Iām velvetora, a goth writer who finds beauty in the darkness.
I write niche, deeply romantic one-shots (and the occasional raw drabble) featuring anime and video game characters that most people wouldnāt dare to love this intensely. My stories live in that hazy space between obsession and worship, where love is brutal, tender, and often a little dangerous.
I romanticize what others call macabre. I look for beauty in the melancholic, the monstrous, and the midnight-hearted. My writing is usually quite poetic and atmospheric, though I let it get messy and unfiltered when a short drabble calls for it.
I draw heavy inspiration from Ville Valo and HIM, the way they make love feel both sacred and doomed. Iām also deeply inspired by Peter Steele and Edgar Allan Poe: their raw emotion, gothic soul, and haunting way of describing love, pain, and beauty.
What you WON'T find in my writing:
Underage characters in smut
Somnophilia
Rape / non-con
killing
weird kinks
I donāt write on a schedule. I take my time structuring stories and only post when I feel the plot is right and I can do it justice. Updates come when the mood and inspiration align.
I do take requests, so if you have a dark, obsessive, or heartbreaking scenario youād love to see with your favorite anime dash video game character, feel free to drop it in my asks.
If youāre craving romance that aches, that bruises the soul while kissing the wounds it left you might feel at home here.
Come sit in the dark with me. Letās create something hauntingly beautiful. <3
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.
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content: witchcraft, fluff, first-met, modern au, alt!choso, whimsigoth!reader.
alt!choso enters a witchcraft store without knowing that he would met the beautiful whimsical owner!
The rain was falling softly outside, turning the city streets into dark mirrors. Choso pushed open the door of the little occult shop and was instantly greeted by warmth and the rich smell of incense.
He looked like he belonged more to the night than to daylight ā tall and quietly handsome, with long, messy black hair that fell past his shoulders, a bit damp from the rain. Purple eyeshadow was smudged around his eyes in that effortlessly cool way, silver piercings glinting along his ears and lower lip, and the dark tattoo across the bridge of his nose standing out against his pale skin. He wore simple but dark clothes: a loose black long-sleeve shirt and charcoal pants, making him look both mysterious and approachable at the same time.
The moment he stepped inside, his eyes found her.
And something inside him just⦠stopped.
She was moving behind the counter, bell sleeves in deep burgundy and teal flowing around her arms like they had a life of their own. Her long skirt, a mix of forest green and soft white lace, brushed the floor as she walked in comfortable boho slides. Delicate flyās wings earrings swayed gently from her ears, catching the golden light every time she turned her head. Dragonfly pins shimmered in her hair. Her hands were covered in crystal rings that clicked softly with every movement.
But it was her face that hit him hardest.
Burgundy eyeshadow blended into something soft and smoky, plum lipstick making her lips look full and warm, and those long bottom lashes coated in dark mascara gave her eyes a wide, doll-like beauty that felt both innocent and strangely magnetic. She smelled like wilting lilacs after rain, soft violet, damp earth, and a deep, velvety warmth that made the whole shop feel intimate.
Choso felt his heart stutter. Hard.
He had never believed in love at first sight until this exact second.
She looked up and offered him a gentle smile. āHey⦠come in. You can look around as long as your soul like.ā
Her voice was soft, calm, and kind. Choso swallowed and walked closer, trying to act normal even though his pulse was racing.
He stopped in front of the candle section and picked up a tall, deep red candle with rose petals pressed into the wax.
āWhatās this one for?ā he asked, his voice low and a little rough.
You stepped closer, your flyās wings earrings swaying. The warm scent of lilac, petrichor, violet, and oud drifted with you.
āThat red candle is for love, passion, and desire,ā you said, a small playful smile tugging at your plum lips. āItās the kind people use when they want to spark something intense⦠or call someone closer.ā
You tilted your head, eyes sparkling with light teasing.
āPlanning a love ritual tonight?ā
Chosoās cheeks flushed instantly ā a visible pink spreading across his pale face and up to the tips of his ears. He looked down at the candle like it had personally betrayed him, long messy hair falling forward to partially hide his expression.
āI⦠uh, no,ā he mumbled, clearly embarrassed. āI was just curious.ā
He looked so genuinely flustered that it was unfairly cute. This tall, tattooed, alt guy with piercings and a nose tattoo, blushing like a teenager because of your teasing.
You laughed softly, not wanting to torture him too much. āIām just messing with you. A lot of people grab the red one out of curiosity.ā
Choso managed to look back up at you. His purple-shadowed eyes were softer now, almost shy, but still intense.
After a quiet moment, he spoke again, his voice lower and more serious.
āIāve always felt this strange connection with blood and death,ā he admitted carefully, watching your reaction. āNot in a creepy way⦠Itās just part of who I am. Like old bonds that donāt disappear, even after everything ends. Being in here, talking to you⦠it feels like maybe you wouldnāt think thatās weird.ā
Your doll-like eyes softened, long lashes framing them beautifully.
āI donāt think itās weird at all,ā you said gently. āA lot of us carry pieces of shadow with us. It doesnāt make us dangerous⦠just deeper.ā
The air between you felt thicker after that. The rain continued outside, but inside the shop everything seemed quieter, warmer, more intimate.
You reached under the counter and pulled out a nicely made beginnerās witchcraft book.
āIf you have a lot of questions ā and it seems like you do ā this is a really good one,ā you told him, sliding it over. āIt explains candles, herbs, crystals, all the basics without making it complicated.ā
Choso took the book carefully, his fingers brushing lightly against yours. The small touch sent a spark through both of you.
He ended up buying the red candle, a purple grounding candle, some black tourmaline, and the book.
As you packed everything into a paper bag, Choso stood there watching you with quiet admiration. When you handed him the bag, he spoke again, his tone gentle and sincere:
āThank you⦠for explaining everything so patiently. And for not laughing at my questions.ā He paused, then added softly, āIād really like to come back. There are still a lot of things I want to ask you⦠if thatās okay.ā
You smiled, your plum lips curving warmly.
āIād like that too, Choso.ā
He gave you one last long look ā full of quiet wonder and something much deeper already forming ā before stepping back out into the rainy evening, long black hair swaying behind him.
Even as the door closed, he could still smell your soft lilac and oud fragrance on the air.
And for the first time in his life, Choso felt like he had just found something ā someone ā worth coming back to, over and over again.
tw: age gap (eleven years) reader is an adult, fluff, slow burn(?, suggestive, light sexual content, fingering, caressing, light power-dynamic, Nanami is such a gentleman here.
wc: 6,480
The moving truck finally rumbled away on a sticky Tuesday afternoon, leaving the street quiet again. You were supposed to be watering your motherās hydrangeas, but the hose hung forgotten in your hand the moment you saw him.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, blond hair still neatly combed despite the long day of moving. His white button-down had the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms as he carried the last boxes inside. Thin wire glasses sat on his face, and when his amber eyes briefly flicked toward your yard, your stomach did a small, unexpected flip.
Kento Nanami. You didnāt know his name yet, but he looked like a man who had already lived enough to know exactly what kind of quiet life he wanted. At twenty-eight, he moved with the calm confidence of someone who had chosen peace after too many exhausting years. You were seventeen, turning eighteen in just nineteen days, and suddenly very aware of how young and soft you still felt. Your sundress clung lightly to your waist in the humid air, and you knew you had that fresh, blooming kind of prettiness ā glowing skin that flushed easily, bright eyes, and curves that had recently softened into lush, feminine fullness.
That same evening you baked a lemon drizzle cake. The kitchen filled with its bright, tart scent as you stirred the glaze. You told yourself it was just a neighborly welcome, but deep down you knew you were looking for an excuse to talk to him.
Your hands trembled slightly when you carried the warm plate across the lawn and knocked on his door.
He opened it on the second knock. Up close he was even more striking ā sharp jawline, faint stubble, and those calm amber eyes that seemed to notice everything without effort. His gaze moved over you politely but thoroughly: your flushed cheeks, the way the sundress hugged your waist and the soft swell of your breasts, the nervous brightness in your eyes.
āGood evening,ā he said. His voice was deep, smooth, and perfectly measured, every word chosen with quiet care. āCan I help you?ā
āI live next door,ā you replied, offering the plate. āI saw you moving in today and thought⦠welcome to the neighborhood. Itās lemon drizzle cake. Nothing fancy, but itās still warm.ā
Nanami accepted it with both hands, carefully, as if the gesture mattered. He cut a small slice right there on the doorstep and tasted it. His eyes closed for half a second. When they opened, the tiniest hint of warmth softened his serious face.
āItās excellent,ā he said. āThe balance of tart and sweet is perfect. You have a real talent. Thank you.ā
You felt heat rise in your cheeks. He wasnāt just being polite ā he was sharp, observant, and spoke with a quiet eloquence that made even a simple thank-you feel meaningful. You caught the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth before he gently closed the door.
That night you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, heart beating too fast. He felt so grown. So put-together. So different from the boys at school.
Over the next two weeks you kept finding reasons to bake.
Thursday it was banana bread because the bunch had gone too ripe. Saturday morning it was fresh cinnamon rolls because the air felt cool enough. Mid-week you brought buttery shortbread because āthe weather just felt right.ā Every time you crossed the lawn you took extra care with how you looked ā hair loose and catching the sunlight, a touch of lip gloss, soft dresses that gently accentuated the curve of your waist and the full swell of your breasts.
Nanami always answered the door looking composed, even after long workdays. He accepted every container with the same measured gratitude, but his responses slowly grew warmer.
āYouāre spoiling me,ā he said on the fourth visit, holding the warm rolls with a tired smile. āAt this rate Iāll have to add extra laps to my morning runs just to stay even.ā
You laughed softly, feeling shy but happy. āI donāt mind. Itās nice having someone new to bake for. The neighborhood can feel quiet sometimes.ā
His amber eyes lingered on your face a moment longer than usual. āYouāre very kind. And bright. Itās refreshing.ā
He never flirted the way boys your age did. He was too proper for that. But the conversations started lasting longer. He asked about your final exams with genuine interest, listened quietly when you complained about group projects and college pressure, and offered thoughtful advice in that low, steady voice.
āLife doesnāt need to be constant overtime,ā he told you once, leaning against his doorframe. āEven when it feels that way at your age. Choose the things that are truly worth the effort. The rest can wait.ā
His words stayed with you for days.
You turned eighteen on a quiet Thursday. Your parents took you out for dinner, but your mind kept drifting next door. That morning you found a small wrapped package on your porch ā a good bottle of vanilla extract and a note in beautiful, neat cursive handwriting that looked both elegant and controlled:
Just seeing his precise cursive made your stomach flutter.
Three days later, as the sun was setting and painting the lawns gold, he approached you while you were trimming the roses.
āI have a business trip coming up,ā he said, straightforward as always. āFour nights. The heat has been brutal on the lawn and flower beds. Theyāll need watering twice a day. Would you be willing to help? Iāll compensate you properly, of course.ā
Your heart leapt. āOf course. Iād be happy to.ā
He gave you clear instructions and left a spare key in a small lockbox. The next morning you watered everything with care, enjoying the peaceful rhythm of the hose and the scent of damp soil. When you finished, you found a folded note tucked neatly under a large ceramic pot by the front door.
His handwriting was lovely ā neat, flowing cursive:
Thank you for taking on this favor. Since youāre going out of your way, feel free to go inside if youād like. Thereās cold water and juice in the fridge, and some of your lemon cake remains if youāre hungry. Make yourself comfortable, but please lock up securely when you leave.
I appreciate your help more than you know.
ā Kento Nanami
You carried the note home and sat on your bed, reading it over and over. Your fingers traced the smooth curves of his elegant cursive. The words were polite and practical, but the trust behind them made your pulse quicken. You lay back against your pillows, holding the paper to your chest, and let your mind wander.
You imagined him coming home early from the trip and finding you inside his quiet house. How those sharp amber eyes would darken when they landed on you. How he would close the distance in that experienced, older way ā calm but sure, no hesitation. You pictured his large hands gripping your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto the kitchen counter like you weighed nothing, manhandling you with gentle but commanding strength because he knew how to handle someone younger and softer. His mouth on yours ā starting slow, teaching, then deepening until you were breathless. His hand sliding up your thigh while the other cupped your breast, his deep voice murmuring low praise against your skin. The fantasy made warmth bloom low in your belly. You read the letter one more time before tucking it carefully into your drawer, heart still racing with quiet anticipation.
He returned late Sunday evening.
His text came around eight: āIām home. If youāre free, stop by so I can thank you properly.ā
You changed into your favorite soft blue sundress ā the one that made your eyes brighter and gently hugged the lush curve of your waist and the full swell of your breasts. When he opened the door he looked travel-tired but still composed. His gaze moved over you slowly.
āCome in,ā he said.
The living room felt smaller, more intimate. He handed you an envelope with more money than necessary.
āYou went above and beyond,ā he said. āThe cookies you left were appreciated. Thank you.ā
Conversation started light, but the air between you soon thickened. Nanamiās usual stoic calm showed small cracks.
