enjoy your time!

you don’t answer, just burrow in a little more when the next crack of thunder rolls through, closer this time, rattling something in the kitchen.

“hey.” his hand comes up to your hair, fingers combing through it slow, unhurried, like he’s got nowhere else to be and nothing better to do than this. “it’s just noise. can’t actually get you in here.”

“i know that.”

“you sure? because you’re gripping my shirt really hard right now.”

“shut up.”

he laughs and you feel it more than hear it, his chest shaking under your cheek. he doesn’t let go of you though, doesn’t stop stroking his fingers through your hair, and when the next flash of lightning goes off he tightens his arm around you half a second before the thunder even hits, like he timed it, like he’s been counting the gap between them just so he’d know when to hold on tighter.

“y’know,” he says after a while, “when i was a kid i used to think storms were kind of cool. dramatic. main character energy.”

“of course you did.”

“but if it makes you feel any better, i also used to hide under my desk during them. so we’re not that different.”

you pull back just enough to look at him, unimpressed. “you did not.”

“i absolutely did. i hated thunderstorms.” he’s grinning down at you, easy and warm, and it’s working, you notice, the knot in your chest loosening slightly, distracted by him instead of the storm. “when i was little, i used to sit in the hallway because there weren't any windows.”

“really?”

“mhm.” his hand keeps absentmindedly playing with your hair. “then i decided i'd had enough.”

“of thunderstorms?”

“of being scared.”

“that's not how fear works.”

“not with that attitude.”

“so what'd you do?”

“i built myself armor to protect me. out of paper. cardboard. whatever i could find.” he shrugs. “i'd put it on every time it stormed.”

“…and?”

“and it worked.”

“worked.”

“every single time.” he nods. “i'd wear the armor, march around the house for a bit, and eventually the storm would leave.”

“you're joking.”

“i'm not.”

“satoru.”

“i'm telling you the truth.”

“you cannot scare a storm away with a paper armor.”

“who said anything about scaring it away? i intimidated it.”

you finally laugh properly, the sound soft but real, and his grin turns impossibly pleased.

“there you are,” he murmurs.

you shake your head, still smiling despite yourself. “you made all of that up.”

“most of it.”

“which part was real?”

he pretends to think about it. “…i was a little scared of thunderstorm.”

you groan and hide your face against his shoulder again.

his laugh rumbles through his chest beneath your cheek, warm and familiar, and when the next roll of thunder sounds in the distance, you're listening to him instead of counting the seconds between the lightning and the noise.

“see,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “still not thinking about the storm.”

“…that was the plan the whole time, wasn’t it.”

“what plan.”

“the armor. all of it.” you tip your head back just enough to look at him properly, narrowing your eyes. “you lied about being scared of thunderstorms to make me laugh.”

“i lied about the paper armor. the fear was real, if that helps your case any.” he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb lingering against your cheek after. “worked though, didn’t it. you haven’t flinched in like, four whole minutes. i’ve been counting.”

“you’ve been counting my flinching?”

“among other things, yeah.” the next roll of thunder sounds, distant now, and you don’t so much as blink at it, too busy glaring at him instead. “see. there it is. proof of concept.”

“i can’t believe i felt bad for you and your fake paper armor.”

he doesn’t answer that one. just pulls you in a little closer, arm tightening around you until there’s no space left between you at all, his chin settling on top of your head like he’s got nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

the next thunder rolls through, and outside the rain keeps falling steady against the windows, but it doesn’t feel like something to be afraid of anymore, not with the way he’s holding you, not with his heartbeat slow and even under your ear.

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

⌗　GETO SUGURU　/　夏油 傑

“you always do this,” suguru says, not even looking up from the book he’s reading, “count the seconds between the flash and the thunder.”

“i’m not counting.”

“your lips were moving.”

“i was breathing.”

“sure you were.” he finally sets the book down on the side table and shifts so his arm is stretched along the back of the couch, an open invitation you take approximately two seconds to accept. you tuck yourself against him and he settles his arm around you like it’s just where it belongs. “come here then, if you’re just breathing.”

“i hate this weather.”

“i know.” his hand finds your hair almost absentmindedly, fingers slipping through the strands before settling there. “you’ve hated storms since the day i met you. remember the camping trip?”

“don’t bring up the camping trip.”

“you cried.”

“i did not cry, there was a hole in the tent and rain got in my eye.”

“mm.” you can hear the smile in it even without looking up at him.

“suguru.”

lightning flashes through the curtains, and you go rigid for a second, waiting, and when the thunder comes it’s loud enough that you actually jump, and he just pulls you in a little closer without making a thing of it, like it’s the most normal reaction in the world and not something to comment on.

“it’s just sound,” he says, quiet now, voice low and even like he’s talking you down from somewhere. “loud, sure. but it can’t touch you. you know that.”

“i feel stupid,” you mumble against his shoulder. “i’m twenty-something years old and i still can’t handle a thunderstorm.”

“hey.” his hand stills in your hair for a second. “don’t do that.”

“do what.”

“the thing where you make yourself small over something that isn’t a big deal.” he tips your chin up gently so you’re looking at him. “you’re allowed to be scared of something. doesn’t make you stupid.”

“but it’s so stupid, it’s nothing dangerous.”

“knowing something and feeling it are different things. you don’t get to skip the feeling part just because the logic checks out.”

you look away, a little embarrassed, and he lets you, doesn’t force the eye contact, just pulls you closer instead, arm tightening around you until there’s no space left between you, his hand going back to smoothing through your hair.

“besides,” he says after a moment, quieter, “it’s kind of my favorite thing about you.”

that gets your attention. “what is.”

“this. the fact that you don’t pretend. you could put on a face, act unbothered, but you don’t. you just let yourself feel the thing and let me see it. that’s not nothing. that’s trust. i don’t take that lightly.”

“that’s a very generous way of describing me being afraid of thunder.”

