Lav 🪻 | Certified Menace by night, Unfortunate Professional by day | 24 | I write fanfiction for mainly MHA and Jujutsu Kaisen | I write SLOW BURNS and REAL romance | MUST be 18+ to read my works. Minors DNI. | KOFI - ko-fi.com/animefreak211242779
Hi y'all! My work list is getting a little too long at this point, so I figured it would be a good idea to get a master list going for a few of my biggest works! If you're new here, welcome to my page. Happy reading, my loves!
SUMMARY/TEASER: "Don't say his fucking name," he hisses at you. He wants you under him so fucking bad. "Bad enough that you let him kiss you in fron' of me. You tryna piss me off, doll? He shouldn't be fuckin' touchin' you. No one should."
"No one but you, Toji?"
The words leave your lips — so deceivingly sweet, he realizes now. He knows what you're doing, but he can't stop.
You're stringing him up like a goddamn puppet, and all he can do is dance to your fucking tune.
Counterfeit Alpha - My Hero Academia
A/N — Horribly indulgent Bakugou/Reader/Deku story and I don't even feel the least bit guilty about it.
SUMMARY/TEASER: From a very young age, Y/N L/N always knew that she was meant to be an alpha. Much to her disappointment, fate turned out to be a cruel, unsuspecting bitch.
#7 Pro Hero Y/N L/N has always despised her second gender. A good omega was supposed to be weak, submissive, and obedient. Y/N is anything but. With her fiery personality and strong combat skills, she has managed to claw her way up the hero ranks — number 7. Soon to be 6th, if she could keep it up.
Posing as an Alpha since her first year at UA, Y/N will do anything to disguise her Omegan biology from the world.
But when a slight miscalculation is made, Y/N finds herself in a compromising situation with two Prime Alphas.
Reaper of Hearts - My Hero Academia
A/N — Bakugou/Reader/Kirishima. This story is my FIRST ever fic, and still ongoing. This is my baby and always will be.
SUMMARY/TEASER: Years after surviving kidnapping and torture from a villain organization, (Y/N) (L/N) has finally been accepted into the infamous U.A University for Heroes. Determined to become the best hero she can be, (Y/N) must fight to overcome the limitations of her past.
What she wasn't expecting, were Bakugou Katsuki and Ejiro Kirishima; a pair that she just can't seem to shake.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
feeling guilty over not working on your fic is so silly if you think about like why are you stressing over the hobby you do in your free time for fun lol wip not whip
So I've been reading romantasy a LOT lately and lemme tell you I am SO sick of the 'fated mates' trope. At this point, I just see it as an excuse for the authors to rush the relationship because the characters are "meant to be together".
I don't want attraction because it's fated. I don't want smut for the sake of SMUT.
I want real emotional connection. I want LOVE. Not because it's fated, not because it's inevitable, but because they they CHOSE other and continue to choose each other everyday.
Or maybe after reading Crown Me Dead & Crown Me Yours by Liv Zander left my standards stranded all the way up in the clouds.
long distance childhood friends to lovers. they meet and it's silly and cute but also sad haha. rin can never be normal about anything ever let's be real.
masterlist
↩ last next ↪
you don’t even see rin in person until your third day in tokyo.
he had sent a car to pick you up and take you to his apartment, and you immediately crashed in what you had assumed was the guest bedroom. jet lag’s been treating you like shit, but you had a convention to get to.
rin still texted, you just…kept missing each other.
he was up and at the gym by the time you woke up. you were gone at the convention center by the time he got back. matches and events kept colliding that even when you tried to stay up to meet him, you fell asleep on the couch.
(you woke up the next morning with a blanket draped over you. it smelled faintly of something herby and fresh, and you couldn’t help but snuggle into it for a few extra minutes before getting ready for the day.)
it’s the last day of the the convention. you’ve seen most of the panels you wanted to, perused artist alley at least ten times — stocking up on trinkets as you go — and even went to a cosplay meetup. you decide to leave early, wanting to catch up on sleep so you can be awake early enough to see rin.
you type in the code that lets you into his apartment, humming a tune under your breath. you pull off your shoes — still in full cosplay — and slide your slippers on. you hear a creak in the floor boards and flip around, eyes wide.
rin is standing in the middle of the hallway, towel wrapped around his waist. abs out. hair soaking wet.
“hi,” you say breathlessly. “you’re not at practice.”
he blinks at you, “finished early.”
“oh.” abs. hair. wet. abs. how did you not know about his abs?
“i didn’t think you’d be home.”
home.
“…can you put clothes on, please?” otherwise you fear you may pass away. seeing him in real life is completely different than seeing him through a screen. before this, your crush on rin was so normal it felt like breathing. it lived in your ribs; a bird in it’s cage.
now, seeing the ocean in his eyes, the bird fights to escape.
as if just now realizing he’s almost naked, he adjusts his grip on the towel around his waist. you think you see the tips of his ears turn red, but it’s hard to tell given the lighting and the fluttering in your chest.
if he realizes what he does to you, he doesn’t say anything. “pick out a dinner place and we’ll go once i’m dressed.” he lingers for a moment longer, before disappearing down the hall.
you manage to pull yourself together by the time he's back. he's wearing a simple gray pull over sweater, the ends of the sleeves worn from where he rubs the fabric between his fingers.
you’ve picked out a little mom and pop restaurant you discovered on your way back to rin’s apartment the first day of the convention. it has the most amazing katsudon and the owners are the sweetest people.
the two of you walk together, you looping your arm through his. rin freezes for a second, but lets you pull him down the street to go have dinner together.
(the way you look at him — grinning and mouth full of food — rin feels something in him melt. your bright attitude isn't as blinding as he thought it would be. it's...nice, having someone exist in the same space as him. his bathroom smells like your shampoo; your things are strewn about the apartment like someone actually lives there.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
hiii are you still writing toji interrupted? I noticed the last update was in september 🥲 it’s my newest obsession tho so if you are i’d love to be added to the taglist!!
Hey girlie!! 💖
Chapter 13 was actually posted in February on Tumblr, but I am almost done with 14!! Absolutely haven't given up on this, life and career just takes priority sometimes so updates are usually a few months in between 🥰 I am so so glad that you're enjoying it!! Thank you so much for reading and supporting, chapter 14 and 15 are going to be fun ones 😉
you show up to one of his matches wearing his name across your back. he is completely normal about it. obviously.
── .✦
Isagi Yoichi.
Isagi notices you before he means to.
It happens somewhere in the middle of the first half, when the ball has been pushed out of bounds and the game pauses for barely a few seconds.
His eyes move automatically.
The field. His teammates. The opposing formation.
The stands.
You.
For a moment, you almost blend into the sea of people dressed in blue and white. Then someone beside you says something and you turn to answer them, giving Isagi a perfect view of your back.
His name is written across your shoulders.
ISAGI.
His number underneath it.
Yoichi freezes.
Not enough for anyone watching to notice, probably, but enough that his entire thought process falls apart for one incredibly embarrassing second.
You're wearing his jersey.
His jersey.
You've come to his matches before. You've cheered for him, hugged him afterward, listened to him ramble endlessly about plays and goals until he realizes it's nearly two in the morning.
But this feels different.
There is something about seeing his name on you that makes his chest tighten painfully.
Then you turn back toward the field.
Your eyes find him.
And you smile.
It's immediate, bright and impossibly warm, and Isagi has to look away because his face is suddenly burning.
“Isagi.” He blinks. One of his teammates is staring at him.
“The throw-in?”
“Right.”
Right.
Football.
He is playing football.
Isagi forces himself back into the match...
Mostly.
Because every time he scores, every time he manages to create an opening, he finds himself glancing toward your section.
And you're always there.
Standing when everyone else stands. Clapping. Shouting his name even though he can barely hear you from the field.
It shouldn't matter this much.
It does.
After the match, you barely make it a few steps down the VIP hallway before someone wraps their arms around you from behind.
You yelp.
“Yoichi!”
“Sorry.”
He doesn't sound sorry.
He's showered already, his hair still slightly damp, but his body is warm against your back as he presses his face into the side of your neck.
“You scared me.”
“Sorry” he repeats. Still no actual regret.
You laugh softly and turn in his arms.
His hands settle naturally at your waist.
“You played really well.”
“Thanks.”
Isagi is looking at you strangely.
You tilt your head.
“What?”
His eyes drop.
Your jersey.
“Oh.”
You glance down at yourself.
“This?”
His ears turn pink again.
“You didn't tell me you bought one.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“It worked.”
You smile.
“I noticed.”
Isagi groans quietly.
“Was it that obvious?”
“To me? Definitely.”
“That makes it worse.”
You laugh, reaching up to push a few damp strands of hair away from his forehead.
His expression softens immediately.
“I like watching you play,” you tell him. “And I wanted to support you properly.”
“You always support me properly.”
“I know.”
Your fingers brush his cheek.
“But I wanted everyone else to know who I was cheering for too.”
Isagi stares at you.
You barely get the chance to wonder whether you've embarrassed him again before he's pulling you into his chest.
“Yoichi?”
“Give me a second.”
You smile against his shirt.
His arms tighten.
“You can't say things like that right after a match,” he mumbles.
“Why?”
“My heart's already working hard enough.”
You laugh, and Isagi presses a small kiss to the top of your head.
He is quiet for a moment.
Then, very softly, he says:
“Wear it again next time?”
You look up. He's trying to sound casual.
It's terrible.
You smile anyway.
“Of course.”
The look on his face makes the jersey completely worth it.
── .✦
Itoshi Sae
Sae notices everything. You know this. He has an irritating ability to pick apart the smallest changes in your appearance without ever making it obvious that he's paying attention.
New earrings. A different perfume. The fact that you've started stealing his shampoo whenever you stay over.
So when you arrive at the stadium wearing his jersey, you know there's no chance he won't see it.
The real question is whether he'll react.
For the majority of the first half, you think you've miscalculated. Sae doesn't look toward you once.
He moves across the pitch with the same disinterested expression he always wears, like every other player is merely another mildly inconvenient obstacle between him and victory.
Then the game pauses. Sae lifts his head. His eyes move across the stands... and then they stop.
Directly on you.
You smile. Slowly, deliberately, you open your jacket a little more.
His jersey underneath.
Sae's jersey.
His eyes narrow and you almost laugh.
Then the whistle blows and he turns away.
That's it.
No smile. No visible embarrassment.
You aren't surprised.
Still, you spend the rest of the match wondering whether he liked it.
The answer arrives after the game.
You are standing near one of the restricted hallways, scrolling through your phone, when a familiar hand takes it from you.
“Hey—”
You look up.
Sae.
“You're done?”
He doesn't answer.