āYouāve been very kind these past weeks,ā he said, voice low. āThe baking. The watering. The way you bring light to this quiet street.ā He ran a hand through his blond hair. āYouāre quite captivating. It complicates things for me.ā
Your heart hammered. You took a breath and told him the truth. āThe baking⦠it was never just being a good neighbor. I couldnāt stop thinking about you since the day you moved in.ā
Nanamiās eyes darkened. āYou only turned eighteen a few days ago. Iāve been reminding myself of that every time you came over. The eleven years between us. Your youth. How inappropriate it would feel if I let myself want this.ā He exhaled slowly. āBut you make it very difficult to keep my distance.ā
He cupped your cheek with one large, warm hand, thumb brushing your lower lip with aching gentleness. āTell me if anything feels too much. At any moment. I mean that.ā
The first kiss was slow and careful ā his experienced lips against your softer ones. It deepened gradually as he guided you onto his lap, your sundress riding up so you straddled one of his thighs. His hands began their slow, reverent exploration.
They settled first on your waist. Large palms spread wide, gripping the lush, supple curve with quiet possession. He squeezed gently, feeling the warm give of your body, then stroked upward in long, soothing motions. His thumbs traced the dip of your waist over and over, as if memorizing how perfectly you fit against his hands.
āYouāre so soft here,ā he murmured into the kiss, voice roughening at the edges but still controlled. āWarm. Yielding. Itās⦠disarming.ā
His touch traveled higher with deliberate patience. When his palms reached your breasts, he cupped their full, lush weight through the fabric first. Then, with careful fingers, he tugged the neckline of your dress down just enough to bare you to the warm lamplight. His amber eyes darkened as he looked at them ā full, soft, beautifully shaped with that youthful firmness.
He covered them with his hands, kneading tenderly, thumbs circling slow and deliberate over your nipples until they tightened. He pet them with devoted care: squeezing gently, rolling the sensitive peaks, then soothing with long, sweeping strokes that made your breath hitch.
A soft, breathy moan escaped your lips.
He lifted his gaze immediately, locking onto your face. You looked wrecked already ā lips swollen and parted from his kisses, eyes hazy and half-lidded with pleasure, cheeks flushed deep pink, hair slightly messy. That bright, youthful prettiness had softened into something vulnerable and entirely his in that moment.
āBeautiful,ā he breathed. āLook at you⦠lips swollen, eyes hazy. Completely mine right now.ā
While he kissed you again ā deep, consuming kisses ā one hand stayed on your lush breast, kneading and petting. His other hand slid beneath the hem of your dress, gliding slowly up your inner thigh. He gave you time, checking your expression between kisses.
āStill alright?ā he whispered against your mouth.
You nodded, breath shaky. āYes⦠please.ā
His fingers reached the soft warmth between your legs. He cupped you gently at first, then eased one finger inside you slowly, giving your body time to adjust to the gentle stretch. He added a second finger carefully, sliding them in and out with patient, deliberate strokes while his thumb circled that sensitive spot with light, caring pressure. All the while he kept kissing you deeply, his other hand never leaving your breast, kneading the lush fullness in time with the rhythm between your legs.
Every soft moan that slipped from your swollen lips made him pull back just enough to watch your face ā eyes dark with restrained desire as he drank in your hazy, pleasure-drunk expression, the tremble in your mouth, the subtle arch of your back.
āYouāre doing so well,ā he whispered, voice rough but controlled. āSo responsive⦠so lovely like this. Let me hear you.ā
The pleasure built slowly, cresting in warm, trembling waves. Your body shook lightly in his arms as soft moans spilled from you. Nanami held you through every shudder, his fingers moving with the same gentle care until the last ripple faded. Only then did he ease his hand away, continuing to pet you soothingly ā long strokes over your waist, gentle circles on your breast, tender presses between your legs to help you come down.
Afterward, the room felt warm and quiet. Your body was heavy and pliant, still humming. Nanami sat there on the couch, breathing a little deeper, simply holding you against his chest. One large hand rested protectively over your waist while the other continued its gentle, soothing petting.
You shifted, moving so you straddled him properly, knees on either side of his hips. You reached up with slightly trembling fingers and carefully slipped his glasses off, folding them and setting them aside. Without the thin frames, his face looked even more handsome ā strong jaw, warm amber eyes softened by exhaustion and desire, faint lines that spoke of years you hadnāt lived yet.
āYouāre very handsome,ā you whispered.
He smiled faintly. You leaned in and pressed the gentlest kiss to his closed lashes, then another, feeling them flutter softly. You kissed slowly along his sharp jaw, savoring the faint stubble, before wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him close. Your lush breasts pressed warmly and softly against his chest as you hugged him tightly.
Nanamiās arms came around you immediately. His large hands settled on your feminine waist, holding you securely. He hugged you back with quiet strength, palms spread wide over the soft curve, making you feel small, protected, and deliciously submissive in his hold.
āYou feel so small and warm like this,ā he murmured against your hair. āI keep remembering how much older I am⦠how careful I need to be with you. Yet you seem to like being held this way. Protected.ā
āI do,ā you whispered, nuzzling into his neck. āI like feeling safe with you. Like you can take care of everything.ā
He held you like that for a long time, rocking you gently, his hands stroking your waist and occasionally cupping the side of your breast with tender possession. Eventually he stood, lifting you effortlessly in his arms as if you weighed nothing. The age gap felt strikingly visible ā his tall, solid build carrying your lighter, softer frame with ease. You rested your head on his shoulder, loving the submissive thrill of being carried and protected by him.
āEasy now,ā he murmured. āIāve got you.ā
He carried you down the short hallway to his bedroom, laid you gently on the dark, neatly made sheets, and disappeared briefly into the bathroom. He returned with a warm, damp cloth and cleaned you up with meticulous care ā touches light and respectful between your legs, across your breasts and waist. You watched him through half-lidded eyes, that pleasant submissive haze settling deeper. He was so much older, so composed even now, while you felt beautifully undone.
Once you were comfortable, he pulled a soft blanket over you and joined you under the covers, drawing you against his chest. His hand returned to your waist, stroking possessively, occasionally cupping your breast or resting between your thighs in a protective, soothing way.
āYou looked so lovely tonight,ā he said softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. āLips swollen, eyes hazy, trusting me completely. I want to keep taking care of you like this⦠slowly, properly. No rushing your life for me.ā
You fell asleep in his arms, feeling small, cherished, and utterly safe.
The weeks that followed unfolded gently and slowly.
You kept baking for him ā new recipes, old favorites ā and he kept inviting you inside afterward. Some evenings were quiet: shared coffee at his kitchen table while he told you small stories about his old corporate days, the soul-crushing overtime, the friend heād lost, and his quiet dream of a simpler life by the sea someday. You shared your worries about college, the pressure of growing up, and how the future sometimes felt too big. He listened with that sharp, empathetic focus, offering advice without ever talking down to you.
The touching happened in quiet, stolen moments that never felt rushed. He would pull you into his lap, kiss you deeply, and explore you with the same patient care ā his experienced fingers sliding inside you only when you were ready, always watching your hazy expression, always murmuring soft praise when your eyes fluttered and soft moans escaped. Afterward you would straddle him, take off his glasses, kiss his lashes and jaw, then hug his neck tightly while pressing your lush breasts against his chest. He would hug you back by your waist, strong hands grounding you, making you feel feminine and protected in his mature embrace.
There were still nights when he pulled back, running a hand over his face with a tired sigh. āYouāre barely eighteen. I need to be sure this isnāt complicating your life too quickly.ā But the connection between you only grew stronger. Your youthful warmth brought light and softness into his orderly world, while his steady, protective presence made you feel truly seen and cared for.
One lazy Saturday afternoon months later, you sat together on his back patio. The garden you had helped tend was lush and thriving under the summer sun. Nanamiās hand rested possessively on your waist, thumb stroking slow circles over the fabric of your dress. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple.
āI still worry about the gap sometimes,ā he admitted quietly. āBut you make me want more than just an adequate life. You make me want the quiet mornings, the good bread⦠and you.ā
You smiled and rested your head on his shoulder, content in the protective circle of his arm. āThen weāll keep going slowly. Together.ā
He pulled you closer, his hand drifting up to cup the lush swell of your breast with the same tender care he always showed. In his arms, the age difference no longer felt like a barrier. It felt like the safe, careful space where you could surrender sweetly to his strength ā carried, protected, and deeply cherished.
And for both of you, that quiet understanding was more than enough.
I spent 1200 yen and my last two brain cells to become my husband (send help)
gojo satoru x renewed satoru jr. (female reader)
content: comedy, really funny (no), pure fluff, cringe lol, my husband is already exhausted by my existence vibe, what the fuck is wrong with my head lol
enjoy :3
listen. i know what youāre thinking.
āgirl what the fuck is wrong with your headā
and honestly? valid. iāve been asking myself the same thing since 2:47 a.m. when i decided that gluing my husbandās face to a mask was not only a good idea, but a romantic one.
so yeah. i did it.
step 1: ordered the saddest white wig known to mankind for exactly 1200 yen (plus shipping, because even chaos has delivery fees). step 2: emptied four cans of āsnow queen whiteā spray in our bathroom until it looked like a cocaine snow globe exploded. step 3: printed satoruās jujutsu tech id photo at the konbini (the one where heās smirking like he pays no taxes and knows it). step 4: glued it to a cheap white mask with craft glue that smelled like broken dreams and elementary school art class.
the final result?
a walking, talking budget satoru gojo that looked like it crawled out of a 200 yen shop after a bad acid trip.
the wig was doing its best but mostly failing āone side spiked like it was trying to contact aliens, the other side had given up and flopped like a depressed jellyfish. the printed mask was slightly crooked so satoru jr. looked like he was side-eyeing my entire existence. i drowned the whole thing in satoruās oversized black jacket (sleeves so long i looked like a gothic squid) and tied his blindfold around my forehead like a chaotic headband.
i stood in the living room, arms out, and whispered to myself:
āit just needed a dream and 1200 yen.ā
and then the front door opened.
satoru walked in, took one single look at me, and immediately lost all structural integrity.
he dropped his keys, bent over at the waist, and started laughing so hard i thought he was going to cough up a curse. actual tears streaming down his face. shoulders shaking. the strongest sorcerer reduced to a wheezing puddle because his wife is a certified menace.
ābabeāā he gasped, pointing at my face like it had murdered his family. āwhat the actual fuckā why is my face on your face?! iām having a stroke. this is how i die.ā
you struck your best gojo pose (which mostly looked like a raccoon having a seizure in a black trash bag). āyo~ your strongest wife has logged in. fear me, original flavor. i am you now. we can finally argue about who ate the last mochi⦠as the same person.ā
satoru slid down the wall, still howling. āthe eyesā the printed eyes are crooked! satoru jr. looks like heās disappointed in both of us!ā
āhe is,ā you said proudly, the mask peeling at the corner because the glue was cheap as hell. āhe knows you lied about the mochi and heās judging you. also heās my emotional support husband now. his name is satoru jr. weāre in a throuple.ā
he wheezed even harder, clutching his stomach. āemotional supportā i canāt breathe. i fought special grades all day and came home to my wife cosplaying as me but make it dollar store. this is my villain origin story. iām texting megumi for emotional support.ā
you waddled closer, floppy sleeves swinging like sad tentacles. āawww, youāre already tired of me. after only twelve seconds. i can hear the divorce papers manifesting in your pretty head.ā
āyes. immediate divorce,ā he laughed, tears still falling. āgrounds: wife became me but worse and now there are two of us and one is actively shedding.ā
ārude!ā you gasped, clutching the endless jacket to your chest. āafter i sacrificed 1200 yen and the last functioning cells in my brain for you? it just needed a dream and 1200 yen, satoru. a dream!ā
he finally crawled over, still giggling like an idiot, and pulled you down into his lap right there on the floor. the mask smooshed against his chest, leaving a sticky glue smear on his uniform. he didnāt even flinch.
āyouāre actually insane,ā he murmured, voice warm and fond even while he was still laughing. āwhat the hell is wrong with your head, baby? i married a chaotic craft-store goblin who weaponizes my own face against me.ā
you snuggled closer, wig shedding white flakes like cheap dandruff. ālove you too, even when youāre exhausted by my jokes after ten seconds.ā
ātwelve,ā he corrected, pressing a kiss to the top of your tragic wig. ānew personal record. iām proud of you.ā
right then the mask finally surrendered. it peeled off with a pathetic plop and landed face-up on the carpet, satoru jr. staring at the ceiling like he was questioning every decision that led him to this mortal plane.
satoru looked at the discarded printed face, then at your real (slightly glue-sticky) face, and started laughing all over again.
āeven your evil twin abandoned ship,ā he teased, gently brushing white spray off your cheek with his thumb. āsmart guy.ā
āgood,ā you grinned, finally free. ānow you only have to deal with one disaster human.ā
he hugged you tighter, forehead resting against yours, both of you sitting in a pile of black jacket, craft glue crimes, and wig hair.
āone disaster human is more than enough,ā he whispered, still smiling like the lovesick idiot he is. āmy favorite one. my strongest, most exhausting, most beautiful gremlin wife.ā
you stayed there on the living room floor ā two idiots laughing at nothing and everything ā while satoru jr. judged you silently from the carpet and the wig continued its slow descent into oblivion.
best 1200 yen iāve ever wasted.
what the hell is wrong with my head?
nothing.
iām just in love.
bruh, I just came up with this idea, with. anyway, I hope you guys liked it. Likes and reblogs are welcome!
