the way his piercing catches on your clit. “Mmm, I don’t know. Seeing it on you turns me on.”

Sukuna flashes you a sleazy grin as the tip of his cock, oozing with pearlescent pre, smacks again on your clit. “So quit complaining…you wouldn’t want me to get that remote again, would you?”

Your mouth goes a bit dry, the threat snapping you back to reality just a bit as you obediently shake your head.

“Please.” You swallow. “I just need you in me, Sukuna…” You hold your legs apart a bit wider as you look up at him with pleading eyes, showing him that you’re willing to behave.

“Hm. Guess all that training did pay off,” he muses, flashing you a wicked grin as you feel something prod against the tight rim of your asshole.

Your jaw clenches as you flinch, trying to shrink away. “Fuck, n-not that hole—”

He leans over you, one hand planted firmly by your head as the other holds the tip of his cock, teasingly pushing a bit into your entrance.

“Oh? But didn’t you know?” he coos, breaching the rim just enough to make you squeak in pain. “Dirty sluts like you take it in the ass.”

Sukuna, who was probably expecting you to put up a fight or something, is evidently amused when all you do is pout in the most miserable, helpless way.

“I’ve beaten you up, cut you, drugged you, poisoned you, electrocuted you, and this is what you’re scared of? Anal?” he snickers.

“I can’t… I’ve never done it before, you’ll tear me apart…”

“Huh.” He grins deviously, rubbing his sticky tip into your rim, smearing it with precum. “I've seen how well you can heal yourself, though...”

Your eyes shoot open as you once again flinch, recoiling from the touch. “Sukuna!”

“Mm, fine,” he sighs, and you breathe out in relief when you feel the pressure lift away as he pulls his cock up to your other hole. “But misbehave and that’s where you’ll be taking it next…”

You frown at his dark promise but it’s soon forgotten when he begins to push into your weeping cunt.

Both of you inhale sharply as he breaches your entrance, pushing into the warmth of your plush walls, inch by inch. Even as aroused and wet as you are, you can still feel the stretch of your cunt around his thickness, a dizzying fullness that leaves you breathless when he finally bottoms out.

You’re given approximately one second to adjust to him inside you.

And then, the last of the restraints are ripped apart.

With a growl, Sukuna’s hips begin thrusting violently, making you squeal at the brutal pace he’s abruptly set, cock hitting you deep inside where you’ve been needing him, craving him.

Pleasure blanks your mind completely, eyes rolling back and pulling the most filthy moans from you as his cock rams against the sensitive wall of your cervix, over and over again, heavy balls slapping against your cunt.

“Oh shit, your cunt was made to be my cocksleeve,” he grunts as he ruts into you like a feral animal. “Good little pet, keep squeezing like that. Show me all that you’re—hah—good for—”

“Sh-Shut up!” you hiss between your own whines and the obscene noises of skin slapping against skin, his cock plowing into you like he’s trying to kill you with it. “I’m going to fucking murder y—”

Smack.

Sukuna slaps you for your insolent words, scoffing when you accidentally moan, and your cunt clamps down on him even harder. “Pathetic thing -fuck- you fucking love when I’m mean to you—”

He grips the back of your knees on top of your own hands in the crooks from where droplets of sweat trickle down, pushing down on your thighs to fold you further till your ankles are practically by your ears and it almost hurts. “—When I hurt you—”

“Y-yes, harder Sukuna!” you cry out, tears streaming down your cheeks, not even trying to deny his words.

What’s the point? Sukuna knows you better than anyone else on this planet.

“Filthy mutt!” he snarls, leaning down till his hot breath trails across your lips, cock hitting a tender spot in your silken flesh that makes you buck in ecstasy. “I hope that whole wretched bloodline of yours is watching me defile you!”

You bare your fangs, combined hatred, need, and every other twisted emotion culminating into just this, him buried inside you, dragging along your inflamed walls. And then the chain tucked into his shirt escapes. At the end of it, your broken fang, the one he kept, swinging against your face, suddenly feeling less like a taunt and something much more intimate.

You need him carnally.

With him fucking into you, your tits bouncing with each thrust, you lift your head, bared teeth attempting to latch onto his skin.

Sukuna notices what you’re trying to do and his hips halt suddenly, making you freeze mid bite too.

“I-I’m sorry…I can’t help myself…” you whisper.

The most puzzling part is you genuinely feel bad — which makes no sense. He’s hatefucking you, spitting vile words even when he’s balls deep inside you, and what should really seal in his sadistic nature — that damn necklace — it didn’t. Instead, for a split second you got a different glimpse of him, you, the complex nature of your entanglement with each other.

Maybe you mean as much to him as he does to you.

You wait, looking up at his unreadable expression, waiting for him to shatter the delusion, tell you how goddamn pathetic you are.

Sukuna stares at you, something flickering in his eyes—something unreadable, something dark yet intrigued. His hips are still buried inside you, his body taut with tension, but for once, there’s no mocking words, no sneer on his lips. Just silence.

Then, slowly, his grip on your chin tightens—not cruel, just firm enough to make you look at him, to hold you there beneath his gaze.

"Didn’t mean to?" he echoes, cock still buried inside you. His eyes burn into yours, unreadable. "Since when do you apologize for wanting something?"

You shake your head slightly, breathless, your chest rising and falling against his.

"I—" you swallow thickly, ashamed, confused. "I don’t know. I just—"

Your eyes dart to his neck, his pulse thrumming beneath his skin, calling to you like a drug you can’t resist. Your body betrays you, a soft whimper slipping past your lips as you force yourself to tear your gaze away.

For a long moment, he just watches you. Studies you.

Then, to your shock, his lips curve. Not into his usual cruel smirk, but something slower, something almost… amused.

"You’re pathetic," he murmurs, but it lacks the usual venom. Instead, there’s something almost indulgent in his tone, like he’s pleased.

He shifts suddenly, pressing his chest against yours, his voice a low, taunting whisper against your ear.

"You really do need me, don’t you?"

Heat rushes through you, shame and hunger tangling together into something unbearable. You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head no, but he only chuckles.

"Liar."

Then, to your shock, he tilts his head back, just enough to bare his throat.

Your breath catches.

Your fingers curl into his skin, your entire body aching, trembling with restraint.

"Go on," he murmurs, almost mockingly. "Take what you want."

He’s toying with you, you know that. But for a moment, just a split second, it feels like something else.

Like he’s giving you permission.

Your lips part—your fangs ache—

Then, just before you break, his hand yanks back on your hair, forcing you to meet his gaze again.

His expression is unreadable.

"But if you do," he murmurs, eyes gleaming darkly, "then you admit it. That you belong to me."

You give him a long look, fangs aching, mouth dry, cunt leaking as the pulse under his skin taunts you, the promise of his taste underneath.

You want to believe you don’t belong to anyone. That you existed always as your own.

And still with an exhale you let go of your legs to hold his neck gently as you wrap them around his waist, pulling him deeper to where his cock is still in you.

Your fangs pierce his skin, and the moment his blood touches your tongue, your whole body shudders. It’s too much—rich, intoxicating, him. You whimper before you can stop yourself, burying your face against his neck, drinking deep, desperate.

He gasps ever so slightly, even stiffens a bit, but you swear you can feel his dick twitch in excitement. A low, broken laugh escapes him as his hips begin moving again, working in shorter but harder thrusts. "Fuck—look at you.”

Your hands tremble against his back, nails caressing the surface of his skin, letting out a moan of pleasure, drinking deeper, dizzy with need. And then you feel it, the slight hitch in his breath, the way his hand clenches at your waist, fingers digging in too hard, as if to ground himself through the sharp bloom of pain.

This isn’t the first time you’ve fed from him.

But perhaps all the fighting, all the blood he’s already lost, even the physical toll of fucking you is finally getting to him.

Still, you sink deeper, trying to ignore it, his blood coursing down your throat, and his body shifts against yours, a ragged thrust that pushes deeper, rougher.

But even as you feed, you notice the tightness in his jaw, his breath quickening, a barely perceptible shudder running through his body. His control is slipping, but his pride won’t let him break.

You can’t ignore it.

So you pause.

You draw back just enough to meet his gaze, eyes flicking over his clenched features, the tension in his body a stark contrast to the hunger thrumming between you.

“You’re in pain,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but the accusation is clear.

You wonder how much if for the first time, the cracks in his armor are showing, if ever so slightly.

His lips curl into a smirk, but there’s something softer, something reluctant beneath the bravado.

“Does it make you feel powerful?” he asks, but his voice cracks, betraying the effort it takes to remain in control.

You want to say yes, more than anything, but it would feel like a lie.

So, instead, you tell yourself that this hesitation, this sudden pull back, is simply the guilt of taking advantage of his weakness. This isn't about dominance. There’s nothing satisfying about an unfair fight. Or… well, whatever this twisted dance is.

But even as the thought crosses your mind, his fingers slide up the back of your neck, possessive, pulling you back into the crook of his neck.

“Take it,” he murmurs, voice roughened now. “If it means you’re mine, I’ll bleed for you.”

He must be delirious from blood loss. You can feel it—the faint tremor in his hands, the exhaustion creeping into his voice. But what’s your excuse? Why does your chest flutter in response, why does your heart race even as your body aches with hunger?

The sharp edge of his words has dulled, the venom slipping away as the heat between you grows. There's a rawness now, something unfamiliar even to you. Something that makes you want to take from him, just as much as you want to bury your face in his neck and stay there forever.

You hesitate, but only for a breath.

And then, with a flick of your fangs, you’re sinking back in, deeper this time, drinking greedily from the source, tasting his blood like a poison you can’t resist.

His body goes still, and for a split second, you think you’ve gone too far. But then his grip tightens, his body jerking against yours, his hips snapping forward in a desperate push.

A muffles sound escapes you as you suck harder, the potent taste of him going straight down to your swollen cunt like an aphrodisiac, your combined juices dripping lewdly from where his cock fucks into you, down the curve of your ass and collecting on the table.

“You don’t stop, do you?” he breathes it out like a curse, but it’s coated with something darker than frustration—something deeper. Something that feels like acceptance. “Just takes it like its yours.”

You suck in a shaky breath as he pinches your hard nipple, sending another jolt through you down to your cunt, lips slick against the wound on his skin.

“It—It is…” you gasp as he keeps moving inside you, each thrust tighter, more deliberate, like he's forcing himself through the ache. Blood drips from his throat, warm on your tongue, and still he keeps his head tilted back like an offering. “It’s always been, hasn’t it?”

Your whole body burns, his blood already beginning to rot inside your veins and you can only cling to him harder, shaking, gasping. Sweat slicked bodies stick to each other as your tongue slithers out as you drink, laving over the swelling skin, and all that exists here and now is him, him inside you, on your tongue, in your nostrils—

He growls softly, almost tender, almost cruel. His fingers tighten in your hair and he yanks your head back, tearing your mouth from his throat.

“Look at you,” he hisses.

You glance up at him, barely. Lips slick with blood, eyes hazy with lust and shame and something unbearably tender underneath. He stares at you like he’s about to devour you whole.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice ragged with possession. “No matter how hard you fight it or how much you hate it. You are mine.”

His hips speed up again, sloppily battering against your cunt, your garbled cries swallowed when he crushes his mouth to yours, tongue prying your lips open to taste his own blood on your tongue. It’s brutal, a bloody mess, sticky crimson fluid staining his lips as well, the scent of metal combining with the musk of sex permeating the air.

Him. His.

All his.

With a garbled cry and tears on your cheeks you cum as you tangle tongues, saliva mixing as warm liquid rushes from your hole. His own movements lose their rhythm, becoming erratic before with a final twitch of his dick he cums deep inside your cunt, the sticky white fluid almost as warm as his blood. It floods you till it starts seeping out as you pant into each others’ mouths, he keeps going, making sure to fuck his cum back into your spasming pussy.

Then, silence.

You lie there, tangled in the aftermath, sweat-slicked bodies cooling against each other, your breath still brushing against his punctured throat. His hand is knotted in your hair like he’s not ready to let go—no words, just the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing.

Neither of you speaks.

The room is heavy with the scent of sweat, blood, and the feral musk of sex. A healed wound on your ribs still seeps, and his lip is split, but the damage feels irrelevant compared to what’s left unsaid.

But then he untangles himself slowly, deliberately, stepping back. His brows scrunch slightly in pain, his shoulders stiff, his gaze avoiding yours.

You frown, confused. “What—”

“Get dressed,” he says, flatly, his voice an unreadable monotone.

“What?”

He stands, fastening his pants with a lack of care, not sparing you a single glance. “I’m letting you go.”

The words land like a slap.

You sit up, the sudden shock of his statement rattling you, the words caught in your throat. “You said—”

“I changed my mind.” And just like that, he turns back toward you, leans in close. You instinctively recoil, heart thudding as his hand moves toward your throat.

“Relax,” he mutters, his gaze never leaving the exposed skin of your neck. His fingers tilt your chin upward with a quiet precision, the other hand brushing over the metal collar locked around your throat.

Your pulse quickens. “The remote—”

“There’s a trick to it,” he says, his voice almost bored, like he’s speaking to a child. “You just never bothered to learn.”

His thumb presses beneath your jaw with firm pressure—a click, and a small hiss as the lock releases. The collar falls from your neck with a metallic weight, the finality of it making the air feel impossibly thick.

The gesture is disconcertingly tender almost, but a part of you stays still for some reason, still half-naked and leaking, blood drying in flakes around your lips.

“You have until dawn.”

Something twists in your chest. “Why?”

No answer.

You study his back, the rigid line of his spine, the bruises blooming under his skin, the flicker in his jaw. There’s no fear, only confusion—and something too terrifyingly close to hurt.

He doesn’t say it but you can see it now, in the way his hands shake slightly as he buttons his shirt. In the way he won’t meet your eyes.

He wants you gone because killing you would be too easy.

Because this chase is all he has left.

So you dress slowly, defiantly, watching him the whole time, waiting for him to change his mind again.

But he doesn't.

And when you finally reach the door, you pause. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“Good,” he says, finally meeting your gaze.

You nod once.

Then you’re gone, into the dark, not looking back.

The forest is damp from earlier rain, the small unpaved road muddy and glistening with small puddles under the dappled moonlight, the sound of an owl hooting somewhere nearby. Blood stains your skin, hair clinging to your damp temples, yet you don’t stop to fix it.

The empty peacefulness of the forest at night feels too big.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter—that you’re free. That he let you go and that’s all that matters.

But something gnaws at you, a restlessness curling in your stomach like hunger.

You vaguely note you’ll be feeling unwell soon with his blood in you.

You could disappear. Vanish into the cities, into the forests, into the dark corners where even he wouldn’t follow.

But you won’t.

Instead you continue on, the only thought in your mind is a silent promise to take his other eye.

Time passes.

Not in peace—no, never that.

But in violence and whispers and blood-slick headlines and cold case files that gather dust.

You move through the world like smoke—harder, leaner, hungrier. A myth haunting cities that chew people up and forget their names. Everytime, you leave your mark with surgical precision—corpses with their right eyes missing.

Not just a signature, but an invitation. And he answers—sometimes in shadows, sometimes in person.

You’ve fought him more times than you can count.

Each time, it ends the same—broken glass, broken bones, someone limping away before the killing blow can land. Sometimes it's you, sometimes it’s him.

Sometimes the line blurs.

The one constant, however, is that it never feels quite finished.

Once, you kissed him just to buy time to stab him. Another time he held your bleeding body and whispered something you refused to hear.

Neither of you ever stays down.

Among vampires, your name becomes cursed—not because you’re feared but because wherever you go, Ryomen Sukuna follows and no one survives him.

Among hunters, it’s quieter. They understand something the others don’t, that no one chases what he’s claimed.

Still, you chase him and he chases you, like wolves in circles, like hunger gnawing at itself.

Until, one day, the pattern breaks.

The next body you find isn’t a vampire, but a young hunter. Sloppy. Killed quick. And this time, it’s not the right eye that’s gone—it’s the left.

It’s the first time he’s answered with something of his own.

And somehow, that's how you know that it’s time.

You straddle his torso, blade pressing into his cheek, panting. Even his own chest rises and falls in an uneven rhythm.

Both of you are smeared with grime, sweat, blood—your hair tangled, his disheveled.

It’s the dead of night, but the old train station feels like its own world, frozen in time. This place, like the two of you, feels forgotten by the rest of history.

You’ve been waiting for this day for years.

Sukuna’s face is torn up, more than a few of his ribs are broken, one of his legs is bent at an odd angle.

And yet, as broken as he is, he still watches you with that one remaining eye—unsettlingly lucid, like a window into the abyss of whatever terrible, beautiful thing lives at the core of him.

The eye you promised to take years ago. A promise handed down by blood. By centuries of hate and duty.

Your hand shakes as you raise the crimson-stained blade, your pulse pounding in your throat.

And he smiles. That maddening, blood-slick smile.

“Go on then,” he rasps. “Even score. You’ve always wanted it.”

You stare, intense with something unnamable as the blade hovers, ready to plunge in and leave him in a world of pure darkness.

This moment has been imagined, fantasized over. All the ways you’d carve it out, what you’d do with it. Once you even thought about pickling it.

But life never goes as planned, does it?

Revenge tastes sweet in theory, perhaps. Not in practice. Not now.

His eye, the last one, is fixed on you, unwavering. Like he wants to see everything—all of you—even as you hover at the edge of his death.

And in this moment, you realize you don’t want to destroy it.

Not out of mercy. Not out of weakness.

But because it’s the only part of him, maybe the only thing in the entire world, that ever really saw you.

And it’s hauntingly beautiful.

Feral. Fever-bright crimson, even as he stares down his death. Achingly human in a way neither of you were allowed to be.

“I—” your voice cracks. “I don’t want to. I want you to see me,” you whisper.

He exhales a shaky, rattling laugh, surprised. Then nods.

“Fine,” he says softly. “You’ll be the last thing I ever see.”

This day would have always come. Because however bright they may burn, humans only exist fleetingly. And one way or another, he would die long before you—the only difference would be that it wouldn’t be at your hands.

Something mundane, even. A miscalculated move, the slightest mistake.

You can’t bear to even think about him going out like that.

So it has to be you, and it has to be now. The only ending he deserves.

With trembling hands and stinging eyes you drag the blade down, touching it to his neck. Not deep, just enough for him to feel it.

And then he says your name.

The first time he’s ever said your name.

You pause.

