chemspxdr

[chemspxdr]

if art can be touched, will you let me hold you? | nanami kento

wc: 7.2k

summary: ​​you press love into each piece of art you create, and nanami wonders if you’ve ever been loved that way.

contains: f!reader, non-curse!au, ceramic artist!reader, pov switching, slowburn, reader wears a skirt, food mentions, bad breakup (mentioned), mentions of art critiques, almost explicit sex, it’s love without words.

a/n: a concept and fic i didn’t expect would be so dear to me; there are some very small personal touches in this but the main inspiration for this is ‘we’ve been loving in silence’, but some bgm are ‘can’t take my eyes off you’, and ‘make you feel my love’.

ao3 (needs account)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: showing ‘i love you’ in all the ways you aren’t used to

CLAY. Take your material of choice; turn it over, get a feel of it. Is it a suitable medium for your art?

You first meet Nanami in the halls of an echoing applause. 

The host’s spiel is muffled through the walls, but you know the program flow like the back of your hand—you’ve rehearsed your entrance every single day since being invited to announce your upcoming exhibit. In just a few minutes, your name will be called. 

Yellow cue cards slip through your fingers, scattering to the floor as a result of the haste from your last minute touch-up just moments before.

“Shit,” you curse under your breath, checking the time. 

As you crouch low, a pair of brown Derby shoes land in front of you—long and thick fingers reaching for your cue cards on the floor. The time on his wrist matches yours, each second highlighted in the stark contrast of a dark face and silver exterior. 

You’re quick to receive his help, taking the cards into your hands as you lightly graze his fingertips. When you look up, you’re met with sharp lines—an angular jaw, eyebrows set straight; a pointed nose and his cheeks carving out hollow shadows.

A geometric study on blank canvas. 

It’s embarrassing, the way you fluster and bow, thanking him with a stutter as you’re brought back to the urgency of the matter by the sound of your name being called out. 

The rush to the conference hall has you breathing heavily, the nerves hitting you full force as you step up the stage, nearly tripping at the last step. Hues of blue, yellow, purple, and green lights glare at you, and when the host hands you the microphone, you chuckle nervously, clearing your throat before addressing everyone in the room to thank them for coming this afternoon.

Your exhibit is called ‘What is the Face of an (Un)Touched Soul?’—a collection of ceramic sculptures molded to the realism of a human face, with the soul imagined as varying patterns and colors that fit each featured individual. 

It’s been half a year since you started, with three out of six sculptures completed already. Two are in-progress, and you have yet to find a subject for one more; there are six more months for you to complete everything.

The audience sounds their applause, sophisticated claps and nods a familiar tune in the many years of your sculpting career. Critics in the room jot down their thoughts, reporters holding up microphones and recording devices to cover your announcement. 

You smile wide, the rehearsed kind. 

And at the end of your presentation, stepping down the stage, you spot him again. 

You think to approach him in that moment, to thank him properly instead of the fumbling mess you’d choked out in the hallway—but you’re pulled towards a crowd of reporters and critics, recording devices pushed just below your chin as you watch him disappear into a sea of faces not nearly as interesting as his. 

.

You meet Nanami again in the bustling morning rush at the bakery near your studio. 

The past few weeks have been head-down and tedious, late nights working on painting some of the last few pieces for your exhibit. One of them is of your niece, 5-years-old in mint and white innocence; your brushstrokes are featherlight, softly accentuated by sponge dabs—a slate barely filled in, with room for more colors to appear with time. 

Another is of your neighbor, an old man whose eyes have seen war beyond your comprehension—a retired soldier, a veteran of the military force. He plants primroses by his windowsill, the pastel yellow a stark contrast to the life he’s lived in red; neither of the colors cancel each other out, neither of them blend. You drag harsh strokes against his jawbone while smoothly gliding watercolor across his eyelids. 

The people in your sculptures have sparked an untapped curiosity within you—for stories, for lives, for souls and what those might look like. 

You bump into Nanami on his way out, the sandwich in his hand falling to the ground as you frantically attempt to pick it up.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” you turn over the sandwich, checking for any holes or openings in its packaging, “Let me–”

It only registers that it’s him when you notice the same brown Derby shoes, the same watch with that dark face and silver exterior, the same geometric perfection on his face when you look up and finally come eye-to-eye with that same fixed stare. 

You clear your throat. Well, this is embarrassing. 

“Let me buy you another sandwich.”

He doesn’t exactly look angry, expression set in straight lines, but you can’t tell for sure—there isn’t much you can go by.

“There’s no need,” he dusts off the wrapper, “it’s still sealed.” 

“Please, I insist,” you pat down your skirt, linen rough on your fingertips, “As a thank you too, for last time.” 

He arches a brow, and for a moment you worry that you’ve remembered him wrong—honey blonde hair and features you’ve been intrigued by since. 

“You insist.” he repeats, clarifying more than questioning. 

You nod. 

He sighs, checking his watch before pocketing his sandwich and turning back to open the bakery doors. 

The silence in line to the counter is awkward. Nanami remains impassive, hand tucked inside his pocket—you can’t read a single thing about him.

“I was meaning to thank you after the exhibit announcement,” you start, turning slightly to face him before looking ahead again. 

He hums. 

“But I couldn’t find you, so…” 

He hums again. 

The lack of response makes you nervous and quite honestly a bit irritated. Here you are, trying to be nice, and all you’re met with are dry—

“It’s no problem, but that’s thoughtful of you, thank you.” he finally says, “I didn’t expect you to remember.” 

A pause. 

“I’m sure you meet a lot of faces in your line of work.” he further clarifies, in case his earlier remark had offended you. 

You snort, “I wish.” 

The line moves forward.

“Ceramic faces, maybe. People not so much.” 

When you glance at Nanami, the look he returns is still characteristically inscrutable, but you think the corners of his eyes soften just a bit—to feel for you maybe, you hope, you think. 

The line moves quickly after that, and next thing you know it, you’re by the cashier, pointing at one sandwich for you and another for him. You buy him a cup of coffee too, just as an extra kind gesture (—for his time; you’re sure he has places to be and people to see), but he stops you. 

“Coffee’s on me.” he pulls out his card. 

“Oh,” you look up, surprised, “you don’t have to do that—”

“It’s only fair,” he nods as the cashier punches in the order, “now we’re even.” 

You attempt to rebut, but find no room for argument in the unbending weight of his gaze. 

An interesting man. 

You watch him stand by the claiming booth, hand in the pocket of his khaki suit. Nothing about him feels cohesive, yet he makes it work. Artistically, from a sculpting standpoint, the sharp lines on his face would be an interesting challenge—but beautiful, nonetheless. A study of near-perfection, you think. 

And it would seem obvious, that from the rigid cut of his jaw and the sharp edges of his cheekbones that he’d act just as pointed. 

Except, he doesn’t—a stark contrast to how much of a gentleman he seems to be. 

His blue shirt stands out when you’d assume he prefers subtlety, and it’s ridiculous, but that yellow cow print tie feels simultaneously out of place but so fitting. 

He walks toward you with your coffee, sandwich resting on his forearm.

“Thank you, Mr.—” you smile sheepishly, “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.” 

“Nanami Kento.” the corners of his lips lift slightly. 

“Mr. Nanami,” you repeat, introducing yourself right after.

“Thank you as well.” he adds on as you both walk towards the doors. 

Something tells you this is a missed opportunity. Something tells you there’s more to learn about this interesting man and what lies beneath his straight-faced sincerity. 

The chatter from the bakery is replaced by the city’s breaths—cars passing, dogs barking, footsteps on pavement rushing to get to their next destination. And you and Nanami stand by the entrance, neither knowing how to say bye. 

“Do you come to this–” 

“My studio is just by the corner, so–” 

You quickly look at each other. Nanami bows his head slightly, hand gesturing for you to go first.

“Sorry, um,” you tuck your sandwich in the crook of your elbow, “yes, I come here pretty often. My studio is just around the corner, so I drop by for quick meals when I can. You?” 

“It’s on the way to work most days.” 

You nod, humming. 

Another awkward pause.

“I hope you–”

“I should get–”

You look at each other again, a bit more amused this time. The slight wrinkling of his eyes is impossible to hide.

He gestures for you to go first again, but you shake your head, offering him instead. 

“I hope the pieces for your exhibit are going well.” 

“Thank you,” you smile, bowing your head slightly.

That ‘something’ in your brain speaks to you again. 

“Actually,” you begin, “sorry if this is weird, please feel free to decline, but,” you shift your weight, “I have one last piece to do and I was wondering if I could ask you.” 

Nanami looks taken aback for a moment, eyes wider than normal as he processes what you’d just said. 

“Ask me… for an opinion?” he clarifies. 

You mentally facepalm yourself—you really should have made yourself clearer. 

“Sorry, no, I meant,” you take a deep breath, fingers fiddling with your skirt, “if you’d like to be the subject for it.” 

The expression on his face is as indecipherable as ever. 

.

.

.

MOLD. Be familiar with your art, learn more of its intricacies. What will you shape it to be? 

In the most unexpected play of events, Nanami says yes, but not without his hesitations. 

You explain your process: the selection of a subject, an interview to get to know them better, then a few meetings at the studio to create the mold of facial features before coating it in plaster. 

Never in his entire law career did Nanami ever think he would be into art, much more be chosen to be the subject for it. But he figures, if anyone were to get him to do things so wholly out of character like this, it would be you. 

After all, he’s been a fan of your works for a while—from your third exhibit up to your seventh one now. 

People love paintings and the strokes on canvas, admiring textures and blends of colors bleeding into one another; Nanami loves sculptures, a mixture of materials and techniques forming an object with more than one viewing plane.

“Have you always loved sculpting?” he asks, sitting still on the wooden stool in your studio. 

A few meetings have gone by by now, and he’s told you a few things about himself for this to be a comfortable enough way to spend his Friday night: he’s a lawyer in a firm he’s co-founded with a good friend, evenings being the only free time in his schedule; he lives alone in a two-bedroom apartment and his neighbor’s cat often lands on his balcony every morning; he likes coffee and tea, paperback books and music from the 30’s and 60’s. 

He chose to be a lawyer to correct the shitty system that’s vowed to help but has instead made it difficult for anyone genuinely trying to be good. 

“I started with paper craft first,” you mold out the slope of his nose, looking back and forth between him and the mass of clay on your desk, “you know that 3D looking paper art that kinda pops out of the page?” 

He hums instead, careful of any slight movement that may disrupt the pose you’re trying to replicate. 

“And this?” 

Your metal scraper drags on the sides of the sculpture’s nose, sharpening it as it narrows to the bridge. 

“I picked it up in college, was an outlet to keep me company during that time.”

The PR answer. 

Nanami knows most of your general story; pamphlets and exhibits always give a run-down of the artists’ individual histories. You’d started sculpting as soon as you entered college, a need for company while in a completely unfamiliar place with no more home to return to. It was all or nothing, and as the sculptures grew in number, so did your popularity—you are by no means a fresh name to the scene 10 years later. 

“Why do you love it?” he looks you in the eye. 

You pause, holding his gaze for a few seconds before looking away, focusing on the chunk of wet clay between your fingertips as it turns more pliable.

“It’s gotten me through a lot.” you sigh, attaching the piece of clay to form his lips, “Touching clay feels therapeutic sometimes, and you can tell from how it looks if it’s been molded with love.” 

The stillness in your studio is extra quiet, filled only with the faint sounds of your fingertips sticking onto clay; he doesn’t quite know what to say. 

“Sorry, that was cheesy.” you scrunch your nose and pout. 

He chuckles, a low laugh, “Not at all.” 

You lock eyes, the curve of your lips upturned. He feels his eyes soften around its edges. 

It makes sense, and he thinks he can understand; there must be a reason why he loves books with creased spines, why he prefers weathered pages—why the scratches on his vinyl records don’t bother him as much as it should. 

.

You both like your coffee without milk, just with a bit of sugar for yours. 

Nanami’s taken up baking, specifically breadmaking, in his spare time—he brings you sourdough the next Friday you meet. 

Your studio is an organized mess, scraps of clay decorating the otherwise bare and white space. To the left of the room is a large cork board filled with pinned sketches and some color swatches—a visual representation of the creative chaos in your mind. 

A whiteboard to its right holds your schedule, and everywhere across the room are your art pieces—on shelves, in glass cases. He assumes most of them are the versions that didn’t make it, considering that the ones that have are either auctioned off or left as collector’s pieces in exhibits and art museums. 

“That’s the first one I ever made.” you sneak up behind him, biting off the sandwich you hastily put together.

The sculpture is smaller than the busts you’ve made for your current exhibit, but it still occupies a third of your shelf. It’s unlike any of the works you’ve ever done, but he supposes it makes sense, given how much your style has probably evolved over time. 

The piece is a lot simpler in comparison to the edgy twists most of your works now contain, but the little girl fast asleep in the sculpture begs questions he’s not sure how to ask you—if he even should. 

He continues to stare, clearing his throat; you eye him knowingly and snort. 

“Just ask, I know you want to.” 

The texture of the carved blanket catches his eyes, the ripples and creases made to conform to the girl’s curled up figure. There’s a sadness underlying her comfort, a search for security while being wrapped in a bundle of safety. 

“Who is it?” he asks.

You pause before you answer; he’s worried he’s crossed a line. 

“Me.” you admit, a near-whisper. 

He hums, back still faced towards you. It explains, then, why he’s always felt an underlying sadness beneath the creases of your smiles. 

When he turns his face to the side, an attempt to catch your eyes, you look away, diverting. 

“Which one introduced you to me?” you gesture towards the rest of your pieces. 

As it’s come to be, Nanami’s learned that you’re good at that too—creating curves of deflections, pockets where you can hide when you feel something’s gotten too close. 

He plays along, turning around to view the expanse of your studio; it’s amazing, how the art pieces that stack shelf upon shelf all boil down to your hard work. You briefly mentioned that you haven’t taken a break from creating because you still don’t believe you deserve it.

“It’s not here,” he puts his hands in his pockets, “the one with the hand clutching a heart.” 

‘Unhand’—his favorite piece of yours; he’d seen it in one of the museums he had to visit for one of his clients. Hyperrealistic branches of veins and arteries running across an anatomical heart, every curve and indent a carefully placed texture to bring your piece to life. It comes clenched in a hand, the veins streaming across each finger while blending into those of the heart’s—at first glance, it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other starts.

It’s a different view from each angle—that’s why he likes it so much, along with the graphic nature of it. The pain feels vivid, real.

“Ah,” you run your fingers across your work table, fiddling with the small pieces of clay before taking a seat again, “that one.” 

Nanami follows but he doesn’t say anything, resuming his place in front of you in the usual way he’s done the past few weeks.

“I didn’t think I was the type to be moved by art.” he confesses, sitting still as you continue the final work on the clay wisps of his hair.

You encourage him to go on, nodding along. 

And he does, watching the way your steady hand forms features that look uncannily like him, if not better; strands of your hair always fall from behind your ears and he’s almost tempted to tuck it back to where it came from. 

He tells you of the pain he feels from that piece, how it presents itself in different ways depending on the area you focus on—the constricted blood vessels, the buildup of pressure from a vein blocked by a thumb, the strain of muscles at the back of the hand. 

A small smile makes its way onto your face, slightly sad but somehow relieved, “Didn’t expect you to be such a poet.” 

“Must be from being around you so often,” he responds.

And if it’s a trick of the light, a part of him sinks at that possibility—he thinks your smile stretches wider, suppressed only by the shyness trying to hide it; no pain whatsoever. 

Unexpectedly, you share with him the story. Not the filtered version, but the one just as raw and vivid as the sculpture made from it—a failed relationship that had you clinging onto sculpting as your lifeline. You spare him some of the gruesome details but hint at it enough that he can fill in the gaps on his own.

You tell him that you’re a people pleaser, you’ve learned—it’s the only way you can view that relationship with grace, that at least you understand yourself better because of it. That even when the grip on your heart wrung tight enough for each beat to hurt, you still clung on with all your worth. 

(Now you know you shouldn’t have.) 

People have come to you with stories of their own, sharing how much your art means to them. Critics write articles, both good and bad, detailing the technicalities of your work. The applause follows you everywhere you go, yet it has never touched you—has never gotten too close. 

If your art has touched others, has listened and spoken their truth in your handiwork, who does that for you? 

.

During one of the last few Friday meetings, you offer to teach him how to mold clay. 

He looks at you curiously, watching the way your fingertips pinch and squeeze, how they glide to smoothen the material and press down to create indents on the surface. 

“Do you want to try?” you ask, gaze still set on his sculpture in front of you. There’s a teasing edge to your tone, one that’s developed over the months of getting to know you more. 

“Would that be troublesome?” 

You laugh at his rigidness. 

“Of course not.” you push your piece aside, standing up to gather clay from the mound of it to your right. You lay down a wooden platform for him–his own little workspace–and slam a chunk of clay atop it, “I think you might be good at it actually, since you like making bread.” 

The movements are familiar but not entirely the same. He rolls up his sleeves, blue cotton pinching at the creases of his elbows; you hand him an apron to protect the rest of his clothing. There’s not much kneading involved, not much palm action too, but he learns to move his fingertips with a force he can only compare to creating little dimples into focaccia dough. 

You teach him how to make a bread basket—something practical but beginner-friendly; something he can use and keep as a reminder of you. 

The trickiest part of it is mimicking the rattan weavings, and you notice him struggling with it when his strips of clay begin to break. 

A screech fills the room as you push back your chair, standing up to go behind him as he attempts to salvage his work.

“Here, let me–” you reach over his shoulders, flattening some of the cracks from above him.

You’ve never been this close before, the thin strands of hair dusting your arms tickling the sides of his ears. These past few months, he’s watched your hands press and pull and form, turning each detail of his face into art. It’s only now, right next to his larger and rougher ones that he’s noticing just how small and delicate yours are. 

It’s dainty work, weaving and braiding. He attempts to do it again, but the clay only falls apart when he pulls too hard. 

You stifle a giggle, the vibrations tickling his back, “We might take a while here.” 

“I don’t mind.” he mumbles.

“You sure you don’t have anywhere else you’d rather be?” you lean forward, pressing closer until he feels your warmth against the back of his head, “I feel bad, I’ve been taking up most of your Friday nights already.” 

It shouldn’t mean anything; he shouldn’t feel anything—you seem to be unfazed; art is meant to be taught by doing.

But then your hands go over his, guiding them to lift each strand of clay gently before interweaving them with one another, and he thinks—

—this must be what it feels to be touched by art. 

So, no. 

There’s no other place he’d rather be. 

.

.

.

DRY. Give it time, let it settle. Watch your art come into form. Is this a good foundation? 

“Will you be free next weekend?” 

His question surprises you as you stand in line at the bakery. You tend to catch each other at just the right times almost everyday, saving a spot for whoever’s running a little late. 

Today, it’s you, rushing in slightly frazzled with your hair sticking out which way; you’d just finished up molding the sculpture late last night, letting it rest out to dry. Nanami’s head is turned towards you, hands in his pockets as he directs the same pointed gaze you’ve become all too accustomed to.

You must have forgotten to mention it. 

“Oh,” you turn to him, “there’s no need, our sessions are over.” 

His silence makes you nervous, just like it did the first (second) time you met.

Did you upset him? Did he already cancel plans to free up time for your studio? 

The entire trip to the cashier is quiet, but you find that he’s ordered ahead for you—your sandwich order and a cup of your usual coffee. He pays for it too, despite your refusal (and confusion). 

It’s when he hands over your drink by the corner of the room that he finally speaks. 

“Not for a session.” 

You tilt your head curiously. 

The coffee feels warm on your hand, and you think you see the same warmth at the tips of his ears, dusting it light pink. He coughs, fingers clenching around his tie before loosening it. 

“For a date.” 

.

You begin to take up his weekends now, too. 

Since that day at the bakery, when you’d nearly dropped your coffee before stuttering out your availability, you’ve already gone on seven dates (to you, at least; Nanami would officially count three). 

He insists on still visiting you every Friday, bringing you dinner as a reminder that you should eat on time and not the moment you’re keeling over from a rumbling stomach and a pounding headache. You count these as dates too—because what else do you call spending time with someone you like while having night-long conversations over good food? 

(Nanami creates a distinction though, prefers his dates to be more planned out and intended. On the three official dates you’ve gone on, he’s brought you to three different locations—a weekend market, a picnic by a lake after you’d mentioned something about it, and a vintage record shop on the outskirts of the city, a place he frequents often). 

The near-perfection you once thought of the man, a geometric study on canvas—he’s still every bit of it, still every bit as interesting as what he seemed, just in a completely different way. 

For a man typically so nonchalant, he is extremely particular about his tastes, borderline picky with trusted company. 

Nanami enjoys coffee (as expected), but the fermented filter kind, dripped down a V60 pour over to extract different notes of sweetness and acidity. You’d think he enjoys a straight black, face stoic enough to handle its bitter bite; but no, his jaw clenches when he dislikes the taste, his tongue sounding the faintest click against the roof of his mouth before he downs the entire thing in one gulp. 

He also happens to be extremely gentle, in a way you don’t expect from a man of his stature and build. Veins run through the back of his large hands, branching to webs around the thickness of his fingers; they may not be delicate enough to weave clay, but he carves out different patterns on the sourdough he presents to you every Friday. 

The first time he held your hand, it wasn’t exactly planned—an instinctive move to reach out his palm as you climbed the steps of the spiral staircase in the record store out of town. You’d barely felt it then, just the featherlight hold of his thumb pressed against your knuckles as you gripped the fabric of your skirt. 

(To your surprise, he kept it up all the way through, slipping his fingers through the gaps between yours as he showed you around vintage vinyls and the sound of love in muffled 60’s tunes.)

You imagine him to be like clay, a softness hardened over the years that have shaped him; smooth but solid to the touch, breaking into powdered shards once you manage to work your way through. 

It’s unexpected, but you like that. 

And you like him—quite a lot, really. 

This date–the tenth, or fourth, whichever–is a lot fancier than all the others, a more formal dinner with a few glasses of delicious wine whose name you by god, don’t remember. You’d been too focused on something else—the handsome way he’d slicked back strands of his honeyed hair. 

Black suits him, contrasting the paleness of his skin and complementing the sharpness of his features. 

Black, the color of his suit, pressed neatly to fit him perfectly. He looks clean, broad shoulders with straight slacks falling to exactly where they’re supposed to be. 

Black, which is the only thing you see, pressed up against him. You’re so close by your doorway, that half-minute of deciding whether to stay or walk away; he has one foot behind him and one firmly planted right next to yours. 

You share a breath, fingers lightly intertwined with his. 

There had been signs the entire night that it would lead to something like this—he’d played with your fingers a lot more, kept much closer to you than he ever has before. 

Every sound around you is amplified—each inhale and exhale, the gulp he makes; your heart beats on rampage.

When you look up, your noses are almost touching, and his eyes are shut, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. 

It’s a look you’ve only seen once before, when he’s stuck contemplating. 

“Kento,” you whisper. 

His eyes blink open slightly, the color of your coffee. He leans forward, forehead resting against yours as he takes a deep breath, “I–”

Then you kiss him. 