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.
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content: fluff, fluffy one shot, light flirting, first meeting, slow-burn tension, au
wc: ~1.2k
beautiful visual support (dividers) by @uzmacchiato :3
The rain was coming down steadily at 6:40 pm, the kind of gentle but persistent drizzle that made the whole city feel softer around the edges. Streetlights blurred into warm puddles on the sidewalks, and every passing car sent up little sprays of water that shimmered under the glow of shop windows.
Nanami Kento had just escaped his corporate office after another brutal day. His tan suit was a little wrinkled from sitting too long, his navy tie hanging loose around his neck, and the faint ache behind his eyes reminded him heād skipped lunch again. All he wanted was somewhere dry and quiet to wait out the worst of the rain before facing his empty apartment.
The small candle shop on the corner looked like the perfect hiding spot. He pushed the door open, the little bell above it giving a soft, welcoming chime, and stepped inside.
Warm golden light wrapped around him immediately, along with the layered, slightly chaotic scent of dozens of candles. And then he saw you.
You were standing in the middle of the aisle, completely absorbed in the shelves, and honestly⦠you were beautiful. The rain had left a few sparkling droplets in your hair, and the flickering candlelight caught them like tiny stars. There was something so alive about the way you moved ā tilting your head, smiling to yourself as you read labels, completely lost in your own little world. It made the tired lines of his day feel a little farther away.
You turned when you heard the door, catching him looking. Instead of looking away awkwardly, you offered a bright, easy smile that made your whole face light up.
āEscaping the rain too?ā you asked, voice warm and friendly.
Nanami gave a small nod, his deep, smooth voice cutting through the quiet hum of the shop. āSomething like that. After twelve hours of fluorescent lights and pointless meetings, this seemed like a much more tolerable way to spend the next few minutes.ā
You blinked, quietly struck by how he spoke. His words were so careful and eloquent, delivered in that calm, low tone that made even ordinary sentences sound refined. Paired with how handsome he was ā tall and broad-shouldered, with neatly parted blond hair, a sharp jawline, and those warm golden-brown eyes that seemed to hold a quiet kind of depth ā it was a little unfair, really. He looked like heād stepped out of a magazine, but carried himself like he had no idea.
You smiled wider, feeling an unexpected spark of interest. āWell, you came to the right place. Iām on the hunt for the perfect weird scent mixed with something ridiculously sweet tonight. Want to smell some candles with me? Itās way more fun with company.ā
Nanamiās eyebrows lifted just slightly, a faint hint of amusement flickering across his face. āAn unusual request,ā he said, voice still perfectly measured, ābut not an unwelcome one on a night like this.ā He set his umbrella against the wall and loosened his tie a little more as he stepped closer. āLead the way.ā
The two of you started wandering slowly down the narrow aisles together, shoulders brushing now and then in the cozy space. Outside, the rain kept tapping against the windows like a gentle background song.
You picked up a deep gray jar first. āOkay, start with this one. Itās called āRain on Hot Asphalt Mixed with Freshly Mowed Grass and a Touch of Gasoline.ā Super weird, but I love it.ā
You unscrewed the lid and held it between you. Both of you leaned in at the same time, faces close enough that you caught the clean, woody scent of his cologne underneath the candle. Nanami inhaled slowly, then spoke in that same smooth, thoughtful way:
āItās surprisingly evocative⦠the sharp mineral edge of wet pavement, the fresh green of cut grass, and just a hint of something chemical. It feels like stepping outside after a summer storm. Quite grounding, actually.ā
You felt a little flutter in your chest. The way he described it ā so precise and elegant ā made the simple act of smelling wax feel almost poetic. You looked up at him again, noticing how the candlelight softened the tired lines around his eyes and highlighted the strong angle of his jaw.
āYour turn to balance it out,ā you said, grinning as you reached for a bright pink jar. āThis oneās pure diabetes in candle form. āStrawberry Shortcake Comaā ā strawberries, vanilla cake, whipped cream, the works.ā
You held it out and leaned in together again. The sweetness hit hard, almost cloying, but in the best way.
You let out a happy little sigh. āGod, itās so bad for you and Iām obsessed.ā
Nanami gave the tiniest grimace, but there was clear amusement in his golden eyes. āIt is⦠aggressively saccharine. One might worry about developing cavities through scent alone.ā He paused, then added more softly, āAnd yet, thereās something oddly comforting about it after a long day.ā
You kept going like that, passing jars back and forth, leaning in close to smell them together. An old-bookshop scent with dusty paper and faint pipe smoke. A dangerously sweet caramel bomb that smelled like melted marshmallows and regret. Every time your shoulders touched or your hands brushed while handing over a jar, the air between you felt a little warmer.
At one point you held up two candles side by side ā the gray asphalt one and the deep caramel one.
āLayering experiment?ā you asked playfully. āWeird meets sweet. What do you think?ā
Nanami leaned in right beside you, his tall frame making the space feel nicely intimate. After a moment he straightened, voice low and calm. āThe sharpness of the rain cuts through the sweetness rather beautifully. It turns something cloying into something almost nostalgic⦠like dessert after a long walk in the rain.ā
You looked at him then, really looked. He was so handsome it was distracting ā those warm eyes, the quiet strength in his posture, and that eloquent way he spoke that made everything sound thoughtful and refined. The rain, the candlelight, the way he actually seemed to be enjoying this silly little activity⦠it all made your heart beat a little faster.
You glanced at the clock. It was getting close to 7:10, but you really didnāt want this to end yet.
Nanami met your eyes steadily, the corner of his mouth lifting into a small, genuine smile that made him look even more handsome in the warm light. His voice stayed smooth and articulate, but there was a new warmth underneath it.
āI was just thinking the same thing,ā he said quietly. āReturning to an empty apartment after today sounds far less appealing than coffee in good company.ā He gave a small nod, eyes lingering on your face with quiet appreciation. āIād like that very much. Lead the way.ā
As the two of you picked out a couple of candles to take home ā the asphalt one for him, the strawberry shortcake one for you ā the rain kept falling outside, soft and steady. What had started as a simple escape from the weather had turned into something warmer, sweeter, and far more interesting than either of you expected.
I was thinking about making some age gap story with Nanami, what do you guys think?
TW: explicit sexual content, rough/painful sex, consensual but intense power dynamics, graphic depictions of emotional breakdown and heavy crying, mentions of trauma and vulnerability, unhealthy relationship dynamics, vicious cycle of a toxic/passionate romance, strong language, detailed descriptions of physical pain mixed with pleasure, heavy, heavy angst with heavy hurt/comfort, a little of fluff, reader is described as skinny, poetical writing
Proceed with caution! this piece is very raw, emotional, and sexually explicit.
wc: 2,847 or so lol
enjoy!
You and Satoru have been seeing each other for months now: dates, kisses, embraces, sex, broken promises. It is a vicious cycle you could escape, but donāt want to.
Your hands caress each other, consumed by desperate passion; kisses that lead to satisfying consummation. Your bodies become instruments of desire, playing a symphony only the two of you understand. Each kiss lingers like a promise; the caresses that intensify the fire, and every movement blurs the line between control and surrendering to that delicious defeat.
Yet, even amidst the flames of your unquenchable passion, and even as both of you were submerged in your vast ocean of illusions, there were great waves threatening to drown unreachable expectations; to exhaust the oxygen you shared on your fantastic but aimless path of loveāsomething neither of you was prepared to face: reality.
Reality dictated that there were essential elements which, when they aligned, built the pillars that sustained romance.
And to your misfortune, the most important one was the very thing you lacked: commitment. A legitimate quality for a passionate romance like yours. It is described as something deep and fervent, yet marked by the enormous pressure he carries for being āthe strongest.ā Itās not that he doesnāt love you; on the contrary, his love is so intense that it terrifies him to show you his vulnerability.
If he allows himself to love you fully, then who would protect everyone else? Or who would protect you from himself? And yet, he once again lets his feet leave the ground, dragging you with him as he kisses you with a hunger that denies his fears. You commit in that kissānot with pretty, empty words, but with the certainty that both of you are broken in the same way: incapable of loving halfway, incapable of giving yourselves to each other without it burning.
But everything shatters that afternoon.
That afternoon, in one of your casual encounters that no longer fool anyone, you find him in his rawest, most human form.
Satoru Gojo is sitting on the edgeānot the edge of a cliff, but that invisible edge that separates the invincible from the broken. He sits on the edge of the bed, legs slightly apart, elbows resting on his knees as if still trying to bear the weight of the entire jujutsu world on his strong shouldersāshoulders that had endured until that afternoon. His platinum strands fall messily, damp with sweat or with tears he hasnāt yet allowed himself to shed.
For the first time, you see the strongest sorcerer (the man) as he truly is: a broken soul carrying the weight and expectations of an entire generation because of qualities he never chose to possessājust a big, powerful, and fucking exhausted body.
You donāt speak. You simply slip off your shoes and climb onto the bed behind him in silence. You position yourself at his back, opening your legs so they frame both sides of his hips. A slender arm wraps around his neck with warm but possessive firmness, pressing your forearm against his throat in an embrace that asks for no permission. Your other arm crosses his broad, solid chest and grips his left shoulder, nails digging into the hard flesh. Your breasts press completely against his back, your breath warming the nape of his neck.
Satoru goes rigid, alert like a wounded animalāyet trained to be an invincible beast.
He tries to reject the contact. He really tries. āNoā¦ā he murmurs weakly, dragging the word with his hoarse, rough voice, while his hands instinctively rise to push you away. The strongest cannot allow this; the strongest must not let you in.
But youāstubbornādonāt loosen your grip. Instead, you cling to him even more fiercely, burying your face in his pearlescent white hair, inhaling his scent like an addict, and he, your personal drug.
And then he breaks:
A violent tremor runs from the base of his spine to his captive shoulders.
His hands, instead of resisting and pushing you away as they should, now grip your delicate arms with animal strength, almost painful, nails sinking into your soft flesh. His head falls back, making contact with your collarbone, and finally, his eyes open.
Those dazzling oceanic eyesāso blue you can hear the waves in them; infinite blues, clear as the deepest sea and bright as the midday skyāfill with tears. They are not delicate. They are thick, heavy, yet sincere and treacherous. They gather on his thick white lashes, tremble for a second, then slide down his sharp cheeks, leaving wet trails of his humanity on his pale skin. His eyes, always so arrogant and playful, are now reddened at the edges, swollen, vulnerable like those of a child who has never allowed himself to release his anguished tears.
The sensitivity he hides beneath layers of absolute power and broken, dishonest smiles emerges from the depths without control: an agitated ocean, salty and at its most raw, visceral point of depth.
āFuck,ā he growls, as if he still had energy left to keep pretending, his voice shattered. But the tears keep falling: fast, witnessing. Silent at first, then intensifying into uncontrolled, choked sobs that shake his chest. He hugs you back with brutal, almost violent hunger and passion. His long arms wrap around you with savage need, while one large hand rises to the warm skin of your nape, pressing you against him, the other sliding down your back as if wanting to mark you as his forever. He holds you so tightly it hurts, as if he feared you would disappear if he loosened his grip even a little. His body trembles against yours, completely exposed.
The man who can destroy entire domains now melts in the welcoming warmth of your arms, sobbing without apology, those oceanic eyes flooded and brilliant under the roomās dim light.
You feel every hot tear fall and slide down the skin of your arm. You feel every contraction in the tangle of his chest, every time he tries to catch his breath and fails. Instead, low, broken moans emerge from his throat. There are no words, only the wet sound of his crying, the irregular, frantic beat of his heart against your forearm, and the animal strength with which he holds you, as if you were the only thing keeping him sane in the torment of his weary mind.
In that raw embrace, without words, you commit to each other in the most visceral and painful way: two bodies that barely know how to love without fear, deciding they would rather break than remain whole and alone.
His tears keep falling, hot and thick, soaking your slender forearm that wraps around his neck like a chain of velvet and steel. Satoru trembles against you, his slender yet strong body shaking with every choked sob. You, so thin and light, press yourself closer to his broad back, your breasts crushed against his defined muscles, your slender legs encircling his hips as if you could contain the storm devouring him.
āToruā¦ā you whisper against his nape, your voice low and firm. āSatoru⦠Iām here. Breathe.ā He groans, a broken sound that vibrates against your chest. His beautiful oceanic eyes, flooded with tears that slip uncontrollably down his sharp cheeks, open and search for you. Then hunger overtakes him, raw and painful.
Satoru turns his torso with force and captures you. His large hands dig into your narrow waist with such intensity that you feel his fingers will leave bruises on your pale, fine skin. He lifts you effortlessly and places you in front of him on his lap, your slender legs spreading around his powerful hips. Your already wet core presses against the hardness growing beneath his pants, but this time there is no softness. He kisses you with savage urgency: open mouth, teeth clashing, tongue deep and possessive, as if he wanted to swallow your soul so he wouldnāt drown in his own. You taste like the salt of his tears and desperate desire.
āLove⦠fuck, my loveā¦ā he murmurs against your lips, his voice hoarse and broken. āI need you until it hurts⦠until you feel me in every bone.ā
He removes your clothes with trembling but brutal hands, tearing the fabric in his haste. Your slender body is left exposed: soft ribs, narrow waist, delicate hips that contrast brutally with his tall, lithe figure built for war.
