zoro-sremedy

[zoro-sremedy]

Hi! Congrats on the big 500! I was wondering if you could do the “I hate everyone but you” trope with Toji and the “wearing their clothes” reaction with all the jjk characters that you like?

Hiiii, i already did that one for Toji! Hope you enjoy it! As for the other one, I'll make a drabble soon, just not for the Trope Party anymore, sorry <3

[zoro-sremedy]

your 500 event is the best thing ever. may i request a 12, 14 with gojo? i know this man is already somewhat touchy but i can see him wanting something more than friendly and it just short circuts his brain. can it be fluffy with some smut because im a horny bi-

thank you~

hello sweet heart, it's here! Hope you enjoy it

Trope #12 + #14

[zoro-sremedy]

Trope #12 Accidental confession + Trope #14 Touch-Starved, But They Don’t Know How to Ask for It

Risk assessment Rated R18+. MDNI. Angst if you squeeze your eyes, Sexual intercourse, fingering, making out, pet names, some swearing, gojo being pathetically needy and gorgeous.

a/n: this was fun, and also the last for the 500 milestone trope party! Hope everyone enjoys it! <3

You weren't supposed to stay.

It was supposed to be a quick drop-off—some files, a report, maybe a sarcastic remark about how he looked like shit because he hadn't slept.

But it's late, and he's quiet. Not joking, not bouncing off the walls. And when he invites you in—murmurs something about "just for second"—you don't have the heart to say no.

So now you're sitting cross-legged on the floor of his apartment, some old movie playing in the background, and Gojo Satoru is way too close. His thigh presses against you. Not completely on purpose, not totally innocent either.

It's the first time all night he's really touched you. Because of course—he's Gojo. Untouchable. Always behind that shimmering veil of infinity, always holding back. Always craving something he won't ask for.

But not tonight.

Tonight, his Infinity is off.

You don't realize it at first. Not until your fingers brush when reaching for the same piece of popcorn, and instead of the usual, static skip of energy—you feel him.

Warm. Real. Trembling just slightly.

You both freeze.

His eyes are already on you. Bright. Unreadable. Starving.

"Satoru," you whisper.

He exhales a shaky sound. "You shouldn't touch me like that."

"I didn't mean to."

"I know." His gaze drops to your hand—your fingers still brushing his—and he swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. "That's why I liked it."

Your breath catches. He says it so softly, so brokenly, like it's been stuck in his throat for years.

He tries to backpedal, like it didn't mean anything. "I mean—not like liked liked, not like—fuck."

You just stare. "Satoru."

He covers his eyes with one hand and groans. "God, I'm so bad at this."

"At what?"

"Wanting you." His voice is quiet. Humble. Like a man confessing to a sin. "I don't even know how to ask. Not when it's real. Not when it's you."

And then, like gravity's been waiting for this, you lean in—and kiss him.

Your kiss is slow.

You barely press your lips to his, letting him breathe into it. Letting him choose what happens next. Because that's the thing about Gojo—he always takes the lead, commands attention, throws himself in first.

But not with you.

With you, he stills. Trembles.

You pull back a little, just enough to whisper, "is this okay?"

He looks at you like you just handed him the sun. "You have no idea."

And then he's kissing you again—but this time, desperate. Both hands cupping your face, holding you like you're delicate and sacred. His lips move like he's memorizing the shape of yours. You can feel the tremor in his fingers, the hesitation every time he dares to touch you.

He's warm.

So warm, it makes your chest ache.

When you push your hands under his shirt, you feel the breath shudder out of him. He stares at you like he doesn't understand—like he's never let anyone do this. And he hasn't.

Because no one can.

His Infinity always hums in place, always separates, always guards. But not now. He's dropped it. He dropped everything for you.

Your fingers skim over his skin, and he flinches—not because it hurts, but because he feels it. Every inch. Every brush. It's almost too much.

You murmur against his mouth, "you really don't let people touch you like this?"

He shakes his head, voice nearly wrecked. "No."

"Why me?"

He looks like he wants to say something smart. But all that comes out is: "Because I'd let you hurt me if it meant you'd hold me after."

You exhale, eyes burning, and press your forehead to his. "I won't hurt you."

"I know," he whispers. "That's why it's scary."

You lean in again. You kiss in the corner of his mouth, the stubble at his jaw, the soft spot beneath his ear. And he melts—his hands sliding down to your waist, like he's finally letting himself want.

You don't rush.

Clothes peel off slowly. His shirt first, yours next, and every inch if skin revealed makes him sigh like he's drowning in relief. Like being naked with you is the first time he's real.

When your chest presses to his, he gasps. Full body reaction. His arms wrap around you tight, as if anchoring himself.

You pull back to look at him, your voice barely above a breath. "Are you okay?"

He nods, and his voice cracks. "I just… I didn't know it could feel like this."

Your palm finds his chest, right over his heart. "Like what?"

"Like someone actually wants me."

And then, like a dam breaking, he rolls you beneath him—mouth hungry but still gentle, kissing you like he's been dying for years and you're the only thing keeping him alive.

He kisses down your neck like he's following a map he's only ever dreamed about.

Lips trailing heat over your collarbone, the swell of your chest, down the center of your stomach—every inch is a discovery, and he takes his time. His fingers tremble where they hold your hips, but not from nerves—no. from how badly he wants to be gentle. From how much he wants to get it right.

"Satoru," you breathe, threading your fingers into his hair.

His name makes him shiver.

"Say it again."

"Satoru."

He groans—soft and ruined—and you can feel him press his mouth to your shin just to keep from saying something reckless.

But then he looks up at you—face flushed, eyes blow wide and honest—and you know whatever he says next will be reckless.

"I think I love you," he whispers. Like it slipped out.

Your heart stutters.

He freezes the second it's out there. Blinks. "Shit—I didn't mean—fuck, I mean I did mean it, but not like—not now, I wasn't gonna—" His hands hover like he's about to pull away.

You stop him with a kiss. Slow. Sure. Letting it settle.

"I love you too," you say, quiet and steady.

He stares like he's glitching.

Like the one thing he never lets himself believe just became real.

And then it all breaks in him.

His mouth is back on yours in seconds—messy, desperate, full of heat. His hands find your thighs and spread you for him like prayer. He looks down, breathless, reverent.

"Fuck—look at you," he murmurs, dragging his fingers along your slick folds, "You're already soaked."

You nod, hips arching into his hand. "I've been waiting."

He bites back a moan. "You're gonna destroy me."

And then he's touching you for real—two fingers sinking in slow, stretching you open while his thumb strokes your clit with gentle, teasing circles. Your head falls back, thighs trembling around his wrist.

"That's it," he says low and husky, lips brushing your ear. "Take it, baby. Let me make you feel good."

You come on his fingers with your face buried in his shoulder, clinging to him, your body pulsing around his hand—and he holds you through it, whispering filth and sweetness in your ear.

When he finally lines himself up, cock thick and aching against your entrance, he pauses—just long enough to look at you.

"Tell me you want this," he breathes.

You cup his face, eyes locked. "I want you."

That's all he needs.

He slides in slow—inch by inch, stretching you wide, making you feel everything. And when he bottoms out, buried deep and panting above you, he nearly loses it.

"F-Fuck—so tight—so w-warm—so ."

You wrap your legs around him, pulling him deeper. "I'm here. I'm yours."

He groans, forehead resting against yours. "You don't get it—I've needed t-this—needed you—for so f-fucking long."

And he moves.

Not fast. Not rough. But deep. Full, steady thrusts that make your eyes  roll back, that make you cling to his back and moan his name again and again. Each stroke is a confession. Each kiss is a vow.

"C-can't stop," he gasps. "Can't d-don't wanna ever s-stop—"

"You don't have to," you breathe.

And he doesn't

He fucks you like it's the only way to prove what he feels. And when you come again—wrapped around him, whispering his name, shaking under his hands—he follows right after, moaning into your neck as he fills you, voice wrecked and shaking:

"I love you, I love you, I fucking love y-you."

And when it's over, when your bodies are tangled and sticky and still trembling, he holds you like he'll never let go. Not in a million years.

And you believe him.

[zoro-sremedy]

500 milestone trope party is CLOSED

Hi,

thank you to everyone who sent their request or commented on any of the work related to the Milestone Party, i had a lot of fun and i hope everyone liked it too!

The party is officially over, I'm not gonna take any more request for this (i am taking normal requests though) and I'll be posting the last 2 that did make the cut.

ilyyy, have a great day!