It’s mostly a peck really, and wholly out of character for you, but it’s that same something that compelled you to ask him to model for your sculpture months ago that’s pushed you to do this right now. 

You’re worried for that first split-second because he doesn’t move, shows no sign at all of reciprocating. It’s a moment before you consider parting that he finally softens, relaxing his lips as he glides them over yours. His fingers slot themselves by your ear, palm pressed against your jaw as he deepens it; you almost stumble back, his other hand catching your weight as it leans on your door. 

It’s a good thing you did this then, because you learn that he likes you too—very much, actually. 

.

Things are good a month until your exhibit. 

Things are good until they aren’t. 

You end up reading a premature critique on your exhibit, calling it ‘overrated’ and ‘boring’, detailing the trajectory of your decline as an artist, citing your works as having become increasingly more lackluster over the years. 

The critic calls your theme ‘lazy’ and ‘unoriginal’, predicting your pieces to be nothing extraordinary or different from your older sculptures. 

All this time, your publicist and manager have made it a point to protect you from things like this, requesting that you avoid searching up your name on social media or search engines. You’re usually fed with praises and the occasional constructive criticism, but never anything as spiteful as this. 

It’s every possible thing that could be said to invalidate your hard work. 

And you break because of it—along with Nanami’s sculpture.

It tips over accidentally, the funk in your mood making you especially clumsy. 

The damage is terrible, half of his face is gone, his neck down still intact but chipped off. It’s impossible to repair without redoing the entire thing—which, you don’t have the time for, either. 

You groan, banging your head against the table. 

Frustration leaks out in your tears, every inch of self-doubt surfacing. 

Nanami finds you in your studio that way. 

He’d texted you the entire day, tried calling you a few times to no success. It’s a Thursday, but without your usual ‘just got home’ text, he’d gotten worried and rushed over as soon as his meeting ended. 

If he’s being honest, you’ve been off this entire week—stressed and distant, overworked from revisiting all your finished sculptures for the exhibit in case of anything to change or tweak.

Then this. 

And it’s too much—it’s all too much. 

Nanami calls your name from your entryway and you look up with tears streaming down your face. He’s never seen you like this, you could never want him to. 

He hurries over, brows immediately furrowed as he digs into his pocket for a handkerchief. The cow print would make you giggle on any other day, but now, he uses it to wipe your tears away. 

“What happened?” his gaze shifts to your right, his sculpture half-ruined. 

Silence. 

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks hesitantly. 

You shake your head, swiping at your nose, “It won’t look the same, Ken.” 

“Do you want to redo it? I can clear up my schedule every–”

“There’s no time.” 

Nanami takes your hands to rub his thumbs over your knuckles, soothing. 

“Then we’ll do what we can.” 

The sincerity in his voice hurts you, the reassurance in his eyes even moreso. You’ve never had anyone look at you this way. 

“There’s no point.” your shoulders slump, lips trembling as another wave of tears pool on your lash line. “People are calling the exhibit a flop.” 

“Who?” 

You huff out, exhausted, “I don’t know, critics, media. Whoever.” 

He furrows his brows, firm, “They don’t understand what you’re doing.” 

You chuckle sarcastically, “They’re art critics, Ken, of course they–” 

“If it means something to you, what does it matter to anyone else?” 

That makes you look up. 

Nanami stares at you with the same unwavering gaze, no longer indecipherable to you. There’s a softness in the squint of his eyes that you now know means concern, with every pointed feature only meant to drive his words home. 

You’ve been second guessing everything down to the core of your abilities, because of what? A few words? This must be what you get for having a penchant to people please, for hinging on everything everyone has to say. 

“If you love what you create, then continue to make it.” he squeezes your hands, as if pressing the words into your bones gently. 

.

You remold and repair, and you build up your sculpture to something different but not worse than before. 

You remold and repair to build up yourself. 

The half that broke off isn’t as symmetrical as you’d like it to be—and it definitely doesn’t do justice to the man it’s sculpted of, but you think you like the softness you added to it, how his eyes look kinder. He means something else to you now, after all, compared to when you first started sculpting him. 

And you think, you know just what kind of design speaks of his soul. 

.

.

.

PAINT. Add the final touches, perfect your piece. Bring it to life with colors and details, whether it be for one pair of eyes or many. Do you now see?

Nanami teaches you how to make bread on a Sunday morning. 

Flour coats every surface of his counter, dustings of it transferred to the deep blue of his apron. You’re wearing a white one, borrowed from your studio. Elbow-to-elbow you knead, and he only has to teach you once for you to get the hang of it, really. 

He smirks, “You’re a natural.” 

“Must do stuff like this a lot in another life or something,” you stifle a giggle, playing along. 

It’s a beautiful day out, golden sunlight hitting your cheek—Nanami stares, sneaks peeks between every knead. The same strands of hair tucked behind your ear fall to frame your face, and he hooks his pinky around it to tuck it right back (because he can now, without having to hesitate). 

You turn to him, daylight in your eyes when you grin your thanks. 

His kitchen has an open space, deep wood and black metal detailings as its central theme (the white bread bread basket you made together stands out on the counter, but he’s done that on purpose). There’s a pretty extensive collection of alcohol in his liquor cabinet, along with his very particular coffee set-up right next to his record player slotted in the corner. 

On Sunday mornings, Nanami likes to keep his music playing; today, it’s the classic 60’s–’Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’–serving as your background beat, with the soft meows from the cat on his balcony as added accompaniment to the melody. 

He watches you sway, his feet tapping along, then you jolt, giggling in surprise when there’s a hiccup in the song (it’s from the scratches on his record, but he can’t bother replacing it with a new one). After that breakdown in your studio, you’ve seemed to loosen up immensely. 

“Ken,” you call him, “how much pressure do you usually put into kneading?” 

There’s no way to explain it, really, but to make you feel it yourself. 

“Let me–” he lets go of his dough, dusting his hands with more flour before coming up behind you. 

Nanami is a big man, tall and lean, all chest and shoulders—when he hunches over you, you look so small, delicately tucked into him. Heat rushes to his cheeks, if you turn around you’d see pink; the music is drowned out by his heartbeat. 

He leans forward, palms clasping over the back of your hands, fingers slotting themselves between the gaps of yours. 

“Like this,” he pushes down, his chest pressed against your back. To get a better look at the dough, he tilts his head to the side, nearly slotting it by your shoulder, “Can you feel it?” 

You hum, your swaying gone. He’s trying hard to focus on the bread, but when you turn your head to face him, the tip of your nose touching his cheek, he stops. 

The moment is tense, drowned into silence despite the music playing in the background. He can hear your every breath. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

Nanami knows it’s for many things—for agreeing to the sculpture, for spending time on it; for this Sunday morning, for being there when you needed someone the most. But that’s not the whole point of this, he thinks. It’s how you sound, voice heartfelt and filled with something else—a kind of affection he’s all too familiar with himself. 

This must be what you mean when you say you can tell if clay has been molded with love. 

.

In the quiet, Nanami’s hands move loudly. 

He holds you gently, just like he always has, but it’s a permission every time—like he’s asking if he can touch you, love you in ways you aren't used to. 

Your apron falls to the floor, followed by your skirt, the fabric pooling by your feet. The faded gray t-shirt you wear during studio days is tugged over your head, dropped next to him. He takes his time with you, turning you over, feeling you, knowing you—thick fingers squeezing the sides of your arms lightly as his lips press against your neck. 

A gasp escapes you. 

Then you move, nimble hands undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it open as you feel across the planes of taut muscle on his stomach and chest. 

He groans, soft and low, your fingers brushing against his skin, ticklish. 

You take a step back and he moves along with you, letting you settle into yourself as you inch backwards, the back of your knees knocking against the edge of your bed. He holds your gaze as you move towards your headrest, your shy smile doing nothing to lessen the butterflies in his chest—you did mention that it’s been a while. 

He kneels on your bed, the mattress dipping to accommodate his weight—his slacks have been discarded to the side as he crawls over you. 

Beneath him, you look like the very subject art could only wish to replicate. 

So, he makes sure to remember all of it—to look close and memorize every detail of you as he dips down, arm planted to the side of your head as his other hand cradles your face, tilting your jaw up for a kiss. 

He catches your lower lip between his, running his tongue over it before sucking lightly. You moan, smooth and honey-sweet, bringing him closer with your fingers clasped behind his neck. The room is quiet save for your lips smacking against each other’s, warm and soft as the heat builds between you.  

Slowly and tenderly, with the same care you tend to clay, Nanami discovers all your dips and curves; he kneads the flesh of your hips, gripping your thighs as he kisses his way down the slopes of your body. 

You squirm in his hold, tugging at his hair when the sensation feels too much, too good. 

(But when he reaches between your legs, arms locking your thighs over his shoulders, you realize, nothing could have ever prepared you for this, for him—he treats you as if you are every bit of the art you make, and looks at you like it too.) 

Then, Nanami kisses you on the forehead when he’s inside you, lips pressing on the part of your skin that creases when your brow furrows. 

A tear drips down your face. 

“Should I–” he looks you in the eye, worried. 

“No,” you breathe out, a watery smile as you nudge your nose against his chin, “keep going.” 

So, he does; he loves you without the applause, with the feel of his hands, leaving no place untouched.

He moves his body against yours. 

It’s only after, when he tucks himself into your neck, arms wrapped around you and skin sticking onto skin that you tell him your tears aren’t anything bad. 

For the first time in a while, you feel full—perfectly content. 

.

He thinks you should be the final piece to your exhibit. 

It’s a grand event, the conference hall decked in some of your previous works; blankets of white cloth drape over the stage—the unveiling of all your sculptures. You’re standing to the side, looking pretty in a long white skirt while Nanami blends among the crowd, far back enough to remain hidden from reporters but close enough to catch your eyes should you look his way. 

You present each one, introducing the titles with brief descriptions of the people they’re sculpted from. The reasons for your designs are left primarily up to interpretation, but you’ve explained it all to Nanami—he’s listened to every single one. 

Then you present his sculpture, finding him through the crowd. The corner of your lips curl up slightly, the stage lights reflecting on your eyes. 

He smiles at you the same. 

‘The Undoing’ is what you call it—half-perfect and half-salvaged. 

It’s far from your original vision for the piece, but you think you like this more, splitting down the part that’d originally broken off into two different colors. His entire color scheme consists of yellows, greens, and browns—the perfected side of his face appears in clean strokes of coffee, with light yellows highlighting his pointed features. The angles are clean and sharp, his gaze straight and dead-on. 

Running down the cracks of the broken half is a sky blue line, an almost glowing effect added to the salvaged side. In a way, it’s an emergence, of the part of him you never thought existed—green wisps like leaves, a life springing from within. You add flecks of gold to mimic light bouncing off his irises the same way sand becomes a glittering sea of sunbeams. 

To you, Nanami is warm but cold to the touch, and he’s undone you just as much, has chipped away at the parts of you that have built themselves over years of habits reinforced and untouched. 

It is as much you as it is him. 

That’s what happens when you love someone, he supposes—an intermingling of souls. 

Kraft paper crinkles in his grip as he adjusts the bouquet of flowers behind him, deep red carnations and orange tulips decorated with white astilbe flowers—for when you get down, and he can have a moment with you privately. 

Now, he looks at you fondly, shifting his feet from where he’s standing. You search for his face, eyes darting to where you know you’ll find him; he meets your gaze, and you smile brighter, that one look ringing louder than the standing roars of an echoing applause.

a/n: each segment represents the steps to making a sculpture that i tried to parallel with the development of their relationship. V60 pour over is a kind of set-up for drip/filter coffee.

thank you notes: for @mididoodles, this is my very late birthday gift for you midi, but i hope you like it! (this also so happens to be your request for my in's and out's event) 🥺 + @soumies @scarabrat for reading through the first third of this and believing in the vision for this when i was so unsure of it, i love you both 🥺 + @stellamancer for helping me figure out what goes in the 'contains' 😭 + @augustinewrites to scratch the nanami itch 🥺

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#oh I’m gonna be SICK oh dear GOD

[chemspxdr]

Between Us: A mini-series about intimacy

All of the stories in this collection are based on real life struggles with sex and intimacy. The length and characters will vary. More may be added at a later date. This is an adult series. Please mind the tags on each fic. Minors please do not interact.

Sex is complicated. Sex isn't always what you read about or watch in movies. Things aren't always perfect, but they can be made meaningful with the right person. These stories are a tender sort of exploration of what happens when things aren't always what we envision them to be.

needing clitoral stimulation for orgasm (aged up!megumi fushiguro x f!reader)

impotence (higuruma hiromi x f!reader)

hypersensitive to touch (satoru gojo x reader)

reader with a sensitive gag reflex (nanami kento x reader)

sex being interrupted by children (suguru geto x f!reader)

*more to be added as they are written. I will take (polite) suggestions via inbox if you have an idea or character you'd like to see.

#these are all so sweet this is the type of fanfic I live for

[chemspxdr]

would you be in the mood to write something for peter parker x reader?? it’s been a while since i’ve read anything new for him and i’m missing my boy :( maybe something about things getting heated while making out with peter but he knows reader isn’t ready to go any farther so he has to stop them, and then maybe reader feels guilty for not being ready bc they feel like they’re stringing him along? a good mix of (semi)smut & fluff & angst haha. thank u angel i love u <3

ty for requesting, love u <3 fem!reader, 1k

cw suggestive content

“Is that okay?” he whispers. 

You’re nearly too busy trying to kiss him to whisper back. “Yeah, Peter, just–” Fully too busy. 

Peter enjoys being on top of you for two reasons; the first, the most imperative in the moment, is because it flicks a switch in your mind that has you all flustered and breathless under his touch, your chest heaving something sorry and your hands a frenetic back-and-forth between roaming and limp on his back; and the second, his guilty pleasure, is that he’s in an optimal position to slide his knee between your thighs and listen for your breathless sigh. 

He says your name between kisses to catch your attention, finds he can’t quite get it as your mouth closes up on his and your spit wets his lips. Your hand wanders under his shirt. 

Peter has been worse than shirtless around you, a consequence of his strange after-classes hobby, but he’s not so sure you’re ready to peel him out of it. Your fingers ride up his spine. 

He fishes your hand from behind him to hold it above your head. 

“Hey,” he says, pulling back, your eyes lit and aligned with one another, the brightest light in the room. It feels wrong to speak into the dark like this, disrupting your whispers and your quick breathing. “You don’t wanna do that.” 

“I do,” you say. He’s no genius, but he sees the wobble of your lashes for what it is, sudden regret. 

“It’s okay, bub. We got too heavy too fast,” he laughs. 

You bite the inside of your lip as he sits up. It’s his fault, he shouldn’t have kissed you like that, definitely shouldn’t have let his leg slide up against you, what was he thinking? He’s kissed you so hard your lips are swollen. 

You use the flats of your palms to clamber up against the headboard. Your heart is a thudding he can’t ignore, triply loud, and his own pulse is rocketing too. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. 

“No, that’s okay,” —he reaches for the hem of your sweatpants to tug them back over your hip and stomach— “I was bearing down on you, I shouldn’t have– I–” Peter Parker levels of stuttering occur, to which he can’t subject himself, hiding his face in his hands. 

There’s a small silence. Peter attempts to calm down. Your heart rate slowly drops. 

“I really am sorry, Pete.” 

His neck cricks as he lifts his head. “What?” He lets his legs fall to the side of the bed and shuffles up to the top to see you clearly, squishing the back of your thigh where your legs are up to his hip. “Come on, what do you have to be sorry for?” 

“I’m leading you on and stuff. Not cool.” 

“What? What are you talking about? I started it.” 

“I was giving it just as good as I was getting it,” you say with a regretful smile. “You’re just such a great kisser–”

“Don’t try and distract me, it’s working,” he teases. More seriously, he puts his hand on your knee, thumb pressing to the soft crease underneath it. 

“I shouldn’t kiss you like that if I’m not ready for it.” 

“Why not? You can kiss me whatever way you like, it doesn’t have to lead to anything.” 

“I’m winding you up. Boys don’t like that.” 

“I love it,” he says, dropping his chin to his hand to speak to you from just below your eye line. “I love everything you do, I love kissing you, it doesn’t mean you have to be ready for something else.” 

You don’t accept his reassurances as quickly as he’d like, leaning back, the rising valley of your chest and tummy two pretty not to look at even as something serious transpires. He adores you, your every hill and curve and rigid line, all of it, and he’d love to fuck you but there’s no rush. What do you need to rush for? Peter’s sure it’ll be just as much fun a few months down the line as it would’ve been tonight, but it’ll be perfect then, because you’ll be ready then. 

“Who cares what boys like anyways?” he mumbles, kissing your kneecap appreciatively. 

“I just don’t wanna mess it up, Pete. I really like you.” 

“You can’t mess it up, it’s not like that, we’re not like that. You mean a whole lot more to me than that,” he says, giving your thigh a squeeze. You meet his eyes with less shyness now, the beginnings of a smile like twitches at the corners of your mouth. “I like you more than you like me, anyways. You can string me along. String me up, if you want.” 

“String you up where?” you ask with a laugh. 

“From that statue on ESU?” 

“What? How would I do that?” 

“Get Spider-Man to help you.” 

You pull the leg he isn’t leaning on up toward your stomach, knee rubbing along the inside of your opposite thigh, the last trace of regret. “You’re sure you don’t care?” 

“Don’t care, don’t mind, just want you to be happy.” He kisses your knee. “I thought you’d know that by now.” 

You brace your face in both hands, letting out a long sigh. “I don’t know what I know when you do that thing to me. How about you keep your legs away from my legs for a little while?” 

Peter smiles like an idiot, hiding his eyes in your knee and his mouth behind your calf. He doesn’t mind being honest, but you’re making him nervous flirting like that and he isn’t allowed to kiss you again tonight. “I– I can do that. No leg stuff.” He leans away from you suddenly. “God, no leg stuff. You’re beautiful, I wish you didn’t worry about me.” 

“I’ll try not to, Pete.”  

#oh suddenly I remember why I made this account brb

[chemspxdr]

☆. contains: 18+ mdni; bf!satoru gojo x gn!reader; satoru tries to make his beloved jealous and it works way better than he could've ever imagined; dom!reader, satoru is wearing a tie, degradation, masturbation (m), reader slaps him once, he cums in his pants, a bit of fluff in the end yayy wc: 4.3k

going to fancy big parties can be fun.

can be fun.

it isn't when your boyfriend is acting like a whore though.

you're sitting at one of the big round tables in the corner of the massive ball room all alone after asking satoru to go and buy you another drink. and now you've been glaring at him from the distance for at least ten minutes. you watch him laugh with a pretty blonde, you watch him sling his arm around the man's shoulder like it's nothing. and it's not like satoru is oblivious to your deathly stare either - no, no - he keeps glancing over his shoulder to make sure that you're still looking.

the blonde is into him. of course, he is, why wouldn't he be? satoru knows it too, that's why he chose him. you saw him observing your table, your satoru, a while ago but you're not one to display your ownership like someone else might - you expect satoru to know his place.

but apparently... you need to remind him of it.

you know he's waiting for you to throw yourself over him, kiss him - show that he's taken. sure, it's fun to do that too sometimes but... not today. if satoru wants to play - you'll play.

toying with the empty glass in your hand, you wait for him to come back. his laughter echoes through the whole room as the blonde slaps his chest, chuckling alongside him. you can see the man's heated cheeks from where you're sitting and you roll your eyes. satoru is not that funny. you take a deep breath in and continue burning a hole into the back of his head when a hand on your shoulder breaks you from your thoughts.

"how's the murder attempt going?"

shoko leans closer, placing her head right next to yours, looking at the scene you've been observing for the longest time now.

"he's being very annoying."

she laughs and pats your shoulder before taking a seat next to you. glancing around you search for the dark-haired man. "where'd you put suguru anyway?"

"with haibara."

you hum. she takes a sip of her blood red wine, leaving a stain of the same color onto the glass. she smells like cigarettes and darkly sweet perfume, she smells like she's ready to seduce you.

you almost miss the way satoru's shoulders slump when he notices that your attention is suddenly elsewhere. he says something to his new friend before grabbing the drinks that have been sitting on the counter and makes his way over to you, leaving the blonde man longing after him.

satoru places the two colorful beverages onto to the table over shoko, making her crane her neck to look at him. they share smiles but not the usual ones; the type of smiles that say that i know what you're doing. they exchange a few words - something about not drinking too much and something about not being an idiot.

you keep your eyes on shoko the whole time, completely ignoring your sweetheart as the beginning of the punishment. after catching up with satoru, she turns around and places a hand on your thigh before standing. "have fun."

she winks at you and you let your teeth sink into the soft flesh of your bottom lip. satoru's hands holding onto the back of the chair shoko was just sitting on catch your eye but you tear them away, not wanting to give him even the slightest ego boost right now.

you opt for the drink instead. the glass is cold, water droplets run down the side of it as you raise it to your mouth. parting your lips, you let your tongue slide around the straw as you pull it in. finally raising your gaze, you look up at satoru through your eyelashes when your lips close around the metal and you see how his own eyes focus in on the simple act of seduction.

you take a big sip and hum at the refreshing taste. satoru's lips part as he watches you gulp it down, his fingers squeezing the piece of wood under his palms.

"you not gonna thank me, baby?" he's asking for praise, he's always asking for praise - silly boy.

you pull off the straw with a small pop and blink up at him, fire burning in your eyes. "why would i? the ice has already melted?"

satoru's eye twitches and the corners of his mouth quirks up just a little. "i'm sorry, baby."

"mhmm."

"what were you talking about with shoko?" he inquires, trying to come off as smooth as he can, trying to hide the smile that's threatening to show.

"about you, my love." you bite back. "about you and your new friend." nodding to behind him, you make eye-contact with the man in question and he averts his gaze immediately. satoru keeps his attention on you, he doesn't give a fuck about the guy - the only thing he cares about is that little fake pout that you're currently hitting him with.

he loves the fake pout. the one you pull when you mock him, when you tease him - eyes big, bottom lip jutted out, slowly nodding your head when you ask him blatant questions that just make him sound stupid. he can't get enough of it.

"why?" his heartrate is already through the roof, adrenaline pumping in his veins. "you jealous?"

his teasing lilt makes the fire in your body burn even stronger.

"obviously." you deadpan.

...

his words get stuck in his throat and you can tell that this isn't the reaction he was expecting. he was prepared to have to coax the answer out of you, he was ready to tease you at least a little before getting his shit rocked but this...

is a hundred, no - a thousand times better.