Satoru looks at you as if you were a miracle that will break him. He lowers his head and bites one of your nipples hard, teeth sinking deep enough to make you gasp from the mix of pain and pleasure. At the same time, two long fingers enter you without mercy, curling deep and fast, stretching you with a roughness that borders on pain. His thumb presses your clit in relentless circles while more tears fall from his oceanic eyes and wet your skin.
āSatoru⦠ah⦠it hurts⦠but donāt stopā¦ā you gasp, digging your nails into his broad shoulders until you leave red marks. The pain is visceral, deep, but it merges with a romance that burns: every thrust of his fingers is a silent declaration that he loves you so much he doesnāt know how to be gentle.
āIām not going to stop, loveā¦ā he growls against your chest, biting harder, leaving a trail of teeth that will throb tomorrow. āI want you to feel me tomorrow⦠to carry my marks the way I carry yours in my soul.ā
He waits no longer. He pushes his pants down and pulls you down onto him with one brutal thrust. He enters you to the hilt, filling you with such thick, deep invasion that you feel a sharp, delicious pain, as if he were splitting you in two only to rebuild you in his image. Both of you moan loudly: you from the burning that spreads inside you, him from the feeling of your tight heat gripping him like a vice. His large hands dig into your slender hips with inhuman strength, guiding you up and down with ferocious thrusts that make your light body bounce against his.
Every strike is painful and romantic at the same time: the way your insides stretch around him hurts, but the way his oceanic eyes look at youāfull of tears and devotionāturns the pain into ecstasy.
āLove⦠so tight⦠so mine even if we donāt say itā¦ā he whispers between thrusts, his forehead pressed to yours, tears falling onto your lips. He changes position with a brusque movement: he lays you on your back on the bed, your slender figure sinking beneath his lithe, strong body. He positions himself on top, forearms braced on either side of your head, and enters you again with a deep thrust that draws a choked cry from you. The angle is crueler, more intense; every thrust grazes that spot inside you that hurts with pleasure, stretching you to the limit while his hips slam against yours with wild force.
āToru⦠Satoru⦠more⦠even if it hurts⦠I feel all of youā¦ā you gasp, wrapping your slender legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. Your nails rake down his lithe back, leaving red furrows that will be proof of this broken passion tomorrow.
āMy love⦠I love you like this⦠broken and inside you⦠even if it hurts⦠even if itās all we have,ā he answers with a shattered voice, accelerating the rhythm until pain and pleasure fuse into one. His tears fall endlessly onto your neck, mixing with sweat, as he fucks you with a passion that seems to want to melt you into a single being. The contrast is poetic and visceral: your fragile, slender body swallowing every painful thrust of his contained strength, his emotional Infinity crumbling only for you.
You reach climax together in an orgasm so intense it hurts. You clench around him with a cry that breaks in your throat, nails dug into his back until they draw slight blood. Satoru buries himself to the hilt with a long, wrenching groan, his large body shuddering above your slender one, filling you with thick, pulsing heat while the last hot tears fall onto your collarbone like rain from a overflowing ocean.
Afterward, when the tremors subside and only the sticky sweat remains between your naked bodies, Satoru stays inside you, still semi-hard, his lithe chest rising and falling against your small breasts. His head rests in the hollow of your neck, his damp white hair sticking to his forehead. He tries to speak. His voice comes out hoarse, attempting to recover that playful facade he always uses as a shield.
āLove⦠this⦠we canāt keep pretending itās just dates andā¦ā he begins, but the sentence breaks in his throat. His beautiful oceanic eyes fill with tears again, thick and treacherous, sliding down his cheeks as his body trembles against yours. The dam breaks once more, deeper this time, as if the orgasm had opened a crack he can no longer close.
āFuck⦠I canātā¦ā he sobs, his voice broken and wet. āI want more⦠I want to call you mine for real⦠but the fear is eating me aliveā¦ā
You say nothing at first. You simply act.
With fierce tenderness, you wrap your slender arms around him and pull him closer, cradling him against your chest like a stormy sea that needs soothing. Your delicate fingers tangle in his white hair, stroking it with hypnotic slowness, while your legs wrap around him gently, keeping him inside you still, skin against skin. You rock him softly, a slow, rhythmic sway, as if lulling an enraged ocean into a calm tide.
āShh⦠baby⦠Toru⦠Iām here,ā you whisper against his temple, your voice soft and poetic, like a breeze that calms the tempest. āCry as much as you need. You donāt have to be the strongest with me. Just be Satoru⦠my broken, beautiful Satoru, with eyes like the ocean that overflow only for me.ā
He sobs harder, burying his face in your neck, his hot tears wetting your skin as his large, lithe body curls against your slender figure, vulnerable as never before. His big hands clutch your waist with desperation, but without strength nowāonly need.
āLove⦠it hurts to want you like this⦠it hurts not being able to promise you the world without putting you in dangerā¦ā he murmurs between hiccups, his voice muffled against your chest.
You continue cradling him, kissing his forehead, his damp eyelids, his salty cheeks. Your fingers trace slow circles on his back, following the red marks you left, as if drawing invisible promises on his skin.
āI know, baby⦠I know. But here, in this bed, in this pain we share⦠weāre already more than dates and sex. Even if we have no name. Even if the world doesnāt know. I have you⦠broken, crying, inside me⦠and itās enough for now. Rest in me, love. Let me lull you until the ocean in your eyes grows calm.ā
Satoru exhales a trembling sigh, his sobs gradually turning into deep, ragged breaths. His oceanic eyes, still bright and reddened, close against your chest as he holds you tighter, as if afraid you might disappear.
The nameless commitment remains there, poetic and visceral: two souls who seek each other in casual encounters, break in painful passion, and rebuild in silent lullabies, deciding without formal words that they prefer to burn togetherāthough it hurts, though itās imperfectārather than remain cold and alone in the darkness of the jujutsu world.
CONTENT: fluff, met-cute, light flirting, reader is described as very attractive in an unconventional way
this is a self-indulgent one-shot for anyone who loves Gojoās unique beauty and the āartist x museā trope. Reader loves everything outstanding and different ā just like Gojo himself.
cw: 1,278
enjoy!:3
The city had a way of blurring into the same tired, boring palette every day.
Gray sidewalks. Gray buildings. Gray people rushing past with their gray expectations of beauty. Most days you didnāt mind it.
You simply walked with your camera hanging against your chest like a second heartbeat, searching for the cracks in the ordinary.
You had always been like this ā mesmerized by the meaning of āuniqueā in everything you could possibly see.
While other girls your age chased symmetrical faces and flawless skin ā the most conventional features ā you always looked for what didnāt fully blend in. You hunted for the glitches, the things that didnāt belong. A crooked nose that told a better story than āperfectā ever could. Eyes in impossible shades ā not just brown or blue, but something like burnt emerald with gold flecks, true crimson red, or soft lavender-violet irises. Coffee that tasted like butterfly pea flower and white pepper. The uneven crack in an old statue or grave that made it feel more alive than any polished marble.
You liked things that were outstanding. Rare. Unapologetically different.
And ironically, people often said the same about you.
With your sharp, expressive features, full lips that curved into knowing smiles, and eyes that seemed to catch light in unusual ways, you turned heads wherever you went. You werenāt āconventionally cuteā in the boring sense ā you were strikingly attractive in that same unconventional way you adored in everything else. The kind of beauty that made strangers look twice, wondering exactly what made you so magnetic. You wore it effortlessly, like your favorite oversized leather jacket and the camera strap that never left your shoulder.
So when a flash of pure white cut through the dull afternoon crowd, your steps faltered.
Snowy-white hair, bright even under the overcast sky. Skin so pale it looked almost translucent against the deep black of his oversized sweater and loose black sweats. And the height⦠He towered over the stream of pedestrians like a misplaced monument, broad shoulders and long limbs creating a sharp, striking silhouette. Everything about him screamed contrast ā white against black, pale against dark fabric, impossibly tall in a city built for average.
Your fingers itched on the camera strap.
Before you could think twice, you were already crossing the street, heart beating with that familiar excited nervousness you always got when you found something ā or someone ā truly rare and otherworldly.
āExcuse me,ā you called out, stopping at a respectful distance. Your voice carried that confident, warm tone people often noticed about you.
The beautiful stranger looked up from his phone to meet your gaze. Rectangular black sunglasses hid his eyes, but even without seeing them, the whole picture was mesmerizing.
āI know this comes out of nowhere and it might sound weird or creepy, butā¦ā you continued, offering a small, disarming smile, ācan I take your picture?ā
He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth tugging into a lazy, amused smirk. āBold move. Most people at least pretend theyāre not staring.ā
You let out a shaky exhale that sounded more like a little laugh. Honest as always, you said,
āIām not staring because youāre conventionally hot or anything. I mean ā okay, maybe you are, but thatās not why.ā You gestured vaguely at him, eyes tracing his frame with open appreciation. āItās your features. The white hair, the pale skin, the way your height makes you look like you stepped out of a different world. Youāre⦠unique. In the best way possible. I photograph things that break the pattern. Things that feel rare. And right now, youāre the most outstanding thing Iāve seen all week.ā
You paused, then added with genuine warmth, almost to yourself, āI like things that donāt fit the mold. Crooked smiles. Weird coffee flavors. Eye colors no one else has. Noses with character. And youāve got all of that.ā
For a long minute he just stared at you, sunglasses still on ā clearly intrigued by you and what you were saying. Like you actually saw him, not just another set of pretty features in the crowd.
Then, slowly, two long fingers slid the rectangular sunglasses down the bridge of his nose.
The world narrowed.
The strangerās face had androgynous features sculpted in the most captivating way ā delicate high cheekbones, a jaw so sharp it could cut, yet still unmistakably masculine. Features that felt almost too elegant for someone with a build like his. He looked as if he had stepped out of a classical painting, and yet he carried an undeniable masculine edge: the strong line of his broad shoulders, the confident set of his posture, the subtle sharpness in his expression that screamed power and self-assurance.
And then came the eyes ā oh, lord. The eyes.
Piercing, icy blue ā so bright and clear they looked like shards of frozen sky, glowing with an intensity that made your pulse stutter. Framed by extremely long, snow-white lashes that curled delicately, catching the light like tiny crystals of frost frozen in place. The contrast against his pale skin and white hair was almost unreal. Beautiful in a way that felt dangerous. Like staring directly at something not meant for human sight.
You were breathless for a long minute. Then you finally spoke.
āYour eyes look like they were cut from ancient glacier iceā¦ā you said, incapable of looking away. āItās like the sky used your irises as a canvas. Absolutely stunning.ā You continued softly, āIāve never seen that exact shade before⦠amazing.ā
The last sentence slipped out more to yourself than to him, but he heard every word.
āāAmazingā, huh?ā His voice was smooth, teasing, with an undercurrent of genuine intrigue. Those piercing blue eyes sparkled with mischief as they roamed over your face ā clearly appreciating how attractive you were in return.
āThatās a new one. Usually itās āstupidly tallā or āhot guy with weird eyes.ā But you⦠youāre looking at me like Iām some kind of living sculpture. And coming from someone as striking as you, that actually means something.ā
You felt heat rush to your cheeks.
He straightened to his full height ā around 190 cm ā towering over you even more noticeably now. His lean, muscular frame filled out the casual black sweater, making the delicate androgynous beauty of his face stand out even more by contrast. The monochrome palette of his clothes only heightened the striking effect against his snowy-white hair and pale skin.
āAlright, bold photographer,ā he grinned, his usual cocky confidence radiating off him. āYouāve got my attention. But only if you tell me your name⦠and what exactly you plan to do with these pictures of my āoutstandingā face and frosty lashes.ā
You smiled, feeling a spark of excitement you hadnāt felt in weeks. āIām [Y/N]. And I plan to capture every unique detail ā if youāll let me. Starting with those eyes that look like they could freeze the whole city⦠and those lashes that look like ice crystals.ā
Gojoās grin widened, playful and intrigued. He leaned down slightly so his face was closer to yours, those long white lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks.
āCute. And bold.ā He tilted his head, white hair falling softly. āTell you what ā Iāll let you take as many pictures as you want⦠but only if you let me buy you one of those weird coffee flavors you mentioned earlier. Deal?ā
You raised your camera, already framing the shot as the golden afternoon light hit his pale skin and icy eyes perfectly.
āDeal.ā
As the shutter clicked, you realized this wasnāt just another outstanding subject.
CONTENT: fluff, met-cute, light flirting, reader is described as very attractive in an unconventional way
this is a self-indulgent one-shot for anyone who loves Gojoās unique beauty and the āartist x museā trope. Reader loves everything outstanding and different ā just like Gojo himself.
cw: 1,278
enjoy!:3
The city had a way of blurring into the same tired, boring palette every day.
Gray sidewalks. Gray buildings. Gray people rushing past with their gray expectations of beauty. Most days you didnāt mind it.
You simply walked with your camera hanging against your chest like a second heartbeat, searching for the cracks in the ordinary.
You had always been like this ā mesmerized by the meaning of āuniqueā in everything you could possibly see.
