woktyy

Latest Posts by woktyy

Husband!Gojo who always sheds a few tears every time he’s assigned a mission far, far away. Hugging you like some overgrown octopus and weeping into your hair like a maiden while you giggle- “Satoru, it’s for two days.”

Husband!Gojo who doesn’t care if it’s two days or two minutes, he’ll be teleporting into your damn living room mid-mission with a constant coo of “Hey, baby, on my way to the fight now.” “Wanted to see your beautiful face right now- this special grade curse is ugly.” “Heh- about to finish him off, gimme a kiss for good luck, wifey~”

Husband!Gojo who will still embrace you like he hasn’t seen you in years the moment he finishes off that mission and teleports home- and not to mention the way he’ll pound you right then and there in the doorway. “Satoru, you haven’t seen me for ten minutes.” “Ten minutes too long!”

If anyone thinks that gojo is a god complex character pls block me.

◤BLEACH WORLD◢

CAPTAIN KUCHIKI RUKIA ver.

julien macdonald fw06

take the blue line

Me when y/n is acting like a little fucking child for male validation

the nurse doesn't even get a full sentence out before you hear it—the loud, unmistakable, drawn out moan from behind the curtain.

"uuuuuuughghhghhhhhh."

you blink.

"that yours?" she asks, arching an eyebrow, holding back a smile.

you sigh. "unfortunately, yes."

she laughs softly and pulls the curtain back.

and there he is.

gojo satoru, the strongest sorcerer alive, your very dramatic boyfriend, currently conked out in the reclining recovery chair like a ragdoll someone left in the sun for too long. his blindfold is gone (carefully folded on the side table, somehow), his mouth is half open, one of his arms is hanging off the chair like he's mid-shakespearean death scene and one leg is swinging mindlessly like he's in the middle of an interpretive dance.

"ughhhhhhhhhh," he groans again, eyes fluttering, unfocused. "where am i. is this the void? the infinite void? am i in the purgatory between dimensions?"

"you had a wisdom tooth removed," you say, walking up to him with your arms crossed.

satoru's head rolls toward the sound of your voice. it takes him a solid five seconds to gain his bearings and settle his gaze on you.

and then—his whole body jerks.

"oh my god," he gasps, pointing a floppy, trembling finger at you. "you're the taco bell goddess."

you blink again, taken aback. the anesthesia is really doing a number on him. it's entertaining. "i'm sorry, what now?"

"i knew you were real," he whispers reverently, nodding to himself. "you came to me in a dream once. you had like, this glowing chalupa aura and you whispered 'live mas' into my soul."

you stare. "what—what the hell are you talking about?"

"don't play coy, my divine temptress of the drive-thru," he says, hand clutching his chest like he's about to write an epic soliloquy in your name. "you bring hot sauce and justice to this cruel, flavorless world."

"okay," you say slowly, looking around for the nurse, "how much anesthesia did they give you?"

"enough to see the truth," he says dramatically.

you laugh so hard you have to grab the side of his chair for support.

satoru squints at you. "wait—wait, no. are you—are you even the taco bell goddess? or are you some kind of fraud, preying on innocent taco followers?"

"i'm your girlfriend," you reply, still wheezing. "you live with me."

his sky blue eyes go comically wide. "you mean i bagged the taco bell goddess and i live with her?"

you pinch the bridge of your nose to calm yourself. "you need water and maybe an exorcism."

he doesn't hear you. of course he doesn't. he's busy throwing up both hands like he's just won an oscar.

"somebody better put me in a commercial," he says proudly. "'cause i'm livin' mas, baby."

you're practically crying with laughter now, and you don't seem to be stopping soon.

"you're a disaster," you choke out.

he grabs your hand and holds it reverently. "disaster, or super cool legend?"

you lean in and kiss his forehead, lips twitching. "definitely a disaster."

satoru beams. "you kissed me! i'm telling everyone. you kissed me first. that's legally binding."

"we've been dating for two years."

"two years?!" his jaw drops. "that's like—" he counts on his fingers "—more than ten kisses!"

you have to bite your lip before you start cracking up again. then, his eyes impossibly wide, he pats around on his lap like he's looking for something. "where's my phone. i gotta tweet this."

"you're not tweeting while high."

"but the world needs to know i'm in love with a celestial being."

"absolutely not."