“I’m glad it was you,” he whispers.

Something in you shatters unrepairably. Something that can never be put together no matter how many centuries you live.

Your throat tightens, silent tears streaming down your cheeks, and before you can think twice, you push the blade in. Slow and clean, but still he jerks slightly, though not with the strength he once had.

Blood spurts, spraying across your face before it begins to pour, running down his flesh like rivers of red. It smells as rich and alive as ever.

Instinctively his hands come up—you don’t know whether to stop or hold you. Either way, they falter halfway, dropping back down.

It’s too late now.

You can tell from the way he tries to breathe, but all that comes out is a wet, choking sound that might be your name as a gurgle rises in his throat, blood bubbling at his lips.

Sukuna was, perhaps, the strongest man you’ve ever known. But death humbles all things. And in the end, he’s no different—just another body reaching blindly for breath, caught in that last, trembling moment of naked, undeniable fear

The realization that this is it. That you don’t know what comes after this.

What hurts most is that moment—his lungs struggling, clawing for air that isn't there.

Then his gaze snaps to yours.

And in it, a glimpse of the impossible—a life that might’ve been yours together, if the world had given you a different story.

Like he promised, he watches you till the very end. One single bright eye that stays locked on you, even when the light fades out like a dying star. Till it goes dull and glassy, still staring at you till it isn’t.

He goes still.

And suddenly it hits you—sharp and certain, like a stake through the heart, why your venom never worked on him.

Because he was always in love with you. Or something close enough to it that the body couldn’t tell the difference.

You feel hollow. Like when he died, a part of you went out with him.

Hunger and—

Just hunger.

That’s all the rest of your existence will be now. Wandering, empty, purposeless.

Time slows and thickens, like air turned to water. Your ears are ringing, but there’s no sound. No wind, no breath, no heartbeat.

You’re not sure who you are without Sukuna.

And now you know what you have to do, something implicit in your bones that knows, that’s already pulling the blade out of his neck.

You stare at the blade in your hand, wet with his blood. Still warm.

It glints in the dim light like it wants you to follow.

You don’t cry; there’s nothing left for that.

Just silence.

Just the ache of his absence pressing down on your ribs like a weight too heavy to breathe through.

Slowly, you lower yourself beside him, curling into the warmth that’s already leaving his body. Your forehead brushes his jaw, lips pressing against the blood-slick edge of his throat like a kiss goodbye.

“Don’t wait for me,” you whisper, though you don’t know if you mean it. You hope you do.

Then you take the blade and guide it up, not hesitating now. There’s no drama or fanfare, just inevitability.

The metal bites in just beneath your sternum, and it’s almost a relief. The pain blooms sharp, then dull, then distant.

Your body slumps forward into his, cheek resting against his chest as you wonder what will happen next.

And in those final seconds, heart slowing, vision blurring, you swear you hear it—a heartbeat.

Not yours.

His.

Or maybe… just the echo of it. A phantom memory to carry you into the dark.

Days later, only Sukuna’s body is found. Next to him, a mysterious pile of ash.

Together at last.

a/n: something something something abt ending generational cycles idk lol

taglist: @mistalli @latrotoxiins @maomimii @indiewritesxoxo

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moyazaika · 17 hours ago

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yandere! childe (genshin impact) x fem! reader

cw; (1.9k wc) darling wears glasses, obsessive + possessive themes, allusions to violence, implied non-con, nsfw themes, mdni 18+

genie's notes; commissioned piece by @lucienbarkbark who was an angel to work with! it's always fun to dive into fanfic so thank you for giving me the opportunity to do so; have fun reading! ♡

the snezhnayan winters are deathly cold, but even then, they are not nearly as chilling as your husband’s ire.

rarely are you ever the object of his interrogation, but there are those inevitable few moments you’re reminded of how old habits really do die hard—you slip up, in spite of all your best efforts—and hell freezes over.

take, for instance, right now.

because although his lips curl into something akin to a smile, you know childe far too well to believe this is anything but a deception, returned in favour of your own omissions.

the heat of the nearby fireplace’s flames lick at your feet and are, you recognise, the last remnants of warmth in the room. even the heavy fur coat draped over your shaking shoulders does little to protect you against childe’s blue eyes, cutting into you like shards of dark ice.

“ajax,” you plead. “i’m—”

“a liar.” childe finishes for you; his voice is deceptively gentle, soft as a lull. it devastates you when he laughs. “you’re a liar, my love.”

he’s got all of your letters in his hands. already, you know you’ve lost. the envelopes have been ripped open and the codes deciphered. how stupid of you to believe you could make a fool of the eleventh harbinger.

the silence that follows; settles down into the space between the two of you, is long and languid. your husband is in no rush to speak, seemingly content in merely taking in the way you’re squirming before him. he is eager, yet impassive, in his appraisal. it’s not the reverent sort you’ve gotten so used to, for there are no sweet nothings whispered against your skin as he lets his eyes linger on the softest parts of you.

tonight, his observation is more akin to an examination. an analysis, perhaps. like he’s looking for something—finds it, you realise with a sinking feeling, as his gaze snags on your hands, curled up by your sides, and marred by deep, black, ink.

damning markers of your disloyalty.

instinctively, you let the sleeves of your coat fall past your wrists. it’s a futile attempt at delaying the inevitable, and it makes you feel like nothing more than a guilty little girl having been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. you can’t stand the silence anymore. you really need to just—

archons—

the hair on your skin stands on end when he finally deigns to meet your eyes. beneath the weight of his cold gaze, you think anything would be better than this. it’s difficult not to walk right into the fireplace; lie down amidst the welcoming warmth of the flames that burn so brightly.

“i tried to trust you, y’know? i let you send your family little letters, and i never opened any of them even when all i wanted,” he confesses, “was to tear those pretty envelopes apart. i’ll admit, i even thought about breaking a finger or two a couple of times, did you know that? nothing to post if you can’t write.”

he looks to you for an answer, and it’s all you can do to stare back. he shakes his head, then. “no, no. of course you don’t know. how could you? you thought you had me all figured out.”

you have to force yourself to speak, because the words don’t come easy when you’re on the verge of a meltdown. you don’t even recognise the strangled sound of your own voice. “i’m sorry. i’m so, so sorry. please don’t hate me.”

“sweetheart,” he chides, fingers pulling the corners of his lips down into a melodramatic frown. “i could never hate you. i’m just, y’know, curious.” he lets his hand fall back to his side, pale mouth splitting into a sharp grin as he takes a step closer. “only wondering where i went wrong with you, that’s all.”

“nowhere. you didn’t.” your eyes are burning, though his are still crystal clear. lucid. sharp. he is immovable. you feel like the yielding force of weightless waters that split apart before a glacier’s path. “it’s all my fault.”

“i thought we put all this behind us. that you’d finally gotten it through your head.” he stalks closer, even steps far too measured to be casual. “imagine my surprise when i read these letters my wife begged me to let her send to her family and, ohh! would you look at that?”

“my little wife,” childe's voice falls completely flat, “thinks she can leave me.”

you cast a quick glance around your bedroom, scanning the space in your immediate vicinity for anything to hold onto. the vacant eyes of porcelain dolls and ornately carved figurines from your favourite novels all stare back at you emptily. a typewriter gathering dust by the windowsill. how it used to delight you at first, filling your monotonous days holed up within the walls of your husband’s prison by decorating it with pretty things.

they’re all useless to you now.

you wonder why childe chose not to cut off your fingers. he should have, you think. then you would never have ended up here. then maybe you would never have had any hope.

but you know the answer to your own question. after all, you’ve known him long enough to understand that childe finds great amusement in the way you still manage to carry that quiet hope within you.

oftentimes, he’ll catch you roaming the halls of this maze-like palace, attempting to mentally chart your way out. and every time he catches up to you, he’ll laugh, and press a kiss to your cheek, as if he knows exactly what you’re up to. as if it’s some sweet, private jest the two of you share.

“please, ajax.” you try again, “tsaritsa’s soul, i never meant to—”

“yeah, yeah. save it, love. there’ll be plenty of opportunities to beg for forgiveness later on.” you know it’s all for show when he pretends to think something over; nothing more than a performance when he suddenly snaps his fingers with an eager grin. “oh, that reminds me! i actually have something i needed to tell you.”

you watch as he thumbs through the stack of opened letters in his hands. you catch glimpses of your familiar scrawl; the desperation painfully obvious in your every etching onto the papers, begging your family to send a saviour, to reach out to the adventurer’s guild or the archons and send a cavalry to come knocking down the doors of the tsaritsa’s palace.

“you’ll love this one, sunshine.“i mean, well, you kinda have to. don’t have much of a choice, huh?”

all of it is a performance. from the ease with which he tosses the envelopes into the fire down to the very cadence of his voice as it takes on a familiar, sickeningly sweet lilt. you know this because you remain acutely aware of the fact that childe knew exactly what he was going to do with you the moment he finished reading those letters.

that doesn’t mean you’re ready for it.

“we’re going to liyue, lovely. i’m going to let you see your family again. i mean, isn’t that so much nicer than sending a letter? we’ll even catch the lantern rite whilst we’re there.” you sink deeper into your furs, stumbling away from him for every step he takes closer. “figured it’d be good for you.”

childe’s voice dips an octave lower, and the curl to his lips is a mockery of the usual smile that sits there just for you. “good for the baby, too.”

“tartaglia.” it’s impossible to see his face through the tears; everything in the room takes on the haze of a distant memory, and you wish, so desperately, that this moment would be over sooner. you could tuck it away within the recesses of your mind and never visit it again. let it be another lesson. “what baby?”

“your mother was overjoyed at the news.” he hums absently, “she said something about your haircut? mentioned already working extra hours to commission new baby clothes.”

your back hits a wall. and finally, with nowhere left to go and no saviour here to help you, childe takes his sweet time in catching up to you; and when he finally does, it’s all you can do to keep your neck painfully craned and looking up at him without falling to your knees.

“aren’t you excited, sweetheart?” he tilts his head, lifts a palm to cup your face. he’s smiling so earnestly, but his eyes are completely dull. you try searching for a sliver of the sunny man childe can sometimes be, and find, in place of the sunshine, the cold rays of light that hit shimmering snow and dissipate into nothing, instead. “finally, a family of our own making. it’ll be nice to go back to liyue, too.”

“i don’t understand.”

“it's simple, my love,” childe’s lithe fingers creep beneath the heavy fur coat you’re wearing. with deft hands, he slides it off your shoulders in one fluid motion. it falls onto the floor, dangerously close to the fireplace. a shiver rolls down your spine as you instinctively inch closer to your husband, seeking any semblance of warmth within the freezing halls of the palace. “it’s only tradition. it takes a village to raise a baby.” he laughs. “trust me, i know. my sisters were the sweetest little girls, but the boys have been a handful since birth. we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

“…ajax? i never—”

“i’m trying, y’know?” he takes off your glasses and presses a lingering kiss to your cheek. sighs against your skin as he folds up the frames and tucks them aside. “i’m trying very hard to be a good man for you, sweetheart.”

"listen to me, i—"

"you missed your family, sunlight. i get it, i’m a busy guy. i clearly wasn’t giving you as much attention as you needed. you obviously had too much free time on your hands. i figured if we had a family to tend to, that’d keep you busy. plus,” he grins. “i wouldn’t need to take your fingers! you’d never turn to anyone outside of zapolyarny. maybe, finally, you would also have something to love.”

you can barely breathe. “no, no i don't want—”

“you’ll learn to,” childe smiles. this time, finally, it reaches his eyes. “you’re going to adore our little one. trust me, sunlight; we’re going to be the only family you’ll ever need.”

you search his face for something, anything—and your heart breaks at the sight. you turn to the side, can’t even bear to face the man before you for a second longer, when all you find is a terrifying absence of anything but the deepest depths of conviction.

in the distance, as childe works to shed your body of all these elaborate furs between flittering kisses, you can already hear the sound of fireworks. when he sinks into you; a baby’s wailing cry.

the fire crackles cruelly, as your letters of desperation turn to ash, going unanswered for eternity right before your eyes.

#tw yandere #yandere x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin x you #yandere tartaglia #yandere childe #yandere childe x reader #yandere childe x you #yandere x darling #commission

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kingkaisen · 5 hours ago

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DOCTOR, DOCTOR!

♡ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Being a surgeon is hard enough, but dealing with attractive men who can’t seem to get enough of their pretty doctor? Well . . .

♡ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: 18+ ONLY || MINORS DNI — multi! jjk x surgeon! reader (separate) ft. sukuna, choso, gojo, nanami, toji, & geto, very tiny amounts of smut, mainly just suggestive, fluff, some angst, modern au, mentions of injuries and blood.

♡ — 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: I don’t know much about the medical field, so there will be some inaccuracies!

☤ — 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀

“There is no reason whatsoever as to why my surgical patients have to suffer due to your incompetence. They’re post-op. Post-op. These people have been freshly cut open, and they need enough medicine to manage their pain.” You strode down the brightly-lid hospital hallway. The two nurses at the receiving end of your anger struggled to keep up with your quick pace. “After I visit with Mr. Sukuna, I’ll be stopping by Mrs. Mura’s room, and that poor woman better not be in tears again from a lack of quality care when I get there.”

“Y-Yes, doctor.” The nurses nodded. They scurried off as you stopped outside an oak-colored wooden door.

You knocked twice before opening it, entering Sukuna’s hospital room with a fake smile to disguise your anger.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Sukuna.” Approaching the man propped up in his bed, you folded your arms across your chest, and he smirked up at you.

Briefly, you turned to face the slumped-over inmate guard dozing off in a recliner chair in the corner of the room.

“Sir? Would you mind stepping out for a moment?”

The guard snapped awake at the sound of your voice, nodded, and yawned, rising to his feet as he dragged himself out of Sukuna’s hospital room. After all, the prisoner was chained to his hospital bed, so it would be perfectly fine for him to waste some spare change visiting a few vending machines for a couple of snacks, right?

“How are you feeling?” You asked Sukuna once you both found yourselves alone.

“Drop the act,” Sukuna paused. He grabbed his white remote and muted the television displaying old reruns of boring game shows. “Tell me what’s got you upset.”

“Something that is much too inappropriate for me to discuss with a patient.” You let your face fall into a frown.

“Even your favorite one?”

“My favorite?” You raised your eyebrows, smiling softly as you pressed a button on the side rails of Sukuna’s bed, lowering him just a bit. “You and your ego.”

“I’m just sayin’, if you’ve got a problem with someone, y’know I’ll take care of it for you.”

You leaned over Sukuna, shining your pen light into one of his eyes. “See? Comments like that are exactly why your left wrist is handcuffed to your bed.”

“Relax, I’m just messin’ around,” he gave you a sly smile.

You pulled away from him briefly. “No, you’re not.”

“You’re right, I’m not,” Sukuna’s eyes slowly trailed over your body, taking in the sight of you from head to toe. “Just say the word, pretty girl.”

“First of all,” you paused, your voice stern, though you could hardly fight off the strong urge to smile. “Drop the nicknames already. Second of all, how are you supposed to take care of my problems while you’re cuffed, under constant supervision, and healing from an arm fracture? A complicated and complex one at that. I was operating on you for quite some time. I’m guessing your violent behavior led to it.”

Hunger lingered in Sukuna’s gaze. He had no appetite for the bland, half-eaten hospital food getting old and stale on a discarded tray on the other side of his bed.

No.

He was starving for the gorgeous surgeon in front of him right now. And after having all the time in the world to lie around and think, think, think, it dawned on him that, perhaps, his growing affection wasn’t one-sided.

“A complicated surgery your excuse for not discharging me already? I think someone likes having me around.” The tip of Sukuna’s tongue darted out briefly as he licked his bottom lip. You turned your head away from his piercing stare, suddenly overcome with shyness.

“Don’t get all embarrassed now,” Sukuna teased.

It was rather odd. Lying to patients — or, as you preferred to think of it, temporarily withholding the truth for their own benefit — was a skill all doctors had to learn. By now, you had considered yourself a master at doing so.

Until it came to Ryomen Sukuna.

Oh, he could see right through you . . . could destroy your detached, professional, tough attitude that one needs to have to survive the medical field and reduce you into nothing more than a shy girl with a crush. A crush on her own damn patient.

“You know what? After I finish examining you, I’m gonna work on getting you discharged first thing tomorrow,” you said, leaning over him yet again. Your penlight shined into his other eye.

Sukuna’s gentle breath patted against your face as he mumbled, “constantly examining my eyes even though my arm was the problem. You’re looking for any reason to get close to me, doc.”

The bright light seized with the click of your thumb. Though your eye exam was done, you hadn’t yet pulled away from him.

“I’m just doing my job. You’re making it more complicated than it needs to be, which is why I can’t support the decision to discharge you just yet,” you said.

“You think I believe that? Let me show you how well my arm’s healing up.” Sukuna’s injured arm was in a cast, but he wouldn’t let that hold him back. One second, you were leaning over Sukuna, and the next, he was grabbing your leg and pulling you over his lap, making you straddle him.

“I can toss you around just fine. But I’ll let you keep up with your little act,” Sukuna gripped the collar of your white coat. “After my eyes, you always examine my mouth, right? Tell me what you think, doc.”

With the hunger of a starving man, he connected your lips. A little gasp of surprise escaped from you. Sukuna was quick to use that opportunity to deepen the kiss, slipping his tongue into your mouth and swirling it around yours. Your breath was minty — he could taste it. If he wasn’t currently swallowing your soft moans while moving his mouth against yours, he would have teased you over freshening your breath before coming to visit him.

You broke the kiss a while later due to a lack of air. Damn your lungs. They felt as if they were on fire by the time Sukuna leaned back, a sly smirk on his face.

“Examination go well?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“It’s . . . um, just as I thought.” You stammered, pausing to breathe. “You’re displaying certain symptoms that have me concerned. We might need to keep you here for an extra day or two.”

Sukuna smirked yet again. Shaking his head in disbelief, he said, “If you wanna keep me here, you better take those scrubs off right now.”

“But we could get caught-”

“Just shut up and come sit on my face.”

☤ — 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐎

On what was a late Wednesday afternoon, you tossed your empty cup of coffee into a nearby garbage can. The next surgery on your chaotic schedule was meant to be a simple procedure done on a young man’s knee, and according to his pre-op lab work, his vitals were just fine. Ideal blood pressure. Quite healthy. No behavioral issues.

So far, so good . . .