Instead, his eyes move down your body.
You follow his glance at your shirt.
“So you did notice.”
“I noticed.”
“And?”
“And what?”
You stare at him. Sae stares back.
“You're impossible.”
You reach for your phone. He lifts it away.
“Sae.”
“Turn around.”
“What?”
“Turn. Around.”
You narrow your eyes.
“Why?”
He looks almost bored.
“Do you always ask this many questions?”
“Only when my boyfriend starts giving me suspicious instructions.”
For the briefest moment, something amused flickers in his eyes. You turn anyway. There is silence behind you. Then Sae's fingers brush the fabric between your shoulder blades.
Right over his name.
The touch is so light you almost miss it.
You don't turn. His hand stays there.
“It's too big,” he says.
You smile.
“It's supposed to be.”
“No.”
His fingers move to your waist, gathering some of the fabric.
“It's definitely too big.”
“Are you complaining?”
Sae is quiet.
Then his arm slides around your waist and he pulls you backward against him. Your breath catches. His mouth is near your ear.
“No.”
The answer is so simple that warmth immediately spreads through your chest.
You turn your head slightly.
“So you like it?”
“You look fine.”
“Sae.”
“You look good.”
“Sae.”
He sighs. You grin.
“Fine, you look gorgeous," he finally says.
“Was that so difficult?”
“Yes.”
You laugh. Sae's hold on you tightens slightly. Then he lowers his head and presses a slow kiss beneath your ear. Your smile falters.
“Sae.”
“Hm?”
“That was unfair.”
His mouth brushes your skin again.
“You wanted a reaction.”
You can practically hear the smugness in his voice.
“I wanted you to say you liked the shirt.”
“I did.”
“You're horrible.”
Sae finally lets you turn around. His hand stays on your waist. You reach up, smoothing your thumb over his cheek.
“You really played well today.”
“I know.”
You roll your eyes.
Sae catches your wrist before you can lower your hand. His lips press briefly against your palm. The gesture is so unexpectedly gentle that you become completely still.
His eyes remain on yours.
“Wear it again.”
You smile softly.
“Only because you asked so nicely.”
“I didn't.”
“I know.”
This time, when Sae kisses you, you can feel the faint curve of his smile against your mouth.
── .✦
Itoshi Rin.
You know Rin has seen you. Mostly because he has been actively refusing to look toward your side of the stadium for the past thirty minutes.
It started when you arrived.
You'd barely found your seat when Rin's eyes moved toward the stands. He saw you. Saw the dark jersey. Saw his name across your chest and...
Immediately looked away.
You smiled.
Then Rin plays like someone had deeply and personally offended him. By halftime, you are beginning to suspect the jersey may have triggered some kind of psychological crisis. He scores twice but doesn't celebrate.
He looks toward you once after the second goal. Just once.
You blow him a kiss.
Rin nearly walks into one of his own teammates.
You spend the rest of the match feeling incredibly pleased with yourself. Afterward, however, Rin avoids you. You wait near the players' exit.
Nothing.
So you send him a message.
where are you?
Three minutes pass.
busy.
You stare at the reply on the screen.
rin...
Nothing.
itoshi rin...
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
Finally, you see the reply:
stop.
You laugh.
Ten minutes later, Rin walks out of the hallway.
His hair is still damp from his shower and there's a bag thrown over one shoulder. He stops when he sees you.
You smile sweetly.
“Hi.”
Rin looks at your shirt. Then your face.
“You're annoying.”
“I haven't done anything.”
“You know what you did.” You glance down.
“The jersey?” His jaw tightens. Your smile grows.
“Did you like it?”
“No.”
“Rin.”
“No.”
You step closer. He doesn't move away.
“You looked at me after your second goal.”
“I was looking at the crowd.”
“You almost tripped when I blew you a kiss.”
“I didn't trip...”
“Almost.”
Rin clicks his tongue. You are close enough now to reach for him. Your fingers lightly catch the sleeve of his jacket. His eyes immediately drop to the movement.
“I wanted to wear your jersey,” you say, quieter now. The teasing disappears from your voice.
Rin looks at you.
“I thought you'd like seeing me support you.”
His expression changes. Barely. But you know him. You see the way the tension leaves his shoulders. The way his eyes soften even though he would probably rather die than admit it.
“You already support me,” he says.
“I know.”
“Then you don't have to do stupid things.”
You smile.
“But I wanted to.”
Rin says nothing.
Your hand slides down from his sleeve until your fingers brush his. For a second, he doesn't react.
Then he takes your hand.
His grip is firm.
Warm.
“You really didn't like it?” you ask.
Rin looks away.
You wait.
His thumb moves once over your knuckles.
“…I didn't say that.” Your heart melts.
“Oh.”
“Don't.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You're smiling.”
“I can't smile?”
“Not like that.”
You laugh softly.
Rin pulls you closer by your joined hands. You bump gently into his chest. Before you can tease him again, he lowers his head. His forehead rests against yours. The gesture is quiet.
Private.
So Rin.
“I saw you immediately,” he admits. Your smile becomes softer.
“I know.”
“Shut up.”
You squeeze his hand.
“I'm proud of you.”
Rin's eyes close. You kiss the corner of his mouth. For once, he doesn't complain.
Instead, his free hand settles against the back of your neck and pulls you back when you try to move away.
The second kiss lasts much longer.
When you finally separate, Rin looks at your jersey again.
His name.
His number.
You.
His expression turns slightly red.
“Don't wear anyone else's.”
You blink.
Then you grin.
“Rin, are you jealous of hypothetical jerseys?”
“Shut up.”
“That's so cute.”
“I'm leaving.”
Yet he doesn't let go of your hand.
── .✦
Nagi Seishiro.
The first person to notice is Reo.
Of course it is.
Nagi is standing on the field, lazily stretching one leg behind him, when Reo suddenly nudges his shoulder.
“Nagi.”
“Hm?”
Reo nods toward the stands. Nagi follows his gaze.
You are sitting a few rows from the front. His jersey is draped over your body, much too large, the sleeves nearly reaching your elbows.
Nagi stops stretching.
“Oh.”
Reo looks at him. Then at you. Then back at him.
“That's it?”
Nagi doesn't answer. You catch him looking, so you immediately smile and lift both hands in an excited little wave.
Nagi blinks.
You point toward your jersey.
Then toward him.
His chest feels strange. Not bad. Just warm. Heavy.
Troublesome.
Reo watches him stare.
“You like it.”
“Yeah.”
“You could at least smile at them.”
Nagi looks at him.
“I did.”
“No, you didn't.”
Nagi looks back toward you. You are still smiling. He lifts one hand. A tiny wave.
Your expression brightens so dramatically that Nagi feels the strange warmth again.
“Huh,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
The game starts. Nagi thinks about your jersey four separate times during the first half. It is incredibly distracting.
After the match, you find him sitting alone on a bench in one of the stadium hallways.
His head is tilted back against the wall.
“Seishiro?” One eye opens. “There you are.”
“You were looking for me?”
“Mm.” You walk closer.
“You could've texted me, my phone's in my bag.”
“And your bag is?” Nagi lazily points beside him.
You stare. He stares back.
“You're hopeless.”
“Too tired.”
You laugh and step between his knees. Nagi's hands immediately find your waist, he presses his face against your stomach.
You blink.
“Hello to you too.”
“Hi.” His voice is muffled against the jersey. Your fingers move into his hair and he visibly relaxes.
“You played really well today.”
“Mm.”
“That goal in the second half was incredible.”
“Mm.” You smile.
“Are you listening?”
“Yeah.”
“What did I say?”
“You think I'm incredible.” You lightly pull his hair, Nagi makes a quiet sound of complaint.
“That is not what I said.”
“Close enough.” His fingers curl into the fabric around your waist, then he lifts his head. His eyes settle on your shirt.
“My jersey.”
“Very observant.”
“You bought it.”
“I did.”
“Why?” You stare at him.
“Because you're my boyfriend?” Nagi blinks slowly.
“So?” You laugh.
“So I wanted to wear your name.” He becomes quiet. You tilt your head.
“Seishiro?” His hands slide around you completely. Then, without warning, he pulls you closer and buries his face against you again. You almost lose your balance.
“Hey!”
“Don't say things like that.” You look down at him.
His ears are pink.
Your heart nearly bursts.
“Oh my god.”
“Don't.”
“Are you embarrassed?”
“No.”
“You are!"
Nagi groans.
You laugh and gently scratch your nails over his scalp. His arms tighten.
“You look cute,” he mutters. Your teasing stops. “In my jersey.”
“Oh.”
“Really cute.”
You feel your own face warm. Nagi looks up at you again. For once, his gaze is completely focused.
“You should wear it more.”
“To matches?”
“At my place.” You raise an eyebrow. Nagi's expression remains innocent.
Mostly.
“Why?”
He rests his chin against your stomach.
“Like seeing my name on you.”
The honesty of it makes your chest ache. You lean down and kiss him. Nagi immediately pulls you closer, one hand moving up your back.
When you separate, he follows your lips for another tiny kiss.
Then another.
“You're suddenly very energetic,” you whisper.
“Mm.”
His eyes close again.
“Worth the effort.”
── .✦
Barou Shoei.
Barou sees you before the match starts. You know because his eyes move toward your seat during warm-ups and immediately narrow.
You smile. He looks away. Then looks back.
Your jacket is open, his jersey is underneath.
BAROU.
You give him a tiny wave. Barou's expression becomes unreadable. One of his teammates says something to him. Barou snaps at him.
You cover your mouth, laughing.
Then, the match begins.
Barou is unbearable, he scores and looks directly toward you.
He scores again and looks directly toward you.
The third time, you are almost certain he adjusts the front of his jersey on purpose before walking back to position.
The man is showing off.
And you love him desperately.
After the match, Barou comes toward you with a towel around his neck.
“You.”
You smile.
“Me.”
“What are you wearing?” You look down.
“Clothes.” Barou glares and you laugh. “Your jersey.”
“I can see that.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“You didn't tell me you were buying one.”
“I wanted to surprise you.” Barou clicks his tongue and you step closer.
“Did it work?”
“No.”
“Shouei.”
“No.”
“You looked at me every time you scored.”
“I was checking the scoreboard.”
“The scoreboard is on the opposite side.” Barou becomes silent but your smile turns unbearably smug.
“King.”
“Don't.”
“Were you showing off for me?”
“No.”
“You scored a hat-trick.”
“I would've done that anyway.”
“Obviously.” Barou looks almost suspicious.
You smooth your hand over his chest.
“I know you're amazing.” His expression softens.
You smile.
“I just like when you look for me after you score.”
Barou stares down at you, his large hand settles over yours.
“You noticed that?”