“i’m allowed to be generous. i like you.” he says it simply. “so no, you don’t get to feel stupid about this. not around me.”

you don’t say anything, just let yourself sink into him fully, breathe him in, the calm, steady way he always smells like something clean and grounding, and let yourself focus on that instead of the wind picking up outside.

“you know what helped me, when i was a kid,” he says after a while, thoughtful, “counting things. not the storm. just anything. how many books on a shelf. how many buttons on a shirt.”

“is this a therapy technique or are you just distracting me.”

“can’t it be both.” he glances down at you, something soft in his face that he doesn’t bother hiding. “how many buttons do i have on this shirt.”

you actually look, squinting at his collar in the low light. “five.”

“see. and now you thought about buttons instead of thunder for a whole five seconds. i’m basically a professional.”

“you’re stupid.”

“but i’m your stupid.” the next thunder rolls through, further off now, and you don’t flinch this time, too busy fighting a smile against his shoulder. his hand keeps moving slow through your hair, patient, unbothered, like he’d stay exactly like this all night if the storm asked him to. “and i'm not going anywhere.”

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

⌗　NANAMI KENTO　/　七海 建人

“i already told your supervisor you’re leaving early,” nanami says, standing in the doorway of your office like he’s been there a while, coat still damp from outside. “so get your things.”

you blink at him, still half caught up in the email you were typing. “kento? what are you doing here?”

“the trains are down. and it’s supposed to get worse before six.” he says it plainly, like it’s obvious, like driving across town in the middle of a storm to sit in your office lobby wasn’t even a decision he had to think twice about. “so. your things.”

“you didn’t have to do that.”

“i know.” he doesn’t elaborate further, just waits, patient in the way he always is, watching you save your work with the kind of attentiveness that tells you he’s not leaving until you actually stand up.

you save the document and shut your laptop, gathering your bag, oddly touched in a way you don’t quite know what to do with. “you left work early for this.”

“i finished what i needed to.” a pause. “and you weren’t going to tell me you were still here, were you.”

you don’t answer that, which is answer enough, and he exhales something that isn’t quite a sigh, more like the sound of a man confirming something he already suspected.

the walk to the car is quick, his hand at your back the whole way, steering you under the awning and away from the worst of the rain, and by the time you’re both inside with the doors shut the thunder cracks loud enough to rattle the windshield. you go still in your seat.

“seatbelt,” he says, not looking at the sky, looking at you instead.

“right.” your hands are a little unsteady buckling it, fumbling with the clasp twice before it clicks, and he notices, of course he notices, watching you struggle with something so simple without a word of judgment on his face.

“here.” he reaches over without making it a thing, fingers brushing yours briefly as he guides the buckle home for you.

“sorry,” you say immediately, face warm. “i don’t know why i can’t even do a seatbelt right now.”

“don’t apologize.” he says, and before he sits back he leans over and presses a kiss to your temple. “your hands are shaking. that’s not something to be sorry for.”

“it’s just a seatbelt, kento.”

“it’s not about the seatbelt. you didn’t have to explain that to me either. i can see it.”

you don’t say anything, a little embarrassed. “you didn’t have to leave early,” you say then, quieter this time.

“you’ve mentioned that.” he pulls out of the lot, steady hands on the wheel. “i’m aware i didn’t have to. i wanted to.”

“why.”

“because i know what these storms do to you. and i’d rather you go through it in a car with me than alone on a train platform.” he glances over, brief, back to the road. “that’s all.”

the next thunder rolls and you flinch, and his hand leaves the wheel just long enough to rest over yours on your knee, warm and grounding.

“almost home,” he says.

“you’re not even fazed by any of this.”

“i am fazed by very little.” a small, private curve at the corner of his mouth. “but i’d tell you if the thunder concerned me even slightly, so you can trust the calm.”

you look over at him and notice the careful way he’s driving slower than usual through the rain, clearly adjusting for you without saying so.

“oh, and i ordered takeout,” he adds, like it’s an afterthought, though you suspect it’s anything but. “should be there not long after us. figured neither of us wants to cook after a day like this. and if you want, we can watch that show you like. the one you’ve been going on about.”

“you remember that?”

“you’ve mentioned it four times this week. i’m not incapable of listening.” the corner of his mouth lifts again, just slightly. “so. dinner, your show, storm outside where it belongs. sounds like a good evening.”

“kento, you’re the best.”

“i’m your husband.” but he says it dry, almost teasing, and his hand finds yours again over the console, thumb moving slow against your knuckles.

“thank you,” you say again, quieter, and mean it more this time.

“you don’t need to thank me for this.” his eyes stay on the road, steady, unhurried, like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be right now than driving you home slowly through the rain. “i love you, that’s why i do this.”

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

⌗　FUSHIGURO TOJI　/　伏黒 甚爾

“you’re going in tonight?” you ask, glancing up from your book as toji shrugs his jacket on, keys already in hand.

“yeah. shouldn’t take long.” he checks something on his phone, distracted, one boot already on.

“in this weather?”

“weather’s not my problem.” but he pauses at the door when the next flash of lightning goes off, glancing back at you on the couch, at the way you’ve gone stiff, knees pulled up tight, book nearly slipping from you lap.

thunder cracks loud enough to rattle the windows and you flinch hard, and he watches you do it. “you good?” he asks.

“i’m fine.”

“didn’t ask if you were fine. asked if you were good.” he’s still standing there, hand on the door, not actually opening it.

“go, toji, you’re gonna be late.”

he looks at his phone again, then back at you, then makes some decision behind his eyes that you don’t fully catch. “it was a shit job anyway,” he says, already pulling his jacket back off. “guy’s a pain to work for. i’ll tell him something came up.”

“you don’t have to do that.”

“wasn’t that into the job to begin with.” he tosses his jacket over the back of a chair and drops onto the couch beside you like the whole thing’s already settled, like there was never really a decision to make at all.

“toji.”

“what.” he’s already pulling you toward him, one arm easy around your shoulders. “relax, you’re jumpier than a cat.”

