#there's the idea that 90% of everything sucks

[kikyoupdates]

Otherworldly Attraction ⭑˚🔮⭑ 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑜𝑓 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ

yandere!jjk x f!reader

yandere, reverse harem, isekai, jujutsu kaisen x fem!reader, slowburn, slowburn yandere

You don't know how or why, but you've been isekai'd into the world of Jujutsu Kaisen. Although your first instinct is to stay away from the plot, you've been blessed with an abnormal amount of cursed energy, and for better or worse, you find yourself sucked into the storyline. You decide that you may as well use your newfound powers for the greater good, and if you're lucky, you might succeed in rewriting some of the characters' fates. But it turns out that your presence in this world is an even bigger deal than you first thought, and soon, everyone wants to make you theirs.

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It’s pouring. 

You look up towards the sky, lips twisted into a grimace. Of course, you already knew it would be raining, but it really is strange to see everything play out, down to the smallest details. The weather was predetermined. Regardless of your influence, things like that can’t change. The creator of the story wanted to set the tone by making the day as gloomy as possible, and clearly, it’s working, because you feel more unnerved by the second.

“Our window confirmed the cursed womb’s existence roughly three hours ago,” Ijichi explains. “Once roughly 90 percent of people inside were evacuated, the detention center was closed off. Citizens close nearby have also been evacuated.” 

“What’s a window?” Itadori frowns. 

“It refers to someone with the ability to perceive curses. They will often notify us of a cursed spirit’s appearance. However, they aren’t sorcerers themselves.”

Man. Knowing what lies inside that facility, being a window is starting to sound really good right now. 

Unfortunately, it looks like you’re fated to be a sorcerer. Thanks a lot (not), isekai gods.

“Moving on,” Ijichi continues. “Detainee Block 2. Presently, five inmates are still trapped inside with the cursed womb. If this cursed womb is the type that can metamorphose, we predict it will become a special-grade cursed spirit.”

Both Fushiguro and Nobara wear stern expressions, because they clearly understand the gravity of the situation. Itadori, however, doesn’t know any better, and looks as laidback as ever.

Which is ironic, because once all of you are inside, he’s the one who’s going to be dealt the worst hand. By far. 

Nothing’s even happened yet, but the knowledge of what’s about to unfold makes you feel guilty beyond repair.

“Hey, so, I still don’t really understand what special-grade means,” Itadori says. Fushiguro and Nobara both grimace, of course, and Itadori leans closer to you with an inquisitive look on his face. “[Name], do you know? Well, I guess this is all pretty new to you too, so probably not.” 

Unfortunately, you do know what it means. 

You know it all too well. 

“I-I’m not sure,” you nervously brush off. “But they used the term special-grade to refer to Sukuna as well, right? So I’m assuming it probably describes a cursed spirit that’s… really strong.” 

Ijichi nods. “Yes, I suppose that’s the general idea. In any case, allow me to explain in a way that even idiots would be able to understand.” 

Alright, damn, Ijichi. You didn’t have to come for us like that. 

“First off, we have fourth-grade. If I could use an analogy, even a wooden bat would suffice to defeat them. For third-grade, if you were to have a handgun, you can rest easy. Second-grade. It’d be a close call, even with a shotgun. First-grade. Most likely, even a military tank wouldn’t be enough. Then we finally reach special-grade. How can I put this… let’s say you might stand a chance of winning if you were to repeatedly carpet bomb the curse. And even then there’s no guarantee.” 

Itadori’s jaw drops open. “Wait, so… isn’t that really bad?!” 

“Normally a sorcerer on par with the curse would take on the mission,” Fushiguro sighs, massaging his brow. “But since Gojo is still away on business, it can’t be helped.”

“Our line of work is always lacking in manpower,” Ijichi nods gravely. “You will often have to undertake missions beyond your capabilities. This particular case is truly abnormal, and hence, why it urgently requires our attention. You are not to fight, under any circumstances. When confronted by a special-grade curse, your only options are to run or die.”

Run or die, huh…? What a lovely pep talk. 

Naturally, none of this comes as a surprise to you, but now that you’re actually here, standing right outside the detention center, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t getting cold feet. 

Actually, even that’s an understatement.

You’re scared shitless right now.

“Please, listen to your fears,” Ijichi advises. “And above all else, remember that your mission here is strictly the verification and rescue of survivors.”

His words are a harsh reminder as to just how dangerous this new world you’ve found yourself in is. 

Well. Better than Attack on Titan, you suppose.

“E-Excuse me!” 

There’s a woman calling out to you. You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is, and the sound of her voice alone is enough to make your stomach twist into a knot.

“Tadashi… my son,” the woman mumbles, tears in her eyes. “Is my son okay…?”

You can see the way Itadori’s chin trembles, and you can tell that his heart aches having to watch this poor mother fear for her son’s life. He hates seeing others in pain. This must be eating him up inside.

And the same goes for you.

Because you know that Tadashi is already dead.

“Please step back,” Ijichi says, facing the woman with a solemn expression. “There’s a possibility that someone has spread poisonous gas throughout the center. We cannot share any more detail at this time.”

The woman just stands there at first, rigid and unmoving, but gradually, more tears fill her gaze, and she crumples to the ground, breaking down into a full-blown sob. She wails and wails, asking why in the world this has to happen, and begging for someone to bring her son back to her. 

The more he watches her, the more Itadori’s expression darkens. He isn't his carefree self anymore. There’s a fire blazing in his eyes. 

“[Name], Fushiguro, Kugisaki,” he says. “Let’s go. We’re… going to save everyone.” 

Nobara furrows her brows, but agrees with Itadori without so much as a second thought. Fushiguro is every bit as stoic as ever, but even he nods slightly. Every single one of them is fully intent on going in there to rescue the survivors. 

You’re the only one. The only one who knows that what lies inside is nothing but a gruesome massacre. There isn’t anyone left to save.

And what’s even more depressing is that you have to pretend like you think they actually have a chance. 

“Y-Yeah,” you nod weakly. “Let’s… do our best.” 

Igichi directs all of you towards the entrance you’re using, and he proceeds to bring down a Veil, which will conceal all of you from the outside world. This is necessary, for obvious reasons. The average person doesn’t even know that curses exist, after all.

“Whoa, it got dark all of a sudden,” Itadori marvels. “That’s so cool!” 

“God, you’re ignorant,” Nobara scowls, rolling her eyes.

Fushiguro sighs and brings forth his Divine Dogs. Just one of them for now. The fluffy white wolf, and he lets out an adorable little awoo as he manifests. Truly the goodest boy. 

“He’ll let us know if the curse gets close,” Fushiguro says. He motions to keep advancing, but nobody follows him right away, on account of the fact that all of you are busy petting the fluffy good boy.

“[Name], he seems to really like you,” Itadori grins. “Look! He’s so affectionate!” 

“I see doggo, I pet doggo,” you respond matter-of-factly. Sure enough, his tail seems to be wagging a good deal, and he repeatedly nuzzles his cute little snout up against your body. 

Can’t we just pretend this mission doesn’t exist and play with the fluffy sweetheart instead? 

“We need to get moving,” Fushiguro sighs, and he goes as far as to grab you by the wrist and start pulling you along. The white wolf follows closely by your side, occasionally peering up at you as if he’s hoping for more pets. He’s absurdly cute, especially when compared to the horrific situation you’re about to walk into.

You take a deep breath to compose yourself as the doors open. Fuck. Is it really too late to run away? Gojo isn’t here right now. Maybe you can flee the country somehow. Get far, far away from all the craziness that has yet to unfold. You’re starting to have second thoughts. You really don’t know if you can do this. You don’t know if you have what it takes to see that thing from close up.

In the canon series, nobody died. Itadori was able to survive thanks to Sukuna, and Fushiguro and Nobara were able to escape relatively unharmed. 

But where do you fit into this? It’s already clear that things can—and will—change. What if something goes terribly wrong? In that case…

You’re dead. 

“...[Name]?”

Itadori gently nudges you, expression rife with concern. You didn’t even realize that you were shaking so much. Even Fushiguro and Nobara must have noticed, based on the way they’re looking at you. 

“Sorry,” you apologize, swallowing hard. “I’m just a bit scared. I’m really sorry. I don’t mean to hold anyone back.” 

“It’s going to be okay,” Itadori reassures, and perhaps it sounds a bit silly, but just those few simple words—coupled with his warm smile—help ease your tremors. He grabs your hand for a moment and gives it a light squeeze. “We can do this. I’ll be right by your side the whole time. I promise.”

Nothing is a guarantee. You already know that. Still, Itadori’s words aren’t just for show. If he says something, he means it.

Thanks to him, you feel a little bit braver. 

“Wh-What’s going on in here?!”

Now that you’ve all stepped inside, everyone is rightfully taken aback. You were supposed to have walked into a two-story dorm for the inmates. What lies before you is an unimaginably large space. Much larger than what the building could ever fit inside. 

“It’s an Innate Domain made from cursed energy,” Fushiguro says, unable to keep his eyes from widening. “The dormitory expanded in size. Even so, it’s my first time seeing one this big. Wait! The door—!” 

It’s long gone. You knew from the moment you stepped inside that you wouldn’t be able to backtrack. Of course, there is a way of getting out of here. It’s just that the exit has changed. 

“Don’t panic,” Fushiguro says—even though Itadori and Nobara are doing exactly that. “This guy remembers the smell of the place we entered from.” 

He gestures to the white wolf, AKA super good boy, who is already wagging his tail and looking up at you expectantly. 

You grin and pet his head. “That’s amazing! You’re so strong and smart, aren’t you? If it was up to me, I’d be feeding you all the treats you could ever ask for.” 

“Take this more seriously, please,” Fushiguro mutters. “Even if we’ll be able to find our way out, it doesn’t make the situation any less serious.” 

“But it’s okay, since you’re so reliable,” Itadori grins, also petting the doggo. 

“Yeah,” you nod in agreement. “Fushiguro’s the kind of guy you can always depend on. Thank you for looking after us. And for letting me play with your cute wolf friend.”

Fushiguro doesn’t respond, and instead awkwardly averts his gaze. You can’t tell if he actually likes being complimented or not. He’s so stoic that it’s hard to read his expressions most of the time. 

“Let’s keep moving forward,” he finally says. You pet the wolf one last time, perhaps as a form of reassurance, because if memory serves correct… you won’t like what you’re about to find in the next room.

For more reasons than one. 

Itadori’s face instantly drops. Just as you anticipated, you’ve walked into the room with the dead inmates. Most of their bodies have been mutilated beyond recognition, save for one of them, whose torso and head are still intact. 

Horrified, Itadori reaches out towards the inmate and grabs onto the collar of his jumpsuit.

You don’t even have to get closer to know that the name tag reads Tadashi. 

The scene is gruesome, to say the least. Your stomach turns at the sight of such obvious brutality, and you quickly look away. But you aren’t just avoiding the image of blood and gore. You aren’t being overtly squeamish. 

Rather, you are frantically glancing all around the room, searching for the cursed spirit—because you know it’s here somewhere.

Where the hell is it hiding? How is it concealing its presence so well? Shit. You’re already shaking from head to toe, but the fact that you don’t even know exactly where it’ll appear from makes it a hundred times worse.

“I’m taking this body home,” you overhear Itadori mumble. “He’s that woman’s son. The one that asked us for help earlier. We weren’t able to save him… so the least we can do is retrieve his body for her. His face hasn’t been damaged much. I don’t think she’ll be able to come to terms with his death otherwise. And this way, he’ll be able to have a proper burial.”

Fushiguro pulls him back. “Leave the body. We still need to confirm if the other two people are alive or not.”

“Huh? Earlier, the entrance we used disappeared. If we walk away now, there’s no guarantee we’ll be able to make it back later.” 

“I didn’t say we were coming back later. I said leave it. He’s not even worth saving when he’s alive. Why the hell would I save his dead body?” 

“Not worth saving?” Itadori gapes. “What are you talking about?” 

Fushiguro grits his teeth. “This is a juvenile detention center, you know. Jujutsu sorcerers are granted access to all information about the scene beforehand. That’s how I know that Tadashi guy hit a little girl while he was driving without a license. And that was already his second offense. I know you’re fixated on saving lots of people and guiding them towards proper deaths, but what will you do when someone you saved ends up killing someone else in the future?” 

The argument that ensues is one you’ve already heard, of course. They both have wildly different opinions on the matter, and whether you tell them to stop arguing or not, they probably won’t listen to you. In any case, you don’t have the luxury of paying them much attention right now. All of the nerves in your body are on high alert. You keep looking and looking, but you can’t for the life of you see any sign of the cursed spirit.  

The white wolf nuzzles up against your leg, and you pause before leaning down to pet his head again. 

“Do you sense it?” you ask nervously. “Can you… tell if the curse is nearby?”

He starts sniffing the air and glancing around. There’s no way to know exactly when the curse is set to appear. You don’t have a precise time frame for any of this. All you have is your own memory to rely on, and even that isn’t perfect. But surely it should show up any moment now, right? You feel like it was sometime in the middle of their argument… 

Suddenly, the wolf’s head turns, and by the time you follow his line of sight, it’s already too late.

The cursed spirit is right in front of you.

You aren’t even able to scream in time. It attacks, and if not for the wolf jumping in front to protect you, you’re willing to bet that you would’ve been decapitated. All you can do is jump back and hasten to put as much distance between you and the curse as possible, and only then do Fushiguro and Itadori realize what’s happening.

“My Divine Dog,” Fushiguro mumbles in disbelief. “Kugisaki’s missing, too. We need to… run! Itadori, [Name], we’re leaving right now!” 

If only you could. That cursed spirit is absurdly strong, not to mention fast. It isn’t special-grade for nothing. Before Fushiguro can say anything else, it appears right next to him and Itadori, close enough that it may as well be breathing down their necks. 

Itadori is the first to react. He instinctively brandishes his weapon and aims for the curse’s head, but you already know it’s pointless.

The next second, Itadori’s severed hand is lying on the ground, in a puddle of blood.

“Sukuna!” Itadori cries out. “I doubt I can escape in this state, and if I die, you’ll die too, right? If you don’t want that to happen, you need to cooperate with me!”

He won’t. 

“I refuse,” Sukuna responds, just as you predicted. “Even if the parts of me inside you die, I still have eighteen other fragments of my soul. That said, I’m not in control of this body. If you want to switch, go ahead and switch. But as soon as you do, I’ll kill that brat before the cursed spirit can. That other girl, too. The spunky one that was taken away. As for the last…” 

He stops himself before commenting on you. You’re not sure what he intended to say, but it hardly matters at this point. Itadori needs to be the only one left alone to fight the curse. You, Fushiguro, and Nobara will escape. And then everything will unfold the way it’s supposed to. There won’t be any casualties today. Even Itadori won’t actually die. As long as you run away now, it’s all going to be okay. 

Except you can’t run. 

Once again, the curse appears right in front of you.

Why…?! It came to me all of a sudden—

You’re forcefully blown back, hard enough that you collide against one of the walls. Out of sheer instinct, you managed to raise your hands as the curse struck you. You keel forward, vision blurry, gasping for breath and spluttering up blood. Your arms… are still intact. Earlier, Itadori’s hand got sliced off in one fell swoop. Is it because you subconsciously concentrated enough cursed energy around your body in order to minimize the damage? You still have all of your limbs, but your arms are shaking uncontrollably, and the skin where the curse hit you is bloody and raw. You swear you can feel your bones creaking.

Holy shit, it hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts! It hurts so bad that you’re tempted to cry, but all of the air got knocked out of you just now, and the most you’re capable of is a bit of strained, painful wheezing.

The curse purposefully attacked you just then. It was right next to Itadori and Fushiguro until just a few moments ago. Why did it divert its attention elsewhere? Why do all of these curses seem to come after you with a vengeance? Is it because they instinctively know you don’t belong here? Do they feel threatened by your inexplicable existence? 

God… you’re so scared.

“Fushiguro!” Itadori screams. “Take [Name] and Kugisaki and get out of here! I’ll hold the curse back until you leave this place. When you’re safely outside, give me some kind of signal, and then I’ll swap with Sukuna. That way, no one has to die.” 

Fushiguro stares at him in disbelief. “Are you an idiot? That’s a special-grade curse! You won’t even last long enough to bring out Sukuna before we escape!” 

“Look at it. That thing… it’s laughing. It’s totally underestimating us. I should at least be able to buy you guys some time.” 

“There’s no way you can—” 

“Fushiguro,” Itadori says, expression painfully resolute. “I’m counting on you.” 

You groan weakly, and Fushiguro casts a fearful glance towards you. He must realize you’re already in a terrible state. It’s a miracle you even survived just now. The sheer volume of your cursed energy is what saved you, but against an opponent as powerful as a special-grade, it’s no use if you don’t actually know how to fight.

So, he grits his teeth and rushes over to you, then picks you up and lifts you onto his back. You’re in so much pain that even just clinging to consciousness proves incredibly difficult, but the feeling of being pressed up against Fushiguro’s warm back fills you with relief. He’s going to take you and Nobara out of here. The nightmare is almost over.

Fushiguro runs towards the exit, already preparing to summon his other Divine Dog. You feel terrible having to leave Itadori behind. If you were stronger at this stage, strong enough to help him fight that cursed spirit, he wouldn’t have to suffer so much. You know that he isn’t actually at risk of dying, but still. You can’t help but lament your weakness.

That’s why you need to survive today. So that you can be there to help when countless other lives are on the line. It’s unfair that Itadori has to shoulder this burden all on his own. He’s going to experience a sense of fear and dread that can’t even be put into words. 

I’m sorry, Itadori. I promise to try and help another time. I’m just… too weak right now. I’m really sorry. 

You’re nearly out of the room. Safety is almost within your grasp.

But yet again, the future you know changes. 

The cursed spirit blocks your path. 

“Fushiguro!” Itadori screams—but it’s too late, because he’s nowhere near fast enough to keep up with that thing. It may as well be teleporting with how quickly it moves around. Fushiguro just barely manages to leap out of the way before it delivers an attack strong enough to decimate the spot where he was just standing. 

You splutter again, dust clogging up your lungs. Something feels completely and utterly wrong. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The cursed spirit was supposed to have ignored Fushiguro and allowed him to escape, and instead focused all its attention on Itadori. But it’s barely even glancing Itadori’s way. 

It refuses to take its eyes off you. 

I’m not going to escape. 

A tear rolls down your cheek. If you try to run away again, along with Fushiguro… he’ll die. Itadori would have died without Sukuna’s help. The same is also true of Fushiguro. He’s not strong enough to take on that kind of opponent. No matter how many times he tries to escape with you, the curse will follow him. Relentlessly.

“Leave,” you mumble brokenly, and Fushiguro’s eyes widen, in visible disbelief. 

“What? But I can’t—” 

“It’ll chase after us. As long as I’m with you.” You slowly stand up, wincing as you do, and you hurry to wipe more tears away before they can fall. “Cursed spirits hate me. I can’t explain why. Every single one I’ve encountered gets aggressive when I’m nearby, and the weakest ones have outright fled because they can’t stand being close to me. Out of the three of us, this curse is most likely to attack me. That’s what my gut is telling me.” 

You should’ve known from the moment you found yourself in this world that you were far from lucky. Everyone dreams of meeting their favorite characters in the flesh, being able to talk with them, laugh with them, become part of their lives… but at what cost?

Either way, you already know one thing to be true.

From now on, until however long you manage to survive, your life will be filled with suffering. 

“Find Nobara, and escape together,” you say, doing your best not to let your fear show. You refuse to be the reason everyone dies. The two of them need to get out of here, at the very least. This is probably the end of the road for you. This is the most you were able to accomplish with this measly life of yours. 

If you’re going to die, at the very least, you don’t want it to be a pathetic death that leads everyone else to their demise.

“Just fucking leave already!” you cry out. “Why the hell are you still here?!” 

Fushiguro flinches, taken aback by your uncharacteristic harshness. He might seem cold at first, but you know that he cares deeply for people. He never wanted to leave Itadori by himself in the first place. The thought of abandoning both of you must make him feel like absolute shit. 

Still, he isn’t an idiot. He’s logical. Pragmatic. He knows not to let his personal feelings get in the way of important decisions.

And so, he runs.

You watch him disappear out the exit. As expected, the cursed spirit doesn’t bother trying to follow him. Even now, it’s still staring at you with that wide, disturbing smile. 

“[N-Name]?” Itadori stammers. “You… stayed behind? But why? You can’t be here! It’s too dangerous, you just can’t—”

“That thing won’t let me leave. Should I have put Fushiguro’s life at risk, too? It’s better this way. At least he and Nobara can escape. I refuse to drag them down with me.”

The cursed spirit continues to stare at you, cackling ever so often. You’re nowhere near as cool as you’d like to pretend to be. To think that you had all these plans, all these hopes and dreams of saving people from their gruesome fates, only to walk into death so soon. How embarrassing. You’re probably the single most pitiful isekai protagonist to exist. 

Oh, well. It was nice while it lasted. 

You suppose you’re going to die now. 

The cursed spirit launches itself at you, and like before, you instinctively bring up your arms, praying that you can coat yourself in enough cursed energy to avoid certain death. You’re blown back, just like last time, and you skid along the ground, gritting your teeth in an attempt to endure the pain. Your arms are looking bloodier and more fucked up by the second. You’re not sure how much longer you’ll even be able to move them for. 

“Leave [Name] alone!” Itadori screams, jumping to your rescue. Unfortunately, since he has yet to learn how to control his cursed energy, and he simply doesn’t have as much as you, he takes significantly more damage than you do.

He’s flung against one of the walls like you were earlier, but the cursed spirit doesn’t bother to finish the job and instead turns back towards you again. 

“Why?” you grit out. “Why are you so obsessed with me, you ugly freak? You’re not even my type!” 

The cursed spirit doesn’t laugh this time. It just stares at you, looking slightly unnerved. It must be wondering why your body isn’t as broken as Itadori’s. It seems frustrated with itself for not being able to kill you yet.

It attacks again. This time, it grabs onto you and slams you down into the ground. You wail out, almost positive that you’ve cracked a few ribs, and it proceeds to hold you in place, channeling what’s sure to be a devastating blow of pure, concentrated cursed energy. 