Until you walked into his hospital room.

It is rather expected for surgeons to introduce themselves to their patients before an operation, which is why you entered Choso’s dark room to begin with and flipped on the lights.

But, when the unfamiliar man’s dark brown eyes landed on you, they widened. His cheeks and ears darkened to a pinkish shade of red, and he began to cough. The ice water he was sipping on nearly spewed from between his lips.

You rushed over worriedly, yet calmly.

“Keep coughing, don’t hold the water in or you’ll continue to choke.” With one hand, you grabbed the plastic cup on his overbed table, holding it to his mouth. With the other, you eased him forward, ready to give his back a couple of blows if necessary, but rubbing it soothingly in the meantime.

Eventually, his light choking session came to an end after he spat the water out, and no drastic measures were needed.

However, his skin hadn’t returned to its previous pale shade. His cheeks and ears were much too red for your liking.

After a brief introduction and overview of the operation — all talking on your part, not a word from him — you gave him a serious glance.

“Would it be alright for me to check your vitals myself? I know your nurse already did so, but you still seem a little flushed. I’m sure it’s from the little choking mishap, but I would still like to double-check.”

He nodded, avoiding your gaze and staring only at the white blanket draped over him. You removed the stethoscope from around your neck.

A quiet or shy patient was nothing usual. Beyond that, he was probably embarrassed about what happened, along with the general anxiety that builds up within most people at the idea of having surgery.

Therefore, you spoke as softly as you could, pressing the cool, circular end of the stethoscope against his chest.

“Take a deep breath for me,” you said.

You checked a few different areas before pulling away from him, hanging your stethoscope underneath the collar of your white coat.

“You have a rapid heartbeat. Is this a regular occurrence?”

“No.”

His heart rate should have calmed down by now had it been related to the water incident, you thought.

“Well, I’d like to check it again in a couple of minutes. We might have to consider scheduling you for an ECG if nothing changes. Have you experienced any palpitations, dizziness, or shortness of breath?”

Choso looked off to the side at nothing in particular.

“Only . . . right now,” he mumbled.

“Oh, I see,” you smiled gently, though he couldn’t see it. You were certain he’d stare directly into the sun just to avoid looking you in the eye. “Nervous around doctors, I understand.”

“I’m not usually nervous around doctors,” Choso fiddled with his folded fingers resting in his lap. He scratched one thumb with the other, breathing unsteadily.

You hid your confusion and concern behind an expressionless face, one as blank as a new canvas.

Tightening the blood pressure cuff around his muscular arm was your next move, one made in a thick awkward silence. The fact that he was in seemingly great shape only worsened your worry.

After all, those who exercised regularly were known to have a resting heart rate lower than the average person. Not higher.

You weren’t a fool.

From the very moment you took your first pre-med undergraduate course, you were taught time and time again that even those who took exceptional care of themselves could become victims of several illnesses. You’ve witnessed it yourself. Seen or performed tumor removals, cracked open chests, or sliced into the stomachs of countless amount of people who seemed healthy. Or tried their hardest to be that way.

Was that the case now? Was this seemingly healthy guy unknowingly suffering from some sort of heart condition?

Those were the questions running through your mind when the screen monitoring his blood pressure blinked red. The cuff released a puff of air as it stopped squeezing his bicep.

“Elevated blood pressure,” you said.

Removing the cuff, you darted your eyes down to his face.

“You shouldn’t be concerned. I’m fine,” he scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t need any tests. I’m just nervous. Not because of the surgery or because you’re a doctor, but you’re . . . pretty.”

You couldn’t help but smile. Reaching down, you gave his fidgeting hand a reassuring squeeze.

Being that his vitals appeared normal when being checked by someone else, then perhaps, he was telling the truth.

“Thank you,” you pulled your hand away. “Just to be safe and test your theory, I’ll have you sit here for a few minutes, and I’ll send a nurse back in to recheck everything one last time. If it all looks good, no ECG. How does that sound?”

For the first time since your arrival, Choso’s chocolate brown eyes met yours.

“That won’t work,” he mumbled. “Even if you bring in someone who isn’t you, I will still be thinking of you in a few minutes, so my heart rate and blood pressure will still be high. I’m sorry.”

☤ — 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎

Seeing Satoru Gojo among your scheduled appointments for the day was a certainty, just as the sun would rise in the morning and the moon would shine at night.

His operation was quite a while ago. It was a smooth surgery, and yet, here he was, sitting in the waiting room of the tall, fancy building with your name on the outside — you had established your very own private practice.

Despite being a surgeon on the younger side, you had accomplished what most surgeons wouldn’t dare to dream of accomplishing until their late 40s, if they could accomplish your level of success at all.

You had a wall full of framed degrees. Certificates. Awards. And it certainly wasn’t easy, from the accelerated programs and sleepless nights to being disrespected by your older male colleagues. You couldn’t count the number of times someone had mistook you for a nurse, even as you wore your white coat. There were even patients who refused your care in preference for your less-accomplished, less-skilled, male fellow doctors.

Despite the trials and tribulations, your hard work paid off, thank goodness.

That was why you groaned with annoyance upon discovering that Satoru Gojo was among your list of patients, and you tried to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat.

Because, damn it all, you wouldn’t ruin your remarkable career and reputation by falling for a patient . . . especially because he refused to stop being your patient.

— ⚕️—

“You again?” You stepped into the examination room, eyeing the white-haired man.

“Did you miss me?” Satoru grinned.

“You’re never gone long enough for me to miss you,” shutting the door behind you, trying your hardest to conceal your emotions, you asked, “What seems to be the problem now, Mr. Gojo?”

“Ya know,” Satoru paused. He slumped back in his seat. “I never understood why I have to tell the nurse all of my issues just to have to repeat it all again when you come in.”

“Considering how much you enjoy talking, I didn’t think you’d have a problem with that.”

“I’d rather just talk to you.” His goofy smile widened. “Anyway, I’ve been dealing with some stomach pain, and my incisions feel all sore.”

“You mean the incisions that healed up very nicely several months ago?” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “And regarding your stomach pain . . . you booked an appointment with me instead of the gastroenterologist I referred you to because?”

“‘Cause you were the one who performed my surgery, unless I’m crazy and remembering stuff wrong.”

Satoru rose from his seat, heading for the examination table without you having to tell him. He knew every move you were going to make. After all — after many pointless visits because, apparently, these appointments were the closest he could get to going on a date with you — he knew the routine like the back of his hand.

You approached him. It was difficult to find the courage to look him in the eye — god, that lovesick gaze of his always made your heart skip a beat — but you stared at him sternly regardless, hoping he would take your words seriously . . . though, truly, you didn’t want him to.

“Satoru, this many follow-up appointments almost a year later aren’t-”

“What are the rules against a doctor dating a patient?”

Your eyes widened.

Your heart didn’t skip a beat. It skipped several.

You were certain it was going to give out, that you would go from being a doctor to being a patient.

He was being serious. There was no hint of playfulness behind his tone. Satoru’s love-filled gaze darted from your eyes, down to your lips, and back up to your eyes again.

“Mr. Gojo, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that just now,” you cleared your throat, taking a step back, breaking eye contact with him. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” He asked with false innocence.

His long finger was suddenly hooked around the belt loop of your pants. He pulled you closer, closing the distance between you both. His soft, gentle breath patted against the skin of your cheek.

“Aw, you can’t even look me in the eye, how cute,” he teased, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh my goodness, just lay down already,” you mumbled. “Let me take a look at your stomach.”

“Yes ma’am,” Satoru grinned widely. He earned yet another eye roll from you.

You had hoped that officially starting his physical exam would, perhaps, break the building tension between you both. But no.

Your skillful hands were inspecting the faint and tiny incisions along his fit body, tracing over his lower abdomen.

“Like what you see?” Satoru said. “Don’t be shy, now. You can go lower than that if you want.”

“Once again, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” You pulled your hands away, and Satoru sat up. “Your incisions look fine, of course. But I will, for the thousandth time, be referring you to a gastroenterologist to run some tests regarding your . . .” you paused, giving him a look of disbelief, “. . . stomach pain.”

“Fineee, I’ll stop coming here,” Satoru said.

“Really?” You raised your eyebrows, but not in excitement. You were skilled in speaking without revealing your true emotions through your tone — years of telling sad families about an unfortunate diagnosis or death or a loved one required that form of expertise — but right now, you couldn’t hide your sadness as you spoke.

“You almost sound disappointed, sweetheart.” Satoru smiled, pushing himself off of the examination table. He started walking towards you, and you didn’t have the courage or desire to step away. “Anyway, I pieced it together just now. If doctors can’t date their patients, then I just can’t be your patient anymore. Is that what it’ll take for me to finally be able to snatch this coat off of you?”

“Mr. Gojo-”

“Or, I could do it right now.” This time, Satoru hooked his fingers around your chin, raising your head until you had no choice but to look him in the eye as he spoke. “What’s wrong? There aren’t any cameras in here out of respect for patient privacy, right?”

“Let me tell you something,” you frowned. “I’m a very hardworking woman who follows the rules. It took a lot of blood, sweat, and tears for me to get where I am now, and I won’t . . . I can’t ruin it by . . .”

Satoru’s thumb stroked your cheek as he listened to your words. When you suddenly stopped speaking, he mumbled, “What’s the matter? I’m listening.”

Truth be told, your words trailed off into nothing because the beautiful man before you made a thousand different questions and concerns swirl around in your overworked mind.

There was no denying his sheer lust. It was written all over his face. But there was love within his gaze as well. And though you couldn’t see your own face right now, you knew you were staring back at him with the same amount of love.

“Stop coming here. If you stop being my patient, just as you said, then maybe, we can go on that date in a couple of months.”

Satoru smiled. “Deal. I’m pretty impatient, but I can wait years for you if that’ll make you more comfortable. You should know by now there’s no getting rid of me.”

“I won’t make you wait years. I can be impatient sometimes as well.” You couldn’t help but match his smile with one of your own. “Let’s give it six months.”

“Six months,” Satoru said in agreement.

“Well, if that’s everything,” you started to head towards the door, then suddenly, you halted your footsteps.

You turned around. Rising to the tips of your toes, you planted a soft, quick kiss on Satoru’s cheek. His cheeks and ears couldn’t help but become a deep shade of red as he blushed.

“Six months,” you mumbled.

Satoru’s movements were fast; his lips were on your cheek before you had a chance to turn away.

“God, you’re the cutest,” he said.

Though kissing each other on the cheek was risky — planning to date a former patient in half a year was as well — you couldn’t help but admire your quickened heart rate. There was something quite thrilling about breaking the rules every now and then.

☤ — 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈

“Wow, I never thought I’d see little Kenny in my hospital.”

A bright smile graced your face as you stepped into the lavish room — though it was a hospital room, it seemed more suitable to view it as a hotel room with additional medical equipment.

“Well, when I decided it was time to schedule my carpal tunnel surgery, I was searching for a surgeon, and I saw your name appear. After I got over my initial surprise, I thought, why not go with my former best friend? Even if she used to be pretty clumsy during our childhood.” He gave you a smile as bright as your own. It occurred to him then, as his cheeks grew sore, that he hadn’t grinned so widely in quite some time.

“C’mere,” you approached his bed, leaning down to hug him and press a gentle kiss upon his cheek. “I’m gonna take great care of you.”

“I know you will. You always have,” the blonde-haired man whispered.

Something small, yet soft was being squished in between you both. He thought it was part of a pillow that had gotten caught in your embrace, but when you pulled away, his eyes darted down to the stuffed, light-brown teddy bear in your arms. It had a red heart in its grasp with cursive white letters that read: Get Well Soon!

“This is only one of the many, many things I plan to buy you from the gift shop,” you handed the stuffed animal to him. He took it, flipping it around in his hands.

God, he hadn’t noticed it when you walked in, so occupied with memorizing every detail of your gorgeous face and how it had changed since he last laid his eyes upon it. Even now, he couldn’t snatch his eyes away from you. The subtle smile pulling at the corners of your soft lips . . . your glistening gaze . . . even your nose was precious to him.

“Someone’s still a little sweetheart I see. Thank you,” he put the stuffed animal down next to him. “I intend to return the favor. I have a lot of missed birthdays and holidays to make up for.”

Kento’s long legs shifted underneath the blanket as he moved them to the side, making enough room for you to sit down on his bed.

“You and me both,” you paused, sitting in the spot he made for you. “I guess I can’t call you little Kenny anymore, can I? My goodness, you’re much taller than me now. When did that happen?”

Your childhood friend let out an airy, brief laugh. His hand scooped up yours. His thumb graced your skin, and he said, “I outgrew you right before we lost contact. I don’t expect you to remember, though. We were already starting to drift apart by the time that happened. But, more importantly, I think I have a more pressing question. When did you decide to become a surgeon? I’m proud of you.”

With a little hum, your eyes darted off to the side. Fighting off the bittersweet memories of growing up with Kento Nanami was an impossible task. What started out as a friendship formed in kindergarten over splitting peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and sharing toys so drastically became a forgotten bond by freshman year of high school, when your closeness amounted to nothing more than waving at each other in the hallway.

No more sleepovers. No more snack sharing. No more innocent hand-holding.

From best friends to acquaintances, just like that.

And when circumstances led to your family moving to a different town quite far away, you and Nanami lost contact completely.

From acquaintances to strangers, just like that.

“We have a lot of catching up to do, don’t we?” Your tone was laced with nostalgic sadness.

Cold air hit your hand when Kento released it — your skin craved his warmth. But the man did not release your hand without reason, as the hand that was formerly holding yours now rested against your soft cheek. He gave it a little stroke with his thumb, then moved your head back in his direction.

He hadn’t seen your eyes in years. He’ll be damned if they dare gaze at anything other than him right now.

“Well, catching up now is as good a time as any. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. Talk to me.” Kento moved his hand away from your face. Cold air returned to your skin like an unwelcomed guest. “Are you married? Have any kids? How are your relatives?”

“No, no, I’m . . . I’m much too busy to start a family. Haven’t had much time to check up on anyone else either,” You replied. Your somber demeanor vanished. A heartwarming smile reappeared, and rather playfully, you poked Kento’s chest. “But what of you, sir? How are you these days? I must say I wasn’t very pleased to see such an advanced case of carpal tunnel. You’re too damn young.”

Kento caught the hand you were jabbing him with. His large hand wrapped around yours, and he held it. Warmth.

“Well, I’m a businessman. My job is so taxing, it’s no wonder I ended up with carpal tunnel. But I make good money from it. I’m in the same boat as you, though. Unmarried. No kids.”

“Considering how handsome you turned out to be, I’m assuming it’s voluntary?”

He nodded. “Much like you, I’m just too busy.”

You couldn’t help but glance down at your locked hands. Despite the years upon years that have passed since he last felt your skin, his touch wasn’t foreign. It was all too familiar, almost as if Kento Nanami never left your life to begin with.

“I always thought you would be the person I’d end up marrying.” Your words were soft, barely above a whisper.

“So did I. Our wedding was my favorite thing to daydream about during class.” Kento brought your hand to his lips. His kiss was a gentle one, and the previous warmth that came from his touch transformed into a burning heat running through your veins. If he kept this up, this gentle love, you were certain you’d combust into flames.

“I should leave now,” you mumbled, preparing to get off of his bed, though you hadn’t yet found the courage.

Kento couldn’t help but notice how your eyes wouldn’t meet his as if they found the mopped floor below oh so interesting.

“Look at me.”

It took a while. Much longer than he would have liked. But eventually, you gave in to his demand and your eyes found his, though your glistening gaze was, once again, filled with sadness.

“I know this is the first time we’ve seen each other in a long time and the circumstances aren’t ideal, but you don’t have to mourn our past, because I don’t intend on letting you get away from me again. Do you understand me?”

Your sad eyes widened. “You’re saying-”

“I’m saying I want you back in my life, if that’s okay with you.”

You knew the serious expression on Kento’s face well. He meant every word.

“I assumed we’d go our separate ways once again after this surgery . . . that I probably wouldn’t see you again until you needed a hip replacement in your late sixties,” you couldn’t help but let a single tear fall down your cheek.

A low, brief chuckle came from Kento. He leaned forward. Reaching out, he cupped your cheek, stroking the tear away with his thumb.

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. Come here.” With the hand that was resting on your cheek, Kento guided your head towards his chest as he leaned back against the hospital bed. Your upper body now rested on top of him. His thumb continued to stroke your wet cheek.

“Forgive me for saying so, but as soon as you walked through that door, I knew I wanted to start daydreaming about marrying you once again.”

“Good,” you smiled. “Because I was thinking the same thing.”

“I won’t get you in trouble for holding you like this, will I?” Kento asked, though he couldn’t think of anything worse than letting you go.

“Don’t stress about it. No matter what anyone says, I run this hospital. I can do what I want. Including this.”

Suddenly, you leaned up to press a kiss on his cheek.

“But I better get going,” you said. “It’s almost time for your surgery.”

You started to rise into a sitting position, but Kento’s large hand cupped the side of your face, halting your movements.

“Wait,” he darted his soft eyes down to your lips. “It’s too soon for this, but I need to do it anyway.”

Kento’s lips met yours in a surprise kiss so loving, so passionate, it took your breath away — there was nothing left except that familiar warmth and the feeling of his lips moving against your own. You truly didn’t know if the kiss lasted five seconds or five minutes because when he pulled away, it still felt like it was much too early.

“That kiss didn’t happen too soon,” You uttered breathlessly. “I’ve waited years for that.”

You staggered as you rose to your feet. Leave it to Kento Nanami to make you go weak at the knees.

Dragging your hands across your coat and scrubs to ensure they weren’t oddly twisted or wrinkled, you said, “Now I’ve really gotta go. But I look forward to slicing into you!”

☤ — 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎

“You’re awake.”

It was the voice of an angel. Had to be. But, as Toji’s blurry vision cleared as he blinked, blinked, and blinked — he made out the sterile environment devoid of color and packed to the brim with machines that were wired to his battered limbs — he realized he was in a hospital room, not the afterlife.

“Welcome back,” you smiled.

Toji felt your thumb gently stroke his forehead. Your touch was so comforting. So soothing. It calmed his initial urge to panic as a result of the massive wave of pain and confusion that hit him as soon as he opened his eyes.

“Toji, you’re alright. You were in a construction accident.” Another voice spoke up, but Toji’s eyes didn’t bother searching for the source. They were on you — the pretty, unfamiliar woman with the voice of an angel, smiling at him.