“sorry.”

he glances over, sees you curled up small against him, and something flickers across his face before he looks back at the tv remote, flicking it on for background noise. “s’just rain and some noise, that’s all it is.”

“i know that.”

“then it’s not gonna do anything to you.” he says it easy, like he’s stating a fact and not dismissing you, but the next crack of thunder is loud enough to shake something in the kitchen, and this time your breath catches and you press your face against his arm.

“hey.” his voice is different now, lower, all the teasing gone out of it. “hey. look at me.”

you shake your head, still hiding, and you hear him shift, closing what little distance was left between you. his hand lands on your back, big and warm. “c’mere,” he says, gruff, pulling you fully into him, tucking you against his chest. “didn’t mean to brush you off like that.”

“i know,” you mumble into his shirt.

“you don’t gotta tough it out around me.” his hand moves slow over your back. “s’just thunder. can’t do a damn thing to you while i’m here.”

you don’t say anything, just breathe him in and let yourself sink into him, the even thud of his heart under your ear doing more to calm you than any words could.

“m’sorry,” he says again, quieter. “didn’t realize it was actually getting to you.”

“i’m not crying.”

“i know. you're a tough one.” but his arms tighten around you anyway, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, holding you like he can shield you from the sound if he just holds on tight enough. the next thunder rolls through and you flinch, and he just presses his lips briefly to the top of your head and stays exactly where he is.

“m’not going anywhere,” he mutters. “i’m here.”

you nod against his chest, and after a while his hand finds yours where it’s fisted in his shirt, prying your fingers loose gently and pressing his palm flat against yours instead.

“look at that,” he says, almost more to himself than to you, turning your hand over in his like he’s studying it. his fingers curl around yours slow, and he holds them up between you both. “damn.”

“what.”

“i never realised your hands were so small.” he sounds genuinely surprised by it, thumb tracing along your knuckles. his hand really does dwarf yours completely, fingers long enough to wrap clean around and then some.

“everyone’s hand looks small next to yours, toji.”

“maybe.” he doesn’t sound remotely bothered by that, still turning your hand over like it’s the most interesting thing he’s come across all week. “still kinda insane though. look, your whole hand fits in my palm.”

he laces his fingers through yours properly and there’s something almost boyish in the way he’s looking at it, a small, distracted kind of wonder that doesn’t show up on his face very often.

“it’s just a hand.”

“it’s a good hand.” he squeezes gently, careful, like he’s aware of exactly how much bigger his is. the next thunder rolls through, quieter now, and you don’t even flinch this time, too distracted watching him turn your hand over as though it’s the most interesting thing ever.

“stop staring at my hand.”

“can’t help it.” he brings it up, pressing a slow kiss to your knuckles. “feels right in mine.”

his other arm comes around you at the same time, pulling you in so close it nearly knocks the breath out of you, like he wants no space left between you at all. you let out a small huff against his chest, and he doesn’t loosen his grip even slightly, just holds on like this until the storm passes.

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

⌗　RYOMEN SUKUNA　/　両面 宿儶

“your phone rings right as the first crack of thunder hits, loud enough that you nearly drop the remote onto the floor. you scramble for it on the second ring, heart already pounding from the storm outside and now from the sudden noise on top of it.

“hey,” you answer, voice already a little shaky.

“need you to check something for me.” sukuna’s voice is all business, like he called for exactly this reason and nothing else. “the papers on my desk. left side, the stack under the lamp. tell me what the top one says.”

you blink, phone still pressed to your ear as you glance toward the dark hallway that leads to his office. “right now? it’s eleven.”

“right now.”

“you couldn’t have asked before you left.”

“didn’t think of it before i left.” which is obviously a lie, and you both know it’s a lie, but you get up anyway, phone pressed between your shoulder and your ear, and pad down the hallway in the dark. lightning flashes through the window at the end of it, bright enough to throw your shadow long across the wall, and you flinch hard enough that you nearly knock into the doorframe.

“you okay?”

“i’m fine. just walked into the door a little.”

“walked into the door.”

“it’s dark, sukuna, i didn’t want to turn all the lights on.”

“why not.”

you don’t answer that one, just flip his desk lamp on and squint down at the papers scattered under it. “okay, um—” you shuffle through a few, most of them just contracts and numbers that mean nothing to you. “top one says client meeting moved to thursday. is that what you needed?”

“mm.”

“that’s it? mm?”

“that’s it.” a pause, and you can hear him shift, the creak of a chair or a bed. “keep talking.”

“about the paper?”

“about anything.”

you frown at the phone, sitting down slowly on the edge of his desk chair, still in the dark hallway light. “sukuna, is everything okay? you’re being weird.”

“i’m not being weird.”

“you called about a paper you could’ve read yourself off your laptop. you have a laptop. you took it with you.”

silence. long enough that you almost think the call dropped.

“you good?” he says finally, instead of answering any of that.

thunder rolls again, closer this time, loud enough to rattle the window at the end of the hall, and you’re up out of the chair and moving back toward the bedroom before you even decide to, phone still glued to your ear, blanket already half dragged off the bed and around your shoulders by the time you sit down.

“i’m fine,” you lie, voice a little tighter than you mean it to sound.

“mm.” you can almost hear him not believing a word of it. “storm’s supposed to get worse before it lets up. gonna sit right over the city another hour, maybe two, but no longer.”

you go still. “…how do you know that.”

nothing on the other end.

“sukuna.”

“i checked the forecast,” he says, gruff. “sue me.”

“you checked the weather.”

“i checked the weather for the city. not for you specifically.”

“the city we live in. that i’m currently sitting in. during the exact storm you now know the timing of down to the hour.”

“could’ve been curious about the weather in general. i’m a curious guy.”

“you’ve never once asked about the weather in the four years i’ve known you.”

“first time for everything.” but there’s no real heat behind any of it, only something that isn’t quite laughing, and you hear him shift again on his end, like he’s settling back against a headboard somewhere in his hotel room. “stop making it a whole thing.”

“i’m not making it a thing.”