[zoro-sremedy]

#3 Drunk Confessions / Sloppy Kisses + #4 Fake Dating to Piss Someone Off… Oops /Suguru

Risk assessment Rated R18+. MDNI. Sexual intercourse, fingering, making out, pet names, some swearing, pinning to the end and beyond.

a/n: this is self-indulgent assss heeeeeellll but do i regret it? hell naw

You can feel Naoya's eyes on you the moment you walk in.

It's not subtle—he tracks your every step like he's still entitled to look at you that way, like he didn't scoff the last time you cried, like he didn't say "You should be grateful I even gave you attention."

But tonight, you don't walk in alone.

Suguru's hand rests at the small of your back, two fingers tucked into the waistband of your gown. He's warm, calm, and carved from quiet control. And the way he leans down to murmur in your ear?

"Smile for me, sweetheart."

You do.

The sound of your laugh as he spins you into the room is like silk over a blade.

You feel the shift. The attention. You feel Naoya's jaw tighten.

Suguru doesn't stop touching you. Doesn't even pretend to make distance. His hand lingers on your waist, his thumb strokes lazy circles against your hipbone through the satin. When someone compliments your dress, he says, "I picked the color. It brings out her skin."

(It's true. He did pick the dress.)

When someone compliments him, you say with a grin, "Doesn't he clean up nice? I like him better messy though."

(Also true, nothing like watching Suguru train martial arts.)

Your "relationship" is seamless, electric. You match each other's energy like it's instinct. And Suguru plays it so well—until he starts meaning it.

It's over champagne that Naoya corners you, smug and venom-laced.

"So," he drawls. "You're fucking Geto now? That what this is?"

You don't flinch. "I'd say it's an upgrade, wouldn't you?"

Naoya scoffs. "You used to cry when I didn't text back. Didn't think you'd bounce this fast."

"I didn't bounce," you reply. "I walked. And Suguru?" You glance over—he's watching, his jaw clenched, already starting to move toward you. "He's got no problem showing up."

Naoya rolls his eyes. "Whatever. It's fake anyway. Everyone knows he doesn't do serious."

Suguru's voice slices through like smoke and steel. "Everyone, huh?"

Naoya stiffens. Geto stands beside you now, calm and lethal, like he'd take a life for you if you asked. His hands finds yours.

"You got a lot to say about something that's none of your business." Suguru adds, still smiling, still polite. But his hand squeezes yours just slightly tighter.

"And for the record—" he leans in, brushing his lips against the shell of your ear, voice low enough to draw shivers, "—if you ask me to fuck you in the car on the way home, I will."

You choke.

Naoya turns red.

Suguru's smile doesn’t waver as Naoya tries to laugh it off.

"You're real cute, Geto," Naoya mutters. "Guess you've been bored lately."

"Mmm." Suguru tips his glass, watching Naoya over the rim with all the warmth of a man who knows how to kill without lifting a finger. "Not bored. Just… fascinated."

His arm wraps around your waist again, fingers brushing low—too low to be innocent.

"She's stunning, isn't she?" he adds, eyes still on Naoya. "Sharp where it counts, soft where it matters. But I think you knew that. You just never knew what to with her."

Naoya's jaw ticks. "Right. And you do?"

"Oh, absolutely."

It's not even bragging. It’s just true.

"She moans like heaven with her legs around my shoulders," Suguru murmurs, sipping his champagne, "and begs with her whole body. You would've known that, of course—if you'd ever bothered to listen to her."

Your cheeks burn, but he's still so relaxed, so easy, as though he's just discussing wine notes or art.

"And you know the best part?" Suguru turns to you now, eyes softening even as they smolder. "She doesn't fake it. Not with me."

Naoya's glass cracks in his grip. You don't even pretend to be sorry.

Later, after Naoya has slithered away—defeated, ego bruised, practically smoking—Suguru finds you on the balcony with two drinks in hand.

You take yours with a small smile. "You really didn't have to do all that."

He shrugs. "Didn't have to. Wanted to."

You sip slowly. "We're doing a little too well at this fake thing."

His eyes catch yours. "Would you want me to stop?"

You blink.

"Suguru—"

"Because I won't," he murmurs. "Not if you don't want me to."

His voice is low now. Honest. The world around you dims as the champagne hits, and all you can focus on is the way his thumb traces the rim of his glass—and the way his gaze drags down your lips, then lower.

"We should… keep up appearances," you manage. "Convince everyone it's real."

His head tilts. "Convince who? Your ex? Or you?"

His smile doesn't fade—it softens, but there's something simmering just beneath it. Like he's walking the razor's edge between teasing and something far more serious.

"Convince who?" he repeats, stepping closer, voice lower. Because I don't care if he believes it. Not really."

You swallow hard. The night air is warm but it feels suddenly too thick, like the weight of everything you've tried to pretend wasn't real is settling in your chest.

"Suguru…" you try again, but his eyes—God, his eyes—don't let you walk away.

"I mean it," he says quietly. "If you told me right now this wasn't fake anymore… I wouldn't argue."

There's a silence for a moment. The kind that stretches too long. That demands you feel every beat of your heart.

"I didn't think you'd—" You hesitate. "I thought you were just helping. Playing along."

He laughs under his breath. Not mocking. Just soft.

"Pretty one, I've wanted to kiss you since before you asked me to fake date you."

Your breath catches. "Then why didn't you?"

His eyes trace over you, adoringly. "Because you were still getting over him. And you deserve someone who waited."

You blink fast, because that shouldn't make you emotional. But it does.

"And now?" you ask, voice thin.

His hand reaches up to cup your jaw. Gentle, warm. His thumb strokes your cheekbone.

"Now I want to make you forget his name."

Then he kisses you.

It starts soft. Careful. A test—one he passed the second you melt into him.

But you don't stop there. Your fingers curl in his lapel, pulling him closer, and his mouth opens under yours with a sound that's almost a groan. He kisses like he talks—confident, intentional, filthy when he wants to be.

His tongue slides against yours, slow and unhurried, and your knees weaken as his hands find your waist, tugging you closer. One kiss turns into another, then another—sloppy now, messy with heat and champagne and the breathless edge of something long overdue.

You barely register him guiding you back inside the hall, down the elevator, toward the parking garage—only that every time you pause to breathe, he finds your mouth again.

And by the time the elevator doors open, you're not sure whose hands are wandering more—yours or his.

You don't make it to the front seat.

Suguru presses you against the side of the car, shielding you with his broad frame as he fumbles the door open behind you. Your hands are in his shirt, his hands are up your thighs, and the sound of your kiss echoes in the concrete quiet.

"Back seat," he mutters, voice thick and laced with desire.

But as he helps you slide in, Suguru glances back—just briefly—and spots Naoya by the entrance.

Watching.

His gaze narrows for half a second. Then he smirks.

And slowly—deliberately—he shuts the car door behind you, placing himself between Naoya and any view of you, keeping his body a wall of calm, unbothered dominance.

He leans in, just enough for Naoya to catch the line of your bare leg curling around his hip.

Just enough for the bastard to know.

But not enough to see anything else.

Then, with the same deadly serenity, Suguru tilts his head, eyes locked with Naoya's—and smiles.

The kind of smile that says: You lost. And she's mine now.

And then the door shuts with a soft thunk, sealing you both in the dark.

His hand curls around your thigh again, already parting them.

"Now," he murmurs, mouth brushing yours again, "where were we?"

His voice is velvet, dipped in heat and mischief. That little smirk on his lips? Dangerous. Lethal. Yours.

You're already panting, legs parted around his hips, the heat between you threatening to set the whole car on fire.

And that look.

Half-lidded, pupils blown wide, lips kiss-swollen, hair slightly messy from where you tugged it. The kind of man who knows exactly what he's doing to you. The kind of man who would burn the world down just to keep kissing you in peace.

"Back here suits you," he murmurs, palm sliding along your outer thigh, gripping it to pull you deeper into his space. "Like something forbidden."

You let out a shaky breath, fingers curled into his shirt again. "You're not gonna be gentle, are you?"

He huffs a laugh, brushing his lips over your jaw. "You want gentle, or do you want honest?"

You don't answer.

But your hips arch up to meet him.

And that's all the answer he needs.

Suguru kisses you again—messy now, desperate. Your head tilts, mouths crashing, and he groans when you tug his shirt up, your palms splayed across the hard plane of his stomach.

"Shit," he breathes, breaking the kiss only long enough to yank his shirt over his head. You follow, hands dragging along his chest, your mouth peppering kisses across his collarbone, his throat, his shoulder.

"Need to touch you," you whisper.

"You already are," he grins, but it fades quickly as your hands travel lower.

The top of your dress is halfway off when his hands slip the straps, palms warm against your bare skin. He kisses your shoulder, then lower, tongue wet and slow, mouth mapping the skin he's wanted for far too long.