Shit. I think I might actually die now. This is so fucking scary. I don’t want to be here. I want to run away. I want to make it all stop. 

You bite back your tears and desperately try to remember that sensation from before, when you exorcized that curse in the abandoned building. It was a much weaker curse, without a doubt, but if you could just remember how you channeled your energy. If you could try to replicate that feeling, then maybe, just maybe, you might be able to inflict a bit of damage.

Even though it feels like all of your muscles are outright screaming at you, and your vision is clouding over more and more by the second, you manage to reach out your hand and place it against the curse’s body. 

In that moment, you envision being powerful enough to defeat your opponent. You imagine being as powerful as Gojo—no, Sukuna, even. You imagine a world in which you’re strong enough to protect the people you care about. A world in which everyone can survive.

What a beautiful world that would be. 

For a split second, you feel something similar to what you experienced before. A pulse of energy, something hot that courses through your entire body, in search of release. The cursed spirit is in direct contact with you, so your attack lands. 

Did it… work? 

You squint through your bleary eyes. The cursed spirit pulls away from you in a hurry and looks down at its arm, which appears distinctly burnt, as if it was just doused in flames. However, it clearly didn’t take that much damage. It’s still perfectly fine. 

Which means you failed. 

“Fuck,” you chuckle humorlessly. “I really thought I did something there.” 

The cursed spirit turns towards you again, angrily mashing its teeth together. Despite the fact that it’s still relatively unharmed, it clearly isn’t happy. It seems to be getting more offended by the second. Its ego must be huge.

Too weak to move after all the damage you’ve taken, all you can do is watch, hopelessly, as the cursed spirit raises its foot, no doubt imbuing it with more cursed energy than you can even fathom, and stomps it down right onto your arm.

You scream again. You’ve been screaming practically nonstop for the past few minutes. This time, your arm is broken. It feels like your bones have been completely pulverized and turned to dust.

It keeps punching and stomping on you, like some kind of little kid throwing a fit. With every blow you endure, the light in your eyes fades a bit more. You only made it this far because of some kind of glitch with your cursed energy. Sheer luck, essentially. But you aren’t invincible, and your body is starting to accumulate more damage than it can handle.

The cursed spirit lets out some kind of frustrated screech, and it stomps down on you one last time, breaking your other arm. 

You’re out cold now. The pain was too much for you to bear. You lie there, utterly defenseless, and as Itadori weakly hobbles towards you, he realizes your death is imminent. 

“No way,” he breathes, tears pricking his eyes. “Was I always… this weak?” 

He couldn’t do anything. The cursed spirit barely even paid attention to him. He may as well have been a fly buzzing around it. That’s how much of an afterthought he is. That’s how pathetic he turned out to be. 

And to think that he promised to protect you before. What a fucking joke. 

“Hey!” Itadori cries out. “I said, hey! Look at me, dammit! Look over here! I’m still alive, you bastard! Why don’t you leave her alone and finish me off instead?!”

The cursed spirit doesn’t even bother to turn its head. Itadori’s shoulders begin to tremble, and a sob escapes his lips as he’s forced to watch the curse dig its fingers into your hair and pick you up like some kind of ragdoll. You’re going to die. He can’t get over there in time, and even if he could, it wouldn’t make a difference. 

Itadori promised his grandfather that he would help people. And yet, he failed to help the person he cares about the most. He hasn’t even known you for very long, but you’re the closest friend he has. You met the last remaining family he had left. His grandfather adored you. 

How is he supposed to face him in the afterlife, if he lets you die here? 

Itadori has finally realized just how truly weak he is. Fushiguro hasn’t even given him the signal yet. Him and Nobara are probably still somewhere inside. If Sukuna finds them, there’s no guarantee they’ll be able to escape. But right now, he can’t think that far ahead. All he can do is focus on what’s right in front of him. 

He can’t save you. At least, not alone. 

“Sukuna. I’m going to switch over to you,” Itadori trembles. “But you… you have to save [Name]. You can’t let her die. You’ve always talked about being interested in her. You don’t ever shut up about her. There’s no way you would be okay with her dying here. Right? So, just… help her. Not for my sake. Do it for yourself. It doesn’t matter what your motives are, just… do it.” 

The cursed spirit prepares to deliver the finishing blow. It pulls his fist back, slowly building up more and more cursed energy. Its manic grin spreads out even wider as it readily anticipates your demise.

But then, it feels someone grabbing onto its arm, so it turns around. 

Only to realize that its arm has been fully ripped off. 

Sukuna stares at the cursed spirit, eyes dangerously narrowed.

“...did I give you permission to touch her?” 

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[majimasleftasscheek]

ay fam you played gaiden yet?

AHHHH not yet unfort 😩 I got 50 commissions I gotta crank out in 15 days so I'm like FUCK

so tho... SOON

[scientia-rex]

A lot of younger people have no idea what aging actually looks and feels like, and the reasons behind it. That ignorance is so dangerous. If you don’t want to “be old,” you aren’t talking about a number of years. I have patients in their late 80s who could still handily beat me in a race—one couple still runs marathons together, in their late 80s—and I lost someone who was in her early 60s to COPD last year. What you want is not youth, it is health.

If you want to still be able to enjoy doing things in your 60s and 70s and 80s and even 90s, what you want to do, right now, is quit smoking, get some activity on a regular basis (a couple of walks a week is WAY better for you than nothing; increasing from 1 hour a day of cardio to 1.5 will buy you very little), and eat some plants. That’s it. No magic to it. No secret weird tricks. Don’t poison yourself, move around so your body doesn’t forget how, and eat plants.

If you have trouble moving around now because of mobility limitations, bad news: you still need to move around, not because it’s immoral not to, but because that’s still the best advice we have. I highly recommend looking up the Sit and Be Fit series; it is freely available and has exercises that can be done in a chair, which are suitable for people with limited mobility or poor balance. POTS sufferers, I’m looking at you.

If you have trouble eating plants because of dietary issues (they cause gas, etc.) or just because they’re bitter (super taster with texture issues here!), bad news. You still want to find a way to get some plants into your body on a regular basis. I know. It sucks. The only way I can do it is restaurants—they can make salads taste like food. I can also tolerate some bagged salads. On bad weeks, the OCD with contamination focus gets so bad I just can’t. However, canned beans always seem “safe,” and they taste a bit like candy, so they’re a good fallback.

If you smoke and you have tried quitting a million times and you’re just not ready to, bad news. You still need to quit. Your body needs you to try and keep trying. Your brain needs it, too. Damaging small blood vessels racks up cumulative damage over time that your body can start trying to reverse as soon as you quit. I know it’s insanely, absurdly addictive. You still need to.

You cannot rules lawyer your way past your body’s basic needs. It needs food, sleep, activity, and the absence of poison. Those are both small things and big asks. You cannot sustain a routine based on punishment, so don’t punish your body. Find ways to include these things that are enjoyable and rewarding instead. Experiment. There is no reason not to experiment—you don’t have to know instantly what’s going to work for you and what won’t, you just need to be willing to try things and make changes when things aren’t working for you.

You will still age. Your body will stop making collagen and elastin. Tissues you can see and tissues you can’t see will both sag. Cushioning tissues under your skin will get thinner. You’ll bruise more easily. Skin will tear more easily. Accumulated sun damage will start to show more and more. Joints will begin to show arthritis. Tendons and ligaments will get weaker and get injured more easily, as will muscles. Bones will lose mass and get easier to break. You’ll get tired more easily.

But you know what makes the difference between being dead, or as good as, in your 60s vs your 90s? Activity, plants, and quitting smoking. And don’t do meth. Saw a 58-year-old guy this week who is going to have a heart attack if he doesn’t quit whatever stimulant he’s on. I pretended to believe it was just the cigarettes, and maybe it is, but meth and cocaine will kill you quicker. Stop poisoning yourself.

Baby steps; take it one step at a time; you don’t need to have everything figured out right now. But you do need to be working on figuring things out.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

lotus

a/n: this has been sitting half-written on my pc for i don't even know how many months (tbh at least half a year. i was living somewhere else when i started it wow). finally took a deep breath and finished it (though with an ending that kinda flies by a bit because just wanted it to get done. i was scared that the story would never see the light of day, so zooming through the ending was a better option)

summary: a nervous breath then escaped his lungs before he uttered, “you do know what kind of massage this is, right?” to which you only blinked back at him all the same, none of your shock evaporation at his words, “you know that I’m here to give you more than just a regular massage?”

warnings: massage therapist!bucky barnes x reader, smut, sex worker!bucky, bucky doesn't have the metal arm in this one, thinking that your friend just signed you up for a normal massage but then it turns out to be an erotic one, kissing, dirty talk, manhandling, fingering, toys, multiple orgasms, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, anal, double penetration

word count: 4000

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With a hand tangled up in one of the ties of the robe you wore, you answered your front door after finally hearing the bells chime.

“Hi,” a soft smile swiftly warmed up the features of the man standing on the other side of the threshold, “are you miss Y/l/n?”

“Yeah, I am,” a tingle of nerves flickered through your body as your gaze washed over him, “you must be the masseuse.”

Why did he have to be so attractive? If it was this difficult to remember to breathe when he was standing completely out of your reach, then how were you going to survive a guy such as him touching you?

Following your gaze down to the folded-up table he carried, he nodded, “guilty,” before setting down the duffle bag he clutched in his other hand and extended it for you to grasp, “my name is Bucky.”

��Bucky,” you briefly shook it, “nice to meet you.”

“You too,” the touch faded, and he bent down to pick the supplies back up, “so, where should I set up?”

“Oh, in here, in the living room,” you gestured behind you and shifted to the side for him to enter. As he set up everything, you stayed at the perimeter and felt your heartbeat thump behind your ribcage, “is it weird that I’m a bit nervous?” you then quietly asked.

Briefly pausing his actions as he unfurled the massage table, he cast a glance your way.

“It’s not weird at all, it’s okay,” he stated in a calm tone, “but I assure you, this is a completely safe space, you’re in good hands.”

“I just–, this wasn’t exactly my idea, or even at all,” your hands fiddle further with the terrycloth tie around your waist as you began to ramble, “Nat, my friend, she told me that I needed to relax, so she booked this appointment for me as a treat. I don’t even know what it is she signed me up for, if it was just like a little five-minute long thing or what.”

“Oh no, she signed you up for the full package, 90 minutes.” 

“Really?” your eyebrows rose, “wow, that’s amazing.”

Once the table was set up and he rummaged through the bag for a towel as well as other supplies, his low timbre filled the room once more.

“So, before we start, I’d just like to ask if there’s anything off limits to you, anything you don’t like or that you’re not interested in? Or perhaps something in particular you’d like today?”

“Uh, I don’t think so,” your eyes narrowed slightly as you thought, quickly scanning through your body to get a good sense, “you can just be as rough with me as you want.”

“Alright, you like it rough, good to know,” you felt yourself suck in a silent breath at the way the phrase fell from his lips, “you ready to begin?”

“Yep,” you swallowed, hoping he didn’t notice how flustered he seemed to make you. 

He then lifted up the ivory sheets he’d sprawled out on the plush bench and held it up high, giving you a smidge of privacy as you dropped your robe to a nearby armchair, before laying down on the table and feeling the cotton drape over you. 

As you layed there on your stomach with your face comfortably nestled in the little nook, you sensed Bucky adjust the fabric, folding it down so that your entire back was exposed. 

A dull click found your ears as he pumped some oil into his palm. The very first touch conjured a brisk breath to fill your lungs as his hands slid along your spine, spreading the slickness around. 

Though when you finally managed to force yourself to relax into his touch, a soft moan slipped from your lips as his meticulous grip found a muscle particularly sore.

“Sorry,” you timidly apologized for the sound. 

But he simply zeroed in on the very spot that had made you groan and said, “don’t apologize, whatever bubbles up, please let it out.”

Your lips stayed half parted as his touch dug deeper, “it just feels really good right there...”

“Yeah, you seem to be holding a lot of tension in your back, especially right here between your shoulder blades.”

“Probably all the time on the couch,” you let out a pitiful chuckle, “I just kept on getting into uncomfortable positions and then stayed like that. Which, funnily enough, is pretty symbolic of how I ended up there in the first place, stuffing my face with Ben and Jerry’s and binging the most depressing of romcoms.”

“Bad breakup?” he guessed. 

“I don’t think you can call it a break-up if you never really were together in the first place,” you let out a sigh. Yet again had you fallen for a guy who’d turned out to be a complete and utter asshole, “men are just pigs,” you spat out, “no offence.”

“Oh, none taken,” he uttered, “you know, it’s actually very common for people to get this particular treatment after something like that.”

“Really? Your touch is on the same level as bawling your eyes out to Joni Mitchell?” you jested, “well, now I’m really happy that I let my friend talk me into this.”

Soon, when his touch had kneaded every inch of your back, it faded away and reappeared lower on your frame as you then felt him fold the sheet up to expose your legs, letting the thin fabric only drape across and cover the curve of your bottom. 

Once his touch had soothingly wandered up the length of your legs and as his broad palms dented your slightly parted thighs, you nearly didn’t notice through the trance-like state you’d drifted off to when his reach crept close enough to your core to feel the heat radiating off it. A gasp parted your lips as his fingers briefly ghosted against the very outside of your puff before retreating back down your thigh. 

“Is it alright if remove this for a bit?” he then asked as you felt his hand clutch the sliver of modesty that remained. 

“Oh, uhm,” you fought to comprehend his question through the haze you’d slipped into, both the haze of relaxation, though maybe more predominately the haze of sin, which was most likely what had swayed you to utter, “sure,” trying your best to stay calm as he removed the sheet completely. 

It became a difficult task to keep your quiet noises at bay and have them not seep through your heavy breath as he then began to massage the soft peak of your butt. 

You tried to remind yourself that it was the biggest muscle on the human body and thereby completely normal to be treated in this manner, but that truth would have been easier to swallow if it had been a less attractive specimen touching you in such a way. 

Eventually, Bucky’s lavish rubs came to spread you apart with each repetitive motion, surely granting himself a perfect view of just how mortifyingly wet you’d become. 

As he let his broad thumbs dig into your sitting points, you told yourself it was the slipperiness of the oil that caused his fingers to sweep closer to your core and not your own nectar that had leaked down towards his touch. 

It felt so good that your hips unconsciously tilted up and into his touch, as his thumbs slid close enough to caress your outer lips, nearly capturing them in a gentle pinch. 

You didn’t know how long it took, how long you essentially grinded into him as if you were in heat, but eventually, you snapped out of your fog and realized just where his fingers were. 

“U-uh… w-what are you doing?” your frame jumped slightly at the realization.

“Do you not like this?” his touch paused, though didn’t retreat. 

“Why–, uhm…” you nearly panted, “you’re just very close to somewhere else.”

And when he simply uttered, “yeah, I know,” in an almost amused and cocky tone. You swiftly propped yourself up onto your arms and glared back at him, successfully prompting him to rip his hands away.

Snatching the sheet back over your frame as you scrambled to a seat, you stared back at him in utter shock, “I’m sorry, but are you actually trying to sleep with me right now?”

His brows furrowed slightly as he blinked back at you, seemingly confused at your outburst, “I’m just doing my job.”

“I’ve had massages before, that was not–… that right there was something else. That was not you doing your job, that was your hands being persuaded by your dick.”

A nervous breath then escaped his lungs before he uttered, “you do know what kind of massage this is, right?” to which you only blinked back at him all the same, none of your shock evaporation at his words, “you know that I’m here to give you more than just a regular massage?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh boy, I’m sorry, I thought you knew…” his glance fell to the floor as he then began to enlighten, “well, the lotus wellness center, where I work, specializes in the blend of not just physical and mental health, but also sexual health and satisfaction. An erotic massage, like the one you were signed up for, is one of the many services we offer.”

Your eyes had grown as wide as saucers during his explanation, “o-oh…”

“I totally understand if you wanna stop, if you’re not interested.”

“I–…” you tried to make heads or tails of the situation you found yourself in, “so you were gonna–, what? Fuck me?”

“I was gonna try and make you feel good, help you relax and unwind. You were signed up for the aurelia treatment which would involve me using my hands to pleasure you, as well as whatever toys you might be interested in.”

“Toys?”

“Yes, I have a generous collection with me,” he briefly gestured back to the duffle bag resting on the couch. 

“Okay, uhm…” one of your palms came down to brush over your features as you fought to comprehend it all.

“Do you want me to pack up and go?” you heard him ask. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, before you even realized it was moving, you shook your head. Letting your gaze flutter back up to find his, you exhaled lowly, “fuck…”

“I can also just give you a completely traditional massage if that’s what you want.”

“…and if I wanna try the other thing?” you nearly whispered. 

“Do you?”  

“I–…” you tried to speak, though couldn’t find the words and ended up just hazily nodding back at him. 

“Alright,” he gently mirrored the nod that still faintly rocked your head, “I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with, I promise. You just say the word, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathed, shivering slightly at the tingle of goosebumps that spread across your flesh. 

The way he held your gaze a moment longer before shifting it to the massage table you still sat upon made you feel as if you might melt off it entirely.

“Lay back down,” he faintly nodded to the bench. 

Your eyes stayed glued on him long after you now layed sprawled out on your back. 

Letting his touch graze the sheet you still absentmindedly clutched to your chest, he asked, “do you wanna keep this on?”

“No,” you shook your head faintly, “you can remove it.”

“Okay,” he gently peeled the fabric off of you, “just say if you get cold, alright?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, still having a hard time wrapping your head around the fantasy you found yourself in. 

He began by working at your arms, tenderly spreading some oil across them and massaging down the length of them, one at a time, till his skilful fingers descended to work at your palms. It nearly felt as if he was merely holding your hand before he tossed you into the deep end with how intimate the simple beginning sensed. 

You couldn’t command your gaze to leave his visage as you traced his every move as if he was made of stardust. 

When his warmth let go of your hand, he reached for the bottle of oil that didn’t have a pump and unscrewed the top. Your bottom lip got caught by your teeth as he then poured a bit out over your stomach, curving the s-waves of droplets all the way up and across your boobs, dripping over your pebbly nipples as they stared back at him. 

As Bucky began to rub it in, he first stared softly down at your belly before swooping up, only to skip over your tits entirely and instead yanking a disappointed whimper from your lungs as he then commenced massaging your shoulders. 

You felt a bit lightheaded as you blinked up at him, all tall and broad, looming above your head and digging his warm touch into the base of your neck. 

Though when his rough palms finally did swoop down to caress your soft peaks, he quietly checked in, “this okay?” to which you simply nodded your head, eyebrows knitting together at the intenseness of the built-up anticipation.

Your entire chest cage heaved beneath his touch as he finally massaged your boobs, even occasionally fleeting away to ghost across your nipples, only to capture them in a pinch the next moment. 

You felt as if you were floating down a calm stream, letting the river of sin take you somewhere new and wonderful. 

Eventually, his broad palms swept up and down your form, though each time his reach dared to near your core, he barely touched you at all, missing entirely the spots that throbbed for attention, which of course only caused the sensation to deepen and render you even more desperate from his teasing. 

When he then shifted to stand to the side of the patted table, his deep voice washed over you once more as his touch stayed warm against your skin.

“Everything okay so far?”

“Yeah…” you hummed as you lazily blinked up at him, and the soft smile that curved your lips caused a similar one to bloom upon his own. 

His slow stride then carried him further down till his fingers began to dent the softness of your thighs. 

After he’d made your eyes flutter at the way he worked at the muscles in your legs, focusing on one thigh at a time, slowing working his way up till his fingertips stretched to dizzily brush against your outermost petals, it was then, that his sweeps grew and blossomed till one fleeting tease to your centre morphed into more as he kept coming back, each fluttering time slowly transforming till the maddening pets had become everything you’d dreamed of.

Soft whimpers flowed out of your lungs as he gently folded each of your legs up by your sides and cracked you wide open for him.  

As he gazed down at you with such intensity you’d never experienced before, it only took one step for him to change his angle and stand tall next to your hips. 

Letting his palms run up your inner thighs, the edges of each of his broad thumbs then met and joined on either side of your pussy as he captured it in a light pinch, making you moan softly, “fuck….” as his touch rolled your clit through your glistening puff. 

You nearly didn’t catch it because of how hard your own pants were, but Bucky’s own breaths had picked up as well and with a few stray curses seeping through his teeth as he continued to pluck at the strings of your pleasure. 

But then, before you could truly lose yourself to the ecstasy you felt flicking in your periphery, his hands slipped away, a smirk fast on his lips as a whine escaped you and he returned his attention to the rest of your body. Though thankfully, his torture only carried on a short moment before he finally granted you the first of many treats.

“Oh, yeah,” you couldn’t help but moan as he rubbed your clit and carried you over the peak. 

“Right there?” he leaned down closer to you as he kept up his pace, his free hand coming to rest right beside your head as he loomed over you. 

“Yeah,” you breathlessly panted as your body trembled beneath his touch. 

“Yeah?” he huskily echoed, nearly sharing your breath as he drew out your orgasm for as long as he could, and even as your body began to squirm at the sensitivity that swiftly set in, his touch never left you, only lightened to make it bearable and tickle you back from the high. 

He studied your features fiercely as his fingers then came down to tease your entrance. 

“How about this?” your leaky hole swallowed up the two digits he swiftly filled it with, “how’s that? Is that what you want?”

“Oh fuck!” your back briefly arched and lifted you off the table, closer to him for but a moment as sloppy sounds of your want echoed at the slow rhythm he played you at. 

“Or do you need a little more maybe?” he sneaked another finger inside, “huh?” his frame then bent down till you could feel his hot breath fan across your face, “what do you want? You want something more to make you feel good right here?” his fingers slid back out of your pussy and fluttered up till they found your puffy pearl, “or here?” he briefly soared back down to plug up your cunt once more, but only offered you one messily rock before his digits slipped back out and drifted down much further than you expected, “or maybe even here?” you let out a gasp as the slick pads of his fingers glided over your little rosebud. 

“I–, I–,” you struggled to answer him, feeling so foggy that you might just fall off the table, “fuck…” 

“I have any toy you could dream of with me,” he purred as your grip found his shirt for support, “so, what do you want?”