“Every time.” He looks away.
You could cry from how endearing he is.
Instead, you gently tug on the towel around his neck, bringing him slightly closer.
“I wore your jersey because I'm proud of you.”
Barou looks back at you.
“And because I love you.”
His eyes widen. Just a little.
You smile.
“What?”
“You can't just say that here.”
“Why?”
“There are people around.”
“So?”
“So—”
Barou stops.
You wait.
His face is red.
Your heart squeezes painfully.
“You're cute.”
“Don't call me cute.”
“You're very cute.”
Barou grabs your waist. You squeak when he pulls you against him.
“Say it again.”
You blink.
“Cute?”
His glare becomes murderous.
You burst out laughing.
“Okay, okay.”
Your hands settle against his shoulders. You look into his eyes.
“I love you.”
Barou's grip tightens.
His expression turns serious.
“I love you too.”
Your smile softens.
Then he kisses you.
It's surprisingly gentle. Slow.
His thumb moves once over your waist as though he's smoothing the fabric of his own jersey beneath his hand. When he pulls away, his eyes fall toward the shirt again.
“Next time, tell me before you buy something.” You sigh.
“Shouei—”
“I'll get you one.”
“I already have one.”
“Not like this.”
“What does that mean?” Barou lifts his chin.
“One of mine.” You stare.
“You mean an actual jersey you've worn?”
“Yeah.” Your lips part, but before you can say anything, Barou continues. “You're the only one fit to reign by my side.”
Your heart stops.
Barou seems to realize exactly how romantic that sounds.
His expression darkens immediately.
“Don't make that face.”
“What face?”
“That one.” You hug him.
Barou complains, the faintest hint of red creeping into his cheeks.
But he still wraps his arms around you.
── .✦
Shidou Ryusei.
Shidou sees you instantly. There is no subtlety involved. His eyes scan the crowd before the match, find you, and immediately drop to your jersey. Then he grins.
You know you're in trouble.
“Ryusei,” you whisper to yourself.
Shidou points at you.
Actually points.
Several people nearby turn. You slowly cover your face with both hands.
From the field, Shidou laughs.
You can see it.
The match has not even started and you already regret everything.
Mostly.
Then Shidou scores. The stadium erupts.
You jump from your seat, shouting his name with everyone else.
Shidou turns toward your section. His eyes find you. He grabs the front of his own jersey.
Then points at yours.
You feel your entire face burn.
The people beside you start screaming louder.
“I'm going to kill him,” you mutter. You're smiling too much to sound convincing.
After the match, Shidou practically crashes into you.
“There they are!”
“Don't yell!”
“My gorgeous little fan.”
“Ryusei.” His arms wrap around your waist. He lifts you.
You yelp.
“Put me down!”
“No.”
“Ryusei!” He spins once.
You are laughing by the time your feet touch the ground again. Shidou keeps his arms around you. His grin softens when he looks down.
“You really wore it.” Your smile becomes smaller.
“Yeah.”
“My name and everything.”
“That's generally how jerseys work.” Shidou ignores you.
His fingers trace the lettering across your chest.
The touch is innocent, surprisingly careful.
You watch his face.
“You like it?”
“Baby...” He looks at you like you've asked the stupidest question imaginable. “I almost exploded on the field.”
You laugh.
“I noticed.”
“You looked so fucking cute.”
“Thank you.”
“Standing there, screaming for me.”
“I was not screaming.”
“You were.”
“You couldn't hear me.”
“I felt it spiritually.”
You snort.
Shidou laughs.
Then he suddenly pulls you closer. His forehead bumps against yours. The playful energy fades slightly.
“You came.” Your expression softens.
“Of course I came.”
“I know.” His thumb moves over your waist.
“But you came with me all over you.” You blink.
“Your jersey.” You correct him, a faint flush warming your cheeks.
“Same thing.”
“Ryusei.” His grin returns. You push lightly against his chest. Shidou catches your wrist.
Then he kisses your palm. The gesture surprises you.
“You really happy?” you ask. His eyes move back to yours.
“Yeah.” Simple. Honest.
Your heart warms.
Shidou bends down and kisses you.
Unlike the kiss to your palm, this one isn't gentle.
Hiiiiieeee
I just sped through the first 3 chapters of Toji Interrupted and MY GOD i am hooked. AHHHHHH!!! tysm for your service and blessing us with this story
have a good day bb 💋
Hello my darling! <3
FIRST OF ALL I LOVE YOU T^T I just read all of your comments and it made me soooo happy that you're enjoying it! I'm slow as hell with updating lately due to life just taking over (unfortunately career takes priority T^T), but I am working on chapter 14 and it's almost finished!
Thank you as always for taking the time to comment. You have no idea how much it motivates me to write!! <3
Good evening! (I'm not sure if it's evening where you are, but it is where I am) I've just downloaded Tumblr to check out your page after finishing "Toji Interrupted" on Ao3. I wanted to ask, when will the next chapter be posted? I understand you probably have plenty of other things to do, I just wanted to know so that I don't miss it. Also, I have no idea how this note I'm writing on, or the app in general, works, but if you could let me know how to begin the process of uploading my writing onto Tumblr, or direct me to someone who could, that would be great. Thank you!
Darling anon!!
Thanks so much for reading and loving Toji Interrupted 🥰 First off, chapter 14 is almost done!! To be honest, life has just happened the last few months and I haven't had nearly as much time to write...I have posted for a few other stories too since Toji Chapter 13 was posted so that's taken up a bit of the docket!
Also, you can begin posting your work here just by merely making a new post and copy/pasting!! Although, I would absolutely recommend adding tags, and perhaps a picture/storyboard of the story vibe OR a chapter heading (like I do with my stories with the flowers, chapter names and such). You can literally just drag and drop things like that in the post ;) Tumblr is actually quite fun to work with once you get used to it -- you can definitely more artsy and cute than the AO3 platform!
Thank you as always for loving my work and taking the time to care. I promise I'm working on Toji Interrupted when I have time outside this crazy life of mine!!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
btw toji was never a deadbeat. i don’t know where that idea came from. kinda further proves the whole “jjk fans don’t read their own manga” but hey to each their own ig.
toji took care of megumi and tsumiki that entire time. tsumikis mother abandoned her after marrying toji and took that mfs little bit of money. toji only left for work. those 2 years of megumi forgetting who his father was and tsumiki taking care of megumi were because toji was dead. with toji dead nothing official ever happened with him being sold to the zenin clan. it was gonna but when they were getting ready to take megumi gojo FINALLY visited and told megumi “hey your sister won’t have a good life if you stay with the zenins”
megumi and tsumiki were never made aware toji died. he died on mission and shiu never involved himself with tojis family matters. dude literally disappeared after toji died. gojo on the other hand knew abt the 2 and didn’t do anything until megumi was like 7-8 years old. toji died when he was like 4-5. the neglect was bc they were kids with a mother that abandoned them and the only other person that knew of their whereabouts did nothing for 2 years✌️
i’m not hating on gojo dude was instructed to keep megumi from going to the zenins after his curse technique manifested which should’ve been 3 years from then. but he COULDVE done something more with free will and all. he was lucky they didn’t die from malnutrition before then. obviously gojo does wtv tf he wants so it makes no sense to why he’d intentionally let 2 kids starve and suffer for 2 years. the argument of “he wanted them to live normal lives while he built his name in the jujutsu world” also doesn’t really hold bc holy hell they were on the verge of literally having nothing. that’s not in any way normal lives for 2 under 15… it’s hard to believe the little bit of money toji did get and would leave for them ESPECIALLY when he planned on making it back from that mission, it’s insane to believe that the small amount could last 2 years. and knowing tsumikis mom took the money from the payout from tojis last ‘job’ she literally left them with scraps. sure gojo was 16 but holy shit he’s gojo satoru. you expect me to believe he couldn’t find a way around the whole “minors adopting minors”… i dunno man
sure toji gambled but i don’t think he was going to willing let the one part of the only person he ever cared about die because he wanted to gamble. he found a way to keep megumi and tsumiki perfectly healthy and okay even when he did gamble away every dollar. was it convenient not necessarily but i mean dude was highkey depressed and taking care of 2 kids on his own and extremely traumatized. you can’t exactly expect a whole lot from anyone that went through half the shit toji went through. he definitely was NOT the best but he was no where close to being the worst
Ever make the mistake of reading through some of your old fic stuff that's still floating around on the internet, realize how cringe it is, and then force yourself not to delete it because somehow people actually still like it?
A/N: Chapter 2 -- Hello! If you're new to my page, welcome! This story is a slow burn romance about love, healing, and self acceptance. It's veeeeery angsty in the first few chapters, and they are VERY vital to Y/N's past and character. In this chapter, Y/N falls deeper into despair, questioning her sanity. She's hanging onto a shred of hope; a thin, fraying thread that keeps her breathing. How long until she breaks?
Listened to Love Murder One by Coheed and Cambria while editing this chapter. Give a listen if you appreciate the vibes!! Also, if you're reading up until this point and are enjoying it or even curious, let me know in the comments!
“Grip the chair, girl. Or I will cut off your fingers while you watch.”
You know what's coming. Your body is already jerking into shock as you feel the prod of Kainen's whip, trailing grotesquely over the bare skin of your back. Your fingers shake and quiver, refusing to curl over the metal backing.
“I can't."
“You will.” The hiss of his mouth at your ear is revolting, causing your body to press further into the chair.
When his whip cuts over your back for the first time, you can't even form a sound. The breath is punched out of you, leaving you to choke on the scream in your throat.
“Once a week. Pain makes the rebellious obedient." The Doctor had had a skip in his step, then, as if excited by the prospect before turning to the healer.
"Just enough to stop the bleeding," he'd whispered. "Leave the scars."
“Again.” Kainen purrs, grinning at the blood dripping from the iron tip of his weapon, “Count for me, won't you? Ten should do.”
Your teeth grit, trying not to bite your tongue as the whip comes down again. It doesn't last long – you're screaming in the next second.
White, hot pain. The kind that makes even the bravest men crumble into dust; shooting through every nerve as your skin splits open. The thud of the whip's iron tip clinking on the ground makes bile rise in your throat. You can smell the copper tinge in the air – the source of it running down your back in warm, slippery trails of crimson.
“Didn't I tell you to count, little girl?”
You can barely hear him over the ringing in your ears, defiant as you spit blood onto the white ceramic. You're only a little satisfied as it splatters over the tile, staining your teeth red as you grit them.
“Fuck you.”
The third lash comes down hard enough to break one of your ribs, and you're not sure if you can even hear yourself screaming. You can feel the skin tearing apart, splitting and ruined and bleeding as hot, silent tears slip down your cheeks.