While other girls your age chased symmetrical faces and flawless skin ā the most conventional features ā you always looked for what didnāt fully blend in. You hunted for the glitches, the things that didnāt belong. A crooked nose that told a better story than āperfectā ever could. Eyes in impossible shades ā not just brown or blue, but something like burnt emerald with gold flecks, true crimson red, or soft lavender-violet irises. Coffee that tasted like butterfly pea flower and white pepper. The uneven crack in an old statue or grave that made it feel more alive than any polished marble.
You liked things that were outstanding. Rare. Unapologetically different.
And ironically, people often said the same about you.
With your sharp, expressive features, full lips that curved into knowing smiles, and eyes that seemed to catch light in unusual ways, you turned heads wherever you went. You werenāt āconventionally cuteā in the boring sense ā you were strikingly attractive in that same unconventional way you adored in everything else. The kind of beauty that made strangers look twice, wondering exactly what made you so magnetic. You wore it effortlessly, like your favorite oversized leather jacket and the camera strap that never left your shoulder.
So when a flash of pure white cut through the dull afternoon crowd, your steps faltered.
Snowy-white hair, bright even under the overcast sky. Skin so pale it looked almost translucent against the deep black of his oversized sweater and loose black sweats. And the height⦠He towered over the stream of pedestrians like a misplaced monument, broad shoulders and long limbs creating a sharp, striking silhouette. Everything about him screamed contrast ā white against black, pale against dark fabric, impossibly tall in a city built for average.
Your fingers itched on the camera strap.
Before you could think twice, you were already crossing the street, heart beating with that familiar excited nervousness you always got when you found something ā or someone ā truly rare and otherworldly.
āExcuse me,ā you called out, stopping at a respectful distance. Your voice carried that confident, warm tone people often noticed about you.
The beautiful stranger looked up from his phone to meet your gaze. Rectangular black sunglasses hid his eyes, but even without seeing them, the whole picture was mesmerizing.
āI know this comes out of nowhere and it might sound weird or creepy, butā¦ā you continued, offering a small, disarming smile, ācan I take your picture?ā
He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth tugging into a lazy, amused smirk. āBold move. Most people at least pretend theyāre not staring.ā
You let out a shaky exhale that sounded more like a little laugh. Honest as always, you said,
āIām not staring because youāre conventionally hot or anything. I mean ā okay, maybe you are, but thatās not why.ā You gestured vaguely at him, eyes tracing his frame with open appreciation. āItās your features. The white hair, the pale skin, the way your height makes you look like you stepped out of a different world. Youāre⦠unique. In the best way possible. I photograph things that break the pattern. Things that feel rare. And right now, youāre the most outstanding thing Iāve seen all week.ā
You paused, then added with genuine warmth, almost to yourself, āI like things that donāt fit the mold. Crooked smiles. Weird coffee flavors. Eye colors no one else has. Noses with character. And youāve got all of that.ā
For a long minute he just stared at you, sunglasses still on ā clearly intrigued by you and what you were saying. Like you actually saw him, not just another set of pretty features in the crowd.
Then, slowly, two long fingers slid the rectangular sunglasses down the bridge of his nose.
The world narrowed.
The strangerās face had androgynous features sculpted in the most captivating way ā delicate high cheekbones, a jaw so sharp it could cut, yet still unmistakably masculine. Features that felt almost too elegant for someone with a build like his. He looked as if he had stepped out of a classical painting, and yet he carried an undeniable masculine edge: the strong line of his broad shoulders, the confident set of his posture, the subtle sharpness in his expression that screamed power and self-assurance.
And then came the eyes ā oh, lord. The eyes.
Piercing, icy blue ā so bright and clear they looked like shards of frozen sky, glowing with an intensity that made your pulse stutter. Framed by extremely long, snow-white lashes that curled delicately, catching the light like tiny crystals of frost frozen in place. The contrast against his pale skin and white hair was almost unreal. Beautiful in a way that felt dangerous. Like staring directly at something not meant for human sight.
You were breathless for a long minute. Then you finally spoke.
āYour eyes look like they were cut from ancient glacier iceā¦ā you said, incapable of looking away. āItās like the sky used your irises as a canvas. Absolutely stunning.ā You continued softly, āIāve never seen that exact shade before⦠amazing.ā
The last sentence slipped out more to yourself than to him, but he heard every word.
āāAmazingā, huh?ā His voice was smooth, teasing, with an undercurrent of genuine intrigue. Those piercing blue eyes sparkled with mischief as they roamed over your face ā clearly appreciating how attractive you were in return.
āThatās a new one. Usually itās āstupidly tallā or āhot guy with weird eyes.ā But you⦠youāre looking at me like Iām some kind of living sculpture. And coming from someone as striking as you, that actually means something.ā
You felt heat rush to your cheeks.
He straightened to his full height ā around 190 cm ā towering over you even more noticeably now. His lean, muscular frame filled out the casual black sweater, making the delicate androgynous beauty of his face stand out even more by contrast. The monochrome palette of his clothes only heightened the striking effect against his snowy-white hair and pale skin.
āAlright, bold photographer,ā he grinned, his usual cocky confidence radiating off him. āYouāve got my attention. But only if you tell me your name⦠and what exactly you plan to do with these pictures of my āoutstandingā face and frosty lashes.ā
You smiled, feeling a spark of excitement you hadnāt felt in weeks. āIām [Y/N]. And I plan to capture every unique detail ā if youāll let me. Starting with those eyes that look like they could freeze the whole city⦠and those lashes that look like ice crystals.ā
Gojoās grin widened, playful and intrigued. He leaned down slightly so his face was closer to yours, those long white lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks.
āCute. And bold.ā He tilted his head, white hair falling softly. āTell you what ā Iāll let you take as many pictures as you want⦠but only if you let me buy you one of those weird coffee flavors you mentioned earlier. Deal?ā
You raised your camera, already framing the shot as the golden afternoon light hit his pale skin and icy eyes perfectly.
āDeal.ā
As the shutter clicked, you realized this wasnāt just another outstanding subject.
underground pro fighter!sukuna x fem!reader, modern AU, fluffy comedy, established relationship, sukuna is lowkey a softie
English is not my first language, so if you see any spelling or grammar mistakes, lmk!
enjoy! :3
the underground fight scene worshipped and feared Ryomen Sukuna in equal measure. undefeated in the hidden warehouse cages, pink hair, face tattoos, and a body built like a weapon. People paid a fat amount of money just to watch him destroy opponents in under two rounds. no mercy, no rules, no second chances.
But here, in the dim lights of the cage gym that was basically hisāafter-hours, the king was dealing with something more dangerous than an opponent: his girlfriendĀ
You stood across from him on the worn black mats wearing a tight black sports bra and loose gray sweats that hung low on your hips. Hair tied back, sneakers squeaking softly as you bounced on your toes with way too much eager.
Sukunaāshirtless in black shorts, with his big arms crossed over his broad tattoed chest, glared down at you like you personally offended him.
āThis is lame. I am not sparing with youā He grunted.
You pouted, stepping closer. āCome on, ākuna. You have been promising youāll teach me real moves for weeks. A little. Go suuuper light. I am even wearing sweats and everythingā you have to see my footwork, right?ā
He clicked his tongue, jaw tight, and then, he exhaled ā clearly regretted every choice that led to dating you, he finally dropped his arms.
āFine. Light. You move wrong, we stop. No whining.ā You grinned.
He started slow. Holding his palms up like focus mitts, he walked you through jab-cross combinations, correcting your stance with rough but careful hands on your elbows and waist. His voice stayed low and mocking, but he never let you throw anything sloppy.
You were actually getting better, sweat starting to dampen your sports bra as your sweats swished with each step. Sukuna watched every movement with sharp eyes, occasionally grunting something that implied approval when you got a movement correct.
After a while you got bold.
āOkay, now letās actually spar. Just pretend fighting. You can go feather-light, I swear.ā
āPlease, ākuna. I trust you. Just for fun.ā You looked at sukuna, batting your lashes. āPlease?ā
He stared at you for a long beat. Then, with a heavy sigh that sounded like it came from the depths of hell and defeat, he raised his hands.
āMove when I move. Nothing real. If I think itās too much, it ends.ā HE scolded. āAm I making myself clear?ā
The drill was simple: slow, controlled strikes in the air near you while you practiced slipping and blocking. He kept everything telegraphed and gentle, treating you like you might broke if he hit the wrong place. Your gray sweats brushed against your legs as you dodged his lazy hooks.
Everything was fine until you got too eager.
You stepped in aggressively as Sukuna was pulling back from a slow palm strike meant to stop near of your shoulder. His hand clipped the side of your left boob ā a solid but unintentional smack from his calloused palm against the thin fabric of your sports bra. Not hardā Not even close to his real power. But it made a sharp thwack sound and sent a quick stinging jolt through your chest.
You yelped, immediately clutching the spot with both hands and bending forward a little.
Sukuna froze completely.
His crimson eyes blew wide, the usual cocky smirk wiped clean off his face.Ā
For a split second the underground champion looked genuinely scaredā hand still hovering in the air, body rigid like heād been electrocuted.
āFuck,ā he said under his breath, forward instantly. His big hands reached out but stopped just near of touching you, hovering with worry. His jaw clenched tight, breathing a little faster than normal. He scanned your face and the way you were holding your chest, clearly fighting the urge to pull you against him right there.
You played it up dramatically, wincing and whining in your sweats.
āOw⦠ākuna, that actually stung. I think you knocked it crooked or something. My poor boob might be done forā¦ā
He didnāt laugh. Didnāt snap back with his usual cockiness. Instead he stayed dead silent for another moment, eyes dark with rare, visible concern. One large hand finally moved carefully toward you, gently prying one of your hands away so he could see the spot, his touch feather-light despite the calluses.
You couldnāt hold the act anymore.
Your shoulders started shaking, then you exploded in laugher ā loud, wheezing giggles that made you double over, tears forming at the corners of your eyes while still clutching your sports bra.
Sukuna blinked.
āYou little shit,ā he growled, but relief flooded his expression so obviously his shoulders relaxed. A deep, reluctant rumble of laughter started rolling out of his chest as he rubbed a hand down his face, trying and failing to look annoyed.Ā
āYou were fucking with me the whole time? I thought I actually hit you too hard, you dramatic brat.ā
You straightened up, still laughing out of breath, cheeks flushed. āYour face! The big bad underground fighter looking all worried over one little tap. Priceless.ā
He huffed, but there was no real heat in it. Without another word he closed the distance and wrapped his big arms around you, pulling you flush against his sweaty, tattooed chest. One big hand came up to rub slow, careful circles right over the spot heād accidentally hit, his palm warm and soothing through your sports bra.Ā
He held you there tighter than necessary, chin resting on top of your head, quietly making sure you were actually okay without ever saying it.
āShut up,ā he muttered into your hair, voice low and gruff, but his hand kept gently massaging the area like he was afraid it might still hurt. āYouāre banned from the gym. Next time you pull this shit Iām pinning you down and weāre doing things my way.ā
You nuzzled into him, still giggling softly, your gray sweats tangled with his legs on the gym floor.
āPromise?ā
He only grunted, arms tightening around you as another quiet laugh escaped him.
Yeah. best training session youād ever had.
I was laughing sooo hard while imagining this and when I was writing it. Hope you guys, liked it.
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underground pro fighter!sukuna x fem!reader, modern AU, fluffy comedy, established relationship, sukuna is lowkey a softie
English is not my first language, so if you see any spelling or grammar mistakes, lmk!
enjoy! :3
the underground fight scene worshipped and feared Ryomen Sukuna in equal measure. undefeated in the hidden warehouse cages, pink hair, face tattoos, and a body built like a weapon. People paid a fat amount of money just to watch him destroy opponents in under two rounds. no mercy, no rules, no second chances.
But here, in the dim lights of the cage gym that was basically hisāafter-hours, the king was dealing with something more dangerous than an opponent: his girlfriendĀ
You stood across from him on the worn black mats wearing a tight black sports bra and loose gray sweats that hung low on your hips. Hair tied back, sneakers squeaking softly as you bounced on your toes with way too much eager.
Sukunaāshirtless in black shorts, with his big arms crossed over his broad tattoed chest, glared down at you like you personally offended him.
āThis is lame. I am not sparing with youā He grunted.
You pouted, stepping closer. āCome on, ākuna. You have been promising youāll teach me real moves for weeks. A little. Go suuuper light. I am even wearing sweats and everythingā you have to see my footwork, right?ā
He clicked his tongue, jaw tight, and then, he exhaled ā clearly regretted every choice that led to dating you, he finally dropped his arms.
āFine. Light. You move wrong, we stop. No whining.ā You grinned.
He started slow. Holding his palms up like focus mitts, he walked you through jab-cross combinations, correcting your stance with rough but careful hands on your elbows and waist. His voice stayed low and mocking, but he never let you throw anything sloppy.
You were actually getting better, sweat starting to dampen your sports bra as your sweats swished with each step. Sukuna watched every movement with sharp eyes, occasionally grunting something that implied approval when you got a movement correct.
After a while you got bold.