"okay, but hear me out," he says, slumping deeper into the chair with a dopey grin. "what if we got married. right now. here. in the dentist's office. we've got witnesses. we've got—" he frowns at the table next to him "—fluoride."

you're really trying your best to not lose it. "you want to get married surrounded by cotton swabs and expired magazines?"

he reaches for your face with both hands like he's about to cradle something precious. except one hand flops uselessly against your cheek.

"you're all i need," he slurs.

you smile, warmth creeping up your neck. "oh my god."

"wait, wait. do i have a ring?" he pats his pockets in slow motion. "we can use a paperclip. i'll macgyver it."

"i'm confiscating your paperclips."

he groans. "you never let me have any fun."

you take his hand, kiss the knuckles. "oh, toru. you're a full-time menace, so i have to be the responsible one."

his eyes flutter, a soft, sleepy smile on his lips now. "but you love me."

you sigh, brushing his hair back gently. "i do. against my better judgement."

he grins. "ha. got 'em."

you let your forehead rest against his.

the strongest sorcerer alive. in love. loopy. wearing a bib that says 'tooth be told' with a cartoon molar giving a thumbs-up.

and somehow, impossibly, still the love of your life.

you whisper, "when you're coherent again, i'm going to tell you everything you said. never letting you live this down."

his eyes crack open. "noooo."

"yes."

"i'll sue."

"i dare you."

and he giggles. giggles. like a chaotic little gremlin in your arms.

you hold him close, his fingers twined in yours, as the strongest sorcerer in the world melts into a puddle of affectionate nonsense on anesthetic. and you think, grinning—

god, i love this ridiculous man.

“oh but _____ isn’t real”

to YOU, that maybe. i, however, am delusional.

satoru finds him curled up on the couch.

it’s late—later than he meant for it to be. the mission dragged on for longer than expected, and by the time he slipped through the door, the clock on the microwave was blinking an accusing 12:47 a.m.

you’re already asleep, probably having given up hours ago and trusted that he’d come back to you in one piece. but megumi…

megumi is in the living room, half-covered with the blanket you keep folded over the back of the couch. his head is tipped to the side in that awkward, cricked-neck position kids always end up in when they fall asleep somewhere they didn’t mean to.

there’s a book on his lap, one of those thick ones satoru keeps pretending to understand when megumi talks to you and him about it. his thumb is still tucked inside it, like he meant to keep reading, and just didn’t make it.

on the coffee table is a note.

it’s written in megumi’s handwriting, stiff and slanting and way too neat.

we kept dinner in the fridge. i saved you the last roll.

underneath it, scrawled smaller: you said you’d be back before midnight. i waited.

satoru stands there for a moment, and stares at it. then he slowly walks over, crouching beside the couch and brushing a hand over megumi’s hair. it’s longer now. softer than it used to be when he was smaller.

the little boy doesn’t wake. he just sighs quietly and shifts, like he can feel satoru’s hand even in his sleep. 

“hey,” satoru murmurs, barely more than a whisper. “sorry, kid. i tried.”

no answer, of course.

so satoru leans forward and presses a kiss to megumi’s temple, then another to the top of his head. it’s the kind of affection that used to feel foreign but now fits him like second nature. he tucks the blanket around him better, careful not to wake him.

he’ll carry him to bed in a minute. for now, he lets himself sit beside megumi on the floor, back against the couch, eyes closed and heart warm.

⇢ a/n: no one look at me i’m in my dadjo feels. expect more domestic family fluff from me.

404

It's supposed to be Higuruma's day off, but he just couldn't help himself.

↳ pairing: hiromi higuruma x fem. reader

↳ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, sexual tension, exhibitionism, semi-public sex, oral sex (f. receiving), hr violations, improper use of a desk, boss-employee power imbalance if that bothers you, grey sweatpants should be their own warning

↳ wc: 9.2k

↳ notes: wouldn't catch me letting him leave the house looking like that, that's for sure. higuruma you get back inside right now.

The office felt quieter without him in it.

Not just quieter – wrong.

The kind of wrong that wasn’t loud or obvious, but insidious, creeping in through the cracks of routine and settling heavy in your chest. The walls hummed faintly under the fluorescents, the air stagnant and too still, like a room that hadn’t been lived in for a long time. Nothing had changed – your desk was still tucked into the corner of his office, the blinds still tilted to let in those pale, anemic slants of morning light, the coffee machine still wheezing dutifully in its nook. But the balance was off, something fundamental had been knocked out of place.

All because Higuruma had taken the day off.