"sit down." you command him like a dog and his body acts faster than his brain ever could; he sits down onto the same chair he's been using as a squeeze toy and slides it closer than you'd like.

you pull your eyes from him, gluing them to the stage instead. there's a band playing but you are far from actually focusing on whatever the fuck they're singing about. how could you not when you can feel satoru's pretty blues boring into you?

satoru is admiring the way your chest rises with focused breaths, a deep one in and a deep one out. he's admiring the way your jaw tenses as you clench your teeth together, probably biting back a snarky little comment. and his lips quirk up into an excited smirk.

he sneaks his hand under the tablecloth and lets his fingers dance on the skin of your thigh but before he can properly press his palm against you - he pulls his hand back at the sharp contact of you slapping it away.

his lips part in a silent ow! as he rubs his hand, clearly overreacting to a little slap. "keep your hands to yourself."

it's stern - just the way he likes it. a couple of friends of you happen to pass by and satoru relishes in the way you surpress your seething anger by flashing a big toothy grin at them. a sudden elbow almost hitting his ribs makes his eyes almost pop out of his head as you hiss out a say hi and he doesn't think twice to disobey the simple order. he offers them a bashful smile and a wave before they disappear into the crowd.

he watches you take another sip; your plump lips rest around the straw and when a droplet escapes from between your lips and dribbles down your chin, he's just about ready to lunge at you.

you wipe the liquid off and pop your finger into your mouth, his own lips parting as the memories of your tongue around his digits flood his mind and he raises his hand to loosen the tie around his neck.

"but shoko is allowed to touch you?" satoru whispers as he leans in closer, fidgeting with the end of the tablecloth.

"it's only fair, don't you think?" the mocking tone is back as you meet his gaze. "you let him touch you too."

you hate the way his eyes shine, the cute heart-shaped fairylights reflecting in them. "i just made a joke, baby, you know that didn't mean anything."

"do i?" you press on. you see his eyes dart to your fingers circling the rim of the glass and then back to yours. "i don't think i do, baby."

you bring your finger to your mouth again, brushing over your lips as you cross your legs under the table.

"i think it meant something to him though. he keeps looking at you - i think he wants you to play with him. don't you want that, hm?"

satoru shakes his head and bites into his lower lip.

"no?" you question him like he's a child keeping a secret. like he's about to spill everything every moment now. "then why did you go and talk with him in the first place?"

he lets out a shaky little laugh, loving the situation he's put himself in. his palms are growing sweaty and his whole body feels like it's about to overheat but he's completely addicted to the way you're glaring at him and he wouldn't take his eyes from yours even if the world was ending.

"because you look so fucking hot when you're mad."

...

he's about to add to his confession but his breath hitches when the tie around his neck tightens. having turned around in your seat, you keep a tight grip on it as you spare him a faux little smile, showing him your sharp canines as anger drips from your lips. leaning toward him, you try not to draw too much attention as you reprimand your sweet little boyfriend.

"i really oughta put a collar on you. you'd fucking like that, wouldn't you?" you hiss out, your hot breath hitting his skin with every syllable.

his eyes are big and wide and there's a growing flush on the apples of his cheeks and in the tips of his ears. his pants are getting tighter and tighter by the second; every venomous word falling from your pretty lips sending the blood from his head right down to his hardening cock.

"you can't act at all today, can you? you want me to fuck you that badly?"

satoru's adam's apple bobs as he swallows the saliva that's been collecting in his mouth and nods shakily.

"slut."

you yank on the tie one more time before letting it go but stay close, prepared to listen to his whines.

"baby..." he cries, motioning at his bulge, his puppy-dog eyes pleading and begging like it's the only thing he knows to do.

"how is that my problem, satoru?" you give him a fake pout back as you mock his problem. "go ask the blonde, i'm sure he'd love to help you out, baby."

"but i want you to..."

"you really think you deserve my help?" you push as you lean over to him, lips brushing the shell of his ear. shivers run down his spine and he takes a deep breath in. "after the stunt you pulled?"

his whole body twitches when he feels your hand on his thigh under the cloth. two fingers tip toeing up his strong muscles, heading straight for where he needs them the most. you slip your hands lower, deeper between his legs and his eyes grow twice their size. satoru clears his throat, his hands gripping onto the seat of the chair he's sitting on.

you're lucky the room is so dark, the only lights being the small fairy lights that hang above your head and the soft glow coming from the stage. you cup his growing bulge and feel his heavy balls in the palm of your hand. his lips part and he lets a little ah-ah slip, making you smile against his skin.

"you think you deserve me?"

"please..."

"'please' - what, sweetheart? what are you begging for?"

unbeknowst to satoru though, your eyes are on the blonde sitting at the bar. you don't even try to hide the smirk that plays on your lips as you purr into your lovers ear. you can see the man's embarrassment; his dilemma between wanting to keep watching the two of you or diverting his gaze. he crosses his leg over the other as you eye him from the shadows, fondling satoru under the table. your boyfriend is getting more flushed by the second and he can't keep his hips from twitching upward and more into your touch. you send a final grin to the blonde before turning back to satoru.

"you... fuck, i want you." he flutters his eyelashes and juts out his lower lip and you think about devouring him whole. "i'll be good, i'll be so fucking good. i promise!"

his voice breaks with the last words and you swear he grows a shade darker at the slight humiliation but he refuses to tear his eyes from yours.

pretending to think over his plea, you twirl the tips of his hair between your fingers. satoru's own fingers curl around the hand that's playing with his bulge under the tablecloth, determined to keep you there at any cost if you refuse his other offer. you roll your eyes dramatically but cup him harder nevertheless. he squeaks out, letting his head hang lower while still keeping his eyes on you. he's so cute.

biting your inner cheek, you decide to succumb to your own desires and grab onto his hand. satoru lets you lead him through the crowd, his eyes catching suguru's and shoko's before he's already being dragged into one of the bathrooms.

"stay there."

like a good pup, he listens and stays standing in front of the closed door, his eyes following you as you step into the small room and plop yourself down onto the counter.

"i'm sorry."

"too fucking late for that." the grin you give him is a mean one, head cocked to the side. "look at yourself."

his eyes grow bigger at your words.

"c'mon, look at yourself." you purr at him lowly and motion to the mirror behind you. "look how pathetic you look, baby."

you can't hold back the laugh that bubbles from your throat.

"that's what you get for not knowing your place. if you still want a hand, i suggest you go find that blonde because you sure as shit won't be getting mine."

satoru takes a desperate step forward but is stopped in his tracks when you point your foot at him with another wicked smile.

"ah-ah-ah! stay." there's something addicting in the way he listens despite the fact that he looks like he's ready to cry, his cock aching inside the confines of his slacks and boxers.

strands of hair are beginning to stick to his forehead and sweat dribbles down his neck, his pale skin is flushed all the way from his neck up to the tips of his ears. his eyes glint in the dim light, low and heavy as he stares at you through his eyelashes.

his hands start wandering down his own body, unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his pants before slipping his fingers underneath his waistband. you wait for him to be an inch away from properly touching himself to stop him.

"nuh-uhh..." you tease him, crossing your legs as you sit pretty on the counter right in front of him. you look like a siren, like a devil and he's ready to worship you. he's ready to get down on his knees and beg.

"please, baby?" satoru's voice comes out all sweet and pleading and it has you pushing your thighs together at the sound of it.

"again."

"please..." his fingers claw at his own shirt.

"again."

"please, pretty please..."

"you're so fucking hot when you're desperate."

his own sentence comes back to bite him in his ass but he couldn't care any less. he feels his pre-cum soaking through his boxers, his balls hurting because of how badly he needs to cum. how badly he needs you to touch him.

patting the counter, you invite him by your side with a dark laugh. "c'mere."

you don't have to say it twice as he pretty much jumps at you. now that he's close and standing right under the ceiling light, you can see his desperation even clearer. he's way more red, his eyes are glassy and he's harder than he seemed from the shadows. the prominent bulge nudges against the edge of the counter and he lets out a soft whine.

you feel your own arousal ruining your underwear as you watch him. he's so pretty like this. his hands grip the counter and his head hangs low. you raise your hand to comb through the pearly white locks and he immediately leans into your touch.

"it hurts." he pouts and he looks cute, oh, so cute.

"yeah?"

your tone couldn't be any further from being worried - it's the opposite. it's filled with lust and need, with hunger like nothing else. it's not a question about whether he wants to stop, it's a question about whether it's hurts enough.

his hips jut into the counter again and his lips part.

"please, touch me?"

"mkmmmm." you drag your fingers from his hair, over his temple, down the side of his face and his neck and watch goosebumps cover his skin.

he stares at you through the mirror before actually meeting your gaze. your lip is starting to swell from you biting down on it and-

he leans forward, his eyes closing and lips puckering.

he just wants to kiss you so badly.

but you grab his cheeks and hold him in place when he's just a breath away. "little sluts like you don't deserve to be kissed."

you keep him there, lips almost touching and he groans out a quiet fuck as he presses himself against the counter even more.

you hum and you brush your nose against his. the white strands tickle your forehead and his cologne fills your nostrils.

"it hurts so bad, baby, please."

"and it hurt seeing you with him but you did that anyway." you place your free hand on his shoulder and let it glide down over his back muscles. you stop when you reach the waistband of his slacks and he hopes, he hopes, you'll slip your hand under it. he needs to feel you against his skin.

but you don't. you simply apply pressure, forcing him to rub himself against the countertop and you keep doing it until he develops a steady rhythm humping the piece of furniture. you nose at his cheek, dragging your lips over the skin right next to his mouth and you hear his breath hitch.

"you should be thankful i came in with you in the first place, satoru."

"thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you."

his lips blindly search for yours as he slurs out his words of gratitude. you laugh into his skin before hooking a finger into his mouth, into his cheek, to pull him away from your face and you don't hold back the second burst of laughter that wants to escape at his fucked out expression.

you can only imagine the big of a mess he's making in his boxers, how pretty his pink tip is, how hard he is, how sensitive he is. you press your finger down onto his tongue and you don't even have to tell him his next instruction - he wraps his glossy lips around it, letting his warm tongue coat it in his saliva. you immediately add another finger and watch his eyes roll back inside his head.

you push them deeper down his throat, making him gag but you refuse to pull away and let him drool around the digits.

"look at me."

he moans. eyes still closed, he bucks his hips faster and sucks on your fingers. spit drips from your hand and falls onto his dress shirt.

but when he doesn't do as he's told - you yank your fingers from him and land a hard slap against his soft cheek instead.

"i said.. look at me."

his crystalline eyes find yours at your sharp words and the look on his face makes you clench your thighs, the band in your stomach growing tighter and tighter. his cheek grows a tint darker and he groans at the tingling pain.

your pupils are dilated and there's a slight flush on your skin aswell. you look beautiful. his face stings and you look beautiful. his fingers claw at the bottom of your shirt - he just needs to feel closer to you. he needs to be closer to you. he needs. he needs. he needs.

the speed of his hips never falters and you cradle his jaw to help him cross the line - despite this being a form of punishment, you can never deny yourself of the pleasure of watching him cum.

the pleasure of watching him cum untouched in his pants.

the feeling of your soft touch on his now stinging cheek, your eyes on him, your demanding hand on his back, the humiliation of him humping a fucking countertop while being fully dressed is, the filthiness of doing it all in a public bathroom, the insanity of doing it with an unlocked door - finally makes the band in his stomach snap.

satoru's whole body shakes as the orgasm takes over and his head falls into the crook of your neck. he whimpers out a row of profanities as you move your hands to run them over his undercut.

he leans almost his full body weight onto you when he feels like his knees are going to buckle from under him and you quietly laugh, lips grazing his temple. big arms circle your waist and satoru is prepared to fully merge the two of you together forever.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

"how fucking long are you two gonna take?" suguru's voice calls from behind the door. "we're thinking about heading home, it's getting boring out here."

satoru whines into his neck, clearly upset at his friend ruining the moment.

you ruffle his hair as you shout back. "one more minute! we'll be right out!"

"real or not?"

you laugh at his doubtful tone. "real-real! i promise!"

he grumbles an okay before tapping on the door twice and heading off.

satoru's lips graze your damp skin an his hands paw at your waist, still so desperate to have more of you. grabbing his soft cheeks, you raise his face to meet your eyes and a coo slips from your bitten lips.

"my baby..."

he does the cutest little mmmm as his tired eyes fall shut again. you pull him closer and finally press your lips to his and he melts into you. even in his exhausted state, he reciprocates the kiss the second he feels you against him - lips molding together like they're supposed to, like two puzzle pieces made to fit each other.

you nip at him before pulling away and he lets out another whine, making you giggle.

"i love you." you press another quick kiss to his lips. "i love you." and another to his nose. "i love you." and one to his forehead. "i love you." and one to his cheek. "i love you." and another to his jaw. "i love you."

the corners of his lips stretch until they reach his ears and a wave of heat overtakes his face once more. his dimples make an appearance and you feel the overwhelming need to kiss him stupid. he presses his forehead to yours and stares at you from the weird angle. "can i kiss you again?"

"oh, how polite..." you boop his nose with a grin before pulling him flush against you. satoru cradles your jaw like you're made out of glass, like you're not the person, who just made him cum in his pants; like you're not the person, who made him hump the counter in a random bathroom at a party.

"you guys have another minute to get your asses out here or we're leaving you behind!" suguru yells again.

"coming!"

"that's disgusting by the way!" he sighs back, making you and satoru both giggle like some lovesick teens.

you jump off the counter and tuck little satoru back inside his pants. he hisses at the touch, his head falling back onto your shoulder. you button his pants and buckle his belt for him and reward him with another kiss on the cheek. "let's go, yeah?"

satoru hums as a reply and you turn to grab the door handle but then he's suddenly grabbing onto your wrist and pulling you into his arms.

"i'm sorry, baby." he presses his lips to your one last time. "i love you so fucking much."

you smile into the kiss and he mirrors your expression. his hands circle your waist as you thread your fingers through his sweaty hair.

"i don't know why you're saying that already, though..."

he quirps a quick hm?.

"do you... do you really think i'm done with you already?" you laugh loudly when his eyes widen. "this was just the warm-up."

"i think you should keep the apologies for later." you pat down his hair in a terrible attempt to make him look more put together. "and... i suggest you let your voice rest while we drive, baby."

without ever giving him a chance to answer, you tug him out the bathroom and towards an annoyed suguru and a very drunk shoko.

satoru's mind fills with the all of the possibilites that might await him at home and he's already hardening again in his pants.

+ hiiiii kittens @staryukis @elusivemoon @mossmurdock @dollsuguru <3333

#good morning to everyone this evening specifically to tumblr user catchuuu

[chemspxdr]

”Hua Cheng would never bottom” are you high. Are you on drugs. What is it you smoke. Is it crack? Weed? Coke? Are you huffing glue? Are you on mushrooms? Xie Lian could politely go ‘I think I wanna top tonight’ in passing conversation and that man (ghost?) would go ‘Ok Gege :D I love you’ and then he’d happily get his back blown out, and he’d be arching the whole time. I know him personally so I can vouch. Get your act together.

[chemspxdr]

im so tired of stone faced cool tops if there's not tears of relief from putting it in it doesn't matter to me throw the entire thing out

#like what’s this whole thing about not moaning I’m groan whine in my ear bbg

[chemspxdr]

a little friendly competition never hurt anybody

content: ~1.3k words. eren jaeger x female reader. modern/college au, porn without plot, friends with benefits, semi-public cunnilingus, potentially dubcon due to alcohol, completely unserious, eren is a menace but we love him anyway, explicit sexual content, explicit language. 18+

“Ah, hah—fuck!”

Your pesky heel threatened to slip from the porcelain beneath you. The left one. The more you sweltered, the more frequent the slips happened, less of a staccato and now like a clean glide off the edge. Each heart-stopping one delayed your goading orgasm. 

You sat atop a bathroom sink, legs spread, with your feet on the counter. Your palms were suctioned to the countertop behind you, propping you on wobbly elbows. Kneeled between your legs was your friend with benefits, his face buried in your pussy, and on the other side of the thin wooden door was a crowded house party. 

A party you and your supposed-to-be-secret fuck buddy had snuck away from. Kept secret only because you know it would draw comments from your mutual friends. There were fewer questions this way; it was simpler. 

It did make things interesting. Like tonight: a night you’d try to find a hookup, but he, Eren, was already right in front of you—looking really good. The only problem was that the rest of your friends were there, too. You could leave the party together, but that would be pretty obvious, wouldn’t it?

But that didn’t mean some harmless flirting was off the table. At least, that was what you told yourself when you would stand closer to him than before; when you would ‘accidentally’ let your fingers brush his. Every shoulder nudge was batted away by your pretty, faux-apologetic eyes, and you would blame it on that last drink, which wasn’t entirely a lie. You were bubbly and tipsy, and it swirled together perfectly with the desire swarming in your stomach. It emboldened you enough to turn lingering gazes into blatant eye fucking. Your friends were too drunk to notice, anyway. And in the kitchen, there were even less prying eyes around.

“I was hoping I wouldn’t see you here,” Eren said once he found you. You barely heard him over your shoulder with the bass thrumming in your ears. You grabbed a can of beer from the refrigerator and turned to him. 

“That’s not nice,” you lilted, though you could say the same to him. If he wasn’t here, you could have left an hour ago, and you’d probably be fucking in his apartment by now. 

Eren saw through your pout and gave your lips a light flick with his index finger. 

You waved his hand away with a soft giggle and an even softer smile, trailing your fingers along the length of his arm as you asked, “Were you hoping to see me somewhere else?”

But teasing was a game for two, and Eren never minded some friendly competition.

“No, this works,” he hummed. He came closer, resting his hands at your waist. “If you’re up for a little fun.”

Confused, mildly intrigued, and slightly wary of the implication, you felt your eyebrows knit together. They beckoned him to continue. 

“Beer pong,” Eren said plainly. He leaned into you. “Loser gives head to the winner.”

“Here?”

“Here.” He ticked his head toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s that way.”

You didn’t entertain it at first, scoffing a laugh at such a ridiculous proposition. But then again, it did sound a little fun. The longer you thought it over, the more exciting it became. Temptation won you over, that swarming feeling in your stomach now a little flame, burning deeper, brighter, than you thought you could handle. 

Then you extended your hand to Eren, and you shook on it. 

You found the most hand-eye-coordinated person you know, starting quarterback Reiner Braun, and Eren recruited your friend Sasha ‘Sharp-Shootin’’ Braus, who had a knack for the game but only after a few drinks.

The game was close. The tension between you and Eren was palpable, and you wondered if Sasha and Reiner noticed between the winks and eyebrow wags you exchanged after every shot.

But we already know who won this game.

The sharp-shooter herself was too drunk to land the winning shot. Eren took the loss hard.

You slipped away to the bathroom together without raising suspicion. He pressed you against the door, closing and locking it before kissing you.

Against your mouth, he chaffed, “I think you cheated.”

“Cheated? How?” You laughed as you accused, “You’re just a sore loser,” then kissed him some more, your lips parting to give his silver tongue something better to do. 

Of course Eren was a sore loser—he really wanted that blowjob. But that didn’t mean he lost; he still got to go down on you, and that was far from a chore. He was already hard just thinking about it, straining against his jeans as he imagined you coming undone on his tongue, with dozens upon dozens of people outside this cramped bathroom. 

He had you just about there now, having fingered and licked at you for the better half of the last ten minutes; his soft tongue delved between you, flattened and gliding over your clit at a tempo that had you—

“Fuck!”

Again, it wasn’t the kind of ‘fuck!’ you liked. It wasn’t in pleasure but preceded by the thunk of your head when it flung back against the mirror. 

You felt the huff of Eren’s chuckle against you. He peered up at you, his green eyes in stark contrast to the flush of his cheeks. Based on your expression, you were okay—more than okay—so he didn’t let up.

Your foot slid from the ledge again. You lazily left your leg dangling over his shoulder, more focused on the fire he was flaming in your pelvis, so close to engulfing you wholly.

Then Eren pulled away. Your eyes shot open at the sudden loss. He pushed his hair away from his face, then began making smeary circles against your clit with his thumb, agonizingly slow. 

“Gonna come?” he asked, like he didn’t already know the answer. You hated that he could be such a tease—especially here, right now, of all times and places.

You shimmied your hips against his hand with a whine. His circles quickened, but his mouth kept running. 

“C’mon, use your words.” His eyes were still on you, with a smirk growing at the corner of his slick, glossy lips.

Eren lapped at you once. You disappointingly clenched around nothing. On an exasperated exhale, you hastily told him, “Just shut up and make me come.” 

You placed a hand on the top of his head in encouragement, and surprisingly, he continued without putting up a fight. He did lose the bet, after all. 

He worked you back to your high, and you were nearly there when there was another interruption: a heavy knock on the door. Eren’s licking didn’t relent; he merely steadied your startle with a hand on your thigh.

“Hurry the fuck up in there!”

Eren’s mouth only separated an inch from you before he called back, “Hold on a sec. She’s about to finish.”

You must have had quite the audience. You heard ‘ooh’ and ‘oh, man’ and other fratty, boyish cheers. 

You wanted to smack Eren for it. But you didn’t—couldn’t—because he closed his lips around your clit then, gently sucking and flicking his tongue over it until you were coming, loudly. You clasped a hand over your mouth, only for Eren to yank it back down. 

“I wanna hear you.” It was nothing more than a sloppy mumble spoken into your skin. “Let ‘em know how fucking good it feels.”

You bit on your bottom lip like it would actually accomplish anything. You pawed at the countertop as if you could pinch it like a bedsheet as the low muscles of your stomach flexed deliciously tight. It dragged an obscene moan out of you as you rolled your hips over Eren’s tongue, riding out your high. 

If no one knew about your friends-with-benefits relationship before, they certainly did now. You were still breathing hard when the realization hit that you’d have to face the crowd if you ever wanted to leave this bathroom. 

Eren sat back, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist to reveal a suggestive grin. “Down for a rematch?”

#“shes almost finished’ #thatll make your pussy throb

[chemspxdr]

✮ tags ; gn!reader, usage of honorfics (-senpai once, -san), submissive ish nanami, blowjobs, anal fingering, 18+

✮ wc ; 1.7k (???????????)

✮ a/n ; i dont know what happened. not even a nanami girl. but. i see a man in need. nanami sorry for what every does to you.

It's so easy to get Nanami to bent out of shape.

He tries his best, you think. He tries hard, and he's a good guy. You always feel bad being around him and pulling your pranks and antics. You're not like Satoru - he's told you, because you're much more conniving. Unlike Satoru, who Nanami finds dishonest - he thinks you're too direct. Too plain in your admission, your admonishment, your praise.

He deserves a break, for all the tremendous pressure he puts on himself to do well and protect. to make something out of his life. There's some part of him you feel a lot of sympathy for, and another part that sees him for what he is. A man under duress who's practically begging for reprieve. He wants to vacation on a beach somewhere, but he can't.

You think it's natural - inevitable, that Nanami will give into your flirting. You lay it on thick every time he comes by. he's only unaffected in the brief stretch of time where he thinks you're teasing him. Because he's older than you, jaded, easy. When he realizes there's even the slightest bit of sincerity in your words, he suddenly can't look you in the eye.

It's a troublesome affair for him to have feelings for his junior. It's inappropriate, and he can't approach you in the way he likes. The way he likes being controlled and practiced. He's quite the gentleman. Later, you'll sure he'll wine and dine you nicely as a proper thank you. A man like that leaves no good deed unaccounted for.

But for now, you don't really want to let Nanami do anything for you. You've always wanted to do something for him. Break him down. Maybe it's your problem, since a man with that kind of neuroses always turns on the worst in you.

Still. Still. You can see something in him that no one else does, a desire to forget himself. You can give that to him without trying that hard at it, but it does take a lot of convincing.