— ⚕️—

It took several days for Toji to regain the strength to move. Talking was a lost skill to him for weeks.

God, were head-to-toe injuries painful. His nurses informed him — when he could manage to stay conscious, at least — that unsafe conditions led to him falling from a dangerous height while working at a construction site. Most people would have died instantly during an accident like that. If they were lucky enough to survive the initial fall and aftermath of collapsing debris, then they more than likely would have died on the operating table.

But Toji, however, had a brilliant surgeon who operated endlessly for hours upon hours to save his life. Brilliant.

Was it you? The pretty, unfamiliar woman with the voice of an angel who smiled at him when he first awakened? Just where did you go?

You suddenly walked into Toji’s room as if his thoughts had summoned you.

Before you could speak, he asked, “You the one who saved my life?”

“I am. My surgical team and I worked very hard. I’m glad you pulled through. How are you feeling?”

“Took you long enough to come check on me again,” Toji ignored your question, speaking with a soft, tired smile. “Haven’t seen you since I woke up. Was starting to think my mind made you up.”

“Actually,” you paused, approaching the side of his hospital bed. “I came by almost every night to check on you. You were just fast asleep. You can thank our pain medication for that.”

“Hm . . .” Toji’s eyelids were growing heavy. He spoke over the beeping vital monitors and IV pumps. “Guess I owe you one for . . . saving . . .”

He was fast asleep.

You smiled down at his face, which, although bruised and bandaged, was still quite handsome.

As you walked away, you heard the black-haired man mumble in his drug-induced state, “. . . so goddamn pretty.”

—⚕️—

The following physical therapy-filled weeks were rather difficult for a man like Toji. The struggles he endured were not only physical, but mental as well.

After all, he prided himself on having such an athletic build and insane strength — the amount of pounds he could lift with ease was startling.

But for a while, he was no longer the man who could haul just about anything with very little effort. He was a man who needed assistance to stand up. To walk. And his spirit was crushed, even well after he regained those lost skills and was deemed recovered enough to be discharged.

He was rather certain that if it wasn’t for a certain angel sticking by his side throughout his two-month hospital stay, he wouldn’t have found the strength to keep going.

—⚕️—

Toji Fushiguro found himself at a local, quiet bar more often than he’d like to admit. Most times, a wave of self-hatred washed over him every single time he grabbed a seat and ordered a drink, but not today. Today, he was happy to walk into the bar, because you were there.

“Can I buy you a drink, doc?”

You looked up from your phone screen to find your former patient standing at the side of the little table you occupied.

“Toji?” You smiled. “Wow. It’s refreshing to see you outside of the hospital.”

“And without a hospital gown on, I bet,” a little smirk pulled at the vertical scar on his lips. “It’s nice to see you without that white coat on, ‘cause that means I’m no longer in that hospital, even if the coat is pretty hot on you. Who knew I’d have a thing for doctors.”

“Aren’t you straightforward?” You gave a little laugh, then nodded at the empty seat across from you. “Sit down. Join me.”

As Toji pulled out the chair opposite of you, he said, “I was kinda worried, thinkin’ I wouldn’t see you again after getting discharged.”

“Really? I figured after seeing me every day for . . . how long has it been, two months, right? I assumed you’d be sick of seeing me.” You took a sip of your water. Condensation coated the cool glass.

“Sick of the hospital, yeah, but not you,” Toji propped his elbow up on the table and rested the side of his head in his hands. “Anyway, about that drink. Get whatever you want. It’s on me.”

“Toji, you know you don’t owe me for saving your life. It’s my job.”

“I don’t care. I owe you one. But an overpriced drink wasn’t how I was gonna pay you back anyway.”

“Hm?” You raised your eyebrows. “How were you going to pay me back, then?”

“I’ve got a lot of ideas. One of them involves you comin’ home with me. Another involves a nice dinner, whichever you prefer. Though if you really wanna know what I think, I think you should pick both.”

You waited for any sort of indication that, perhaps, the handsome man was joking. But you knew Toji quite well after spending much time with him, and he never bothered with being dishonest or secretive about his feelings.

Hospital food tasted like crap? He said so. Exhaustion lingering within your eyes despite your professional smile? He pointed it out.

You gave him a smile, shaking your head in disbelief. The chair scraped against the floor as you got up to leave the table.

Toji wasn’t surprised to see you leave. He expected to be turned down, having been your former patient. Pursuing any sort of relationship probably disinterested you due to moral and ethical-

“Aren’t you coming?”

Toji turned around. You stood there patiently, having halted your footsteps a short distance away from the table.

“Huh?” He blinked. So you were interested. Another small smile couldn’t help but grace his face. “What about that drink?”

“Forget about it,” you waved him over. “I like what you came up with more.”

“Oh yeah? Which idea?” Toji asked, rising from his seat.

“Both.”

“Then let’s go, angel.” Toji grabbed ahold of your hand, guiding you towards the exit. “I hope you like Italian food. And my version of physical therapy.”

☤ — 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎

Sharp intuition and good instincts were valuable skills one needed in the medical field. As one of the most skilled surgeons in the hospital, the best of the best, according to your peers — and, well, your low mortality rate — your skill set was rather exceptional.

There was, however, a drawback to having good instincts. It was the impending doom you couldn’t shake when your gut told you that something was off.

Though your incredibly long shift had come to an end, you hadn’t yet left the hospital. After all, today, your surgeries were all brief and complication-free. The ER wasn’t too chaotic. Even your coffee tasted extra pleasant today.

Things were going well. Too well.

Your time working as a surgeon had taught you one thing: a peaceful day working in a hospital was a bad sign.

And those good instincts of yours? They told you not to leave just yet.

Many nurses darted their eyes at you curiously, silently questioning why you hadn’t yet run out of the building once your shift was over. Free time was all too rare for a surgeon, so why, just why, were you hanging around in the ER, leaning against the counter of the nurses’ station?

You were taking a tentative sip of your beverage when a car arrived outside of the ER’s automatic sliding seethrough doors.

A man stepped out, not wasting time with trivial matters such as shutting his car door, and he swung open another car door. You couldn’t see what he was doing exactly due to the distance. Not until he stepped into the ER with an unconscious, blood-covered girl in his arms.

“Sir?” You called out.

The dark-haired man didn’t respond. He was in a state of shock.

You and your medical team rushed to find a gurney, ready to assess the girl in his arms, but he wasn't ready to let go of her just yet.

You gave him a sympathetic, but urgent look. “Sir, you need to let us help her. Can you tell us what happened?”

No response.

The man himself was bleeding from his head.

“Sir,” you tried yet again, speaking softly. He didn’t look at you until you touched the bloody hand he had hooked around the young girl’s shoulder. “I promise I will try my best to help her. I need you to trust me.”

He blinked a few times as if coming out of a daze. He placed the girl on the gurney.

— ⚕️—

It was a car accident. The man, who was named Suguru Geto, sat in the waiting room for hours, refusing medical attention for his own injuries. The young girl he carried into the ER was one of his adopted daughters.

Operating on her with the information a nurse passed on to you in mind gave you the strength you needed to push through your exhaustion — to save a young girl on the brink of death.

“I need you to stay strong for me, Mimiko,” you mumbled against your surgical mask, putting down one surgical tool and grabbing another — your scalpel. “Your dad’s waiting for you, sweet girl.”

Though the girl was unconscious, you continued to speak to her throughout the operation.

You couldn’t help it — perhaps believing it mattered on a subconscious or even spiritual level.

When the surgery came to an end, you gave Suguru an update, informing him that Mimiko was stable for now and that he could visit her soon.

“Thank you.” A shaky, relieved breath escaped from between his lips, and though he was happy to hear the news, he started to cry. Tears were streaming down his face, mixing with the blood on his skin — he couldn’t help but break down over the situation, now that it was partially over.

You wasted no time in grabbing a seat next to Suguru.

Wrapping your arms around him, you held the stranger, rubbing his back soothingly.

“It’s alright,” you whispered kindly.

Suguru pulled away from you after a couple of minutes. You gave him a smile. However, it didn’t take long for the corners of your lips to dip into a frown.

“Mr. Geto, your forehead.” You rose from your seat. “You need stitches. Please let me help.”

It took a moment, but he eventually nodded and got up as well.

You were well within your rights to go home, to pass off this mundane suturing opportunity to someone with less responsibility within the hospital, but you couldn’t. You wouldn’t.

You were going to stick with this family throughout their entire healing process.

For a while, you treated Suguru’s wound in silence — beyond the general bustling hospital noise.

“You seem tired. Am I keeping you here past your shift?” Suguru suddenly spoke up.

You were silent for a moment, uncertain of how to respond.

“I’m just glad I was here, Mr. Geto.”

“Anyone who saves my daughter’s life can call me Suguru.” He stared down at the dried blood on his hands. “While you were still in surgery, a nurse gave me an update. She told me how hard you were working, and that you were speaking to Mimiko as if she was your own child.”

“I was. I like to talk to all my patients during surgery. I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

“Not at all, why would it? I appreciate it. You seem very caring.” Suguru would have smiled if he had the energy.

“Tired and caring, hm?” You grinned softly, finishing the last stitch.

“I’m sure I will come up with more adjectives in due time.”

Your smile widened, and even Suguru managed to give a tiny grin.

— ⚕️—

Suguru Geto approached you in the hospital hallway during your lunch break a few weeks later, on the day his dear daughter would get discharged. The man who you came to know after seeing him and his family on nearly a daily basis tapped your shoulder.

“Hm?” You turned around, and your eyes darted down to a packaged baked good in Suguru’s hands.

“What’s this?” You asked.

“Consider it a personal thank you for taking such great care of my daughter.” Suguru held out the tiny box, and you took the pastry.

“Oh, Mr. Geto, You didn’t need to do this for me. I was just doing my job,” you grinned.

“Your job was to save her life. To talk with her about her hobbies and interests . . . to comfort her . . . that was going above and beyond.” Suguru stared at you with sincerity and respect. “She’s been rambling on and on about you non-stop. I know you’re a busy person, but she said she’d still like to see you even after getting discharged, should you ever have the freetime.”

“Of course. She’s a sweet girl — both your girls are,” looking down at the sweet treat in your hands, you said, “and this looks amazing. You’re too kind, Suguru!”

“Believe me, I’m not normally a kind person. But you deserve every bit of kindness I might be able to spare.”

“A single father to two girls he adopted, who bakes pastries for other people? Sure seems like you’re pretty kind.”

Suguru stepped closer. He leaned down a bit, as far as he could without raising any suspicion from nearby medical staff and guests, and he whispered into your ear, “You just don’t know me very well. But I was thinking about how much I’d like to change that.”

“How so?” You whispered back.

Suddenly, Suguru stepped away. He grabbed your wrist, leading you towards the on-call room he fully intended on sneaking you both into.

You could hardly put the pastry down and lock the door before his lips were on yours hungrily. His hands were busy pulling off your white coat, your top, and undoing the drawstrings of your scrub pants.

His mouth made its way down to your neck. He sucked and kissed at your skin, all the while his hand snaked their way into your underwear.

“Remember when I started to cry, and you held me?” He asked softly, his breath patting against your skin.

“Yeah,” you replied. “I remember.”

“I think I should return the favor,” he paused, his fingers finding your clit while his other hand held you against his bigger frame. “Let me hold you while you cum.”

🩺 — @sad-darksoul @priv-rose @yihona-san06 @keriaonmarz @thequeenofcurses @he11okitty-mari @luvvmae @underworldsheiress @notgoodforlife @levisfavoriteteashop @insomniacbehaivour @preciousamethyst @kxmorrx @iwanttohitmyself @ellaumbrella1 @lil-apple-pie @prettypixigrl @averysmolbear @starstoru @starlightanyaaa @dolphin1135 @ioveartfilm @filhadaanarquia @blackdxggr @jaegergirl @gunslxtz @he11okitty-mari @deadrevenge @koikohib

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missmadella · 1 day ago

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"How they react when they get called by their full Name" // Tokyo Revengers

Charakters: Mikey, Sanzu, Kokonoi, Mitsuya, Chifuyu, Kazutora, Ran, Rindou, Izana

Synopsis: There’s one thing every Tokyo Rev boy knows: when you drop their full name — first and last — they’ve seriously screwed up. It could be a forgotten date, a stolen dessert, a jealous outburst, or just plain stupidity, but once that name leaves your lips? Oh, they feel it.

CW: Light cursing, jealousy/possessiveness, mild violence (slaps, fights), flirty teasing,emotional tension

Mikey (Manjiro Sano):

The sun was beginning to dip behind the horizon, casting a soft orange glow over the Musashi Shrine. The old Toman gang had gathered there, much like they always did, lounging on the steps and chatting about their plans for the next big move. Mikey stood at the forefront, his jacket casually draped over his shoulders as he began to talk about the upcoming fight with another gang. Draken, always close behind him, kept an eye on the rest of the group, ensuring no one got too rowdy.

Suddenly, his gaze shifted as he noticed movement near the shrine stairs. At first, he couldn’t make out who it was — the person was still too far away. But when a loud, clear “MANJIRO SANO” echoed across the quiet shrine, he knew exactly who it was.

The whole group froze.

Heads turned in unison, eyes wide as they realized it was none other than Mikey’s girlfriend — and she was not happy.

Draken’s eyes flicked to Mikey, who had stopped mid-sentence, his smirk fading into something more cautious. You walked through the crowd of Toman members, your steps deliberate and filled with an icy determination. The guys instinctively parted to make room, stepping aside like a wave in front of you.

“Mikey, what the hell...” Mitsuya, one of the vice-captains, started to speak, but the instant your angry glare landed on him, he went silent. His words died in his throat, and he wisely shut up, not wanting to get between you and whatever had set you off.

Everyone knew who Mikey’s “wife” was — that teasing nickname for you when you and Mikey went official. And normally, you were the sweetest girl anyone could meet. The kind of girl they'd run into on a late-night walk down the city, smiling and saying hello to everyone. But the guys also knew that when you were angry, nobody wanted to be near you. You didn’t need to use your fists to make your point. Your words were sharp enough to cut through anything.

And in that moment, every single one of them could tell that Mikey had messed up big time. Especially when you called him by his full name.

You reached the stairs where Mikey stood, the air around you heavy with the tension that had suddenly gripped the whole shrine. You didn’t shout — you didn’t need to. Your cold gaze alone sent a wave of fear through him. With barely a whisper, you spoke. “Where is my dorayaki that was on my counter this morning?”

The moment you asked, Mikey’s face paled slightly, and his usual confident demeanor cracked, just enough for Draken to notice the shift. He watched as Mikey's eyes darted around, his lips twitching, unsure of how to respond.

“Baby… I don’t… know what you’re talking about,” Mikey said, his voice a little shakier than usual — nothing loud enough for the others to catch, but Draken saw it. Mikey was genuinely scared.

Your gaze never wavered. Your face remained hard, and you took a step closer, your eyes locked on his. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”

The silence in the air was thick, and even the usual chatter between the Toman members had died down, everyone sensing that this was no ordinary disagreement. Mikey swallowed hard, his confident smirk gone. “Baby…”

The way you stood there — unmoving, your voice cold, your anger barely contained — made Mikey’s insides twist. The entire shrine had become a pressure cooker, and it felt like you were the only one in control.

He hesitated, then took a step closer, moving down a single stair. His eyes never left yours, but you stood firm, arms crossed tightly in front of your chest. “I’m sorry, baby,” Mikey said, his voice softer now. “I didn’t know those were yours.” He took another step toward you, trying to ease the tension, his usual carefree attitude replaced with a hint of concern.

Big mistake.

Without warning, you lunged forward, grabbing his ear in a swift motion. “How dare you eat my sweets?” you hissed, your grip firm enough to make him wince. “I’d been looking forward to that all day, Manjiro.”

His face contorted in pain, but it was the way you were looking at him — that cold, steely gaze — that made him feel the full force of your anger. He knew he’d messed up, and now he was paying the price.

“I’m sorry, princess,” Mikey groaned, wincing under your tight grip. “I swear, they were making fun of me, telling me I should eat them. I didn’t think it would be such a big deal. I’ll never do it again.”

But you weren’t having any of it. The pain in his ear intensified as you squeezed harder. “Don’t. Ever. Do. That. Again.”

Finally, with a final, sharp tug, you let go of his ear. It was red, and Mikey winced as he rubbed it, his eyes still apologetic. But before you could even begin to walk away, Mikey quickly grabbed your wrist, holding you in place.

You shot him a glare, making it clear with a look that he needed to think very carefully about what he was doing next. “Let go of me,” you muttered, your voice low but threatening.

“I’m really sorry, Y/N,” Mikey murmured, his voice softening as he pulled you closer, planting a gentle kiss on your forehead.

You closed your eyes at the sensation, your body relaxing just a little bit as your frustration started to melt away. A heavy sigh left your lips as you opened your eyes, staring at him again. “You better make it up to me, or you can sleep on the couch tonight.”

“Ouch,” Draken heard Chifuyu mutter under his breath, a small laugh following. The tension in the air had slightly lifted, but it was clear Mikey wasn’t off the hook yet.

“I won’t do it again,” Mikey promised, his voice soft and sincere. His grip on your wrist loosened as his hand moved gently to your face. “But please… don’t call me by my first name again. I’m sorry, baby.”

Before you could say anything, Mikey leaned down and kissed you softly on the lips. It was warm and comforting, a stark contrast to the anger that had flared moments ago. You kissed him back, your hand moving to the side of his face, your thumb gently caressing his cheek.

“If you ever do this again,” you warned, pulling back slightly but keeping your hand on his face, “I will be your worst nightmare.”

Mikey smirked, his usual cocky confidence returning — just a little bit — as he leaned down to kiss you again. This time, the kiss was brief but meaningful, and when you pulled away, you dropped onto the last step of the shrine, sitting down with a sigh.

Mikey removed his jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a small, playful smile. “Alright, I’m gonna finish the meeting now. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

With that, Mikey turned back to the group, his usual carefree attitude settling back into place, but he kept a soft smile on his face, knowing he’d narrowly escaped a much worse fate.

___________________________________________________________________________

Sanzu Haruchiyo:

The Bonten boardroom was thick with tension — dark suits, whispered strategies, and Mikey’s dead-eyed stare at the head of the table.

Sanzu leaned back in his seat, legs kicked up on the polished wood, twirling a butterfly knife in his fingers like the meeting was background noise. Casual, cocky — typical.