āOkay, now letās actually spar. Just pretend fighting. You can go feather-light, I swear.ā
āPlease, ākuna. I trust you. Just for fun.ā You looked at sukuna, batting your lashes. āPlease?ā
He stared at you for a long beat. Then, with a heavy sigh that sounded like it came from the depths of hell and defeat, he raised his hands.
āMove when I move. Nothing real. If I think itās too much, it ends.ā HE scolded. āAm I making myself clear?ā
The drill was simple: slow, controlled strikes in the air near you while you practiced slipping and blocking. He kept everything telegraphed and gentle, treating you like you might broke if he hit the wrong place. Your gray sweats brushed against your legs as you dodged his lazy hooks.
Everything was fine until you got too eager.
You stepped in aggressively as Sukuna was pulling back from a slow palm strike meant to stop near of your shoulder. His hand clipped the side of your left boob ā a solid but unintentional smack from his calloused palm against the thin fabric of your sports bra. Not hardā Not even close to his real power. But it made a sharp thwack sound and sent a quick stinging jolt through your chest.
You yelped, immediately clutching the spot with both hands and bending forward a little.
Sukuna froze completely.
His crimson eyes blew wide, the usual cocky smirk wiped clean off his face.Ā
For a split second the underground champion looked genuinely scaredā hand still hovering in the air, body rigid like heād been electrocuted.
āFuck,ā he said under his breath, forward instantly. His big hands reached out but stopped just near of touching you, hovering with worry. His jaw clenched tight, breathing a little faster than normal. He scanned your face and the way you were holding your chest, clearly fighting the urge to pull you against him right there.
You played it up dramatically, wincing and whining in your sweats.
āOw⦠ākuna, that actually stung. I think you knocked it crooked or something. My poor boob might be done forā¦ā
He didnāt laugh. Didnāt snap back with his usual cockiness. Instead he stayed dead silent for another moment, eyes dark with rare, visible concern. One large hand finally moved carefully toward you, gently prying one of your hands away so he could see the spot, his touch feather-light despite the calluses.
You couldnāt hold the act anymore.
Your shoulders started shaking, then you exploded in laugher ā loud, wheezing giggles that made you double over, tears forming at the corners of your eyes while still clutching your sports bra.
Sukuna blinked.
āYou little shit,ā he growled, but relief flooded his expression so obviously his shoulders relaxed. A deep, reluctant rumble of laughter started rolling out of his chest as he rubbed a hand down his face, trying and failing to look annoyed.Ā
āYou were fucking with me the whole time? I thought I actually hit you too hard, you dramatic brat.ā
You straightened up, still laughing out of breath, cheeks flushed. āYour face! The big bad underground fighter looking all worried over one little tap. Priceless.ā
He huffed, but there was no real heat in it. Without another word he closed the distance and wrapped his big arms around you, pulling you flush against his sweaty, tattooed chest. One big hand came up to rub slow, careful circles right over the spot heād accidentally hit, his palm warm and soothing through your sports bra.Ā
He held you there tighter than necessary, chin resting on top of your head, quietly making sure you were actually okay without ever saying it.
āShut up,ā he muttered into your hair, voice low and gruff, but his hand kept gently massaging the area like he was afraid it might still hurt. āYouāre banned from the gym. Next time you pull this shit Iām pinning you down and weāre doing things my way.ā
You nuzzled into him, still giggling softly, your gray sweats tangled with his legs on the gym floor.
āPromise?ā
He only grunted, arms tightening around you as another quiet laugh escaped him.
Yeah. best training session youād ever had.
I was laughing sooo hard while imagining this and when I was writing it. Hope you guys, liked it.
English is not my first language so lmk if you see any spelling or grammar mistakes. thank you!
cw: 720
Megumi listens you play the harp for the first time!
You and Megumi had been together for a couple of months now, of course you have talked about your interest, all of them. But you havenāt told him about your passion for the harp. Not because there was something wrong with it, it's just that it was a quite personal and quite close to your heart for just anyone to know about it.
The afternoon sun slants through the half open curtains of your apartmentās living room, painting your skin like a canvas, giving the golden glow of the sunset to your face. Dust motes drift lazily in the golden light, catching on the polished wood and the taut strings of the harp like tiny, suspended secrets. You were sitting on the low stoolā barefoot; your hands already curved and resting on the strings of your one meter and sixty harp.Ā
You were playing a new piece you have been working on lately: Vogel im KƤfig: Quiet challenging, but it was worth the sleepless nights and calloused fingers. Youāve been perfecting it the last couple of days, so now you were getting better. You hesitate one last breathāthen your fingers find the familiar opening: the soft, shimmering glissando that begins Vogel im KƤfig. The piece youāve only ever played in secret, the one that starts like a fragile dream of freedom and ends in aching resignation. The very first notes spill outādelicate, almost hesitant, like light filtering through colored glass.Ā
Your posture shifts unconsciously: your tense shoulder now are relaxing, your back gently arched, like if you were hugging the harp. Your graceful hands are moving with liquid precision, your eyes are now closed, now fully emerged with the melody, seeing stars behind your lids with every pluck you make, all of them perfectly tuned and melodic. The world narrows to the vibration under your fingertips, the subtle give of each wire, the way the soundboard breathes back at you. Your breathing syncs with the phrasing: shallow and even in the tender opening section, deeper and more controlled as the harmony darkens, the chords thickening into something heavier, more desperate.
You were so focused on the piece you were playing that you didnāt hear the door slide open and the paused, precise footsteps of your boyfriend.
Megumi stands in the door frame. Heās still in his uniform jacket, the top button undone like always lately when itās just the two of you. One hand stays in his pocket; the other hovers uncertainly on the doorframe like heās debating whether heās allowed to interrupt, so he just stays there, watching you and your graceful hands.
Your focus is absoluteāno glance his way, no self-consciousness. Just you and the piece, pouring every quiet longing youāve ever buried into the strings. The hopeful lilt of the first half gives way to the storm: your fingers accelerate, still graceful, still controlled, but now carrying weightāplucking with fierce clarity, letting the dissonant builds ring out raw. Yet even in the intensity, your movements remain poised, almost serene, a quiet strength that makes the contrast.
When the final, fading lament drifts into silence. You let your palms flat against the strings and finally, you tuck a proud smirk tom yourself: you nailed it. You exhale slowly, like surfacing from underwater.
You now open your eyes, and the first thing you see is Megumiās relaxed features and his beautiful dark blue eyes seeing through your soul and you look away. You freeze for half a second and then your lips curve into a forced, casual smile, without really meeting his gaze.Ā
āMegumiāā
He now pushes off the wall, steps forward slowly, stepfootsĀ soft on the tatami.
āDidnāt mean to sneak up,ā he murmurs, voice rough from disuse or exhaustion. āYou were⦠gone.ā
You feel heat rise in your cheeks. Exposed again, but different this timeānot just the music, but the fact that he saw you so completely unguarded, wrapped up in something youāve always kept private.
āI didnāt hear you come back.ā Your voice is quieter than you intend. āHow longā?ā
āLong enough.ā He stops a meter away, close enough that you can see the small cut above his eyebrow, the way his jacket smells faintly of smoke and outdoors. His eyes flick to the harp, then back to your face. āThe whole thing. It was⦠beautiful.ā
Hello, this is my very first time writing here in Tumblr. I hope you guys liked it! please help me liking if you liked this.
English is not my first language so lmk if you see any spelling or grammar mistakes. thank you!
cw: 720
Megumi listens you play the harp for the first time!
You and Megumi had been together for a couple of months now, of course you have talked about your interest, all of them. But you havenāt told him about your passion for the harp. Not because there was something wrong with it, it's just that it was a quite personal and quite close to your heart for just anyone to know about it.
The afternoon sun slants through the half open curtains of your apartmentās living room, painting your skin like a canvas, giving the golden glow of the sunset to your face. Dust motes drift lazily in the golden light, catching on the polished wood and the taut strings of the harp like tiny, suspended secrets. You were sitting on the low stoolā barefoot; your hands already curved and resting on the strings of your one meter and sixty harp.Ā
You were playing a new piece you have been working on lately: Vogel im KƤfig: Quiet challenging, but it was worth the sleepless nights and calloused fingers. Youāve been perfecting it the last couple of days, so now you were getting better. You hesitate one last breathāthen your fingers find the familiar opening: the soft, shimmering glissando that begins Vogel im KƤfig. The piece youāve only ever played in secret, the one that starts like a fragile dream of freedom and ends in aching resignation. The very first notes spill outādelicate, almost hesitant, like light filtering through colored glass.Ā
Your posture shifts unconsciously: your tense shoulder now are relaxing, your back gently arched, like if you were hugging the harp. Your graceful hands are moving with liquid precision, your eyes are now closed, now fully emerged with the melody, seeing stars behind your lids with every pluck you make, all of them perfectly tuned and melodic. The world narrows to the vibration under your fingertips, the subtle give of each wire, the way the soundboard breathes back at you. Your breathing syncs with the phrasing: shallow and even in the tender opening section, deeper and more controlled as the harmony darkens, the chords thickening into something heavier, more desperate.
You were so focused on the piece you were playing that you didnāt hear the door slide open and the paused, precise footsteps of your boyfriend.
Megumi stands in the door frame. Heās still in his uniform jacket, the top button undone like always lately when itās just the two of you. One hand stays in his pocket; the other hovers uncertainly on the doorframe like heās debating whether heās allowed to interrupt, so he just stays there, watching you and your graceful hands.
Your focus is absoluteāno glance his way, no self-consciousness. Just you and the piece, pouring every quiet longing youāve ever buried into the strings. The hopeful lilt of the first half gives way to the storm: your fingers accelerate, still graceful, still controlled, but now carrying weightāplucking with fierce clarity, letting the dissonant builds ring out raw. Yet even in the intensity, your movements remain poised, almost serene, a quiet strength that makes the contrast.
When the final, fading lament drifts into silence. You let your palms flat against the strings and finally, you tuck a proud smirk tom yourself: you nailed it. You exhale slowly, like surfacing from underwater.
You now open your eyes, and the first thing you see is Megumiās relaxed features and his beautiful dark blue eyes seeing through your soul and you look away. You freeze for half a second and then your lips curve into a forced, casual smile, without really meeting his gaze.Ā
āMegumiāā
He now pushes off the wall, steps forward slowly, stepfootsĀ soft on the tatami.
āDidnāt mean to sneak up,ā he murmurs, voice rough from disuse or exhaustion. āYou were⦠gone.ā
You feel heat rise in your cheeks. Exposed again, but different this timeānot just the music, but the fact that he saw you so completely unguarded, wrapped up in something youāve always kept private.
āI didnāt hear you come back.ā Your voice is quieter than you intend. āHow longā?ā
āLong enough.ā He stops a meter away, close enough that you can see the small cut above his eyebrow, the way his jacket smells faintly of smoke and outdoors. His eyes flick to the harp, then back to your face. āThe whole thing. It was⦠beautiful.ā
Hello, this is my very first time writing here in Tumblr. I hope you guys liked it! please help me liking if you liked this.
CONTENT: fem!reader is in a stable relationship, has a secret crush on megumi, slight angst, emotional infidelity, cheating thoughts, love triangle, sexual content (smut), masturbation, sexual fantasies, fingering, fem!reader is a yearner, aged up!megumi
based in the song "I Love my boyfriend" by Princess Chelsea
The rooftop of the main building is one of the few places where I actually feel in peace after training. The wind has the faint scent of pines from the surrounding mountains and the smell of wet earth. And the city sprawls far below like a distant dream. The night is cold. A thin, cold breeze slips under my clothes like nervous fingers.Ā
My boyfriend is sitting beside me, his eyes admiring the scenery, sharing a cold drink from the venting machine. My head is resting on his shoulder, watching the clouds drift.
Itās simple, comfortable.
I love my boyfriend.
Heās good to me like this ā simple, undemanding, caring. The good that makes you wonder if evilness exists when you are around him. He is all I could ask for.
We stay like that for a while, until the can is empty and I feel him shift in his place. I take the hint and move my head off his shoulder.Ā
āI am sleepy, darling. Iāll go to sleep to my room.ā He says and I nod, looking at him. āThatās okayā he takes the can and put it on his lap to and then his calloused thumb found my cheekbone ā slow, deliberate, like a man trying to memorize silk with hands made for stone. Then his mouth was on mine. His lips were dry against mine. When we ran out of breath, he looked at me.
āGoodnight. I love youā His thumb left my cheek and stand up. He didnāt give me time to answer and he walked away.
I stayed there, watching the vast sky canvas. A labyrinth of distant, shiny body starts I always loved the color of the sky at this time of the day. The darkest and with most depth shade of blue ā not the pale wash of twilight, but a profound, velvety indigo that feels like the final breath before true black. It's the color of forgotten ocean trenches at midnight. And itās also the color of somebodyās eyes. That same deep, grieving indigo, so dark it felt like mourning cloth draped over the stars.
Thatās when I heard him: the soft creak of the roof tiles behind you. It's subtle, almost swallowed by the wind, footsteps follow: measured, unhurried, the familiar quiet cadence of someone who never wastes movement. When you look over your shoulder, you see him.
Megumi Fushiguro.Ā
Megumi emerges onto the roof, with his hands in his pockets, surely looking for the same solitude after summoning shikigamis for a while. Oh, Megumi Fushiguro.