He's got the handsomest face when he's embarrassed out of his fucking mind. He gets red. You've never seen it before - but his face is lit up. Pink up to his ears.

He's haphazard. Shirt unbuttoned but not off, tie loosened. He took off his pants but couldn't manage his boxers. You've been riling him up all evening, teasing and testing and pushing. When he finally kissed you later on in the evening, an expression close to a plea - you knew you had him where you wanted him.

So you made it to his apartment, kissed in his hallway, pulled him onto the couch and dry-humped like two idiot teenagers. He can't see him to control it after all your meticulous bullying and he looks so much better that way. Loosened up and picked apart.

He's so easy. It's unimaginable for you in some ways, that your cool and collected senior could break apart over something like this. He's normally so reserved, but you've breached some upper limit and now he's like this underneath you.

The muscles of his thighs are tense as you sit patiently between his legs, a hand on his knee with another wrapped around his shaft. you laugh a little at the state, the pre-cum dripping down your fingers and

"Nanami-san," you punctuate the honorifics "You alright up there?"

He lets out a sigh like he's been holding it in all evening. He tries so hard. So hard. You respect it, admire his endless resolve. He chokes down a sound as your hands grip around the base of his cock.

"Yes," He says, only barely masking the thin veil of desperation in his voice. He's almost begging you. You think you're probably awful enough to get him there "I'm fine."

"You sure? You're red in the face. Been a while? You seem like the serial monogamist type. When was the last time you got laid?"

In an act of unbelievable cruelty, you decide the best time to blow him is now. You open your jaw wide, stick your tongue out and let the spit pool onto the tip of his length. He hisses, almost bites a hole in his lip looking down at you in disbelief. His cock throbs painfully in your hand and you giggle - which makes him look down at you ashamed.

You blink innocently, silently imploring him to keep going. He sighs, an arm thrown over his eyes and his hand closed into a hard fist. You close your mouth around the head, minding your teeth. Nanami tastes like skin and salt and musk, but not unpleasant at all. His pre-cum taste clean, just like the rest of him is so prim and perfect. You dip your tongue into his slit, watching him squirm before taking him down even further.

"Could you please—for the love of—"

You slide off your mouth of to talk. You can't help but want to press his buttons.

"Come on, Nanami-san. You can withhold a little bit. You're so sturdy, y'know, more than I thought. Tell me about your sex life."

Nanami can recognize your words for what they are, because he knows you and the games you play with him. He frowns hard, meeting your eyes and closing his own with a sigh.

"I don't remember," Nanami tells you, honest - nearly biting a hole into his lower lip as you massage his balls with your hands, soft as you kiss down his shaft and lave your tongue over the thin skin "It's been a long time. Years."

"That so? You deserve an orgasm, Nanami-senpai. A good one. You really work hard," You punctuate every word with a touch, a squeeze before he shivers himself into a mess. "Every had anything up there?"

His eyes widen in shock and dismay, but not disgust.

"....A very, very long time ago."

"You okay with it?"

"....Well, yes. I guess so."

"Any lube?"

"There's uhm," Nanami stutters, rubs his eyes like he doesn't know where he is "Oil. In the drawer."

"Kay," You say, casually, patting his thigh as you reach over to get it and return to him no problem. He looks at you awestruck and you look back at him with nothing more to offer "Try and relax,"

You warm the oil up in your fingers first before you pull his cock up enough to touch his ass. The rim of muscle flutters as you touch it, slick thumb drawing circles around. He makes a noise you can't identify, followed by one you can. A moan, slight and quiet enough to go undetected. You grin silently as you ease a finger in, a thumb first then your pointer. Nanami breathes through the motion, and you move slow enough to get him to relax.

Once there's one, you go back to blowing him. He loosens up immediately when he feels the warmth of your mouth, hot and slick, suctioned around his cock. You relax your throat taking him deep, opening his ass at the same time.

It's more attention than he's had in a while. There's an unmistakble quality of lust, gargled words and sounds and shuddering. His chest is so flushed in the bare light of apartment he almost glows. You start with one finger and keep your blowing steady - start him easy with stimulation.

You get another, then another - and when your three fingers in, you decide you have some room to be relentless. Ruthless. You curl your fingers and search for his prostate. You know when you've found it because the sound he lets out is debauched.

It's easy - too easy, to get Nanami completely bent out of shape. Getting him this broken this fast almost feels like a trick of light - his dark brown eyes rimmed red and shaking. Such a composed gentlemanly sort moaning a fucking mess.

His strong chest is trembling as it rises up and down trying to catch a breath. You know when you find the spot because he nearly jerks his hips, but shows enough restraint not to do it. Not to fuck up into his throat animalistically like he wants so badly.

A well-trained man he is. You suppose all men can be a little like dogs.

So you reward him by deep-throating him. It takes all of your willpower and expertise but the reaction is more than worth it.

So polite, he doesn't even swear when he breaks underneath your ministrations. Doesn't cry, doesn't even scream when he wants too. His cock shudders and twitches and pulses against the warmth of your mouth, pre-cum streaming into your throat like a broken faucet. But he doesn't let himself cum, doesn't do anything but let you have your way with him.

No, he wants you to have your way with him.

You pull off and he whines. Whines. His voice, thick and deep, so pitched with need you almost want to laugh. You kiss his cock affectionately.

"You can cum when you feel like it. 'Kay?"

He just nods, speechless. Needy. You feel so good and a little sorry for him at the same time. But you're urged by a silent desire to ruin him at his very foundation.

So for the last time, you let your mouth come down on him and fuck him with your fingers. You give it everything, bobbing your hand and timing your rhythms well enough that your wrists hurt. It's a game of balance, but you manage it - because with even the slightest gestures or veritable movements, Nanami folds.

He caves in on himself, breathing ragged and practically drooling. Poor Nanami, you think. It's just so easy to get him this way, and it's fun too.

The words barely get out of his throat before he can warn you, frantically that he's going to cum. But you don't move, pushing forward and barrelling your way towards his orgasm. You can feel it happen on your tongue, cock twitching hard and he unloads deep into your throat.

You don't taste it so it's easy to swallow, and you swallow hard as you milk him making him pull you off in a desperate plea for mercy.

You laugh as you pull away from him, watching as he stares down at you awestruck and a little afraid. You wipe the corners of your mouth and smile.

"You're so sexy, Nanami-san,"

He groans in shame and embarrassment, still red to the tip of his ears.

"Enough out of you."

#you know what. #I’d rip off my acrylics with my teeth just for him

[chemspxdr]

you believe your very reserved, reclusive roommate satoru is a peculiar boy who’s far too concerned with how you spend your tuesdays.

↺ f!reader. ↺ no curses, roommates au. ↺ pure domestic fluff. lil angst. roomies + kinda dumb-dumbs to lovers. suggestive smut. ↺ 18+ profanity. shy!satoru vs. domestic!satoru vs. good intention, terrible execution!satoru. yuji is there, innocent and antagonized. he’s your favorite, quirky neighbor. mentions of smutty activity but nothing overtly explicit. ↺ 12.5k. footnote. old throwaway thing, but pls enjoy soft, shy satoru.

having satoru as a roommate doesn’t necessarily cause you any problems in your everyday life, but boy is he a rather peculiar man from time to time. sharing space with him is an overall easygoing and even enjoyable experience due to his reserved and borderline reclusive nature.

he’s quiet, rarely has guests, and doesn’t pester you. he’s also quite domestic, which usually indirectly benefits you. his areas are well-kept and consistently clean. he seems to enjoy cooking and from time to time, when you’re gone for the entire day from morning until night, either at work or shuffling through campus, you come home to an extra serving waiting on the stove seemingly just for you even though he’s never anywhere in sight.

admittedly, you did eat his extras without permission the first time, but now, he delegates the extras to you. and he wakes up incredibly early every morning, so with you finally consuming your second meal of the day alone in the dimly lit kitchen at 11:30 pm, it never feels like an appropriate time to thank him. so, you instead leave a sticky note that reads ��� thank you for the food. i ate well! — on the coffee machine each time, the first place he looks in the morning. you know this because each morning, promptly at 7:15 am, you’re roused from your slumber by the pleasant aroma of coffee beans brewing and clinging to the air, seeping through all the walls. it’s a habit of his that cultivates comfort, a sense of home. you don’t even like coffee, but his routine is oddly like an alarm, a signal to your body that the day is beginning and rising with him. shortly after his brew begins, your eyes flutter open, humming contentedly as you take in the scent and stretch the sleep out of your limbs. satoru is kind enough. he doesn’t make many demands of you and asks for a reasonable amount to rent out his spare room. of all the people and places you could have secured last-minute housing for university, you’re quite fortunate to end up with satoru. he’s a simple guy, not one for many words, communicating in mostly hums, sighs, and head mechanisms when you actually see him come slinking out of his bedroom or enter quietly from wherever he spends his day. but despite being mostly pleasant and tolerable, he still has these odd idiosyncrasies that make you quirk a brow at him, utterly perplexed. firstly, he nitpicks the number of paper towels you use at once. on one of the rare occasions that you both linger in the common space simultaneously on a day other than tuesday, you wash your hands in front of him. naturally, like any other person, you grab paper towels to dry them, and you can feel his eyes locked on your side profile as he watches from the dining table. his eyes, little seas you can drown in, shamelessly bore into you; he analyzes you carefully, judges you.

you meet his eyes slowly, feeling unusually nervous as if you’re being heavily and thoroughly scrutinized. “uh…is everything okay?” “you use a lot of sheets of paper towels at once.” he notes quietly, never tearing his gaze from yours. “it’s pretty wasteful.” he admittedly didn’t state it with malice, just moderate concern. when he says it, you look down between your palms where a bundle of paper towels are bunched up and on their way to becoming waste indeed. you can admit that it’s more than you actually needed, but it’s such an odd thing to want to observe and take note of, such a specific behavior to apply feedback to. you look back up at him, blinking slowly. “sorry?” you offer half-heartedly. “is there a certain amount you’d like me to use at a time?” you try your damndest not to let the severity of your bubbling agitation show, but you hear it slip in the way you offer him a careless apology and defensively inquire about a solution. to your dismay, satoru only hums, considering your notion. “ideally, paper towels should only be used for spills and messes, as to not permanently stain our cloth towels. considering there are two hundred and eight sheets in total, at an average cost of five dollars per roll, making each sheet worth just under two-point-five cents, it’d be objectively more cost-efficient and environmentally friendly if you simply…place a cloth towel there specifically for you to dry your hands with and ensure to include it in your laundry cycle regularly. that’s what i do. it…seems like the most reasonable option.” “uh…huh.” you say slowly, trying to wrap your mind around why it took a boy who hardly ever speaks so many words to arrive at a very simple conclusion: put a hand towel there instead. “i’ll put a towel there. i’m sorry for being wasteful.” he nods, his hard gaze finally moving back to previous stimuli. “thank you for acknowledging my concern, y/n.” in truth, you don’t even get a chance to add a towel. satoru does it himself. the next time you’re in the kitchen, you notice that satoru’s placed an additional hand towel folded carefully and identically right next to his. the sight causes you to shake your head and laugh very softly, lips tilting up into a grin. 

what a peculiar boy.

coupled with his obtuse observational interests is satoru’s odd attachment to tiny, mundane instances within his routine. specifically, everyone coming home on time. every tuesday you only have a single class in the morning, and you also have a day off from work, so you usually stroll back into the apartment by mid-afternoon. satoru is never there when you arrive home and you don’t know much about what he does with his time during the day. at most, you know he’s already graduated university. you know he must make decent money, considering his capacity for keeping the entire house’s basic needs met by keeping food on the table, so you know he has to do something during the daytime. what it is? you’re uncertain, but he always carries a backpack stuffed full, and his laptop is always tucked securely under his arm within a protective sleeve. satoru is a habitual creature through and through, dancing in the spaces of predictability with perceivable glee. he arrives back home by 4:30 fairly consistently. by that time, you’re usually engrossed in a book, spread out on the living room floor studying, or curled up on the couch watching dramas whenever he arrives. you never make eye contact or redirect your attention from what it’s already fixated on, but you do always absentmindedly greet him the same way each time: “welcome home.” he always gives you a small hello and immediately retreats back to his room without another word. sometime around six o’clock, he emerges from his room and comes to the common space to ask if you want dinner. tuesday evening is the only occasion during the week you’re able to eat the things he makes fresh, rather than reheating them. and you both sit in an incredibly comforting, idle silence while you eat. there’s never expectations to entertain one another or engage in meaningless small talk. you compliment his meal, thank him, and tell him you ate well. it’s never a lie. satoru is an exceptional cook. but on one particular tuesday in question, he comes stumbling into the apartment at 2:45 pm, significantly earlier than usual, and he’s in an evident frenzy. he comes in, kicks his shoes off at the door with little regard [ unlike him ], and moans begrudgingly as he shuffles back toward his room, his defeat loud and palpable.

“welcom—” the greeting dies on your lips, hearing his long string of audible dread and looking after him as he scurries down the hall. “satoru?” you call after him. you watch his tall figure pause and turn back towards you when he hears you, his ceruleans eyes round and wide with apprehension and fear. “yes?” “rough day?” you ask him softly, trying not to overwhelm him even more. “you’re home pretty early and you have this distinct look of terror.” you try to joke lightheartedly, but he sighs in response, looking down at his feet. “it is a rough day and it’s only going to get worse. i don’t know what to do.” “do you need help with something?” “i…i think so? i have friends coming over. i’ve never had anyone over here. i don’t…do that. i’ve never made that much food. i feel like i won’t be able to get done in time and clean myself up.” “you seem really stressed out about this. how many people are coming?” “…two,” he answers sheepishly. “but additional mouths to feed means more time and honestly, y/n, i don’t have any time. i left work early so i could try to make this happen, but now it means i’m going to be behind on the schedule i put together for my project at work and this is…it’s…it’s fucking up my routine. it’s stressing me out. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i know i’m just blubbering and prattling right now.” “satoru,” you say softly, giving him a sympathetic smile. “it’s okay. i get it. i hate when my day gets thrown off, too. i’m not doing anything particularly important if you want help with making dinner. are there things you need from the store or anything? i can take care of that while you wash up and relax for a bit.”

he’s quiet for a moment as if he doesn’t know what to say. he just stares at you with an unreadable expression, nods once — quite curtly — and turns back toward his room. you don’t take it any kind of way, knowing he often responds pretty similarly. you figure he just isn’t used to requesting or receiving help, but it’s fine. you can and will still do it. satoru doesn’t realize what a load he takes off your shoulder by providing you with regular meals. in your mind, the least you can do is eat well, be mindful of your paper towel use, and offer helpful hands when applicable. later when the two of you are prepping dinner and simultaneously trying to make the apartment feel ‘guest ready’, you keep noticing satoru glancing over at you, but he doesn’t speak. actually, he hardly says anything at all the entire time you work together. it’s such a strange contradiction because he presents himself as shy and reserved because he simply dosen’t speak, but when he does speak, he seems to either talk a mile a minute or be unnecessarily long-winded at an average speed. there isn’t really an in-between thus far, and you’d lived with him for nearly a year. unable to endure any more of his silent but blatant gazes, you snap your head to him, a little curious and also frustrated. “why are you staring at me? did i do something again?” “no,” his head shakes as he blinks, seeming a bit taken aback by your tone. “i was…thinking that i’m really grateful that you were willing to help me with this. i don’t have enough time to finish all my work. i don’t have enough time to see my friends or have dinner with them. i don’t have enough time to spend with myself. but i’m trying to do it anyway because…it matters, you know? but i was…having an anxiety attack earlier. i get really stuck on my routines. inconsistencies just make my brain itch. i was feeling really overwhelmed and your offer to go gather the things i needed just so i could shower and breathe for ten minutes…meant…a lot to me. so…thank you. also…i’m sorry…for staring. i have this really bad habit of not knowing what to say, so i say nothing or…say everything.”

to his apparent surprise, you giggle, and his eyes widen a bit at the sound. “yeah, i noticed that about you, actually.” you place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “no problem. we’ve been here together for a while now, yeah? it’s only natural that sometimes we need to rely on each other. it’s kind of like how you leave me your extras from dinner for when i get home. i…otherwise would only eat once a day most days. i move around a lot. i forget about it, and by the time i get home, i’m too exhausted to make food. i’m grateful for how you’re willing to help me, too.” you didn’t expect to see his face flush red and for him to look down as if looking at his feet would make the bright tips of his ears disappear. “yeah…no problem. i guess you’re right.” “so…what is it that you do for work? what’s so time-consuming that you essentially have no life outside of it?” you ask. although you’re curious about his line of work, you ask him about himself for his benefit, so he doesn’t feel embarrassed about feeling flustered after your exchange. you’re starting to figure out that although satoru appears and presents as if his lack of social involvement is a personal preference and choice, being a loner is not a stylistic choice but an inevitable outcome because he’s clearly socially inept. when you guys eat in thick silence, it’s not because he’s just so comfortable he doesn’t feel the need to speak; he doesn’t know what to say, so he opts for absolutely nothing. small talk is likely not something he’s familiar with or perhaps even cares about. he has to be coaxed out of his fretful foundation just to express that he needs help. he communicates in grunts, nods, and sighs because it’s easier than navigating a flow of back and forth in conversation. “i’m a video game designer. i…work on actions and movements mostly. like, when characters engage in combat or how they interact with certain parts of the environment in open-world games? i’m part of the team that goes behind creating things like that. we give the characters life and motion. it’s…pretty cool considering it’s been my dream job since i was a teenager, but it’s a lot of hard work. we’re working on a really important game right now. it could put our little spot on the map with other big-name game-developing companies like epic games and santa monica studio, so i have to do my best. i can’t let my team down.” you hum, impressed. “that’s actually really cool. i kind of figured you were a nerd in some capacity, but you’re a cool nerd with a cool job.” he laughs then, light and quiet but saccharine sweet. “i wouldn’t say i’m a nerd. i have a deep understanding of my personal interests. it doesn’t make me nerdy. just knowledgeable.” a nod of agreement. “no, it doesn’t make you nerdy, but telling someone they use too many paper towels and proceeding to itemize the cost of a single sheet on a whim is…not, not nerdy.”  you explain, clicking your tongue. he pouts. “i thought that information was relevant to helping you understand my stance.” “i would have understood even if you didn’t explain, satoru. it’s your apartment and you buy all the paper towels. it’s not wrong for you to, without explanation, tell me to be mindful of my excessive use.” satoru looks you over, his expression laden with confusion, lips pursed and eyes just staring at you while blinking blankly. “but you clearly were bothered by me bringing it up, so that’s why i elaborated like that.” “i wasn’t bothered you brought it up. i just thought you were peculiar. and you still have not been able to escape those allegations, by the way. it’s alright, though. even if we end up having to indict you for your oddities, i’ll still accept you.”

it’s quiet between you both then. satoru seems to have nothing else to offer to the little exchange, and that’s fine with you because when you peek at him again as he’s chopping up vegetables, you notice his tiny smile. and you note that the subtle little smile doesn’t leave him for the entirety of the evening. you sit quietly on the opposite side of the room,  midding — uninvolved but happily present — observing him engage with his work friends, suguru and shoko. he seems quite comfortable with them. his speech becomes fluid, easy, and even exciting. you see a little sparkle in his eyes when they talk about games and how suguru is close to finishing is personal passion project. he must love gaming a lot. you wonder if video game development is really the dream or just the dream career, and maybe his real passion is something more novel and less technical. regardless, you can’t help the sheer feeling of pride that swirls around in your chest seeing him like this: engaged, involved, lively. it gives you a subtle little smile of your own. and you note that the subtle little smile doesn’t leave you for the entirety of the evening.

among all other observations, the ultimate characteristic of satoru’s that confirms the strength of his idiosyncracies is how he’s far too concerned about how you choose to spend your tuesdays. it starts the week after you help him prepare his tiny dinner party for his friends, the most peculiar aspects of his behavior. it’s all because on one particular tuesday in question, you never come home after class. 

your friend and co-worker, ari, has a date with a boy she’s been flirting with for a while, so you agree to switch shifts. you’re tired, hanging on by a thread, but you reallly need the extra money for the week. today in exchange for a day you don’t have class and you can stay home the entire day, a fair and even trade. [ you work as a waitress at a small restaurant near the university. most students come here between classes on their lunches, so it’s a small but heavily populated establishment. when you volunteer to work on busy days, your boss advances you what you make for that day at the end of the night. ] while cleaning off the table of a guest who just left, you receive repeated text messages, making your brows furrow as your phone shot signal after signal in quick succession. who could possibly be texting you this urgently? no one ever does. you glance at the time. 4:32 pm. satoru usually wanders through the door right around now. your brows lift in light shock as you see he’s the source of the incessant sounding.

[ 4:32 pm ] satoru: 

are you safe? you’re not at home.

it’s tuesday. you’re usually home when i get here.

my routine is thrown off.

you roll your eyes reading his messages. he’s being hyperbolic and overdramatic, but for what? is it really so important that you’re there just to say two words he hardly acknowledges only to hole up in his room until he’s ready to make dinner? 

maybe this is his attempt at humor.

you chuckle at the thought of it. satoru is so socially awkward that his jokes don’t even land; they just float in the air, suspended until someone gets it.

[ 4:32 pm ] you: 

you’re being incredibly dramatic. i’m at work. very alive and well. making money to keep feeding us.

[ 4:34 pm ] satoru: 

objectively incorrect. i buy all of our food?

[ 4:40 pm ] satoru: 

look. no one was here to welcome me home and now i’m back, but don’t feel an ounce of welcome about it.

you laugh at his response, very heartily, right in the middle of a restaurant, inwardly beaming with pride because he made a joke. and it was actually kind of funny. only kind of. you start to wonder why it matters so much to you if he grows into himself and becomes comfortable enough to speak freely and easily. why do you feel so invested in his character development? regardless, you hope to see him come out of his shell more. it’s becoming of him.

[ 4:41 pm ] satoru: 

will you make it in time for dinner or another long night?

[ 4:44 pm ] you:

probably not. it’s pretty busy and we’re already short-staffed. another long night. aiming to be back by ten tonight. i have homework due at midnight.