“you’re making it a thing. i can hear you smiling.”

“you cannot hear smiling.”

“i can hear yours.” a beat. “it’s annoying.”

you pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders, curling into the corner of the bed, knees drawn up, phone warm against your cheek. thunder cracks again, closer this time, and you flinch so hard that you almost drop the phone. on the other end, you hear him go quiet too, like he could feel your flinch through the line.

“hey,” he says, before you can say anything. “m’not there. so you’re gonna have to get through it without me actually in the room. but you’re not doing it in silence, you hear me. talk to me. tell me something stupid, i don’t care what it is. what you had for dinner. what’s on the tv. anything.”

“you called about papers,” you say again, quieter this time, mostly just to hear him say it back.

“i lied about the papers.” no hesitation in it, no shame either. “wanted to hear your voice before the storm actually got bad. figured if i called with an actual reason you wouldn’t ask questions. didn’t account for you being annoyingly observant about it.”

“that’s kind of sweet, actually.”

“don’t say it like that.”

“like what?”

“like it’s some big discovery.” he sounds almost embarrassed, which is rare enough on him that you sit up a little straighter despite the next rumble of thunder outside. “i’ll be back tomorrow night, late. flight gets in around nine. till then you’re stuck with my voice instead of me actually being there to shut you up properly.”

“i don’t mind the voice.”

“i know you don’t. now stop stalling and tell me about your day. every boring detail. i’m not hanging up till this storm’s done with you.”

“you’re gonna be tired tomorrow. you have that meeting at eight.”

“don’t care.”

“sukuna—”

“i said i don’t care. you’re not sitting in the dark by yourself listening to that on your own. talk. now.”

so you do. you tell him about dinner, about the show you’d been watching before he called, about the neighbor’s dog barking at every single flash of lightning, and slowly, with his voice steady in your ear and the occasional rough comment cutting in whenever you pause too long, the storm outside starts to matter a little less than it did twenty minutes ago.

⌗ navigation　masterlist

◞　author’s notes thank you soooo much for reading. felt like writing something cozy and sweet. hope it gave you some comfort, and tell me which one you liked best <3

A black fitted wifebeater strains across his muscular chest, tattoos slashing down over his traps and neck before diving down beneath the fabric in a pattern you know by heart even with them being obscured from view.

Shadows obscure his tattooed face, but what little light is there glints off his crimson eyes, making him look more intimidating in the already tight space.

Turning back to your friend, you move away from the crowd. You forgot about the sticky floor a while ago, but now that the night has aged, the bar has earned fresh layer of grime evidenced by the squeaking beneath your soles from shuffling your feet.

“Cheers!” your friend squeals, handing you a shot glass with a toothy smile.

“Cheers,” you answer loud enough to be heard over the sounds of the bar.

The sharp taste is quickly relieved by something sweet, having no idea what your friend ordered but it did go down smooth enough that you’d do it again.

“Y’all took that like a champ,” a masculine voice sounds from your periphery.

You drag your gaze up from the glass, the fringes of your vision blurring slightly as the night’s beverages start to catch up.

It’s a man you’ve never seen before, eyes dark and movements sloppy to match the age of the night.

“What, never seen a girl rip a shot before?” you respond, watching a smirk bloom across the man’s face.

Your friend, more tipsy than you, begins giggling at the exchange.

“Plenty. Usually a good sign you’re good with your mouth,” he slurs, making you want to laugh at how lame that was.

Your friend bursts into a fit of snickers once again, causing your eyes to roll. She’s hopeless.

Heat begins to creep up your neck, sending a chill down your spine that urges you to look around. In a specific direction to be exact.

Towards Sukuna.

Your eyes lock, his body is turned toward your friend’s boyfriend but his side eyed stare is readily apparent. His stance is still relaxed but the look in his eyes stake a silent claim as they bore straight through you like they’re piercing your very soul.

In the split second you glance back toward the newcomer, Sukuna directs his attention elsewhere, now down at your friend’s boyfriend who is glaring in your direction, brow furrowed and mouth moving in a tight line.

It’s impossible to know what he’s saying, but Sukuna’s lip curling up into a grin lets you know he’s amused by whatever it is.

Your friend’s man is clearly getting more and more worked up as time goes on, starting to point at the three of you as his mouth keeps moving. You assume Sukuna isn’t interested in the request because he shrugs his shoulders, simply tilting his head in your direction while listening.

You suddenly feel a hand graze your hip, jerking you back to find the stranger looking at you.

“Off in space sweetheart? I asked you a question,” he muses.

“Must be,” you answer, unbothered and disinterested in whatever is going on in front of you. Your boyfriend acts as an almost omnipotent presence in every room he enters, so in your eyes this man poses no threat to you in the slightest.

You’ve played this game enough times to know he isn’t the type to bark every time someone knocks on the door. He prefers to wait, let someone enter his space, give the illusion that they are safe before he strikes.

A man too secure to be bothered by men who are nothing more than gravel beneath his boot.

Unlike your friend’s man who is now causing a scene in front of you. He’s managed to wedge himself between her and the stranger, trying to push his chest out and yell in his face about how he better get the fuck away from his girl, going so far as to flash a switchblade as intimidation.

The drama is just annoying now, both men are making a racket, starting to draw attention from the other patrons.

“Keep your bitches on a leash then, they’re over here with their tits hangin’ out just trying to draw attention,” the stranger snarls, causing your friend’s boyfriend to shove him hard.

“You think this shit is funny?” he whips around to your friend who flinches back.

“Babe we were all just having fun,” she argues back, gesturing at you.

“I was watching him come closer and closer and you just let him,” he shouts back. “Both of you!” he now looks at you too, “disrespecting your men in front of everyone like that.”

“You don’t get to speak on my behalf.”

A low voice sounds.

Sukuna.

Your body starts to feel hot, craving his presence as soon as he’s within reach. Like a magnet, your body gravitates toward him and his own arm slides around your waist with practiced ease. Two bodies calibrated to be in sync with each other after years together.

