Silly Goose

It's rare, but occasionally Sylus gets you mad. And the victim of your rage isn't him... but his bank account — specifically, the black card he's given you to use.

"Serves him right. I hope you go broke," you bitterly muttered, purchasing whatever comes to sight.

Usually, you're adamant about not using his money, specifically this card, despite his constant reminder to use it without guilt.

But when he finally comes home, days without warning or contacting you, with his clothes covered in blood and face full of exhaustion, that breaks the camel's back for you.

The result —

A new dining set, this time plated with gold. -$5k.

A new set of diamonds and pearls. -$9k.

A new Camaleonda sofa set. -$25k.

A Hästens bed set that you'll be using alone. -$150,000k.

So when Sylus gets a phone call asking if these purchases were fraudulent or if he would want to lock his card in case it was stolen, he chuckles while he taps his finger on his desk, smirking.

cute. so so cute.

He informs the banker on the other line, “No, run those purchases through."

"But sir, are you sure...? Whoever this is, they've also purchased 100 kitty plushies?"

Unfazed, Sylus responded, "That’s just my future wife throwing a tantrum. She’s cute, no?”

"I-I see."

How adorable and naive were you to think this would ever bother him — no, it excited him even more whenever you decided to challenge him, especially when you didn't allow him to touch you ever since he's gotten back.

And before he ends the call, he orders, "Send me a list of what she purchases, and make a transfer into that account so she could spend more."

Not too long after, you receive a text from him.

From: Don't You Dare Get Weak And Call Him First 🔪

“Why do you guys put curry on Chinese food?” you asked randomly while you were helping Simon clean his gun collection.

Simon’s hand pauses over the barrel and slowly looks over at you; the rag just barely hovering over the barrel, “… Wot,” he says flatly. Simon’s questions were never questions; always questions formed into statements.

You looked over at Simon, setting down the dirty rag and shrugged, “like— I was craving Chinese food so I tried finding the closest restaurant that does take out… Most of the dishes had curry on them— Also, why is everything fries? Even the Chinese restaurants serve fries with curry on top,” you rambled, almost ranting at this point. “I wanted some actual spices, not soft fries with bland curry. While I’m at it, your guys’ curries look so gray. Like there’s no color to it.”

Simon stilled for a second. Was this an insult? Or were you just curious? Naive, maybe? “… It’s chips, first of all,” Simon replies with a huff before he went back to cleaning his gun, “and secondly, you hadn’t had proper Chinese if you’re complainin’ about curry on chips.” He gave you a side glance before quickly looking away, “and it’s fusion. Proper or not, it’s still Chinese.”

You sat there momentarily, watching how Simon’s fingers run through the crevices of the barrel, “oh my gosh, and the way you just said it— You guys always say ‘let’s get Chinese’ instead of ‘let’s get Chinese food’ too… Kinda makes me concern for your schooling system here.”

Simon’s eyebrows twitched. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry (in frustration) at this point. “‘s just how we talk. Don’t look much into it,” he grumbles out, biting back a smile. He looked back at you and set down the cleaned barrel on the table, “any other comments ‘bout us Brits or are you done?” he asks, leaning back on his chair.

The cleaning was long forgotten, the rag and weapons resting on the table beside the two of you. “Also, the way you guys wash your dishes? Yeah, no—“ you shook your head in disapproval.

Simon raises an eyebrow.

“You guys don’t rinse off the soap,” you told him flatly. Simon almost looked petrified at that comment, staring at you with wide eyes. “I went on a whole deep dive on it because it was shocking to hear!” you instantly say, almost defensive at the fact that he didn’t believe you.

Simon pinched his nose bridge and let out the longest sigh you’ve heard. He doesn’t know why he sticks around you so much; you were too annoying for him and yet, here he was. “Alright, well— I don’ do that, so I dunno where you’re getting this information from,” he replies flatly, rubbing his temple now. He’s regretting asking you if you knew any more stereotypes and cultural differences.

You picked up the rag and stared toying with it, “and you guys also—“

you didn’t tell sukuna at first.

it didn’t seem like a big deal, not really—just one of those gross, persistent things you learn to brush off when you work customer-facing. you sit at the front desk of the campus library three days a week. quiet shifts, gentle lighting, cute little name tag. it’s your favorite job you’ve ever had. until he started showing up.

naoya zenin. third-year. entitled. smug. and annoying in that specific way that makes your stomach twist. he doesn’t do anything—not really. not enough to report. but every time he leans over the counter and asks if you “moan like you read,” or offers to help you “stretch out those tight little legs,” you feel your skin crawl. you tell him you have a boyfriend. he laughs. says, “you’re too sweet for a guy like that.”

you still don’t tell sukuna.

not until he notices the way you keep your voice soft when someone walks in behind you. the way you keep glancing toward the doors. the way your hands tremble just a little when your phone lights up and you ignore it instead of smiling.

“who is it?” he asks.

and when you finally whisper it—when you finally tell him, cheeks burning, lashes lowered, voice barely audible over the hum of your apartment—he goes quiet.

the next day, he shows up at the library. not subtle. not discreet. he’s in a black hoodie, chain glinting at his throat, hair messy like he’s fresh out of bed, and a permanent scowl carved into his face. he doesn’t even glance at you when he walks in—just stalks straight to the desk where naoya is leaned over too far, too close, like always.