[ 4:45 pm ] satoru: 

okay…understood. godspeed.

work goes by as it does. it’s always the same formula and equation, just different bodies and times of day. you finally come strolling home at 10:05 pm. you’re already tired, but knowing you still have to finish your homework and submit it online is making the exhaustion feel heavier than it probably is. when you head inside, you expect it to be dark, only the light above the stove left on as per usual, but instead, all of the lights are on, the tv is chattering with excitement, playing some kind of variety show, and there’s a spicy, thick aroma in the air that makes you pause briefly to breathe it in. it’s so pleasant. and warm. you walk in, greeted by a scent that feels like a long embrace.

as you walk through the door, you look to your immediate left where the open layout kitchen is placed, satoru stands next to the stove, chopping vegetables carefully on the counter. “welcome home.” he announces it casually, just as you always do for him, but does not tear his attention away from his task. you don’t know what exactly this is, the anomaly in his behaviorial pattern. you aren’t sure what to name the feelings that attach to it, either, but you appreciate it because today you have an anomaly of your own. you understand it right then: what he means when he says he came back but he didn’t feel welcomed home. you’re always only ‘coming back’ but walking in and being welcomed by him, it feels more like ‘coming home’. you note that there might just be a difference.    your voice is tepid and content when you finlly speak. “hey, you’re up pretty late.” he only hums in response. you wander over to him, keeping a good grip on all your belongings. “cooking dinner at this hour? pretty unlike you. huh, your routine really did get messed up.” his lips qurik. “yeah, i worked more when i came home instead of eating. i’m still catching up from last week. but i noticed i was starving and then i realized it was almost ten. so i figured i might as well just commit to a curve in my routine. but…what about yours?” his inquiry surprises you a little because he’s initiating small talk with you. at first, your lips just part. “my…routine? uh…yeah, it got thrown off majorly today. i have an assignment due by midnight. i thought i was going to turn it in by this afternoon, but i got paid in advance for this shift, so that was nice.” he stops cutting his carrots then and places the knife down calmly. and then, he just looks at you. it was a very normal look that you could give anyone: stranger, acquaintance, or friend. it was just a simple look, but for some reason, when his eyes meet yours, your heart starts to pick up its rhythm, and you swear you can hear the thump of it crescendoing in your ears. he’s so…handsome. it’s not that you’ve never looked at him before. it’s not that you aren’t already aware that he’s a good-looking man. anyone with eyes and reason can see that. it’s just that right now you’re looking at him and he seems like his features have changed, like someone raised the saturation and sharpness of his existence. his jawline seems sharper. his blue eyes seem more potent, gleaming cooly. his lips are supple, pink, pouty, and curved quite romantically. he looks like a walking beckoning for affection. his pearly hair is tousled, all in disarray like he’s been running his fingers through tirelessly. his clothes seem to cling to the thickness of his frame, outlining the definition of his muscular build. he quite obviously works out. you didn’t notice that before, the way fabric bulges around his arms and shoulders. his feathery lashes flutter around lapis when he blinks, all that angelic beauty just swirling around. you haven’t looked at him this thoroughly before.

god, he’s pretty. 

“you should make sure you respect your resting day routines. you seem to work really hard with…everything you’re doing.” satoru’s voice is soft and caring, cradling his own declaration tenderly. smiling, you nod, swallowing down how flustered suddenly you feel inside, hoping the quickening of your breath doesn’t give it away. “i hear you. it was a one-time thing anyway. now…need help?” “don’t you have homework?” his voice is perplexed. “go work on it. i’ll call you when i’m done.” to this, you reject his suggestion with a shake of your head. “no can do. i think i’m too tired and will take my loss with grace for the sake of a decent meal before midnight. i’ll ask again…need help?” you don’t say what you really mean right then: i think i’d rather spend time in silence with you. it looks like he’s only barely started, likely working on a base for some sort of soup. he has so many scraps laid out everywhere. satoru clears his throat. “uh…yeah…yeah, i do.”

“on it,” you say resolutely. “let me put my stuff up and change really quick. it’ll only take me five and i’ll be back to help.”

after that, you don’t see satoru for the rest of the week. tuesday is really the only day your schedules coordinate enough to see each other even in passing. you don’t miss how disappointment settles in your chest every single time you wander inside at ten or eleven and you don’t see him standing there in the kitchen, back turned to you, nonchalantly welcoming you home. you don’t miss the way you stop yourself from texting him and telling him exactly what he told you: look. no one is here to welcome me back home and now i’m back but don’t feel an ounce of welcome about it. but on the following monday, you receive a surprising notification.

[ 1:08 pm ] satoru: 

i would like to formally request permanent assistance with dinner on tuesday evenings. unless work or other contractual obligations prevent participation. it is much more efficient with two sets of hands. and since we both eat, it’s the most ethical and fair.

his formality makes you giggle, as it’s so aligned with who you now understand him to be. once again, smiling fondly to yourself, you think of what a peculiar boy he is. his request at its core is perfectly fair. he does buy all the food and cook it but you both enjoy the fruits of his labor, so if it’s a regular thing, you realistically should help him without a single qualm. that’s the line of reasoning you offer for the sheer speed of your response, agreeing to give away your tuesdays to him: in all fairness.

[ 1:09 pm ] you: 

sure thing toru.

you don’t miss the way it’s the first time you’ve ever called him by or given him any kind of nickname. you don’t miss the way you feel nervous to send it to him, as if being denied casual exchanges with him will have a significant impact on your emotions. now you’re the one acting peculiarly. so, for three weeks, on three consecutive tuesdays, you and satoru rally together in the kitchen, pick a recipe to follow, assign your roles, complete your duties, and successfully make meals together around six o’clock. for three consecutive tuesdays, you sit together at the table and eat well, sometimes in silence, but sometimes in comfortable, slow-paced conversation. the most surprising evolution is the budding presence of his attempts at small talk. “i don’t know how i feel about this recipe.” satoru admits after devouring the meat he’s made. “i don’t care for this marinade at all.” you, mouth full and consumption bordering barbaric, look confused. when you swallow, you have to inquire about why he feels this way. it’s quite literally delicious. and you can’t fathom him not liking it considering he ate all of it. “what? you didn’t like it? how? i think it’s incredible. probably your best yet. the meat is so, so tender and it’s very flavorful but not overwhelming. it goes really well with this little sauce we made!” “you enjoyed it?” satoru asks you. you notice then that he’s biting his lip rather nervously. “or are you only saying that because we spent a considerable amount of time on this one?” you grin, rolling your eyes. “why would i lie? you’re a good cook, toru. seriously…i’ve never not enjoyed the food you’ve cooked. you did really well on the meat. and judging by your happy plate, i think you know that.” you figure out quickly that it isn’t that he doesn’t like it, but that he wants someone else to say he did a good job but doesn’t want to ask directly until an opinion is already offered.

he even seeks praise awkwardly. how endearing.

he doesn’t speak, only lowers his head with that subtle little smile you’ve come to find yourself craving the sight of. admittedly, you enjoy this little tradition that the two of you are building. you feel excited for him to come home, eager for him to finish resting up and come out at six, ready to get started, ready to talk to you or just stand by your side. moreover, you really enjoy not eating dinner alone. you enjoy his proximity even in your settled silence. it always feels more like home when he’s here and you are, too, both parallel or perpendicular to the other. “this is nice.” you tell him warmly. “i kinda like our new tradition.” “oh,” he breathes softly. “i…” his head rises quickly and he looks at you, those icy eyes you’ve grown particularly fond of now slightly widened. you don’t know if you’re just seeing what your own unspoken feelings want to see, but it looks like longing looking back at you. his hand rests on the table and you glance down, only for a fraction of a moment, considering reaching your own out to find the answer to a theory you’ve constructed in the last few weeks: you think his hands might be incredibly soft. “well, um. i…that’s…good to know. i think that maybe…um, i…” [ your mind begs you to let it be known that he’s stammering and you’re staring, but your thoughts are ever so slightly somewhere else. ] you notice when he washes his hands, he pats them dry lightly with his towel. delicate. and he always opens the drawer below immediately after to pull out a tiny bottle of hand cream. every single time. he applies a dollop and rubs it all in gingerly. he makes sure to get all the nooks and crannies of his hands, the dips and the divots. thorough. patient. soft. satin. he seems to care a great deal about his hands, takes good care of them and the things they touch. you lick your lips and look away. “i’m sorry…i…uh…don’t know what to say i think and…” you cut him off. “is it a mutual understanding?” “what?” “do you…like our little tradition as well?” a slow, timid, soundless nod. you respond with tilted lips. “then…you can just say…i like it, too.” he doesn’t take his eyes off of you, but the look he gives you is becoming a little bit clearer, and you can’t look directly for too long or you’ll melt right before him, because gojo satoru turns out to be a lot like the sun, and if you aren’t careful, your heart might try to become like spring and bloom for him. “i…like it, too.” he says finally. humming, you turn your attention back towards your food, looking away, and for the first time, being the one with nothing left to say. all the things you want to say officially teeter off the cusp of amiability and drop straight into a giant vat of arousal. after a moment, your body becomes so hot you can’t stand just sitting there anymore, so dinner ends abruptly with satoru telling you to leave your dishes and he’ll take care of them. you only nod and offer him a quiet thank you and a friendly goodnight. then you wander off to your room in a daze wondering if he noticed you squirming in your seat. he’s so fucking domestic you’re about to cum off the strength of existing in the same house as him. and that’s not good. because you’re always in the same house as him. the things you watch him do in the kitchen, it’s all just so homely. there’s a kind of strength in a man who appreciates homemaking that makes you weak. telling you to make sure to preheat the oven, putting on his oven mitts to check on the food, setting timers, and tying an apron around his waist. cutting vegetables. using measuring cups. ‘slice, y/n. no dice. here, let me show you. watch.’ the way his triceps and biceps flex at the motion of his very intentional cuts, the way he’s always rolling up his fucking sleeves, even when they’re short-sleeved shirts like a goddamn tease, basically begging to be turned into a husband and a father overnight. 

it’s absolutely sickening. and you officially want him so bad that you want to throw up.

the orgasm you have in your room, stifling the sound of your moans and the sound of you quietly calling out his name when you did, spells it out quite clearly for you even if you don’t want to acknowledge it outright. it’s absolutely sickening.

on thursday, another anomaly occurs in your schedule. a few actually, and all of them are pleasant. the first anomaly is relaxation. you don’t have class and since ari keeps up her end of the deal, you have an entire day at home to enjoy your day and your alone time. but, as usual, you wake to the pleasant aroma of coffee. you smile even harder knowing there’s nowhere for you to be so you can move as quickly or as slowly as you like. this means you don’t have to hop out of bed and immediately get ready. it means that maybe you can go have coffee with satoru before he leaves for the day. you don’t even like coffee…but you like him. and that’s more than enough reason to get you out of bed, tidy yourself a bit, and go sauntering out of your room to ask for a cup of hot liquid you’ll never consume. you’re more of a tea or hot chocolate kind of girl, but there’s a first time for everything, and maybe having coffee will taste better if drinking it means spending even a fractal of time with him. this initiates the occurrence of the next anomaly. “good morning,” you say pleasantly. a yelp. a jolt. a wince and a hiss. a ‘fuck, fuck, fuck’.   a resounding crash. the sound of shattered ceramic. he clearly isn’t expecting you to be up or to greet him. you wince at the sound of glass and lean over to see that he’s dropped and broken the mug he was holding: your mug. your favorite one. the one your grandmother made for you with her own two hands. there’s coffee pooling everywhere, all over the floor, and satoru moans dreadfully. “shit!” he exclaims. “you scared the bejeezus out of me. i’m so, so sorry. i didn’t mean…i didn’t mean to break it. i’m sorry, y/n. i really am.” the mug means the world to you, as your grandmother is much older now and unable to make little crafts for you like this anymore. it’s the only one of its kind. the only one that would ever be. and now it’s in pieces on the kitchen floor, a little sea of java surrounding the sad, jagged portions of loving sentiment. “i’m sorry i scared you.” you say softly, trying hard not to cry. you don’t want to make him feel bad. you don’t want him to feel bad at all. “it’s okay, toru. it’s okay. i’ll get towels.” once you grab towels and come back to help him clean it up, he’s deep in a spell of unnerved groaning, just a long, drawn-out whine that goes on under his breath for a while. “please don’t be upset.” he pleads, frowning. “i’m so, so sorry.” you smile softly, shaking your head. “i’m not upset, toru. are you hurt at all? from the coffee? i heard you hiss.” “i’m okay. it splashed on me, but it didn’t burn me or anything.” you place the two large towels down to soak up all the liquid on the ground. satoru focuses on picking up each piece of the broken mug. as you watch him through the top of your eyes, you wonder just why he’s using your mug to begin with. “i’m not used to you being awake so early.” he admits, slightly embarrassed of how a simple good morning resulted in this. “but…good morning to you, too.” you just can’t help it. you giggle. peculiar boy. “if you want…you…you can pick one of my mugs to take in its place.” he offers, biting his lip. you nod and say okay for a few reasons: 1. you absolutely want something of his and that is a microscopic guilty desire you have. 2. he seems like it’ll bother him a lot if he can’t rectify the situation in some way. you saying it’s okay doesn’t appear to suffice. 3. see reasons 1 & 2. then combine them.

as he’s showing you his plethora of available mugs, you catch yourself smiling because…he has all of these mugs of his own, but…he was drinking his morning coffee out of yours. you survey them all and find this one white, ceramic mug that says ‘create’ on it. it’s oddly shaped, looking nearly homemade. irregular. odd. it’s the most satoru mug of them all. that’s the one you want. you point to it. “i’ll take that one.” you tell him. for a brief moment, he hesitates, pouting cutely, but his lips slowly become tilted upward.  “of course you will. that one’s my favorite. i made it in my high school art class, but…okay. okay. a mug for a mug. you can keep it. drink your coffee out of it well…and frequently…or it might start to feel neglected. it’s an extroverted kind of mug.” if you knew it wouldn’t result in one of the most blatant forms of rejection you’ll ever face, because satoru is nothing if not brutally honest, you would have kissed him right then. you really would have. but, instead, you’ll take the mug and use it well just as he asks, and maybe he’ll try to sneak in a hidden smile by just tilting the corner of his lips, and maybe you’ll spot his dimple because of it, and maybe the sight of it will make your heart flutter and breath hitch, and maybe it (in its own way) could be just as good as a kiss. a homemade mug for a homemade mug. you’ll keep it indeed. “want to have coffee before you leave for work?” you ask, even knowing well that you’ll be wasting perfectly good coffee, even knowing how upset he’ll be if he knows. but it feels worth it when he nods, offering you that coy smile you find yourself anticipating nowadays. and you both do, in total silence, sit at the table over a cup of coffee, stealing glances every now and then. when he asks why you haven’t touched your coffee, you lie and say you prefer it with creamer, to which he turns his nose up in disgust. “creamer is a forbidden substance in this house.” he informs you. “but…if…if it really is a dealbreaker for your coffee enjoyment, i’ll make sure to get you some. what kind do you like?”

the next time you go grocery shopping for us, honey? why don’t you just ask me to pop the question right now?

you don’t care for coffee. you don’t care for creamer, but you care very, very dearly about the prospect of satoru getting any kind of special thing for you, with you in mind, with the purpose of making an experience better for you. [ you know plenty of special things he can give you to make the experience better. and it didn’t even cost money. and he can use his perfect hands as much as he likes. ] “hazelnut,” you lie with a smile. “that’s my favorite.” the third anomaly occurs much later in the day when you’re home alone and you’re lounging in the living room, wondering if thursday will get to be a second tuesday with satoru since you’ll both be home. unexpectedly, there’s a knock at the door. your brows furrow. you didn’t order any food. you didn’t expect a delivery. satoru always tells you if anyone is dropping by. when you walk up to the door, peeping out of the hole, you see a remarkably handsome man standing on the other side. you open the door carefully, revealing a boy, likely around your age, with soft pink, shaggy hair, and a smile on his face that seems like it might melt anything in sight that just so happens to perceive it. he has little dimples on his cheeks when he smiles. he, much like satoru, is very pretty. “hi…can i…help you?” you ask timidly, not fully coming outside the door, head and a portion of your torso poking out. he might be attractive, but he’s still a stranger. he scratches the back of his head. “oh…uh, hi!…my name is yuji? i just moved into that unit about a week ago.” he explains, jerking a thumb back towards his front door, #1103r, right across from you and satoru’s #1104r. your brows lift in sheer surprise.

“oh! i didn’t even know the unit was empty.” you laugh. “welcome to the complex…and the hall. it’s fairly quiet, so i hope you aren’t a partier.” laughing, he shakes his head. “a baker, not a partier. i spend my spare time making sweet treats. you might smell me baking a lot, though. i…uh…i actually was coming to ask if you had butter? or margarine? i’ve started making cupcakes, but i didn’t get butter at the store, and i didn’t want to leave out to the store…because i already started. so, i figured i could come to introduce myself…and ask a neighborly favor?” he puts his hands together in a small plea.

wow, the boys in this building really do enjoy wholesome activities.

smiling, you nod. “sure, give me a second, i’ll be right back.” when you come back to the door with an entire package of butter, he smiles wide, making his eyes crinkle. “i hope that’ll be enough.” “more than, i’ll bring back what i don’t use.” he promises. “ah, you’re a lifesaver. thanks!”

“happy to help. welcome to the building, yuji.” now, the exchange should be complete but he’s still just standing there. “well…if that’s all…” “what was your name? did you already tell me?” he asks suddenly, confused. “sorry, i wanted to say your name, too, because it seems respectful since you said my name, but i was trying to rack my brain for what you said your name was…” “i didn’t.” you clarify, chuckling at his spaciness. “it’s y/n.” “y/n. hm, i like it. it suits you somehow. anyway, thanks, y/n the neighbor. yuji the baker will see you again soon to return his butter hostage and maybe offer a treat forged of his deepest gratitude.” a lopsided grin and a wink. when he leaves, you close the door and just stand there for a moment recalling the entire exchange. he’s handsome, a bit spacey, but so friendly…so friendly he was flirty. you’ll never complain about having eye candy for a neighbor, but…you don’t want satoru to get the wrong idea…if he starts talking to you more… you quickly shake the thought away, reminding yourself to return to reality from the depth of your personal delusion. satoru is not interested in you in that way by any means. he, at most, wants to become friends, which is understandable for a person he’ll be living with for an additional year. that’s fair. you want to be friends, too. you just also want him to talk you through his day while he’s fingering you, that’s all. the next anomaly occurs at five pm when satoru come home much later than he usually does. for him, thirty minutes late is a lot. it throws off his routine. “welcome home.” you say casually as he strolls in. you try your best to appear as if you’re as unfazed as ever about his entry. you try not to make it disgustingly obvious that you aren’t just there relaxing anymore; you’re waiting. for him to come home. to welcome him back. this time, though, he doesn’t respond curtly as he ducks back towards his room. you hear the rustling of plastic bags as he sets them down on the dining table. he then waltzes over to you and lays a palm flat on the crown of your head. “hey,” he breathes. in movies or dramas, this is the moment where your world freezes, just becoming so petrified that even time doesn’t dare to move. you gulp hard, your heart racing even more so than it initially did in anticipation. what are you supposed to do? “did you…enjoy your day off?” he asks. “did you rest enough?”

“um...” your voice trails, mind still entranced by his hand resting on top of your hand. it’s such a gentle gesture, so soft and timid, like him. such a well-suited affection for his kind of temperament. “i had…a relaxing day. it was nice.” you manage to speak, but you stare ahead toward the door, not bold enough to look at the face he’s making while he touches you. he finally lowers his hand and inside, you’re screaming about it, protesting profusely to the removal of his closeness. “what about you? was work okay?” you ask, breathing returning to normal as he heads back to the dining table to un-bag his things. the first thing he takes out is a little bottle of hazelnut creamer, and your heart is so warm you think it’s become nothing but a puddle of adoring liquid. “work was less stressful. we’re close to done with this project, so now there’s not as much silence in the office. everyone is slowly starting to act like real people again. it was driving me insane. when intense projects happen, it disrupts my routine so much. people stop saying good morning. i don’t feel comfortable saying anything more than i already don’t. and i think the secretary hates me because i kept messing up my report and printing it incorrectly. it created unnecessary work for her and it wasted a lot of paper. i made sure to pick some up while i was at the store to replace it, but…” he stops suddenly and frowns. “sorry, i just realized i was rambling again.” you can’t hide your loving smile even if you bother trying. “you’re talking about your day. there’s nothing wrong with that, especially if the person you’re talking to wants to know all the seemingly useless details.” satoru has this habit of just peering at you at times when you respond to his long-windedness with openness to experience. and boy were you dangerously open to experiencing him. “and…do you…?” he asks you slowly, his head tilting to the side. “…want to hear even the unimportant details?” you shrug casually and nod once. you decide on an endearing response with a touch of humor to soften the landing for your heart as it’s doing its somersaults. “i don’t mind hearing about your day in great detail…it’s like listening to an audiobook for free.” he rolls his eyes, lips quirking. “you…” a soft shake of the head. “anyway, what’d you do today? stay on the couch engrossed in your dramas?” “i cleaned up a bit, did some homework, met our new neighbor, and binged on a drama, yes.” his brows furrow. “we didn’t already have a neighbor?” “that’s what i said! i didn’t know the unit across the hall was empty, but he came by to ask if he could have some butter and introduce himself.” satoru’s face scrunches up, slightly disgusted and confused. “butter? like…to just eat?” “toru, what?” you ask laughing. “no, dummy. he’s a baker. he started making cupcakes and realized he didn’t have any. he said he’d bring back the excess.” again, a repulsed display of emotion. “y/n, i don’t want any food back after it’s left this flat. there are all kinds of new germs and particles on it now. why would i consume that or allow you to? what kind of person do you take me for? god only knows what he does in that unit. and if he double dips? if he sticks his fingers in his mouth and touches the container without washing his hands? ew. there’s no way for us to even verify. the number of available and unfavorable possibilities is disgusting in itself. and bakers seem like the ‘lick their fingers clean’ type, so…he can keep the butter. i’ll get us more.” you purse your lips together, clasping them shut to keep your amused smile from showing how endearing you find him to be and also to keep from laughing at his sheer seriousness, at how comical all his particularities are but adorable in the same breath. peculiar as ever. “okay, if he tries to return it, i’ll reject it.”

“that would be best.” he nods curtly. “i’m making dinner in a little while…do you…want to help me? or will it throw your relaxation routine off?” you snort. “toru, i don’t have a relaxation routine. the relaxation is disrupting the routine in a good way. but yes…what are we making?” and there it is again, that little smile that makes you want to clutch at your chest. that’s the final anomaly. making dinner with satoru. having a second tuesday is another wonderful disruption to the routine.

the following tuesday, you’re giddy as you head home from class. you aren’t sure what moment does it for you, but you’ve settled comfortably into the fact that you like satoru, that given the opportunity, you’ll peel back every single layer of his existence to taste and lick and know every part of him. it doesn’t bother you to be just friends and roommates with him, though. you guys live together. even if something comes of it, if it goes south, it’ll really destroy the living dynamic you guys have cultivated, which is quite comfortable. gentle. tender. homely. besides, he reserves special kinds of platonic affections for you that suffice. as you approach the building, you see your neighbor, yuji, struggling to balance a tall stack of white, flat boxes while he tries to open the door to the building. you jog up and hold it open for him to help. “ah, thank you, y/n the neighbor.” he says graciously. “saving me yet again.” yuji is nice enough but he seems to be quirky in his own way. you’re starting to wonder if it’s a prerequisite for being accepted for housing in this place. as it stands, though, tensions are high between your household and his. when he returned the butter, yuji was immensely offended by satoru's suggestion that he ‘tainted the butter with his baker’s breath’ and demanded that he take back the butter, to which satoru's lip curled up in disgust as he emphasized that he especially didn’t want it then. it ended with yuji leaving the butter by the door and sitting it on the ground, both oddballs unwilling to claim the absurdity. you ended up picking it up and throwing it away. while it was a comical event all around, seeing the two of them standing in the doorway trading glares over the sanitation of butter was one of the strangest, oddest, most random things you’ve witnessed. “do you need help, yuji?” you ask laughing. “you look like you’re one, fragile step away from it all crumbling down.” he sighs. “if you don’t mind and it won’t taint your precious hands to touch my baker’s boxes, then yes, you may help me.” “for the record, i have absolutely no stock or stance in the butter sanitation conundrum. i am but an innocent bystander. so, no, your baker’s boxes aren’t at risk of tainting my hands.” you roll your eyes at him. “you’re really dramatic, you know.” “criticizing me is not helpful.” he notes. “and i’m not certain, but i thought you asked to help.” “fine,” you grumble, grabbing a stack of the boxes out of his hands. “what’s all this for anyway?” he smiles triumphantly. “i got my first big gig as a freelance baker. i’m making fifty spiderman cupcakes for a five-year-old’s birthday party tomorrow.” “wow, that’s really cool. congrats on that one. are you excited?” “excited…is certainly a word. maybe not one i’d use to describe this, but a word nonetheless. if you can’t tell by the thick layer of perspiration and sweat gathering on my forehead, everything is great and not stressful at all.” you pout, oddly concerned for his results. “are you going to be able to pull it off?” “well, the thing is that…no?”  he laughs and so do you. “my friend megumi was supposed to be my helper so i could pull it off, but apparently chasing skirts is more important than making and icing cupcakes for a child’s birthday party. i wouldn’t know since i respect the brotherly code of conduct and would never, but it is what is. i hope he gets laid.” you nod. “me too…but i hope he has a hard time performing. he shouldn’t have bailed on you. this seems…important to you.”