He pulls you against his sturdy form, feeling the gun tucked into his pants hard against your thin shirt.

The stranger shrinks back, eyes darting between you and Sukuna, the realization that he touched you moments ago starting to take root.

“Gettin’ a little rowdy in here huh baby?” Sukuna doesn’t even look at the man, instead his crimson eyes soften as they look down at you, pulling you tighter against him before planting a quick kiss on your cheek.

“Mhmm, I’m tired too Kuna,” you yawn, body now relaxing into his embrace acting as a reprieve to the chaos. The scent of his cologne mingles with beer and faint cigarette smoke that’s clung to the fabric of his tank top.

Your eyes drift back to the stranger, now giving him a smirk of your own that only spurs him on.

“You that pathetic man? You always let your bitch disrespect you in public like that? Didn’t even bat an eye at me touching her…”

Sukuna’s body doesn’t stiffen at all against you, but the stranger does now have his attention for the first time tonight.

“Tch, pathetic?” he grunts, cracking his neck before finally looking at the man. His hand flares out large against your back, never losing contact.

“This whole show begins and ends with me. I know it and my girl does too,” Sukuna’s voice is smooth.

Then he glances at your friend and her boyfriend who is still openly seething, hand tight around her elbow.

“If you think this interaction even remotely matters, then you’re just an extra in a scene that no one will remember or care about.”

Your blood runs cold at his words while everyone else’s eyes cloud over as they take in his statement. Sukuna meanwhile turns his attention to you, the brief moment worthy of his time now forgotten.

“I paid our tab, let’s getchu home,” he murmurs, hand now moving to entwine his fingers in yours, grip tight but comfortable.

As he begins to lead you away, he pauses for a moment, leaning down to your friend’s boyfriend while giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

grooming / predatory behavior: the period when an individual ( who will be referred to as red to protect their privacy. if you are aware who this person is, do not go out of your way to pester them. they deserve to be heard and understood. ) was involved with lorenzo, red was 16 years old. at the time, lorenzo actively lied about his age. he was not 18 as he had claimed, but was in fact 19, turning 20.

please press "ALT" for accessibility purposes if you cannot see what the messages say. larger images will not have any ALT text.

the victim, red, has expressed genuine fear that lorenzo could attempt to use explicit images and their adress sent during their relationship as leverage or blackmail against them. given the verified age gap at the time, with lorenzo being 19 while red was 16, the possession, retention, or threat to disseminate any such material involving a minor constitutes the possession and potential distribution of CSAM. it is deeply illegal and predatory to even send around this meterial to eachother.

( lee, current partner of lorenzo talking about red. )

racism: during his prior relationship with another ex partner, who we will refer to as orange, lorenzo repeatedly altered his story about his race, claiming at various points to be japanese, then korean, and then claimed to have a black brother, which is the reason he also claimed to possess the "n word pass". when he later began dating red, he completely dropped those previous claims and suddenly claimed himself to be italian ( this coincided with his fixation on franco barbi, an italian fictional character from the horror game outlast, who also, was apart of the mafia. )

beyond what is outlined, there is a much broader pattern of harm that needs to be addressed. lorenzo and his partner lee have consistently engaged in targeted harassment aimed at lorenzo's former partners, orange and red.

this is red's statement:

Since the moment you joined the company, you never went out of your way to interact with him. You were cordial and professional when you had to be, but this job was just an obstacle between you and your freedom of going home.

You could tell it irked him when you swiftly moved on from your greeting with him to meet some of the other staff. His jaw clenched beneath his forced smile, hand tensing as you pulled away from the brief handshake.

After that first day, he made an effort to make his presence known. 

You didn't make it easy, though.

His friendly morning greetings -- which always included your name so you knew exactly who he was talking to -- were met with half-assed 'good morning everyone's, your eyes never leaving your PC monitor. His generous coffee runs seemed to conveniently clash with the days you decided to bring in your own tumblers of caffeine (Jimmy was grateful, though, since he got your coffee as a result). And all the times he would invite the team out for dinner, you'd always be too busy or tired to make it.

To you, this was just your typical introverted behavior.

You're used to an extroverted team manager trying to pull you out of your shell, but you've always made your intentions clear -- you're only at the company to work, not make friends. Like those past managers, you hoped Clark would eventually give up and move on from you.

It turns out that he was more committed to you than you originally thought.

---

A small tap on your desk pulls you away from your work. You already know who it is based on the subtle scent of his cologne. You look up, eyes meeting a very smiley Clark who clearly believes that what he has to say is more important than the task you were doing.

"Sorry to bother you." No, you're not. "I was just wondering if you had plans this weekend. The team is going to O'Malley's to celebrate Mike's promotion." Right, one of the interns is being brought on as a full-time employee. You knew Mike, sort of. Not enough to hold any conversation above the usual small talk.

Immediately, you search your brain for an excuse.

"Ah, I can't, I..." your eyes flick away from him as you quickly think up something convincing, "I'm going out of town to see my mom."

"Oh, that's alright." Clark nods understandingly, or at least tries to convince you that it doesn't bother him.

But then his demeanor shifts a bit as his cool blue eyes scan over the office surrounding the two of you.

Is he making sure that no one is paying attention to this conversation?

He slips his hands into his pockets, his voice lowering. "You always seem to be out of town these days." His tone is bordering on accusatory. His gaze lazily returns to you, waiting for a response. The only thing keeping his innocent persona intact is the wide-frame glasses that shield his intense stare.

You try to hide your uncomfortable shock with a small shrug, "yeah, I guess so."

"Maybe next time."

"Maybe."

---

After successfully dodging his invitation, you decide that you deserve to spend a lazy weekend at home -- which is exactly how you usually spend your weekends anyway. A warm, comfy sofa, a bottle of wine, and a show playing in the background while you scroll through your phone. Perfect Saturday plans.