“I want–, I want–”

“What?” he pushed as he continued to stare down into your eyes. 

And as blinked back at him, only one wish came to mind, one that you timidly whispered, “y-you…”

But as fear began to prickle at your nerves, they all dissipated as the masseuse wasn’t offended at all, your words somehow conjuring a dazzled smile to appear upon his lip before he then chuckled warmly, “roll over for me.”

You nearly gave yourself whiplash from the hast you tried to fulfil his command.         

As he soon kneeled down to be on level with where your head was now twisted and resting on its side, his hand drifted up for you to spot the dildo clutched in his grasp. 

Handing it off to your flicking fingers, his touch briefly lingered on your cheek, stroking it softly as he said, “then pretend this is me, will you? Get it nice and sloppy for me.”

When you began to plant pecks across the silicon, your eyes shadowed him as far as they could as he straightened back up and walked back far enough to disappear from your sight, only for you to know where he’d gone to once you felt his mouth begin to devour you whole. 

It became difficult to concentrate on the task he’d given you, so much so that he had to remind you each time his lavish tongue buried between your legs caused your own to forget itself. 

Arching your ass further up towards his efforts, he tilted away from your drooling cunt and instead nipped up till he lapped against your other hole. 

“Oh, that feels really good,” you moaned around the dildo as you tried to catch a glimpse of him, though only saw the edge of one of his hands and they dented your bottom. 

“Yeah?” he let a dollop of spit drop to your rosebud before he nudged the pad of a thumb against it, “you like having this little hole played with?”

“Uh-huh,” you nodded, then watched as he momentarily dipped away to snatch up a butt plug from the zipped-open treasure trove his bag was. 

Once the toy was snugly buried within your little ass, he snatched the dildo out of your mouth and a string of your drool chased the silicone as he brought it back to tap against the sloppy petals of your pussy. 

It didn’t take very long after he’d begun to fuck you with the toy that you tumbled over the edge once more, making you that much more malleable when he yanked at your legs and manhandled you down to the bottom of the bench till your unsteady feet were once again on the floor and he had you bent over the table like a needy whore. 

That was also when your weak pleas began to bubble out, begging for him to fill you up with something other than a toy. 

Even though you couldn’t see his face, you swore you heard a tinge of astonishment in his tone when he asked you to clarify, making sure it really was him that had you begging and not just the way he made you feel. 

Though once you finally managed to convey the sincerity of your words and convince him of the way he and not just the acts he was performing, drove you wild, it was in the middle of chasing your next high that he broke his pattern and traded out the dildo with his own hard cock. 

A low moan seeped across your spine as he buried his length completely and let himself melt down against your back. Letting himself savour the sweetness of your warmth clenching around his fat girth, it took him a while before he finally began to move and soon found a steady pace that had your toes curling against the floorboards. 

His fingers gently dug into the soreness still remaining all down your back as his hips repeatedly collided with the plush of your ass in desperate thrusts. Though as his digits worked their way down the length of your spine, they eventually found the little plug that still remained in your ass. 

Teasingly twisting the toy, you thought that was everything he had planned, though all of those fantasies fluttered away when he suddenly yanked the small plug out and switched it with the bigger toy still firm in his grasp, your little hole only managing to wink up at him before he stuffed it full once more. 

You lost track of the amount of times he made you cum as the remainder of the intense dance became a bit of a blur. At one point he had you flipped around and lying on your back, gasping up at him as he folded you in half and nearly broke the massage table beneath you from how hard his deep strokes were. At the next, the dildo he drove you mad with was traded out with his own fat cock and he conjured a vibrating wand to hold against your puffy clit as he watched your pussy leak from the bliss. But at the end, once you were nothing more than a puddle on the table, his load painted against your tits as he let his frame drape down atop of yours, a hazy question left your lips.

“Is that usually how that goes?” you asked as you both panted, plastered against one another. 

Raising himself up only enough for his eye to catch your own, he uttered sincerely, “no…” and his gaze flickered down towards your lips, “no, it is not…” before he let himself give you the thing you hadn’t dared to request. The kiss was so sweet it nearly caused you to forget the sinful acts you’d just wrapped up.

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[kunasthiast]

champagne problems (part 1)

summary: Golf clubs, generational wealth (and trauma), and a childhood friendship that aged like milk. Everything is hell with Sukuna... especially if you had relapses of the memories that made you emotionally constipated for the last 12 fucking years. pairings: sukuna x reader (female) cw: crack fic! (pls don't take this srsly), one-sided enemies to lovers, slow-burn, delusional denial, aggressively coded sexual tension, french toast, suggestive content words: 17.1k (had to cut in parts since i've got too much words)

It’s either the universe has a twisted sense of humor or you were abandoned by it. Really. Of all the people in this planet, in this country, and in this obscenely, soul-sucking, beige-coded, stepford-smiling gated community, you had to be stuck with him. 

Sukuna.

That pink-haired bastard with more money than god and an ego large enough to have its own gravitational pull. For the love of strawberries and all things sacred, he’s a narcissistic, cocky asshole that you refuse to be associated with. For years now, actually. And he, by the way, just happened to be your self-proclaimed mortal enemy.

You’ve known him forever—since diapers, actually, thanks to your parents being disgustingly close. (Money and golf, as they say, deepen relationships and ruin offspring). Back then, it was you, Sukuna, and Gojo: inseparable, chaotic, and constantly banned from formal events for “behavioral disruption.”

Then came college. And oh, college. A series of very questionable decisions – booze, bad judgment, and that one summer you both agreed to never mention again. The one where tequila blurred every line you swore you’d never cross. Let’s just say, some boundaries were… explored. Poorly.

And of course, to top it all off: a stupid, petty fight that led to a rift in your friendship. Now, you’re both single parents, stumbling through young adulthood with a baby on each hip. You, with your son. Him, with his daughter.

Minimal contact is the unspoken rule. Occasional passive-aggressive exchanges at neighborhood meetings (gods, this is a cookie-cutter suburban hell – why is every lawn looked like the golf course green?). Where the air was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and thinly veiled judgment, and every conversation was a subtle competition for the best-manicured lawn and the most successful offspring. 

Forced civility at school (because, of course, your kids go to the same overpriced academy that call tests “challenges” and uniforms “identity expressions”), and you’re both contractually obligated to show up at family business functions, aka golf disguised as networking disguised as family bonding disguised as a pissing contest.

And, speaking of contests – you’ve been lock in one with Sukuna for years. Specifically, your annual power play at the PTA sponsorship table. One-upping each other in increasingly ridiculous ways because nothing fuels you more than spite.

But what’s life without being a little bitchy, right?

Unfortunately, karma – being the absolute bitch of life – decided that your kids would become best friends. Not casual playground pals. No. Soulmate-level best friends. The kind that build pillow forts with emotional depth. With the insistent sleepovers, shared inside jokes in their own weird language you’re 90% they invented, and referred to each other as siblings.

How did it happen? You have no fucking idea. 

Or maybe you do, you’re just in deep denial. Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe it’s some goddamn cosmic joke. Maybe the universe has you by the throat and won’t let go until it watches you suffer in 4K.

Not that you don’t love his daughter – she’s an absolute angel, the kind of sweet that makes dentists nervous. But her being your son’s BFF? That’s… inevitable. 

Especially in your tight, old-money-adjacent social circle. They’ve known each other since they were just wearing diapers, since they were teething on the same overpriced Montessori rattles. 

Just like you and Sukuna. 

Except this time, it’s different. Because their friendship demands one thing: coexistence. You and that tattoed-to-the-gods asshole had been forced to coexist. Again, coexist.

And Sukuna? Oh no, he doesn’t do coexisting. Nah. Nope. Never. He breaks balance. He thrives on chaos. He gets off on making your life just inconvenient enough to ruin your peace, but not enough to justify a felony charge.

And this morning? This godforsaken Saturday morning? He outdid himself.

Twelve years of passive-aggressive parenting – scratch that, thirty-three years of slow-burn emotional warfare – have led to this moment. This may just be his masterpiece.

Because this was when the relapse started—and Sukuna made damn sure you felt every inch of it.

The first thing you register at seven-fucking-A.M. is the sound of something dying. Violently. It’s mechanical. Obnoxious. It sounds like a robot lawnmower from hell just met its end outside your bedroom window.

The second thing you register? Pure, unfiltered rage.

Your eyes snap open like you’ve just been slapped by God himself. That noise—it’s outside. Your house. Your lawn.

You lurch out of bed like a woman possessed – dazed, furious, still marinating in last night’s sleep deprivation, because of course you were up ’til 3 AM binge-watching that dumb dating show where someone literally said “Montoya, por favor,”. You then grabbed your pillow and screamed into it for ten minutes. Regret? Never heard of her.

You barely register the cool cling of your La Perla silk sleepwear against your skin as you stomp toward the window. One violent yank later—

And there it is. Not a noise. But, a nuisance. Him. Sukuna.

Shirtless. (Is that not a violation of at least three HOA rules?) Smirking. Holding a hedge trimmer like he’s auditioning for a cologne commercial that probably ends with “Dior Sauvage: For Men Who Deserve Jail.”

You’ve seen him shirtless before. Too many times. College. His apartment. Your apartment. That goddamn couch in the frat house that probably caused seven diseases just by looking at it. Heat. A lot of teeth. Chaos. And him tracing lazy circles on your back like he was trying to memorize you. The worst part? You let him.

The morning sun, which used to mean peace and lattes, now glints off the sheen of sweat on his stupid, tattooed chest—each muscle cut like it was carved by demons with a thirst for drama. His pink hair is tousled just so—purposefully chaotic, like the universe made him hot just to personally ruin your life.

And then you see it. What used to be your hedge. You blink once. Then again. No change.

Your lush, lovingly imperfect, expensive-as-shit privet hedge is gone. Vaporized. Replaced by a row of cold, surgically shaved shrubs that look like a serial killer’s idea of curb appeal. Your eye twitches.

As if summoned by your fury, Sukuna glances up. His crimson eyes gleaming with the kind of chaotic joy that only thrives on your rage – or maybe something else. That look – the one he gave you at 2AM on your billion-dollar couch the night you swore it was a one-time thing. The one that said, “I’d ruin you if you let me.” And you let him. Back then. Right before shit got complicated. Right before you woke up next to him and pretended that everything’s normal as fuck. Again. 

He knows what this is doing to you. And that annoyingly smug bastard does this all with a smirk. A slow, wolfish, go-ahead-lose-your-mind kind of smirk.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he mouths. Oh, of course. You can lip-read him. Of course you can. Curse your stupid subconscious for prioritizing Sukuna Fluency over Spanish.

You inhale deeply. Try to center yourself. Failing that, you simply open the door like you’re kicking off Act One of a Greek tragedy. No robe. No shoes. No dignity. Just you, rage, and a whole lot of leg.

“Sukuna,” you bark, voice rasping like vengeance incarnate.

He doesn’t flinch. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, he turns, casually leaning on the hedge trimmer like he’s posing for The Bachelor: War Criminal Edition.

“Oh. You’re up early,” he drawls. His eyes flick downward—just for a second, but long enough to set your entire nervous system on fire.

“You—” You gesture wildly toward the massacre formerly known as your hedge. “What the actual fuck did you do?”

Sukuna squints at the row of plant corpses like a man admiring the Louvre, “Landscaping,” he says.

“That was my hedge.”

“It was an ugly hedge.”

You nearly combust. “Are you clinically insane?!”

He finally turns fully to face you, crimson eyes gleaming with the kind of chaotic joy that only thrives on female rage. “Don’t be dramatic. It looks better now.”

“Better?!” you screech. “It looks like it was done by Hannibal Lecter with a pair of OCD scissors!”

Sukuna hums. “You’re welcome.”

You take one murderous step forward. “You owe me a new hedge.”

“I gave you a new hedge.”

“I will burn this entire street down.”

His grin widens, predatory. “Might wanna change out of that nightie first, sweetheart. Fire hazard.”

You freeze. That’s when it hits you. The air. The breeze. The sudden realization that you are—very much—standing in front of Satan in La Perla silk.

Short. Bare. Clingy. Absolutely illegal in three states. Straps like dental floss. Chest support? None. Coverage? Legally negligible. Your arms fly up like someone just yelled “freeze!”

And Sukuna? Oh, he notices. He notices everything. His gaze drags over you slowly, hungrily, with the smug satisfaction of a man who knows exactly the effect he has.

“Nice outfit,” he murmurs. “All for me, babe?”

Your soul? Gone. Astral projected. Witnessed its own murder. And a tiny, traitorous part of your brain, the part you usually kept locked in a soundproof room, whispered, ‘Yep.' You crushed that traitorous voice with the force of a thousand suns.

“Shut up,” you hiss, spinning on your heel like a scandalized Disney princess on the verge of committing a felony.

“Don’t be shy now,” he calls after you, laughter rumbling from his chest like a goddamn villain. 

“Come back! Let’s negotiate... hedge replacements. Or anything else you’re aching to trim.”

You slam the door so hard you hear a bird scream outside.

And you? You launch yourself face-first into the couch like a woman wronged by fate, God, and the HOA.

Because of that man. Because of Ryomen. Fucking. Sukuna. Because your life is a telenovela and that devil is hot and ruining your lawn.

Your theatrical death scene is cut short by the sound of a small, sleepy voice.

“Mom?” You freeze.

Riku, your 12-year old son, stands in the hallway, looking like he’s fought a pillow and lost. Pajama shirt backward.  One sock. A feather in his hair?

He squints. Then pauses. “Why are you yelling? It’s Saturday.”

You try to pull yourself together, smoothing down your very not-child-appropriate sleepwear and flattening your hair like that’ll help.

“Nothing,” you say. Too fast. Too high-pitched. Too guilty.

Riku eyes you. Then the door. Then back to you. “Mom, why are you dressed like that?”

Your soul flatlines. “I—no reason. Go to bed.”

“It’s seven in the morning.”

“AND?!”

He sighs like he pays taxes and you’re the child here. “Did you fight with Papa again?”

Your brain short-circuited. “Papa?”

He yawns. “Unckuna said I should call him that. Since we’re like family.”

Something in your chest twists. He said that? The same man who claims relationships are just complicated sleepovers with taxes? The one who ghosted you emotionally mid-snuggle and then had the audacity to joke about building IKEA furniture “as a team”? The one who doesn’t even believe in relationships (more like… you both don’t) that last longer than a lease. 

And now he’s out here playing pretend dad to your son? Like he didn’t once whisper the word “ours” into your neck and pretend it was a joke.

You see white. You see God. You see the void. You also see a very expensive therapy bill forming in your future.

“That man is NOT your father,” you snarl.

“He also said your hedge looked like a haunted broccoli. With trust issues.”

“HE MURDERED MY HEDGE.”

Riku shrugs. “It was kinda ugly.”

You gasp. “It was tastefully whimsical!”

Then your phone buzzes.

[Do Not Answer]: good morning, sweetheart. hope you’re still wearing that cute little nightie. you always looked best in silk. see u later 😘

You stare at the screen like it personally offended you. Then briefly consider throwing your phone out the window. Or yourself. Unfortunately, your insurance doesn’t cover “Sukuna-related injuries” or emotional trauma due to unsolicited thirst traps and flirty, horny, late-stage situationship texts. 

Because he’s done this before—flirting like it’s harmless, like it doesn’t drag old memories up from the basement where you thought you buried them under shame, sarcasm, and 12 years of pretending you don’t miss him. The way his hand used to fit in yours, the ghost of his lips on your neck, the memory of his laugh echoing in your apartment, a laugh you hadn't heard in person for years. All of it was buried, but the soil was thin.

You scream into the couch cushion like you’re dying on a battlefield. And worse than shame, deeper than anger, in the dark corners of your soul, is the memory of liking it.

“Ew,” Riku mutters. “Do I have to hear about your weird grown-up drama?”

“IT’S NOT WEIRD DRAMA.”

Riku gives you a long, tired look. “Mom.”

“What?!”

He points to the phone. “I know you like him.”

Your entire soul dissolves into steam.

Despite the fact that he just ruined your precious Saturday morning with this hedge incident and a completely inappropriate message to send to your ‘co-parent’, Sukuna was moving on with his day. Specifically, he was cooking breakfast like some domestic menace in his obnoxiously sleek, state-of-the-art kitchen that looked like it belonged in the magazine spread of Architectural Digest.

Because unlike most rich assholes, Sukuna didn’t trust personal chefs. People spit in food. People sneezed in food. People existed near food, which was already bad enough. So, every morning, he cooked his own. For him and his daughter. Without fail. And since it was Saturday, that meant one thing: big breakfast.

Which also meant, thanks to the unfortunate circumstances of your life, you and Riku would be there too. Because in a twist of cosmic cruelty, his daughter Keiko had long ago declared that Saturday breakfast at her dad’s house was sacred tradition. 

And Riku, the traitor, had readily agreed. Of course he did. The two of them had been best friends since they were in kindergarten, and you? You were just along for the ride. Fuck it, right?

Keiko, same age as Riku, stomped into the kitchen like she owned the place (she does, it’s her dad’s) – hair a tangled mess, eyes half shut, wearing an oversized My Melody pajama set like a gremlin princess.

“Daddy, what’s for breakfast?” She flopped onto a barstool, chin resting on her palm, already judging the pile of ingredients on the counter: eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, rice, miso soup, and a whole loaf of milk bread that was about to get French-toastified.

“Morning, princess. You’ve got drool,” Sukuna said, wiping her face with casual affection before returning to the stove, flipping eggs like a culinary showoff. She snorted. He hummed. 

Everything about this household was too chill. And that was his bragging right.

And now here you were, an hour later (mind you, it might already be 8:02AM). Not in your silk sleepwear now, but in your Loro Piana lounge set – a color-matching oversized hoodie and baggy sweatpants. In enemy territory. Sitting at his obnoxiously pristine kitchen island while the bane of your existence plated up French toast like he hadn’t just murdered your hedge in cold blood an hour ago and sent you a text message that would make Satan blush. Maybe you were Satan. Life was suffering.

You sat stiffly, stewing in silent rage, eating his stupidly delicious food in his stupidly perfect kitchen like the fool you were. Betrayed not just by your son, but by your taste buds.

Riku, of course, had zero shame. He was already seated next to Keiko, looking entirely far too comfortable as he reached over and swiped a piece of bacon from her plate.

“Hey!” She snapped. “That’s mine.”

Riku shrugged mid-bite with zero remorse. “Now it’s mine.”

Keiko kicked him under the table.

Sukuna – ever the type to let kids settle their own beef like unsupervised wolf cubs – didn’t even flinch. Like everything's perfectly normal. But his eyes, for a flicker, held a strange intensity as he watched you, a glint that wasn't just amusement. He simply set a plate in front of you, stacked high with French toast, bacon, and disgustingly perfect scrambled eggs. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he leaned in close – voice infuriatingly close to your ear and a sin against sanity.

“Eat up, sweetheart,” he murmured, smug as ever. “Wouldn’t want you getting lightheaded from all that screaming this morning.”

Your fork nearly snapped in half. 

Keiko, sensing the chaos brewing, quickly changed the subject.

“Daddy,” she said, perking up, “Riku and I are gonna work on our science project later, ‘kay?”

Sukuna sat down, completely unbothered. “What is it?”

“A volcano model,” Keiko said proudly.

Sukuna arched a brow. “Lame.”

Keiko glared. “It’s for school!”

He snorted. “What happened to building a flamethrower?”

You nearly choked. Nope, you choked on your French toast.

Riku’s eyes lit up. “Wait, we can do that?”

“No,” You snapped, pointing your fork at Sukuna. “Absolutely not. Do NOT encourage them.”

Sukuna smirked, utterly unrepentant, and shrugged. “Relax, sweetheart. I wouldn’t let them  build an unsafe flamethrower.”

Your stared at him in disbelief. “There is no such thing as a safe flamethrower.”

The kids immediately started whispered like they were plotting something completely unhinged.

You took a long, deep breath. One problem at a time.

Right now, your biggest issue was pretending this breakfast wasn’t delicious. Which, unfortunately, it very much was. It was fucking amazing. Yeah, you’re easily pleased when it comes to food. But giving Sukuna even an ounce of satisfaction? Absolutely not. So, you settled for silent suffering, stabbing your fork into your French toast with unnecessary force.

Sukuna, because he was the devil incarnate, noticed. Obviously. Because the pink-haired menace always noticed.

“Good?” He asked, smirking.

You chewed aggressively. “No.”

Riku, your traitor of a child, spoke with his mouth full. “It’s really good.”

Keiko nodded, licking syrup off her fork. “Yeah, Daddy’s food is always the best.”

Sukuna looked insufferably pleased with himself. You swallowed your pride with the same intensity you swallowed that stupidly fluffy French toast. It was almost worth selling your soul for. Mind it, almost. This man could burn in hell. Preferably after breakfast.

Some time the next week, you were sprawled on the couch, half-dead after surviving what felt like a thousand back-to-back meetings. Thank God you work from home, and thank heavens it’s the family’s generational business. You could’ve been stuck in some sterile office with fluorescent lights, but nope, you're chilling at home, in your luxurious chaos. Oh, and did you mention it’s old money and generational wealth? Yeah, that kind of wealth. It’s a blessing… or a curse. Honestly, it depends on the day.

It was a Tuesday evening, and you were half-heartedly flipping through Netflix, trying to figure out which rom-com would match your mood. Naturally, you were leaning toward something unhinged and wildly unrealistic – you know, peak escapism… because why not? Maybe something classic with Matthew McConaughey, who was inescapably charming, or Hugh Grant with that disarming, floppy hair of his. Adam Sandler was also on the table, because who doesn’t love his chaotic, awkward brand of comedy? Basically something that might almost restore your faith in the idea that true love could be both absurd and beautiful. Almost.

Then, the door opened, and in walked your son, back from school.

And no – you don’t fetch him. Not when your smug, self-appointed savior of a neighbor has been picking him up for years now. Five, to be exact. Something about “Tch. We’re neighbors and they’re best friends – I should just do it instead of a fucking driver,” as if that was the most obvious and safest solution (no kidnaps, right?) in the world. Well, it is.