“Twenty, then. Let's see how long it takes you to start begging. I think it was nine last time, right? You're a tough little bitch, I'll give you that.”
You wish he wasn't right.
After a while, you lose control of your vocal cords. It always ends this way; with you screaming and begging for him to stop, wracked with delirium from the pain.
“Please." Even through the haze of agony, the words burn like acid on your tongue. "I'm sorry, please–”
Pain makes the rebellious obedient.
You're sobbing around the piece of leather in your mouth – it was around seven that Kainen had to make sure you wouldn't bite off your own tongue.
Kainen only laughs, using his shirt to wipe a sleuth of blood from his whip. This is his favorite part; the moment that he finally breaks you.
“There she is," he sneers through his teeth. "Twelve. You're getting stubborn.”
Your head is throbbing from blood loss, the battered heart inside your ribcage working mercilessly to replace it. There's vomit mixing in with the blood on the floor, but you can't think over the searing pain.
You pray that you'll lose consciousness soon.
“Please.”
You should know better than to beg to him.
“Pray to God, little girl.” He sneers, “No one's here to save you.”
You do.
You pray for someone, anyone, to come for you.
But he's right. Even as the fifteenth lash blacks out your vision, there's no one here to save you.
“More." He whispers greedily.
The devil on your shoulder.
His voice slithers up and down your spine, always near enough to demand more. The order wraps around your windpipe, suffocating until there's no air left for you to breathe.
But it's not enough. It's never enough.
You wish it was – that the shame and dread settling inside your chest would crush you into dust. But no matter how badly you've wished for it, it's never enough to kill you.
You stretch out a hand towards the figure in your chair — a man this time, and seek out the darkest part of your soul. It lies patiently, right where you left it. The festering, hissing, wicked part of you that was your quirk, hungry for something to devour.
It slithers and slinks in your veins like black ink, the feeling still stirring your stomach.
The first time it manifested, your stomach had turned inside out, spilling the contents of your meager breakfast all over the floor as something hummed beneath your skin. You can still feel the tingling sensation in your fingers, like a thousand tiny needles piercing through your nerves as your veins pulsed black.
"Yes," the doctor had whispered from the corner, his awe giving way to delirium as he began to laugh. "Yes, yes, yes!"
Your chest had heaved with panicked breaths, feeling a horrible sense of wrong. You remember clawing at them with your fingers; the black, pulsing veins that seemed to awaken something vicious beneath your skin.
"N-no," you choked, cutting jagged lines into your skin. The blood mixing in your veins felt slick and oily, crawling with something vile that you didn't recognize. Something that felt alive.
"It feels w-wrong – make it stop. P-please make it stop, I don't want–"
"Shut up," the Doctor had hissed, inching forward to examine the dark veins crawling up your arms, giving way to a color as dark as pitch before finally settling in jagged branches of ink across your cheekbones.
"Amazing," he whispered in awe. "This is…this is what we've been waiting for. I've never seen this kind of mutation, even in previous generations. Fascinating."
That had been two months ago. Then, you'd still had your soul intact.
Now? You're not sure if you're even yourself anymore.
Has someone else been living in your skin? They had to be. How else could you have done the things you did? How could someone human do the things you were about to do?
Monster.
Your gaze drags to the looming black chair, eyes meeting his in a devastating collision. You try not to think about where he'd gotten those beautiful green eyes; if he shared the color with loved ones that hoped for his return. Your fingers curl around the frigid air, lids slipping closed as your mind reaches for him.
Your power slips in like smoke, targeting those weak little points that the Doctor had taught you about. You can almost hear the feral claws of your quirk as they scratch down the feeble wall within the man’s mind, prodding and searching for a way inside.
Teasing. Beckoning. Like a poison that vowed to kill you ever so sweetly.
At the first prick of your power against his consciousness, he flinches, an aching moan slipping out of his mouth at even the slightest pain. A horrible thought crosses your mind. This one will break so much easier than the others.
Finally, with a shuddering breath, you fully unleash your quirk on his mind.
The man with beautiful eyes begins to convulse, choking on blood that isn’t in his throat, screaming over shattered bones that are left unbroken. The agony in his eyes is all too familiar to you. It's become an old friend of yours; a constant companion.
The pain of a thousand shattered bones, the pain of your lungs constricting, desperate for air. Your body has been mangled, beaten, and bloodied — only to be healed soon after.
Restored to a blank canvas, only to be destroyed again. And again. And again.
The man is begging now, tears streaming down his face. He doesn't beg for mercy, he doesn't plead to live — they never do. The man begs for the end, an end to this suffering. Because Death's cold embrace is more welcoming than this hell.
You can hear the sinister grin in the Doctor's voice as it caresses your ear like a lover’s touch, “It would be impolite not to grant his wish, my dear.”
The command is clear.
Your fingers curl inward, forming a shaking, definitive fist. You lied before. You'll never get used to the screams.
Looking into those rolling hills of green, you watch as the vibrant colors turn dull and finally, the last shreds of light leave them completely.
You wish for death as you stare into his lifeless eyes. Death that doesn't come. Never comes.
And why would it? Death is an old friend of yours. It keeps you close, but not close enough to grant your wish.
Once, your mother had told you that Death wears white, explaining the peace that people find when they die. Now, you've started to believe her. Because you are the darkness to his light; the dark that lurks before the peace of death.
You are the Reaper.
And Death will never betray you.
This floor is freezing, you think bitterly. The least they could do is give me a pair of socks.
You're curled up in the corner of your cell, knees pulled up tightly to your chest. The bastards had taken away the rickety metal bed that had always sat in the corner; though you supposed that made sense. You did try to pummel Kainen with it a few weeks ago. The man was surprised to say the least when you had ripped off the lumpy mattress before hurling the entire bed frame at his ugly head.
It had been worth the look of surprise on his face. At least, in the moment it was worth it. You didn't think the same when Kainen was whipping you that night.
He had been there to escort you to your second day of 'quirk training', where you knew another subject waited. Someone else that your power itched to break.
Quirkless. You hated being called that when you were younger. The word used to bring tears to your eyes, even sparked violence with other children who had called you that.
Now, you would give anything to be exactly that — quirkless. Your power was a curse, an incurable disease that was only spreading. The stronger it became, the more you felt as if you were losing yourself.
A monster living in human skin.
Your eyes droop, riddled with exhaustion, but you dare not close them. Your mind drifts back to today’s ‘training’, triggering a splitting headache at the memory of the strain. It went on for hours, only stopping when your legs gave out from under you, blood leaking from both nostrils.
Or when the subject's body finally gave out.
You put a hand to your head, wincing at the throbbing sensation ringing through you. How long had it been since you’d had a decent night's sleep? A month? Maybe even two. You know that sleep is inescapable, but that doesn’t stop you from trying to fight the demons pulling at the edge of your consciousness.
Finally, your eyes finally slip shut and you're devoured by that devouring darkness. It's peaceful, at first. A place where your mind can finally shut down and forget.
It never lasts. They never let you forget.
Soon enough, they're pulling at the edges of your mind. They come to you in your sleep but even you know they're always there, lurking over your shoulder. Always reminding you of what you really are.
Monster.
The eyes you see first are the color of storm clouds in the spring. They're heartbreakingly familiar, belonging to someone who used to be alive. The woman stands across from you in the darkness, scanning the manacle shaped scars surrounding her small wrists with a frown on her face.
Your hands lift of their own accord, wrists turning to examine the skin. You have them, too. Thick bands of discolored skin circling your wrists, mirrors of the too-tight iron that you'd tried to rip your hands out of countless times.
A prisoner, all the same.
“I’m sorry,” You whisper, voice shaking and fractured with despair. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”
The woman's expression softens and you flinch as she steps forward, pressing her small, scarred hand to your tear stained cheek. The tears fall freely now, cascading down your face in a mournful dance.
“This is your fault,” The woman says, her voice still heartbreakingly soft. “You killed me.”
Your heart lets out a sickening crack, a violent sob building in your chest as you choke out the words, “Please. I didn’t have a choice. Please.”
“You're lying." The woman says, a soft, honest smile on her face — as if she pitied you. "You had a choice."
You shake your head as she steps closer, her ghostly thumb rubbing comfortingly over your cheek. "It's okay. You can admit it," she whispers.
"Monster."
You can see the woman' s lips moving to form the silent word, but the voice near your ear is not her own. This time, the voice is deeper. Distinctly male. When your head whips to the side, you're met with eyes that remind you of summer. The green-eyed man straightens to his full height and strides to the woman, coming to a stop at her side.
“You killed us." Their words are in unison now, echoing through the endless chamber. "And we'll never forgive you."
Brittle with guilt, your soul finally fractures.
You hear another sound; a sob that doesn't sound like your own, even when your lips are moving. Your legs give out, knees cracking against the cold, hard ground.
"Monster."
Their voices expand, booming louder and louder into the never-ending hell of your nightmare. You clap your hands over your ears, wanting — needing — the voices to stop.
Liar.
You killed us.
You beg and plead, praying for the voices to stop.
Murderer.
The ground splits underneath your feet, pulling you into an abyss that must be hell. Your victims watch, slow smiles stretching across their faces. Your lips part to beg them for help, fingers clawing for the edge as you begin to slide down, down, down.
Please. Don't leave me here alone.
"You are alone," they whisper. Agony pierces your chest, as if what's left of your heart is crumbling inside your chest.
"Save me," you beg into the abyss.
Someone. Please save me.
Finally, your fingers slip. And they watch you fall.
Your eyes snap open, chest heaving as you take in long gulps of air. You glance around your cell, eyes glancing over the black camera in the top right corner of your room.
You choke back the sobs rising in your throat.
You will not cry. Not in front of them.
Don't leave me here alone.
Numbly, you turn your gaze to the wall and let the silence devour you whole.
A/N: I'm having a blast re-writing this. haha! Please consider re-blogging and most importantly, comment to let me know what you think!
xoxo,
Lav
A/N: Hello! If you're new to my page, welcome! This story is a slow burn romance about love, healing, and self acceptance. It's veeeeery angsty in the first few chapters, and they are VERY vital to Y/N's past and character. I started this story when I was sixteen, and have been slowly re-writing it in the last few months. This is the work that started my love for writing. Even if no one ends up reading this, here's to my first story. Cheers!
PAIRINGS: Katsuki Bakugou/Reader & Eijiro Kirishima/Reader
WARNINGS: Angst, Violence, Torture, Suicidal thoughts
The walls are breathing.
Or maybe they're not.
Maybe that's just the way your mind begins to work when you're in the cells for too long.
The screaming does it for most people — makes them a little crazy.
You? You've gotten used to it.