That is, until the doors slammed open with a force that made Koko flinch and Rindou instinctively reach for his gun.

Every head turned.

And there you were.

Hair wind-blown, heels echoing like gunshots, expression locked in one single mood: rage.

You didn’t even glance at the others — your eyes zeroed in on one person only.

"Haruchiyo. Sanzu."

His knife stilled mid-spin.

He blinked. Tilted his head.

“Ohhh?” he drawled, an unstable grin curling onto his lips. “Full name… in front of my coworkers? What’d I do this time, doll?”

You marched right up to him and — crack.

The slap rang out, sharp and echoing. The room went dead silent. Even Mikey raised an eyebrow.

Sanzu didn’t move. Just slowly turned his head back toward you, a red mark blooming on his cheek — and a completely unhinged smile spreading across his face.

“Oh, you’re so hot when you’re mad.”

That did not help.

“Don’t you dare,” you growled, eyes blazing. “You forgot. You forgot our anniversary, Haruchiyo. You left me sitting alone at a reservation you made, looking like an idiot. You’ve done a lot of reckless shit, but this—this is what I don’t forgive.”

Sanzu opened his mouth to joke again, but one look at your face — how your voice wavered just slightly at the end — and something actually clicked.

He stood slowly, grin slipping into something more serious. His usual cockiness twisted with confusion and guilt.

“I—shit,” he muttered. “I didn’t forget, I just—no. No, I did forget.”

You scoffed, turned on your heel.

“I’m done. Don’t worry — you’ll have time to spin your knife and play gangster without having to think about me ever again.”

You were almost to the door when Mikey spoke — quietly, but with weight.

“Sanzu.”

He froze.

“If you don’t fix this in the next ten minutes, don’t come back to the table.”

Everyone else stayed silent. They knew what that meant.

Sanzu blinked at his boss, then at you. He dragged a hand down his face. Then he was moving — fast.

You didn’t make it to the elevator.

A hand caught your wrist, not rough but firm.

“Wait,” he said, and for once, his voice wasn’t teasing. It was low. Serious. “I messed up. I know I did. You wanna break my nose next? Fine. You want a real apology? Give me tonight. Just tonight. I’ll fix it.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I should walk out.”

“But you haven’t,” he said softly, tugging you closer, his other hand cradling the side of your face — right where your anger had turned his cheek red. “Which means I’ve still got a chance.”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned closer.

“Let me take you somewhere. Right now. Fuck the meeting. Mikey already said I’m screwed either way.”

You bit your lip. Still furious. Still hurt.

But his eyes — sharp, wild, pleading — were locked on yours like nothing else in the world mattered.

“…One chance,” you muttered.

“That’s all I need.”

And with that, he dragged you out by the hand — past a stunned Bonten, past Mikey’s amused smirk — ready to blow more money than sense fixing the night he should’ve never forgotten.

___________________________________________________________________________

Kokonoi Hajime:

Your afternoon was peaceful — warm tea, a half-read book, and your favorite playlist humming in the background.

Then your phone buzzed.

One alert. Then two. Then three.

“Transaction approved: ¥1,850,000 – Interior Luxury Aquatics.” “Your Bonten BlackCard was used at ‘KoiWorld Tokyo’.” “Estimated delivery scheduled for this evening.”

You stared at your phone, blinking slowly like it might explain itself.

It did not.

Instead, it showed a picture of a koi pond with custom underwater lighting, soundproof filtration, and a caption that read:

“Perfect centerpiece for a modern bathroom space.”

You stood up so fast your tea nearly spilled.

And you marched straight into the living room, already yelling.

“Hajime Kokonoi!”

He was lounging like royalty — silk pajama pants, socks mismatched (as always), hair perfectly in place even though he’d clearly done nothing all day. The TV was on but muted, and he was scrolling through his tablet like a man deep in international finance — or TikTok, it was hard to tell with him.

At the sound of his full name, he froze.

Then looked up, slow and cautious. “...Was it something I bought? Or something I said while half-asleep? Be honest. I need context before I defend myself.”

You held up your phone like a prosecutor presenting evidence. “A koi pond, Hajime?”

He tilted his head. “Ah. The koi pond.”

“Oh, there are others?”

“No. Not yet. But imagine the possibilities.”

You gave him a look that could set fire to expensive wallpaper. “In the guest bathroom?”

“Listen, listen, I thought it through. It’s the smallest bathroom, right? So guests don’t spend too long in there scrolling through TikTok. But if you give them a calming aquatic feature to look at while they—”

“—you’re describing bathroom fish therapy right now.”

“Exactly! You get it!” He beamed like he’d invented sliced bread. “It’s innovation, babe.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “We agreed — no more extravagant impulse buys without telling each other. You promised after the rotating crystal gin shelf.”

“But that one was sick. Admit it.”

“It plays Beyoncé when it opens.”

“Luxury,” he said, dead serious.

You paced the room, already imagining poor houseguests slipping on wet tiles while koi fish stared them down in judgment. “This isn’t about fish, Hajime. This is about you not listening. Again. You can’t fix a boring bathroom by throwing seven fish in it and hoping for ambiance.”

He rose from the couch, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. Okay. I hear you. Maybe it was a little… extra.”

“A little?”

“They gave me a discount if I named one of the koi after myself.”

You stared. “You’re putting a fish in a bathroom and naming it Hajime?”

“Well, I was... but I’ll rename him if it’ll help my case. What about... ‘I’m sorry’?”

You were trying so hard not to laugh, and he knew it. He stepped closer, slipping his arms around your waist as your resolve crumbled slightly.

“Babe,” he said softly, brushing a kiss against your temple, “I’ll cancel the installation if it really bothers you. Or I’ll move it to the terrace. Or build the koi a private spa in the guest bedroom. Whatever you want.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“But I’m cute,” he added with a wink.

You sighed. “If I ever see you spending seven figures on fish again, I’m calling you Hajime in front of Mikey. In front of everyone.”

He gasped. “That’s cold.”

“Even colder than koi water.”

“Okay, now that was hot. Use that in bed later.”

You smacked his arm, but you were laughing now. And he was grinning like a man who knew exactly how to get away with murder (and koi ponds).

___________________________________________________________________________

Mitsuya Takashi:

It was a quiet evening in the Mitsuya household. The living room was glowing warm with fairy lights, soft music hummed from the record player, and the faint scent of freshly brewed tea drifted from the kitchen.

You were sitting on the couch, waiting.

Waiting… and waiting.

The lasagna you had lovingly made was slowly getting cold, the table set with care — candles, folded napkins, even that dumb little place card he always laughed about that said “Takashi ”.

But he was late.

Not just ten-minutes-late.

We’re talking an hour and twenty-seven minutes late, and he hadn’t even texted.

You were just about to wrap the food up in cling wrap out of pure spite when the front door clicked open.

You didn’t even look up when you heard the soft, familiar thud of his boots being kicked off.

“Baaabe, I’m home—”

“Takashi Mitsuya.”

The way you said it — calm, measured, yet dangerously poised — made him freeze in the doorway, jacket half-off one arm.

He blinked. “...Oh. Wow. The full name.”

You finally turned around.

He looked guilty as hell.

“I…” He cleared his throat. “Forgot?”

You crossed your arms.

Mitsuya walked slowly into the room, holding up both hands like you were a wild animal he didn’t want to spook. “Okay, in my defense—”

“You promised,” you said, voice soft but stern. “You literally promised you'd be home on time. And I didn’t even burn the lasagna this time.”

He winced. “I know. I know. Toman meeting ran late, then I got caught up helping Hakkai fix a shirt for his date, and then I couldn’t find my phone in all the fabric and—yeah, okay, I’m gonna stop talking.”

You stared for a moment longer before turning away, muttering, “It’s fine. I should’ve expected it. You’re the one who’s always taking care of everyone.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then:

“...Is this the part where you scold me more? Or kiss me?”

You blinked, turning slowly.

Mitsuya was grinning now — boyish and warm, clearly testing the waters, but sincere under it all. “Because you only ever call me Takashi Mitsuya when it’s one of those.”

You tried not to smile. Tried.

“Depends. Do you think you deserve a kiss right now?”

He walked right up to you, slipping his arms around your waist and leaning his forehead against yours.

“I deserve a chance to earn one,” he said softly.

You exhaled a little laugh, eyes half-lidded. “You always say the right thing.”

“I sew for a living, baby. I know how to thread things carefully.”

“Gross.”

“You love it.”

You did. So much it hurt sometimes.

You leaned up and kissed him — just once — before whispering near his ear, “You’re heating up that lasagna yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh — and dishes too.”

He groaned dramatically, burying his face in your neck. “You really know how to punish a man.”

“You forgot our dinner date. I’m letting you off easy.”

“I know. And I’m grateful.” He paused, pulling back with a soft smile. “But don’t stop calling me by my full name. It sounds really hot when you’re mad.”

You rolled your eyes and walked away — but not before tossing back a teasing, “Takashi Mitsuya, you’re impossible.”

His grin was full of love.

And this time, he didn't miss dinner.

__________________________________________________________________________

Chifuyu Matsuno:

You had left the apartment for thirty minutes.

Just thirty.

Enough time to grab your package from the post office, pick up snacks, and come back to what was supposed to be a chill movie night.

What you came back to instead... was chaos.

There was flour. Everywhere.

The cat — who looked like it had fought in the Great Pastry War — bolted past you with a string of dough wrapped around its leg. The TV was paused on a baking tutorial. The counters were stacked with bowls, some with batter, one suspiciously empty, and—

Oh no.

“CHIFUYU MATSUNO.”

A loud bang echoed from the kitchen.

You stormed in, and there he was: wide-eyed, mid-mixer, flour smudged on his cheek, apron crooked, and a cake that had clearly imploded in the oven behind him.

He blinked. “Okay, so—”

“Don’t you ‘okay, so’ me.”

“Before you get mad—”

“I left you alone for half an hour. I asked you to boil pasta. Not—what is this? A Great British Bake-Off rejection arc?”

He pointed to the collapsed cake like it betrayed him personally. “That was supposed to be a surprise! I was trying to make that caramel lava thing you said looked good—”

“By summoning Satan into the batter?”

He scratched the back of his head, sheepish. “...It did make a weird noise.”

You stared, exasperated beyond words. “And the cat?”

“Okay, the cat part wasn’t me. Technically. I dropped the cream. She jumped in.”

“Chifuyu, she looks like a haunted marshmallow.”

He stepped forward, laughing nervously, reaching out to brush flour off your jacket like that would somehow make up for it. “But babe... I did it for you.”

“You did arson in my kitchen for me?”

“Not arson! It’s creative expression!”

“You lit an oven mitt on fire!”

“Small fire. Controlled. Kinda.” His eyes sparkled with that grin that made you weak in the knees and homicidal at the same time. “But I mean... you’re not that mad, right?”

You raised your brows.

He smirked. “Because you called me Chifuyu Matsuno. Which you only do when you’re two seconds from either throwing me out the window or kissing me.”

“Guess which one I’m leaning toward.”

He leaned in, pressing a quick floury kiss to your cheek. “Kiss, obviously. You can’t resist me when I’m covered in catastrophe.”

You sighed, letting your forehead rest against his. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know. Now help me clean this up and I’ll order your favorite ramen. Double miso, no mushrooms.”

“Fine. But you’re on cat-cleanup duty.”

Chifuyu looked over at the flour-coated feline, now trying to eat a whisk.

“...I deserve that.”

___________________________________________________________________________

Kazutora Hanemiya:

You hadn’t meant to yell.

You hadn’t even meant to cry.

But when Kazutora walked in that night — shoulders slumped, knuckles red, hoodie pulled low to hide the bruising on his jaw — something inside you snapped.

He hadn’t answered your calls. Not one.

Hours of silence.

And then he just showed up, like he hadn’t disappeared again. Like he didn’t know what that kind of silence did to someone who loved him.

You stood there in the dim light of the apartment, arms crossed tightly, trying to hold yourself together as the door clicked shut behind him.

And then it happened.

“Kazutora Hanemiya.”

He flinched. Visibly.

The sound of his full name — sharp, deliberate, and full of everything you were holding back — cut through the room like a knife.

He didn’t look up at first. Didn’t meet your eyes.

“You didn’t call. You didn’t text. I thought—” You swallowed hard. “I thought something happened.”

He dropped his bag wordlessly by the door.

“I told you,” you said, quieter now, voice thick, “I told you the last time — I can’t go through that kind of fear again. Not from you. Not when I—”

He finally looked up.

And god, his eyes were tired.

Not physically — but in that way Kazutora always got when his mind spiraled too fast for him to grab onto anything stable. That distant, fragile expression that said I don't know how to stay, even when I want to.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he murmured. “I lost control again. And I just... I didn’t want to ruin the one good thing I have.”

You blinked away tears. “So your solution was to disappear? Do you know what that does to me?”

He took a shaky step forward, hands half-raised like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you.

“I’m not used to someone worrying about me,” he said, broken-soft. “Not like you do.”

You finally let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in your chest for hours. “Then get used to it, Kazutora. Because I’m not going anywhere. But I need you to stop running like I’m going to disappear the second you mess up.”

He stared at you like you were the only solid thing in a world that always shifted beneath his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to shut you out. I just... I get scared.”

You stepped toward him, gently placing your hand on his bruised cheek. “So do I. Every time you shut down like this.”

“I’ll try,” he breathed. “For you.”

You nodded, eyes softening. “And stop flinching when I say your full name. I only do it when I need you to listen.”

“I hear you,” he said, eyes closing as he leaned into your palm. “I hear you now.”

And in that quiet room, he finally let himself fall — not into chaos, not into guilt — but into you.

And for once, he didn’t run.

_________________________________________________________________________

Ran Haitani:

The night had started out like any other, with Ran’s usual charm and swagger as he wrapped you in his arms and promised to make it home on time. He even kissed you goodbye with that mischievous grin that made your heart race.

But now, here you were — standing alone in the dimly lit apartment, the cool silence pressing down on you as the hours ticked by.

Your patience had worn thin.

You had trusted him, even though you knew how unpredictable things could get when his brother, Rindou, was involved. You trusted that he would be there when he said he would.

But as the clock struck midnight, that familiar feeling settled in the pit of your stomach — the feeling that Ran wasn’t coming home.

Not again.

You were done being patient. Done waiting for a man who promised the world and never quite delivered. And so, with a heavy sigh, you grabbed your coat and stormed out the door.

You didn’t know where you were going, but you knew you needed answers.

When you arrived at the underground club, where you knew Ran usually wound up after a Toman meeting, the last thing you expected to see was him sitting in a corner booth — alone. His head was tilted back, staring up at the ceiling as if the world didn’t matter.

Your heart skipped a beat, and every step toward him felt like a weight you couldn’t shake.

You were angry. You were hurt. But mostly, you were tired.

As soon as you reached the booth, Ran’s eyes flicked toward you, and for a brief moment, you could see the shock on his face. His perfect smile faltered.

“Y/N?” His voice was low, and there was something about the way he said your name — like it was the first time he was seeing you in forever. But you didn’t want to hear his soft tone anymore.

“Ran Haitani,” you said, your voice cutting through the thick air like a blade. The use of his full name — not the teasing “Ran” or the quiet “baby” you usually called him — hit him harder than any punch.

His brows furrowed, and he stood up slowly. “Babe... what’s wrong?”

You glared at him, taking a step closer, voice shaking with both fury and raw emotion. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong, Ran? You’re what’s wrong.”

He recoiled slightly, as if the force of your words physically struck him.

“I don’t know why I keep letting you hurt me,” you continued, your voice rising in volume. “You make promises, and then you break them. You show up late, and when you finally do, you expect me to just forget that you were never here. You expect me to wait around like everything is fine.”

Ran’s eyes softened, and he reached out to you, but you pulled back before he could touch you. His hand froze in mid-air, a silent apology hanging between you.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice to a near-whisper, but there was still so much fire in it. “You think you’re the only one with a past full of mistakes, don’t you? You think I don’t know what it’s like to be scared of falling — to be scared that I’m not enough, or that you’ll just leave like everyone else?”

He closed the space between you, finally taking your hands in his with an urgency that made your heart skip. “Y/N, I never wanted to hurt you. But I do.”

His confession was raw, too much to take in at once, and for a moment, you couldn’t even breathe.

“I try. I really do. But when I get caught up in all the shit — with Rindou, with Toman... with everything I’ve built around myself — I forget what matters most. You. You matter the most.”

You didn’t know if you should believe him. You didn’t know if you could let him back in without getting hurt again.

“Don’t shut me out, Y/N,” Ran whispered, voice hoarse, hands tightening around yours. “Not again. I can’t lose you.”

The tension in the room thickened, but then Ran did something you didn’t expect. He pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you tightly. His breath was warm against your neck, his heart pounding against your chest.

“Please... don’t leave me.” His voice cracked, and you felt it deep in your soul.

You didn’t push him away. You didn’t pull back.

Because despite everything, you didn’t want to lose him either.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the only sound between you the quiet thrum of his heartbeat, his arms keeping you close as if you might slip away if he didn’t hold you tight enough.

And then, with his forehead resting against yours, he murmured softly, “I know I messed up. But I swear, Y/N, I’ll spend the rest of my life proving to you that I’m yours.”

You closed your eyes, exhaling the breath you’d been holding. “You better. Because I won’t be here forever if you keep doing this to me.”

Ran’s lips gently pressed to your forehead, his voice full of sincerity. “I know. And I won’t give you a reason to walk away again. I’ll make it right, I promise.”

And in that moment, with all the weight of his past and yours hanging in the air, you allowed yourself to believe him.

___________________________________________________________________________

Rindou Haitani:

It was supposed to be a calm, easy evening. You and Rindou had been planning a low-key night, just the two of you. No Bonten meetings. No wild distractions. Just takeout and a movie.

But as usual, things never went according to plan when Rindou was involved.

The door slammed open. There he was — looking like a mess.

You had barely taken a bite of your food before your phone buzzed with an unknown number.

“Where are you?” it read. “Don't wait up for me.”

That was it.

You hadn’t seen him for hours, and now he was texting you this?

By the time he came back home, you were already on edge. You had done your best to keep cool, but when Rindou walked in with a smug grin on his face, late as usual, you had had enough.

You didn’t even look up from the couch. You were too busy staring at your phone, pretending you weren’t fuming.