You didn’t even argue. Why would you? Free childcare and no afternoon traffic? That’s a win. You don’t argue with that kind of magic.

“How’s school?” you asked, still scrolling through the abyss of movie options.

Riku kicked off his shoes and dropped his bag by the door with the grace of a well-raised (you raised him) gremlin. “Fine,” he called, heading straight for the fridge. “We had a math quiz. I killed it.”

“Good job, baby genius,” you said, eyes still glued to your television as you scrolled through rom-coms. You finally hovered over How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, thumb on the remote paused mid-air. “So, steak or sushi for dinner?”

“Nah, Papa said we might do burgers tonight.”

You blinked.

“Wait – what?”

“Yup,” Riku said, nonchalantly tearing into a kunafa pistachio chocolate bar and zero shame. “He said if I finished my homework early, he’d take us to that place with the crazy milkshakes and the gold leaf fries.”

Your jaw dropped. Turned slowly at your child. Offended.

“You’re making dinner plans with him? Without me?”

Riku, blissfully unaware of the storm he was causing, crunched into the chocolate bar. “I mean… yeah? It’s Papa. He plans everything better than you do anyway.”

You gasped, obviously scandalized by your son’s betrayal. Clutching your chest in exaggeration with an, “Excuse me?!”

Before you could fully process your son’s betrayal, your phone buzzed with a FaceTime call. A FaceTime call. From your mother. Red flag. Big red flag.

She always call through FaceTime if it was a serious business to discuss. Like weddings. Or funerals. Or your personal life, which she had no business being involved in.

You almost didn’t answer, but curiosity—and the very real possibility of her forcing a conversation about your non-existent love life—compelled you to pick up.

The screen flashed, and suddenly, your mother’s entire face filled your phone, her expression beaming with suspicious delight.

“Hi, sweetheart!” she chirped, like didn’t just interrupt your most sacred of moments — talking with your son who clearly forgot that you have to eat dinner too.

“What’s wrong?” You narrowed your eyes, instantly suspicious.

Her smile widened. Uh-oh. You knew that smile. It’s an all-too-familiar sign that something – something – was very, very wrong. It’s a trap. Oh my god, why the fuck did you answer it? You could practically hear your sanity slowly crumbling.

Your father’s voice rumbled from somewhere off-screen. “Is that her?”

Your mother turned the camera. And there he was – your father – glowing with smug satisfaction, reading the newspaper like a man preparing to ruin your peace. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he greeted, not even bothering to look up. “How’s Sukuna?”

You blacked out, “WHAT?”

“Oh, your father and I just had the loveliest brunch with him yesterday,” your mother practically sang the words, her voice dripping with way too much enthusiasm.

Your brain short-circuited, processing. “You—what?”

“Brunch,” she repeated slowly, as if you were some kind of idiot who didn’t know what brunch was. “At that little place by the golf course! You know, the one with the fresh strawberry tarts? We were so surprised when Sukuna walked in! And oh, sweetheart—he insisted on paying.”

“Even the wine,” your father added, flipping a page, and still not looking up from his paper.

You stared, horrified. Yep, your entire existence is crumbling in real time.

“No. No, no, no. What the hell were you two doing having brunch with Sukuna?!”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic.” She waved a hand dismissively. “It wasn’t planned! We were there. He was there – fate, darling. Fate.”

Your father set down his paper and finally looked at you like the sage old man he was. “He’s a good man.”

Oh my god. You fought the urge to throw your phone across the room.

Your mother sighed a long, dreamy exhale that belonged to a teenage girl meeting her favorite boyband, not a grown woman discussing your literal neighbor. Your self-proclaimed enemy.

“Oh, sweetheart, he’s just so charming and thoughtful! He even asked how we were, how you were, how Riku was—” She paused, giving you that look. "He even asked about your garden. Said he was sorry about the hedge. And then he asked what kind of flowers you liked.”

Sukuna… apologized? And asked about your favorite flowers? A memory flickered – Sukuna, years ago, nursing you back to health after a particularly bad tequila night, carefully placing a bouquet of spider lilies (your favorite, but you never told him) on your bedside table. And now, a pang of something that felt suspiciously like longing hit you. But no. Deny, deny, deny. Lock it down the deepest vault.

“Mom.”

“— and honestly, it’s just so rare these days. A man with such good manners…”

“Mom. We’re neighbors.”

“And handsome, too! I mean, obviously, we always knew that, but now—”

“MOM.”

Your father nodded, the sagely figure of a man who had clearly seen things.  “Still a shame he’s not yet married.”

You swore you were about to die or throw yourself off a cliff. You weren’t picky at this point.

Your mother giggled. That dangerous giggle. The one that said she was absolutely about to dive into matchmaking hell. Everything is hell when it comes to everything with Sukuna involved.

“Mom, I swear to God, if you’re about to —”

“Oh, I just think it’s such a shame you two never worked out!”

You screamed in frustration.

Right at that moment, Riku poked his head in the camera. Of course. “Oh. Grandma’s talking about Papa again, huh?”

Your mother, ever the opportunist, perked up. “Oh, hi, sweetheart! Have you eaten? Did Uncle Sukuna pick you up from school?”

Riku flopped onto the couch, still munching on his chocolate bar and nonchalantly stealing one of your throw pillows that your leg was clearly hugging. “Yeah. We’re also gonna have burgers tonight! And gold-leaf fries.”

Your mother gasped. “Gold-plated?! Oh, see? Isn’t he wonderful?”

Riku shrugged. “I mean, yeah, he’s cool.”

Your soul left your body.

“Mom,” you said, voice shaking. “Please. I beg you. Stop.”

She only laughed. “Oh, darling, don’t be shy! You know, when I was your age, if a man looked at me the way Sukuna looks at you—”

“HANGING UP.”

“Wait—!”

Click.

You threw your phone onto the couch like it physically burned you. Riku, completely unfazed, finished his chocolate bar. How he finished it that fast was beyond you. Was he part vacuum cleaner?

“…So, mom,” he said, casually. “can I sleep over at Kei’s tonight?”

You grabbed the throw pillow and playfully smacked him with it.

Wednesdays. Hump days. The weird, middle child of the week. The day that usually smelled like stress and overpriced cold brews.

Normally, Wednesdays were crammed with back-to-back meetings: clients, your personal assistant, your shopping assistant (because, priorities), and the occasional emergency call from your hair stylist because your toner was apparently too warm. But, not today. 

Today was sacred.

Today was shopping day. A full, uninterrupted day of retail therapy. Chanel, Cartier, a suspiciously overpriced iced matcha with edible gold flakes—you earned this. 

You even texted your driver, Hiro, at 9 a.m. sharp to be on standby – like the responsible adult you occasionally pretend to be. Your credit cards warmed up like a Formula 1 engine, and all your favorite stores knew to roll out the metaphorical red carpet.

This Wednesday was going so well until Sukuna betrayed you.

You were still in your robe, smearing serum across your face like a rich house cat bathing in luxury, when your phone pinged. You glanced at the notification and felt your soul leave your body.

[Do Not Answer]: babe, I’m slammed with meetings [Do Not Answer]: mind picking up the kids today?

You stared. 

Blinked. 

And blinked again.

… Babe?

Babe.

Babe?!

The sheer audacity of that word nearly made you drop your gua sha.

He doesn’t call you babe. He never calls you babe. Well, that was years ago. But, he says “princess” with that smirk when he wants to piss you off, or “gorgeous” when he’s being annoyingly charming, and most of the times, lately, he calls you “sweetheart,” and you’re so ready to combust anytime. But babe?

Babe is sacred. Babe is relationship territory. Babe is dangerous. Babe is cruel. 

You could feel twelve years’ worth of buried feelings rattle like a demon in the basement of your emotional trauma house. You shoved them back down with professional precision.

This was a trap. A distraction. You needed to focus. And also... what meetings?!

You jabbed your fingers at the screen, rage typing like a woman possessed.

[You]: since when do you have afternoon meetings? especially on a wednesday?! [You]: this feels illegal [You]: actually, I feel scammed

He replied instantly. The man had the nerve to send:

[Do Not Answer]: lol

LOL?! Oh, he thinks this is funny? Your eye twitched.

[You]: what if I was busy? [Do Not Answer]: you’re not [You]: YOU DON’T KNOW THAT [Do Not Answer]: you literally told me you had nothing scheduled this week

Okay, he wasn’t wrong, but that wasn’t the point. The point is: he’s a treacherous man-child who clearly weaponizes your schedule against him. He couldn’t just pull the “I’m busy” card on you like that anytime. Not on a Wednesday, when your shopping trip had been meticulously planned to indulge in luxury and self-care.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, itching to send him something even more venomous. But instead, you stared at the blinking cursor, sighed like a Victorian widow, and texted:

[You]: k

You groaned dramatically into your hands. Yeah, to hell with your skin care. You went back to your bedroom and flopped onto your bed and groaned into your 600-thread count pillow. Somewhere in the distance, a dramatic violin played for your suffering. You were going to have to endure the other moms. The PTA vultures. 

And possibly your own mother, who loved nothing more than materializing at school pickups like a judgmental ghost, armed with gossip and Sukuna-related questions.

Your phone buzzed again.

[Do Not Answer]: thanks, sweetheart. appreciate it ;) [You]: shut up

Hiro, your long-suffering driver and part-time therapist, was clearly thrilled by the unfolding drama.

“Madam,” he greeted, glancing at you through the mirror. “You look… thrilled.”

You scowled, sliding dramatically into the leather seat like a woman betrayed. “This is Sukuna's job. I’ve been scammed. I should sue him for emotional damages.”

“Is it really a scam,” Hiro asked diplomatically, “if he asked nicely?”

"He didn't ask nicely! He said lol. That’s verbal assault.”

Hiro hummed like he agreed, but he didn’t. Traitor.

When the car pulled into the school gates, it was like arriving at the frontline of a suburban battlefield. Mothers. Nannies. Personal bodyguards. Chauffeurs in black luxury cars. PTA moms who always dressed like they were going to brunch with the royal family.

And you?

You wore sweats, your old uni hoodie, and exactly zero makeup. You looked like the before picture in a glow-up video. But your diamond rings sparkled like hellfire – your only giveaway that you were rich as fuck. You weren’t broke, you were just done with these kinds of scene.

The judgment came fast. Some of the moms did that thing where they glanced at you, then whispered behind their hands. A few nannies gave you nods of respect, probably because you weren’t the usual “too-rich-to-function” type.

But the worst? 

Mrs. Yoshida.

PTA Queen Bee. Two-time “Mother of the Year” because she nominated herself. Three-time brunch committee president. The woman probably tried to trademark: “yummy mummy.” The woman who would call the manager at a fucking charity event. Her heels clicked on the pavement like judgment incarnate as she stalked toward you. 

"Oh,” she said, smiling that fake ‘I pity you’ smile. “It’s so nice to see you doing the school run for once!”

You blinked. Then smiled sweetly.

“Oh, and it’s so nice to see you still dressing like an overworked air hostess.”

Her smile dropped like the stock market is full of reds.

Hiro choked on his laughter.

But before the woman could recover from the verbal slap, you spotted the kids. Riku and Keiko. Standing side by side. Waiting. Hopeful. Clearly hopefully waiting for Sukuna to get them sundae on the way home.

Except when they saw you, that hope died.

Riku blinked, confused. To your horror, his face fell. Your son, your flesh and blood, is disappointed that you’re the one picking them up. This left you gaping in disbelief.

Then, Keiko turned. She titled her head with the slow horror of someone discovering they’d been served sparkling water instead of Sprite.

Basically, her entire soul left her body.

“…Where’s daddy?” she asked, peering into the Rolls like Sukuna was hiding in the glovebox.

“Busy,” you said.

Keiko looked physically ill with that word.

“So… you're picking us up?"

"Yes, Keiko."

"You?"

"YES, KEI. ME. GET IN THE CAR.” You’re controlling yourself with pure rage wrapped in customer and parenting service. Trying to remain calm as possible in front of all these judgmental PTA moms.

As they begrudgingly climbed in, you caught sight of Mrs. Yoshida again, watching the entire ordeal with the satisfied smirk of someone whose life is just a little bit less messy than yours. Yeah, you’ve had enough of this soul-sucking vibe. You just wanted to throw a juice box at her.

Once the doors shut, Riku sighed, dramatic as ever. “Well. This is awkward."

"Awkward?" you scoffed. “You’re disappointed in your own mother picking you up. That’s awkward.”

Keiko crossed her arms like a betrayed heiress. “Daddy always buys us ice cream after school.”

Riku leaned forward. "Yeah, Mom. You buying us ice cream?"

You looked between the two gremlins and then to Hiro, who was silently laughing in the front seat. You exhaled sharply, “…Fine.”

They cheered and you glared at these two gremlins.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "I swear to God, if you two start rating me as a school-run parent—"

Keiko already had her little pink notebook out.

"You're at a 2 right now," she said, flipping open a page. "But ice cream might boost you to a 5.”

“Out of 5, right?” You said with a smile on your face, overly excited with the high-rating.

“No, out of 10.” Keiko nonchalantly said as she write on her pink notebook.

Your face fell with a what an actual fuck is happening reaction to everything around you.

Riku nodded. “Papa's still at a 9.8."

A 9.8?!

“What did he lose 0.2 for? Murder?” Clearly, you shouldn’t be near kids. But one of these kids is your son. So, yeah.

Riku shrugged. "He called my math homework stupid."

Keiko giggled. "Oh yeah! But then he bought you Jordans, so it’s okay."

You turned to Hiro, scandalized, “Are you hearing this? This is corruption. He’s bribing them.”

Hiro, looking at the road ahead, and with a perfectly straight face, just said, “It's a delicate ecosystem, madam. He plays the long game.”

You groaned.

And that was how you ended up at a drive-thru, buying two sundaes and one sad coffee. You, in the front seat, emotionally wrecked while your son and Sukuna's spawn ranked your parenting.

You finished at 2. Sukuna is still winning.

The moment you pulled into the driveway, your phone pinged.

[Do Not Answer]: how’d it go? [You]: ur child is a menace [You]: she ranked me like i was on the next top parent. a 2, sukuna. A DAMN TWO [Do Not Answer]: lmao [You]: this isn’t funny. ur evil tactics are spreading [Do Not Answer]: u just mad i’m winning parenthood [You]: i’m blocking u [Do Not Answer]: nahh u’re not

He was right. You scowled at your phone anyway. Before you could chuck your phone out the window, Riku turned to you.

“Can Kei sleep over?”

You blinked. “Didn’t she just rate me a TWO?!”

Keiko smiled sweetly. “It was just feedback, mama.” (You are not her mama. You’ve explained this. Repeatedly.)

Riku nodded sagely. "Yeah, Mom. Feedback’s important."

You squinted at your own son. And then stared at them both for this unbelievable situation of you being manipulated by these two gremlins.

Hiro (again, your driver) was full-on laughing now, no longer bothering to hide it.

"You know what?" you muttered, rubbing your temples. "No. No sleepovers. I’m officially clocking out as a parent today."

"Mama, no!” Keiko gasped.

“You gave me a two.”

Riku groaned. “Mom, you’re being dramatic.”

“You know what’s dramatic? Giving me a two, then immediately asking for a sleepover.”

Keiko huffed. "Fine. I’ll bump you to a five."

Riku crossed his arms. “You did buy us ice cream.”

"Are you guys seriously negotiating my score?"

Keiko beamed. "So that’s a yes?"

You sighed.

This was Sukuna’s fault. All of it.

"...Fine."

They cheered. Hiro, the traitor, just continued laughing in the front seat.

You ignored them all and pulled out your phone.

[You]: ur little gremlin just emotionally manipulated me into a sleepover [Do Not Answer]: that’s my girl [You]: come get her. i’m done parenting [Do Not Answer]: lmao no [You]: i hate u [Do Not Answer]: no you don’t ;)

You glared at the screen. This was Sukuna’s fault. All of it.

You were going to scream.

Or text him again.

Or maybe both.

But for now?

You needed wine. And maybe a therapist.

Golf was supposed to be a sport. A peaceful, relaxing Friday activity. Supposedly.

But no. Of course not. Why would anything in your life be peaceful? 

In your life, everything was a battlefield – including, but not limited to, your tragic excuse for golf skills, the stiletto-thin patience you’re currently wearing, and the fact that you’re stuck listening to old-money business jargon that sounds like it came out of a rejected Succession script. Or maybe Dynasty, you never know anymore.

At the stupidly pristine golf course, your dad stood with Wasuke (aka Sukuna’s dad, aka walking intimidation in pastel polos) and Jin (Sukuna’s twin, aka the lesser evil?). Their conversation smelled like money. Like old, generational, smells-like-the-inside-of-an-oak-safe-and-a-Ferrari-merged-wealth. The air around them crackled with hostile mergers and billion-dollar foreplay. 

Your sister was occasionally chimed in like she was born in a boardroom, and Gojo—another menace of the century with Sukuna — was playing both sides with the enthusiasm of a court jester who inherited a hedge fund.

Let’s be real: only three of you gave a single solitary shit about actual golf – you, Sukuna, and your mom. And your mom only cared because she once beat a CEO with a 7-iron and hasn’t emotionally recovered since.

The sun was bright. The grass was green. The vibe was hostile. And, you were already regretting your entire bloodline. Then, the worst voice known to mankind – smooth, smug, and utterly punchable – cut in from behind.

"You’re holding it wrong.” 

You turned your head so fast your neck cracked. “Can you shut up?"

Sukuna stood there, leaning on his golf club like he was auditioning for Rogue Billionaires Weekly, smirk carved across his face like he owned the damn country club. Spoiler: he might be. 

"Your stance is off. And your grip is fucking weak.” he said, voice mocking.

"My grip is fine, thank you.” Also, what the fuck even is a stance? You’re holding the club?!

He just grinned at you. That infuriating, teeth-flashing, smug little shit grin.

You sighed and turned back to the sound of corporate greed happening ten feet away, like a live-action PowerPoint presentation from hell. Yep, this is your slow, corporate-sponsored death.

"—the Dubai expansion is moving along," your dad said, adjusting his golf glove like a Bond villain. "Full return on investment by Q3 next year.”

Wasuke nodded. "And you’re securing exclusivity on that?"

Your sister jumped in. “The terms are favorable, but the board wants to explore secondary partnerships.”

May gods help you. Not the secondary partnerships.

"Secondary partnerships dilute brand value," Jin said, matter-of-factly and a voice flat as a Wall Street banker’s soul. "If you’re going in, go in alone."

Gojo, never missing an opportunity to self-promote, smirked. "Which is why I love working solo. No boards, no shareholders—just me, my money, and my incredible business instincts."

Sukuna snorted. "You mean your incredible luck?"

Gojo gasped, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. Really, an Oscar-worthy performance. “'Kuna, I am deeply, deeply wounded."

"Don’t call me that," Sukuna muttered as he causally swung his golf club with perfect precision and sent the ball flying.

Meanwhile, Jin just dropped some casual xenophobia into the convo with, "I don’t trust the French.”

Heavens, they’re really brothers.

Wasuke didn’t even look up from his phone. “Their money’s good, but their loyalty is nonexistent.”

You leaned toward Sukuna out of curiosity. "Do you actually know what they’re talking about?"

Sukuna gave you a look that said: I have watched blood diamonds being auctioned off with less drama.

"Do you think I sit in boardrooms for fun?"

"Honestly? I try not to think about what you do."

"Because you’d get too distracted?" he said, mockingly sweet.

You rolled your eyes. "Because it’s probably illegal."

His smirk said no comment. Then Wasuke shifted the convo to Formula 1 – Sukuna’s domain of god complex and expensive toys.

"Motorsport contracts for the Euro manufacturers are wrapping up," Wasuke said, eyeing the scoreboard. "I want F1 projections next week."

“Already sent them,” Sukuna replied, because of course he did. “Wind tunnel drama, but the numbers are solid.”

"F1’s a money pit," your dad noted.

Jin smirked. “Yet they still beg us to be in their garages."

Your sister gave a knowing nod. "That’s because you control the entire supply chain. Power units, manufacturing motors, aerospace-grade materials—"

"You don’t win a championship without our parts," Sukuna added with terrifying ease.

Gojo whistled. "Damn. Y’all are playing god."

Wasuke smirked. "We don’t play god. We just make sure everyone needs us."

Sukuna’s crimson eyes flicked to yours. "Sound familiar?"

Ugh. That was a direct hit. You knew exactly what he was hinting at.

"Don’t be mad our family has the luxury industry in a chokehold," you shot back.

Jin laughed. "Our industries are co-dependent, though.”

You rolled your eyes. “Strategically entangled with deep-rooted dysfunction. There. Fixed it.”

“That’s rich, ”Sukuna chuckled under his breath. “Coming from the woman who emotionally negotiated a 5/10 rating out of a twelve-year-old.”

You whipped around to glare at him, your golf club pointed like a weapon. “Your daughter emotionally blackmailed me with dessert, okay? I’m the victim here.”

He took a slow step toward you, eyes gleaming like he was about to say something incredibly inappropriate. Especially in this place where you’re surrounded by family.

And you know that look. You hated that look he’s giving you right now. You just froze there, mentally preparing for the impact, fully aware that if this man so much as winked, your ovaries would detonate.

You sighed. "I hate it here."

"Sure," Sukuna drawled, “but you love getting the family-and-friends discount on Richard Mille."

You opened your mouth to argue — then shut it.

“…That’s what I thought," he said.

Meanwhile, the boardroom larping continued, with Jin casually lining up his golf shot. "By the way, what’s your play for the next expansion?"

Your dad smirked. "Exclusive deal on a rare pearl farm."

"How rare?" Sukuna asked.

Your sister crossed her arms. "One-of-one. Completely untapped market. If you want the pearls, you go through us."

Wasuke let out an approving chuckle. "That’s how you do business."

Sukuna turned to you. Smirking. "And you call me a capitalist pig."

You rolled your eyes. "I never said I wasn’t one too."

"Exactly."

Gojo clapped his hands together. "Okay, enough. Some of us are here to actually have fun.”

"Some of us are here to play golf," Jin added, eyes pointed at your disaster pose.