“you the fucker who’s been talking to my girl?” sukuna asks.

naoya blinks. laughs. “who’re you—”

you’re not technically dating any of them. not officially. not in writing. not in the way that would stop the others from getting a turn.

first it was nanami. soft-spoken, meticulous, always asked first—can i touch you here? is this okay? do you like that?—like he genuinely cared, like he wanted to learn you. he’d kiss your shoulder afterward. wrap his arms around you like a blanket and tuck your hair behind your ear while you caught your breath. he treated you like porcelain, fragile and warm, even when you were soaked and writhing underneath him. especially then.

then it was satoru. god. cocky, talkative, always laughing. his favorite thing was watching you squirm when he said shit like “awh, she’s shy now? wasn’t shy when she was bouncing on my cock like a fuckin’ bunny—” and he’d keep going until your face was hot and your thighs were shaking. he made it fun. sloppy. filthy. filmed you once on his phone and wouldn’t stop showing the others. called you his favorite study break and kissed your tears off your cheeks like they were trophies.

choso came after that. shy. quiet. blushed when you touched him. but that dick? unholy. thick and curved, too much to take all at once, and he didn’t even mean to be mean about it—he’d just grip your hips tight and whimper into your neck like he was the one overwhelmed, even as your eyes rolled back and your legs shook and your cunt drooled all over him. sweet boy. dangerous hips.

then came toji. older. rougher. manhandled you like it was easy. like you didn’t weigh a thing. threw you over his shoulder once and slapped your ass just to make you squeal. he liked you on your stomach, back arched, hand in your hair, fucking you mean—use your words, babygirl. what do you say when you want it harder?—until your voice gave out and your knees were bruised. he'd laugh and flip you over. my messy little thing, he’d say, wiping the drool off your chin.

and then there was sukuna. oh god. he didn’t ask. didn’t wait. just looked at you once across the kitchen after a party, licked his teeth, and said “you’re next.” and you knew—knew in the way your body clenched up, knew in the way the air changed, the way every other guy in the room went quiet.

he made you crawl to him. made you beg for it. laughed when your voice cracked. “what was that, princess? didn’t hear you.” and when you finally gave in, babbling and nodding and letting him drag you into his room by the wrist, he tore you apart. every thrust knocked the breath out of you. he held your throat in one hand, your jaw in the other, hips slamming into yours like he was trying to fuck the memory of the others out of you.

“mine now,” he growled against your mouth, deep and feral. “say it.”

and you did. again and again. especially when he came inside hot and thick and too much—filling you with a groan that rattled through your whole body.

after that? you didn’t really go back to the others. not because you weren’t allowed. but because no one else felt like him.

written by rawkuna do not plagiarize.

You and Simon had been seeing each other for a bit. Nothing big or dramatic. Just dinners, sitting side by side on his couch, watching movies you barely followed. He never called them dates. He just… showed up. Picked you up. Took you home.

He always took you home. Even when it was late. Even when you both knew you didn’t really want to leave. Simon was careful like that. Almost stubborn about it. The last thing he wanted was for you to feel uncomfortable around him. Enough people did.

Last time you went out, he tried to get you to stay. Not very smoothly, though. Just a quiet “you could crash at mine” like it was no big deal. You laughed and said, half joking, “I’m not sleeping in a bed that’s had other women in it.”

You didn’t think about it again.

Two days later, you were about to call him when a message popped up.

It was a photo. In his room. Black shirt. Sleeves pushed up so his delicious forearms were on display, that bastard. One hand on a brand new bedframe, fresh out of the box.

The text under it said,

- Come over. Got a new bed. Bring your toothbrush.

You couldn’t help smiling.

Of course he bought a whole new bed instead of arguing. That man might be the death of you.

Didn't think anything of it. But people started to notice. Someone would stop and pick up a rock and say, "What the hell?"

One day at an employer/employee meeting, one of the supervisors walked in with one of the owners, and they had a bucket full of numbered rocks. "WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?! IF YOU GUYS HAVE TIME TO DO THIS THEN WE NEED TO GIVE YOU MORE WORK! WHOEVER IS DOING THIS, WE'LL FIND OUT AND YOUR ASS IS FIRED!"

No one knew it was me. I quit doing it because I didn't want guys getting more work due to my fun. Worked there about 10 years, and became a foreman. I got fed up with the owners giving workers more work but no raises, and eventually quit.

The owner begged me to stay because I knew a lot of things and always got jobs done ahead of schedule, but I told him these guys deserved more pay. He said, "These dudes only work hard because you are a good foreman. They used to be lazy asses that walked around numbering rocks, remember?"

I looked him in the eye and asked him if he thought I was a lazy ass. "Well, no! That's why I want you to stay!"

I said, "Ted, there was only one lazy ass writing on those rocks and it was me. Those guys out there have always worked hard and deserve to be treated better. You are a rich man and are that way because your crews do good work and deliver but you're too damned selfish to part with a few more bucks to pay them what they are worth. Goodbye." His jaw was on the floor.

A few weeks later, one of my buddies from the company bumped into me and asked me what I'd said to the owner. I said 'Not much. Why?'

"Dude, he gave us all a big raise and gives us more break times. He even apologized to us at a meeting for how he'd been kinda shitty to us at times."

I was like, 'Well, cool. Glad to hear things are better.'