“ah, y/n the neighbor is observant, yuji notes.” he narrates himself in the third person. “it is pretty important to me. but…just to me.” that upset you deeply. you know what it’s like to have your dream not be taken seriously. all this time, you’ve been in school for anthropology. no one really sees the benefit or believes in what you want to do, which is why you’re basically out here trying to prove your entire family wrong, that you’re capable of developing a strong, steady life without meeting their endless expectations. you hate the idea that yuji is clearly very passionate about baking, about doing this kind of custom work, but his friends aren’t supporting him, and now he’s scrambling. “do you have to be a talented baker to be a baker’s assistant?” you ask biting your lip. his eyes twinkle. “not at all! you just need two hands and a decent enough ability to follow a series of simple directions.” nodding resolutely, you smile. “then consider me self-appointed as the baker’s elf. let’s go get these cupcakes made, yuji the baker.” to this, he beams. “y/n the neighbor is starting to seem a bit like a friendly neighborhood spiderman herself.”

making cupcakes from scratch is no fucking joke. there’s so many steps. it really is a series of simple directions, but if those simple directions are off even by a little, it ruins the batch and you have to start again. you didn’t realize how time-consuming it would be. in fact, you didn’t really keep up with the time, but when you catch a glimpse of it on his television, it’s already eight ‘o clock, and your eyes widen. “shit! i need to go to my apartment.” you tell him urgently. “are you okay from here or should i come back?” yuji shakes his head smiling. “you’ve done so much. i just need to finish working on these last fifteen. i got it. thank you so much, y/n. you didn’t have to help but you did. it means a lot.” “no problem, but next time, i expect to take home one of my own.” he laughs. “next time?” “yuji the baker seems to need help a lot.” you say with a shrug before ducking out quickly. “see you later!” even though you’re only across the hall, you feel like you’re going to walk in and be in an insane amount of trouble. you haven’t even bothered looking at your phone. when you walk in, satoru is sitting on the couch, but his head snaps up to you immediately. “you’re okay!” he says, relief evident in his voice as he stands to his feet. “where have you been? i hadn’t heard from you in hours and i got really worried about you.” he walks over to you but keeps a small distance between your bodies, looking you over for any sign of harm. your entire face heats up. you feel yourself shrinking in as you take a breath. “sorry,” you say, looking down at your feet. “i was across the hall. i was helping yuji wi—“ he cuts you off, brows knitting together, lips in a frustrated pout. “the unsanitary baker? why?” “if you would let me finish…” you snap, giving him a hard look. “his friend bailed on helping him and he got his first big order as a freelance baker. i was home so i helped. i was really busy so i wasn’t keeping track of time well. you wouldn’t believe how hard it is it make cupcakes from scratch.” an exasperated sigh leaves your lips just recounting the last few hours mentally. he’s not looking at you anymore when he speaks next. “you baked cupcakes with him?” he asked. “like…you baked them together?” you feel confused but nod. “…yes? that’s what ‘helping’ would entail in this situation. he was stressed and i felt bad because i know what it’s like for no one to truly believe in you.”

“fine,” he spits, lips set in a hard line. “i hope it got done. dinner’s on the stove.” he walks past you toward the hallway then, his back turned. “and please wash your hands before you touch anything.” then…he just walks straight to his room without another word, leaving you feeling perplexed by his response. his bedroom door closes a little harder than usual and you fear you may have made a grave mistake by hanging out with yuji, especially when it’s abundantly clear upon their first interaction that they’re unlikely to get along well. so, maybe he feels like bailing on cooking to hang out with yuji and not even letting him know is a jerk move and god, you agree.

since that event, the rest of the week is very awkward. even though you don’t see each other often on weekdays already, you have this inkling that satoru’s avoiding you at all costs. he even stops making his coffee; he just slips out into the early morning. you wake up close to ten am, very late, for every day it occurs. an obnoxious disruption in your routine, and he doesn’t make dinner at all. you go to bed pouting and hungry. but another anomaly occurs when tuesday rolls around again: you wake to find that your class has been canceled. ever the diligent student, you check your emails daily. when you finally get around to grabbing your phone in the morning, it’s the first thing you do. to your surprise, the one class you have is canceled due to the professor being ill. you take great pleasure in this beautiful disruption because the regular routine within the home is now also back in motion and you wake to the heavenly scent of colombian. you wander out into the living room. satoru leans back against the marble counter, sipping quietly from a dark-colored mug. “good morning,” you announce quietly, making sure not to frighten him. his eyes dart to your presence, and you just pause where you are, unsure if proceeding any closer is safe. “morning,” a short and dull response. “you’re up early.” you shake your head, playing with your hands nervously. “i’m always up this early. the smell of your coffee wakes me up every morning. i just usually stay in my room and get ready.” “oh,” his voice is small. after a long pause, he asks, “is it bothersome?” to answer, you smile lazily and offer another small head shake. “not at all. it’s actually my favorite alarm. very quiet and very pleasant. i’ve been waking up late the last week nearly. my routine…is thrown off.”

with all the gall in the world, he scoffs. “since when do you care about keeping a routine?” “what?” you ask softly, voice slightly wounded and face fluttering into confusion. “what do you mean?” “you skipped out on our routine last week and that didn’t seem to matter to you at all.” he states simply. your guilty eyes look at your nervously shuffling feet. “so, what is it? why did you hang out with him and bake with him?” you’re not sure if it’s the irritated tone he’s now choosing to take with you or the underlying insinuation that you, a grown woman, owe him a reasonable explanation for why you exert autonomy and choose to help others. as if you did something morally reprehensible by helping yuji. you’re not even certain satoru is actually, fully angry that you bailed so much as he’s angry about who you were with and what you were doing instead, which is still unfathomable why it’s his business. yes, you should have let him know and you can own that because you know he probably waited a while for you to show back up and you never did, but you’re not going to stand here and let him reprimand you for hanging out at your neighbor’s unit just because he’s decided he doesn’t like him for quite literally no real reason at all. “um, are you my father?” you ask, your face scrunching up in frustration. “he’s our new neighbor, satoru. he needed help. i’m just being kind, and i like hanging out with him. he’s funny an—” he cuts you off. “you like hanging out with him?” “yes…?” it’s silent between the two of you then, his eyes going blank and glossy. “why? what’s so special about his place? why would you prefer spending tuesday there?” you’re genuinely appalled by his response. you expect he may not like the idea of you hanging out with someone he dislikes, but he’s not your parent or your partner, and he’s only become a friend recently. the way you feel like you’re being forced to justify your very simple, very innocent actions of helping yuji is absolutely unacceptable because no matter how many times you say it, telling satoru you did it because yuji needed help and it was important for him to have it is not a sufficient explanation for him. but it’s the truth and it not being enough for him is not necessarily your burden to bear.

“satoru, i don’t owe you an explanation as to why i had a good time hanging out with him and helping him make cupcakes so his first, real order can lead to more. i don’t have to explain anything i choose to do with anyone. i don’t owe you or your ego elaboration.” “well…” his voice trails and he’s quiet for a minute as his skin slowly reddens and he nervously bites his lower lip. when he looks at you again and speaks, his voice is incredibly soft, unbearably wounded, and pained. “i want an explanation anyway. because i thought you liked spending your tuesday nights with me, but you went over there instead of staying to see me and make dinner together.  and you didn’t even tell me. just left me waiting on you. what’s that about?” the sheer shock and confusion of his confession must be evident on your face. you feel your mouth part as if you want to speak but you don’t. your brows knit together, trying to make sense of his stance so you can properly answer his question. your heart is already racing because…it seems satoru may have developed feelings of his own…toward you. “wait…wait…” your voice trails, you’re still looking up, eyes blinking rapidly and narrowing, not in a sinister way but dubious, because as it stands, your current theory that he may have feelings for you, too, is truly unfounded and is permeated by perplexity. “is…is that why you’re upset?” you ask him. “because i ended up helping him and missing one tuesday with you?” he sighs and nods, frustration exuding in his body language as if you stated the utter obvious simply to upset him. “you told me you liked our little tradition to cook together, but then picked another guy to make food with the very next week? an unsanitary one at that? and…and…you know what? i want to do that with you. making dinner isn’t fun on my own. not on tuesdays. not if you’re not here with me, and especially not if you’re not here because you’re over there and want to be there more than you want to be here. with me.” your question comes out suddenly with your tone layered in urgency. “satoru…do you like me?” he just stares at you, mouth slightly agape, looking as if you’ve asked a stupid question yet again. as if he were soundlessly asking ‘you’re not serious, right?’

his next comment confirms your intuition and also attests to your ability to read his expressions now. “y/n, are you seriously asking me that? are you oblivious? after all this time? as if it wasn’t completely obvious that i do.” you snort. “satoru, if you liked me all this time, it was absolutely, undeniably, irrevocably not obvious.” “i gave you a hand towel that matches mine and placed them next to each other.” he details with a flat voice and a roll of his eyes. you look at him, growing progressively more flabbergasted by his position in the ongoing argument. he lives in a delusional mental world where he thinks his feelings, in all their silent conquest, will be thoroughly known and understood. even though you’ve never spoken to him about anything of the sort.

“satoru…you do realize you criticized me for the number of paper towels i used, right? i thought you were  just…solving the problem you created.” he has the audacity to groan. “i’ve made dinner for you to eat when you come home since the first time you left me a sticky note apologizing for eating my extras.” “yes, because you always make excess. that’s what you said!” you huff, arms folding over your chest. he can’t seriously believe he has a little avalanche of decent examples of his ‘liking you’ being obvious. there’s just no way. he would have to be completely disregarding every other aspect of objective reality except his own thoughts and perception in order to come to the conclusion that placing a hand towel on a bar or letting you have the extra food he makes regardless are his attempts to court you. as if. “i got upset when you filled in for a coworker on a tuesday instead of coming home and i was only distressed because you weren’t here to tell me welcome home. i told you i didn’t feel welcomed without it!” now his voice is raising, aghast and disbelieving. you shrug, just staring at him with flat affect and dawning freshly picked neutrality. “i thought you were joking and finally developing a sense of humor. i was proud of you.” a squeak. he’s watching all his ridiculous reasonings be debunked and he just continues trailing down the list of them, much to your dismay. because if he’d just shut up for a moment, you can get off the topic of what would have made it obvious and move on to something way more important, much more impactful. is he going to kiss you soon or what? so peculiar. he’d rather argue you down than take his shot with you and watch himself hit a bullseye. “i gave you my special mug to keep for your own because you said you wanted it.” another eye roll. “you broke my own special mug and told me to pick the one i wanted! i thought it was an eye for an eye. a mug for a mug!” he gestures towards the refrigerator. “i brought creamer, a banned substance, into this apartment for you.” “it’s creamer, satoru, not a confession. please be serious.” this time, his voice is small and sheepish. “i started giving you…head pats.” you can’t refute the intimacy of that one. you know it. he knows it. the smug smirk on his face not only knows it but is gloating about it. “fine, you got me there, but that still isn’t enough to infer romantic interest.” “y/n, i blatantly asked you to make it a permanent date with me to make dinner together on tuesdays. how much more obvious do i need to be?”

you furiously shake your head, protesting his claim. “you formally requested assistance with dinner on tuesdays. the word date was not aforementioned. you made it seem mandatory. in fact, you said it was only fair.” now, he’s blushing furiously, the tips of his ears going red. “it’s not mandatory, per se. it’s just the principle. and even still, you say that as a counter, yet you went over to his place instead of coming home to be with me…doing the cooking we agreed on and mutually enjoyed.” you scoff. “but it’s not mandatory to cook?” “well cooking isn’t mandatory, but it is mandatory that you genuinely like me back if we’re going to be doing domestic things like making meals to eat together. consistently. and openly. so when you do it with me for weeks and tell me entirely unprovoked that you like doing it with me, it gives the impression you want to be domestic with me. i only spend time at home, so i take that very seriously. i was starting to feel played with.” you won’t lie. all of his nonsense is just that: nonsense. but the idea that you left him feeling like you were giving mixed signals or like you were stringing him along for the fun of it deeply wounds you inside, because you also like him a hell of a lot. you would never go off and be intentionally confusing. “i wish you had said it clearly. we would have been on the same page a long time ago probably. i wouldn’t be spending a single tuesday there if i knew why you wanted me here.” “i genuinely don’t understand how you didn’t notice.” he grumbles. “i genuinely don’t understand how you could possibly think i would?” you counter, the statement falling from your lips like a question that requires clarification. he steps closer to you, and for the first time, you see something new in his eyes: determination, passion, need, and desire. your breath catches in your throat when one hand goes to your waist, tugging you closer to him, the other cupping your cheek. your heart. that’s all you can hear is your heart thumping wildly in your chest as if it might combust. “how is this for being crystal clear? y/n, i like making dinner for you and with you. i like that our hand towels are matching and next to each other. i like that the smell of my coffee wakes you up in the morning…i want to be the one that wakes you up in the mornings. so…with that being said, it’s tuesday and i want to make dinner with you tonight. if you want to make dinner with me, understand that you’re consenting to complete romantic affiliation.” “understood,” it comes out with no hesitation, your eyes glancing between his baby blues and his pretty, tinted lips begging and beckoning. “so, you’ll make dinner with me and consent to romantic affiliation?” he confirms, a lopsided grin forming. his choice of words begs a chuckle from you. grinning, you nod. “toru, are you seriously asking me that? are you oblivious?” “can i kiss you now? i’ve been dying to for the last month, admittedly.” you pout, feigning a great deal of disappointment and concern. “if you don’t know the answer, then maybe i really should go back across the hall…” his grip on your waist tightens, a soft thumb caressing your cheek and there’s that subtle smile you adore. “we’re definitely kissing because you have to be quiet. like right now.”

you laugh. “wow. that one was actually really funny.” “what?” he asks, thrown by your response. “oh nothing,” you sing. “c’mere, you.” smiling at your urge to draw him in, he leans down then, no longer willing to waste time being idle with you or just staring into each other until you can’t take it. when his lips touch yours, the only thing you can think about is how soft they are, how smooth, silk against velvet. all you can think about is how gently he keeps you against his torso, how shyly his lips move with yours like he just wants to test you out and know how you feel, like his lips have more to offer, but much like his conversational skill, you’ll have to coax him out of his timidity. when you both pull apart, you reach your hand up to touch his, tugging very gently on his fingers. he obliges your silent request for his hand just watching you with an enamored gaze, moving his palm from your face and allowing you to tangle your hands together. you officially love his hands very much. you felt his hand on your cheek and now you feel it wrapped around every space of your fingers. the most peculiar thing of all about satoru seems to be just how correct your theory is: his hands are like fucking satin, and they take immaculate care of anything they’re tasked with touching.

© 2023 elusivemoon. all rights reserved.

#i love a man who is as odd and strange as I am

[chemspxdr]

WEEK THREE — smoking + aki hayakawa, 18+, fem bodied reader, riding, shotgunning, semi-public sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, creampies, cockwarming, a touch of angst, aki indulges in his two favorite vices: you and his cigarettes

kinktober masterlist

C'mon, Aki. Make me yours. 

Aki hasn't been able to focus on anything but those words since he heard them. 

First came your hands on his shoulders. You'd squeezed behind his chair as he was lighting his cigarette, his palm cupped around the flame to shield it from the wind. Aki closed his eyes, stiff muscles relaxing from the way you rolled them under your palms; you leaned in, you kissed him softly on the cheek, tilted his head up by his chin to kiss him on the lips. 

Your voice is a whisper right next to his ear. They went to bed already. It's just us. You're so tense, you've been stressed all day, haven't you? Do you want to relax now? 

Aki swallows. He reaches over and sets his lighter aside. Your fingertips dance across his neck, tapping his skin, feeling out his hurried pulse. He doesn't take long to figure out his answer. 

Come here. 

You're quick then to make your way in front of him. Climbing into his lap, he watches you, pliant. Your hands find his shoulders and grip tight for leverage, feeling the muscle underneath. The small balcony chair now occupying the two of you creaks slightly from the extra weight. Cool night air flicks sharply against your skin and the back of his neck, it rustles Aki's hair and whispers promises in his ears. The same promises you're affectionately cooing to him.

I'll make you feel good. That's what you want, yeah?

And even though it's late, you shouldn't do this here — Your lips press in warm kisses onto his neck, and Aki is tilting his head to make everything easier. He exhales, his skin tingling. A plane passes overhead like a shooting star's figment. You're sighing already even though he hasn't done anything, he feels your hands blindly fumble with the hem of his sweatpants and he lifts his hips, he doesn't try to stop you. 

Aki's heart thuds heavy in his chest, in his ears, a rhythmic drum. Smoke wisps steadily from his unattended cigarette. He holds the small of your back with his free hand, his touch reassuring. You prop yourself up on your knees after you've discarded your shorts, and Aki wraps his thumb around your underwear. His gaze doesn't leave yours as he tugs them down to your thighs. 

He pulls you closer, his arm holding your back again. Your entire body tremors when the head of his cock nudges your entrance. Palm moving to your hip, he doesn't let you hesitate; Aki pulls you down, sinking you onto him. His hand clenches, gripping you tight, he mumbles a swear under his breath. His chest begins to heave once he's all the way inside, he savors the familiarity of your warm cunt while his thumb rubs your skin in soothing circles. He pants between soft exhales of pleasure: So good, oh- you feel so good. 

Neither of you can breathe for a couple of moments. Aki's brows twitch the way they do when there's something more he wants to say but can't manage it. His eyes dart from you pressed up on his lap to your face, his expression softening instantly. 

The cigarette he's holding has been burning for a while now; he hangs his arm down, he fiddles with it and ash scatters onto the concrete below. The starry night sky glimmers in his gaze, shadows and lights from the city blanket his features. He's all of your vision, and when he's inside you, he becomes all that matters. 

You wrap your arms around his shoulders in something like a hug, and Aki's got the ghost of a smile on his face even though you can't tell, he's closing his eyes once your voice fans out warmly over the shell of his ear. 

I've missed you, you know. 

Aki blinks. He knows, he definitely knows. He rubs your back as his way of answering. 

Slowly, he brings his cigarette to his parted lips, the end flares to life as he takes a long drag in. The rich taste of smoke in his lungs is even better than he remembers. You lean backward, his gaze catches yours and he holds his exhale. Sitting up, he closes the distance, he cups your cheek, his head tilting. Warm lips brush yours and he meets you open-mouthed, breathing a steady puff of smoke that lingers in between you once you both pull away. 

Your senses spark alight, the taste of his cigarettes is a reminder of all the nights you've shared puffs of smoke with him in the exact same way. It reminds you of the excuses you'd make to kiss him, when everything was indirect and left with more questions. The moments where you'd light one up when you're all alone in hopes of pretending he was still there beside you. 

Thought you were dead for a while, you're mumbling, like it's simple, like it isn't a big deal, You worry me sick sometimes. 

A pained look grows in intensity on Aki's face, yet you still feel you have no idea what he's thinking. Before you have the chance to speak again, he's desperately pressing his lips to yours. A kiss with no smoke in between is just a kiss. He cradles the back of your neck ever-so gently and you indulge, allowing your fingers tangle in his hair. 

One kiss turns into two, and then three, and then you've lost count. Your hips shift impatiently, grinding, and he pulls away to toss his head back with a groan; he pulses hard inside you and you're reeling, dizzy. You can't keep from moving any longer, but he's already coaxing you, grabbing your side and following along with your movement. 

Aki shudders. It's like his skin's been set on fire, enveloping warmth spreading onto his back and over his spine. He's already sweating — he can feel the moisture on the side of his face — in spite of the cold temperature outside. His slight grunts of pleasure mix with every echo of skin hitting skin, the sounds quiet and secretive, enough for only the two of you to hear. 

That's where you say it.

Aki kisses your jaw, flicking his cigarette over the ashtray. Your soft bounces on his lap have you out of breath already. He can hear the wobble in your voice, overtaken by arousal once you've leaned in close to him. 

I want you to make me forget about all of it, Aki. Make me yours. 

He freezes, he's shaking, not from the cold but from something different. Aki brings his cigarette back to his mouth with hesitant fingers. He takes a deep breath in, and his hand slips underneath your shirt to find your bare side. You're surrounded by smoke as he breathes out, it clings to the edges of your form in his vision, makes them fuzzy. His gaze connects with yours and he passes the cigarette to you wordlessly. The pace of your hips slows to a halt, you close your eyes to take a drag, exhaling quickly, reaching over to stamp out the spent cigarette.

Perhaps he's thinking about this too much. Maybe it was nothing, just a bit of talking to get him going, no meaning behind it. His stupid heart can't help but tell him differently. 

You've always been more to him than he's had the courage to let on. He tells others at the division you're his friend, tells you this is nothing serious, and you might think the same. Might think he's just using you as another vice to get by. Something to forget and stamp out once he's done. God, he's an idiot. 

None of that could be any further from the truth, he never meant to push you away, never wanted to be apart from you for as long as he has. You're precious to him, you're infinitely precious and for once, he wants you to know that. 

"Yeah," Aki starts in response. Voice all husky, his eyes half-lidded, he's made up his mind, "I'll make you mine." 

He's cupping your cheek and pulling you in for a kiss immediately. Teeth nip gently at your lower lip, and he groans in the space between you, he kisses you hard and lets his tongue crash into yours. His taste is like smoke, ashy and familiar. He grips you hard, he begins to guide your movement until you're taking the hint, arms wrapping around him while you bounce to a faster, needier pace. 

His hot breath on your lips, he praises before he kisses you, "There, just like that. Just like that."

Your moans into his mouth grow louder, your eyebrows knit together from the pressure. The sound echoing each time you move is getting wetter. Aki kisses your lips over and over again to keep your noises muffled, allowing no-one else to hear. His thumb caresses your cheek as a form of encouragement, too tender for how dirty this is, for how wildly you're riding him.