“Do you have broken legs or something, dumbass?” Sukuna asked. “Your stance has been criminal for the last 30 minutes.”

“Fuck you,” you whispered through a deep, meditative breath.

Gojo hummed, sipping his iced coffee. "No, he's right."

Your sister nodded sagely. "I’ve seen better posture from Riku playing Wii Sports."

Your mother sighed. "Honey, at least pretend you inherited some athletic ability."

You took a slow, deep breath. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t bury everyone here with a 9-iron. That’s a lot of jail time. And, murder is fucking illegal.

Across from you, Sukuna's shit-eating grin widened. “Want help?"

You gave him a deadpan look. "I would rather set this golf club on fire and dance around it like a pagan ritual."

"Aww," he cooed. "You’re so cute when you’re in denial."

Before you could golf club his skull, your dad clapped. “Alright, enough flirting. Take your shot.”

Flirting???

You turned slowly to look at him, completely horrified. Because why does every family function have to end up with everyone talking about your and Sukuna’s relationship.

“Dad.”

"Yes, dear?"

"That was not flirting."

Gojo grinned. "It kinda was."

Sukuna just snickered.

You ignored all of them and took your shot—which was terrible. The ball barely made it by three meters before pathetically rolling to a sad, pathetic stop like it just gave up on life. Not that golf balls have life but – everything’s just so stupid.

"Yikes," Sukuna whispered.

Gojo coughed to hide a laugh.

Your sister patted your shoulder. "It’s okay. Not all of us can be naturally gifted."

Sukuna slung an arm over your shoulder—bold move like a smug snake. "Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ve got other talents."

You shoved him off. "Like resisting the urge to commit first-degree homicide?"

He laughed and stepped up to take his own shot. He positioned himself with stupid, effortless confidence, gave a casual swing and then nailed it perfectly like it was nothing. The ball sailed through the air perfectly, landing exactly where it was supposed to.

Your father beamed. "Now that is how you play golf!"

Sukuna smirked at you. "See? That’s what maturity looks like."

You glared. "Maturity? You have a gold statue of yourself in your front yard, Sukuna."

"Confidence," he corrected.

Your mother sighed dreamily. "Oh, Sukuna, you should teach her more things. Maybe then she’d finally listen."

You choked. "Mom."

"She has a point," Gojo piped up. "I mean, you don’t even peel your own oranges—"

"That’s different," you snapped.

Sukuna grinned. "How?"

"Because peeling fruit is a waste of time. It’s too much work.”

"Uh-huh," he said, completely unconvinced. "And yet, you eat the ones I peel for you."

You paused.

Sukuna smirked with a wink, “Exactly.”

Gojo laughed. "Ohhh. He got you there."

Your sister gasped. "You’ve been peeling her fruit for years?"

"Yeah. Since high school.” Sukuna shrugged like it was nothing.

Your mother looked at you. "Sweetheart," she said, voice thick with judgment and amusement. "This is why we love him more than you."

You wanted to die. Right there. On the spot. Strike you down, Zeus, you’re ready.

Before your soul could ascend, Sukuna glanced at his watch. "We should wrap up soon. We have to pick up the kids."

Oh. Right. Riku and Keiko.

You groaned. "God, I hope they haven’t schemed anything.”

Sukuna just smiled. "Hope all you want. We both know they’re worse than us."

Your sigh was basically a prayer. Because he was right.

Then he looked at you – really looked – and for a second, you saw it. A familiar, almost nostalgic glint in his crimson eyes. That something in his eyes. The history. The bullshit. The college days.

Before the weird, co-parenting situationship.

Before the kids.

Before all this strategic dysfunction.

Of course it started with betrayal. Because why wouldn’t it?

REWIND TO 15 YEARS AGO

Ah, the golden age. The era of questionable fashion choices, stolen Netflix passwords, and zero concept of consequences. You were younger, dumber, and apparently, very susceptible to being peer-pressured by your stupidly attractive childhood best friends and tequila with a price tag that could fund a small startup.

And the betrayal? Classic Gojo.

Not yours. 

Not Sukuna’s. 

But Gojo freaking Satoru’s.

The plan was simple. A chill, lowkey, totally-not-going-to-spiral-into-chaos evening. The threey of you. One rare, bougie-ass bottle of unreleased tequila – procured through one of Sukuna’s many mysterious family connections, which probably meant some shady auction involving something you don’t even know if legal or illegal at this point, but like… whatever. Details.

And the holy trinity of chaos – you, Sukuna, Gojo – were supposed to break in your overpriced couch (emotionally) and consume alcohol worth more than your rent. In your apartment. With music, chaos, and maybe light emotional trauma.

But Gojo?

That flaky, unreliable, sunglasses-wearing disaster of a human being? He didn’t show up. He straight up ghosted.

No text. No call. Just vibes – and not even the good ones. You and Sukuna were left staring at your phones like you’d both been stood up by the world’s most unserious Tinder date. Sitting in the dim glow of your apartment, side by side on your ridiculously expensive couch. The tequila, untouched, sat like a third wheel on your pristine glass coffee table, judging you.

And of course Sukuna, ever the picture of carelessness, was lounging on your couch like he owned the place (well, he and Gojo has your spare keys thanks to your very insistent mother who said that this was for safety purposes). He’s made himself too comfortable. His expensive leather jacket? Tossed like trash. His shirt? Pushed up just enough to flash his abs like a Calvin Klein ad. His legs? Sprawled. Man was taking up 80% of your couch like it came with a deed in his name.

You’d almost asked him to move his knee off your thigh, but that required energy and dignity – both of which were too low.

“He’s a piece of shit,” you mumbled, flipping your phone screen-down like it had personally betrayed you too.

Sukuna just huffed, stretching like a lazy cat. “We knew that.”

A beat of silence.

Then you turned your head. Sukuna was already looking at you.

And that was the beginning of the end.

You didn’t even need to say it, but you did anyway – because you’re you and you’re brain was one shot away from being completely unhinged.

"Fuck him," you said, curling your fingers around the bottle’s neck. "You thinking what I’m thinking?"

Sukuna’s smirk was criminal. ”Gladly.”

Tequila hit like a kiss and a slap. Warm and mean. Sweet with aftershocks. It tasted like rebellion and a future apology text. It burned, sweet and smooth, slipping down your throat like bad decisions.

And by the fifth shot, everything had softened. You, the air, the line between sense and chaos. You weren’t drunk-drunk. Just in that dreamy, blurry zone where every thought seemed brilliant and you suddenly had strong opinions on things like fruit ethics and the social implications of banana neglect.

"Okay, hear me out," you began, swirling your glass like you actually understood tequila tasting. "If a banana has brown spots and you throw it away, isn’t that, like… fruitism?” You argued, dead serious.

Sukuna blinked at you, slow and unimpressed. “You’re equating overripe produce with discrimination?”

"Okay, but isn’t it?"

Sukuna, drunk but still insufferably rational, huffed. "Fruits were literally made to decay. The spots don’t even mean they’re bad. They’re just riper. Sweeter.”

“I’m just saying,” You squinted at him and gestured with passion. “And people toss them like yesterday’s garbage. That’s bias.”

He groaned, rubbing his face like your IQ physically pained him. “You’re drunk.”

You grinned, tilting your head. “You’re hot.”

He didn’t even blink. “Still doesn’t make what you said smart.”

“Can’t have it all.”

Shot seven was the real villain. That was the one that made you bold. That was the shot that made the conversation shift to a heated, increasingly idiotic debate about billionaires and time-travel tech like you were on a TED talk stage.

���Listen,” you said, pointing an accusing finger at him and serious as a heart attack, “if someone invented a machine that lets you relive the best moment of your life –”

“Oh, here we fucking go,” Sukuna muttered, who is slumped against the couch with a drink in hand and zero patience. And he’s already rubbing his temple like he has a migraine.

“—billionaires shouldn’t be allowed to use it.”

Sukuna gave you a flat look.the kind that screamed you’re an idiot and I am suffering. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve heard, and I talk to Gojo on a regular basis.”

“That’s justice,” you replied.

“You sound like one of those fake-deep Twitter threads with the ‘let that sink in’ at the end.”

You gasped loudly and dramatically, hand to chest. “That’s the meanest things you’ve ever said to me.”

Sukuna smirked and leaned back on the couch, swirling his drink, all lazy and smug. “Not even top five. Cry about it.”

And honestly? Fair.

You narrowed your eyes at him, then shoved at his shoulder. “Smug bastard.”

He didn’t even flinch. Just raised an eyebrow, all smug and irritating. “That the best you got?”

“You wanna go?” you said, drunk enough to mean it, sober enough to know it was a terrible idea.

“Brat, I’ve been waiting for you to throw hands.”

And just like that, it was on. The argument devolved into some half-playful, half-serious wrestling match that your tequila-soaked logic somehow decided was a good idea. You lunged yourself at him—awkwardly, gracelessly, like a cat trying to fight its reflection. And he caught you. Of course.

Sukuna met your weak-ass attack with a wicked grin and zero effort, catching your wrists mid-swat and easily flipping you onto your back like this was WWE: College Edition.

He was straddling your waist like this was some twisted rom-com where the lead-up was fruit bias and class warfare. He was pinning your hands above your head with one of his stupidly strong hands, face inches from yours. Neither of you moved. His smirk stretched slow and deliberate.

“Aw,” he murmured, looking down at you. “Pinned you already.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. Your brain screamed.

“We better not fuck,” you said, breathless, mock-serious, heart pounding like you weren’t already halfway there. “That would be crazy.”

Sukuna laughed, sharp and dark. “You’re right. That would be so stupid.”

You stared up at him, drunk on more than just tequila. “So, don’t.”

He leaned in, lips brushing yours, the world going mute, “Make me.”

The tension was a slow, burning thing. Suddenly too heavy, too obvious.

And it happened.

He kissed you like he’d been waiting for it. And fuck, maybe he had.

It was desperate, messy, hot—his hands were greedy, large, possessive, fingers digging into your waist as you pulled him onto you. His weight settled over yours, pinning you to the couch, every hard line of muscle pressing into your body.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice thick, breath warm against your lips. “This is a bad idea.”

You nipped at his bottom lip, smirking. “Then stop.”

Sukuna growled.

So obviously, you didn’t

Your soul has left your body.

You were spent. Utterly wrecked. A pleasantly, post-orgasmic disaster of a human being, melted into your couch like cheese. The kind of boneless, mind-melting exhaustion that came after a particularly intense workout—except the only exercise involved had been riding Sukuna like your life depended on it.

Sukuna yanked you back down with a lazy smirk, his fingers tight around your waist. He was against your neck, smug as sin, like he hadn’t just destroyed your entire pelvic floor and sanity in under an hour.

Your brain was short-circuiting. Not even crashing—melting. Like: what were you doing?

What were you doing letting Sukuna Ryomen, heir to a criminally rich, morally grey empire, raw you on a couch your mother had helped you pick out a week ago? That same couch that she said would “last through years of wear and tear”? Oh honey, if only she knew.

You could still feel him inside you (because, he is still inside you), which, frankly, was just rude. Your vagina had zero chill. Not when Sukuna had been whispering things like good girl and so fucking tight into your ear for the last forty-five minutes like he was narrating an erotic audiobook that only your nervous system had access to.

Your breathing was ragged, your skin damp with sweat, your limbs completely useless. The couch cushions were destroyed, one of the pillows had somehow ended up on the floor, and your legs… well. You weren’t sure if you’d be able to use them properly for the next hour. Maybe the next week.

Then there was a moment – still, quiet, charged – and Sukuna, ever the menace, had to go and say,  “Loving daddy’s cock inside you, baby?” 

Oh fuck, his post-sex voice is too sexy to hear. Your vagina responded before your brain did. Your moan was involuntary. Your dignity packed a bag and left.

The air was thick, too warm, and filled with the scent of tequila, sex, and very bad decisions.

You should’ve been freaking out. Should’ve been reconsidering every life choice that led up to this moment. Should’ve been thinking about things like consequences or friendship dynamics or even just the fact that you had quite literally defiled your own couch.

And then, because the universe has a terrible sense of timing –

BANG.

The door slammed open.

You and Sukuna froze mid-regret, your heart doing backflips and your brain buffering like a corrupted YouTube video. Basically, this is the time your soul left your body.

And then…

“Oh, hell yeah.”

Gojo.

Of course it was Gojo.

Standing in your doorway like he was meant to be the comedic third act twist in your sexual coming-of-age story. Sunglasses on at 2AM (maybe it’s already 3AM), stupid grin in full force, and holding a bag of snacks the size of a small child.

Your brain, still swimming in post-orgasmic haze and the last remnants of drunkenness, short-circuited.

Because—oh. That’s why he was late.

He’d gone shopping.

Gojo had spent—what, two hours? Three?—debating the intricate nuances of potato chips, probably standing in the aisle like a philosopher pondering the meaning of life. And in the end? He’d just bought one of everything. Every brand. Every flavor. As if he were assembling a tasting menu for a fucking wine and cheese night—except it was just snacks.

You blinked at him like he was a mirage.

He blinked back, grinning harder, “Did you—” He gestured vaguely at your naked, sweaty, entangled bodies. 

“You guys seriously just fucked?”

Sukuna groaned, voice muffled against your skin. “Get the fuck out.”

Your eyes nearly rolled into the back of your head. You wanted to cry. Or vanish. Or time-travel to an hour ago and slap the bottle out of your own hand.

Gojo continued, blissfully ignorant with his shit-eating grin dialed up to maximum wattage. “You could’ve at least waited for me.”

“GOJO.”

“Not to join!” he added, then paused. “Unless—?”

Sukuna finally lifted his head, naked, disheveled, and radiating murder. His voice dropped into something lethal. "You step one foot further, and I will personally make sure you never reproduce.” 

And then he threw the nearest couch pillow at Gojo’s face.

Gojo dodged with the agility of a mad who had absolutely walked in on worse. “Y’know, I knew something was up with you two since high school –” 

He sighed. Sighed, like he was talking about a missed prom date and not your current naked humiliation.

“SATORU.”

“— the sexual tension was like a constant third presence. Like god, but hornier.”

Yeah, you’re most likely dying of humiliation tonight.

“But I never thought you’d actually go and rawdog each other without me even getting a sip of that tequila.”

Your eye twitched. Your entire nervous system sent out one last emergency broadcast before collapsing like a dying star. There was no saving you now. You were gonna have to move cities. Change names. Fake your death and live in the woods.

In a blind, desperate attempt to salvage literally anything – your pride, your humanity, your grandmother’s ghost watching from the afterlife – you grabbed the nearest object and hurled it at him. 

Maybe it was a pillow. Maybe it was your shame. Maybe it was your will to live.

No. No, of course it couldn’t be anything soft or metaphorical.

It was your bra.

The bra that cost more than your phone. The bra hand-stitched by artisans in France who probably didn’t intend for it to be yeeted across the room like a missile of humiliation.

Gojo caught it midair. And fucking whistled. Whistled. 

Sukuna let out a lethal growl above you, like he was two seconds from choosing violence over pulling out. “Drop. It.”

Gojo, being Gojo, did not drop it. No. That would’ve been rational. Instead, he held it up to the light like some deranged pervert on an antique TV show. 

“Huh. Didn’t peg you as a lace kinda girl. Delicate, but slutty. Iconic.”

You lunged at him like a rabid raccoon.

Sukuna yanked you back down before you could inflict justified murder, his grip locking tight around your waist like he knew exactly how many war crimes you were about to commit. “Save your energy, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Oh, now he wants to be cute? Now? After he rawdogged your soul out of your body and left it there, on the floor, vulnerable and exposed like a neglected Sims character?

Gojo cackled, like this was the highlight of this week. “Oh, this is gonna be fun. So! Are we finally admitting that you guys have been feral for each other this whole time?”

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, GOJO."

He wheezed. Laughed like this was the best episode of a reality TV he’d ever seen. You, however, were having a full-blown metaphysical crisis.

And then it hit you. Like your brain finally sobered up enough to whisper, ‘hey dumbass… something’s off…’

You. 

And Sukuna.

Were. 

Still. 

Naked.

Not cute-and-covered-by-the-blanket naked. 

Not tastefully-draped-like-a-renaissance-painting naked.

No.

This was “there’s an entire Gojo eyeball on your titty” naked.

That’s why Sukuna fucking yanked you down so fast. Not to protect your dignity – lol, what dignity – but because your boobs were just out. Just there. Making their unwanted debut to the worst audience in human history. 

Your entire existence condensed into one singular thought: you’re gonna astral project out of this flesh prison and never return.

You buried your face in your hands.

“I’m never drinking again,” you mumbled, voice muffled and soul-dead. The words of a liar. A liar with regrets.

Sukuna, the bastard, didn’t even flinch. This man had seen war (business rejections, most likely). Tax evasion. Eternal damnation. Your naked ass wasn’t gonna rattle him. “I’m never letting you drink again.”

Gojo, now seated in the doorway like he was watching a 2000s rom-com movie, clapped his hands together. “Well! Now that everyone's tits are covered, I vote we unpack all this juicy sexual tension over midnight snacks.”

You made a noise. It might have been a sob. Or a scream.

Then, you locked eyes with Sukuna. Dead serious.

“Kill him first,” you said. “Then me.”

Gojo opened his mouth—

“No, you cannot take a picture,” you snapped.

Gojo shut his mouth. But only for a second.

“I was gonna ask if you guys needed snacks,” he said, fake-offended, “but sure, go ahead and assume the worst.”

Sukuna's eye twitched. Like, visibly. Dangerously. “You have five seconds before I personally rearrange your jaw.”

Gojo held up his hands in surrender—still holding your bra, like it was a white flag for surrender.

You just wanted to die. Or better—rewind time. All the way back to when you said, “just one tequila shot.”

“So, when’s the wedding?” Gojo smirked.

That was it. That was Sukuna’s final nerve snapping. Man went from 0 to murder real quick, pulling out (rude) in a heartbeat and bolting after Gojo around the apartment with the kind of fury that would make Greek gods go ‘damn bro, chill.’

You, meanwhile, scrambled to find a blanket. Any blanket. Any napkin. A curtain. You would’ve accepted being wrapped in your own regret at that point. Still dizzy. Still mildly post-orgasmic. Still spiritually decimated.

You never lived that moment down. 

Ever.

Gojo made sure of it.

And yet – despite the absolute catastrophic level of social humiliation – you really thought that was it. A stupid, drunken slip-up. A one-time tequila-fueled tragedy.

But it wasn’t. Because, of course, it wasn’t.

Because this was you and Sukuna.

Disasters. Walking, breathing, kissing disasters.

And this?

This was the biggest, dumbest, horniest fucking disaster of them all.

It wasn’t just a one-time thing.

It wasn’t just a casual phase.

It lasted three fucking years.

God forbid.

Three years of sneaking glances across rooms like the two of you weren’t regularly naked in each other’s beds. Three years of pretending there wasn’t stupidly cosmic about the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. Three years of pretending it was just fucking.

You were in your last year of college. Graduation loomed in like a loaded gun. Sukuna was finishing his postgrad, looking dangerously adult while you were still using dry shampoo as a personality. And instead of prepping for the real world, you were spending every night tangled in sheets, sweat, and denial.

You weren’t even being subtle about it.

Sukuna’s hoodies lived in your wardrobe rent-free. Your hair ties were all over his bathroom like forgotten corpses. You ate half his fries every time.

It wasn’t just the sex (though, let’s be real, the sex could summon the dead and cancel student debt). It was everything. The way his hoodies, shirts, pants (heck, all his clothes) lived in your wardrobe rent-free. The way your hair ties were all over his bathroom like forgotten corpses. The way you shamelessly ate half his fries every time. The way he memorized your coffee order. The way you always saved him the last dumpling even though you hated sharing. The fact that he punched a guy once for saying your laugh was annoying. You were basically in a relationship.

Just… you know. Without the commitment. Or the honesty. Or the emotional maturity.

But not everything lasts perfectly, right?

Because saying it would make it real.

And if it was real then, it could end. And neither of you were brave enough for that.

You don’t remember exactly when it started to shift.

Maybe when he stayed over just to sleep.

Maybe when you waited for him after class.

Maybe when he threatened his frat brothers for flirting with you.

Maybe when you were too in your feelings, and he was in denial, and the entire relationship had the emotional maturity of a wet paper towel trying to hold a gallon of wine.

It was three fucking years of closeness so intimate it could’ve been called codependency if it weren’t so mutual.

But neither of you said it.

Neither of you dared to.

Not until the night it all went to hell.

Over the stupidest, pettiest, most aggressively idiotic fight in the history of human race. And romance.

Over a fucking LED light.

You blinked out of the memory like you’d just been possessed by a much younger, hotter, dumber version of yourself. Truly, your early twenties needed a warning label.

Only dragged back to the present by the sound of Gojo’s obnoxious laugh and the distant thwack of another golf ball being ruthlessly yeeted into the horizon.

But your mind was still a few tequila shots behind. Still sticky with the memory of hot skin, tangled limbs, and the unforgivable knowledge that Sukuna had once bitten your neck like he was trying to ruin you on purpose. (He did.) That he’d once kissed you so hard you forgot your own name, let alone the fact that you were definitely, definitely supposed to keep things platonic.

You hadn’t thought about that night in years. You’d buried it so deep beneath co-parenting schedules and passive-aggressive text threads that it had fossilized. You’d compartmentalized it like a pro. Filed it under Regrettable But Also Kinda Amazing Decisions That We Pretend Never Happened Because Denial Is a Lifestyle.

But all it took was one look. 

One stupid look from Sukuna and your whole nervous system went, “Hey, remember that time you climbed him like a tree?”

You nearly choked on your own saliva.

Sukuna looked at you, raising a brow. “You good?”

You stared at him. The same eyes. Same smirk. Same stupid, punchable face that you’d once maybe considered kissing in a tequila haze.

You muttered, “I hate you.”

He grinned. “You looked like you were remembering something tragic. Was it my abs?”

You hit him with your golf club. Lightly. (For legal reasons.)

Gojo, watching from the side, completely unaware of your inner spiral, wandered over with the self-satisfied strut of a man who just made par and will never let anyone forget it. “So, what’s the verdict? Are we still pretending you two don’t have wildly unresolved sexual tension or…?”