Unfortunately, after repeating this routine for many Saturdays in a row, you're out of your usual wine and snacks. With how exhausted work leaves you at the end of the week, you decide to leave the warmth of your apartment after a quick rest.

You walk to a nearby corner store, one you're a regular at. Roaming the familiar aisles, you pick up an item here and there, building your late-night munchie list as you go. As you're choosing your wine for the night, you feel a presence at your side.

"Thought you were out of town." You turn to see a casually dressed Clark holding a six-pack of beers by his side. He looks even bigger in his plain T-shirt and jeans, the cotton fabric stretching over the broadness of his shoulders. 

You're suddenly conscious of the oversized hoodie and sweatpants you're wearing. None of your coworkers have seen what you normally wear outside of work, and that's on purpose. Being on the younger side, you want to be taken seriously at work, so you always wear professional clothing.

"Um, my mom cancelled on me." You place a random bottle of red in your basket, purposefully covering up the small pack of Minecraft gummies you (stupidly) decided to try.

Luckily, Clark doesn't seem too interested in your basket as his gaze stays steadily on your face. It seems the gentle persona he usually wears at the office fades away when he's no longer in work mode.

"Yeah?" He doesn't seem convinced, but lets it go.

"Yup." Your hands squeeze the handles of the shopping basket. "So what brings you to this side of town..."

"Same as you, I assume," he gestures to the wine you haphazardly picked out, "merlot fan?"

"Uh, yeah," you glance at the bottle, "it's, uh, a good one."

"If you like merlot, you should've picked out this one," he smoothly walks a few steps away and pulls out a more expensive bottle. He holds it out, and you feel like you have no other choice but to take it from him. "Let me know how it tastes."

"Sure." Your attempt to take the bottle is stopped when he refuses to let go.

"Better yet, why don't we try it together?" His dimpled smile is charming, but not enough to quell your suspicions. 

"Together? Like tonight?"

"No time like the present." You pull at the bottle with a bit more force, and he finally lets go.

"Maybe another time." You carefully place the pricey wine next to your cheaper choice. Your basket is now two times heavier.

"You sure?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" A hint of defensiveness rings through your tone. 

"You know, Perry has been worried about you." He clicks his tongue. "Since you haven't been to any of the team outings, he thinks you aren't getting along with the others."

This is news to you.

You've tried hard to stay under the radar -- friendly enough at the office that you wouldn't be suspected of staying home during company get-togethers.

"Really? But there haven't been any issues..."

"I heard he might move you to a different department if something doesn't change soon."

"Why would he--"

"You're a hard worker, but part of being in a department is teamwork," he explains, speaking to you as if he's some kind of mentor. The vague condescension grates on you.

"Fine." You relent. "I'll try the wine with you."

---

Despite your refusals, he ended up paying for the high-end wine, claiming it's his treat since he was the one who picked it out in the first place. You awkwardly paid for the rest of your items, watching as the clerk took his time putting everything into a plastic bag.

Clark's apartment is closer to the store than you realized. You're surprised that you haven't run into him sooner. The elevator takes you up to the top floor, where Clark leads you to the apartment at the end of the hall. You start to wonder just how much he gets paid for his monthly interviews with Superman.

"Make yourself at home." He puts his beers in the fridge and goes to a cabinet to grab some wine glasses.

"Um, okay." You nervously sit at the edge of his sofa, placing your plastic bag full of junk food on the carpet next to you.

"Here." You're handed a glass of the merlot before he takes a seat next to you. "Try it." He watches you take a tentative sip and only takes his own once you've swallowed.

The wine coats your tongue with a savory richness that speaks for its high price. 

Okay fine, you'll admit that this one is pretty good.

"So?" Clark asks with a smug smile. Instead of responding, you take another, larger sip. "See? I told you."

"It's alright." You shrug, setting the now half-empty glass on the coffee table in front of you. "So about what Perry said--"

"What, you want to talk about work?"

"I mean, that's the reason why we're here, isn't it?"

Clark nods noncommittally before placing his glass next to yours, "Am I not cool enough to just hang out with?"

"Hang-out? No…This has nothing to do with how cool you are, Kent."

"Do you think I haven't noticed how you've tried to avoid me?" Clark smiles as his deep blue eyes bore into yours. That friendly expression that he often wears at the office is so clearly a farce in this setting. 

"I haven't been avoiding you." You mumble as you start to redirect your gaze so you don't feel so pressured under his stare. He sighs and places his hand gently underneath your chin to make you look up at him. The warmth from his fingers spreads against your jaw and you're starting to think that the wine is heading straight for your brain.

"See?" His tone is that of an owner softly disciplining their favorite pet, "You can't even look at me for more than a few minutes."

You pull your face away from his hand.

 "Eye contact just makes me uncomfortable..." You pick up your glass again, if only to give your hands -- and your eyes -- something to do. The distance doesn't seem to bother him, but you can see a crack within his blase attitude as he hesitates to settle back to his original spot on the couch.

"You'll have to get over that if you want to be head reporter at the Planet."

Great, you've summoned the manager within him. 

You take a sip while Clark starts rattling off reporter tips. Somewhere between his advice on interviews and making sources feel comfortable, it hits you that he still doesn't know. After all this time -- after every conversation, every attempt he's made to get to know you -- he still thinks you want to be a reporter. One of those prying nerds who salivates at the chance to hear Superman's voice with their own ears. The kind of reporter always chasing the next juicy piece of gossip to slap on the front page.

You don't though. You want to be an editor. 

Less interviewing. Less charm. Less him. 

You've always hoped that one day you'd be holed up in an office of your own with the only interaction between you and Clark being a few emails now and then. 

The wine sends a pleasant tingle through your body, warmth spreading from your core, gliding over your limbs, and finally sparking at your fingertips. His voice drifts into the background, and at some point you realize you've stopped sitting so stiffly, your body relaxing into the couch beside him. 

The more you drink, the less attention you give to the conversation. You've found that you enjoy looking at his face more than listening to his attempts to assert his superiority for being a front-page journalist.