"You don't get it," he mutters against you. "You don't get what it's been like. Watching him have you. Not getting to do this."

He takes the straps of your dress down, exposing you in the dim, foggy glow of the parking garage light bleeding through the window. He just stares.

And stares.

Then curses under his breath like a prayer. "You're so fucking beautiful."

You're not used to him looking like this. Like he's about to lose it.

"You're drunk," you tease softly, trying to keep it light.

"No, I'm honest," he counters, voice raw. "You're drunk. I'm in love."

You freeze.

And he watches for your reaction—eyes searching yours, terrified for the first time tonight. Like he didn't mean to say it here. Not like this.

But he meant it.

And you believe it.

"I—" your voice cracks. "I know. I've known."

He leans forward, foreheads touching.

"I would've waited as long as you needed. But you asked me to fake-date you, and I… couldn't say no. Not when it meant being close."

"Suguru," you whisper, your throat tight.

"Tell me you want this too," he breathes, mouth brushing yours, his voice damn near shaking. "Tell me this isn't just to get back at him. Tell me it's me."

You nod. "It's you, it's always been you."

And just like that, the tension snaps.

He kisses you again, urgent this time, borderline needy, and lifts the bottom of your dress until it crunches into a messy pile around your waist with fingers that tremble just slightly. You do the same, helping him, pulling at his belt, your thighs part with instinct as your bare skin meets the sticky heat of his.

His pants pool at his ankles as he towers over you, belt undone and hanging off the edge of the seat, but neither of you care where it lands. Not when you've got your dress bunched up thighs bare, and Suguru's fingers running adoring lines up the inside of them like he's mapping out constellations he's dreamed of tracing for years.

"You're shaking," you breathe.

"So are you," he whispers, his forehead still against yours. "I can't tell if I'm nervous or just—starving."

Your hand cups his cheek. His eyes flutter shut like your touch could level him.

"Then eat," you murmur.

And he does.

Not with his mouth—not yet—but with the way he sinks two fingers into you, slow and warm, while his lips stay close to yours. He breathes against your mouth as you arch, your back dragging against the leather seat, your hips rolling into him.

"I knew you'd feel like this," he groans. "Knew it from the way you say my name."

You moan when he curls his fingers, pressing into that spot that makes your whole body jerk. He watches your face like it’s art—like it hurts him not to touch more, not to fall apart already.

"Let me see you," he whispers.

The request isn't about your body—it's about the rest of you. Your heart. The cracks. The pieces no one ever stayed long enough to hold.

You spread your legs wider.

And he drops his head to your neck like you've just forgiven him for every wrong he never made.

"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, still pumping slow, his thumb circling your clit with the lightest, most unbearable pressure.

"You," you gasp. "You inside me. I need—Suguru, I need—"

His hand pulls away only to replace it with something much harder, hotter, aching for you.

You reach down and wrap your hand around him, and the sound he makes—low, broken, almost worshipful—sends heat flooding straight to your core.

"Please," you whisper.

"You sure," he pants, pressed right against you now, his tip teasing where you're already soaked. "Once I start—I don’t know if I'll be able to take it slow."

"I don't want slow."

And that's all it takes.

He pushes in with a groan so guttural it nearly breaks you open.

You gasp, eyes rolling back at the stretch burns—delicious, deep, perfect. He fills you like he was made for it. Like your body was just an empty ache waiting to be known by him.

"Fuck, you're tight—don't clench, baby, I'll lose it—"

You do clench. On purpose. Because his voice wrecked you and you want more of it.

"Suguru—please," you whimper.

He starts to move.

Slow at first, savoring it, like he's cataloging every inch of your body he's finally allowed to claim. But it doesn't stay slow for long.

Because the desperation starts to bleed in. his hips snap harder. His mouth never leaves your skin—your throat, your jaw, your lips. The car rocks with each thrust, fogging the windows, swallowing the soft cries that slip from your mouth.

"Wanted this," he gasps into your shoulder. "So long—dreamed of you, fuck—jerked off to the thought of you."

You moan, legs wrapped around him now, ankles locked behind his back.

"I used to imagine how you'd sound," he pants, "but the real thing? God, you ruin me."

He doesn't stop moving.

Doesn't stop touching.

One hand cradles your jaw like he's scared you'll disappear. The other grips your thigh, pulling you open wider so he can push deeper, harder, as if he's trying to etch himself into your body.

Your hips meet every thrust. Your hands fist in his hair.

"I'm close," you breathe, frantic now. "Don’t stop, don’t stop—"

"I've got you," he promises. "Let go, pretty girl. I'm right here.

And when you come—it's not soft.

You melt around him, head thrown back, crying his name like it’s a prayer and a curse all at once. You tighten so hard around him he groans, buried to the hilt, and follows you over the edge with a stuttering thrust and a shaky gasp of your name.

For a long moment, the car is silent saved for your shared, ragged breathing. His forehead rests against your chest. His arms wrapped around you. He's still inside you, and neither of you are in any rush to change that.

You run your fingers through his hair.

He kisses the spot above your heart.

Then he whispers, "you're mine now. No more pretending."

You smile.

"Good," you whisper back. "I was never pretending.

Extra scene:

Your legs were still shaking when he got behind the wheel, one hand lazily resting on the steering wheel, the other draped casually across your thigh like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just pulled your soul out of your body in the backseat of his car. Like he wasn't the smuggest man alive right now.

"You're awfully quiet," Suguru mused, casting you a sideways glance, mouth twitching into a smirk. "Cat got your tongue? Or was it me?"

You groaned, dragging a hand over your face, cheeks burning. "You're insufferable."

"You weren't saying that when you were screaming my—"

"Suguru!"

His laugh rumbled low in his chest, warm and wicked and so pleased with himself. "What? Just helping you relive the moment. Burn it into that pretty little brain of yours."

You swatted at his arm. "You're lucky I didn't die of embarrassment. Or heatstroke. Or orgasm overdose."

"Mm, you say that like I didn't do you a favor. Did you see the look on Naoya's face when I dragged you out of there?" He clicked his tongue. "Poor guy's probably still trying to decide whether to cry or call his therapist."

You leaned your head against the window, huffing a laugh despite yourself. "You're such an asshole."

"And yet…" His hand squeezed your thigh gently, voice dipping low and syrupy. "You still let me ruin your underwear."

Your eyes close in dramatic agony. "I'm never going to hear the end of this, am I?

"Nope." Suguru grinned, pulling to a stop at a red light and turning toward you. "But I might consider shutting up… if you agree to a second date?"

You blinked. "Wait—wasn't this whole thing fake?"

He tilted his head, smile softer now. "Was it?"

The air shifted. The teasing buzzed under your skin still, but beneath it—there was that quiet sincerity in his gaze again. Like he'd meant every kiss, every moan, every whispered "you’re mine".

You swallowed, pulse kicking back up. "Okay," you said, just as softly. "Second date. But you're buying dinner."

"Anything you want, princess."

He didn't take his hand off your thigh the rest of the drive.

[zoro-sremedy]

herro!! is your 500 event still going on?? if so... may i request a nanami fic with the 1 and 14 trope? fluffy and smut because you write it so deliciously 😖

listennnnnnnnnn GREAT CHOICES. i had a BLAST writing this, which is why it's probably a tad bit longer than my usual lmaoo. and thank you so much! it's an honor for me to have someone say my smut is delicious hehehehe

#1 Only one bed & #14 Touch starved, but they don't know how to ask for it / Nanami

Risk assessment Rated R18+. Sexual intercourse, fingering, insinuated godly pvssy eating technique, slight angst, lots of pining, overall awkward to fluff, pet names, some swearing, footsies?

a/n: for ONCE, i ifeel PROUD of myself, Nanami the man that you are inspires me frrrrrrr

The mission hadn't been brutal, but it had been long.

Hours of close calls, tight corners, and the kind of teamwork that pulled old memories back to the surface. You'd forgotten how naturally you and Nanami fell into rhythm—how easily he watched your blind spots, how instinctively your body trusted his.

By the time you reached the sleepy countryside inn the school had booked, you were bone-tired but buzzing, flushed with residual adrenaline and something warmer beneath it.

"Only one bed," the innkeeper said apologetically, eyes darting between the two of you.

Nanami just nodded. Always composed. Always professional.

But the way he adjusted his glasses told you he was thinking about it. Later, in the room, he offered to sleep on the floor. Of course he did.

"I don't bite," you teased, pulling off your jacket with a groan. "And we've shared worse."

He hesitated at the edge of the bed, golden eyes flickering.

"…I'd rather not make you uncomfortable."

"You won't," you say softly. "I trust you."  