You glared. “Do you want to die today?”

Gojo just waggled his brows. “I’m just saying, the air’s thick with tension. Like, if I blink, someone’s getting pinned to the nearest flat surface.”

Sukuna, infuriatingly calm, walked past you to grab his water bottle. “Grow up, Gojo.”

That was rich coming from a man who once texted you “wanna come over and fight?” at 2 a.m. and then had the audacity to kiss you like you were air and he was suffocating years ago.

You rubbed your temple. Get it together.

But the memory clung. It had claws. And it wouldn’t let go.

Only the three of you knew. Only the three of you would ever know. You’d made a silent, mutually-assured-destruction type pact after the fact. No one brings it up. No one mentions the couch. No one so much as breathes in the direction of “remember that night?”

And you’d all been doing so well.

Until now.

Until Sukuna looked at you like that.

Until you remembered exactly how he tasted.

Until your body remembered what your brain had worked overtime to erase.

You looked at Sukuna now – older, annoyingly hotter, a single father of a cute, angel-looking gremlin – and your stomach dropped.

Because the worst part wasn’t the memory.

It was the terrifying realization that some part of you... hadn’t actually moved on.

And that? That was the most dangerous thing of all.

It wasn’t normal. None of it was normal. You weren’t normal.

And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want to be.

Sukuna knew. He knew the moment you glitched like a broken Sims out of nowhere, the subtle shift in your posture, the way your lips pressed into a tight line. He’d seen it before, in the way you tried to bury things under layers of sarcasm and nonchalance. 

And that? That was exact thing that made his chest tighten, just a little bit.

You’d always been good at pretending. Hell, you were great at pretending. But Sukuna wasn’t an idiot. He’d seen the cracks in the armor. He’d felt them in the way you’d tense up when he was too close. In the way you still looked at him when you thought no one was paying attention.

Even thought it’s been 12 years, the memory of your lips on his, the desperate heat of it, was all burned into his mind just as much as it was in yours. That last night had fucked him up in ways he couldn’t even begin to untangle. That fucking fight over LED lights. But he wasn’t going to admit that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But now? Now, standing next to you on this golf course, with Gojo prattling on about tension so thick you could cut it with a knife, Sukuna could feel something else — something he wasn’t sure he was ready to confront. 

He’d tried. He’d tried to move on. To tell himself that you were just a chapter in a stupid, messy college romance he could chalk up to a lesson learned. But the way you still looked at him — like you wanted to kill him one minute and kiss him the next — made him wonder if he was really the one who’d moved on. 

You hadn’t said it. You hadn’t admitted it to him, and you definitely hadn’t admitted it to yourself. But Sukuna could feel the pull between you two, like gravity trying to yank him back into orbit. And he fucking hated it.

You weren’t ready to move on, and maybe… maybe neither was he.

Gojo’s voice cut through his thoughts again, loud and obnoxious, but it didn’t help. If anything, it just made the tension worse. And there you were, glaring at him like you wanted to murder him with your golf club. That just made his smirk wider.

He didn’t care what Gojo said. He didn’t care how thick the air felt between them.

He cared that every time you looked at him, he felt something that wasn’t quite hatred. He cared that, despite everything, the memory of that night — the way you fit so perfectly against him — still haunted him.

The worst part?

You were still the one thing that got under his skin.

And that terrified him.

You’re sitting there, waiting outside the school, in his damn car, sunglasses on like you’re trying to hide from the world and also from the fact that your brain’s still stuck in the relapsing and post-golfing haze. The one where you remember way too much of that face – that stupid, stupid face – and the laugh that somehow made you feel things you don’t ever wanna feel again. And don’t even get started on his damn arms. Like, who needs arms to be that distracting in the middle of everything? Seriously, when did he roll up his sleeves? Was there some kind of cosmic mistake? The universe did not need that information. 

And yet, here you are, replaying it in slow motion in your head. Yep, even that night 15 years ago. Even worse, you almost drooled thinking about it. Almost.

It also didn’t need the fact that you almost drooled while thinking about it.

And, God, it’s too quiet. Way too quiet. Normally, you and Sukuna are bantering like two toddlers fighting over the last cookie. You’re both competitive assholes, arguing about dumb shit like whose playlist will play for the ride-back. But today? Nah. You’re both too out of it. Too tame.

You glance sideways at Sukuna, who’s leaning back in his seat too lax. Does he always look like that? But you’ve been staring at him for far too long today, and it’s messing with your internal wiring. You actually almost forgot to argue. Almost.

So, you break the silence first. “I’d rather not get out of the car,” you say, because... why not?

Sukuna looks over at you like you’ve grown an extra head, “What? Did Mrs. Yoshida go up to you the other day?”

The mere mention of her name is enough to spark an internal cringe. You snort but it comes out half-hearted. Like, yeah, you’ve got a serious vendetta against that woman, but even you can’t muster the energy to fully engage. “Yeah. Guess she wanted to show off yet again.”

Sukuna huffed a laugh, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, “Show off what? Her death grip on passive aggression?”

That earned him a real laugh from you, one that surprised both of you a little. But it fades just as quickly as it came. You leaned your head back against the seat, eyes closed, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh. Like you’ve been holding it since that goddamn golf course.

“She said something about me finally doing the school run for once,” you muttered, your voice low with disbelief. “Like I was doing a cosplay of a present parent.”

Sukuna’s face doesn’t change, but his voice drops into that deep, sarcastic tone. “She would say that. Probably thinks your ovaries are overdue for reactivation or some shit.”

You turned to him slowly. “What does that even mean?”

He smirked. That damn smirk that you swear could put every other man on the planet to shame. “Don’t know. Ask her. I bet she’s got a PowerPoint ready.” Oh, honey, maybe, you’re too down bad after that relapse.

Another snort escaped you, this time more genuine, because honestly? She would. God, the thought of it made your skin crawl, but it’s too funny not to appreciate, “God, I hate her heels. They click like a countdown to emotional damage.”

Sukuna laughs, and it’s the kind of laugh that makes you forget the day’s weirdness for a second. “She probably practices walking in her driveway.”

“Oh absolutely. Full parade route. With flags and a marching band made of guilt.”

That’s it. That’s the sweet spot. You both start laughing, but it’s like a weird patchwork of relief and awkwardness, too. Like you can’t quite shake off the tension from earlier today, but at least now there’s something more normal—something fun—in the air.

And that’s how you found outside the car, now standing in front of the school gates, with Sukuna this time. But standing so goddamn close to you. It made your heart rate do that little skip thing you can’t ever explain. But, no time to be a freak about it.

The bell rings. And of course, who’s the first person you see? Mrs. Goddamn Yoshida. She appeared out of thin air like a mid-tier Bond villain with hair lacquered into a helmet of superiority and lip gloss as weaponized as ever.

“Oh,” she drawls, her voice as sugary sweet as cyanide. “Two school pickups in a week? Someone’s going for Mother of the Month.”

You don’t even blink. Your sunglasses are firmly in place, and you’re already prepping your comeback. “You would know. You still printing the certificates at home?”

Sukuna laughed beside you, a deep, guttural sound that only made Mrs. Yoshida more uncomfortable. He eyes practically twitched. She’s not even hiding the fact that she’s shook that you’re here with Sukuna. The most-coveted bachelor (well, he may be a single dad but technically he’s not yet married) in the country. She opened her mouth to retaliate, but just as she’s about to speak –

“Mom?” 

Riku’s voice rang out like a melody through the tension, and just like that, everything resets. Your brain stutters for half a second as you snap your head around to see Riku, your baby boy (c’mon, he’s 12), running towards you like you’ve just saved his world.

And then, there’s Keiko. Running right behind Riku… but instead of launching themselves into your arms like the sensible kids they are, they both straight up betrayed you. These gremlins ran straight for Sukuna. What you can’t believe was the fact that your son ignored you. He may have called you but no he didn’t even ran towards you. What the fuck was that?

You blink, standing there, totally dumbfounded. Your mouth might even be hanging open a bit. Seriously? They just—what? Your son, the kid you’ve been raising, the one who’s spent years gluing your heart to his every move, just totally... skipped you? And now he’s practically throwing himself at Sukuna?

Your brain scrambles for words, but they’re stuck in some weird loop. "Riku," you manage, but it's more like you're calling him out of instinct than actually knowing what the hell to do with this new development.

But Keiko, of course, isn’t wasting any time either. She’s clinging to Sukuna’s leg like she’s on some sort of mission, because you might probably be jealous of his parenting dynamic with his daughter. You want to tell them both off, but the weirdest thing happens: a tiny part of you feels... left out? Like, what the hell?

Sukuna looks down at the two of them, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, clearly trying not to laugh too hard at your expense. "Guess your son likes me more," he teases, all calm and collected as usual, though you can tell he’s getting a kick out of it.

Riku finally looks up at you, a little sheepish now, like he knows he’s been caught. "Uh, sorry, Mom. Papa told me he’ll bring us to that sushi place today." He scratches his head awkwardly.

OH. So, that’s what we’re doing now.

Bribery. Betrayal. And sushi.

You narrow your eyes, your expression stuck somewhere between disbelief and parental betrayal. “Oh. Papa told you that, huh?” you repeat slowly, the word "Papa" practically dripping with italics and judgment. The way Riku suddenly fidgets? Yeah, he knows he’s in trouble. Good.

Sukuna just shrugs, the cocky bastard, still smirking like this is all part of his grand villain arc. “Can’t help it if I have good taste and your kid has excellent priorities,” he says, which is exactly the kind of smug crap he always pulls when he knows he’s winning.

You cross your arms, sunglasses still on, even though the sun is hiding behind a cloud like it’s also trying to avoid the tension. “Yeah? Next time, how about you bribe your own daughter and leave mine out of it?”

Keiko, ever the daddy’s girl, finally detaches herself from Sukuna’s leg and gives you an innocent look, but it’s not lost on you that she’s got a mischievous glint in her eyes. “No need, mama! I already love daddy a lot.”

You stare at both of them for a second, blinking as you process this betrayal. "You two are unbelievable. Is this why Riku comes home later than he should’ve been for the past month? Your briberies?”

Sukuna doesn’t even flinch. If anything, his grin widens like he’s thriving under the betrayal-fueled glare you’re shooting at him.

“Oh, come on,” he says, deadpan, “you make it sound like we’re running some underground snack ring. It was one burger trip. Maybe three. And a boba run.”

You squint at him. “And the churros that Riku brought home last week?”

“That was... spontaneous.”

Keiko, bless her tiny traitorous heart, pipes up like she’s on the witness stand. “And the arcade tokens, Daddy?”

Sukuna blinks. Then shrugs. “Okay, five bribery trips. But who’s counting?”

You’re counting. You are absolutely counting. You’re already adding it to the list in your Notes app. You inhale, deeply. Breathe in patience. Exhale vengeance.

“You do realize,” you say slowly, “that he told his math teacher you’re his second emergency contact now?”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow, clearly pleased. “That’s cute. And honestly? Fair. I bring snacks, pick them up, and importantly? Emotional availability.”

You gasp like you’ve just been hit with a flying sandal. “I birthed him.” 

He tilts his head, hand over his heart in mock sympathy. “Yeah, but I took him to watch that new superhero movie twice, and I didn’t complain once. Not even during the post-credit scene.”

Riku nods solemnly. “He even explained the multiverse to me without getting mad.”

You turn to your son like you’re looking at a stranger in your home. “You never let me explain anything without groaning.” 

Riku shrugs with zero guilt. “Your explanations come with a lot of side stories.”

“That’s called context!” you sputter.

Oh, but now this pink-haired bastard is actually laughing. Not a chuckle. Not a smug little puff of air. No. This is a full-on, head-tilted-back, shoulders-shaking, evil-boyfriend-in-a-Kdrama laugh. And the worst part? It's lowkey making you relapse to that 3-year long situationship. Which is exactly what the problem is. You’ve been relapsing since this week fucking started. This shouldn’t have happened. And this all started because he murdered your hedge.

And now, you’re standing there—offended, outnumbered, and tragically out-bribed—and all you can think is: you hate it here.

“I’m surrounded by traitors,” you mutter under your breath, adjusting your sunglasses like they’ll shield your soul from this level of disrespect.

Sukuna wipes an imaginary tear from his eye. “C’mon, don’t be jealous. You’re still the top mom in this cult we’ve built.”

You stare at him. “You literally poached my child with raw fish, sneakers, burgers, gold leaf fries, and Marvel trivia. That’s not parenting. That’s warfare.” 

“And I’m winning,” he says without missing a beat. 

Keiko pats your arm in consolation. “It’s okay, Mama. You still have snacks sometimes at your house.”

“Sometimes,” you echo, wounded. 

Riku’s still awkwardly standing there, clearly feeling the weight of his betrayal. “Uh, Mom, do you still wanna go to that sushi place later?” he asks, his voice full of nervous hope, like he’s waiting for a miracle to save him from your wrath.

You narrow your eyes, looking between your son and Sukuna. “You really think I’m gonna let you off the hook that easily?” You cross your arms again, but this time it’s not as fierce. “I mean, if you wanna bribe me with sushi... I guess I can consider it.”

Sukuna snorts beside you, clearly enjoying the inner battle you’re having with yourself. "See? Told you, bribery always works.”

"Shut up," you mutter, but you can’t help the hint of a smile. Dammit, this is exactly how he got you last time.

Sukuna’s trying to herd the kids toward the car now, like some unholy cross between a playground kingpin and the world’s most chaotic dad. And for one fleeting moment, you catch yourself smiling. Genuinely. The kind that sneaks up on you before you can armor it with sarcasm.

And then—

“I call shotgun!” Riku yells.

“No, I call shotgun!” Keiko yells back.

You’re about to intervene like a responsible adult (because who lets 12-year-olds ride shotgun?!) when Sukuna just shrugs and tosses you the keys. “Guess you’re driving. They’ll keep fighting otherwise.”

You catch them automatically, then freeze. “Wait, I’m driving? In your car?”

He’s already walking to the passenger side. “You’ll be fine. I trust you.”

And there it is again. That weird little glitch in your heart. The one that started on the golf course, peaked somewhere around churros, and now, apparently, comes with keys and unsolicited trust.

You mutter under your breath as you slide into the driver’s seat, “Next time I’m bringing veggie chips and trauma bonding. See how he likes that.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re genuinely grinning as you walk toward the school gates. Because no matter how many times you roll your eyes at him, you know that, deep down, you’ll always be this close to falling right back into that stupid pattern of chaos and longing.

And secretly? Secretly you don’t mind the shotgun betrayal. Or the sushi bribes. Or even Sukuna’s dumb laugh that now lives rent-free in your brain.

What you do mind is how easy it is to imagine this being…normal.

And that? That’s the scariest part.

Because the last time things felt normal with Sukuna—it ended with heartbreak, a bruised ego, and a pink LED light flickering like the world’s most ironic heartbreak anthem.

REWIND TO 12 YEARS AGO

It had all started innocently enough—just a stupid school project, both of you in your own little worlds, completely unaware of the mess you'd end up in. You’d been frantically pulling an all-nighter for your thesis on marketing strategies, running on a diet of coffee and panic. The room smelled like burnt ambition and three-day-old coffee.

Sukuna had walked in, uninvited (as usual), plopping himself down on the edge of your bed and looking like he owned the place. You didn’t even glance up from your notes.

"Got any snacks, or is your thesis a full meal by itself?” he'd asked casually, stretching his legs across the floor.

“it’s a five-course meal of existential dread. You should’ve brought dessert,” you muttered, eyes flicking over your outline that still had more question marks than actual points.

He made a dramatic tsk noise. ”Really? That bad? Damn, should’ve brought ice cream. Or a priest.”

You finally looked up, dead-eyed. “Unless the priest knows APA format and has a spare conclusion section in his pocket, I don’t want it.”

“Wow, brat. So ungrateful.” He leaned over to snatch your mug without asking, took a sip, and immediately gagged. “What is this? Battery acid? Motor oil? Regret?”

“It’s coffee,” you said, dryly. “And if you touch my highlighters, I will end you.”

He blinked at you. “Gotchu, babe. No touching the holy trinity: coffee, highlighters, and your rapidly deteriorating sanity.”

You grunted. “What are you even doing here, ‘Kuna? Don’t you have people to terrorize somewhere else?”

He shrugged, picking up a sticky note from your desk and squinting at the words like they personally offended him. “Thought I’d check in on my favorite stress case.”

You gave him a look that screamed I am five seconds away from a breakdown and you’re monologuing in my safe space.But Sukuna? He was already distracted, fiddling with your desk lamp like it held the secrets of the universe.

Before you could ask what the hell he was doing, he suddenly grinned, standing up, and twisting the lamp in a way that made the light flicker dramatically.

“What are you doing with my lamp?” you snapped, but he was already flipping the switch.

“Nah, I’m just making sure you’re not too depressed so we gotta change the mood lighting. You need it. Trust me. This is what creative enlightenment looks like.” He flashed a grin that had you wondering if he’d lost his mind.

“If that’s enlightenment, pretty sure the light’s about to start flickering and lead me to a breakdown.” You were so tired, but you couldn’t help the irritation bubbling up.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” He reached for your lamp again, twisting it in the other direction like he was adjusting some fancy futuristic remote control.

“I didn’t sign up for this!” you said, grabbing his wrist before he could do more damage to your perfectly ordinary, functional lamp. “This is my space, my chaos. You can’t just—”

Suddenly, you found yourself flat on your back on the bed, and Sukuna’s weight was pressing down on you, making it hard to breathe.

“Not a bad way to distract you, huh?” he said, his voice low and teasing. Before you could react, his lips were on yours, and that was it. The floodgates opened, your frustrations morphing into something entirely different.

Heat. Hands. Teeth.

And that stupid lamp still casting romantic lighting like you were in some low-budget romcom with a dangerously high body count.

You didn’t even remember who pulled who first. One second you were yelling about thesis formatting and desk territory, and the next, Sukuna was pulling your shirt over your head like it had personally offended him. You should’ve been worried about citations. APA format. Deadline. But somehow his mouth on your neck took priority.

Again.

You made it to the edge of the bed this time before knocking over a pile of highlighters and flashcards. Sukuna didn't even blink.

“Watch the thesis,” you gasped as your laptop nearly flew off the side.

“Babe, the only thing I’m watching is you falling apart under me,” he said, grinning like the devil, hands already sliding down your waist.

You hated that it worked. Hated how your body betrayed you so quickly—how easily you leaned into him, craved him, even when your life was falling apart in bullet points and overdue drafts.

It was frantic. A little sloppy. Neither of you had the brain cells for finesse. Just something rough and grounding to yank you out of the spiral and straight into Sukuna’s orbit—where logic went to die and pleasure took the wheel.

By the time it was over, both of you were breathless and half-covered in dissertation pages and regret.

And that’s when he did it.

He reached over.

And changed the mood lighting again.

Soft pink this time.

You stared at him, chest still heaving, sweat sticking your hair to your forehead. “What the actual hell is wrong with you?”

“What?” he said innocently, blinking like a man who wasn’t still inside you thirty seconds ago. 

“It’s a vibe. I’m curating.”

“You’re curating? This isn’t a Pinterest board, Sukuna. This is my room.”

“And yet,” he said, gesturing dramatically to the lamp, “I made it better.”

You sat up, immediately regretting it when your thigh cramped. “I swear to God, if you touch that lamp one more time—”

“You’ll what? Write a strongly worded thesis about it?”

“Oh my God, I hate you.”

“You say that,” he said, flopping back onto the bed with a grin, “but you let me raw you like a stress-relief squishmallow, so.”

You picked up a pillow and hurled it at his face.

Hard.

Sukuna caught it with one hand, smirking.

“I’m changing it to red next.”

“Touch that switch and I’m putting glitter glue in your shampoo.”

“…Kinky.”

You screamed into another pillow.

And for a second, it was funny. Ridiculous. The kind of scene you'd laugh about in five years over drinks.

But something in the air shifted—too subtle to notice at first. Like a hairline crack in a dam.

Then he said it. The thing that would claw its way into both of your memories and rot there, festering for years.

“You know, if you put half the effort into your actual thesis that you put into pretending to be in love with me when you're bored, you'd be graduating top of our class.”

Silence.

It came so fast, so sharp, it cleaved the air clean in half.

You sat up slowly. Carefully. Like you were disarming a bomb, but oh—too late. It already went off.

“What did you just say?”

Sukuna’s smirk faltered, but only for a second. He leaned back like nothing had happened, like he didn’t just shatter the air between you.

“You heard me.”

“No, no. I heard you, I just… I’m trying to figure out which part of your brain decided that was okay to say to me. After everything. After this.” You gestured wildly at the bed, the thesis pages crumpled under you, your tangled clothes on the floor, his smug, stupid face.

His jaw flexed. “I’m just saying, maybe I’m not the only one who treats this thing like it’s a joke.”

“Oh, you’re unbelievable.” You were up now, gathering your papers with trembling fingers. “You barge in here like you own the place, like I’m some goddamn stop on your rich-boy itinerary when you get bored of your mansion and your endless supply of zero-consequence bullshit—”

“Oh, please,” he scoffed, standing up now too. “You think I want to be here every time you have a meltdown? You think this is fun for me? Watching you burn out for a piece of paper you’ll hate in six months? You make me your emotional support punching bag and then call it intimacy.”

“I never asked you to stay.”

“Well maybe I should’ve taken the hint three years ago, huh?” His voice was sharp now. No teasing. No heat. Just glass. “When we started sleeping together and you couldn’t even look me in the eye after.”

Your breath caught.

It wasn’t the first fight. Not even the worst one.

But it felt… final.

“You want honesty?” you whispered, throat tight. “Fine. You’re a coward, Sukuna. You sit in this little fantasy where nothing matters because you’re scared to actually want something. To want me. So yeah, maybe I pretended a little. Maybe I lied. But at least I felt something.”

That stopped him. For a moment, he just… stood there. Staring at you.

And then he laughed. Hollow. Low.

“You felt something? Great. Real useful. Let me know if you ever figure out what it was, sweetheart. Preferably not when I’m balls-deep and playing with your lighting setup.”