He stops short when he sees me. His gaze sweep the place, then it places on me. Then I look at him back.
His unmistakeable gaze. The darkest shade of indigo, framed by those ridiculously long and dark lashes, framing his majestic, beautiful face ā all sharp, clean lines and quiet allure. The breeze tugs at his jet black hair and for a second the moonlight light catches his features just right, making him look almost ethereal, otherworldly ā like an angel sent from a god that heard my prayers āor a fairytale dark knight coming for my rescue.
He notices me noticing. He also notices how attractive I look with the cold breeze playing with my hair, the soft flush on my skin. His calm, stoic expression doesnāt change but he holds the eye contact more than usual. Thatās when he finally spoke.
āI thought no one was hereā He said, lifting his gaze to the beautiful dark sky.
The rooftop feels suddenly smaller with him standing there, the wind carrying the faint pine scent between us like a secret it canāt quite keep.
āI thought no one was hereā He repeats again, quieter this time as if the words are more for himself than for me. He doesnāt move closer, but he doesnāt leave either. His hands stay buried in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the coldā justĀ how I had imagined they would. Like when heās thinking too loud.
I swallow. The aftermath of my boyfriendās kiss is still on my lipsācool, polite, familiarābut now it feels like itās dissolving under the weight of Megumiās gaze. My thighs press together instinctively. Heat blooms low in my belly, sudden and humiliating, because I have touched my needy cunt, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my shorts while I pictured himāMegumiās mouth on my throat, his calloused hands pinning my wrists above my head, that low, steady voice murmuring my name like it was a command instead of a question. I came so hard I had to bite my own arm to keep quiet.
And now heās here.
I can feel my face burning and the dampness between my legs. I tug my jacket tighter around myself like it could hide the way my body and common sense is betraying me right in front of him.
āI wasā¦ā my words clumsy ā how they would not? He is standing right behind me. āā¦just staying a little longerā I manage to finish the sentence. My voice sounds thin and unsteady.
He nodsā once, economical. And his eyes flick to the emptyĀ space beside me ā where my boyfriend was sitting not too long ago.
His head tilts maybe a centimeterāacknowledgment, nothing more. His gaze slides sideways, catches mine for a beat longer than necessary. Electric. A pulse jumps in my throat, between my legs, everywhere at once. Iām so wet itās starting to feel obscene, like if I stood up thereād be a dark spot on the tiles. My nipples are tight under my shirt from the cold and from him and I cross my arms tighter to hide it.Ā
He looks away first. Back to the city. And there I am, looking at him like he is a piece of art, and probably he is. At least for me.
āYou should head down,ā he says, quiet. āItās coldā
Translation: I know you are not alone. I know you are taken. I wonāt be the reason if anything breaks.
Thatās what he actually meant, but he would never admit it out loud. He doesnāt do that. But in the careful space between us, there is something buried, hidden.
āYeah. I guess I should go.ā I say while I stand up. I notice Megumi follows me with that pretty pair of eyes he has. I feel so seen right now.
Then it happens.
A sound escapes himābarely there, a low, rough exhale that catches in his throat and turns into the softest, most involuntary moan Iāve ever heard from him. Like the weight of looking at me is too much even for him. Like heās fighting something and losing, just for that split second.
What the hell.
My whole body is tense right now. Heat floods me so fast that my vision blurs. A fresh rush of wetness soaks my underwear. A tiny, helpless whimper slips out of me before I can stop it.
I am gone.
I scramble to my feet so fast I almost slip on the tiles. āIāI have to go,ā I stammer, voice cracking, not even looking at him. My face is red, my pulse is everywhere. I canāt breathe with him watching me like that, canāt stand there knowing he just made that sound because of me.
ā¦
Iām in my room, door locked, back pressed to the wood like it can hold back whatever just cracked open inside me.
Then the fantasies crash in, relentless, filthy, unstoppable.
I throw my head back, resting it against the cold wood of my door. My knees buckle outward, losing strength. The knot in my belly tightensālust-filled spasms, a reminder of my unfaithful soul. But it hurts so exquisitely that when I close my eyelids and my eyes, now my eyes lie captive behind trembling prison bars of lash and lid, every bar drenched in the slow, shining liquor of arousal, the only thing I can see isn't my boyfriendāit's those precious eyes, the color of a stormy ocean, the deepest shade of sapphire, which instead of reflecting the light, only traps itāframed by silken fringes that veil starlit eyes.
I slide down the door until my ass hits the floor, knees drawn up, forehead pressed to them like I can fold myself small enough to disappear. The wood is cool against my back, but nothing cools the fire crawling under my skin.
set in a face so sharp it could cut. I see him again: the way the moonlight carved his features ethereal, the low rough sound he made when he looked at me ā not planned, not controlled, just raw and involuntary. Like even stoic Megumi Fushiguro has a breaking point, and I was it.
My hand moves before I can stop it. Slips under the waistband again, fingers finding the slick mess I already made earlier tonight. I'm so swollen, so sensitive, that the first touch makes me gasp ā sharp, needy. I bite my lip so hard that I could taste copper.
But I love my boyfriend.
He's good to me. He's a good man.
He takes care of me when I need it.
He's the one I wantā¦
The words repeat like a broken record, the correct thing to say. But they sound thinner now, drowned under the wet slide of my fingers circling, pressing, chasing the memory of that sound he made. A moan.Ā
Still, every time I look into his pretty eyes
I think of all the things we haven't even tried.
I imagine itā his calloused hand instead of mine, while the other keeps me steady by the hip, grip so hard itāll bruise. His mouth on my throat, not dry and simple like the kiss I received earlier, but hungry, but slowlyāthe way Megumi would kiss me. The raspy sound of his voice, calling my name, softly, like a secret.Ā
I keep replaying how those pretty, soft lips of his would swell under my greedy mouth,
how they would turn glossy and helplessly plump from the way I devour them,
and every time I think of it my fingers circle faster ā
because even memory can bruise lips beautifully.
I imagine biting down just enough to make him hiss,
to force that low, involuntary moan out of his throat again ā proof Iāve cracked the cold shell.
Then he turns it.
One large hand snaps around my wrist, pins it high above my head with bruising force. The other fists my hair at the nape, yanks my head back to expose my throat. Those sapphire eyes lock on mineācalm, dark, utterly in controlāwhile his body slams mine against the wall, hips grinding slow and deliberate so I feel every thick inch of him pressing against my soaked cunt through our clothes. He doesnāt speak at first. Just lets me feel how hard Iāve made him, how little effort it takes for him to hold me still while I am a mess of squirm and whimper.
My legs are buckling, it's just too much. His grip on my wrists loosens ā not mercy, but promise ā
and his freed hand begins its slow descent:
calloused palm gliding over the fragile cage of my ribs, feeling the contour of my ribsāfeeling them rise and fall in frantic rhythm beneath his touch. His eyes always following.
His hand travels flat lower to my stomach, then lower until he finally cups my cunt ā damp, needy for him and his touch. I can see how his pupils are now blown from arousal. His dark blue eyes now black.
His long fingers tease the slick entrance of me, parting my pussylips just enough to make me gasp.
I love my boyfriend.
The thought caresses me like a gust of wind, chills my skin, but its effect is fleeting. I feel guilty, truly. ā even more so when two of Megumi's long fingers slide into my wet cunt with embarrassing ease. Lord, I am so wet for him.Ā
A startled hymn broke from my lips ā
brief, bright, like a bird startled into song
by the sudden warmth of dawn inside its throat.Ā
I imagine how he stretches my velvety walls, making me clench around his digits. His indigo orbs stays fixed on my face, frowned in arousal. He curls them while his thumb settles over my clit and begins circling it. It aches so deliciously.
I love my boyfriend.
Heās good to me.
Heās kind.
He would neverā
The sentence fractures, drowned by the wet, obscene sound of his fingers pumping in and out of my cunt, making my eyes roll back in pure lust. He starts slow, calculatedāthen faster, deeper, the heel of his hand hitting my entrance with each thrust. My thighs shake and my hand is now in Megumiās shoulder for support. I try to close my legs instinctively to hide how shamelessly Iām leaking for him, but his free hand grips my inner thigh and forces it wider.
āNone of that,ā he murmurs, voice low and rough against my ear, lips brushing the lobe. āYou wanted this. Let me see how much.ā
Guilt surges ā hot, bitter, twisting like a knife ā because heās right. I did want this. Iāve wanted this for months while the good man who loves me slept beside me untouched, waiting. The shame only makes it worse, makes my cunt clench harder around his fingers, making my hips roll into his hand.
I love my boyfriend.
He takes care of me.
Heās the one I shouldā
But the overthinking dissolves into a broken whimper as Megumi adds a third finger, stretching me wider, the burn so exquisite my back arches off the wall.Ā
His thumb flicks faster over my clit, tight, precise circles that make my vision spot ā while his curled fingers keep stroking that spot inside, over and over, building the pressure until it feels like Iām going to shatter.
āYouāre clenching so hard,ā he says quietly, almost whispering.āLike youāre scared Iāll stop.ā
His swollen lips ā still glossy and puffy from the way I attacked them earlier ā brush my jaw. āI wonāt. Not until you come all over my hand⦠and admit who youāre really thinking about.ā
The guilt spikes again ā vicious, electric ā and itās the final push.
I cum with a choked sob, my walls spasming violently around his fingers. My fluids floods his palm and my thighs tremble so badly he has to pin me harder against the wall to keep me upright. My nails dig into his shoulders as wave after wave crashes through me, his name tearing silently from my throat while tears slide hot down my cheeks.
When he finally pulls off, his hand is glistening, coated in my juices.
He brings it to my lips ā not forcing, just offering ā and I taste myself on his skin, salt and shame and him.
I slump against the door in reality, fingers still buried inside myself, mimicking the rhythm he set in my head. My chest heaves. My face is wet from sweating.
I love my boyfriend, I whisper again ā cracked, barely audible.
But the echo in my body answers something else entirely:
Next timeā¦
I wonāt need to imagine his fingers.
Iāll beg for them.
And the guilt will only make it sweeter.
I finally finished this. I hope you guys liked it!<3
CONTENT: fem!reader is in a stable relationship, has a secret crush on megumi, slight angst, emotional infidelity, cheating thoughts, love triangle, sexual content (smut), masturbation, sexual fantasies, fingering, fem!reader is a yearner, aged up!megumi
based in the song "I Love my boyfriend" by Princess Chelsea
The rooftop of the main building is one of the few places where I actually feel in peace after training. The wind has the faint scent of pines from the surrounding mountains and the smell of wet earth. And the city sprawls far below like a distant dream. The night is cold. A thin, cold breeze slips under my clothes like nervous fingers.Ā
My boyfriend is sitting beside me, his eyes admiring the scenery, sharing a cold drink from the venting machine. My head is resting on his shoulder, watching the clouds drift.
Itās simple, comfortable.
I love my boyfriend.
Heās good to me like this ā simple, undemanding, caring. The good that makes you wonder if evilness exists when you are around him. He is all I could ask for.
We stay like that for a while, until the can is empty and I feel him shift in his place. I take the hint and move my head off his shoulder.Ā
āI am sleepy, darling. Iāll go to sleep to my room.ā He says and I nod, looking at him. āThatās okayā he takes the can and put it on his lap to and then his calloused thumb found my cheekbone ā slow, deliberate, like a man trying to memorize silk with hands made for stone. Then his mouth was on mine. His lips were dry against mine. When we ran out of breath, he looked at me.
āGoodnight. I love youā His thumb left my cheek and stand up. He didnāt give me time to answer and he walked away.
I stayed there, watching the vast sky canvas. A labyrinth of distant, shiny body starts I always loved the color of the sky at this time of the day. The darkest and with most depth shade of blue ā not the pale wash of twilight, but a profound, velvety indigo that feels like the final breath before true black. It's the color of forgotten ocean trenches at midnight. And itās also the color of somebodyās eyes. That same deep, grieving indigo, so dark it felt like mourning cloth draped over the stars.
Thatās when I heard him: the soft creak of the roof tiles behind you. It's subtle, almost swallowed by the wind, footsteps follow: measured, unhurried, the familiar quiet cadence of someone who never wastes movement. When you look over your shoulder, you see him.
Megumi Fushiguro.Ā
Megumi emerges onto the roof, with his hands in his pockets, surely looking for the same solitude after summoning shikigamis for a while. Oh, Megumi Fushiguro.
He stops short when he sees me. His gaze sweep the place, then it places on me. Then I look at him back.
His unmistakeable gaze. The darkest shade of indigo, framed by those ridiculously long and dark lashes, framing his majestic, beautiful face ā all sharp, clean lines and quiet allure. The breeze tugs at his jet black hair and for a second the moonlight light catches his features just right, making him look almost ethereal, otherworldly ā like an angel sent from a god that heard my prayers āor a fairytale dark knight coming for my rescue.
He notices me noticing. He also notices how attractive I look with the cold breeze playing with my hair, the soft flush on my skin. His calm, stoic expression doesnāt change but he holds the eye contact more than usual. Thatās when he finally spoke.
āI thought no one was hereā He said, lifting his gaze to the beautiful dark sky.
The rooftop feels suddenly smaller with him standing there, the wind carrying the faint pine scent between us like a secret it canāt quite keep.