“What, no welcome home kiss?” Rindou teased, swaggering into the living room. He tossed his jacket over the back of a chair and cracked his neck. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

And that was when it happened.

“Rindou Haitani.”

The words came out sharper than you intended, and you instantly saw the flicker of shock in his eyes. He froze, his playful smirk faltering as he processed your tone.

He blinked. “Full name now? Damn, I really messed up this time, huh?”

You stood up, your body trembling with barely contained anger. “You disappear for hours, and when you finally show up, you think you can just—” You threw your hands up in the air. “You think you can just act like it’s nothing? Like I’m just supposed to keep waiting around while you do whatever the hell you want?”

Rindou chuckled nervously, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze now. “Hey, come on, don’t be like that. I was busy, okay? Things came up.”

“Busy?” You scoffed, taking a step closer to him. “You’re always busy, Rindou. With meetings, with Bonten, with whatever the hell else you’re involved in! You never have time for me anymore.”

The grin on his face faltered for a second, but it was quickly replaced by an almost defiant look. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

You shook your head, crossing your arms over your chest. “No. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to treat me like I’m nothing when I’ve been nothing but patient with you. I’m tired of being the afterthought, Rindou.”

And that was when it clicked for him. The words you had said, the weight in your voice — it was real.

But instead of apologizing, instead of stepping back, Rindou did something that took you completely off guard.

He reached out and yanked you toward him, pinning you against his chest. The surprise left your lips, but you didn’t have time to react before he kissed you.

It was a kiss full of desperation — lips crashing into yours as if he was trying to prove something. His hands were urgent, tugging at your shirt like he couldn’t quite get close enough.

You pushed against his chest, trying to break free, but the more you struggled, the tighter he held you. “Rindou, get off me—”

“No,” he muttered, his voice low, his grip on your waist firm. “I’m not letting you go this time.”

And it hit you like a wave. He wasn’t doing this out of arrogance — he was doing it because he didn’t know any other way to fix things.

Finally, you stopped fighting. The anger drained from your body, replaced with something softer — but still, you weren’t going to make it easy on him.

You pulled away slightly, breathless. “You can’t keep doing this, Rindou. You can’t just waltz in here and think everything’s fine.”

He rested his forehead against yours, his fingers lightly brushing through your hair. “I know. I know. I’m an idiot, okay? I’m sorry.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? Just a ‘sorry’? After everything?”

He smirked. “Well, it’s a start.”

A small laugh escaped you despite yourself. “You really are something else.”

But before you could fully process the situation, he had you pinned again, this time with a playful grin.

“You really know how to make a guy work for it,” Rindou teased, his voice now back to its usual teasing tone.

You sighed, shaking your head, but a smile tugged at the corners of your lips. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he leaned in, kissing your forehead lightly, “you’re still not getting rid of me.”

“Damn right,” you muttered, “But don’t think this is over. You’re going to have to earn back my trust.”

Rindou’s eyes sparkled with that mischievous glint, but underneath it, you could see the sincerity — for once, he wasn’t just playing games. He was all in, even if he was chaotic about it.

“Fine,” he grinned, pulling you back into his arms. “But I’ll make sure to do it in the most dramatic way possible.”

“Of course you will.”

And despite everything — the mess, the chaos, the late nights — you couldn’t help but feel like maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something real between you two. Even if it was a little messy.

_________________________________________________________________________

Izana Kurokawa:

You were fuming. It wasn't anything big, but it was the little things that piled up, and today, Izana had done one too many. He’d left his dirty clothes everywhere, again. His shoes were in the living room, and the smell of his cologne still lingered in the hallway like he thought he was some sort of royalty. You had tried to be patient, but something snapped when you saw his jacket just thrown over the back of the couch, taking up space where you wanted to sit.

"Izana Kurokawa!" you exclaimed, hands on your hips as you marched into the living room.

Izana was lounging on the couch, completely unaware of the storm brewing. He didn’t even glance up when you said his full name—just continued scrolling on his phone with his signature lazy grin.

You crossed your arms tighter, glaring at him. "Do you have to leave your stuff everywhere? How many times do I have to tell you?"

He finally looked up, unfazed. “Mmm… I think you’ve told me about three times already,” he said, his eyes glinting with amusement. “But you know, I just can’t help it. I like to make myself comfortable.”

That was the moment it became clear to you that he was teasing you. Your irritation deepened. “Comfortable? I swear, you think everything should revolve around you!”

You could feel yourself getting worked up, but instead of saying anything else, you turned your back and started picking up his things, throwing them in his direction.

Izana sat up, suddenly intrigued. His eyes narrowed playfully as he watched you continue your mini-rampage. “You look cute when you're angry, you know that?”

That did it. You whirled around to face him, pointing a finger in his direction. “Izana Kurokawa, you better—”

But before you could finish, Izana was up in a flash, crossing the space between you in an instant. With a grin that could melt anyone's heart, he cupped your face gently, pulling you in for a kiss.

It was slow at first, a quiet moment that silenced your angry thoughts, his lips warm against yours. Your eyes fluttered shut as the tension in your body melted away, and for a second, all you could feel was his touch.

You pulled away slightly, breathing a little heavier, and without thinking, you snapped, “You can’t just kiss your way out of everything, you know.”

Izana ignored you completely, smiling wider as his hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you back in for another kiss, this one deeper, making you forget the very reason you were mad in the first place.

When he pulled away, you were slightly breathless, your frustration evaporating into a faint smile despite yourself.

He leaned his forehead against yours, looking into your eyes with that familiar playful glint. “I can and will kiss my way out of anything,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “But hey, I’ll pick up my stuff, okay? No need to get so worked up over my shoes.”

You blinked at him, trying to hold onto your frustration, but it was like trying to keep sand in your hands. “Izana...”

He kissed you once more, interrupting your half-hearted protest. “Shh, it’s fine, babe. Don’t worry about it. I’ll even go get your favorite snack later, just to make up for it.”

You sighed, trying not to smile as you pushed against his chest, though there was no real strength behind it. “You really know how to get out of trouble, don’t you?”

Izana grinned and gave you another quick kiss on the lips, his hand resting on the small of your back. “What can I say? It’s a gift. Now… let’s go get those snacks I promised. You’ll forget all about my shoes.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. As much as you tried to stay annoyed, Izana had that effect on you. He knew how to turn even the most frustrating moments into something playful and lighthearted.

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blueberrypancakesworld · 2 days ago

Note

Hello dear. Can you write yandere Robert Reynold/(Void/Bob/Senrty) and female reader ? Thanks 💞

Void/Bob/Sentry – As a Yandere

Void/Bob/Sentry x female reader

warning: Yandere behavior, obsession, confinement, blackmail/manipulation, kissing, cuddling, power imbalance

Summary: As Bob, he was simple; as Sentry, he was a god; and as Void, he was a monster. But all three personalities would stop at nothing, not even murder, to get what they wanted when it came to her. She never leaves any of us, and none of us would ever let her go... she belongs to us.

info: Hi, sweetie! Thank you so much for your request, it means so much to me and I'm so happy to get a Thunderbolts request. I hope you enjoy reading it ;)

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Bob, he was just a former addict, he was nice and friendly to those he knew and recognized.

He did his best for the team he now belonged to, but above all, he did everything for his love, “My Fairy” as he called her, because she helped him with everything like a fairy and every day with her seemed incredible.

As unbelievable as it is for any drug addict, Bob found something to occupy himself with.

However, neither she nor anyone else ever thought that someone as nice as Bob could become someone who would become everyone's nightmare.

It started small, with her having to lie next to him until he fell asleep, holding his hand, “Can you tell me a story?” he asked tiredly, and her movement prompted her to hold him tighter.

In the dark, she could only see him dimly, but she saw how he was looking at her...she would do what he asked, otherwise she would have to deal with Sentry or Void.

“Of course, Bob, I'll tell you a fairy tale,” she replied, holding him as the dark-haired man laid his head on her chest so he could hear her better, so he could be with her, so she could hold him.

His quiet “Thank you” seemed to dispel her doubts again. He just needed someone; he would never go that far... he was just Bob.

He was just Bob, he was everyone's friend, and maybe she had feelings for him after meeting him back then.

She had taken care of him and been there for him, but she never thought he could change so much, that behind every gentle smile and joyful expression there was always a threat. “I want you to stay with me and not go on the mission,” he said, immediately reaching for her hand and holding it.

The agent glanced at the others, and the Thunderbolts looked at each other uncertainly. “If that's okay, stay with Bob until he's feeling better. A relapse wouldn't be good,” Yelena said, placing a hand on her friend's shoulder and squeezing it gently.

They all knew it was only a matter of time before Bob gave in and one of them would show up, which meant the mission would have to go on without the agent.

“Thanks, guys, really, that means a lot to me...especially coming from you, my fairy,” he said, and his embarrassingly grateful smile sent a shiver down her spine.

Bob took advantage of it, forcing her to spend every free minute with him, sleeping next to him every night and cuddling up to him, helping him with everything during the day, even though they both knew how meaningless it was, but she did it anyway.

Why?

Because she and the others knew exactly why: one mistake and they would be facing God and the monster. “You have no idea how grateful I am to you for everything,” he said one day as they were cleaning up in the kitchen and cutting berries and fruit for the others who would soon be back.

This made her look up from the cutting board where she was cutting kiwi fruit that her friend Ava liked so much. She had only been watching Bob out of the corner of her eye as he washed the dishes and tried to strike up a conversation every now and then.

Now, when she looked up, he was suddenly standing next to her, an almost excited look in his eyes. “Thank you, Bob, it's not always easy, but it helps us all, and I'm happy to do it,” she replied and was about to turn away, her heart beating a little faster because she couldn't figure out why he seemed so excited.

She grabbed the knife more tightly as his hands rested on her arms and he turned her toward him.

Perhaps she would have returned the kiss he initiated if he hadn't ruined it. “I'm so incredibly grateful, my darling,” she heard, and the slight change in his voice made her push him away...at least that's what she tried to do.

When she looked at Bob now, she saw the gold in his eyes, saw how his demeanor had changed from awkward and gentle to triumphant and proud.

As Sentry, he was a god, and her attempted attack as an agent would have hit him, would have gotten rid of her enemy. But he didn't even flinch and didn't have a single cut on his face, even though the knife shattered against him and Sentry was still holding her.

The weaker one couldn't free herself, she couldn't get him off her, she couldn't hurt him, and she couldn't do anything when he kissed her as he took what he wanted. “Bob just has to learn who's better for you,” the gold-eyed one said, giving her an amused smile as he slowly let her go.

She could have run, she could have called Yelena and told her what had happened, but he saw everything she did.

Her steps backward only made him follow her, watching her like something to look at, like a pet he wanted to touch, while her heart, beating with fear and uncertainty, didn't know what to do.

She tried to convince him, “Let Bob come back, Sentry, please-please, before the others return” she tried to argue, to reason, tried to avoid damage. Yet the more she talked, the more amused he seemed to become, the more his eyes seemed to glow.

The distance she put between them was a human attempt not to panic, her arms held defensively in front of her, a foolish attempt to convince herself that she had a chance against him. “You are truly an interesting pet,” he said, and her scream echoed through the tower as he grabbed her and lifted her into his arms.

She had to hold on to him as he flew out of the building with her, the living room far below them, the entire city beneath them as the wind swirled around them, her fingers clawing at him as she saw, despite his amusement, that he knew what he wanted. He was in control, he was her god, he was more than that, and she belonged to him.

His pet, that's what she was to him as he flew with her over the city, he liked her enough that Sentry didn't let her fall. Her fear and feelings seemed little more than a distant thought to him.

He had her with him, pressed against him, and like a pet, she would go wherever he went. “Sentry, if you would be so kind as to fly back, I don't feel very well,” she told him, looking at him and seeing that he seemed a little confused before he noticed the slight trembling of her body, the tears in her eyes, and how she clung to him.

He may have wanted to be more than a god, but in doing so, he overlooked her as an individual. “Oh, of course, my dear, forgive me, I forget how simple you humans are,” he smiled and covered her lightly with his cloak as he flew back to the building.

When she felt the ground beneath her again, it was Sentry who was holding her, giving her a moment before she sat down on the couch and tried to pull herself together. “I know the others will appreciate this, your care and caution,” she murmured, running her hands over her face so he wouldn't see how tearful she was.

How could she be of interest to a god? How could she let Sentry become Bob again? What did she have to do?

Questions swirled around in her head and she took her hands away from her face when the darkness that had disappeared turned into something else.

When only the god's glowing eyes remained in front of her, when the room was plunged into blackness, she swore she saw his satisfied gaze as she was swallowed up by nothingness.

The Void was a monster, a nothing and a someone at the same time, a state that could not be touched without being pulled in. But for her, he created what he had always wanted, in his infinite darkness.

In the blink of an eye, everything around her had disappeared, and now, when she opened her eyes again, the agent was surrounded by a cell.

Iron bars in nothingness, surrounded only by blackness, she stood there with nothing but him. “It's better this way, less fear, less pain, less discomfort in front of the other two,” he smiled at his other selves, and she felt like she wanted to hit him.

Sentry might have been one thing, but Bob, Bob was kind and nice, and there was an explanation for all of this. There had to be, none of this would have happened if something hadn't happened before. “Leave the other two alone, Void. You were pushed back, we can do it again,” she argued, taking a demonstrative step toward him.

Void wanted to hurt her, wanted to show her his fears and his past, but she knew that the others would help her, that she would help Bob.

Her attempt left him unimpressed, but his approach made her tremble when she saw only those golden eyes as his jet-black hand reached out for her.

Her scream was barely audible in the nothingness as she felt a sense of heaviness and emptiness, the pain she felt and Bob had ever felt when Void let her go of his own accord and she staggered back.

It made her cry, and she didn't know why. Her heart ached like never before, and she felt empty. But worse than that was when she saw the other two next to Void.

All three of them, Bob, Sentry, and Void, reached out their hands to her, after what she had been to each of them.

She was Bob's love, Sentry's pet, and Void's warmth, and none of the three would ever let her go again.

She would stay with them because she had never had a choice; they had belonged to them forever and ever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@crimsonkingart

#marvel mcu #thunderbolts #bob reynolds #the sentry #the void #bob reynolds x reader #the sentry x reader #the void x reader #male x female #reader is female

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storiesoflilies · 1 day ago

Text

warnings: descriptions of smoking, injuries, and war. sfw.

when you first saw soldier!toji he looked far too out of place.

he’d come in with the other wounded that had been dragged in from the front lines. tall and broad, a god made of dark smoke that filled the washed out grey of the hospital tent. he was deathly quiet as he sat at the edge of a cot, stained shirt clinging to the expanse of his chest, his boots caked in mud and blood. you’d heard him refuse to lie down, seen him wave his hand for the fussing medic to just leave him alone.

you were confused why someone like him was in here.

he looked invincible.

“i don’t need all this,” you heard him snap again, his green eyes flashing as he stood up. “just quickly fix me so i can go.”

toji plonked himself down in front of you, heavy and crass, a dark brow quirked at you expectedly. his eyes swept over your nurse in training uniform, at your fraying sleeves that used to be a crisp white. he met your gaze without blinking, and you tried hard not to stare at the dried blood embedded into the scar on his lip.

“can you stitch me up?” he grunted.

you swallowed thickly and nodded, biting the inside of your cheek, already reaching for a needle.

“good,” he said, and he was already pulling off his shirt before you could ask him to.

your eyes widened at the gash running all the way up his side, and you instinctively reached over for the morphine.

a large, impossibly warm hand enveloped your wrist firmly.

“no,” was all toji murmured. “i don’t need it.”

and just like that, you found yourself patching up a god sitting in your cot. he never flinched once, not even a hiss of pain. only an all consuming silence. like his nerves had long since stopped bothering him at all.

-•-

you weren’t supposed to let him in.

there was a golden rule you were often warned to never break. never get attached to anybody, least of all the soldiers you treated. never get drawn into their eyes or their pain, never let them charm you, and never be stupid enough to go and fall in love with them.

but toji, he had a certain gravity to him.

you couldn’t stop yourself.

at first, he never bothered to learn your name. it was if he had that same golden rule to never get attached to anybody. he just called you doc, and you weren’t sure if he was mocking you or not, especially after you’d told him that you were still a nurse in training and to stop calling you that.

you also don’t know why he kept showing up to your cot.

he’d breeze through the infirmary, skipping past the other more senior nurses and medics to come straight to you. his fingers would pull away at his bandages, a sort of formality, his way of saying hello to you, maybe. a way to let you know that he needed help and that you were the only person he wanted touching him.

you had to stop yourself from smiling at that.

“you really shouldn’t be here,” toji said one night, his eyes fixed on the floor as you cleaned out a shallow wound on his arm. “you should be somewhere safer than here.”

you furrowed your brows. “what?”

“this isn’t the kind of place for someone who jumps every time they hear a gun go off.”

you didn’t think you still did, you’ve been here for months.

you didn’t think anybody had noticed.

“doesn’t matter,” you shrugged your shoulders. “the silence is worse, sometimes.”

he looked up at you. “oh?”

you met his gaze, fresh gauze in your hand, fingers grazing his bicep. “because every time it gets quiet, it means whatever has happened out there is over, and anything left is mine to fix.”

that made him pause.

he watched you for a beat longer than was necessary.

“fair enough,” he muttered.

-•-

you started to notice things about toji too.

the way he never sat with the rest of his unit, a shadow in the corner as he ate his rations. the way he cleaned his pocket knife with the heel of his left boot. the way he always kept his gun pristine. the way he walked out of the infirmary with a new scar and not a word of complaint, seemingly ignoring every time you told him to be more careful.

he never thanked you for helping him.

not out loud, anyway.

but one day, you found a tin of dried peaches in your pack. it was a rare ration, not one you were privy to often. a day later, a crumbling chocolate bar was tucked away neatly underneath your pillow.

you knew it was toji.

and you definitely knew not to say a word about it.

another night, he was standing outside the infirmary. you were one of the last to leave, your shift having ended quite a few hours ago, but you just couldn’t go. your mind was racing, back aching from being hunched over one too many bodies, fingers stained with the scent of iodine.

it had been… a rough day, to say the least.

you’d spent a few hours just restocking shelves, checking over all the soldiers in their cots. you changed dressings and cleaned things that you knew would only be dirty again in a few hours.

you didn’t care.

going to sleep didn’t feel right.

but there was toji just outside, waiting for you.

at least, you thought he was. he was leaning against the side of a supply truck, one foot braced against the wheel, his sleeves tucked up to his elbows. a cigarette dangled between his lips, his skin honeyed with the glow of his lit match. he didn’t look up at you, not right away, just took a slow drag of his cigarette and watched the smoke that he was made of drift away from him.