And that's what makes him fold. Slowly, cautiously, Nanami slips beneath the covers—on the far side, of course. Spine straight. Hands respectfully folded over his stomach. Like he's bracing for a lecture.

The room is quiet. The lights are off. But sleep doesn't come.

You shift a little closer, your knee brushing his under the blanket.

"Do you always sleep like you're on guard duty?"

He lets out a soft exhale, a ghost of a laugh. "Not always."

"Then relax, Kento," you murmur, voice thick with warmth. "You're safe with me."

A pause.

"…You always say my name like it's something soft," he says.

You smile in the dark. "Because it is."

It takes a few minutes, but you feel it happen—his tension easing, breath evening out. He's still not touching you, but he doesn't pull away when your fingers find his hand under the blanket, tentative and light.

And when you whisper, "Can I…?" as you shift closer, he doesn't answer with words—he just pulls you gently into him. One arm curling around your waist. His touch reverent. Careful.

As if he doesn't believe he's allowed to have this.

As if he's afraid you'll banish in the morning.

And it's quiet.

Not the suffocating kind, just the intimate kind—close, low-breathing, warm-from-shared-skin kind. The kind where every sound is amplified: the rustle of sheets, the faint creak of the mattress, the steady, measured rhythm of Nanami's breathing beside you.

You hadn't meant to get this close.

Not really. It just… happened.

Maybe it was the way his arm curled around your waist like a question he was too afraid to ask. Maybe it was the way your back naturally aligned with the solid heat of his chest, how your bodies seemed to remember how to fit together even if your minds were still catching up.

You're lying so close it's almost unbearable.

The mattress is narrow, barely a full. There's nowhere else for your legs to go but tangled with his. Nowhere for your hand but to rest near his chest—too close to his heart. Nowhere for his eyes to fall but on you, barely lit in the soft spill of hallway light.

"Kento," you whisper, unsure if you want to break the silence—but needing him to hear you. "Are you okay?"

He turns his head. Not quite toward you, not quiet away. "It's nothing."

"It doesn’t feel like nothing."

He swallows hard. "I can't sleep."

"Because of me?"

"… Yes."

You can feel it in the air now, the undeniable pull, the years of unspoken need slowly, silently reaching their boiling point. It presses against you in waves. His chest rising, falling—too steady. His hands flexing slightly on the sheets.

Your bare feet brush against his. Soft. Accidental. But neither of you move away this time. He doesn't flinch. If anything, he… leans in. Shifts just enough for your knees to bump. And then —tentatively—his toes curl around yours.

It's childlike. Gentle. Crushing.

"You shouldn't—" he starts, voice strained. But he doesn't stop. His leg slides just barely between yours, thigh grazing yours. "This is…"

"Too much?" you ask softly.

His hand finds yours under the blanket. He laces your fingers together like he's confessing something. "Too much… for me to pretend I don't want it anymore."

Your breath catches.

When he looks at you again, it's raw—no glasses, no barrier, no polite formality. Just Kento, and the ache in his expression is devastating.

"Come here," you whisper, barely louder than the rustle of the sheets.

And he does.

He leans in slowly, eyes searching for your face, giving you time to pull away. You don't. you meet him halfway, your lips brushing—once, twice, not quiet a kiss, but full of trembling intent. It deepens when you tilt your chin, when your fingers slip into his shirt.

His lips part against yours—warm, soft, adoring—and he kisses you like he's afraid it's the only time he'll be allowed. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek. He sighs into you. And that's what it is—a sigh—not a groan, not a growl, not yet.

This is still quiet. Still trembling. Still tender.

Your hand slips under his shirt, exploring the slope of his chest, the soft trail of hair beneath his navel. He shudders. When you tug lightly at the fabric, he pauses, breath held.

"Can I?" you ask.

He nods once. "Please."

You push his shirt up, and he sits up just enough to help you pull it over his head. His skin is warm, flushed. Golden even in the dark. When you press your palms to his bare chest, he gasps—not because it's too much, but because it’s finally happening.

"I've wanted this," he says lowly, "for so long."

"So take your time," you murmur, letting your fingers trail to his waistband. "You don't have to rush."

He doesn't.

He kisses you again—slower, deeper this time, with hands now on your waist. They slide under your shirt, palms worshipful on your skin. He lifts the fabric inch by inch until you raise your arms to help him out of everything that prevents him from being as close as humanly possible to you, and the way his breath catches at the sight of you is worth everything.

"You're beautiful," he says like it hurts. "I don't think I ever let myself say that."

"You can now," you whisper.

He bends down to kiss your chest, your sternum, the slope of one breast. His hands cup you gently, like you're breakable. His tongue flicks against your skin, warm and slow, and it makes your back arch into him.

Then his mouth lingers there—just above your heart.

You can feel it beat under his lips. He kisses that spot softly. It makes you ache.

Your hands move down to undo his belt, but he catches them. "Let me."

And he does—slowly, keeping his eyes on you as he strips the last pieces of clothing from both of you. There's no rush. No frantic hands. Just slow, hungry want. He kisses your hips, the soft swell of your stomach, the curve of your thigh. He groans under his breath when he sees the wetness already pooling at your center.

And when he lies between your thighs and just breathes—doesn't even touch yet, just lets the heat of his breath ghost over your slick folds—it has your whole body trembling.

"I could die like this," he says quietly.

You laugh—too breathless to mean it. "You haven't even—"

"I know." He looks up, eyes dark. "And I mean it anyway."

When he finally touches you, it's with adoration. He learns what makes you gasp, what makes you tremble, what makes your thighs shake around his shoulders. His fingers press inside you slowly, and he groans when he feels how tight and wet you already are. He lets you ride the edge, pulls you apart with his mouth and hands until you're gripping his hair, begging—please, please, please—

He crawls back up your body, hard cock dragging against your inner thigh, and finally—finally—he whispers against your lips:

"Let me have you."

And when he enters you—slow, steady, thick and deep—it's not just sex.

It's everything you've both been denying.

… And it's all written on his face.

Nanami doesn't just move inside you—he sinks. Like he's been searching for this moment in every stretch of silence, every passing glance, every time he forced himself to look away. Like every second of restraint was building toward this—toward the feeling of you wrapped around him, warm and trembling and utterly, impossibly his.

"God," he breathes, voice wrecked, hands gripping your hips like he's not sure he'll survive this. "You feel—so good. So fucking good…"

His rhythm is slow, deliberate—like he's trying to remember every inch of you from the inside out. Every thrust is deep, drawn-out, dragging against the heat inside you in a way that has your back arching, your fingers clawing to his shoulders.

You moan his name and his breath hitches again.

"Kento—"

His head drops to your shoulder, and he shudders against your skin. "Say it again," he whispers. "Please… please say it again."

"Kento." you pant it now, a breathy prayer. "You're so deep—I can feel you everywhere."

He groans—needy and rough—hips stuttering just once before he reins himself back in. You can feel him trembling, like the effort to hold himself back is unraveling him one second at a time.

"Don't wanna hurt you," he breathes, lips brushing your neck, your jaw, your mouth. "But god, the way you take me… it's—fuck, it's perfect. You're perfect."

You tilt your hips up, and he nearly sobs from how it makes you squeeze around him.

"Are you gonna break for me?" he whispers, one hand sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and stroking soft, slow circles. "Let me feel you—please, sweetheart, I need to feel you come on me."

The nickname—soft, lovingly—makes your stomach flip. So does the look on his face: flushed and glassy-eyed, hair mussed from your fingers, jaw slack with awe. Like he can't believe you're real.

"I'm—" you gasp. "I'm close—don't stop—"

He doesn't. He matches your rhythm, thrusts turning just a little sharper, rougher, his control slipping right alongside yours. And when you finally break—legs trembling, breath stuttering, nails sinking into his skin—he moans something low and devastated and spills inside you with a hoarse, "fuck—yes, yes, I've got you, I've got you—"

He holds you there. Not just physically—buried deep inside you, wrapped around your body—but emotionally. Like if he lets go now, he'll never find you again.

And when the shaking slows and your breathing evens out, he doesn't move. Doesn't pull away. He just presses a kiss to your temple and lets out a long, shaky breath.

"I didn't think I'd ever get to have this with you," he murmurs.

You turn your head, brushing your nose against his. "You have it. You have me."

The next kiss is softer than all the others—no desperation now, no ache. Just quiet, bone-deep affection. When he finally pulls the covers over both of you and tucks you into his side, you feel it in the way he holds you.

He's not letting go.

[zoro-sremedy]

[zoro-sremedy]

Hey babes, I’ll be closing down this at the end of the week so if anyone is thinking/wants any of these tropes, this is your last chance 💖💖💖💖

500 FOLLOWERS MILESTONE!

I am SO SO SO grateful to everyone who has supported me! I left this platform a long time ago and came back on a whim, never thought it would mean starting over this beautiful journey as a writer again.