And between your perfect noises and the squeeze of your slick pussy around him, he can't help himself — He rocks his hips up into you, the fat tip of his cock nudges right where you wanted it and your cunt is pulsing. He separates from you with one last kiss, he strokes your shoulders gently because you're suddenly panting so hard it sounds like it hurts. 

Aki gives you a moment. Then, he's taking in a shaky breath. "Did you-" 

"Can't help it," You answer, and Aki's gulping, his throat dryer the more you go on, "I haven't since the last time you were here. I didn't even touch myself."

"Shit," He rubs his temple with his fingers, trying not to stutter, "You were waiting for me?" 

You wrap your arms around him innocently, you hum an mhmm into his ears. Aki feels heavy, your lips press to the side of his neck and scatter kisses onto his skin, and he finds your hips, grinding you close. Already, you're quickly working your way back up, humping against him messily with trembling thighs, chasing as much pleasure as you are willing to take.

Aki mutters a Careful, into your ear, slowing you a bit. His hold on your hip keeps you going at a lax pace, getting yourself used to it again, gentle arcs of your hips still more than enough to make you moan.

He won't make you wait. Not now, not ever. Aki's going to have you come undone for him over and over again, until you can't take anymore. Until pleads of his name are stuck in your throat, until there's no doubt in your mind that he's yours.

This time, he thrusts up into you without any hesitance, gasps and whines leave his lips in tandem with your own, just as loud. Your movements are ragged, you're sensitive since you've already came and Aki takes full advantage — Rutting his dick nice and deep, he's got you falling towards the edge already. It's completely different to have him in control, to have him fuck you how he knows you like, to feel him stuttering because he doesn't want to come undone yet and to hear his focused breathing in your ear, heavy and all for you.

He melts at your earnest little noises, he kisses your cheek, kisses you like he loves you. You ask him for more and he nods, he gives you everything. More of his cock, more of his devotion. 

"Aki-" You drop your forehead to his shoulder and oh, you sound perfect, "I'm gonna cum-"

Aki tremors with the weight of how close he is, his heart pounds fiercely in his chest. He holds you as close as he can get you and rocks you on his cock, giving you just enough.

"I've got you," He pants, palm working up to hold your back, his words are syrupy and warm, "I'm gonna cum inside you- Let go for me."

A few more moments and you're finishing in unison; Aki spills inside, thick and dripping, his chest heaves, his arms are trembling. Your core fills with warmth, he mutters a quiet shhh into your ear because you're getting loud. You fall limp against him and Aki keeps you close. He opens his eyes slowly, his vision a blur, coming into focus after a couple of blinks.

Your hips lift to allow him to slip out. Aki's lips purse, his palm caresses your side. He brings you up more and he presses the tip of his still hard cock to your entrance, easing in just barely at first, and then sighing along with you as he easily slides all the way back inside. 

"Don't stop," Aki chokes, you can't tell if it's a plea or a command, "Not yet." 

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. "Someone's gonna see us."

"Let them." He strokes your sides, speaks right up against your nape, "Just... stay still. Don't push yourself. But don't move. I'm begging you."

Your legs are beginning to hurt. Your head is spinning, he holds you and murmurs under his breath a weak apology, one you don't even know what for. Aki isn't a selfish man, he isn't greedy. Everything he does, he does for you, and you're sure of it. You have no idea if you can cum anymore but you're willing to try, you're going to try, because you know that's exactly what he's after.

You catch your breath for a few moments longer. Every fiber of yourself sears in the shape of his name, you start to rock your hips shallowly — The smallest movements, and yet they're still so goddamn overwhelming. Aki reminds you that you can take more with his lips on your jaw, his kind touch on your spine.

Your whole body aches with pleasure. It's hard to move, so wet and slippery from his cum. His shaft is a creamy, sticky white when you lift up nearly all the way only to sink back down. The faint kisses he gives to your neck make Aki's lips quiver, he sneaks a glance at the sight of you taking him and thinks his heart might beat right out of his chest.

You're both so fucking messy. Your thighs are soaked, his cum is leaking everywhere each time you move; you've got his chair filthy, his lap even filthier. He was supposed to pull out and he'd planned on it until he got those thoughts in his head about you being his, and despite how risky it is, all he can think of now is how badly he wants to give you some more.

He thinks he's straight-laced, yet he gives in to your temptation all too easily. He can't stop. Though, neither can you.

You can feel him in your stomach, and it's too fucking good, too perfect. Aki makes the prettiest face when he's inside you, you stare at him the moment before your foreheads touch and he looks like he might cry, but you wouldn't mind that. You'd wipe the shiny droplets from his pretty face and tell him to promise to fuck you like this for the rest of his days, never holding back, love-filled and burning with longing.

He's got you bouncing on him faster now, one hand in yours, the other resting on your ass. His bangs form a sweaty mess around his face. He keeps his forehead to your own, laces his fingers with yours and holds on like you're his only tether. He feels you slow down, listens to your feeble gasps for breath. You steady, and he takes the reigns away from you, rolling his hips, fucking you deeply with no chance to rest.

You give him one more grind into his lap with the last of your energy.

"Oh, f-fuuuck, that's it-" He's breathless, just as overwhelmed as you are, "Fuck, fuck… Say my name. Please." 

You whine, shaky hand grabbing onto his tightly as he thrusts into you over and over: never rough, just heady and intense, more than you've ever been used to, but everything you need. You pant his name between heavy gasps of pleasure. Aki, Aki, Aki… 

"God…" Aki can't take this, he shuts his eyes to keep them from rolling into the back of his head, "I'll never leave you, I won't leave you again I swear. Look at me." 

You know he's telling the truth, you'd never doubt his words but when he holds your cheek in his hand and guides you to meet his eyes you're sure he isn't lying. Pupils blown wide, but eyes still so blue, the night sky's reflection on the ocean. His breath hitches the instant you're looking at him, his face is so hot he can't stand it. He's gonna lose it, he thinks he'll lose everything right here and now and he wouldn't even care, as long as you're with him, as long as you're happy. He needs to make you happy. Nothing else matters, nothing.

"Please, I- I'm sorry," He can hardly speak, talking through clumsy bucks of his hips, "I r-really am, 'm sorry, you're so important to me, you're everything."

You whine something inaudible, Aki kisses your lips and tastes the smoke on your breath — He wants to say more, wants desperately to mumble some nonsense about how he's gonna fix it, he won't make you miss him anymore, you can run away together or something stupid, and you're gonna be his and it'll be perfect. But once he's close, he can hardly manage anything near that, so he just says the best happy medium.

"Love you," Aki gulps, his whole body feels warm, so warm. "I really do."

You moan loud for him, you reach for his shoulders and hold onto him tight. "Love you more than anything, Aki-"

That's it. That's all he needed to hear.

Aki whimpers hard, you feel him promptly throb inside you; he freezes up and needs another second to start hastily fucking into you again. He pulls you into a hug way too tender for this, he thrusts into you as best he can with clumsy movements and weak knees, his hand gently holding the back of your head.

"I- I love you," He's crying now, he's definitely crying, "I'm so- I love you, I'm gonna- Are... are you close?"

As if on queue, you nod your head quickly and you manage to gasp, "Cumming again, I'm gonna cum-"

Aki kisses the side of your face, he curls into you, he chants your name like it's all he knows.

With a few final rocks of his hips, he brings you to the edge, you're louder than you've ever been and he says a silent prayer that none of your neighbors are out tonight. He was already close, but the feeling of you pulsing around him, tight and warm, has him cumming again right after you, filling you up for the second time. He slows gradually, he takes you to a gentle peak. You come down nice and easy, while Aki holds your chin and kisses every inch of your face.

You breathe one final huff, and then you collapse right into his chest.

"You alright?" Aki rubs your back, he lifts you off of him and briefly stumbles from the sudden lack of sensation. "Think you can keep going?" 

You laugh, your voice all raspy. He smiles to himself, finding it pretty. You bury your face in his shoulder. "Dunno. Maybe."

"I'll help you clean up first. And go get condoms. The corner store a few blocks down is still open this late, I think."

"Not necessary. The second thing you said, not the first."

"I still miss you." Aki admits, honest, "I know that doesn't make any sense because you're right here, but…" 

Your breathing's grown deep. You lean back, and you've got a grin tugging at your cheeks as you reach to brush stray strands of hair away from his face and behind his ears.

"We can keep going, I'd like to. If you give me a little bit to relax."

From here on out, he'll give you all that he has.

Aki wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. He gestures for you to go inside.

"My room. We've got all night."

#pushing the crying during sex agenda #and one thing about me? I’m a supporter

[chemspxdr]

thinking about since canonically Geto is more popular with girls than Gojo he’s gotten used to them looking past him to get to Geto but what if Gojo and Geto are out for drinks with the other teachers one night and he gets approached by the reader but he thinks she’s just coming over to ask him for Geto’s number and so he prepares his ‘responsible best friend’ act and then SHE ASKS ABOUT HIM INSTEAD, ALL BLUSHY AND STUFF BECAUSE HE LOOKED LIKE HE WAS GONNA BRUSH HER OFF

AHH I LOVE HIM SM 😔😔😔

pairing: gojo satoru x reader | 1k words summary: fluff, pining, reader is a simp but same, satoru is a good wingman but he needs attention too, au ig bc suguru's alive LMAO, idiots in love? rheya's note: oh my god shut up this is so cute and YOU'RE ABSOLUTELY RIGHT??? i can just imagine that he's gotten so used to judging whether or not the person is even worth suguru's attention before deciding to pass on his info...and after a while his brain just defaults to thinking that everyone wants suguru but he FORGETS that there are gojo girlies out there (me asf) !! thanks for the ask nonnie babes i love this idea so so much <33

OK SO

it's obvious that there are quite a few women at the bar eyeing the group. young, attractive teachers spending an evening trying to relax and take their minds off of the stress of jujutsu work. nanami is in deep conversation with shoko about something while ijichi quietly listens. further down the table utahime is quietly sipping her drink while mei mei orders another. shoko makes a comment and suguru bursts into unabashed laughter.

the flush of alcohol dusts over each of their cheeks, but satoru remans the only one who has barely touched his glass, the sting of the bitterness a little too harsh for him to enjoy. he opts for instead letting his eyes roam over the faces in the crowd, taking little notice of all the eyes and smiles sent in their direction.

well until he notices you anyway.

you're already looking in his direction curiously, face illuminated by the dim lighting of the bar as your friends giggle around you. when his eyes lock with yours, you immediately tear your gaze away, trying to play it off by immediately delving into conversation, though satoru can tell that there's a flush crawling up your neck now.

he doesn't look away though, too caught up in the crinkle of your eyes and the smile lines that grace your face as you laugh at something. a minute later you're looking back in their direction, and when you catch him staring, you turn away yet again.

satoru glances to his side, knowing that you're probably watching suguru take a sip of his drink and most likely falling for his charming smile.

typical and so predictable.

some time passes like this. you'll look, and turn away, and satoru will watch you do it over and over again. it isn't until a while later that satoru catches your friends pushing your shoulders and giggling, and he knows that they're urging you to come up and ask about suguru. you're shaking your head, the nervousness clear as day as your brows pinch. but eventually you succumb to peer pressure and stand up from your table, taking anxious strides towards him.

and usually, satoru will make a face or turn his back or do something to look as unapproachable as possible. because almost every person who comes up asking for suguru's contact info has been obnoxious as hell.

but you're quite pretty and you look sweet enough, and he doesn't think it'd be right to deter you.

suguru would probably like you too.

so satoru decides to let you try at least, and if you seem to be as nice as you look maybe he'd bridge the gap between you and his best friend.

you make your way up to him, and as soon as he finally gets a good look at you he's thinking you're a lot prettier up close.

dammit.

"hi." you say, face hot as you try your best to maintain steady eye contact with him. you look so nervous, fidgeting with the fabric of your clothes as you attempt to strike up conversation, and he doesn't have it in him to watch you struggle.

"yeah i can give you his number." he says, voice clipped as he tries to hide the disappointment in it. you watch him grab a napkin and begin scribbling something down, confusion clear as he hands you the digits.

"um…?" you look at the napkin and then at him. "sorry, who's number is this?"

satoru balks, lips parting as he mirrors your confusion. "uh…suguru's? the guy behind me?"

realization dawns on your face and you shift your weight from foot to foot.

"oh actually," you suck your teeth nervously, trying to hide behind an awkward little smile. "i came to talk to you."

satoru can only blink, cerulean eyes widening behind his glasses as he stares at you in surprise.

you take his silence as a bad sign, shoulders dropping and embarrassment settling in your frown as you look anywhere but his face. "s-sorry if that's weird. i don't wanna make you uncomfortable or anything so-"

he's grinning before he can stop himself, heart dangerously swelling with affection as he motions toward the empty stool next to him. "not weird at all."

the pleasant surprise on your face makes him bite back a chuckle, and you take the seat. "huh...i wasn't expecting you to be okay with it."

satoru raises a brow curiously, tilting his head. "why not?"

you shrug with a careless grin. "i had a feeling you were gonna brush me off from the moment i first looked over."

satoru winces, and he can practically feel suguru's knowing smirk on his back. he chooses to ignore that for now, eyes trailing over the mirth in your expression, and he can only smile helplessly. "no way in hell."

your laugh comes instantly, sweet and bright, and you take it as a sign to continue talking. satoru listens on, sipping his drink to hide his giddy smile and ignoring the sting of bitterness once again.

honestly, with the amount of sweetness he's just found, satoru would tolerate as much bitterness as he needed to.

#OH? #oh word? oh word? word? #this is so cute I giggled

[chemspxdr]

RUIN

minors and ageless blogs dni, 18+ only.

pairing: suguru getou x afab!reader

summary: after your family has fallen out of grace in the sorcerer world and you lose everything, it is decided by the higher-ups that you'll marry someone worthy for you; suguru getou. a troublesome sorcerer with no prominent family lineage, sway, or power in your world. it is a punishment, a laughing stock, and a badge of disgrace.

| arranged marriage au. mostly smut. a little angst or comfort if you squint. |

word count: 5.7k....this is a drabble to me ://

tw: smut, loss of virginity, dub-conish, one slap from the reader to getou and he kinda likes it, strange and unhealthy dynamics, getou has a corruption kink, slight blood? overstimulation. let me know if i missed anything!

author's note: first time posting writing on this blog!! this has been plaguing me!! this was supposed to be a little drabble!! and here i am!! anyways…this could be and i have thoughts on it being a whole fic. it could potentially take place somewhere before volume 0 and after he’s graduated from jujutsu tech. maybe. i didn’t think hard enough ab it so you shouldn’t either. is this out of character? likely!! enjoy!! let me know what you think!!

The night of your wedding to Suguru Getou, you are filled with ire and contempt.

The crescent moon is a sickle arch in the sky to look down on you, the curve of it as sharp as a mean smile, as a hooked knife. You glare hard at it through the window, hold tight to the silk robe you had been ushered into after the ceremony. All pearly on your skin and loose, shiny, smooth to the touch. Wrapped like a present for you new husband.

You grit your teeth.

("So proud for such a disgraced girl," Suguru tsks, your chin in his hand, forcing you to look up into the darkness of his eyes. You look up your nose at him defiantly. His thumb moves to your bottom lip, swipes there boldly, in a way that makes heat race over your face. It flusters you terribly. It makes you furious. It makes you shake.

You jerk your head from his grasp and he allows his hand to fall away, flutter down by his side.

"And so stubborn."

You sneer at him, gripping your skirts to hide your tremble, "what were you expecting? For me to simper and posture for you?"

His eyes dance bemusedly over you, the corner of his lips quirking up in the most horrible way. You have half a mind to strike him with nails and palm and bitterness, swipe the look right off his face.

"I'd hoped for someone a little sweeter, I suppose." He tells you and for some reason, this stings worse than it should, makes your anger grow teeth and claws inside of you.

"A good wife." You spit.

"Yes," he admits, "something that is finally mine. Only mine."

Later, he will tell you he always wanted something Satoru Gojo couldn't have but wanted. He wanted something everyone wanted. Instead, he got you. Instead, you got him.

"I will never be yours." You hiss through your teeth like a little asp. A warning sound, the way a dog growls before it bites.

"You'll be married to me whether you like it or not. Whether I like it or not." He says coolly, gazing down at you in a way that you can't place, in a way that makes you shiver.

"I may marry you, but I will never be yours–"

And when you catch the gleam in his eyes now, plum dark and glimmering, you know he took it less as a warning, and more of a challenge.)

You steel your courage. You breathe through your nose.

You untie your robe and let it slip from your shoulders.

It pools on the floor in a decadent swath of fabric. It looks like a swan, like a dead dove at your feet.

When you turn to look at Suguru over your shoulder, you are at least pleased to see that he is mildly surprised, brows arched upwards slightly, mouth parted.

He recovers quickly, "my, isn't this a surprise–"

"Don't." You snap. Your bottom lip trembles and you sink your teeth down into it to stop it. When you don't fear what your voice will sound like, you say defiantly;

"Do what you want. I'm not scared of you."

And you jerk your chin up again, too proud, too stubborn. Even when you are bare, even when your defenses have been stripped from you, even when his eyes are lightless, bottomless like the sea, infinite like the night sky as he gazes at you.

He approaches slowly, almost lazily, a predator that lopes closer to his prey. The breeze from the window makes you shiver.

"Look whose being brave," he coos, reaching out with his knuckles to touch your cheek, a brush of his skin. It's the first touch he gives you of the night.

He savors it. You try to hold still.

"Are you sure?" He asks and there is something unreadable in his face now, something monstrous at the edges, the flicker of it, of that hunger–a maw, opening wide in front of you to swallow you down like his curses, "I was going to let you have tonight."

"How merciful," you say, all heat and viciousness, all teeth. You jut your chin up, glare up into his face and say, "it doesn't matter. Like I told you; I will never be yours in any meaningful way."

The touch at your cheek becomes bigger, a palm that slides to the nape of your neck, fingers slipping into your hair. He holds you in a way that makes you feel the control, so you can feel the strength of his broad hand. The power in it. Horribly, it makes you feel small, too, to be cupped in his hands like that, to be guided.

His smile is lazy, almost aloof, like the sickle curved moon, but the burning of his eyes tells you differently. All violet heat, like the night sky swathed around that moon.

Tenderly, he promises, "I will strip you of your pride tonight. It will be the first thing you have to put down if you want anything good from me."

"I'll make you bleed," you promise back.

He laughs, low and soft and heated, before he says, "I'll tame you someday."

And he sways forward, lets his nose brush along yours, tilts your head up at the neck so your lips are offered to him like sacrifice, like a lamb.

"I'll kill you someday." You vow, just a whisper that brushes against his lips.

You can feel his smile when he kisses you, deep and slow and horribly burning. Leisurely, he forces you open, rolls his tongue into your mouth, forces you still, forces you to like it.

You feel your hands come up to tighten in his clothes, ruining them. You feel yourself go slack in his hold. You feel yourself warm to his touch, to his mouth, to his tongue.

For a fleeting moment, you wonder if he's trying to devour you, too, if he also thinks of you as his curse.

He bands an arm around your waist, forces you to press your bare body to his clothed one, fits his big hand along the curved cage of your ribs. And you feel–

You twist in his arms when you feel how hard he is, when it makes your stomach flip and then frightens you, when it makes heat swim up your chest and neck.

He can feel your shyness, moves his arm down to the dip of your waist to force your squirming still. He makes you feel him.

You part from his kiss, panting a little, pushing against him fitfully. He tightens like a snake around you, until you go still for him again.

"Undress me," he murmurs.

You swallow hard.

But with shaking fingers, you move to begin stripping him of his layers. Tanned, bare skin is revealed to you; silvery scars race and arc over his chest, along his shoulders and biceps. His stomach is toned, dark hair running down, further into–

You look away stubbornly when you get to his lower half. Your hands work blindly, until he says, "ah, ah, ah–" and he grabs your chin, makes you look at his face, makes you look down at your little hands near his stomach, near his hips– "Don't look away."

You swallow hard. You glare at your hands, heat rising swift and harsh to your chest, up your neck, to your cheeks. His clothes come away beneath your hands, leaving him bare, too.

You fight the urge to look away again.

"Touch me," he murmurs, watching your face, and you don't–you don't know why you listen. But as if possessed, you obey him.

He's hot to the touch, heavy in your hand, and you realize you can hardly breathe.

His intake of breath is sharp, coupled with your forced little exhale. You glare up into his face, jaw set tight with ire, face on fire. Embarrassed. Angry.

"Oh, if looks could kill." He hums, pressing his hips up into your hand. Uncertain but trying, you stroke slowly, carefully, get used to the feeling in your hand. "Such contempt on your face right now, wife."

"Enjoy it while it lasts," you try to snap, but your voice has gone thinner. You've lost some of your bite.

He laughs when he kisses you, meaner this time, teeth in your tender lip, his brutality like a slow ambling leopard. It's still leisurely, intimate in a way that is frightening, in a way that makes you feel like he's got you between his jaws.

He starts walking you back to the bed, crowding you, guiding you. And not for the first time, but certainly the most concerning time, do you realize how big and broad he is. Blindly, you let him urge you back. You let him lay down first, you let him take your hand, you let him–

"You want me–" on top? Your voice has a tremble in it.

"Scared?" He asks, tugging your hand, tugging you onto the bed. Over him. Holding your hand in his, laced fingers, palm to open palm.

"No, I just thought you'd want to–" You don't finish the sentence as you ease into straddling his waist, keeping up on your knees, away from him.

"Want to what? Say it."

You can feel your embarrassment come back up to strangle you.

"In what ways did you think I'd want you? Underneath me? Belly up and vulnerable? On your stomach with your back arched? On your side?" He asks and his voice is low, soft to your ears, but dark. One large hand of his grips your waist, fits itself around the curve, and forces you forward. You stumble a little, catch yourself on his chest.

"How did you think of this night? What way did you hope for?"

"None of them." You snap. "I don't want you."

"Liar." He says back, and he moves so his palm is on your lower abdomen, thumb moving dangerously close to the apex of your thighs, "if I touch you here, what will I find?"

You jerk away from his touch as if burned.

He readjusts his hold on your waist to force you still again as if dealing with an unruly child. This time, when his thumb swipes between your legs, it is through silken folds, slippery and gentle.

You strangle the moan that dares to bubble up, stifle it with an even smaller noise. He is so embarrassingly slow and careful with you, almost loving with the way he strokes, that you want to hide. You want to cling to him. You want to kill him.

"Ah, see? That's what I thought–" Suguru's thumb dips barley inside, and even that, just one finger, is bigger than what you're used to. His whole hand spans wide across your body. "–so wet for me."

You look away, attempting to bare it, teeth firmly stuck in your bottom lip. He never breaches you. Just strokes, slow and soft, painfully good and sweet, enough to make your hips cant a little. He doesn't say a word now, just listens to you breathe, to the small, slick sound between your legs.

It's so–

"I won't prep you more than that." He finally says and you feel your heart rabbit hard in the pit of your chest, like it might take off and run away from you. You look at his face. He must see your fear. "Unless you'd beg for my fingers inside you. Unless you'll beg me to be kind."