“you always finish up this late?” he asked, voice gravely.

his voice sounded familiar to you, you thought. it was the sound of someone who’d seen too much and didn’t sleep enough. you knew it because it was like yours too.

you crossed your arms tightly together, breath fogging in the cold night air. “the others need the rest.”

he turned to look at you, his face half shrouded in pale moonlight.

your breath hitched.

“you don’t sleep much, do you?”

you hesitated. “not really.”

toji exhaled, pursing his lips. he reached into his back pocket, pulled something out, and held it towards you.

a cigarette, half-crushed, but still dry.

“i don’t smoke,” you mumbled quickly.

toji shrugged nonchalantly, but the small smile playing on his face told you he didn’t mind. “didn’t ask you to.”

you smiled, and took it anyway.

-•-

the worst came at dusk.

when the sky split open like a skull and the ground shuddered beneath your feet as the shells came screaming down around you. the alarms were blaring, people scrambling around for shelter, ducking behind crates, clutching helmets with their hands.

a roar of noise, a rush of air whistled in your ears.

and then, black.

you woke to dust coating your throat, settling into your lungs like an old friend. there was blood filling your mouth too, warm and bitter. there was someone screaming, you think, maybe they next to you. you couldn’t tell. everything was muffled, and god, why was there this crushing weight on your chest?

“hey!” a voice shouted through the ringing in your ears. rough, familiar. “you with me?”

your eyes adjusted, and you blinked twice, three times.

toji.

he was on his knees beside you, uniform riddled with burn holes, a rivulet of blood trickling down his temple.

“stay awake,” he ordered sharply. “you hear me?”

you couldn’t answer. you just watched him as he curled his hands around the beam that was squeezing the life out of you, his muscles straining as he lifted it off you and threw it far away like it was poison.

“i had to come back,” he hissed, a strange tightness in his voice that you’d never heard before. “you’re so stubborn, i told you to get outta he–”

you were far too dazed to listen to him chastise you.

you couldn’t even move.

but when toji just hoisted you up and into his arms, you felt like you’d finally found your way home again.

-•-

when you came to again, it was probably around midnight.

the tent you were in was barely holding up. the canvas was torn, corners sagging under the weight of the rain and ash. a single oil lamp burned in the corner, a golden glow filling the space, but it didn’t make you feel warm.

and at your side was toji.

he was seated on an overturned crate, bloodied and impossibly still. cigarette ash dusted the ground beneath him in little pile.

“you’re awake.”

you tried to speak, but nothing came out properly.

“you got lucky,” toji added, smoke curling from his nose. “you could’ve been crushed.”

your hand moved before you could stop it, reaching for him.

he froze.

just for a moment.

and then he was pressing something cold and hard into your palm.

his dog tags.

you looked up at him in alarm.

“i have to go,” he said, not quite meeting your eyes, his hands still wrapped around yours. “i just...”

he didn’t finish, he didn’t have to. it was an unspoken thing in the air, but it was as real as the warmth in his hands.

if toji fushiguro wasn’t going to come back, he didn’t want you to know about it.

“i know,” was all you could manage.

toji held your gaze for a moment longer, then he stood.

and just like that, he turned and left without another word.

-•-

for three weeks there was nothing.

no letters.

no news.

no body.

you didn’t ask around. it was easier not to know. every day bled slowly into the next. as you fiddled with the dog tags around your neck. you cleaned his tags all the time to take your mind off everything when it was quiet.

and when nobody was looking, you pressed them to your lips.

you realized toji had been sparing you. you don’t know what you’d do if you heard his name called and knew that he was really gone. it was better to pretend he was still alive out there somewhere, smoking in the dark. every day you watched the trucks roll in. every day you checked the faces of the soldiers in those trucks, silently hoping that toji was in one of them, alive. you didn’t realize how hard your hands were shaking, didn’t realize how hollow your chest felt each time a canvas sheet was pulled back from another face.

not until your senior held them in hers and told you to sit there and just breath.

it was another grey day, bitter and cold, when you heard the familiar rumble of more supply trucks pulling into the camp. a convoy of men were slumped over in the back of the truck, uniforms dusty and torn, their faces blank and eyes sunken. there was a heavy fog hanging low like smoke, and the ground was still soft from the rain the night before. you were wrapping up a soldier’s wrist when the last truck pulled in. there was a loud call for stretchers and hands, and a flurry of motion erupted around you.

you looked up, and there he was.

toji.

alive.

you stared, hard. there was a choking sound clawing its way up from behind your throat and out of your mouth. the clean roll of bandage slipped from your fingers and into the mud.

his eyes lifted and found yours amidst the chaos.

toji didn’t wave at you. he stood there like he was a ghost. like he couldn’t quite believe he was here and that this was all real and you were real. you were running before you could think straight. your boots splashed through puddles as you shoved past medics and the throng of soldiers unloading the truck, the cold wind biting at your cheeks.

he didn’t move until you were right in front of him.

and then, slowly, carefully, he reached up with a bandaged hand to touch your face.

your voice cracked, your heart in your throat. “what took you so long?”

toji huffed something that you thought might be a laugh, weak and raw, as he pulled you into him.

he didn’t kiss you right away. he just held you close for a while. one of his arms was in a sling, pressed gently between the two of you, and the other rested on the small of your back. his lips were on your neck as he buried his face into you, breathing deeply. you held onto him tight, feeling the way his ribs moved beneath your fingers with every shaky breath he took.

then his lips were on yours.

it wasn’t hungry or urgent. it was deliberate, patient. toji fushiguro was a god, and yet, he kissed you like a man who wanted to savor you slowly. to learn the way your lips moved against his. to feel the way you melted into him, soft and yielding, molding yourself around him like a warm blanket against the cold.

toji fushiguro kissed you like it was the only thing he knew anymore.

in a way, it was the same you.

-•-

he couldn’t stay for long, you knew that.

three days later, toji’s unit was deployed again. the sky was still pale with the light of the dawn, and the air smelt like wet earth and gunpowder. you tried to give him back his dog tags, but he only shook his head.

“hold onto them for me,” he murmured with a small smile. “that way i have to come back to you.”

you smiled back, but it was tight, thin around the edges. you never liked to see him go.

“come back anyway.”

and he did.

again and again.

each time more bruised. more battered and aching. but he always found you. like his soul knew where yours was. you never asked what he’d seen, or what he’d done out there. you wondered how much longer the war would drag on. how many more times you had to watch toji come and go like a god of war, called to a battle nobody else could fight except for him. how many more nights you’d sleep with your hands pressed your ears to drown out the noise.

then, the war finally ended.

and still, toji found you.

you were waiting for him at the train station, because you already knew toji fushiguro would be the last one to come home. there he was, uniform all cleaned up and boots shining in the morning sun, a duffle bag strung over his shoulder. and you were there in your nurse’s uniform, fingers still smelling faintly of iodine.

toji walked straight to you, no hesitation, no time wasted.

“well, doll,” he started, taking your hand in his and lacing your fingers together. “guess i owe you a drink.”

you only laughed, standing on your toes and throwing your arms around his neck.

“you owe me your life, fushiguro,” you smiled, your lips brushing his.

toji kissed you then, slow and grounding, a god tasting real peace for the first time.

it made you feel full.

of promise, of peace.

of home.

“take it,” he murmured against your mouth. “it’s always been yours.”

-•-

@alialucille i hope you enjoy <3

#toji fushiguro x reader #toji x y/n #toji x you #toji x reader #jjk toji #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji fushiguro #toji zenin #fushiguro toji #jjk #jjk au #jujutsu kaisen #wahhh i hope this is good everyone!! I haven’t written in months T-T #💭 lily’s imagination runs wild

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pagesfromthevoid · 2 days ago

Note

Tagging in here for the Bob discussion. But imagine after a few times together he gets the confidence to be on top but he is a complete service top (still whiny though)

You’re so right, anon. So very right (this got. Very away from me).

The first few times, he’s so awkward. He’s worried he’s not doing it right, or he’s bad at it. He’s so timid and awkward, and he waits for you to make the first move because he knows what he wants but he doesn’t know what you want. What if you don’t want him touching you there? Or what if he does something you don’t like but won’t say anything so you don’t upset him? So he lets you make the choices.

But after —let’s say, the fourth, fifth time (and a few shattered windows because, well, turns out he doesn't know how to control his powers just yet when he's worked up) —he realizes that…you want him just badly as he wants you. Actually, you might be even more desperate than he is, honestly. Because you’re the one being patient with him. You’re taking everything by his pace; stopping when he needs to stop. Only touching him when he’s made it clear he’s okay with it. While he’s the one “in control,” it’s not really control —you’re just you, and you’re willing to take it slow and take care of him over yourself instead.

And now all he wants is to give you everything.

You’re lounging in his bed one night, reading one of the books from the stack he got from the library. Bob isn’t in the room; he’s been with Bucky and Walker most of the evening, doing god knows what (jokes on you, he was getting a terrible pep talk from both of them on how to do this). Bucky was helpful; gave some relatively functional advice. However, Walker kept repeating to use the alphabet, which was…not great and even Bob knows that. They did make him put on a less baggy tee shirt; something about having confidence in his own appearance would translate into the room.

He missed his sweater.

You only look up when the door opens because there’s a shift in the air; not a bad shift. Just...different suddenly. You put the book aside as he walks in, hands behind his back. He looks a bit rigid; stiff, uncomfortable.

“Where’s your sweater?” You ask, though it’s hard to complain when you can see the veins in his arms properly.

You don’t mind the baggy clothes; he’s comfortable and you find that’s what is most attractive. But it would be a lie to say you’re not pleased to see the lean muscle that he has under this shirt. Outside of being intimate, it wasn't often that you got to see him exposed in any way —even if it was just a t-shirt instead of a sweater.

“Uh, Bucky and Walker took it,” he explains but that sounds bad so he explains further. “Training. We were training and they didn’t want me to train in it. It’s…weird, right? The shirt? I’m not used to wearing things that are so…I don’t know, tight?”

You just hum, tilting your head to the side as you look him over. He looks down some, feeling like he’s being ogled (well, he is. But he's still not used to you staring at him like this).

“I think you look good,” you offer, sitting up properly now. “Not that I don’t like what you usually wear —I like whatever makes you feel good. But I'm not going to pretend that I don't like being able to see more of you whenever I get the chance."

"You do?" He asks, and you can't help but laugh a little. "I'm not much to look at —,"

"Wrong," you quickly interrupt, slowly standing up. "There's a reason why I like to take off your clothes —I like taking my time because I don't get to see all of you often." You pause for a second, taking a moment to consider how much more you could tell him without making him uncomfortable. "It's something that only I get to see. I like to enjoy that."

Bob is staring you down, definitely short-circuiting because neither Bucky nor Walker advised him on how to handle anything you just said. How is it fair that you’re just so…good to him?

But then...he takes a step forward. You don't move; that shift in the air suddenly makes sense and you let Bob decide what he's going to do now. His hands clench into fists a few times, trying to coax himself forward.

You take just barely a step towards him —not even an inch. Something instinctual; something gravitational. Then his hands are on your hips, and his lips are on yours, and he’s pushing you towards the bed. It’s the first time he’s initiated a kiss without outright asking. You melt into the touch, sighing into his mouth as the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress.

Sometimes you forget that Bob is incredibly powerful. He was, after all, created to be stronger than all of the Avengers combined. He doesn't particularly like using his abilities, but when his hands grip your thighs and lift you up, you gasp in surprise.

"I want to make you feel good," he practically breathes into your mouth, and even though he's the one leading, his voice comes out begging. "You always take care of me —let me do that for you."

You nod frantically, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him into another kiss, but he only let's you get a quick peck in before he's pulling away. You whine a bit, sitting up on your elbows to complain —but you can't find anything to complain about as Bob is slipping his shirt over his head.

It's not the first time you've seen him shirtless. But it's the first time he's taken his shirt off himself, without prompting. Usually he wants to wait until you ask, or you're the one playing with the hem of the shirt and trying to get it off. But the confidence in his movements is both amazing and distractingly attractive, and you're staring unabashedly with lust blown pupils and kiss swollen lips.

Your eyes trail over his skin —the freckles and scars that letter his collarbones, the flush that's spread from his throat down over his chest. Down to his abs and following the V that leads below the waist of his sweats —which are straining from the hard on that's hidden beneath.

"You're staring," he teases, and it's a shaking sort of tease —like he's unsure of if he should be speaking.

"You're hot," you confess, but it's not really a confession at this point.

You've told him he's hot before —he doesn't believe you usually. But the little grin on his face suggests that maybe today, he does.

"You're too good for me," he counters as his hands slide up your thighs and over your hips. Then he's leaning in closer, pressing his lips to your jaw and peppering kisses over your skin.

You buck slightly at the touch, chasing it, and he immediately gives in and slips his fingers beneath the waistband of your leggings. You suck in a breath, and he pauses, but you lift your hips in response, a silent plea to continue. He doesn't hesitate and pries your clothes off of you, tossing them to the floor, before settling between your legs on his knees. You move to take off your shirt but he stops you, one hand holding you down.

"Don't," he warns, puling away to look down at you. "Let me do this for you."

You watch him for a moment but nod, pulling your hands away from your shirt. Bob's hands are slow —not teasing, not purposely at least —dragging up your hips to your waist, pushing your shirt up as he goes. His fingers trail along your ribs, just grazing the edge of your bra. You briefly wonder if he'll try to take it off or if you'll need to do that yourself —but he settles on pulling your shirt over your head first.

Your skin is warm and soft against his fingers, and he's watching as your chest rises with each breath you take in anticipation. You're still sitting up on your elbows, waiting, watching, when he leans down and pulls you up against his chest. One hand is bracing your lower back as the other fumbles with the clasp of your bra.

Confidence doesn't matter when it comes to bras, because they're evil, he decides as he sighs in frustration. He almost caves into the embarrassment, worried he's ruined the moment. But you reach behind your back with ease and unclip it, and toss it away. He wants to complain, and you can see he does, but you wrap your arms around his neck again and pull him into a messy kiss.

It's all teeth and tongues, deepening each second his hands grip you tighter. Then he's laying you back down, dragging his lips from yours to your jaw. Then down your throat. One of his hands holds your hip, but the other is trembling as it approaches your breast and tentatively squeezes it. You hum in response, and his mouth is on your nipple now, grazing it with his teeth.

Between the biting, the sucking and the pinching, you're aching for more. But the sounds he's making —the moans when you sigh his name or tug at his hair —are almost as satisfying as an orgasm itself.

Though you certainly wouldn't refuse one or two of those.

Perhaps he can read your mind, or maybe he just knows what he wants —it doesn't really matter —because he gives your breasts one final squeeze and nip then trails his mouth down your stomach. The closer he gets to you, the more fidgety you become. You can feel his lips smile against your skin.

"It's okay," he promises, breath fanning over your thighs as he parts them slowly.

His fingers are trembling slightly, pressed into your thighs just enough to leave marks. Like he's scared that if he lets go, you're going to pull away from him. But he shakes those thoughts from his head, shifting down the bed until he's sitting on his knees on the floor. You're about to argue, to ask him what he's doing, but he wraps his arms around your thighs and yanks you down the bed until your legs are over his shoulders. You gasp, and his nose just barely presses above your wet core.

He groans, pressing his forehead into your thigh, fingers tightening around you. "God, you are...you're so wet."

"I told you," you sigh, running a hand through his hair, guiding him to look up at you through his lashes. "You're hot. This is hot. Everything you're doing is just...hot."

He melts into you, taking a moment to ground himself in your touch. "You have no idea how much you do for me," he admits, pressing his lips to the inside of your thigh softly. "But I'm...I'm going to try to show you."

"Oh, Bob, you don't —,"

But you cut yourself off with a gasp, fingers tightening in his hair as he buries his face in between your legs. Your hips move involuntarily, chasing his tongue as it swipes through your folds. He doesn't stop you, only presses his tongue flat against you before he sucks on your clit.

You suck in a breath, begging him to keep going. He nods as if he trying to respond, but he's groaning instead as he slips his tongue into you. Your thighs tighten around his head, hand guiding his head and mouth exactly where you need him to be. The hands holding your hips drift away, one disappearing entirely while the other glides just between your folds, one finger pressing into you slowly.

"Oh-oh," you sigh, involuntarily clenching around his one finger. "Oh, god, more —please —you're doing so good.."

He pulls his mouth away, just slightly, so he can see how you react as he slips a second finger inside you —curling up slightly. His eyes are glossy, face smeared in your juices, and you think this is the hottest thing you've seen in your entire life.

You cry out his name, back arching off the bed as you beg for him to go faster. He pulls out, just briefly, and you swear you hear him groan again. But you're too distracted by his fingers pressing up into you once again to notice any sounds that aren't the sounds of him finger-fucking you and him whining as he sucks on your clit.

You're so close —can feel it teetering on the edge when you manage to open your eyes just enough to watch him suck at your clit as he continues his rhythm. His other hand —the one that had disappeared —is in his lap and you understand his own whimpering now. While he's ruining you —burying his fingers so deep inside you, curling up and into that spongey spot that causes you to cry —he's jerking off at the whole experience.

And that tips you over the edge, pressing your heels into his shoulders as he furiously pumps his fingers in and out as you ride out your orgasm. You're crying out his name, begging him to stop because it's sensitive —fuck, your nerves are on fire —but he knows you don't actually want him to stop. It feels so good —the wave after wave of your orgasm washing over you before you hear him cry out himself, his body jerking against yours as he cums all over his hand.

You've collapsed on the bed, breathing heavy, and he's laying his forehead against your thigh. Both coming down from this, trying to catch your breaths.

When you've finally come to your senses —a solid five minutes later —you pull him up to lay beside you, pushing his hair out of his face. He's smiling at you lazily, hand laying against the base of your throat to feel your heartbeat.

"Have I told you recently how hot you are?" You ask, brushing your nose against his. You can smell yourself on his breath, and you're about to kiss him again when he says,

"I think I might start believing it soon."