Or perhaps you never did, and that's why the walls feel like they're moving. Inhaling and exhaling; sucking you in further and further until you can never crawl your way out again.
Your eyes shift slowly, dragging over the colorless walls in an agonizing sweep. If you focus hard enough, you can see the white paint chipping on your bed frame, giving way to cold, silver metal.
Silver.
Your fingers twitch, itching to scrape and peel at the cracked paint until your nailbeds bleed.
At least then, you'd see more than white.
You were never fond of the color; even before. Now, it covers every square inch of your space, leaving nothing to the imagination. No dark corners, no secrets.
Nowhere to hide.
Four pale walls make up your prison; a colorless void that sucks you in until there's nothing left but the consistent pumping of your heart against your ribs. White, threadbare sheets, white linoleum floor.
A blank slate.
Your eyes flick to the iron door. White. Painted. Impenetrable.
You expect it to open. It's that time after all – or at least you think. Time seems to blend together these days. Seconds into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into weeks.
How long has it been, now? You can't be sure; you never are.
The door finally opens, its hinges eerily silent.
You don’t need to look at the face of the man who has come to take you to the White Room. It's always him.
He's a hideous barge of a man who goes by the name of Kainen, with burly arms made for crushing and wide, bulging eyes that seem to rest outside of their sockets rather than inside of them. You’ve seen him countless times, begged him while he dragged you kicking and screaming to the White Room.
The sight of his face is enough to make you sick.
You stand, feet prickling against the cold floor. The large hand Kainen places on your shoulder is deceptively gentle, guiding you out into the hall. One would think, in their naivety, that he was once kind.
You know better.
Your bare feet slap loudly against the concrete, echoing eerily throughout the corridor as you keep your eyes focused forward. More hallways open up on either side of you, but you dare not look into them. You did once. It was the first time that Kainen had ever fractured one of your bones.
You preferred those, of course. Fractured bones were better than broken ones. The clean breaks were better than most; easily healed. Sometimes, though, they shattered. The kind of broken that allowed you to feel the bone fragments from the inside, discombobulated as they tried to piece themselves together.
The Door comes into view too soon.
Your joints lock, coming to a rigid stop as your eyes take in the familiar flaking paint. There are marks on the door jam, four streaks of missing paint that could be found under your own fingernails. Your body remembers exactly what lies beyond the Door.
Kainens’ grip on you tightens, no longer feigning gentleness.
"Please." Your feet skid against the tile, resisting as Kainen pulls you forward, “Please.”
Kainen only chuckles. A deep, grating sound that scrapes against your insides.
“Save the begging for later, girl. You'll need it.”
Your pleas fall on deaf ears. They always do, don't they? One would think you would be used to it by now and yet your body, your joints, disobey you every time.
The Door swings open; not silent, but inviting the sound of scraping metal. The familiar screeching grates against your nerves – a sound you can never escape even in your nightmares. Your eyes squint against the white fluorescent light, unmercifully bright against the colorless walls.
The White Room lives up to its name, with only one exception. In the middle of the room, a black chair looms.
You expect to see what you always do; the Doctor straightening his tools, a devilish grin on his face, as if he knew a secret you didn't. The healer standing still in the corner of the room, her hooded face concealed from view. The black chair in the middle of the room — your chair.
A figure sits in your black chair.
But this time, it's not you.
The woman’s eyes are a stormy gray, set underneath fine, dark brows. Her tanned arms are caged within the solid iron cuffs built into the chair, hands gripping the arm rests so hard that her knuckles begin to turn a sickening, milky white.
"Ah, yes. My dear Y/N. I've been expecting you." The Doctor's voice is soft, deceptively inviting in a way that makes bile rise in your throat.
You try to keep your voice even, ignoring the crack in your tone as you ask the question teetering on the tip of your tongue.
"Why is she here?"
You glance at the woman once again. A sickening grin creeps onto the doctor's face — never a good sign.
"Oh, come now." He chides with a chuckle, and your stomach turns at his tone. "What's that look for? I'm not going to hurt her. We're going to be doing some testing from here on. That lovely quirk of yours is finally ready to surface."
He reaches for his tray, straightening a pair of jagged pliers into a gruesomely perfect row as if his statement hadn't turned you upside down. The remaining color leeches from your face, cracked lips parted in realization.
“I've been quirkless my whole life.” You rasp into the air.
Maybe finally, after hearing this, they would have the mercy to dispose of you. Death had to be better than this hell you were living.
“My—" Your voice cracks as you continue, "My parents don’t have quirks either."
There’s a curious hum building in his throat, as if he’s been waiting to explain this to you in the cruelest way possible.
“They didn't realize your true potential, of course.” He finally sighs out, as if the knowledge itself was inconvenient. He shrugs sheepishly, scraping the tip of his boot across the floor like a child kicking a rock. “In fact, your quirk likely would have never been discovered if we hadn’t been searching for its exact genetic match.” There’s a grin in his tone, one that makes you narrow your eyes. “We've finally discovered the true range of your ability. You, my dear Y/N, are a rare flower indeed.”
The Doctor begins to pace with a wicked gleam in his eye, “Your quirk is, as one would say…abnormal. Unlike many other quirks, yours is internal. It requires detailed knowledge of the inner workings of one’s mind.”
Even the sound of his voice makes your stomach churn. Sickened, you keep your mouth twisted shut, fingernails digging half moons into your palms.
“Your family line has a very rare type of quirk — one that, according to our research — only appears once every few generations. We’ve been searching for someone in your family line with this genetic deformity for some time. Generational quirks are tricky to find, but powerful if you’re able to track down the next user.”
He nods his head grimly, as if their search had been so very sad until now.
“You are the first in thirty-five years to be able to inherit such a power. Quite special, wouldn’t you say?” His beady eyes gleam behind his spectacles, as if he’d just told you the best news of your life.
Nonsense. He’s speaking nonsense. He has to be. Generational quirks, your ass. You open your mouth to retort, but the Doctor’s snide voice interrupts you once more.
“The true nature of your quirk is pain manipulation. Even with all of our research thus far, your version of this generational quirk is far beyond any power that your ancestors possessed. It is far more technical than other quirks — hence the reason why you were deemed quirkless at such a young age. The human brain registers pain through the thalamus, then the signal is sent to the cerebral cortex.” The Doctor grins, showing the yellow of his teeth in a way that makes you cringe, “With proper training, your quirk will allow you to manipulate the brain into registering pain. With enough pressure, the brain can even be destroyed completely. Of course, one of the downsides of this quirk is that you can only make the person feel pain that you have experienced first-hand. We'll be finishing up that portion of your training today.”
The words seep into your skin like poison; turning your stomach inside out. You’re going to be sick. For weeks, you'd been here. Months, as they carved you open and stitched you back together. Forcing you again and again to the brink of death, only to bring you back again.
God, you wish you had died. Why didn't they let you die?
The hammer and fists they'd used to shatter your bones, the iron tipped whip that had marred your back, the wicked knife that shredded your muscles; everything. You had endured everything.
A living hell.
The same hell that now lived dormant beneath your skin.
You glance at the woman strapped to your black chair, only to find her looking at you with pleading, broken eyes. You couldn't. Wouldn't.
"I won't." Your voice is small, but firm.
The Doctor freezes, his back turned toward you.
"Oh, but you will. If you want to see your parents again, that is." A shuddering rush of air leaves your body, becoming still as death when he continues, "If you are to disobey, I will not hesitate to put an end to them. Obey, and I will grant them their freedom. I'm a reasonable man, of course. I'm not without mercy."
He grins, sickeningly slow, as if he's doing you a favor.
"It's in your best interest to cooperate."
Tears of frustration streak down your cheeks, gaze falling to the floor. You clench your fists hard, fingernails already forming angry, half-moon prints on your palms.
“If there are no more interruptions, let us begin.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
It's an irrefutable fact that the body can only withstand so much pain before it gives way. You know that from experience. The mind, however, is much more resilient. The Doctor had told you so.
It takes weeks, months, even years to break a strong-willed mind. Piece by piece. Until slowly, the fractures begin to show.
You can feel them now. The cracks are spreading, branching out like veins of gold. And ever so slowly, you can feel yourself...
beginning
to
shatter.
Years after surviving kidnapping and torture from a villain organization, (Y/N) (L/N) has finally been accepted into the infamous U.A University for Heroes.
As she fights to overcome the limitations of her past, Y/N meets two heroes that turn her world on it's head — Katsuki Bakugou & Eijiro Kirishima.
"A stubborn, sharp-tongued Sukuna Itadori comes into the eye clinic furious that he needs glasses, only to meet her, the sweet optician who laughs her way through his dramatic battle with contact lenses. Between expensive frames, terrible flirting, and one painfully corny pickup line, Sukuna leaves with clearer vision—and maybe even her number."
author's note: this is actually the profession i am outside of fanfic writing, so i really loved writing this hehe - also was going to save this to post on my birthday, but you guys been asking for one shots💕
The first thing you noticed about him was that he looked like a man who had never been told no in his entire life.
The second thing you noticed was that he was glaring at the autorefractor like it had personally betrayed him.
He was enormous.
Not just tall.
Tall would’ve been polite. Tall would’ve been normal. Tall would’ve been a man ducking slightly beneath doorframes and pretending it didn’t bother him.
This man was six foot seven of pure irritation, broad-shouldered and built like he could fold the exam chair in half if the mood struck him. He had pale pink hair, cut short, dark tattoos creeping from beneath the collar of his black shirt and along his hands, and a face so sharp and handsome it almost felt rude.
Like someone had sculpted him specifically to ruin peace.
He sat in the exam room with his arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight, crimson eyes narrowed at Dr. Kusakabe while she calmly reviewed his results on the screen.
You were standing just outside the open doorway, holding a tray of trial contact lenses, trying to mind your own business.
Trying.
Failing, because his voice carried like thunder. “I don’t need glasses.”
Dr. Kusakabe, who had the patience of a saint and the unshakable calm of a woman who had heard this exact sentence from hundreds of stubborn men before him, smiled gently. “Mr. Itadori, your prescription says otherwise.” His scowl deepened.
“My eyes work fine.”
“You told me you have trouble reading street signs at night.”
“I read them eventually.”
“You also said restaurant menus look blurry.”
“Restaurants are dark on purpose.”
“And you said you’ve been getting headaches while driving.” He leaned back in the chair, lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s because people drive like idiots.” Dr. Kusakabe blinked once.
You turned your face slightly toward the wall and bit the inside of your cheek.
Do not laugh.
Do not laugh.
Do not laugh at the giant angry man who apparently believed blurry vision was everyone else’s fault.