Once again, thank you so much for your support and love, it means everything to me! <3

I never introduced myself, so here's a brief summary of silly little me:

My name is Dex, I am 27 (almost 28) y/o, I am a doctor where I'm from. I've been writing on and off since I was 14 (y'know how it is). My favorites currently are Geto, Sukuna, Nanami, Toji. And my forever fave is obvs in my name Zoro.

Fav tropes? enemies to lover, angst with good ending, bad guy falls in love, etc... the good stuff lmaoo

Maybe one day I'll share a pic, until then. I'm at your service to bring happiness and entertainment to relax from the outside world!

As a gift, i got this:

🎉 500 Followers—Let’s Go Off, JJK Style. 🎉

Choose a trope below + a character from Jujutsu Kaisen and send it to my ask box! Want fluff/romance, angst, or smut? Add a tag: 🌸​❤️ 🔥 (Multiple requests welcome! I’ll write what calls to me 💌)

Pick a trope + a JJK character = I’ll write it (fluff, angst, smut—your choice 💌)

Only One Bed (and they sleep suspiciously close…)

Enemies to Lovers (with gritted teeth and heavy breathing)

Drunk Confessions / Sloppy Kisses (bonus: who pretends not to remember?)

Fake Dating to Piss Someone Off… oops.

Jealousy Sex (or just petty grumpiness + kisses)

Friends with Benefits But Someone Catches Feelings

Caught in the Rain (and no umbrella, of course)

Bandaging Them Up… Carefully… Too Carefully.

"You Call That Flirting?" (they absolutely meant it)

Wearing Their Clothes / Hoodie Scene™

Trapped Together (elevator, mission cave-in, blizzard, etc.)

Accidental Confession (that they try—and fail—to walk back)

Exes Who Still Want Each Other (but won’t say it out loud)

Touch-Starved, But They Don’t Know How to Ask for It

“I Hate Everyone But You” (and they mean it)

[zoro-sremedy]

#1 Only one bed & #2 Enemies to lovers Toji

Risk assessment Rated R18+. Smut, Toji itself is a risk, cursing, bit of violence, no protection, fingering, sex, some feelings at the end.

a/n: it would be illegal not doing this classic, honestly. Call it self-indulgence, if you will.

You were told he'd be your partner on this assignment only twenty minutes before deployment.

Twenty minutes to digest the fact you'd be sharing a safehouse with Toji Fushiguro—the same man who once left you bleeding in an alley because "you looked like you had it handled."

And he smirked when he said it, too.

Now? You're stuck in a dusty little apartment above a closed-down ramen shop, posed as newlyweds for cover. One bedroom. One bed. One knife you're genuinely considering using.

"You're taking up all the blanket," you mutter through clenched teeth on night one.

"Yeah?" he grumbles, half-asleep and shirtless. "Cry about it."

You tug hard. He yanks it back, his calloused hand brushing your thigh beneath the sheet. You both go rigid.

He doesn't move. Neither do you. The heat between you? Lethal.

Eventually, you roll away with a muttered curse and a vow to stab him with a spork the next chance you get.

Day 3: you wake up in his arms.

Your first instinct is to elbow him in the ribs.

Your second is to scream at how insanely good he smells in the morning—spice and sweat and whatever brand of godless soap he uses that makes your thighs clench.

He smiles like he knows.

"I knew you'd come around eventually," he murmurs.

"Die."

You escape to the shower, slam the door, and absolutely do not finger yourself thinking about how his voice sounds in your ear.

Day 5: Surveillance duty. You sit together on the floor, backs against the wall, eyes on the laptop feed. Your legs keep bumping. His arms keep brushing yours. He's too close.

"Got a problem, sweetheart?" he asks, low.

"Yes. Your proximity to oxygen."

He chuckles, head tilting. "You're cute when you're pissy."

You shove him hard. He lets you.

But when his hand settles on your knee minutes later, warm and heavy, you don't move it.

Not right away.

—

Day seven: You fight. Loudly. Violently. A bottle shatters. The mission's stressful. You're unraveling. He shouts. You scream. You tell him he's reckless, stupid, selfish.

He tells you you're scared to admit you like him.

And then he says the worst thing he could possibly say.

"You've been dreaming about me."

Your silence gives you away.

His grin turns smug. Sinful. Hungry.

"You're sick," you hiss, breath catching.

"Yeah?" he steps in your space. "So make me better."

You're nose to nose. Breathing hard. Ready to kill each other or fuck each other—or both.

But he doesn't kiss you.

Not yet.

Just leans in close and whispers, "tell me you don't want me."

You can't.

And he knows it.

The air between you is humid with rage and something darker.

"You're so fucking smug," you spit, chest heaving. "I should've slit your throat night one."

Toji's close. Closer than he should be. He smells like heat and something wild, and he tilts his head just enough to make your blood boil.

"Yeah?" he rasps, voice low and thick. "That's why you keep lookin' at my mouth, princess?"

"Go to hell."

"Thought I already did. That's how I met you, right?"

You slap him. He grabs your wrist.

And then it snaps.

The distance.

The denial.

Your restraint.

Mouths crash like fists. Teeth clash. Your hands tangle in his shirt. His fingers fist in your hair. It's not a kiss—it's a war. It's years of snarled insults and long stares and quiet want, all condensed into heat.

He backs you up against the wall, dragging his mouth down your jaw to your throat, biting hard—too hard—and you moan through it.

"Say it," he growls, breath hot against your collarbone. "Say you want this."

"I want to break your jaw."

His hands slips under your shirt, grabs a fistful of your chest. "Do it after you come."

—

His mouth is on yours before either of you can pretend there's restraint left.

Hot. Furious. Addictive.

And when he gets you on your back—rough hands tugging your pants down, dragging his fingers through the slick mess between your legs like he owns it—it's all downhill from there.

"You're soaked," he growls against your jaw, teeth scraping skin. "All that mouth, and this greedy little pussy's been dying for me, huh?"

You almost argue. Almost. But then he's pushing two thick fingers in, scissoring you open—no finesse, just purpose—and you can barely breathe around the stretch.

It's a preview. Just a tease.

Because then he's unzipping his pants, fisting the base of his cock with a low hiss, and fuck—

He's massive.

Not just long, but thick—heavy, veiny, flushed dark with want. It twitches in his grip like it knows where it belongs.

"Can barely fit a fist around it, huh?" he mutters, catching your stare. He smirks, leans in, brushes your lips with his. "Still gonna make it fit."

You choke on a breath. "You're gonna break me."

"'That a complaint?"

"No."

"Didn't think so."  

He lines up, rubs the swollen tip through your slick folds—back and forth, torturously slow—before pressing in. Not fast. Not gentle either. Just… deliberate. Dominant.

You gasp—head tipping back, hands clutching his arms—as he pushes deeper, inch by inch.

Your walls stretch obscenely around him, fluttering helplessly with every slow drive forward. He's not even fully in and you already feel full—too full.

And still he keeps going.

"Fuck, you're tight," he growls, jaw clenched. "Taking me so fuckin' good—squeezing like you don't wanna let me go."

You whimper, nails dragging down his biceps. "I don't."

Toji's eyes darken—like something in him snaps—and then he bottoms out with a rough thrust that steals that breath from your lungs.

The stretch is insane.

He's thick enough to force your legs wider, long enough to make your belly ache from the inside out. You can feel him in your stomach. Every vein. Every pulse.

And when he pulls back and slams in again—wet, filthy, perfect—you see stars.

"You'll never forget this cock," he growls into your neck. "Even if you hate me tomorrow."

You won't.

You can't.

Because nothing has felt like this. No one fills you like he does.

Toji fucks you like he's starving. Like it's not just hate and list—it's something darker, deeper, and clawing to crawl out of your chest.

He's relentless now, pace brutal, hips snapping into yours like he wants to mark the shape of his cock into your cunt for good. You're soaked. Wrecked. Slick running down your thighs, slapping skin, your body bouncing with every ruthless thrust.

"You hear that?" he pants into your ear, voice soaked in filth. "That fuckin' squelch—listen to that pussy talkin' for you. Beggin'. So fuckin' cock-drunk."

You sob out something that isn't a word—because it's true.

You're nothing but sensation now. Dizzy from how deep he hits. From the brutality of his length, how your walls stretch tight around his girth every time he drives in to the hilt.

His hand slips between you, thumb rubbing messy circles over your clit.

"C'mon, come for me. So I can fuck you through it—feel this greedy little cunt squeeze the life outta me."