You should have been glad. You had been glad when you first suggested it – flippant and teasing, after catching him pinching the bridge of his nose for the third time in an hour.

"Take a day, Higuruma. The firm won’t fall apart without you. I’ve got it!"

You hadn’t expected him to actually listen. He never did before. But now, knee-deep in briefs that refused to organize themselves, picking at the plastic lip of your highlighter just to have something else to do, you found yourself regretting it. The absence of him pressed against your ribs like an itch you couldn’t scratch, and you couldn't quite eschew ‘I'm glad he's resting’ from ‘how dare he leave me here alone’. It wasn’t that you couldn’t work without him. You were perfectly capable – good at your job, in fact. You’d fought tooth and nail to carve out your place here, earned every ounce of the trust and respect Higuruma placed in you. The firm didn’t need him today. You didn’t need him today.

But the office felt empty without him anyway. And maybe that was the problem – because Higuruma wasn’t loud, or particularly overbearing, but he had a way of filling up a space without you noticing. Not in big, sweeping ways, but in the quiet, unassuming things you hadn’t realized you’d come to expect. The soft clatter of his pen against his desk as he mulled over a case. The steady tick of his keyboard, the shff of paper sliding against paper. The occasional, absent-minded hum as he read through a deposition, too lost in thought to realize he was doing it. Or the cup of coffee he’d nudge across your desk with his knuckles, sweetened with sugar and a subtle wink conveying: I see you’re about to lose it, so here. Or one of his deadpan jokes that landed so poorly it looped back around to being funny and – against your better judgement and exacting standards for comedy – always managed to make you snicker. And even the way he’d check in – “How are you holding up? Fine? Good!” – just before a fresh avalanche of paperwork from his own arms threatened to swallow you whole.

It was ridiculous, really – how easily you’d come to calibrate yourself around his presence, the rhythm of his movements, the weight of his sighs, the rare, reluctant chuckle when something you said actually managed to slip past his exhaustion.

Without him here, the space felt unmoored, and you a slack-sailed ship set adrift in uncannily still waters.

You leaned back in your chair, twirling your pen between your fingers, glaring at the door as if sheer force of will might conjure him into existence, a punching bag for you to gripe at.

It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. You huffed, tilting your head back to stare at the ceiling, restless energy thrumming under your skin. It was ridiculous. He’d taken one measly day off – his first in who-knows-how-long – and you were falling apart like he’d abandoned you in the wilderness with nothing but a stapler and your wits.

The coffee wasn’t helping. You’d long since crossed the threshold into over-caffeinated jitters, and restless energy crawled up your spine like ants.

And for the first time, work wasn’t enough to occupy you. The murmur of voices in the hallway barely registered – just another piece of the building's white noise, slipping between the rhythmic tap of your keyboard and the distant shrieking tantrum of the printer. You paid no mind to the shuffle of footsteps or the scrape of a chair. Until they stopped right outside your door. You snapped upright, spine un-shrimped and pencil straight, fingers hovering over your keys, suddenly alert in a way that felt completely ridiculous. It wasn’t like you’d actually been waiting for something to happen. It wasn’t like you’d been hoping—

A knock. Sharp, perfunctory. And then, before you could do so much as blink, the door creaked open, like permission was an afterthought. Higuruma’s head poked around the frame. “Excuse me, I have an appointment…”

All dry humor and faux seriousness, low and familiar as the tone but underscored with a lopsided smile meant just for you, and whatever tension had been sitting squarely between your shoulders unraveled like an unfurled lily returned to water.

Relief washed through you, unreasonable in its enormity, such a thin and frayed lifeline tossed down into the well of your boredom. You tsked, air sucking between your teeth as your incisors caught and imprisoned your bottom lip, barely biting back a grin.

“Schedule’s packed, I’m afraid,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “Get out of my office.” Higuruma scoffed, stepping inside fully and letting the door swing shut behind him. “Your office?” “You’re not here, are you?” You gestured vaguely to the empty space he usually occupied, tilting your head. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

His lips twitched like he wanted to smirk, but instead, he just exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.