You feel the warmth of his thigh press against yours. With every refill, he's gotten closer to your side, but it wasn't noticeable until now. 

After finishing the last drop in your glass, you look over at him and find that he's already looking at you. 

His blue eyes are glazed as he studies your face. 

When did he stop talking?

"What?" Your voice is weaker than you want it to be, almost like you didn't mean to say it out loud.

"Your face looks hot," he says it so casually you almost miss it -- but when it registers, your heart skips a beat.

"Um…hot?"

"Do you get the alcohol flush?" His lips curve into a lazy smile.

Oh. Hot -- as in temperature.

You glance back down at your nearly empty glass, oddly disappointed by the clarification. 

"Yeah, sometimes."

He lets out an amused huff of laughter. "You thought I was talking about how pretty you are?" The bluntness of it lands like a punch to the gut.

How pretty you are… he thinks you're pretty?

"What? No," you reply quickly, your face suddenly warmer than the wine could ever make it. 

"You sure?" His fingers skim your jaw before resting there, warm against your skin. The touch is light enough that you could pull away, but somehow that makes it harder to. When you don't move, his thumb traces the faintest arc beneath your cheek. "I thought you'd be a little more observant with how quickly Perry brought you onto the team…" His voice is soft, but the words sting.

You roll your eyes at the condescending remark. 

Whatever little flutter his accidental compliment caused is promptly buried beneath irritation.

It's nothing new. Being a young woman in an office means hearing offhand remarks like that often enough. 

Though this is the first time you've had a man say it directly to your face.

His grip tightens. "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?"

"You never stand up for yourself. You just let people spew bullshit and go on with your day."

So he's noticed how the other guys talk about you in the break room, their voices carrying whenever you happen to walk by. He's known about it this whole time and done nothing.

And now he's lecturing you about standing up for yourself?

What a manager…

You look away, suddenly tired of the conversation. 

"I don't know. What's it going to change anyway?"

"Look at me." The softness in his voice catches you off guard. "You never... look at me."

You meet those intense blue eyes, now fully revealed without the glasses. He must have taken them off at some point, and you hadn't even noticed.

Why hadn't you noticed?

He looks familiar, but something about him feels completely different -- the darkness in his eyes, the bite behind his words. None of it feels like the man you're thinking of. 

"Why should I?" You challenge him, pulling away from his touch as your hazy mind finally catches up to the position you're in. "It's just a job. You're just a coworker -- You're my supervisor. Can't you and everyone else just let me live peacefully?"

"It seems like more than just a job, sweetheart." His eyes drag slowly over your figure, taking in the sweats you'd thrown on for your late-night shopping trip.The scrutiny makes you feel exposed, even though you're fully covered. He pinches the extra fabric of your hoodie between his fingers. "I mean, look at you. You don't exactly look like someone with a busy social life."

"And you do, Kent?" you retort.

"That's it. Fight back." He grins, his pretty dimples at odds with the cruel twist of his smile. 

The sudden pause pulls you out of the stifling tension between you. Your eyes land on the empty wine bottle sitting on the coffee table, and you realize there's nothing keeping you here anymore.

You straighten in your seat, "I think I should get going."

Clark doesn't move.

"Got someone waiting for you at home?" he asks as though he already knows the answer. 

"It's late."

"It is."

"I think we've drunk too much tonight."

"I'm not drunk."

He's right. He looks perfectly sober, if a little worked up from the argument. 

Meanwhile, the wine has left your head hazy, making it harder to think clearly.

You try to push yourself up, but your body feels strangely heavy. Something has settled deep into your limbs, turning even the simple act of standing into an effort.

"I heard that you're a lightweight, but this is a bit much, isn't it?"

"I'm fine." 

"You can barely stand."

You glare at him, but the effort of pushing yourself upright only makes your head swim harder. Your knees wobble, and you instinctively reach for the back of the couch. Clark catches your arm before you can stumble, pulling you against his body as his hands settle around your waist to steady you.

"See?"

Something is wrong. 

"What…?" Your body isn't listening to you. Your limbs feel disconnected, like they belong to someone else. The room seems strangely distant, and for a moment you feel like you're watching yourself from somewhere outside your own body. "Kent." 

"It's Clark." A hand spreads over the back of your thigh, gently massaging your body through your clothes as he pulls you closer. Even through your clothes, you can feel the warmth of his body. Desire pulses through you in uneven waves, each one fading only long enough to warn you to pull away.

The scent of his cologne settles around you, masculine and distracting. You feel weak against him.

"What did you do?" You ask softly.

Your hand lands on his chest, but you can't muster enough energy to push him away. The muscles beneath his shirt tighten under your touch, and he leans closer, as if inviting you to feel more of him. 

"Looks like it's finally kicking in…"

—

Kissing him isn't supposed to feel good. 

It isn't supposed to make you melt against his body as he presses you down against the couch. It isn't supposed to make you tilt your head and chase his lips when he pulls away for air. And you definitely aren't supposed to pull him closer, guiding his hands underneath your hoodie as if you want him there.

But the heat coursing through you smothers every logical thought before it can take hold.

His large hands cup over your tits, squeezing them greedily as he captures your lips once more. You try desperately to hold back your moans, but your breath stutters when his thumbs flick over your sensitive nipples. 

You can feel his erection throbbing through his jeans. It presses against your stomach as he deepens the kiss. 

Clark pulls away, staring down at your flushed cheeks and glistening eyes with a satisfied look on his face. With every heated kiss, eager grope, and dulled moan, the fire within has burned hotter. Now, your body is begging for a release. 

"I thought you hated me." He brushes a few strands of hair away from your face. This would almost be romantic if Clark wasn't such a delusional freak. 

"I do." Your voice comes out weak and breathy.

"You keep saying that," he says quietly, "but you're still kissing back." 

"Because I'm hot, Clark."

"I know you are," he says smugly, "let me help you cool down." His hands slide to the hem of your hoodie, pushing it up just enough to expose your torso before one slips beneath the waistband of your sweatpants. "Didn't realize you get so wet for someone you hate." He teases, feeling the mess you've made of yourself. 