You fall apart so fast it's embarrassing.

Your orgasm hits like a truck, legs locking, spine arching off the floor as you scream his name—raw and ragged and fucked.

And Toji doesn't stop.

He keeps fucking into you, chasing his own high like he's losing his mind, cock twitching, his grip turning bruising.

Then he growls—low and guttural—and slams in one last time, deeper than ever, thick cock throbbing as he spills inside you. Hot. Endless. So much you can feel it leak out the second he pulls back to admire the mess.

"Fuck," he breathes, looking down at the slick between your thighs, the cum dripping out of you. He drags a finger through it and presses it back in. "Look at that. Messy fuckin' slut."

But his voice is… softer now.

Ragged, sure, but not cruel.

He stares at you. Still panting. Still looming above you like a storm, but there's something new in his gaze—confused, maybe. Unspoken.

His hands finds your face, fingers brushing sweat-soaked hair from your forehead.

"You okay?"

You blink. A laugh bubbles up—breathe, hoarse. "Now you ask?"

He doesn't smile, but his thumb lingers on your cheek.

"Didn't mean to go that rough," he mutters, eyes tracing over you like he's memorizing every bruise. "Didn't mean to… fuck."

You shift, trying to sit up—but your legs shake.

Toji's hands are there immediately, steadying you, catching you before you fall.

"I got you," he murmurs.

And he does. It's rough. It's confusing. It's silent, mostly. But he helps you clean up. Pulls your shirt over your head. Finds a blanket. Doesn't say a word when you tuck yourself into his side after.

He just stays there.

Letting you rest your head on his chest.

Letting you pretend none of this means anything.

Even if it already does.

—

You wake up to the sound of rain tapping against the window.

Your body aches—in the good way, in the ruined way. Your thighs are sore, lips swollen, skin marked up with teeth and bruises.

You shift, and a low grunt sounds behind you.

He's still here.

Toji Fushiguro.

Lying in the same bed, breathing the same air, wrapped around you like he belongs there.

You should shove him off.

You should get up, say something cruel, reset the line that you both blurred to hell.

But his arm is draped over your waist. His hand is splayed across your stomach. And he's warm—solid and real and radiating the kind of safety you've never admitted you wanted from him.

"…You good?" he murmurs against your shoulder, voice sleep-rough and stupidly gentle.

You swallow. "Didn't think you'd still be here."

"Didn't think you'd let me stay."

You almost laugh. It comes out breathy. "I didn't. You just didn't leave."

Toji hums like that's fair. His hand moves slowly, fingers brushing over a faint bruise on your hip, where his grip had been a little too tight.

You flinch.

He freezes. Then—

"…Sorry."

You twist just enough to glance back at him, and it guts you how sincere he looks. Eyes soft, brows drawn, mouth downturned in something painfully unfamiliar: guilt.

He looks like a man who doesn't get to say sorry often.

And you? You've never heart it from him. Not once.

"It's fine," you say, but your voice cracks.

"It's not."

There's a pause.

And then he shifts, pulling you fully into him, face tucked into the curve of your neck, lips pressing there once—slow, almost adoring.

"I didn't just fuck you last night," he says quietly.

You tense.

He holds you tighter.

"I wanted you," he mutters, barely audible. "Even when I hated you. Especially then."

Your throat burns.

"…You didn't hate me."

Toji exhales a laugh. It's warm. A little broken.

"No," he admits. "Didn't know what to do with you. Still don't."

You lie like that for a while.

No arguments. No biting words. Just his chest against your back, the steady thrum of his heart syncing with yours, and the rain outside softening the sharp edges of the world.

When he speaks again, it's barely above a whisper.

"You still gonna stab me?"

You breathe in slow. Turn to face him fully this time.

"Not today."

And he smiles.

Not smug. Not cocky.

Soft.

Like maybe—for the first time in a long time—he's thinking about something other than running, killing, surviving.

Maybe he's thinking about you.

[zoro-sremedy]

#8 Bandaging them up... Carefully... Too carefully. Satoru/Suguru

Risk assessment rated R18+. Smut, angst, blood mention, fluff at the very end, some sort of yandere-ish behaviour on Geto, sorryy.

a/n: someone in the comments asked for #8 with satoru and suguru, so here it is!

GOJO SATORU—"THE FIRST TIME HE LETS YOU BLEED INTO HIM"

It's only a scratch.

That's what you said.

Over and over, through gritted teeth and trembling hands.

But by the time you're in the safehouse—collapsed on the edge of his couch, coat peeled off, shirt soaked through with blood—it doesn't look like just a scratch anymore. It looks like something trying to take you away from him.

You're pale. Breathing shallow.

Still trying to smile through it.

"Satoru," you murmur weakly, "I've had worse—"

"Shut up." His voice cracks.

It's quiet, no bite. Just full of something breaking.

He kneels in front of you, hands hovering. Not touching. Not yet. You see it in the twitch of his jaw: the Infinity's still up. Still between you. Still making you feel far away from him, even now.

"I need to…" He swallows. "I have to clean it. You're gonna need stitches. I—"

"Then touch me."

Your voice is barely there. "You can't clean it like that."

You feel it the moment he lets go of it—like air rushing back into your lungs. Like he's finally… here. His hands—big, warm, trembling—ghost over your bare skin. And it's almost too much, the way he touches you. Like you're porcelain. Like the blood, your blood, is staining him in ways he'll never recover from.

His fingers dab antiseptic over the gash in your side, shaky and slow. His breathing's uneven.

"You're always so reckless," he murmurs, voice low, trembling. "Why the hell would you jump in front of me like that?"

"I didn't jump." You try to smile. "I fell. Stylishly."

He lets out a laugh—dry, cracked open—and rests his forehead against your shoulder. "You're not allowed to die before me. That's the rule."

"I didn't know we had rules."

"We do now."

He bandages you up slowly, carefully, too carefully. His hands linger too long. His eyes flicker to your face like he's memorizing the shape of you. You've never seen him this undone. Never seen the mask fall like this.

And when he finishes, still kneeling in front of you, still touching your skin like he's afraid you'll disappear again—something shifts.

His hand slips down your thigh. Just enough pressure to make you gasp.

"Don't look at me like that," he says hoarsely.

"Like what?"

"Like you're mine."

Your breath catches.

He leans in—mouth brushing your ear. "Because if you do that, I'm not gonna be able to stop."

And you don't want him to. Not now. Not when he's finally here.

You lean back, let your legs fall open where you're seated, letting him fit between them.

"Then don't," you whisper.

He kisses you.

It's not slow. It's not sweet. It's raw—like he's been dying to do it for years. Tongue deep, hands cupping your jaw, body crowding yours until you're pressed against the couch cushions. He groans into your mouth, like he's starving for the taste of you. Like kissing you is how he'll survive.

Your shirt is halfway off—blood-stained and forgotten—when he pulls back to stare at you, eyes heavy, blue burning with heat.

"I need you," he says.

"You have me."

He undoes his belt with one hand, not breaking eye contact.

And when he pushes your underwear aside—slides two fingers through your slick, groans low and desperate—it's like something cracks in him.

"Fuck," he mutters. "You're already this wet?"

"For you," you breathe, arching into his touch. "Always for you."

He doesn't rush it. Not this. Not when you're already hurt. He lays you back gently pushing in with slow, aching precision, one hand gripping yours while the other holds your hip stills.

And when he's inside you—deep, thick, slow—you both just breathe, you feel the weight of him, the heat, the want. He groans your name into your shoulder, like a prayer. Like an apology.

His thrusts are slow at first. Rhythmic. Grinding.

But the tension in him—the fear, the need, the guilt—builds with every movement.

You kiss his jaw, his temple, run your fingers through his white hair.

"I'm okay," you whisper. "I'm right here."

And he breaks.

He fucks you like he's scared you'll vanish. Like he needs to memorize every sound you make, every squeeze of your body around him. Your blood may have stained his hands, but he lets you fill him in a way nothing else ever could.

When you come—clenching around him with a soft cry—he doesn't pull out. He groans, mouth at your ear, "gonna fill you up, baby. Let me stay. Let me—"

And you nod, holding him tighter. "Stay. Please, stay."

He spills inside you with a trembling breath.

And for the first time, you feel him completely.

No infinity. No distance. Just him. Just you.

And everything in between.

GETO SUGURU—"IF YOU DIE, I'LL KILL EVERYONE"

You wake up somewhere unfamiliar.

It's quiet—too quiet— and the lights are low. You try to move, but a dull, raw ache shoots through your body, sharpest near your ribs. Your breath hitches. The pain is real.

But his voice finds you before your panic does.

"Hey. Don't move."