āI thought no one was hereā He repeats again, quieter this time as if the words are more for himself than for me. He doesnāt move closer, but he doesnāt leave either. His hands stay buried in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the coldā justĀ how I had imagined they would. Like when heās thinking too loud.
I swallow. The aftermath of my boyfriendās kiss is still on my lipsācool, polite, familiarābut now it feels like itās dissolving under the weight of Megumiās gaze. My thighs press together instinctively. Heat blooms low in my belly, sudden and humiliating, because I have touched my needy cunt, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my shorts while I pictured himāMegumiās mouth on my throat, his calloused hands pinning my wrists above my head, that low, steady voice murmuring my name like it was a command instead of a question. I came so hard I had to bite my own arm to keep quiet.
And now heās here.
I can feel my face burning and the dampness between my legs. I tug my jacket tighter around myself like it could hide the way my body and common sense is betraying me right in front of him.
āI wasā¦ā my words clumsy ā how they would not? He is standing right behind me. āā¦just staying a little longerā I manage to finish the sentence. My voice sounds thin and unsteady.
He nodsā once, economical. And his eyes flick to the emptyĀ space beside me ā where my boyfriend was sitting not too long ago.
His head tilts maybe a centimeterāacknowledgment, nothing more. His gaze slides sideways, catches mine for a beat longer than necessary. Electric. A pulse jumps in my throat, between my legs, everywhere at once. Iām so wet itās starting to feel obscene, like if I stood up thereād be a dark spot on the tiles. My nipples are tight under my shirt from the cold and from him and I cross my arms tighter to hide it.Ā
He looks away first. Back to the city. And there I am, looking at him like he is a piece of art, and probably he is. At least for me.
āYou should head down,ā he says, quiet. āItās coldā
Translation: I know you are not alone. I know you are taken. I wonāt be the reason if anything breaks.
Thatās what he actually meant, but he would never admit it out loud. He doesnāt do that. But in the careful space between us, there is something buried, hidden.
āYeah. I guess I should go.ā I say while I stand up. I notice Megumi follows me with that pretty pair of eyes he has. I feel so seen right now.
Then it happens.
A sound escapes himābarely there, a low, rough exhale that catches in his throat and turns into the softest, most involuntary moan Iāve ever heard from him. Like the weight of looking at me is too much even for him. Like heās fighting something and losing, just for that split second.
What the hell.
My whole body is tense right now. Heat floods me so fast that my vision blurs. A fresh rush of wetness soaks my underwear. A tiny, helpless whimper slips out of me before I can stop it.
I am gone.
I scramble to my feet so fast I almost slip on the tiles. āIāI have to go,ā I stammer, voice cracking, not even looking at him. My face is red, my pulse is everywhere. I canāt breathe with him watching me like that, canāt stand there knowing he just made that sound because of me.
ā¦
Iām in my room, door locked, back pressed to the wood like it can hold back whatever just cracked open inside me.
Then the fantasies crash in, relentless, filthy, unstoppable.
I throw my head back, resting it against the cold wood of my door. My knees buckle outward, losing strength. The knot in my belly tightensālust-filled spasms, a reminder of my unfaithful soul. But it hurts so exquisitely that when I close my eyelids and my eyes, now my eyes lie captive behind trembling prison bars of lash and lid, every bar drenched in the slow, shining liquor of arousal, the only thing I can see isn't my boyfriendāit's those precious eyes, the color of a stormy ocean, the deepest shade of sapphire, which instead of reflecting the light, only traps itāframed by silken fringes that veil starlit eyes.
I slide down the door until my ass hits the floor, knees drawn up, forehead pressed to them like I can fold myself small enough to disappear. The wood is cool against my back, but nothing cools the fire crawling under my skin.
set in a face so sharp it could cut. I see him again: the way the moonlight carved his features ethereal, the low rough sound he made when he looked at me ā not planned, not controlled, just raw and involuntary. Like even stoic Megumi Fushiguro has a breaking point, and I was it.
My hand moves before I can stop it. Slips under the waistband again, fingers finding the slick mess I already made earlier tonight. I'm so swollen, so sensitive, that the first touch makes me gasp ā sharp, needy. I bite my lip so hard that I could taste copper.
But I love my boyfriend.
He's good to me. He's a good man.
He takes care of me when I need it.
He's the one I wantā¦
The words repeat like a broken record, the correct thing to say. But they sound thinner now, drowned under the wet slide of my fingers circling, pressing, chasing the memory of that sound he made. A moan.Ā
Still, every time I look into his pretty eyes
I think of all the things we haven't even tried.
I imagine itā his calloused hand instead of mine, while the other keeps me steady by the hip, grip so hard itāll bruise. His mouth on my throat, not dry and simple like the kiss I received earlier, but hungry, but slowlyāthe way Megumi would kiss me. The raspy sound of his voice, calling my name, softly, like a secret.Ā
I keep replaying how those pretty, soft lips of his would swell under my greedy mouth,
how they would turn glossy and helplessly plump from the way I devour them,
and every time I think of it my fingers circle faster ā
because even memory can bruise lips beautifully.
I imagine biting down just enough to make him hiss,
to force that low, involuntary moan out of his throat again ā proof Iāve cracked the cold shell.
Then he turns it.
One large hand snaps around my wrist, pins it high above my head with bruising force. The other fists my hair at the nape, yanks my head back to expose my throat. Those sapphire eyes lock on mineācalm, dark, utterly in controlāwhile his body slams mine against the wall, hips grinding slow and deliberate so I feel every thick inch of him pressing against my soaked cunt through our clothes. He doesnāt speak at first. Just lets me feel how hard Iāve made him, how little effort it takes for him to hold me still while I am a mess of squirm and whimper.
My legs are buckling, it's just too much. His grip on my wrists loosens ā not mercy, but promise ā
and his freed hand begins its slow descent:
calloused palm gliding over the fragile cage of my ribs, feeling the contour of my ribsāfeeling them rise and fall in frantic rhythm beneath his touch. His eyes always following.
His hand travels flat lower to my stomach, then lower until he finally cups my cunt ā damp, needy for him and his touch. I can see how his pupils are now blown from arousal. His dark blue eyes now black.
His long fingers tease the slick entrance of me, parting my pussylips just enough to make me gasp.
I love my boyfriend.
The thought caresses me like a gust of wind, chills my skin, but its effect is fleeting. I feel guilty, truly. ā even more so when two of Megumi's long fingers slide into my wet cunt with embarrassing ease. Lord, I am so wet for him.Ā
A startled hymn broke from my lips ā
brief, bright, like a bird startled into song
by the sudden warmth of dawn inside its throat.Ā
I imagine how he stretches my velvety walls, making me clench around his digits. His indigo orbs stays fixed on my face, frowned in arousal. He curls them while his thumb settles over my clit and begins circling it. It aches so deliciously.
I love my boyfriend.
Heās good to me.
Heās kind.
He would neverā
The sentence fractures, drowned by the wet, obscene sound of his fingers pumping in and out of my cunt, making my eyes roll back in pure lust. He starts slow, calculatedāthen faster, deeper, the heel of his hand hitting my entrance with each thrust. My thighs shake and my hand is now in Megumiās shoulder for support. I try to close my legs instinctively to hide how shamelessly Iām leaking for him, but his free hand grips my inner thigh and forces it wider.
āNone of that,ā he murmurs, voice low and rough against my ear, lips brushing the lobe. āYou wanted this. Let me see how much.ā
Guilt surges ā hot, bitter, twisting like a knife ā because heās right. I did want this. Iāve wanted this for months while the good man who loves me slept beside me untouched, waiting. The shame only makes it worse, makes my cunt clench harder around his fingers, making my hips roll into his hand.
I love my boyfriend.
He takes care of me.
Heās the one I shouldā
But the overthinking dissolves into a broken whimper as Megumi adds a third finger, stretching me wider, the burn so exquisite my back arches off the wall.Ā
His thumb flicks faster over my clit, tight, precise circles that make my vision spot ā while his curled fingers keep stroking that spot inside, over and over, building the pressure until it feels like Iām going to shatter.
āYouāre clenching so hard,ā he says quietly, almost whispering.āLike youāre scared Iāll stop.ā
His swollen lips ā still glossy and puffy from the way I attacked them earlier ā brush my jaw. āI wonāt. Not until you come all over my hand⦠and admit who youāre really thinking about.ā
The guilt spikes again ā vicious, electric ā and itās the final push.
I cum with a choked sob, my walls spasming violently around his fingers. My fluids floods his palm and my thighs tremble so badly he has to pin me harder against the wall to keep me upright. My nails dig into his shoulders as wave after wave crashes through me, his name tearing silently from my throat while tears slide hot down my cheeks.
When he finally pulls off, his hand is glistening, coated in my juices.
He brings it to my lips ā not forcing, just offering ā and I taste myself on his skin, salt and shame and him.
I slump against the door in reality, fingers still buried inside myself, mimicking the rhythm he set in my head. My chest heaves. My face is wet from sweating.
I love my boyfriend, I whisper again ā cracked, barely audible.
But the echo in my body answers something else entirely:
Next timeā¦
I wonāt need to imagine his fingers.
Iāll beg for them.
And the guilt will only make it sweeter.
I finally finished this. I hope you guys liked it!<3
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.
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English is not my first language so lmk if you see any spelling or grammar mistakes. thank you!
cw: 720
Megumi listens you play the harp for the first time!
You and Megumi had been together for a couple of months now, of course you have talked about your interest, all of them. But you havenāt told him about your passion for the harp. Not because there was something wrong with it, it's just that it was a quite personal and quite close to your heart for just anyone to know about it.
The afternoon sun slants through the half open curtains of your apartmentās living room, painting your skin like a canvas, giving the golden glow of the sunset to your face. Dust motes drift lazily in the golden light, catching on the polished wood and the taut strings of the harp like tiny, suspended secrets. You were sitting on the low stoolā barefoot; your hands already curved and resting on the strings of your one meter and sixty harp.Ā
You were playing a new piece you have been working on lately: Vogel im KƤfig: Quiet challenging, but it was worth the sleepless nights and calloused fingers. Youāve been perfecting it the last couple of days, so now you were getting better. You hesitate one last breathāthen your fingers find the familiar opening: the soft, shimmering glissando that begins Vogel im KƤfig. The piece youāve only ever played in secret, the one that starts like a fragile dream of freedom and ends in aching resignation. The very first notes spill outādelicate, almost hesitant, like light filtering through colored glass.Ā
Your posture shifts unconsciously: your tense shoulder now are relaxing, your back gently arched, like if you were hugging the harp. Your graceful hands are moving with liquid precision, your eyes are now closed, now fully emerged with the melody, seeing stars behind your lids with every pluck you make, all of them perfectly tuned and melodic. The world narrows to the vibration under your fingertips, the subtle give of each wire, the way the soundboard breathes back at you. Your breathing syncs with the phrasing: shallow and even in the tender opening section, deeper and more controlled as the harmony darkens, the chords thickening into something heavier, more desperate.
You were so focused on the piece you were playing that you didnāt hear the door slide open and the paused, precise footsteps of your boyfriend.
Megumi stands in the door frame. Heās still in his uniform jacket, the top button undone like always lately when itās just the two of you. One hand stays in his pocket; the other hovers uncertainly on the doorframe like heās debating whether heās allowed to interrupt, so he just stays there, watching you and your graceful hands.
Your focus is absoluteāno glance his way, no self-consciousness. Just you and the piece, pouring every quiet longing youāve ever buried into the strings. The hopeful lilt of the first half gives way to the storm: your fingers accelerate, still graceful, still controlled, but now carrying weightāplucking with fierce clarity, letting the dissonant builds ring out raw. Yet even in the intensity, your movements remain poised, almost serene, a quiet strength that makes the contrast.
When the final, fading lament drifts into silence. You let your palms flat against the strings and finally, you tuck a proud smirk tom yourself: you nailed it. You exhale slowly, like surfacing from underwater.
You now open your eyes, and the first thing you see is Megumiās relaxed features and his beautiful dark blue eyes seeing through your soul and you look away. You freeze for half a second and then your lips curve into a forced, casual smile, without really meeting his gaze.Ā
āMegumiāā
He now pushes off the wall, steps forward slowly, stepfootsĀ soft on the tatami.
āDidnāt mean to sneak up,ā he murmurs, voice rough from disuse or exhaustion. āYou were⦠gone.ā
You feel heat rise in your cheeks. Exposed again, but different this timeānot just the music, but the fact that he saw you so completely unguarded, wrapped up in something youāve always kept private.
āI didnāt hear you come back.ā Your voice is quieter than you intend. āHow longā?ā
āLong enough.ā He stops a meter away, close enough that you can see the small cut above his eyebrow, the way his jacket smells faintly of smoke and outdoors. His eyes flick to the harp, then back to your face. āThe whole thing. It was⦠beautiful.ā
Hello, this is my very first time writing here in Tumblr. I hope you guys liked it! please help me liking if you liked this.
what do you do when your three best friends are trying to steal your precious little sister and your new friend group suddenly starts asking about her, too? ask your brother suguru geto, heās living through it.
content: language, crude humor, crack fic, mentions of honkai star rail and dota