Dr. Kusakabe clicked something on the computer. “You have mild astigmatism and nearsightedness. Nothing dramatic, but it is enough that glasses would help.”
“I’m not wearing glasses.”
“You have options.”
“I’m not wearing glasses.”
“There are contacts.” His eyes shifted immediately toward the tray in your hands.
His expression changed.
Not softened.
Never softened.
But something about his irritation sharpened into suspicion. “Contacts,” he repeated, like the word itself smelled bad.
Dr. Kusakabe smiled, and that was how you knew you were about to be sacrificed. “Y/n will teach you how to insert and remove them.”
You froze.
Slowly, Sukuna turned his head toward you.
His gaze swept over you, heavy and unimpressed, his eyes still slightly dilated from the exam. You offered a small professional smile, clutching the tray a little tighter. “Hi,” you said.
He stared.
You kept smiling.
His gaze dropped to your name tag. “Y/n,” he read aloud.
You nodded. “That’s me.” He looked back at Dr. Kusakabe. “I don’t need a lesson.” Dr. Kusakabe stood, washing her hands of him in the calmest way possible. “Everyone needs a lesson for contacts.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I’ve put things in my eye before.”
You blinked.
Dr. Kusakabe blinked.
Sukuna looked between you both, then frowned. “Eye drops.” You coughed into your hand.
Dr. Kusakabe mouth twitched. “Y/n, he’ll be in the insertion and removal room.”
“Of course,” you said, voice too bright.
Dr. Kusakabe handed him his printed prescription and slipped past you, murmuring, “Good luck,” so quietly only you could hear.
That was not encouraging.
Sukuna stood.
And stood.
And stood.
God, he is tall.
You had to tilt your head back to look at him properly. He looked down at you with the bored disdain of a king being asked to sign paperwork.
You gestured down the hall. “Right this way.”
He followed behind you, footsteps heavy, presence impossible to ignore. You led him into the contact lens training room, a small space with a sink, mirror, counter, tissues, saline, and a chair that looked comically fragile once he lowered himself into it.
His knees sat too high. His shoulders looked too wide for the room. His expression said he was already planning to hate everything.
You washed your hands first, then turned toward him. “Okay, so before we start, I’m going to go over the basics.”
“I know how circles work.”
You paused.
He looked at the trial lens blister pack on the counter. “It’s a tiny circle. You put it in. Done.” You gave him a sweet smile. “Perfect. Then this should be quick.” Something flickered in his eyes.
A challenge.
A terrible, stupid, masculine challenge. “Open it,” he said.
You peeled open the contact lens packet and poured the lens carefully into your palm with saline. “You’ll want to make sure it’s not inside out. It should look like a little bowl. If the edges flare out, it’s inside out.”
He leaned forward, squinting.
You tried not to stare at the irony. “Can you see it?” you asked.
His gaze snapped to yours.
“I can see it.”
“Of course.” His scowl deepened. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Talk like you’re laughing.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You want to.”
You pressed your lips together.
He narrowed his eyes. “You definitely want to.” You held the lens out to him. “I would never laugh at a patient.”
“Liar.”
“Maybe a little.” His mouth twitched.
It was quick. Barely there. Like a blade catching light.
You placed the lens on the tip of his index finger. “Okay. Use your other hand to hold your upper lid, then use the middle finger of the contact hand to pull down your lower lid. Look straight ahead into the mirror, bring the lens toward your eye, and place it gently.”
He stared at you.
Then at the lens.
Then at the mirror.
Then back at you.
“This is stupid.”
“It feels stupid the first time.”
“It looks stupid.”
“It does, yes.”
His brow lifted.
You shrugged. “I’m being honest.” He huffed through his nose, then turned toward the mirror like he was entering battle.
He lifted his hand.
Stopped.
Lowered it.
Lifted it again.
The contact trembled slightly on his fingertip.
You stood beside him, hands folded, biting down on your smile so hard your cheeks hurt.
He pulled his lower lid down.
Then tried to pull his upper lid with the same hand.
The lens slipped off his finger and landed on his cheek.
You made a tiny sound.
His head turned slowly toward you.
You looked at the ceiling. “Don’t,” he warned. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You made a noise.”
“A supportive noise.”
“That was not supportive.”
“It was emotionally complex.” He peeled the wet contact from his cheek with two fingers and glared at it. “This thing is mocking me.”
“It’s a medical device.”
“It has intent.”
“It does not.”
“You don’t know that.” You swallowed a laugh and held out your palm. “Let me rinse it.” He dropped the lens into your hand like it had offended his bloodline.
You rinsed it carefully with solution and placed it back on his finger.
“Try again. Keep both eyes open if you can. Sometimes people shut the other eye without realizing it.”
“I’m not people.”
“No, clearly you’re a very calm and easygoing man.” His gaze slid toward you. “You’re sarcastic.”
“I’m an optician. It’s a survival skill.” Again, the corner of his mouth threatened to move.
He turned back to the mirror.
This time, he got the lens close to his eye.
Very close.
Then blinked aggressively before it touched him.
The contact folded in half and stuck to his lashes.
You clapped a hand over your mouth.
He froze.
Slowly, his eyes moved toward your reflection in the mirror. “You laughing?” Your voice came out strained. “No.” His eyelid twitched.
The contact hung from his lashes like a tiny clear jellyfish.
You made a strangled sound.
He turned around fully, looking murderous. “Take it off.”
You couldn’t help it.
A laugh slipped out.
It was small. Barely more than a breath.
But it was enough.
His brows rose. “Oh,” he said darkly. “So that’s funny?” You tried to recover. “No, no, I’m sorry. It’s just—”
“It’s just what?”
“You’re very…” You looked at the contact clinging to his lashes. “Tall.”
His face went blank.
“I’m tall?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what’s funny?”
“No.”
“Then what?” You reached for a tissue, shoulders shaking. “You look very intimidating, but the contact lens is winning.”
Silence.
Dead silence.
Then Sukuna plucked the lens off his lashes, dropped it on the counter, and leaned back in the chair with his arms crossed. “I hate this place.”
You burst out laughing.
You tried so hard not to. You really did. But once it started, it came out soft and bright, filling the small room like spilled sunshine.
Sukuna watched you.
His scowl remained, but something about his eyes changed.
Not warmth exactly.
Interest.
Dangerous interest.
The kind that felt like a hand at the back of your neck even though he hadn’t touched you. “You laugh a lot at work?” he asked.
You wiped carefully beneath one eye. “Only when men start losing arguments with tiny pieces of plastic.”
“I’m not losing.”
“You have one red eye, one wet cheek, and the contact lens is on the counter.”
“I’m assessing the enemy.”
“Of course.”
“Give me another one.” You lifted a brow. “Another one?”
“I’m not losing to plastic.”
“That’s the spirit.”
For the next twenty minutes, Sukuna Itadori fought for his life.
Not literally.
But emotionally, absolutely.
He tried using his right hand. Failed.
Tried using his left hand. Failed worse.
Tried staring straight ahead with the focus of a man defusing a bomb, only to blink so hard the lens popped off and landed somewhere near the sink.
You both stared at the empty counter.
He slowly turned to you.
“You saw where it went.” You looked around. “I actually did not.”
“It vanished.”
“It’s probably on the floor.”
“It ran.”
“Contacts don’t run.”
“This one did.” You crouched, searching near the base of the counter. He stayed seated for a second before begrudgingly leaning down too, his large frame folding awkwardly in the tiny room.
You spotted it first. “There,” you said, pointing. “By your shoe.” He looked down.
The contact sat on the floor, innocent and useless.
He glared.
“Coward.” You laughed again.
He looked at you from beneath his brow. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“You always this mean to paying customers?”
“Only the dramatic ones.”
“I’m not dramatic.”
“Mr. Itadori, you just called a contact lens a coward.” His eyes lifted to yours.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then he said, “Don’t say my name like that.” Your smile faded slightly, not from fear, but from the sudden weight in his voice. “Like what?” He stood slowly, towering over you again, the room shrinking around him.
“Like you’re trying to make me behave.” Your stomach fluttered.
Which was annoying.
Because he was forty, grumpy, irritating, ridiculous, and currently had eyes red enough to look like he’d been crying in the bathroom at a wedding.
You straightened and stepped around him toward the sink. “I’m just trying to teach you contacts.”
“No,” he said. “You’re trying not to laugh.”
“That too.”
He watched as you rinsed your hands.
His voice dropped.
“You think I’m funny.”
“I think you’re something.”
“What?” You glanced at him over your shoulder. “A lot.”
That made him smirk.
Finally. Fully.
And it was devastating.
Not cute. Not boyish.
Devastating.
The kind of smirk that belonged on trouble. Expensive trouble. The type of man your mother would tell you not to entertain and your friends would beg for updates about.
“A lot,” he repeated.
You looked away too quickly.
“You still need to get the contact in.”
His smirk sharpened. “Changing the subject.”
“I’m doing my job.”
“Poorly. I still can’t see.”
“That sounds like a you issue.”
He barked out a laugh.
It startled you.
Deep, rough, sudden. Like thunder cracking open a clear sky.
He seemed almost surprised by it too, because the laugh disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by a scowl that looked forced now.
“Again,” he said, sitting back down.
You gave him a fresh lens.
This attempt was almost heroic.
He held his eye open.
Brought the contact close.
Closer.
Closer.
His hand froze a millimeter away from his eye.
You leaned slightly beside him, voice gentle now. “Don’t think about it too much. Just look past your finger. Touch the lens to the eye and hold it there for a second.”
“I don’t like you telling me what to do.”
“I can tell.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
His gaze cut to yours.
You softened your voice.
“You’re doing fine.”
His expression shifted.
It wasn’t much. But it was there.
His fingers loosened slightly. His shoulders dropped half an inch.
Then he tried again.
And immediately blinked.
The lens folded, slid under his lower lid, and came back out at an angle.
He slammed his hand on the counter.
“Absolutely not.” You jumped, then immediately covered your smile.
He pointed at the lens. “No.” You nodded slowly. “No?”
“No.”
“Do you want to try taking a break?”
“I want to set it on fire.”
“You cannot set the contact lens on fire.”
“I can do anything I want.”
“You cannot do that in our office.” He leaned back, eyes red and irritated, one cheek damp, jaw clenched. “I’ll get the stupid glasses.” You pressed your lips together.
He noticed.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m relieved we’ve made progress.”
“I hate you.”
“You don’t.”
“I might.”
“You’ll like me again when you can see.” He scoffed. “Doubtful.”
You led him out to the optical floor.
The office was bright and beautiful, lined with frame boards carrying everything from timeless classics to bold independent designs. Sunlight spilled through the front windows and softened the polished counters. Sukuna looked deeply offended by the existence of eyewear.