You slapped him.

You didn’t even think—your body just moved, and the sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.

He didn’t flinch. He just looked at you like something had gone dead in his eyes.

“Wow,” he said quietly. “There it is.”

“Get out.”

“You sure?” He took a step back. “You’ve got, what, one brain cell left and a thesis due tomorrow? Might as well finish what we started.”

“I said get out.” Your voice broke on the last word. Oh god. Not the voice crack. Not in front of him. That was the equivalent of handing him a loaded gun, then tripping and falling onto the bullet yourself. Incredible work. Ten out of ten. Gold medal in Olympic self-sabotage.

He stared for a beat. Just long enough to register it. The voice crack. The heartbreak. The humiliation curdling in your stomach like expired milk.

Then he scoffed. That trademark Sukuna scoff. That “you’re beneath me” noise that made your skin crawl and your heart crumble all at once. Like it wasn’t worth it. Like you weren’t worth it.

Then he left.

No dramatic door slam. No stomping. No cinematic thunder in the background. Just the soft click of the handle as it shut behind him. Quiet. Cold. Like a polite little fuck you from the universe.

You sat there. Alone.

Drowning in a sea of flashcards, energy drink cans, and the pink lightbulb you swore was a good idea when you bought it. You thought it was romantic. Cute. Mood-setting. Turns out it just made heartbreak look like a music video from hell.

Twenty years of friendship.

Three years of blurred lines.

And one second of cruelty you’d never come back from.

And the worst part? The absolute dumbest, most pathetic, most humiliating part?

You still wanted him to walk back in.

Oh god. Oh no. No, no, no, don’t cry. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t—yep. You’re crying. You’re crying in pink LED, like a sad little flamingo.

You wanted him to go slam the door open, with your favorite ice cream on hand (Friday is ice cream nights).

To say he didn’t mean it. To take it all back. To change the fucking light to blue this time, maybe even purple, something less pity-me-Barbie-core, and call it a truce.

But he didn’t. He never did.

Because that’s the thing about Sukuna. 

He didn’t fix the things he broke. He just stepped over the debris in expensive shoes and left before the dust settled. And you? You were always the idiot standing there, broom in one hand, heart in the other, wondering why it still hurt.

You wiped your face with his hoodie sleeve forgotten on the floor sleeve like a Victorian widow who also hadn’t slept in three days. Because your wardrobe is full of his fucking clothes. Oh my god, you’re still in your underwear. And, your thesis stared at you, cursor blinking like it was mocking you.

Fuck, you needed a drink so hard you wanted to forgot this stupid night.

So yeah—after that night, you both did it.

You broke the last, dumb, invisible rule of whatever-the-hell your relationship was.

You slept with other people.

Not out of desire. Not out of revenge. Not even out of rage. No, it was dumber than that.

It was survival.

You hooked up with someone from a rooftop party. What was his name? You don’t know. You don’t care. You laughed too loud, drank warm wine out of a Solo cup, and let some stranger kiss you like it meant something. It didn’t. Because he wasn’t Sukuna. That was the bar. The bar was not Sukuna. You limboed under it like a sad circus clown.

Across somewhere else, he did the same.

In a random ass bedroom in a frat house with lighting that looked like it was allergic to joy, Sukuna let someone run their hands down his back. He didn’t joke. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t whisper dumb things in her ear like he used to do with you. More like earlier.

He just laid there. Face blank. Eyes open.

Because if someone else wanted him—even just for one night—maybe it would drown out the sound of your voice when you’d said: at least I felt something.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t work.

It never fucking works.

Because at the end of it, you both laid there in different places, beside warm strangers who meant absolutely nothing, staring at foreign ceilings that hadn’t heard you fight, cry, or laugh—and realized something ugly: you finally did the one thing you swore you’d never do.

You became strangers.

Strangers with shared ghosts. No one left to haunt but yourselves.

After that night? Radio silence. Nothing.

He didn’t walk over to your apartment anymore.

You didn’t leave the door unlocked. He has his own key to yours.

No Post-it notes on the fridge. No coffee mugs by the bed. No thesis pages tangled with underwear.

Just the hollow silence of absence. The weight of nothing.

And yeah. Gojo noticed.

Because you and Sukuna? You didn’t know how not to touch each other. You were that disgusting duo. PDA central. Couple-core. Fruit-peeling, lap-lounging, casual-hair-touching menaces.

You once made out behind the school bake sale. For charity.

Now? You barely made eye contact. And it’s been what? Three fucking weeks.

And if he walked into a room? You walked out.

Because looking at him was like looking at a memory you weren’t ready to bury.

Because if you looked too long, you might remember.

And remembering was dangerous.

Remembering felt like relapse.

Which—congrats, by the way—is exactly what you’re doing right now.

And now? You’re so disoriented from today (c’mon, two very deeply buried memories in a day flashing you because of that one look Sukuna gave you and sense of normalcy with this co-parenting situation with your son and his daughter being best friends, too?) – picking up the kids today, smiling like you weren’t dying, pretending that the raw fish didn’t taste like regret even as your son beamed up at you? 

So yeah. That Friday night? Alone in your master bedroom, lights off, ceiling staring back at you, while your son sleeps over at Sukuna’s house next door?

That’s when it hit. The full, unbearable weight of your very stupid, very mutual, very emotionally  constipated downfall.

And the worst part? The truly cursed, absolutely unhinged part?

Somewhere, in a dusty, padlocked corner of your ribcage you’ve spent years pretending doesn’t exist—

You still fucking loved him.

Even after that LED night.

Even after the single parenting.

Even after everything.

God. You’re such an idiot.

a/n: lol part 2 is coming sometime this May (?) aaaand as much as i wanna say that this is proofread – it's not :') hshdashadsah thanks so much for reading – i appreciate u all so much!!! also taglist is still open <3

[olderthannetfic]

You ever get a comment that makes you just sit back, cast your eyes upwards, and gaze at the ceiling as if awaiting answers? I got a comment on a fic I'm writing that has a (canonically) punk character and was informed that "real punks don't do arts and crafts", referring to the idea of 1. making your own patches 2. sewing them on 3. sewing clothes in general and 4. making signs in protest of/support of something. And I. I just.

My dad was in a punk band in the 90's, in the post-Soviet era of Central Asian punks when nobody had any money and were screaming into a microphone to work through the trauma the USSR put them through. Sometimes there wasn't even a microphone. Sometimes there was just a stage at a bar and decent acoustics and vodka. I promise you that they made things. I promise you they didn't just buy everything off of Poshmark that was marked Tripp NYC or put an order in on Temu for 5 yards of grommet trim. There was no internet access but more importantly there was no money. You know what there WAS? Anger. So. Much. Anger. Anger gets clothing torn and signs made and my dad onstage in a country where being queer is illegal to this day going, "We're the Maddest Faggots and this is our new song, 'Fuck Me Like Your Daughter'!"

They did "arts and crafts". They did so, so many arts and crafts. Shows don't advertise themselves. Someone has to draw and then photocopy a cartoon of the mayor sucking himself off and tape it up to every bus stop in Tashkent after the election. Drenching yourself in red paint and marching in protest of police brutality rarely works without paint.

I guess, in the grand tradition of punk, the counterargument is that no REAL punk would do arts and crafts, therefore, my dad was not remotely punk and neither were his associates. But if punk is so fragile that liking all the right music and being anti-authority and protesting inequality all counts for nothing if you so much as put one toe over the line into girliness... is anyone or anything punk? And is that a version of punk worth preserving?

It reminds me of people going, "Real punks don't have anything political on their vests/jackets!" and "No true punk would have that slogan on them, that's just stupid pinterest shit!" and "wow plaid lol. lmao, even. what a poser! go back to tiktok fr fr", etc. I get that these are all basically 'if I don't like it, it's not part of punk'. But diy is baked into punk. It had to be. That's what happens when your subculture involves a lot of poor people.

I am only 25 and I feel like an ancient being from the bygone days of yesteryear having kids interrupt me to say nuh-uh, that's totally not how things work.

--

People are incredibly embarrassing about punk in a very suburban US middle class way.

[with-my-calamitous-love]

THE TASTE OF YOUR LIPS IS MY IDEA OF LUXURY

chuuya nakahara x reader

things chuuya would say to you

some nsfw, minors proceed with caution

inspired by king of my heart <3

“you’re so cute i could just eat you out.”

“i meant up.”

“no you didn’t, chuuya.”

“yeah i didn’t.”

“hey pretty, no, let me pay for it. so what its $90? you want a coffee as well? sure, i’ll drive.”

“you taste amazing, chèrie. i could be between your thighs for hours, my love. hours.”

“you look so beautiful today. so what i didn’t see you? i didn’t have to.”

“oh, fuck, you take me in perfectly. god you’re so tight, shit. such a pretty little thing. im gonna have a hard time pulling out later.”

“this distance is killing me, beautiful. i’m facetiming you. no? everything is okay. i just want to hear your voice.”

“hm? whats that? you wanna cum? earn it, beautiful. such a pretty slut for me. yeah?”

“i saw this scarf and it made me think of you. i also sent over some of my cologne. i guessed you would have run out by now, since you like to spray it on your pillow. you’re adorable, chèrie.”

“thats it love. come all over my cock. god you feel so good like that. c’mere, who said i was done with you, beautiful? jolie petite chose, fuck.”

“fuck everyone else. i want you.”

“you look so pretty sucking my cock like that, yeah? oh, fuck, gorgeous, just like that. ah, vous êtes incroyable, fuck.”

“you’re saying i need to love myself before i can love you? bullshit, gorgeous. i have never loved myself. but you? i love you so much i forget what its like to hate me.”

“who the fuck was that guy? hm? better answer me now, beautiful. unless you like it when fuck you dumb all over my cock. god, you’re so fucking tight. so good for me.”

“you feel so good beautiful. c’mere, i’ll make you cum.”

“i’m happy to be in love with you, beautiful. you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

[aronkiepronkie]

I CANT STOP THINKNING ABOUT KENMA AS UR BF SOMEONE SEND HELP

bf kenma! who hates physical touch from everyone but you

bf kenma! who always preforms better when you're watching him in his matches

bf kenma! who doesn't like pda, but pinky holding is an exception

bf kenma! who prefers staying home and playing video games and eating junk food rather than taking you out

bf kenma! who lays his head on your lap and automatically falls asleep once you play with his hair

bf kenma! who teaches you how to play video games and plays minecraft with you

bf kenma! who will ignore you if he's jealous and waits for you to ask what's wrong, and quietly tell you what happened while avoiding eye contact

bf kenma! who gives you a small peck on the cheek as an apology if he does something you disapprove of

bf kenma! who copies off your paper work if he doesn't do it himself (90% of the time he doesn't)

bf kenma! who may have a blank expression, but his eyes are always full of adoration when he looks at you

bf kenma! who forgets to eat and gets embarrassed when you feed him yourself (after some nagging)

bf kenma! who likes putting his arm around your waist while holding his controller when you sit next to him while he's playing video games

bf kenma! who "accidentally" leaves his sweaters or tshirts at your house (he likes seeing you in his clothes) (he will never admit that to anyone)

bf kenma! who sucks with eye contact and gets pink in the face when you look at him for too long

bf kenma! who makes sure you're NEVER around kuroo because he's scared you'll end up liking him

bf kenma! who likes (needs) reassurance and compliments

bf kenma! who loves to fall asleep on your chest or thighs

bf kenma! who doesn't like spooning that much and just prefers to intertwine his legs with yours (unless he's feeling down, he does like to cuddle sometimes)

bf kenma! who shares earphones with you and will always listen to the music you like with no complaints

bf kenma! who rather listens to slow and quiet music or screamo music depending on his mood

bf kenma! who isn't much of a talker, prefers to listen to you yap about anything and everything, slipping in a "oh wow" "seriously??" "no way" or just repeating the last 5 words you said quietly

bf kenma! who loses so much hair in the summer as if he's shedding like a cat

bf kenma! who gets too shy to instigate a kiss, but that doesn't mean he won't kiss you back with as much passion as you give him

bf kenma! who doesn't really care what you do to him, do his makeup, draw on him, braid his hair, squish his cheeks, poke him, whatever lets him see that radiating smile of yours

bf kenma! who catches himself smiling when you do, or laughing quietly when you do, even if he has no idea what's going on

bf kenma! who loves you for who you are and is convinced you're his soulmate

[leovenuslatina]

Tryna get drunk and nasty? ⋆.˚ .𖥔˚

──★ ˙ ̟🍷 !!

THIS READING IS 18+ MDNI !!!!!

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

this reading is all about what kinks your FS might have

🍓

₊˚⊹ ᰔ౨ৎ₊this is just a reminder that tarot isn’t permanent or set in stone YOU decide how your life goes no one or nothing else now take a deep breath and choose the pile that calls to you ₊˚⊹ ᰔ౨ৎ₊˚⊹

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

pile 1 - justice, queen of swords, king of wands

🪄

your FS is obsessed w eye contact while you ride him. while you suck him off. he wants you to look him right in his eyes. i pulled a lot of sword and wand energy so i’m getting he has a kink for watching you please him. he likes seeing you skin on his knob lmao. he thinks you look so pretty and perfect on your knees for him eyes tearing up and mascara running down your face just all fucked up on his dick. what it comes to pleasure he’s very equal he likes pleasing you as much as you please him. he may be a dom. liking to take control which makes a lot of sense with him liking to see you on your knees his favorite thing to do it tell you what to do. he may also have a slight pain kink he likes to spank you and choke you but i also think he may like pain inflicted on him he likes when you bite him and when your nails scratch down his back.

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

pile 2 - the magician, judgment, the well

💤

pleasure kink and somno your FS he likes watching you moan and squirm for him. he likes when you’re moaning his name while he goes down on you. he loves making you finish on his fingers everything from the way you sound to the way your body reacts to his slightest touch is just magical to him. both his tongue and his fingers are extremely skillful making your body his playground. he also maybe into ddlg he really likes taking care of all your needs. he loves being the person you depend on for pleasures or just a nurturing touch.

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

pile 3 - two of wands, page of swords, the empress

❣️

your FS has a breeding kink FOR SURE. he really likes the idea of finishing in you know that his seed will make you a big family. he also really like doggy doing you from behind and traveling his hands all over your body. he also may like doing you in front of a mirror watching him slide in and out of you and seeing your face is a huge ego boost for him. he likes being rough too he likes pulling your hair and pinning you down (all with you consent of course) and just having his way with you. he’s like really obsessed with your boobs and doing stuff with them lol use your imagination he definitely has a body worship kink your body is like a whole masterpiece to him. a masterpiece he can’t believe you allow him access to. 💭. also like you’re the prettiest girl in the world to him and i’m seeing he’ll try anything for you. 🥹

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

for paid private readings dm me 💘

3 questions - $20

6 questions - $30

long channeled message - $90

plzzz no questions about health or death ☠️

[puck-luck]

Can you do Jack Hughes clubs and 12

warnings: LOTS of over the clothes stuff, bj, dry humping, comparison of sexual desires to intrusive thoughts (because i could think of no other comparison and that's how it felt to come up with this idea: specifically reader... starts to fuck herself on jack's tip while his boxers are still on), praise, sub!frat!jack, result of a bet, ongoing unlabeled relationship core

wc: 1,146

The bet goes like this: “Whoever gets a better grade on the final gets to handcuff the loser to the bed and do whatever they want (within reason).”

A stakes were completely fair. You and Jack had studied together, you’d gone over every bit of homework together, you’d done almost every project together– except for the one that had made Jack all jealous and finally admit that he wanted to hook up exclusively. Since you had prepared for the exam together, everything was left up to fate. Whoever got the better grade truly deserved it.

You’d opened your computers together to check grades when one of your other friends in the class texted and said they were in. Jack had looked at his grade and grinned, feeling confident. Little did he know, you felt more confident. 

“90,” Jack said.

You smiled wide and leaned in close. “93.”

That’s how you got here. That’s how Jack ended up handcuffed on his own bed, clad only in his loose boxers, which do nothing to hide how hard you’ve rendered him. 

You’re leaving open-mouthed kisses on his clothed cock, determined to make the front of his boxers entirely wet before you free him and get his dick inside of you. You want to tease him, dangling his favorite things right in front of him– his favorite things being your mouth and your cunt. It’s just an additional shame that Jack’s hands are tied, so he can’t touch your tits.

You’re on stage one, licking his member and getting spit all over him. Jack’s moaning whenever you suck the skin of his shaft, the vibrations from your mouth traveling through his clothes and causing them to rub against his skin. 

You get Jack whining before you move onto stage two.

“So desperate, baby,” you tease as you unclasp your bra and free your tits. You hook your fingers in the band of your panties and push them down. “Does it turn you on? To be tied up like this? To be the boy that I fuck to get myself off?”

Jack’s eyes are dark, tracing your every move. 

You prompt him again. “Does it?”

He starts to nod. “Yeah,” he says. His eyes dart across your features and across the expanse of your, now naked, body. “So much. I want you so bad.”

A grin creeps across your face. “Good boy,” you praise lowly, crawling up Jack’s body and giving him a kiss before you sit back on his hard-on. Those two words have made their way into your everyday vernacular ever since Jack needed comforting that one day not too long ago– you never want him to forget how good he is. 

Once you make contact with his member, Jack pushes his hips up. He grinds his cock against you by accident, his tip brushing against your wet hole and making you jolt. 

“Behave,” you scold, placing your palm flat on his stomach and narrowing your eyes at him. “This is about what I want to do, Jack.”

“Sorry,” he apologizes. His bottom lip looks a little more red and a little plumper than usual. He must have been biting it while you drooled all over his length.

You grind down on his bulge, situating his cock so that it runs parallel with your slit. You’re able to make contact with every part of him, feeling the ridge of his tip under your clit and the vein of his shaft– it could just be the seam of his boxers– against your entrance. A shaky gasp leaves your mouth as you roll your hips, alternating between quick and slow passes. You’re teasing yourself, just like you’re teasing Jack, but you’re not ashamed about the whimpers and moans that are falling from your lips.

Jack, however, seems to be trying to keep his own noises under wraps. He doesn’t seem to want to reveal just how affected he is by your touch and your sounds. His fingers are wrapped around the chain of the handcuffs, knuckles turning white as he stares up at you. His cheeks have turned red and you know that he’s close to breaking– close to begging for more.

Which means that it’s time to move to phase three– you’ll remove his boxers and keep his cock in the same spot, parallel with your pussy, and continue to grind against his bare skin until he’s seconds from shooting off.

You rise up on your knees, hovering above Jack’s lap. You can’t help but tease him a little more: “Do you want to take these off, or should I do it for you?” You ask, blinking at Jack with doe eyes. Then, you laugh and tap your head. “Oh, gosh, I’m such a ditz. I totally forgot you’re all tied up. Sorry, J.”

Jack’s hips buck up again at the mention of his bondage– an involuntary response that you file away for later. Again, his tip brushes your entrance, and your lips part at the contact. You look down at his boxers, which are completely messy with your slick and spit. There’s also a pearly bead of precum leaking from Jack’s tip, soaking through the fabric.

You’re not sure where the idea comes from. It seems to appear out of nowhere, filling your mind like an intrusive thought. You swallow, throat tight, then lower yourself down to resume your grinding against his member.

“Or should I take them off at all,” you say, voice feeling far away. You know you’re talking quietly and carefully, not sure if what you’re thinking is– too far. You reach behind yourself and hold the base of Jack’s cock, causing it to stand away from his body. 

Jack’s eyes are flying between your eyes and your lips, breaths falling from his lips in uneven pants. The blues are turning a bit glassy, but they’re rapt on you. 

You start to trace his tip across your slit, teasing yourself. “I wonder what it would feel like if…” You trail off, your own eyes leaving Jack’s and finding his lips. You lean back against his tip, feeling it breach your hole slightly. The fabric is so wet that you barely feel a difference. “Does it feel different?” You ask, breath hitching. “Fuck, J, I want to– just the tip. Just to see what it feels like. Then I’ll–”

“Take the handcuffs off,” Jack chokes out. His eyes are wild. “Y/N, take ‘em off. I’m going to fucking come inside you through my fucking boxers and I am not doing that without getting my hands on you–”

You cut off his rambling by shoving your hand under the pillow to the right of his head and feeling around for the key. He’s– he’s actually going to let you try it– the least you can do is take off the handcuffs and let him touch you, too.

[thejeangreysummers2]

slow burn // retired // roomate !! simon “ghost”’riley

⁃ everything you do has more color and intention than the sparse minimalist nature of his bedroom

⁃ after you get a stressed and a little weepy at a kitchen disaster he starts scrawling on the kitchen notepad which meals he made for you

⁃ after work you end up having dinner together it starts as watching trashy reality tv together on the couch (he pretends to be disinterested but is quickly sucked into the antics of 90 day fiancée, he watches it the same as a bad football game grumbling at the screen.)

⁃ there’s something achingly domestic about being with you he really tries to be a gentleman and all—

ignoring the squeaks of your bed springs from across the hall or your moan through the wall when you’re alone at night and he excuses himself at breakfast after an eyeful of your tiny pajamas that leave him incredibly hard

⁃ on the weekends you get into the habit of reading next to him on the couch as he lazily watches baseball (american sports make him sleepy, but the excuse to have you propped up against him makes it all worth it)

⁃ he notices you start to read in your room, joining him for dinner face flushed. you used to explain the plots of your current reads. he is softened when you begin leaving library books on his nightstand. but now he wonders why you’re pulling away, avoiding his eyes, and refusing to answer his questions.

⁃ a few days later he knocks on your door, overcome with anxiety he enters without pausing for your response. he catches you face flushed partially under the covers with a bodice ripper.

⁃ “i read it for the articles.” you quip

someone must’ve said that about playboy once right? he never mentioned anything about the vintage playboys scattered across your apartment. but you seemed embarrassed by this ??

⁃ simon can’t stand the idea that you’ve been pent up by yourself and he’s jealous that your imagination is fodder for your fantasies when he can give you the real thing.he finds himself buying a copy, longing to provide pleasure for you.