As if to emphasize, his thumb pauses, just outside, barely inside.

You can't bring yourself to ask for it. You won't beg. Even if you're shaking in his hold, even if you want to drop your hips a little, squirm until his thumb slips inside.

"Do what you want." You say again, stubborn and furious.

Suguru sighs lightly the way adults do with children. Have it your way, he seems to say, before he takes his hand away entirely. You watch as he fists himself, as he strokes himself easily. And then he's there, at the crux of your legs, and you panic a little because he's big and you remember the weight in your hand and–

"Wait–"

He forces you down onto him with one large hand gripping your waist. Your nails sink into his shoulders, body bowing forward as pain spasms through you, in you. You hiccup a breath, strangled, tears pricking your eyes sharply.

His mouth falls open, brows drawing together in mock sympathy for you. "Oh, you should've swallowed your pride, wife."

You whimper. He hisses.

"Maybe there is something you're useful for," he breathes, fingers flexing in your waist, moving to your back and then lower to grab and ease you up, ease you back down. You can feel him now, through the pain, deep and heavy inside of you. It's so raw, so strange and vulnerable, that you can't help the sudden swell of emotions.

Searing anger. Shameful arousal. Lingering fear. They all blend and blur.

He curses softly against your temple, "–knew, if nothing else, that you'd be good for this–"

Bastard.

You strike him with an open palm.

It cracks against his cheek, whips his face to the side. His cheek blossoms all hot and pink with it instantly. Satisfaction sinks into you. You feel him twitch inside you, feel your stomach flip with the look on his face.

He laughs, seizes you in a kiss, forces you down deeper onto him, "–knew you'd be perfect. Knew for how wretched you were that you'd be perfect for me." He says against your open mouth.

He lifts you, drops you onto him even slower, not to mitigate the pain by suspend it. You can tell he's being cruel, grinding you down onto him, trying to etch the feeling of him like this inside you forever.

You can't even speak and you force any noise that might come out of you down, down into the depths of you. You can feel your walls cling to him, latched tight, fluttering desperately. You can feel the way he burrows himself so deep inside you that you might be sick with him. You try so hard to breathe, to bear it, to take it. But it's too much–it's too much–

A small sob finally bursts out of you, shameful and tender.

"Wrap your arms around me." He commands, soft, almost a coo.

You don't know what to do but obey, wrap your arms tight around his neck, chest to chest, press yourself as close and desperately to him as you can. You tuck your heated, angry face into the crook of his neck, tears finally rushing hot and quick down your cheeks.

"I hate you," you cry into his skin, mouthing there, teething there. He controls you as you go limp in his arms, lifting and dropping your hips onto him like you weigh nothing. "I hate you."

"I know," he hushes, consoling you, one hand soothing over your back, "I know."

He tries to pull away fractionally, just to look at you, but you whine and cling harder, nails digging into the skin of his back.

"Look at me, darling," he says again and tentatively, you peak at him through your angry tears, brows furrowed, glare firmly marring your sweet face. He looks at you through half-lidded eyes, burning into you, and says;

"I will be the only person to hurt you like this. I will be the only person to soothe you like this."

It's a command. It's a vow.

You let your hand slip into his long, dark hair, tangle in it until it's a small fist. You pull to tilt his head back up to you, move your hips on your own finally, rock them tentatively, a small, aborted motion. And then you say, through your tears, through your anger and shame;

"And I'll be the only one you ever want like this. The only one you can't have fully."

"I have you now." He rasps, a little enamored, a little slack jawed.

You shake your head fractionally, lip curled, maybe in pain, in anger, "I don't love you. I won't ever love you."

You can tell this does something to him, hurts him in a way that he isn't prepared for. You aren't prepared for it, either, the look on his face. The way he kisses you after that, like he's trying to win you over, like he's trying to soothe you, just like he said he would.

"I don't need your love," he murmurs, spit-slick against your lips. Your hips stutter a little.

"Liar," you echo him and it's your turn to smile a little against his lips, the curve of it mean, your eyes still glossy with tears as the next roll of your hips becomes more sure.

You finally let out a little moan and he hums, "there, that's it, starting to feel better?"

And then, "maybe. Maybe this is all you're good for–"

A moan punches out of him.

He thrusts up into you this time, hard, a little spiteful. You yelp, tears stinging, and he kisses you as if to half-heartedly apologize.

You curl around him again, though, and he doesn't even need to guide your hips anymore. It still aches, in the core of you, throbs in pain, but it's beginning to feel syrupy and warm, the feeling of fullness becoming familiar. Almost welcome. A burning type of pleasure that you start to ease into.

You bite into his throat. You tell him how terrible he is, you dig your nails into his back, you warn him not to get used to this.

He kisses you hard and slow. He tries to own you. He let's you ride him, take from him, give to him. He draws his tongue over his teeth marks in your skin.

He builds you up, finally touches your breasts, your body, his hands feverish and scorching over you. He finally gives in to what he wants, gives in to your pleasure, lets you roll your hips in a way that has you crying out–in pain, in pleasure, in some horrible combination of both.

You can feel it all build in you, feel it all balloon beneath your skin, hot and too big for your own body. Too much. You need more, need just a little more–

You get just shy of begging, but don't, bite your tongue until it bleeds, let him lick into your mouth and taste it.

"So stubborn," he grunts against your throat, "I know you like this. I know what you want from me." And then, "is it everything you thought of? Or should I fuck you on your back? Press you down into the bed and–"

"You're vile," you moan brokenly, half cry, "you wish."

And when he forces you down into his lap, digs his face into the crook of your neck, into your hair, and comes deep inside you, you think it might be over. He groans into your skin, grips you so tight you're certain you'll bruise.

Whatever pleasure that had been growing inside of you comes to a frustrating halt. Your hips twitch, unsatisfied, seeking.

You can't decide if you're disappointed or relieved. You hold him against your chest, hands in his hair, body shivering. He holds you back, let's you squirm a little, let's you get used to the feeling of him filling you like this.

You try to move first but he tightens his hold on you and once more you are reminded of a snake constricting it's prey into stillness. You go limp again and that seems to appease him. He lays you back, into the bed. Into your wedding bed.

He pulls out of you slowly, gently this time, and it still makes you whine in pain. It still makes you wince. You're going to be so sore tomorrow–

At this point, you expect him to roll over and go to sleep.

But he kisses you tenderly, open-mouthed, tongue soft and pressing into yours. Seeking. Heat rekindles. He teases, drowns you in his lazy sort of affection; like he has forever to please you, like it is all he was meant for.

And then his lips cascade downwards, with his tongue trailing over your chest, and right over the bud of your breast to catch it in his mouth. So warm and soft, enough to make you arch a little, enough to make your hands come back up into his hair. You bite your lip but your hips twitch.

Dissatisfaction builds in you, squirms under your skin. It makes you become fitful in his arms, beneath the attentive warmth of his mouth. He moans a little around your breast when you pull on his hair. He rolls his eyes up to you lazily, half-lidded, almost asleep.

He is strangely content now, for all his unnerving, crackling energy. That restlessness that seems to live deep inside of him is soothed for the moment, with you beneath him, in his mouth.

His lips travel lower, over your stomach. You know it's a mess, can't imagine why he would ever–

"Suguru," you say and the fear in your voice is palpable. He pays you no mind, "Suguru–"

When his mouth opens against your core, warm and soft and wet, you aren't expecting it. You jolt a little but he's got his arms around your thighs, forces you open.

"Hold still for me, darling." And the lull of his voice does something to you, coaxes you to relax in his hold again. He hums lightly, "that's my girl. Going to let me enjoy you now? Suddenly quiet, aren't we?" he muses.

You glare down at him but it's lost a lot of the heat of your anger. Still, you say stubbornly, "just do what you want."

His lips quirk up and you feel it, feel it against your core when he drops a brief open-mouthed kiss there. A noise works out of you, small and desperate and unable to be kept down.

He tongues at you slowly, through soft ribbons of flesh, gentle and sweet. Adoring. He looks up at you with plum dark eyes, lashes fanning over his cheek.

He does what he should've done first.

You realize dully, faintly, through the haze of your mind, that he's done it purposefully. He wanted it to hurt. He wanted to soothe you after.

And you are sore, aching horribly, but his mouth is so warm and soft, so eager and strange as it moves against you.

“I’ll make you feel better now,” he murmurs, “I’ll chase away the pain.”

He licks long and flat stripes up and down, making a mess, making you burn. Making you love it. Making you hate it.

You twist a little in his hold, start to get desperate for it. You fist your hands in his long hair, twine them around your fingers to pull, to feel the rumbling purr of his moan against you.

You try to resist maybe, at first, the peak he's bringing you to. The pleasure he's giving you. But then it sneaks up on you and suddenly your breathing hitches all tight.

And he stops.

You look down at him. His mouth is on your inner thigh. His eyes flick up to you. He watches you keenly, like a cat, and waits.

He bites into the flesh of your thigh, sucks a love bite into it. Leaves the marks of his teeth in your skin. And when your breathing has slowed enough, he moves his mouth back to your center.

His tongue lolls out again, sliver of pink muscle darting out to taste you again. You whimper. You throw your head back. You give in to this one easily. He works harder, gets a little rougher, tongue moving quicker.

But then he's gone again, when you're about to fall over that edge. This time, you sit up onto your elbows to look at him. He quirks a brow at you, mouth all over your thigh again.

"Something wrong?" He asks, dropping a messy kiss to your core.

"Suguru, stop it–"

"Stop what? You said do as I please and I am."

He opens his mouth against your center again, scorching hot, dirty in a way that makes you keen sharp and high. You tilt your hips up into his mouth this time, offer yourself willingly, open yourself to him. His tongue delves inside, squirms and pushes and slides through you. It's almost gross– too vulnerable, too close, and makes your eyes slam shut.

He muffles a soft laugh, you can feel it against you, can feel the flush of your embarrassment and annoyance.

He pulls away. This time your glare is pointed. Sharper.

"Say what you want." Suguru says. "And I'll give it to you."

You stare hard at him, chest heaving, face overcome with heat. Your pleasure ebbs away, held back.

He does it again. Mouth on you. Thumb holding you open, dipping inside barely again. He pulls away when you move at all, when you allow yourself to give in.

You come down again. You get built up again. Until he finally presses his thumb inside, makes his tongue roll slow and tender against you.

His name comes out, desperate, almost pleading–

He stops.

And this time, frustrated tears rush back to your eyes.

"Stop it," you try to snap, but its wet and soft sounding, a little cry.

"Poor thing," he coos, "but you know what you have to do."

"I hate you."

He smiles like the cat that has got the canary between his sharp, sharp teeth.

"C'mon, it's not so bad–"

You grit your teeth. You try to breathe. He tongues at you again, slow and soft and teasing.

"Just let it go, let go of your pride and ask me. I'll indulge you. I'll give it to you." He opens his mouth against you again, adds pressure, adds suction, adds a finger inside you again. You twist, desperate, so close it hurts.

He draws off you again.

"Let go of your pride and I'll give you everything." He murmurs.

And again he builds you up and again you refuse to give in. Again and again until you're outright crying, until you're heaving with it, until you're just a live-wire, an aching, open wound.

And again he does it, adjusts so he sits up with you, so you're near bent in half, so he can look down at you now. It's so horrible, it's so embarrassing–

One more. He knows it, can feel it, hear it in your little hitching sobs.

And then finally, finally;

"Suguru, please–please, I'm sorry, I-I'm sorry–"

It hits you so hard that all you can manage is a strangled gasp. Your peak is a head rush, a full body surge, a wave that goes still for a moment before crashing hard and fast. You cry openly, twist in his hold, let him lay you back down, let him guide you through it. You pulse and burst on his tongue, throbbing, aching in a way you've never felt before.

"Good girl," he rumbles, and it's so–it's so proud. It's so condescending. You want to be mad. You want to push him away and scratch and kick and bite, but when he holds you, you just cry. And cry. And he kisses you hard on the mouth again so you can taste yourself. He says it again while you're still mindless, "good girl. That's it–that's my girl. My good little wife."

"You're the worst," you get out, even as you let him bundle you into his arms.

"I know–I know." He hushes. "And I'll be worse still."

When you feel his fingers prod gently at your entrance, you start fighting him a little, "no–no, I'm done–I can't–"

"Yes, you can." He hums, "because I said so. Because I want you to."

His fingers slip in gently, so big, bigger than your own. Two feel like such a stretch and all he does is move them slow and crooked. You whimper, tears leaking out, cascading down your cheeks.

And he makes you come like that, too. And again on his mouth. The next all he does is fit his thigh between your legs, while he kisses you slow. Humiliates you. Strips you of all your dignity. For the last time, he lines himself back up, let's his length slip through your folds a few times. He watches himself against you, admires how deep he must reach in you, how wet you are for him.

You're so swollen. So sore and tired. You barely realize it at first. And then you feel the head of him catch and you stir, "wait–no, no–please, I can't–!" You hiccup.

He fills you in one smooth thrust. Makes you claw down into his back until you're sure you've drawn blood. You wail a little, embarrassingly, into his throat. You claw and fuss and fight him this time, renewed a little, feeling him root down inside of you.

He kisses at your tears, tastes them, "Look at you–" he husks, "crying like this for me. Look at the mess I've made out of you. Not so proud now, are we?"

He kisses your palm that tries to push his face away.

He bites your tender lip. He takes your hands in his own and laces his finger between yours to force them down onto the bed. He quells your fight. He ruts into you deep and hard.

He does that until you come again, so brutally around him that all you can do is tremble in his arms, that you feel as if you've fractured apart into little pieces. Your walls get so tight that he can't help himself, starts to babble a little, thrusts growing reckless;

"I'm never letting you go–you'll be mine if it's the last thing I do. I'm going to covet you. I'm going to ruin you, I'm going to fucking ruin you–"

You bite his shoulder so viciously that you start to taste blood.

He grabs your jaw, he squeezes until it hurts. He squeezes until you release.

"I'm the only thing you have now." He growls, thrusts turning mean, ruthless. Desperate. "I'll be the only thing you'll ever have now."

You glare through your tears, and get out his name, and then you croak, "I've already ruined you–look at you. Look at you."

A few more artless thrusts and he comes with a broken groan, raw, against your jumping pulse. You feel him fill you again, deep, and warm. Strangely soothing after everything, after all of it. You go slack for a moment as you heave, as you feel him breathe against your chest.

And this time he is done. This time, he holds you, even when you try to weakly push him away.

"Stop fussing," he scolds softly, stroking slow over your sides, petting you, soothing you. You feel so boneless that you listen, settle down into the bed, into his touch, into his weight still atop you.

He's weakened you to him, stripped you down so you're limp and exhausted, and in need of care. His care.

He bathes you. And before that, he makes you wrap your arms around him to carry you to the bathroom. He doesn't carry you like a bride but with your arms around his neck, with your legs around his waist, wants you to nose into his throat, to be pressed fully to him. He doesn't allow you something so dignified as being carried like a bride.

And he doesn't allow you privacy, either, not to use the bathroom or to clean yourself. He does it for you. You think about asking him to leave you. You think about begging him. You swallow it down and can't decide if it's pride now that holds your tongue or something else. If it's worse to beg now or if it's worse to be cared for like this. You can't decide if it's more embarrassing to ask him to leave or to let him stay and see it all.

He sits in the tub with you and wipes your tears. He runs the warm water over your shoulders, along your arms. He cleans inside you, even when you make a noise of protest.

He shushes you gently as his fingers delve into you again, "just settle. Relax." And when you go limp against him, head on his shoulder, he praises you in low, soft tones, "that's it–there. That's all, darling."

He is surprisingly gentle. Surprisingly subdued and at peace while he cares for you.

He dries you. He carries you back to bed. You're sore and tender, can feel all his marks and bites and the ache between your legs now very acutely.

He lays atop you, head on your chest, limbs thrown around you. You allow your hands to delve into his hair and you realize much of what he said is true;

He is all you have now. And the sorcery world is to blame, the ones who outcasted you and your family. Him.

Shyly, you draw a finger over the line of his brow, the slope of his nose. He is all you have. He is who you're stuck with, for better or for worse. You let it settle in you, deep and unmoving.

He is all you have.

You hold him tighter, know that maybe he could ruin you or that you could ruin him. You hold him tighter and know that he'll be yours. Or maybe you'll be his.

But more importantly, you know that he could ruin for you. He could ruin all of them.

As if possessed, you whisper it.

You whisper what you want him to become in his ear, as you trace over the scratches and the bites and the wounds. As you hold him to you. As you willingly wrap you arms around him. You tell him you want him to become a monster. You want him to avenge you, avenge himself, to tear it all down. You give him all your ire and contempt. You give him everything ugly while he sleeps and dreams and sighs into your neck.

You poison him. You curse him.

You will ruin them all. You will be something powerful. Something horrible. You will change everything. You will ruin everything.

All I have to do is ask, you think. All I have to do is ask.

And he will give you everything.

#oh Word? oh WORD? WORD?

[chemspxdr]

What if I write the most emotionally Devastating aki fic ever produced.

#aki x reader #i will do it

[chemspxdr]

“Still no update?” Girli am currently pursuing a degree in biochemistry. I’m literally learning how to cure cancer. How about we be a bit more polite babe?

[chemspxdr]

[CAR CRASH] [GLASS SHATTERING] "GOOD LORD!" [GENERAL COMMOTION] [BABY CRYING] "WAAAAH WAAAAH" [YELLING] [POLICE SIRENS] WEEWOO WEEWOO [HELICOPTERS] "WE’RE REPORTING LIVE-" [EXPLOSION] "MY LEG... MY LEG..."

[chemspxdr]

seven minutes in heaven + aki....

#this is canon actually

[chemspxdr]

₊˚⊹｡ see me through the morning glow | gojo satoru

wc: 1.0k summary: you and gojo have a slow morning.  contains: f!reader in mind, suggestive if you squint, food descriptions. a/n: unedited, i honestly dk what this is i just really needed to get this out of my system! this is how i cope with 236.

re-uploaded because i accidentally deleted!

You slip out of bed faced with the promise of sunlight. 

The curtains in your bedroom radiate a glow that bounces off the man lying next to you; it’s soft, near-white, almost ethereal, the color of his skin, hair, and bones. His back is exposed, arm reaching out over the (now) empty space beside him—the crinkles and folds where you once were. 

You’ve always thought your bedroom had good lighting, and now you can confirm why: in the shadows, deepening the line that runs down his spine; in the highlights, guiding your eyes to the pockets of muscle behind his shoulders. 

You look away, trying your best not to stare; the only reason he’s undressed is because of a cold sweat, from the nightmares—and the very need for skin-to-skin, to ground him in your touch. 

On mornings like this, you let Gojo sleep in. 

(Because you’re lucky if he can fall back asleep again). 

It’s slow today—no work, no missions that need you or Gojo. It’s your favorite kind of day, and Gojo’s too (once he wakes up and smells the waffles you’ve prepared, double topped with whipped cream and maple syrup—his special, of course). 

A steady stream of warmth flows through the window to your kitchen countertop, the marble glimmering as light hits. The material was his choice; you don’t care much for glamor but Gojo likes pretty things—you especially, he likes to say. 

The batter is quick to prepare, a recipe you’ve done many times before, so you ladle it into the waffle maker before letting it set on its own. Then, you grab a pan to heat up, spooning in last night’s leftover rice, some soy sauce, and mirin, adding salt to taste, as needed. A standard fried rice breakfast, with a yolk to mix in later. 

The sound of his footsteps are concealed by the sizzles of the pan in front of you, but you’re caught off guard by arms wrapped around your waist, and his chin nestling itself into your shoulder as he nuzzles you. 

He’s still shirtless, you notice, so you inch backwards in case of any oil spatter. 

“Good sleep?” you mumble, certain that he heard you. 

He hums, before whispering, lips tickling the edges of your ear on purpose, pouting, “Not anymore when you left.” 

This man—a giant baby, puffed cheeks with long limbs hunched over you. 

Your big baby. 

Despite his whines, he’s telling the truth, you know, and you feel warm because of it, affection seeping in the cracks between his arms and the kitchen stove. 

You blow on a spoonful of rice before lifting it up to his lips. Gojo’s breakfasts are always sweet, but every time you cook, he looks forward to this: waiting right behind you to be fed over your shoulder.

His review will always be the same, of course, everything you touch turns out good. 

He reaches for the waffle maker with one hand while the other keeps you close, and you plate his little breakfast for him, whipped cream with little hearts drawn in maple syrup. 

You grab a bowl for your rice and sit by the counter, Gojo sitting thigh-to-thigh beside you despite the abundance of space around you. 

You realize then, that Gojo tends to hover. 

Not necessarily in a bad way, just that, he does it all the time—always wanting to be near.  

And for someone so perceiving, practically all-seeing, he doesn’t really have to for him to know what you’re up to, but with every opportunity he has, he never misses a moment to be close to you.

When you wash the dishes by the sink, he stays beside you, shoulder-to-shoulder, even when the sink is wide enough to accommodate him a few inches farther. 

Even the walk to the bathroom has him tailing you, following your footsteps as he traces the footprints of slow mornings with you. 

Your bathroom counter has two sinks, but of course, today, he chooses to stay by yours. 

“Skincare?” you raise a tub of face mask. 

He doesn’t need it, but you love pampering him, so he nods, whatever you want. 

You struggle for a bit (he’s just too tall), so he picks you up by the waist and rests you on the bathroom counter, against the mirror.

He stays in the space between your legs, hands flat against your thighs. His thumb kneads your skin gently, and any other time, this position would end very differently, but there’s a look he’s giving you—all words without speaking. 

And—

“Quit staring,” you mumble, turning shy. You’re about to rub the product onto his cheeks, under his eyes. 

“What, I can’t look at you?” he moves closer, keeping his eyes locked on you as he rubs circles on your thighs. 

“No, you can, but,” you swallow, “you’re looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” his brows furrow. 

“Like that.” you sigh, gesturing to his face. 

“Like I love you?” 

And it is like that. Like he loves you. That’s why he says it so casually. 

Because he does. 

You stay quiet, stunned, before you clear your throat and finish up the final area on his face. 

“Yeah.” you mumble, reaching over to wash your hands on the sink. 

Gojo waits for you to finish before he takes a small towel to dry your hands with it. 

“As if you don’t know.” he scoffs, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter. 

He’s right—it’s been said before, but there’s something else in his eyes right now, shiny and devoted, as if this is all he could ever want. As if you, on this slow morning, in this too-big bathroom is all he could ever need. 

But he doesn’t say anything. At least, not what he really means. 

“Not my fault you’re so pretty today,” he adds on, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

It should be funny, that he’s telling you all this with a mask slathered all over his face, but his compliments always speak to the depths of you, even when you don’t expect them to. 

His fingers mold against your cheek, to your ears, down to the back of your head, bringing you closer until he kisses you softly, a gentle peck. 

Bits of the face mask transfer to your nose and you giggle, wiping it off. 

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, they say.” you joke.

Gojo smiles, that look on his face, “Good for you then, you’re the only one I see.”

re-uploaded because i accidentally deleted!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#hi this filled me w so much warmth and love