"Fuck you." You breathe out as his fingers slide through your folds. 

The words seem to piss him off because he isn't gentle when he pushes two fingers inside of you. Luckily, whatever pill he slipped into your drink already has you dripping down your thighs.

The stretch is immediate and has you gripping onto his arm to slow him down, but he ignores your pleading touch and starts pumping his fingers into your hole. The squelching sound has you burying your face against his shoulder, embarrassed of your body.

"Look at how easily you fall apart from me." He taunts. Your mouth gapes open as he reaches the soft spot within you, prodding at it incessantly until your thighs squeeze around his wrist. 

An unfamiliar ache builds between your legs, something intense. 

"Wait, s-something…" The angle of his fingers thrusting into you becomes too much. 

"Are you gonna cum around my fingers, baby?" His blue eyes drink you in and his hand speeds up, wanting to push your limits.

A broken moan is forced out of your throat as your climax hits. Ecstasy ripples over your body and your eyes roll back from the intensity. You feel your stomach tighten before you realize what's happening and you can feel yourself drench your panties.

Pretty stars dot your vision as you come back to yourself. 

Or are those tears?

"You made a mess of your sweatpants, honey." You feel him drag them down, but you don't have the energy to lift your hips to help him. He lets you recover a bit, using the pause to take off his shirt and unbutton his jeans.

You're breathing hard and you wish you could just go to sleep, but an itching arousal within you persists. 

He pulls himself out of his boxers, pumping himself lazily as his eyes wander over your half-covered body.

"You're so pretty, you know?" A hand pushes your hoodie up to reveal your chest, "Everything about you is pretty. Your handwriting, your voice, your eyes, your pussy..."

He leans over you, kissing down your chest before sucking a nipple into his mouth. Your body arches against his mouth, your fingers now finding their way into his curls.

He grasps at your other tit before moving down to languidly caress over your stomach and hips. This time he is taking it slow, working you up with his mouth and hands like a lover would do. 

But slow is the last thing you need right now. 

You pull at his hair, impatient. 

"What are you waiting for?" You groan, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull his lower body onto yours. 

A sharp pinch at your nipple makes you gasp. Did he just bite you?

"Be patient." He scolds, though he doesn't seem to mind the feeling of your wet cunt against the underside of his cock. He pushes himself between your folds, using your slick to easily move against you. His hips roll slowly as he takes your other nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking over the bud teasingly. 

"Please, I-I need something."

"What do you need, baby?" he asks softly, as though he doesn''t already know the answer. His mouth has moved up to your throat, painting the delicate skin with suckled marks. 

You shake your head, refusing to verbalize it. 

"I can't help if you don't tell me what's wrong." You can feel his lips smile against your heated skin. 

"Clark -- Fuck." The blunt head of his cock teases at your entrance, and your desperate cunt flutters for more. "Please, just put it in." 

"Like this?"  He finally gives in, pushing into you gently so your body can open up for him. Blood rushes to your head as you feel him drag against your tender walls, forcing you to stretch out around him. 

"Oh." The size is nothing like you've experienced before. It fills you up so fully that you're unable to escape the overwhelming sensation of his cock finally bottoming out. 

"Feel good?" Clark keeps himself pressed inside of you, letting you struggle with the intensity of being filled so completely. 

"So big."

"I know, sweetheart. I can see myself right here…" He groans, pressing a hand over your lower stomach, "Too much for you, hm?" Clark pulls out, slowly, watching as each inch of him leaves your body. He doesn't waste time pushing back into you until your thighs start shaking around him. 

"Move -- Please, just move." 

Clark pulls out for a second to push your knees against your chest, positioning you into a mating press. When he reenters your body, his cock hits your sweet spot even easier with the new angle.

His hips snap against yours, forcing you to take all of him with every thrust. His pace speeds up as your moans start to flow out of you, the couch squeaking with every harsh move. 

"It's like you were made for me." Clark pants, pushing through your slickened walls. "Weren't you?" 

"I-I…" 

Your answer doesn't quite satisfy him.

"Weren't you?" He tries again, burying himself inside of you until the head of his cock nudges the deepest parts of you. It's so intense that you wish you could tap out, but all you can do is take it. You start losing yourself in a heady mix of intoxicating sensations.

"Yes." You rasp out, head tilted back as you reel against the pressure. This time, you seem to say the right thing. Clark starts fucking into you again, lower body smacking against yours as he feeds you his cock. 

Your cunt starts sucking him back in when he tries to pull out, frantically clinging onto anything as your body starts to lose itself to pleasure.

His cock stays so deep within you that he's basically grinding against your clit with each thrust. You can't help the whimper that escapes you when he prods against your g-spot, almost feeling him in your stomach.

"Clark!" You can feel the pulsing of his cock within you -- all because you said his name. That's all it takes to have you rushing towards another climax.

"Already?" He can feel you tremble around him as he pushes into you. 

"I c-can't–" The walls of your cunt start to tighten around him, throbbing insistently as he continues his vigorous thrusts.

You felt it coming, but you weren't expecting how overwhelming it would be. Heat vibrates through your body as your vision whitens, disorienting all your senses at once. You could barely feel the way your whole body tenses, muscles straining in exhaustion.

His hips stutter right against you and warmth shoots into you several times, completely painting your insides. He continues to move inside of you with small thrusts.  You're so full that it starts to drip out -- down the sides of his cock and onto the couch. 

"Fuck," You groan, "I'm not on the pill."

"Good." He nuzzles his face against your sweaty neck. The weight of his body rests on top of yours. You listen to his breaths start to slow. He doesn't seem to care about how sticky you are, or the fact that he still hasn't pulled out. 

You look over at your bag of forgotten snacks. 

You were supposed to be eating those.

Instead, you're covered in sweat, your pants somewhere on the floor, and Clark is still holding you like this is exactly where you're supposed to be.

You stare at the snacks.