“Relax,” he said, waving a lazy hand. “Just forgot something.” And as he did so, you found yourself stuck there, pinned by a gravity far different than the tedious duty that bound you before. Maybe you were truly driven to madness through sheer boredom, because what you saw could not possibly be your Higuruma. Gone was the usual sharp, severe silhouette of a three-piece suit, the crisp lines and muted ties with their perfect Windsor knots, the clean-shaven jaw that usually looked carved from marble. This Higuruma was softer. Messier. He looked comfortable. And that was jarring in and of itself. His hair was tousled, fluffy, strands dragged slightly out of place like he’d raked a hand through it exactly once before stepping outside. He was wearing glasses – since when did he wear glasses? – thin, wire rimmed things perched on the roman bridge of his nose, lending a velveteen boyishness and charm, an age-defying panacea. And the scruff – God, the scruff – rough and dark along his jaw, prickling up over his cheekbones, dusting the hollow of his throat, suggesting carelessness or exhaustion, maybe both, but it forced you to trace this new and unexpected feature with far too much fascination.

You swallowed. Okay. Fine. Whatever. But it was his clothes that struck the killing blow. The black sweater was simple, plain, but the way the fabric clung, stretched over his shoulders and arms, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, strong sinewy forearms bared to your gaze and the chilly office air that raised goosebumps and fine dark hair alike was what made it noteworthy. Sneakers, scuffed and worn, suited for morning runs you knew he didn’t partake in. And then… the sweatpants. Oh. God help you. Grey sweatpants.

Soft and loose, they hung low on his hips, one size too large, the drawstring tied in a bow that felt obscene in its innocence; the drooping loop just begging to be caught on your crooked finger and tugged. The heathered fabric skimmed over his thighs, and every shift and step sent a ripple through the material, drawing your gaze against your better judgement to the unmistakable, undeniable, print beneath. They were absolutely shameless. And so was he for wearing them. And so were you for looking. Your brain crashed. Buffered. Blue screened. For a moment you forgot how to breathe. The brain function required for such automation went to worthier endeavors – like the slow shift of your knees to lock together, squishing your thighs shut beneath your desk as if the physical wrist-slap of no, bad, down girl! would silence the overwhelming yes, oh fuck yes! crowing in your head.

“... What are you doing here?” you croaked.  

“Nice to see you too,” he said, dry as ever, though the switchblade flick of his eyes over his shoulder was undeniably humored by your apparent lack of manners. “Don’t worry, I’m still technically ‘relaxing.’” He made air quotes with his fingers. As if that were the problem.

“But I couldn’t stop thinking about that book I left here,” he continued, sifting through a neat stack of binders. “Figured I’d swing by and grab it.”

His words went in one ear, whistled through the cavernous cavity that became your skull, and out the other.

Every synapse in your brain was too busy short-circuiting, trying to reconcile this version of him with the man you thought you knew. This wasn’t the same Higuruma who swept into courtrooms like a force of nature, cutting through the prosecution like a scalpel through tissue. No, this was someone else entirely. Someone devastatingly casual, achingly comfortable, and unintentionally – no, intentionally, it had to be intentional, no one looked that good by accident – sexy. Someone who made coffee in a small, cute kitchen with smushed and tousled bed head, those sweatpants fighting for their life to cling to sharp hip bones, sans shirt, a crescent-soft smile cast over a bare and scratch marked shoulder to sleepily ask whether you liked your eggs scrambled or over easy, or better yet what size ring you wear and you’d be more than willing to drop to your knees yourself— You swallowed the cotton lumps in your throat, your gaze catching on the subtle shift of his hips as he rifled through the papers on his desk. You couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t even pretend to. Didn’t even want to. Every part of your brain pickled in brine at once, one chaotic spiral after another: Why does he look like that? Why does he look better out of a suit than in one? How is that even possible, never mind allowed? Has he always been hot? Your brain screeched, and the death knell rung thrice. Had he been? Surely not, surely you’d have noticed, surely this would’ve been a problem months ago, surely you’re just hopped up on caffeine and jittery, yes, of course—

The tinnitus in your ears reached a fever pitch, and you quickly sniffed, surreptitiously dragging your knuckles beneath your nose with a quick flicker glance down, fully expecting to see a bloody vessel popped from the sheer pressure building in your sinuses.

You were going to die. Right here, at your desk, taken out by the unholy combination of casual clothing and Higuruma Hiromi.

You were devastated.

Why would he think twice about walking into his own office, dressed like he just rolled out of bed and into the middle of some cruelly curated thirst trap? Why would he stop to consider the devastating consequences of soft, messy hair and grey sweatpants on his wonderful, straight-laced, dedicated assistant? You were as much a fixture of the room as was the standing lamp in the corner, without opinion or recourse or stray thoughts that gleefully skipped down paths they shouldn’t.