⁃ “how come you didn’t recommend me those books love?” he pries teasingly poking at you embarrassment

wondering if the interest is imagined when he sees you staring at him after he returns from running. or gazing at his mouth for a moment too long. ghosting over his knuckles as you take his dishes to wash (after all he cooks for you every day)

⁃ “i didn’t see you as the kind of man who has a taste for romance novels.”

the word taste has him reeling. seeing you shift your thighs searching for friction makes him desperate.

“love— if you read it to me, i would eat every word.”

he doesn’t want to make your nervous, overplay his hand.

⁃ he’s enamored when you read to him on the floor of the living room for a few days after dinner, you find yourself resting on top him instead of in the rug. he sits through chapters of exposition pining at your lilting voice.

[moonsapprentice]

how do you think Edd would react to the reader praising him during special alone time? Like really just laying it on thick, calling him handsome and talking about how gorgeous he is and how amazing he's doing, maybe even tossing in a good boy here and there

⋆✶✷𝔖𝔲𝔟! 𝔈𝔡𝔡 𝔵 ℜ𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯✷✶⋆

Edd had found a sudden interest in the ceiling, his fingers fiddling with a thread in the couch. His face was all flushed and sweaty. He prayed nobody came through that front door.

“What’s wrong, pretty boy?”

You purred, hand still pumping on his cock.

“Where’s all your attitude?”

Edds eyes barely flick down to look at you. He shivers and shuts his eyes. He leans back farther on the couch and opens his legs wider. Your thumb brushed over the tip and he let out a choked moan. Edds ears perk up at your giggling.

“Such a nice noise.”

You lick your thumb, tasting his precum.

“…such a nice taste too.”

You tilt your head. Your eyes are lidded in that way that drives him crazy. The way that makes him melt into the mattress when you’re riding on top of him late at night. But it isn’t late, it’s midday. Everyone had gone off to do something out of the house leaving you two alone. It’s safe to say he wasn’t surprised when you pounced on him when he was watching tv. He looked down at you as you tilted your head, his breath coming out in heated puffs as he saw you just staring at him. Edd smiles a little weakly, a bit goofily. You smile back.

Your eyes flip down to his dick. He groaned out a quiet laugh, giving your hair a gentle pull. The sight of you sitting there so eagerly looking at it made it throb. He squeaks as you smack his hand lightly

“Don’t get cocky.”

He chuckles, which quickly turns into a moan as your hand resumes it’s leisurely bobbing. You lean forward and flick your tongue lazily on his pink tip. He groans; slightly tightening his grip on the couch. His eyes flutter. Your licking him was making him feel lightheaded, it took everything in him not to buck his hips up into your tongue.

“..mm..so handsome.”

You mutter. After a few minutes, you take the tip into your mouth. You suck lightly. His moans increase in pitch. As you hollow your cheeks he gasps and lets out a strangled moan. It’s not often you get him metaphorically pinned down like this, all pliable and submissive. In the bedroom you’re either equals or he dominates you softly. Sometimes though, on special days, you catch him off guard like this. Those days are the best days.

He hits the back of your throat multiple times. You’re unsure how you haven’t gagged yet, maybe plot armor. He’s wriggling like a worm as you go up and down. There’s drool falling down your chin. He’s practically looking at you with hearts in his eyes.

He moans loudly as you speed up. “G-…I’m gonna…I’m gonna cum.” He’s forgotten how to open his eyes but he can sense the dumb smirk on your face. But he can’t dwell on it too hard as he’s already started to spurt ribbons down your throat.

You jerk him off as you open your mouth, helping him through the high. A whine ripples through his chest and up into his mouth. As his seed continues to soar onto your tongue it dribbles down your chin.

You grin mischievously and kiss the tip before swallowing down his cum. He softens, both his face and his dick. Finally, you tuck his length away into his boxers and zip his pants.

“…I’ll give you a break, big guy.”

You pat his thigh

“But don’t get too comfy. I want more.”

This is NOT my best work but I tried!! Took me forever, I’m sorry. I have a shit ton of unedited/half finished fics in my drafts, and a ton of requests!! Thank you for sending your ideas! 90% of my writing is inspired by requests and other writers, so I truly appreciate it.

[renguro]

Now that S2 is almost over, I wanted to finally get out that post talking about all of the insights and things I did, learned, or other fun stuff about the countdown pieces I made. I still have something in mind for the S2 finale, so maybe if you read (or skip) to the end I'll have a preview for you?

Oh god here we go One day I was coming home from work and decided to check how many days there were until the new season released and I found it was 7 days. So I did all of these in 7 days. Literally everyone was worried about me because I did nothing but draw for those 7 days.

... Except for when I went back to work. I worked I came home and then drew until I literally couldn't anymore lmao. I remember being dazed and exhausted after the Clock Keepers and my dad came up to my room literally right as I finished and asked, "Have you gone to sleep?" And I said, "NOPE! :D" I was living on energy drinks

I'm also 90% sure this started the "ren you're doing too much you need to chill the hell out" thing with me and my friends now

When I was doing these, I had only read the first ten volumes of Hanako-kun at the time, so I was stopped right in the middle of Picture Perfect. I had the second box set, but I just hadn't gotten the time to read it since I got it for Christmas. That means I didn't know Shijima's full deal, and I didn't even know Hakubo's name, so I was winging it hard.

All of the full pieces are linked by clicking their names :)

NO.7 HANAKO

You can tell from the speedpaint I was struggling hard with the pose lmao. I honestly felt like the one I chose was a cop-out and didn't feel energetic enough, but the time crunch got me. At this point, I was also really unsure about how I wanted to treat the colors, because I'd only just started dipping into seriously studying how Aida does it. So many references. And him wearing basically all black didn't help I wanted to scream. I was TRYING to keep everything as solid colors without falling back on overlay and multiply layers, but I got desperate. Still looks pretty good I think.

My favorite part was probably the hakujoudai and the detailing on his collar/shoulders! If I were to edit anything, I think I'd put more on the bottom half of the background because it feels a touch empty. kinda killed it on this pant leg and his hat tho

NO.6 HAKUBO

Like I said, I had no idea who Hakubo was. For the first half of things, I couldn't even find his name, I was just calling him "Shinigami-sama..." I wasn't going to go trampling into spoilers just for references either, so I was freaking out on what to do for the background. All I knew was that there was something to do with lotuses or bugs, and already having an idea of where I'd take Tsuchigomori, I took the lotus route. I uh also hope I didn't make his face too feminine. I don't know why but when drawing male characters who are larger or more built (even if it didn't turn out obvious in this piece) I somehow keep making them look like butches.

Shading his hair was the most fun part out of all of this, I usually never draw characters with hair as short as his, so it was a fun challenge! I'm also just a sucker for kimonos and flowy clothes. He was probably one of the most fun ones for me, even if he was so early on. I LOVE the texture I got on the skull. (even if it's technically too small.)

NO.5 TSUCHIGOMORI

Tsuchigomori onwards ALL used this sticky note full of thumbnails I drew at work for reference. Yes that is a note next to him that says + cuntier. He was also drawn on the same day that I did Hakubo, so I managed to buy myself some extra time.

I was so excited for this one because I could see it so well in my mind's eye, until I realized how many hands I'd need to draw. And then I sucked it up and locked in because I love Tsuchigomori. I'm so pleased with how I worked in more of the blues into the shading and his hair. It was at this point that I think I was understanding how I wanted to take the colors for all of these pieces! I enjoyed doing the fun trick I learned with the weave on his sweater and the spiderwebs where I drew a thick like and then erased the middle. Nearly forgot the markings on his forehead too lmao.

I wonder whose black book he's reading?

NO.4 SHIJIMA

Oh Shijima. I truly had zero real clue about her, and I managed to dodge spoilers about Mei even when I was looking up references. That's why she's painting using her paintbrush clone haha. It's still cute though, so I'm keeping it. Her hair kept giving me trouble because it's the kind of hair you draw and don't really realize just how big you're drawing it until you have to fix it. Actually, I'm having that exact issue on what I'm working on right now, and I'll fix it after I take a break.

I dug up a comment I made while I was working on it and I still stand by this.

There's also something a little odd about the positioning of her chin that I was too exhausted to fix, and I SUPER fudged the coloring on her hair. Also I really didn't know what to put in the background OTHER than the atelier, but I can't really draw buildings! So uh! The exhaustion was beginning to set in after 3 days of this. (Since Hakubo and Tsuchigomori were done on the same day. I didn't keep that time advantage for long though.)

think i fudged it okay, though.

NO.3 MITSUBA

I was struggling on Mitsuba some because that thing where you see/read something and then forget about it only for it to arise as something you think you did happened. That pose I thumbnailed on the sticky note was WAY too close to the official Hell of Mirrors standee/art. Luckily I contain extreme Mitsuba bias (shocker) and I was able to figure it out. I had a ton of problems shading his coat just like I did with Hanako. It's so hard to keep things from melding together when you've mostly got them wearing black.

It's an odd thing to be proud about, but I feel I did the best on the.. Legs of his pants, the chains and lockets, and the eyes and teeth on his jacket. That and the ribcage scarf. I'm really disappointed in myself for the background and his hair, if I'm being honest. I wanna fix his eyes. I STILL haven't figured out his hair either too. Which makes me even more surprised that my friends said, ren, your bias is showing on this one because I was like IS IT??? ARE YOU CERTAIN?

his hand turned out nice too and did i mention i had fun on the ribcage

NO.2 YAKO

I sketched the first initial draft for Yako on the same day I drew Hakubo and Tsuchigomori, but when it finally came time to sit down and draw her? I realized there would be so much empty space where I couldn't have fun with colors and it'd just be the white back of her kimono, so I turned her around and scrapped the idea of her fox form curling around her. I couldn't fit fox Yako in, and I'm STILL kind of bummed about that.

The flow of her hair was so much fun to figure out, as well as the patterns on her kimono. I'm really happy with the background, combining the aspects of the Misaki Stairs' original version and the one after she's been removed from her seat with the spider lilies. The lilies themselves are a little fudged if you look too close, so... Don't look too close? :3

loved the kimono. every bit. can't believe i had her turned around.

NO.1 AKANE/MIRAI/KAKO

MY FAVORITE PART ABOUT THIS WAS THE COGS IN THE BACKGROUND SORRY AKANE'S FACE BOTHERS ME I NEED TO FIX IT ONE DAY HE LOOKS TOO OLD I WAS LOSING MY MIND AND THE EXHAUSTION WAS KILLING ME IT BEGAN MY HATE OF DRAWING AKANE'S HAIR BECAUSE *GESTURES VAGUELY*

Uh okay some good things to say about this one... The colors were a ton of fun to figure out how to place, and I think I at least did a good job on that part. Shading gold things is always really fun! And at least Akane's ponytail was fun to make flow, I was riding the high from Yako's hair here. I think I got a lot of that fun flowy movement in here, which I'm pleased about. This was another one that my friends say turned out the best, again that I'm ??? about.

these cogs are my everything

FINAL THOUGHTS + EXTRAS

All of the kanji's colorings for their numbers were taken directly from the anime! I don't really wanna get rid of that fun reference even if in like, Tsuchigomori's case the colors are REALLY different from the main piece.

Most of the first day was spent on, Hanako of course, and then setting up the frames for everyone else to go into. I spent money to get the patterns to go on the colored part, actually. Constraining everyone to the frames helped a LOT in terms of balancing myself and made it fun to choose what elements would stick outside of them. If I pushed for entire full backgrounds, then I would have been doing even worse.

I was on the ropes at the end. I was half dead and drawing like I was possessed. And the catharsis of it being done and it all looking acceptable just. Ough. I don't know if I'll ever have a high like that again. There's an evil, evil part of me that says, ren! redraw all of them for s3 under the exact same constraints! And shit I might but I'll complain about it. I think it's more likely though that I go back and doctor them up some so I can print them as standees. Probably just for myself, but I do want to build a stock for artist alleys.

I had so, so much fun overall even if it was so much it really could have put my already bad health in more danger. I learned so much about coloring, lineart, framing things, and I really attribute my gauntlet to the explosion in my art progress. That, and my sheer adoration for this series. Am I rambling? I just love TBHK. It's only been 5 months since I first discovered it and it's done so, so much for me.

Even if you went and scrolled through all of this nonsense, which I don't blame you for, here's a little preview of what I'm trying to finish by next week for the finale.

I can't believe we're on the final episode! It's so close now, and it keeps flooring me how little time has really passed. I'll try and push to get SOMETHING else done before then, but we'll see. I've got so much I want and have to get done.

[k2ntoss]

im quite literally in class rn but the jason brain rot is going so strong, so all i can think of is trying to convince Jay to stay home from patrol for just one(1) night because he's working too hard

like you barely see him anymore cuz he's either out running around as Red Hood or passed the fuck out in bed throughout the day, and just having enough of it and just like, getting down and giving him the absolute best head of his life to convince him to stay in (and he does, but only because he's literally physically unable to afterwards, like legs shaky and eyes glazed over, maybe just a little bit subby too?) ughhh god i need him so baddd 😭

- your friendly neighbourhood 🦊

after too many days i'm back, i've been too low on inspiration and i hate that but i read again this today while i was at work and i GIGGLED TOO HARD, 🦊 noonie i'm gonna find you (and kiss your brain) soooo as an apology for being off a few days, here we have a slightly long smutty thing with my sweet pretty boy jay <3

it's been probably over a month since jason only came back home to pass out on the bed, he barely woke up to eat something and do one or another stuff, even bruce was a bit worried about his health but he didn't pushed on it further.

once again night falls and jay is getting all geared up on your room, tactical pants, boots and that black compression shirt that always made your mouth water on when you came in, a small pout on your lips at the sight of your too tired boyfriend "jay... you look like you could use a night off" your voice is soft and so tempting for jason, because the idea of cuddling next to you and rest seemed to be what he needed more than anything.

"princess, you know i can't do that" jason sighs, there's a glimpse of want on his eyes and it's everything your brain needs to come up with a method to convince him and you are 90% sure it will work so it takes you less than a second to walk to him, letting yourself fall to the floor right between his legs.

the sight from that point is even more encouraging because jason looks so much intimidating like that, even when he frowns totally confused at your actions "but you work way too much, jay" and he knows what you're up too so his look changes from questioning to warning and oh, if it doesn't turn you on more because you know that you have the power to turn him into a puddle "you can stay home tonight, i can call dick to tell him you're sick and that you need to rest" your head lays on his thigh as one of your hand traces softly his stomach, fingers trailing over his abs while your eyes look into his.

"sweetheart, i can't do that–" jason starts, he sounds like he's having the hardest time of his life trying to tell you 'no' and it is as your fingers start to undo the buttons of his pants and his belt, caressing him over his boxers and feeling him reacting to your touch. there's a soft growl that escapes his lips, making you sit properly on your knees and looking up at your boyfriend for him to give into your (and his) needs just for him to move so you can pull his pants down enough to see his cock grow harder under your subtle strokes.

"you need to rest, at least one night" there's that pout on your lips again and that innocent tone that he doesn't buy because how could he when you start to slide your hand under his boxers and smile when his hard shaft is completely at your mercy, hand going up and down before you lean in to press a playful kiss on his tip, it sends a jolt through his spine and he can't help the low moan that slips past his lips when your tongue traces his length before taking the head between your lips.

it's always easy for jason to get lost on how good you make him feel, even when it comes to the times he needs to do something important so here he is, one of his hands on the back of your head while you suck slowly on him not taking in too much, your hand traces the veins on the bottom of his cock before stroking it "god damn, baby... you look so good on your knees for me" his voice is hoarse and he tries to pull you down on him just to be met with a playful look from you.

"c'mon, let me do this by myself" you speak, your lips shiny as you smile at jason, his dick pressed against your cheek and he nods "that's a good boy" and the way he swallows hard makes you chuckle before your mouth wraps around his shaft. jason keeps his hands next to his legs, the way you called him a good boy made him feel like he could cum just with your touch but it would have been pretty pathetic so he holds back. his eyes are fixed on the way your head bobs, the lewd noises your mouth makes everytime his head touches your throat and he has to resist the urge to fuck your face.

there's a pop that comes out of your lips when you let go of his cock, hand still fisted around him while you pull down the front of your sleeveless top, tits spilling out for him to look. the moan that escapes his lips is unholy when you put his dick between your breasts, tongue playing with his slit while you stroke him like that and he feels in heaven "you look so good like that, baby..." your words are sweet, he loves the way it feels because he could melt right there and it's what he needs to forget about anything else. he whimpers at the second you smirk, pulling away to grab hold of him and spitting on his shaft before taking it into your mouth again, this time sucking and licking on it with more urge.

you can feel him throb on your tongue, making you pull away again "such a pretty boy, aren't you? need to cum, baby? go ahead, good boys deserve to be rewarded" you coo him right before your mouth is wrapping him again and he can't help it this time, thrusting into your throat in a needy move before you can feel him shooting his load in a whiny moan, he looks so pretty like that and it makes you want to keep making him squirm.

it takes you nothing to stand up and go sit on his lap, his body trembles under your touch and the load you've been holding on your mouth falls over your tits when you open your mouth and stick your tongue out before you pull his head towards your breasts "feel better now, baby?" you ask with a small smirk when jason hums in response, his mouth too busy on one of your nipples as he sucks while looking at you from under his eyelashes, pretty green eyes glazed as he whines softly "wanna stay home for tonight?"

"yes, mommy..." he can barely speak without sounding too slurred from how tired he felt from all the extra work and the head you just gave him.

"fine, i'll call dick to tell him you're sick"

[wittywords]

hi so a lil update. for those of you who don't know my whole thing is reading the oxford dictionary. like I'm not just picking random words on the internet, I actually plan to finish OED. I started last spring and I'm almost done with letter H (still haven't made the posts but I have the words saved in a document). it's going a bit slower that I wanted because I'm still in school but I want to finish it by the end of the year

there's also the problem with me not having an OED subscription which means that I can't see longer definitions. like the website only let's you see the beginning which sucks because I have a document full of definitions I need to complete. my plan is to wait until summer when I'll have more free time to pay for a subscription and search all those words. there's no way I'm paying for more than a couple of months I just can't afford that right now. because of it I'll probably start posting words starting with A again which is ruining the whole vibe of the blog but oh well what can you do

also when I'm done like DONE with everything I want to start making lists with words in different categories (like words that appeared in the 90s, love-related words, words starting with letter whatever, you get the idea). and maybe post some writing tips and resources as well in the meantime

I'm debating whether I should make a Patreon or make a blog with WordPress and earn money through ads. like on one hand I don't really like ads but on the other I know what it's like to be a young writer and rely on free resources posted by other writers and I don't want to put my stuff on Patreon and demand payment for other people to be able to read it, but I have over 3,5k followers and I had a link to my ko-fi for months in my bio and I haven't seen one dollar so relying on donations is out of the question

I spent over a hundred hours on this project and who knows how much longer it's gonna take me to finish it and I feel like I deserve to earn something after all this work. and also I need money. so yeah. tell me in the comments what you think

edit: I think I'm gonna go with the second idea and make a blog with WordPress or some other platform

[svtcrus]

THE WORLD OVER YOU || gojo satoru x gen!reader

synopsis: he chooses the world. it will always be for the world. for he is always one step ahead. as it was never about him from the start.

disclaimer: JJK MANGA 261 SPOILERS, lowkey angst, mentions of death

a/n: sorry for being gone! life’s gotten a bit busy..! hope this quick lil blurb will do you guys well :)

“what?” was the first thing said after staring at your lover in silence for the past 2 minutes. your eyes wide threatening with tears, and your brain mangled in confusion.

satoru looks at you with an expression you cannot decipher. his bright blue eyes never seemed to look as empty and emotionless as they do now. his countenance tells you nothing. it leaves you with nothing but shattering confusion.

(SPOILERS AFTER THE CUT)

“my body. i’m giving up my body to yuta if I die. we already talked about it, there will be no changes y/n.” he repeated. as if you didn’t hear it the first time. you understood him loud and clear. you had furrowed brows, a racing heart, and fingers clasping so tight you swear it would leave a scar.

it had just felt like you were born, lived, and died all at once in the spot.

“‘toru you can’t be serious-!” before you knew it you felt slight streams come down your cheeks. and it wasn’t out of the sadness at the idea he had planned this. it was sadness at the fact he may be sacrificing for a society that has only ever used him since the very beginning. that he is allowing them to ruin him, string your lover like a puppet till even after death.

all you had ever wanted was for him to be liberated, freed, unbound from this power. this power and strength; these abilities he was born with since he came to this world. you had all but wanted to see him be just satoru for one moment whether it was in life or when he died.

you were never extremely worried at the thought that satoru would die one day. you had expected— even thought of times— that there may come a day where he’s coming to your arms dangerously harmed or even dead. it was what you signed up for since the day you accepted lifelong commitment with him.

what you did not know that you were also giving up was the very fact given to you today.

“I have to. If we wish to beat sukuna, we have to plan every type of plan we can. we need backup plans, we need more than just a plan a and b.” the sound of his feet clicking against the wooden floors of his office ring. he’s stepping closer, cold hands grasping onto your arms. they glide down to hold your own hands, which are shaking. in which you didn’t even realize were.

“y/n, sweetheart. this is what you and I both knew when we took this job. when you knew of who I am. who I was born to be since the day my six eyes were known…” you could say it was silent, yet at the same time your quiet sniffles was the only thing heard. satoru looked down at you, with only a saddening but acceptive look.

“we both knew I wouldn’t be living till I was 90. with this job? I was fated to fight someone of equal or of stronger power than me. sure this way of life sucks, and if I can I would love to spend another lifetime with you till i’m 90.”

“but it’s simply not possible here… isn’t it? you are willing to do anything yet not everything for me. for you. for us.” you finish off. knowingly understanding that you cannot change this mans mind once he’s made the decision. you should’ve expected this. satoru has always thought ahead since the day you met when you were both still students yourself.

“you’re always one step ahead of me.” satoru lightly chuckles at this. he takes this as a green light to finally embrace you. the setting sun dawning onto his back from behind. and you’ve never felt more warm and cold at the same time.

“my job requires me so... the world requires me so.”

@svtcrus || 05.23.24

do not copy, plagiarize, modify, repost my work