Suguru's sitting next to you. Shoulders tense. Eyes unreadable.

You're one of his safehouses, you realize. The one on the outskirts. No cursed energy here, no lingering pressure. Just a sterile bed, quiet walls, and him—looking more unhinged that you've ever seen him.

"What happened?" you whisper.

He stares at you like he's trying to remember how to breathe.

"You almost fucking died," he says.

You blink, try to sit up—but he stops you, large hand splaying across your chest, holding you with quiet force, his palm trembles.

"I said don't move."

Your voice cracks. "Suguru, I—"

"You were bleeding out. Alone." His tone breaks. "Do you have any idea how that looked? What it did to me?"

You go quiet.

He reaches down and grabs a half-used roll of gauze from the side table. His hands are gentle, but shaky as he pulls up the hem of your shirt—blood-stained, sliced, clinging to you like a second skin. He starts unwrapping the old bandage around your waist, slow and methodical, jaw clenched.

"Didn't even fucking call me," he mutters. "Just laid there, bleeding like a dog."

"I didn't think it was that bad…"

His hands freeze.

You flinch when he looks at you.

"Next time," he says, voice so low it's threatening," if you don't call me—if I have to find you like that again—I'll wipe out every damn thing between you and me. I'll level whole cities. I swear to god."

Your breath stutters.

Not because you don't believe him—but because you do.

And it's not a threat. It's a promise.

He turns back to your wound, breath shaky. Cleans it more tenderly than anyone ever has. His fingers—always steady when cursing, killing, controlling—shake when they touch you.

Too careful. Like he can't risk losing even one more inch of your skin.

"I don't care about the mission," he says quietly. "I care about you. That means you don't die first. Ever."

You reach for his hand, thread your fingers through his.

"I'm here," you whisper.

But he doesn't believe it—not really—until he's buried inside you.

He strips you slowly, layer by layer, until your body is bare and bandaged, aching and warm. He kisses his way up your side, just beside the gauze, lips reverent like he's kissing over bullet holes. He pushes your legs apart and sinks with a deep groan, the kind that scrapes from the bottom of his throat.

His thrusts are slow. Heavy. Like grief.

He fucks you like you're still bleeding. Like every push inside you is keeping you alive. His mouth hovers at your ear, whispering over and over.

"You're okay."

"You're safe now."

"You're mine."

You hold him close, nails digging into his shoulders, the stretch of him deep and grounding. Your bodies move together like prayer—sticky, desperate, aching with emotion. His hips stutter when you whimper his name, and he shudders.

"You don't get to leave me," he rasps. "You don't ever get to leave me."

"I won't," you breathe. "I'm right here, Suguru. I'm right here—"

When you cum, it's with your face pressed to his neck, a gasp locked in your throat. Your cunt clenches tight around him, and he lets out a guttural groan, fingers digging into your waist.

He doesn't pull out. He doesn't ask.

He stays buried in you when he spills—deep and hot—mouth crushed to your skin like he's afraid the world might end if he stops kissing you.

When it's over, he holds you there, panting into your chest. His arms curl around you tightly, too tightly, until it hurts—but you don't tell him to stop.

Because you're alive.

Because he still has you.

And that's the only thing keeping the world safe tonight.

[zoro-sremedy]

The battlefield is his throne

[zoro-sremedy]

yayy!! 500 followers!! even though i feel like you should have more than that!

may i ask for the floofy "i hate everyone but you" with my fav dilf toji?

awww thank you, I started writing like in May? So I'm very surprised how fast the following count is going (I'm nearing 600 just since i said i had 500 wooo) I'm very happy, and also my work is getting a lot of track so i'm amazed and thankful to everyone who comments, reblogs, or just likes my work. It means everything to me <3

p.s: great choice on the trope! i loved this one

Risk assessment rated T+. Fluffiness, Toji is an old grump in love, bit of angst if you squeeze, deep domestic vibes, emotional vulnerability.

FUSHIGURO TOJI—"I DON'T LIKE PEOPLE. BUT I LIKE YOU."

The first time Toji hears you laugh—really laugh, like your whole body's in it, like the sound surprises even you—he stares a second too long.

You're across the room, on the phone with someone. He doesn't know who. Doesn't care. But you're smiling, all easy and open, and it irritates something in him.

Not because he hates your laugh. But because he doesn't hear it enough

—

You're too soft for this world. You talk to people like they haven't already disappointed you. You give them the benefit of the doubt. You help stray animals. You give him a second chance.

And for some damn reason, you've made space for him in your life like it's the most natural thing in the world.

A man like him. Who's doing things. Seen things. Been reduced to a paycheck and a curse.

You curl into his chest at night like his arms are home.

It terrifies him.

He doesn't say "I love you."

He doesn't even say "I like you."

But he does carry you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch. He makes sure your doors are locked, that you don't walk alone, that your phone is charged. He cooks. He stays. He watches you breathe sometimes—quiet, late at night—like he's making sure you're still here.

He lets you in. Piece by piece.

—

One morning, he's grumbling in the kitchen because you left your keys in the fridge again.

You shuffle out, sleepy, and mumble: "Don't be mad at me, grump."

He turns, tired and narrowing. "I'm always mad. That's my baseline."

You snort, kiss his bare shoulder, and go for the coffee.

Then—halfway to the sink—you pause. You feel it. That slow, lingering weight of his stare on your back.

"What?" you ask.

A beat passes.

"I don't like people," he mutters.

You raise a brow. "Yes, baby. I'm aware."

"No," he says, voice lower this time. "I don't like people. I don't trust them. I don’t talk to them. I don’t want to be around them. Ever."

You blink. Turn.

He's looking at you now—tired and rough and a little unsure, like the words feel strange in his mouth.

"But I like you."

It's quiet.

You walk up to him slow. Slide your arms under his shirt. "Yeah?"

"I like you more than I want to," he says softly. "More than I should."

Your chest aches.

"I don't care what you should or shouldn't do," you murmur. "I'm just glad you do."

—

That night, you curl into his chest like always, and his hand slides around your back without hesitation.

"Sleep," he grumbles.

"You holding me?"

He exhales into your hair.

"I always do."

[zoro-sremedy]

One day I woke up and everybody knew what a labubu was

[zoro-sremedy]

trope 8 with Choso or Kento.. Definitely angst to smutt?

Imma be honest, i've never tried to write for Choso but i tried my best, he might sound a little OC if I'm honest...

#8 Bandaging them up... Carefully... Too carefully. / Choso/ Nanami.

Risk assessment rated R18+. Sex without protection and making out post injury, making out, angsty, idk man i tried.

CHOSO KAMO—"STAY STILL"

The door shuts too quietly behind you. That’s the first sign something’s wrong.

The second is the silence.

And then—

“Sit.”

You glance up. Choso is already halfway across the room, his jaw clenched tight, his voice low. His eyes aren’t on your face—they’re on the blood at your temple, the way your jacket sticks to your side.

“Choso—”

“I said sit.”

You do, slowly, every bone in your body screaming as you drop onto the edge of the couch.

He kneels in front of you, pulling the med kit from under the table, and when he opens it, his hands tremble.

You try to smile, soften him. “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not,” he murmurs, grabbing gauze and disinfectant. “You’re hurt. You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“I know.” His voice breaks. “That’s what scares me.”

The bottle cap clicks open. The pad soaks red before it even reaches your skin.

“You should’ve called me,” he mutters. “I would’ve come.”

You flinch. You don’t tell him that someone else did come. That someone else is dead now. You don’t want that guilt on his shoulders too.

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

Choso pauses. Slowly—very slowly—he looks up at you. The look in his eyes is something like heartbreak and rage trapped in a trembling cage.

“You could’ve died.”

“But I didn’t.”

“You almost did. I can smell it on you. Death. It touched you.”

His voice isn’t loud, but it sinks into you like teeth.

You try to say something—anything—but all that comes out is a shaky breath.

He doesn’t speak again. Not when he presses the alcohol to your skin and you hiss. Not when he tears the edge of your shirt to reach your ribs. Not when he sees the deep purple bruises blooming across your stomach.

But he touches you like he’s memorizing every inch. Too carefully. Too reverently. His hands keep brushing over you—more than necessary. Not cleaning. Not bandaging.

Just... touching.

“I’m here,” you whisper, hand curling around his wrist. “Let me be here.”

That’s all it takes.

—

The kiss starts like a crack splitting through the silence.

He pulls you into him, lips clashing against yours like he's afraid you'll slip away if he doesn't feel you—really feel you. Your hands tangled in his hair as you pull him closer, gasping as his tongue finds yours, as his teeth catch your bottom lip.