“So, do you miss me? Check the box for yes or no.”

The question was so offhand, so casual, it felt like a personal attack. Higuruma didn’t even look at you when he said it – just kept scanning the bookshelves behind his desk. Meanwhile, you were unraveling in real-time, layer by secret layer, like some chaotic nesting doll of poorly disguised attraction and absolute mortification. Yes. Yes, I have, you thought miserably, but you couldn’t say that. Instead, you scrambled to pick up a file from your desk and brandished it like a shield. “Well, you left me with a mountain of work, so… maybe a little.” Higuruma finally glanced at you, something knowing flickering behind his gaze before it softened into almost pity – like he actually felt bad for something so frivolous as taking a break.

He sighed, shaking his head. “Consider it character-building.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s what people say when they want to justify unnecessary suffering.”

His lips twitched. “And?”

“And I don’t see you suffering,” you pointed out, waving vaguely at the absurdly soft-looking sweater draped over his frame, at the sweatpants hanging loose on his hips. “You look like you just woke up from a nap.”

He grinned, smug and self-satisfied. “It was a good nap.”

You grunted, a syllable that fractured in the middle like a dropped plate. You winced, nodding stiffly, every joint in your body locking into a marionette’s mimicry of calm. Your eyes, however, refused to cooperate. They widened, traitorous and gleaming, glued to him like he was the shiny prize in some deviously deceitful claw machine, just out of reach but taunting you with every twitch of the joystick in your fingers.

Higuruma hummed thoughtfully, tilting his head just enough to make the soft fall of his hair shift against his forehead. His fingers – long, deft, maddeningly precise – trailed along the spines of the books, pausing here and there to linger. It was methodical, unhurried, and utterly oblivious to the fact that every subtle flex of his arm, every shift of his shoulders beneath that infuriatingly soft-looking shirt, was eroding what little coherence you had left.

And those fucking pants.

Did he not have a mother who chastised him for wearing indecent clothing? Or were you just a voyeur? Loose in all the wrong places, snug in all the right ones. The fabric clung, suggested, hinted at truths your mind had no business trying to parse. Every time he moved, the lines and shadows shifted like a cruel optical illusion, and you couldn’t stop your eyes from darting back to them, helpless and hogtied as they betrayed every ounce of professionalism you clung to with blanched knuckles.

Your fingers hovered uselessly above your keyboard, and the sentence you’d been typing devolved into a jagged line of hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. It blinked at you accusingly from the screen, a digital monument to your brain’s complete implosion.

“Everything okay?” His voice broke through the fog, and you flinched. He glanced over his shoulder, brows furrowed and stitched together, and for a moment, the weight of his attention – direct, steady, disarming – was worse than any punishment.

“Yep! Yeah—totally fine!” you stammered, the words tumbling over themselves in their haste to escape. A nervous laugh followed, high-pitched and strained, like the dying wheeze of a deflating balloon. “Just, you know… great. Really productive.”

Higuruma’s lips twitched – whether in amusement or suspicion, you couldn’t tell – but he let it go, turning back to the shelf with a quiet hum. “Right. Well, no slacking just because I’m not here to breathe down your neck.” 

Not that you'd have minded the warmth of his breath at your nape, or the pointed traipse of his nose down the satin soft and secret zone behind your ear— You exhaled sharply, sagging in your seat, only to be yanked back to reality when your pen slipped from your fingers.

The sharp clatter as it hit the floor made your breath hitch. You bent down to retrieve it, but your elbow clipped the edge of your desk in your haste, sending an entire stack of papers cascading to the floor.

“Shit,” you hissed under your breath, scrambling to fix the mess, but before you could even reach for the first sheet, Higuruma moved, a seeking missile with its primary directive being to organize disorder, to settle the mess in his space. Even off the clock, he just couldn’t help himself but leap to occupy his hands.

“I’ve got it,” he said, already crouching down beside you. “Don’t worry about it. You keep working.”

“But—”

“Seriously, it’s fine,” he interrupted. He fluttered his hand at you, dismissive but not unkind, a gentle command to stay put. And then he was there – on his knees, right between yours, filling the narrow space under your desk like he belonged there.

You stopped breathing. Froze entirely. Because Higuruma Hiromi, the unflappable, immovable bastion of composure, was crouched so close that you swore you could feel his breath breeze against your knees. His hunched shoulders filled the gap between them, his presence suffusing and suffocating in the best and worst possible way.