You pulled a tray from beneath the counter.
“Any style preferences?”
“No.”
“Okay. Any colors you hate?”
“All of them.”
“Shapes?”
“Glasses-shaped.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
You smiled sweetly. “You’re being very helpful.”
“I’m a helpful man.”
“You are a nightmare.” He leaned one elbow on the counter, bending slightly closer to your height. “And yet you’re still smiling.”
“That’s customer service.”
“Liar.” You ignored the flutter in your chest and pulled a sleek black rectangular frame from the board. “Try this.” He took it with two fingers like it was contaminated.
He put it on.
You tilted your head.
He looked in the mirror.
“No.”
“You didn’t even look for two seconds.”
“I looked.”
“It’s not bad.”
“It’s hideous.”
“It’s not hideous.”
“I look like I own a failing tech company.” You snorted. He removed the frame and dropped it onto the tray. You grabbed another pair, this one with a slightly rounder shape and a deep tortoise tone. “What about these?” He put them on, stared at himself, and grimaced.
“I look like someone’s divorced father trying to date his yoga instructor.” Your mouth fell open.
“Mr. Itadori.”
“What?”
“That was oddly specific.”
“It’s true.”
“It is not.”
“You’d swipe left.”
You glanced at him.
He glanced at you.
You looked away first.
“I’m working.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“I’m not answering that.”
“So yes.”
“No, I—try these.” The next pair was a warm translucent brown. He put them on.
You paused.
He looked at himself.
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“They’re a little soft on you.”
“Soft?”
“Gentler.” His eyes moved to yours through the lenses. “I’m not gentle.”
“No kidding.” He removed them immediately. “Next.” You went through frame after frame.
A matte black pair.
“Serial killer accountant.”
A silver pair.
“Government witness.”
A thick acetate pair.
“Art school dropout with emotional problems.”
A rimless pair.
“I look like I tell people to circle back in emails.”
A bold blue pair.
“I would rather drive blind.”
“You cannot say that in an optometry office.”
“I just did.” You laughed so hard you had to lean against the counter.
He watched you again, his mouth curved slightly now, like he had started saying ridiculous things just to see if you’d keep laughing.
That made your face warm.
Which made him smug.
Which made you annoyed.
Which made him more smug.
Finally, you walked to the far wall and paused.
There was one frame you had been thinking about the entire time.
It was a beautiful pair: dark, angular acetate, strong but refined, with a subtle warmth in the finish that would sit well against his skin and tattoos. Not too trendy. Not too safe. Masculine without trying too hard.
You pulled it from the board carefully.
He eyed it. “That better not be ugly.”
“You’ve called everything ugly.”
“Because everything was ugly.”
“You called one pair a government witness.”
“It looked nervous.”
You held the frame out.
“Try this one.”
He took it.
Something about him changed when he put it on.
Not drastically.
But enough.
The strong lines suited his face perfectly, balanced the sharpness of his jaw, and made his crimson eyes look even more striking. The frame didn’t soften him exactly. It sharpened him in a quieter way. Made him look dangerous but polished. Like trouble with a dinner reservation.
You stared.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He looked at himself in the mirror first, then at you. “Well?” You swallowed. “You look…” You paused, hating how honest your voice sounded. “Handsome.” His smirk appeared slowly.
Like he’d been waiting all day for you to make one mistake.
“Handsome?” You lifted your chin. “Professionally speaking.” He turned fully toward you, hands sliding into his pockets. “Professionally,” he repeated. “Yes.”
“So if you were off the clock?” Your heartbeat stumbled.
You gave him a look. “Then I’d still have enough sense not to answer that.” He leaned slightly closer. “That means better than handsome.”
“No, it means I’m not losing my job because you finally found a frame that doesn’t make you look like someone’s divorced father.” His grin widened. “Careful, sweetheart.”
You froze.
Sweetheart.
He said it like velvet dragged over a blade. “Careful?” you echoed. “You keep talking to me like that, I’ll start thinking you like me.”You rolled your eyes, though your face was hot. “You’ve been here an hour and threatened a contact lens.”
“And you’ve laughed at me for most of it.”
“You made it easy.” He looked back into the mirror, adjusting the frame slightly on his nose. “I do look good.” And there it was.
The cocky line. Delivered with absolute sincerity.
You couldn’t help your smile. “You’re very humble.”
“I’m forty years old. Humility sounds exhausting.”
“You’re really forty?” His gaze slid toward you. “How old did you think I was?” You hesitated one second too long.
He laughed under his breath.
“Careful.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking something.”
“I was thinking you have very healthy skin.”
He stared at you.
You stared back.
Then he laughed again, deeper this time.
“Healthy skin,” he repeated.
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re terrible at flirting.”
“I’m not flirting.”
“Liar.” You took the frame from him to write down the model information, trying very hard not to smile. “Okay. Let me price everything out for you.” He leaned on the counter again, watching you work at the computer.
You entered the frame, lenses, anti-reflective coating, high-index material, blue light filter, and the office’s premium lens option because with his prescription and that frame, it genuinely made sense.
The total appeared.
You stared at it for half a second.
Then glanced up at him.
He noticed immediately.
“What?” You turned the screen slightly. “So with the frame, prescription lenses, premium anti-reflective coating, and thinner lens material, your total comes out to…” You told him.
His face went still.
Very still.
Then his eyes narrowed.
“For glasses?”
“Yes.”
“For one pair?”
“Yes.”
“Do they cure death?”
“No.”
“Will they make me younger?”
“No.”
“Will they make you stop laughing at me?”
“Probably not.”
“Then why the hell are they that expensive?” You bit your lip. “The frame is a high-quality independent line, and the lenses have premium coating. You don’t have to do all the options, but I do recommend the anti-reflective since you drive at night.” He looked at the screen again like it had insulted him.
“That’s a car payment.”
“It is not.”
“It’s close.”
“What kind of car do you drive?” He ignored that. “I should go blind.”
“You should not go blind.”
“I’ve made it this long.”
“While blaming street signs, restaurants, and other drivers?”
His mouth tightened.
You leaned slightly against the counter, softening your expression.
“Listen,” you said gently. “You don’t have to get them if you don’t want to. But you did say the headaches are getting annoying, and the doctor thinks glasses will help. You also looked really good in the frame.”
His eyes flicked to yours.
You didn’t mean to do it.
Not fully.
But your face softened. Your eyes widened slightly, your lashes lowering just enough, your mouth curved into something small and patient and sweet.
You gave him the look.
Not intentionally manipulative.
Mostly.
The look that said, I’m trying to help you, but also you know you want to.
Sukuna stared down at you.
His jaw flexed.
“You do that on purpose?”
“Do what?”
“That.”
You blinked.
His eyes narrowed. “Those eyes.” You blinked again, slower this time.
His expression darkened with irritation—not at you, exactly, but at himself. “Manipulative little thing.” Your mouth opened. “Mr. Itadori.”
“What? You think I don’t know when I’m being robbed?”
“You are not being robbed.”
“You are standing there with those big pretty eyes telling me I look handsome, and now I’m about to pay an absurd amount for glass.”
“Technically plastic.”
“That makes it worse.” You tried not to smile. “You don’t have to.” He stared at you for another long second. Then, with a deeply annoyed sigh, he pulled out his wallet.
The credit card landed on the counter between you.
Heavy. Black. Ridiculous.
“Run it before I regain sense.” You looked at the card, then back at him.
“You’re sure?”
“No.” You laughed softly and took it.
As you processed the payment, he watched you with an expression that should’ve made you nervous.
It didn’t.
It made your stomach flutter again.
Which was worse.
You handed him the receipt.
“Your glasses should be ready in about a week. We’ll call you when they come in.” He took the receipt and folded it once. “A week.”
“Usually.” His gaze dropped to your name tag again. “You’ll be here?” You paused. “Probably.”
“That wasn’t a yes.”
“My schedule changes.” His eyes lifted. “Convenient.”
“I’m not avoiding you.”
“You might.”
“You’re very confident for a man who got bullied by contact lenses.”
His grin flashed.
“There she is.” You looked down quickly, pretending to organize the tray. “Have a good day, Mr. Itadori.”
“Mr. Itadori,” he repeated, distaste curling his mouth. “That is your name.”
“Sounds ugly when you say it.” You glanced up.
He was already walking backward toward the door, receipt tucked between his fingers, the full force of his attention still on you.
“Call me Sukuna next time.” You crossed your arms. “Next time?”
He smirked. “When I come pick up my expensive plastic.” Then he turned and left, ducking slightly beneath the doorway.
The office felt quieter when he was gone.
You stood behind the counter, staring at the door like an idiot.
Dr. Kusakabe appeared beside you five seconds later.
“So,” she said calmly.
You jumped. “Oh my God.” She looked toward the door, then back at you. “Contacts didn’t work?” You cleared your throat. “No.”
“I heard him call one a coward.”
You covered your face.
Dr. Kusakabe smiled. “Interesting patient.”
“You abandoned me.”
“I delegated.”
“You sent me into war.”
“You survived.”
Barely.
A week later, the lab order arrived in a neat little package.
And unfortunately, embarrassingly, pathetically—you recognized his name immediately.
Ryomen Sukuna Itadori.
You told yourself it was because he was memorable.
Which was true.
A six-foot-seven tattooed man losing an emotional battle with a contact lens was not the kind of thing a person forgot easily.
But that didn’t explain why you smoothed your hair before calling him.
Or why your stomach flipped when the phone rang twice and his voice answered, low and impatient.
“Yeah?”
“Hi, is this Sukuna?” There was a pause.
Then, “Depends who’s asking.” You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “This is Y/n from your Optometrist office. Your glasses are ready for pickup.”
Another pause.
Shorter this time.
“Y/n.” The way he said your name made the office lights feel warmer.
You turned away from the front desk, lowering your voice slightly.
“Yes.”
“You there today?”
“I am.”
“What time do you leave?”
“That sounds unrelated to your glasses.”
“It’s very related.” You pressed your lips together. “We close at six.”
“I’ll be there before six.”
“Great. We’ll see you then.”
“We?” You blinked. “The office.”
“I didn’t buy them from the office.”
“You kind of did.”
“No. I bought them from your eyes.” Your mouth fell open.
“Sukuna.”
“What?”
“That was terrible.”
“It worked.”
“It did not.”
“You’re smiling.” You immediately stopped smiling, even though he couldn’t see you.
“I am not.”
“Liar.”
Then he hung up.
Just like that.
No goodbye.
No thank you.
No reasonable adult ending to the phone call.
You stared at the receiver for a second before setting it down.
From behind you, your coworker leaned around the corner.
“Was that the hot angry glasses guy?” You looked at her. “Don’t call him that.”