He lifts you—strong arms wrapping around your waist, injured or not—he lays you back on the couch.

"You should rest," he murmurs against your throat.

"I will," you breathe. "After this. After you."

He kisses down your body, hands moving slowly, as if he's trying to undo the bruises. His mouth his hot and open as it presses against scrape and bloodied line.

"You're alive," he whispers, almost to him. "You're really alive."

"Choso…" Your voice cracks. "Please. I need—"

"I know." He looks up at your from between your legs, eyes burning. "Let me take care of you."

His hands drag your pants down, slow and reverent. You're sore, raw, aching all over—and yet the way he touches you is enough to make you throb. Not from lust alone, but want. That need to feel wanted, to feel safe, to live in his hands.

He leans in, warm breath over your core. "I need to taste you. I need to remind myself."

And gods, when his mouth touches you—it's devotion. He licks slow, patient stripes through your folds, groaning against you when your hips jerk. His tongue curls inside you and you moan, the sound hoarse from exhaustion and relief.

Your hands grip his hair like lifelines.

"Choso—fuck—please—"

"Say it," he pants, voice dark. "Say you're mine. Say you came back to me."

You don't hesitate. "I'm yours. I came home to you."

That's when he breaks.

He pulls his clothes off, fast and messy—doesn't care when they land. He spreads your legs with hands that shake and lines himself up.

"Don't look away," you beg.

He presses his forehead to yours. "I never do."

When he pushes inside, it's not rough—but it's deep. Too deep. You cry out, legs locking around his waist, clinging to him as if you're still scared of being torn apart.

He kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheeks, you're eyelids. He murmurs things you don't fully hear—maybe prayers. Maybe pleas.

He thrusts slowly at first. Controlled. Focused.

But it doesn’t stay that way.

You feel him lose it, gradually—hips grinding harder, the rhythm slipping from reverence to something needy. Like he fucks you hard enough, he can erase what almost happened. He can rewrite it.

You mean into his mouth, and he groans into yours, and together it all crumbles into gasping and sweat and clutching fingers and bodies that are sore and scare but still here.

When  you come, it rips through you like a sob.

When he does, it's with your name on his lips like a vow.

Afterwards, he stays on top of you, arms wrapped tight around your sides. Still inside you. Still holding you like a fragile thing he refuses to let go of.

"You wait for me next time," he whispers into your hair.

"I will," you promise, still breathless. "Next time… I come home to you."

Always.

NANAMI KENTO—"YOU SHOULDN'T BE THE ONE BLEEDING"

You barely make it through the door before you’re collapsing onto the couch.

Blood loss. Fractured ribs. A deep gash along your side that you didn’t have time to seal.

You hear his footsteps before you see him. Heavy, calm, deliberate.

“Kento…”

He doesn’t speak. Not at first.

You look up—and his eyes are dark. Quietly furious. And for once, it’s not at the system.

It’s not about duty.

It’s about you.

“You’re injured,” he says, already moving, already reaching for the medical kit. “Why didn’t you call me?”

You try to laugh. It comes out shaky. “Didn’t want you to worry.”

Nanami kneels in front of you.

And he says—quietly, flatly—

“I was already worried. I just didn’t know why yet.”

—

He unbuttons your shirt with fingers that move too carefully. When he peels the fabric back and sees the wound—a deep, ugly slash across your side—his breath hitches.

“Who did this to you?”

You shake your head. “Handled. Barely.”

His jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t be the one bleeding.”

You smile weakly. “Someone had to. You were busy saving lives. I saved mine.”

The silence is heavy. His hands are steady as he cleans the wound, but his eyes don’t leave your skin. You watch his brow furrow with concentration, watch the way he dabs around the gash instead of on it—because he doesn’t want to hurt you, even now.

“Kento,” you whisper.

His gaze flickers up.

“I’m okay. I lived.”

“You could have died,” he says, voice low and tense. “And I wasn’t there.”

“But I’m here now.”

He says nothing.

So you touch his wrist. Your fingers wrap around it, light but certain.

“I’m here,” you say again. “Touch me like I’m not a ghost.”

The shift is subtle, but undeniable.

His mouth finds yours like it’s breathing you in. Like you’re proof he’s not in a dream or a nightmare. You part your lips for him, soft and aching and sore all over, but he doesn’t push—he just melts into you.

When he lays you back, it’s not with urgency.

It’s with grief.

And want.

And something you can’t name except to say he missed you—and not just for the hours you were gone, but for the seconds he feared you wouldn’t return.

“You should be resting,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles over your cheek.

“I will,” you whisper. “Let me have this first.”

He nods. Slowly. Like he understands this isn’t about sex—it’s about survival. About feeling. About still being here.

His hands skim your skin with reverence. No rushing. No pulling. He undresses you like every motion is sacred—like every part of you, even bruised and bloodied, is holy.

When he slides your underwear off, his hands pause. His lips brush your inner thigh.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“I’m scared it’ll fade,” you admit. “This. You. Everything.”

He kisses you slowly.

“I won’t let it.”

When he enters you, it’s not with heat—it’s with worship. He fills you in one deep, slow thrust, and the groan he lets out is almost pained.

You cling to him, arms wrapped around his back, breath caught in your throat.

“Is this okay?” he asks, voice wrecked.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, Kento.”

He moves gently at first—deep, slow rolls of his hips, like he’s trying not to let go. But the longer it goes, the more his restraint frays.

You feel it—the trembling. The aching need. The way he kisses your neck with teeth, the way he gasps your name into your mouth.

“You scared me,” he confesses, breaking rhythm for a moment. “I’ve lost too many people. I can’t lose you too.”

“You won’t,” you promise, holding him tighter. “You won’t.”

He fucks you harder then. Still slow—but intense. Deep. Unrelenting. Each thrust feels like a vow. You gasp against his neck, body curling around his, and he groans when you clench around him.

“Kento—”

“I’ve got you,” he pants. “I’ve got you.”

When you come, it’s like letting go of the fear. When he comes, it’s with a broken moan and his name in your mouth.

After, he holds you to his chest, still deep inside you, not moving, not speaking.

You’re both breathing hard. Still trembling.

“I’m not leaving you again,” he whispers into your hair.

You press a kiss to his throat.

“You better not.”

[zoro-sremedy]

affirmations for writers: i know how to write. i have seen sentences before, and i know how to make one. i can identify up to several words and their meanings. i am not afraid of semicolons.

[zoro-sremedy]

Nanami is the type of husband to start feeding you (yes, this man does the cooking) extra, extra nutrition-rich meals + vitamins + anything else you crave months before he even confesses that he wants to pound you pregnant. 

[zoro-sremedy]

500 FOLLOWERS MILESTONE!

I am SO SO SO grateful to everyone who has supported me! I left this platform a long time ago and came back on a whim, never thought it would mean starting over this beautiful journey as a writer again.

Once again, thank you so much for your support and love, it means everything to me! <3

I never introduced myself, so here's a brief summary of silly little me:

My name is Dex, I am 27 (almost 28) y/o, I am a doctor where I'm from. I've been writing on and off since I was 14 (y'know how it is). My favorites currently are Geto, Sukuna, Nanami, Toji. And my forever fave is obvs in my name Zoro.

Fav tropes? enemies to lover, angst with good ending, bad guy falls in love, etc... the good stuff lmaoo

Maybe one day I'll share a pic, until then. I'm at your service to bring happiness and entertainment to relax from the outside world!

As a gift, i got this:

🎉 500 Followers—Let’s Go Off, JJK Style. 🎉

Choose a trope below + a character from Jujutsu Kaisen and send it to my ask box! Want fluff/romance, angst, or smut? Add a tag: 🌸​❤️ 🔥 (Multiple requests welcome! I’ll write what calls to me 💌)

Pick a trope + a JJK character = I’ll write it (fluff, angst, smut—your choice 💌)

Only One Bed (and they sleep suspiciously close…)

Enemies to Lovers (with gritted teeth and heavy breathing)

Drunk Confessions / Sloppy Kisses (bonus: who pretends not to remember?)

Fake Dating to Piss Someone Off… oops.

Jealousy Sex (or just petty grumpiness + kisses)

Friends with Benefits But Someone Catches Feelings

Caught in the Rain (and no umbrella, of course)

Bandaging Them Up… Carefully… Too Carefully.

"You Call That Flirting?" (they absolutely meant it)

Wearing Their Clothes / Hoodie Scene™

Trapped Together (elevator, mission cave-in, blizzard, etc.)

Accidental Confession (that they try—and fail—to walk back)

Exes Who Still Want Each Other (but won’t say it out loud)

Touch-Starved, But They Don’t Know How to Ask for It

“I Hate Everyone But You” (and they mean it)