---

Bob Taglist: @ilovemarvel12 @myrrh-dock

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #robert reynolds #robert reybolds x reader #sentry #sentry x reader #this took a turn sorry

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lovesickchoi · 2 days ago

Text

📁 FILE 01: CHOI SOOBIN

⋆·˚ ༘ * After a missed anniversary and weeks spent out of sync, Soobin just wants to be close to you again—really close. No rush, no performance. Just you, him, and the quiet reminder that you still belong to each other.

✦ Love Language: Quality Time

pairing: soobin x reader ✮⋆˙✐ 3.8k

warnings: smut, f!reader, no protection, soft dom!soobin, sub!reader, cock warming, slight oral f!rec, praise, romance, no protection, finishing inside

🗂️ click to access all txt member’s files

˚₊ · »-♡→ main masterlist

The apartment is quiet when you finally come home.

Way too quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes your chest feel heavier than your bag slung over your shoulder, heavier than the late hour blinking back at you on the microwave clock.

Stepping inside, you make sure to lock the door behind you. You take off your shoes, drop your keys into the bowl, and glance toward the couch.

He’s sitting there, asleep—just barely. Half curled into the throw blanket, one arm slung over the back of the couch like he was waiting for you but gave up halfway through.

You stand there longer than you intend to, just wanting to watch him for a moment. He stirs before you can say anything, lashes fluttering, voice groggy.

"You're late again..." Soobin grumbles. It wasn't accusatory, just worn thin.

You give him a small apologetic smile. "I know, I'm sorry. I didn't even get a lunch break today."

Soobin nods and tries to smile back, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He looks toward the TV, and the silence stretches on longer than you'd like. With Soobin's recent comeback promotions and your new late-night shifts at the office, quality time together was few and far between.

Even when you managed to spend time together, it was never just the two of you. There were always friends around, always the other members. Never a moment that felt truly yours—never a chance to just be alone with Soobin.

And still, he loved you with a quiet kind of devotion. Soobin would wait up long past midnight just for the quiet privilege of walking you to bed. Even the smallest moment alone with you was worth losing sleep over.

You were so used to running—meeting quotas, ticking boxes, always being on—that you hadn’t noticed how little of yourself you’d given him lately. Not your stories, not your softness. Not your time.

And apparently not even your memory for important days, like today.

You realize it the moment your eyes flick toward the calendar on the fridge. The date. Your heart sinks.

"Shit," you breathe. "Our anniversary..."

Soobin doesn’t even flinch. He just watches you quietly, eyes soft but ridden with exhaustion.

Your own eyes shift down to the uneaten container of food and unopened bottle of wine on the kitchen table—he waited to eat.

"You didn't have to wait."

He responds quickly. "I wanted to." Soobin doesn't say for you, but it's written all over his face. He'd do anything to savor a moment with you.

"I am so sorry, Binnie," you're barely able to get out. "I care about you so much. I would never..."

You feel a twist of guilt settle in your stomach, but he doesn’t pile on. Nor does he guilt you. That’s not who Soobin is.

“You didn’t forget because you don’t care,” he says softly. “I know you. You just… never forget things like that. I know how overwhelmed you've been.”

Soobin doesn’t say more. He just lifts the blanket, a wordless invitation smoothed between the wrinkles in the couch cushions. When you lie down beside him, it’s quiet again. The kind that’s warm this time—full of unspoken things and shared breath. His arms curl around you instinctively. He presses his face into your neck like he’s been holding in the need to feel you all week.

"I hate this," he breathes out, almost like he's embarrassed to say it. "Hate only seeing you like this."

You swallow hard, because you feel it too. You've never been good at this. Never been good at showing Soobin just how close you want—no, need—to be near him.

You try to apologize. To say something, anything about work. About your stupid boss, the lack of breaks, the lack of appreciation, the unpaid overtime.

And he lets you ramble on. Because this is his favorite thing in the entire world—hearing your sweet voice talking about your day, getting to hold you while you do it. His eyes are sparkling and trained on your face, attention undivided as you vent. Soobin's heart thunders beneath his rib cage.

You’re halfway through telling him all the messy details—words spilling too fast, casual but unfocused, like you’re trying to outrun your own exhaustion. There’s a thin sheen of energy in your voice, but it’s cracked at the edges. You yawn mid-sentence, barely stifling it behind the back of your hand.

Soobin notices the way you press on like you aren't seconds from collapsing. He always does.

You brush it off like you usually do, reaching for a water bottle on the coffee table, already moving on to the next thought. But before you can, Soobin gently lays his hand over yours.

“You’re tired.”

You blink at him. “I’m fine.”

“You come home and talk like you haven’t breathed in hours," he chuckles through a sigh. There’s no judgment in his voice, just a quiet hurt.

That makes you stop. Not because you disagree, but because he said it like he’s been holding it in for too long. You never really knew how to be present with him. Even in times like this, when you knew he needed it most.

He sits up straight, shifting his body to face you fully. His hand doesn’t leave yours.

“I know you don’t like stopping. I know being tired makes you feel like you’re falling behind. But I promise it's okay to slow down once in a while.”

"Binnie..." Your voice trails off.

“You didn’t forget on purpose,” he says again, because he needs you to believe it. “But I still need you. I still want today to matter. Even if it’s just here, like this.”

His voice dips, eyes searching yours. "I know we've both been working a lot. But to be honest, this has been really killing me. Can't we just take our time tonight?"

And then he’s pulling you in—slowly, gently—his arms around you. The kind of embrace that doesn’t demand anything, only offers.

You don’t fight it, don't say anything. You just let yourself sink into his chest, right into the warmth of him. It’s the only place where you don’t have to be composed or efficient or fine. You just needed to be his.

His hand slides up your back. “Just… be here,” he murmurs into your hair. “For a little while.”

And for once, you let yourself stay still. His lips brush the crown of your head, barely there.

You feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against your cheek, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. He doesn’t rush you. But when you tilt your head up to look at him, his eyes are already on you. Warm and desperate. It’s not lust, not at first. It’s pure longing.

He cups your cheek, his thumb brushing beneath your eye like he’s trying to memorize you. You can’t help but lean into his angelic touch. Then his mouth is on yours. A slow and needy kiss that says I’ve missed you, stay forever.

You can feel the tension in his body, the way he holds back even as his fingers slip under your shirt, testing you, as if he’s asking for permission with every touch.

You give it with ease.

When you shift into his lap, straddling him, wrapping your arms around his neck, the ache of it all hits him.

Soobin holds you like he’s scared you’ll disappear again. His tongue is pressed between your lips, scaling every inch of your mouth that it can reach. An exasperated moan leaves you in a low sigh, and he swallows it down greedily. You unravel against one another, piece by piece.

The growing tightness in Soobin's pants presses firmly against you. You were beginning to throb for him and his attention alone. No distractions or distance, just this—focused and intentional.

Even though your lips moved unhurriedly, you have to pull away for air. But he doesn't let you escape so easily, keeping his forehead pressed firm against your own.

Soobin wants your attention on nothing but him tonight, that’s a promise he kept for himself. Before your mind can race, he's rubbing circles with his thumb over your leggings, stealing your mind away from stress and thoughts of work, locking them away where they’d be forced to put Soobin at the forefront.

Your leggings, usually an inconvenient barrier, were completely soaked through to the skin. It left Soobin no problem in rubbing every sensitive spot you yearned for him to reach.

A shaky breath leaves your lips. "Fuck, been needing you so bad. Been so stressed out." His eyes are trained on the outline of your folds, your cunt basically sucking in the soaked fabric and begging for his finger to follow suit. He wondered just how well you would suck his cock in if you were dripping and swelling like this already.

He groans loudly without remiss, throaty and strained, head dropping against your shoulder in self-control.

He continues to rub you lovingly, tearing his gaze from between your thighs to your face, smiling at the blush blooming across your nose and cheeks. His eyes flood with warmth when he speaks. "I want to do something."

“I’ll do anything,” you answer to him like you always have. Your time, your mind, your soul—he’s always had access to all of it, whenever he wanted.

Soobin’s smile spreads wide across his face, unable to contain it. His hands grip your hips before slipping beneath your shirt, slowly lifting it over your head with care.

Your breath catches. He looks almost shy when he speaks again.

“Can I just… stay inside you tonight?” His voice is hushed and reverent. “I don’t want to rush. I just—want to be close.”

A nod is all you need to deliver him. His hands are gripping just beneath your ass, standing up from the couch as he holds you. Your legs lock around his waist, keeping him close amidst the trek to your shared bedroom.

You noticed how deliberate Soobin was tonight—every step he took toward the bed felt endless. And when he finally lays you down against the soft cotton sheets, it’s like the world exhales. For the first time in a long time, you feel breathtakingly alive.

His movements flow into each other, rewriting time just to make this moment last longer. The only moment he disconnects himself from you his to peel off his own t-shirt. Your clothes are stripped from your body as well, more carefully than ever. Tender fingers work at the hem of your leggings, dragging them down your goose-bump ridden skin.

Soobin's lips are the only things moving quickly, wanting to feel your warm skin against them. He's kissing a trail across your chest, down your stomach, breath sucking in at the laced panties staring back at him.

The black material is sticky, soaked, and completely lost between your folds. Your head rested gently against a pillow slightly cocked to the side, peering down at him through hooded eyelids. He was so beautiful. All the time in the world belonged to you two.

"Mm, fuck baby," you're already whining out. Fuck these new schedules. Fuck your late nights. This is what you've both been denied for too long.

Large hands splayed across the curvature of your hips, gripping the flesh and securing you in place. Between your legs, he helped himself to one long, and slow drag of his tongue up your cunt. He breathed you in, fabric and all, with greed. It felt like a reward for the time he'd spent patiently craving for your presence.

Tender teeth got hold of your panties, dragging them halfway down your legs. A chill shoots up through you, his teeth grazing your inner thigh just enough. Soobin's fingers took over, sliding the material the rest of the way off.

One more lewd kiss against your cunt, this one hard and claiming, and he's up on his knees removing his sweatpants and underwear just as painfully slow. You'd never felt so prepared for Soobin in your entire relationship. Thighs and sheets stained with splotches of your sweet arousal, out of control.

Now fully undressed and erect against his toned stomach, Soobin takes his place next to you on the bed. He's propped up, back against the headboard, looking at you expectantly.

"Come here," his voice is so careful as he pats his lap. His voice holds the kind of care reserved for precious things.

You swing a leg over his waist with his help, straddling him where he sits. Soobin is silent, but his face says everything. His chin pressed to his chest as he looks between your legs, lips drawn rough between his teeth.

He keeps his hands at your waistline, lifting his hips just enough to align himself with your sopping entrance. You both hiss softly as the head of his cock slides against your folds, hot and thick. But he doesn’t push in just yet. He’s waiting for you again, asking for permission.

“Can I?” he whispers, even though you’ve already said yes in every way that counts.

You nod and sink down slowly, inch by inch, until he’s fully inside you. Neither of you moves. You just sit there, wrapped around him, buried in each other.

Your walls clench instinctively, and he emits a broken groan. But he doesn’t move, he doesn't fuck up into you—just presses his face into the crook of your neck and breathes.

This isn’t about sex for either of you. It’s about connection. Closeness. The ache to feel like you still belong to each other. Skin on skin, hearts syncing with every breath, you melt together until you’re not sure where he ends and you begin.

Soobin stays nestled inside your warmth for so long that you begin to lose track of time. His hands draw lazy circles over your back, his lips brushing your shoulder in silent worship. Your arms hang around his neck, holding him close. Every now and then, your walls flutter around him, and he exhales a quiet curse into your skin.

Every moment spent inside you is marked by a kiss—some soft and delicate, others deep and bruising, left like claims on your neck. Soobin's voice is hushed, whispering over and over how much he adores you. His hands roam your body like he's rediscovering it all over again, tracing every dip, outlining the shape of you with his touch. He’s etching you into him.

Eventually, the stillness turns to tension. You shift your hips just slightly and feel him twitch inside you. His breath hitches, and you notice.

“Don’t do that,” Soobin murmurs, voice taught with restraint.

Your faces are pressed close, cheek to cheek. He can feel the graze of your hardened nipples against his chest, your shaky, uneven moans fanning hot against his ear. And suddenly, he’s entirely too aware of you—of how impossibly tight and perfect your body feels around him, like you were made to fit just like this.

"Sorry, Binne." You don’t mean for it to come out as a whimper, but it slips, drenched in need. “I’m just so full…”

You try to remain still, but your eyes are already glassy with want. And when your lips find his again, more desperate this time, he gives in.

He starts to move, gently at first. Rolling his hips into yours like it’s the first time all over again. You can tell he's afraid to shatter the moment, but can’t help needing you more.

Soobin's hand finds your hair, gripping firmly—not to dominate, but to really see you. He pulls back just enough to watch your face, to pass every wave of pleasure back and forth between your eyes. He makes love to you like he’s savoring it, dragging his cock in and out at the perfect angle, hitting your g-spot again and again with a patience that feels more like devotion than control.

But it’s not enough, not with how he feels inside you. How his cock stretches you open just right, how his eyes celebrate every inch of you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

So you shift again—this time intentionally—lifting your hips just slightly before sinking back down. The friction makes your mouth fall open, a soft moan filling the air.

Soobin groans, his hands flying to your waist. “Baby…”

But you’re already moving again. A slow, teasing roll of your hips that pulls breathless curses from his lips. Your hands brace against his chest as you rise onto your knees and start to bounce—gently, at first, letting yourself adjust, letting the stretch fill you again and again. His cock drags along your walls in the most maddening way, kissing your sweet spot again and again.

His fingers dig into your sides, but he doesn’t stop you. He wouldn't dare. Instead, Soobin just watches you with his lips parted, chest rising and falling with every bounce. The expression on his face is pure awe. He can’t believe this is real. Spending time with you has never felt this heavenly. You're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

“You feel so good,” you whisper, voice trembling as your thighs work to keep the pace. “So big…”

He sits up more to meet you halfway, arms wrapping around your waist as his mouth finds your chest—kissing, sucking, biting gently at your sensitive skin. Every time you sink down, his cock hits deeper, and the pleasure tightens in your belly like a fuse burning too close to the edge

“Just like that,” he breathes, kissing up your throat. “You ride me so well, baby. So fucking good for me…”

Your movements grow faster, more desperate, chasing the high together. Each bounce has you both gasping, moaning, gripping onto each other like you’ll fall apart if you let go.

His hands slide up your back, anchoring you to him, and when your forehead presses to his, his voice is barely audible.

“Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.” Soobin’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow circles that have you squeezing tight around him. The sudden surge of pleasure makes your entire body jolt—your thighs trembling, your rhythm faltering.

“F–fuck!” he cries, his voice cracking as his core tightens beneath you. One hand claws at your back, desperate to ground himself, while the other keeps working your clit, coaxing you closer to the edge with each drawn-out stroke.

Your body trembles in his lap, chest heaving as you ride the crest of sensation. His name leaves your lips in a gasp, hips stuttering as you start to unravel for him. But Soobin doesn’t let up—he leans in, kissing you fervently. His voice is gravelly in your ear.

“That’s it, baby… you’re doing so good. Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

And you do—your whole body shaking as pleasure rips through you, fluttering tight around him, squeezing him so perfectly he groans through gritted teeth. Your forehead drops against his shoulder, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a moan. Soobin holds you through it, murmuring praise into your hair, letting you ride the waves until your hips finally still.

But he’s still hard, still tucked deep inside you. You blink, dazed, and meet his eyes.

“Soobin—”

“Not done,” he breathes, cupping your cheek. “Let me love you a little longer.”

He shifts, lifting you slightly before guiding you down onto your back, never slipping out. His body settles over yours, and he kisses you so slowly you forget how to breathe. It’s not rushed, none of this was. He wants to remember every expression and sound you make beneath him.

Soobin starts to move again, hips rolling deep, cock gliding into you with a drag that has your toes curling. Each thrust is slow yet hard, filling you to the brim. He's making sure you'll feel him for days.

“Still so wet,” he whispers, voice shaking from restraint. “You were made for me, weren’t you?”

You nod with teary eyes, hands gripping his shoulders as he begins to fuck you just a little harder—still slow and sensual, but with the kind of focused passion that makes your whole body scream.

His lips find your neck again, then your jaw, then your mouth, speaking softly with his pressed on yours. “Want you to feel everything, baby. Want you to remember this whenever our schedules are busy.”

“Don’t say that,” you whisper, clutching at him.

“I won’t go anywhere,” he promises instantly, fucking into you with a little more urgency. “I’m right here. You’re mine.”

You moan his name again as he rocks into you, shifting his angle just slightly to hit your g-spot head-on. The overstimulation begins to take you over. Your back arches off the bed, and he catches you with one arm wrapped beneath you, pressing your bodies flush together, like even air between you would be too much distance.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, watching your face. “So good for me.”

You barely manage to choke out a response. You’re too full, too overwhelmed, and too wrapped up in the heat of his body and the impulse in his gaze.

He slows again as he nears the edge, you for a second time that night. Thrusts going deeper, heavier, until you’re clutching his hair, pulling him closer, whispering into his ear, “I want you to cum inside.”

Soobin groans deep in his chest at your admission and presses his forehead to yours, breathing unevenly.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Please.”

It only takes a few more slow, grinding thrusts before he’s burying himself to the hilt and pulsing inside you, arms shaking as he holds you close. His lips tremble against yours, his moans drawn out and desperate as he fills you. The inappropriate sounds quickly have your own, blinding orgasm flowing from you with ease.

He still doesn’t pull out.

Instead, he kisses you again, even sweeter, before shifting both of you onto your sides, tangled together, still joined.

You’re panting, but your heart is calm. You feel full in every way, wrapped in his warmth, your body and soul entirely his. Soobin strokes your hair, nose brushing your cheek.

“Stay just like this,” he whispers. “Let me keep you.”

You nod, one leg hiked over his hip, arms tucked against his chest. “Don’t let go.”

“Never,” he murmurs, breath hitching when your walls flutter again. “Fuck. You’re still gripping me so tight…”

You press your face into his neck, smiling softly. “That’s ‘cause I want you to stay.”

He chuckles, fingers tracing your spine. “Then I will. All night, baby. However long you’ll have me.”

You both fall quiet, still connected, warmth shared between flesh. The room feels sacred, filled with love, comfort, and the kind of silence that means everything. You make a mental note to call out of work the next morning.

Soobin stays inside you until you’re both asleep—bodies tangled, time slowed, nothing left to say but everything left to feel.

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