“So yes.”
You walked away.
At 5:42 p.m., the front door opened.
You knew it was him before you looked up.
The office shifted somehow, like the air itself made room.
Sukuna stepped inside wearing black again, because apparently he was allergic to color. Black shirt, black pants, black boots, silver watch, tattoos visible along his forearms. His hair looked freshly cut, pale pink and neat, and his face wore the exact expression of a man prepared to be inconvenienced.
Your coworker whispered from behind the edging machine, “Oh my God.” You shot her a look.
Sukuna’s eyes found you immediately.
His mouth curved.
Not a full smile.
Worse.
Recognition.
“There you are.” You reached beneath the counter for his tray. “Here I am.” He approached slowly, glancing around the office. “No plastic enemies today?”
“Not unless you want to try contacts again.” His face darkened. “Don’t be cruel.” You laughed and opened the glasses case. “They came out really nice.” He leaned on the counter, looking down at the frame.
“They better.” You took the glasses out carefully and unfolded the temples. “Okay. Put them on and look straight ahead. I’ll check the fit.”
He took them from you.
For a second, his fingers brushed yours.
Barely.
Nothing.
Still, warmth moved up your wrist.
He put the glasses on.
And then went completely still.
You watched his eyes shift.
Across the room.
To the frame boards.
The signs.
The texture in the floor.
The little printed card on the counter.
His brows pulled together.
“What the hell.” You smiled. “You can see?” He looked toward the window. “This feels wrong.”
“It’s new.”
“The floor is too close.”
“That’s normal at first.”
“The wall is sharp.”
“Yes.”
“Everything is sharp.”
“That is usually the goal.” He turned his head slowly, eyes narrowed behind the lenses. “I hate it.”
“You don’t hate it. Your brain just needs to adjust.”
“My brain is fine.”
“Your eyes were not.”
He looked down at you.
Then frowned.
“What?” You tilted your head, assessing the fit. “They’re sitting a little crooked.”
“They are not.”
“They are.”
“My face isn’t crooked.”
“I didn’t say your face was crooked.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied the frame needs adjusting.” He leaned down slightly, bringing his face closer. “Then adjust it.” You reached up carefully.
He went very still when your fingers touched the temples of the frame.
You adjusted one side gently, checking how it sat along his ears and across the bridge of his nose. The office sounds faded a little—the hum of machines, the faint music overhead, your coworker pretending not to watch from behind a display.
Sukuna’s eyes stayed on you the entire time.
Too focused.
Too awake.
With the glasses on, his gaze looked even clearer. More direct. Like he could see straight through all your little professional habits, all your polite smiles, all the ways you tried to pretend he didn’t fluster you.
You stepped back.
“How does that feel?” He looked at you. “Still weird.”
“That’s normal.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it is.”
“I don’t like normal.”
“I’m shocked.”
He smirked.
Then he turned toward the mirror.
For once, he didn’t immediately insult the glasses.
He stared for several seconds, expression unreadable.
You watched him carefully. “Well?” you asked.
He adjusted them slightly on his nose. “I look good.” You exhaled a laugh. “That’s your review?”
“It’s accurate.”
“Anything else?”
“I can see why you told me I looked handsome.” Your face warmed. “I was doing my job.” He turned from the mirror. “No, you weren’t.” You busied yourself wiping the lenses with a microfiber cloth, even though they were already clean.
“You should wear them full time for a few days so your eyes can adjust. If anything feels off after a week, come back and we can recheck the adjustment.” He stepped closer to the counter. “What if something feels off tonight?” You looked up slowly.
He was smirking.
You sighed. “Then you wait a few days.”
“What if I’m impatient?”
“I believe that.”
“What time do you get off?”
You froze.
Your coworker made a sound from across the room and immediately pretended to cough.
You shot her another look.
Sukuna didn’t even glance her way.
His attention stayed fixed on you. “Sukuna,” you said, trying to sound professional.
He leaned on the counter.
“Y/n.”
“You’re a patient.”
“I bought glasses.”
“From the office.”
“From your eyes, remember?”
“That line was still bad.”
“You remembered it.”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
He smiled like he’d won. “You’re forty,” you said, because apparently that was the most intelligent defense your brain could produce.
His brows lifted. “You mentioned.”
“I’m twenty-four.”
“I noticed.” You gave him a look. “That sounds suspicious.”
“It means I’m not blind anymore.”
“Oh my God.” He chuckled, low and shameless.
You crossed your arms, trying desperately not to smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re avoiding the question.”
“What question?”
“What time do you get off?” You looked toward your coworker, who suddenly became fascinated by organizing lens cleaner bottles.
Traitor.
You turned back to Sukuna.
“I get off at six.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s five fifty.”
“Yes.”
“I can wait ten minutes.”
“I didn’t say yes.”
“No,” he agreed. “But your eyes did.” You pointed at him. “Do not blame my eyes for your decisions.”
“I already bought the glasses.”
“That was different.”
“It was expensive.”
“You’re going to hold that over me?”
“For at least a month.” You laughed despite yourself.
His smirk softened into something that felt almost warm.
Almost.
“I’m asking for your number,” he said plainly. “And dinner.”
“Dinner?”
“Usually people eat it.”
“I know what dinner is.”
“Good. Then we’re already compatible.” You shook your head. “That is not how compatibility works.”
“How would you know? You haven’t had dinner with me.”
“You’re very confident.”
“You called me handsome.”
“One time.”
“Once was enough.” You leaned against the counter, studying him. With anyone else, this would’ve been too much. Too forward. Too cocky.
But Sukuna had the strangest balance to him.
He was arrogant, yes. Irritating, absolutely. Dramatic beyond reason. But there was something oddly honest beneath it. He didn’t fumble. Didn’t hide. Didn’t pretend his attention was anything other than what it was.
He wanted to see you.
And now, unfortunately, he literally could.
You glanced at the glasses.
“They really do look good on you.”
His expression shifted.
Smug, but pleased.
“Careful.”
“I mean professionally.”
“Liar.”
“You say that a lot.”
“You lie a lot.”
“I do not.”
“You’ve been pretending you don’t like me since last week.”
Your mouth fell open.
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“I barely know you.”
“You know I’m handsome.”
“You know, if I had known that compliment would become your entire personality, I wouldn’t have said it.”
He leaned closer, voice dipping.
“Yes, you would’ve.”
Your breath caught.
Only slightly.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But Sukuna noticed.
Of course he did.
His smirk returned slowly.
“There it is.” You narrowed your eyes. “There what is?”
“You like me.”
“I think you’re entertaining.”
“I’ll take it.”
“You’re also annoying.”
“I’ll take that too.”
“And dramatic.”
“I’m passionate.”
“You lost to a contact lens.”
“It cheated.” You laughed, soft and helpless, and his eyes warmed behind the lenses.
For a second, he didn’t say anything.
He just looked at you.
Actually looked.
The teasing stayed, but something quieter settled beneath it. Something that made the small space behind the optical counter feel too intimate, too close, like the whole office had dimmed except for the two of you.
Then he ruined it by saying, “You look even better now.” You blinked. “What?”
“With the glasses,” he said, tapping the side of his frame. “I can see you better.” Your coworker made another choking sound.
You shut your eyes briefly. “That is so corny.” He grinned.
Big. Sharp. Shameless.
“Oh, I’m not done.”
“Sukuna, please don’t.”
“Maybe later tonight,” he continued, completely ignoring you, “I can see you even better when it’s dark.” You stared.
He looked devastatingly proud of himself.
You stared harder.
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It does if you want it to.”
“That was awful.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m horrified.”
“You’re smiling while horrified.”
“You are forty years old saying things like that in an optometry office.” He shrugged. “And you’re twenty-four laughing at them.”
“I’m laughing because they’re bad.”
“You’re laughing because you like me.”
“You are impossible.”
“Yet you’re still here.”
“I work here.”
“For another eight minutes.” You hated that you laughed again. He reached into his pocket and slid his phone onto the counter, unlocked and open to a new contact.
Smooth.
Too smooth.
Infuriatingly smooth. “Number,” he said.
You looked at the phone.
Then at him.
“You’re very demanding.”
“You like that too.”
“Do not start.”
“Then type.”
You hesitated for only a second before taking the phone.
His gaze stayed on your hands as you entered your number, saving your name simply as Y/n.
Before handing it back, you added a glasses emoji beside it.
He looked at the contact.
Then at you.
“A glasses emoji?”
“So you remember who I am.” His eyes moved slowly over your face. “I’ll remember.” Your heart did something embarrassing.
You cleared your throat and stepped back. “Wear the glasses as much as possible. Clean them with the spray, not your shirt. Don’t leave them in your car. Come back if they need adjusting.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The words should not have sounded like that.
They should not have settled low in your stomach.
You pointed at him again. “Behave.” His smile turned wicked. “You keep saying things that make me want to do the opposite.”
“You are a menace.”
“And you gave the menace your number.”
“A moment of weakness.”
“I’ll exploit it respectfully.”
“That sentence is concerning.”
He picked up the glasses case and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
Then he turned toward the door.
For one wild second, you thought he might leave without saying anything else.
But of course he didn’t.
Sukuna stopped at the entrance, looked back over his shoulder, his new glasses catching the warm afternoon light.
“I’ll text you.”
“You better not send another bad line.”
His grin widened.
“No promises, sweetheart.”
Then he left.
The door chimed softly behind him.
You stood there, cheeks warm, pulse ridiculous, staring after him like a fool.
Your coworker appeared beside you immediately.
“So,” she said.
You kept staring at the door.
“Don’t.”
“He was hot.”
“Don’t.”
“He was extremely hot.”
You covered your face.
“And the glasses?” she added. “You did that.”
You groaned.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket.
You froze.
Slowly, you pulled it out.
Unknown number.
The text read:
This is Sukuna. I can see now. Bad news for you.
Another text came in immediately after.
You’re even prettier in high definition.
You stared at the screen.
Then burst out laughing right there behind the counter.
Your coworker leaned over your shoulder.
“Oh, he’s horrible.” You typed back before you could talk yourself out of it.
That was terrible.
His reply came seconds later.
Dinner at 7? I’ll wear the glasses you bullied me into buying.
You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.
Then you texted:
Fine. But if you call anything on the menu hideous, I’m leaving.
Three dots appeared.
Then:
No promises.
Another beat.
Wear those manipulative eyes.
You laughed again, shaking your head as you locked your phone.
And for the rest of your shift, every time you glanced toward the door, you imagined him walking back in—too tall, too cocky, too dramatic, wearing the glasses he swore he hated and looking far too handsome for your peace.
The terrible part was, you were already looking forward to seeing him again.