Every movement was torturous. His fingers curled around each sheet of paper with a kind of care that somehow felt intimate, as though he were handling something far more delicate than office supplies. The flex of muscle in his forearms was subtle but devastating, the faint ridge of veins tracing elegant paths beneath his skin, a roadmap of destruction you couldn’t help but follow.

His glasses slipped and slid down his nose – crawling along the bridge, like they were in on the conspiracy against your sanity – and he nudged them back up with the edge of his knuckle, the motion infuriatingly casual but still made your pulse trip over itself.

You could imagine it so easily. Too easily. His shoulders hunched just like this, his head bowed low, but not over papers. His hands skimming, not the floor, but your skin, those precise fingers teasing a path along your thighs, coaxing your knees apart, his glasses fogging as his lips parted with a sly smile and—

“Here,” he said, breaking the spell as he rose fluidly to his feet, the papers stacked neatly in hand. He placed them on your desk, his small, faint smile utterly unaware of the chaos he’d just wreaked on your psyche. “Crisis averted.”

No, no, crisis caused, actually.

You stared at him, utterly mute, your throat dry, your heart threatening to hammer its way out of your chest. A quiet hum of satisfaction escaped him as he turned back to his desk, leaving you to pick up the pieces of your shattered composure.

And then, because the universe had a cruel sense of humor, he stretched.

Arms lifting high above his head, fingers lacing together, spine arching in one long, slow pull. A quiet, absentminded groan slipped from his throat, low and indulgent, like the stretch felt good, and something inside you – something delicate and self-preserving – snapped clean in half. Saliva pooled beneath your tongue.

But then his shirt rode up.

The hem lifted, inch by inch like a sinful satin stage curtain drawing back to reveal the main event upon the corpse of your sanity. Pale, smooth skin stretched taut over the lean planes of his stomach. The sharp jut of his hip bones, the faint, devastating groove of muscle dipping into the perfect V of his pelvis.

And there, just below his navel, a dark trail of curls, disappearing under the waistband of those godforsaken sweatpants. You forgot how to breathe. Of course he had a happy trail. Of course you were now going to think about that trail every time you saw him stretch from now on. That was one trail you’d happily hike down, hands, mouth, anything, straight to the promised land, actually—

You whimpered.

Higuruma froze mid-stretch. Slowly his arms lowered, his eyes sliding open with a heavy-lidded, almost feline sort of acute appraisal, one brow arched over his glasses. “Sorry?” he asked, his voice calm but laced with something new – something sharper, more curious.

Your brain scrambled, words piling up in a frantic, disjointed heap, none of them useful.

“Nothing!” you blurted. “I just—uh—spider! There was a spider.”

Higuruma blinked.

“Huge—” bad word choice “—Hairy—” oh my god, shut up “—but it’s gone now.”

Silence.

The corner of his mouth twitched, and you watched in real time as a dimple formed on his cheek from where he bit into the inside. “A spider?”

You nodded far too hard. “Yep. Massive. Terrifying. And gone.”

He didn’t move at first, didn’t blink. Just stood there with his head cocked to the left, eyes shrouded behind the glinting of the overhead light, but you had the distinct impression he saw straight through you. You wondered if it was too late to crawl under your desk and die or hide until he left, whichever came first.

His brow furrowed behind those glasses, just a hair – not enough to be suspicious really, but enough to make your chest feel like it was shrinking in on itself. Suddenly, you missed the boredom. You’d take loneliness over this catastrophic mental collapse any day. Maybe you were dreaming – one of those stress-induced nightmares where you showed up to work without clothes, only so much worse. “Well,” he sighed, tone light, offhanded. “I guess I’d better take a look.” You felt the color drain from your eyes, running off as icy dread that slammed into the sweltering wall of heat just held back by your diaphragm. A convection cauldron boiled inside you, and your silence had you nursing the blunt edge of your tongue, usually so adroit you struggled to whittle it back into some sort of functioning point.

“W-wha—?” “For the spider.” He clarified, pushing off the corner of his desk in favor of yours, slipping around the back to where you sat with a leisurely gait that felt gut-twistingly ominous. “If it’s that big, it could bite. I’d hate to leave you alone to deal with it once I’m gone.”

“No need!” you blurted, a little too loud, a little too fast, and you tried to recall when the last time you updated your resume was. “I’m sure it’s gone.” But he only hummed, unconvinced. “Just to be sure,” he said, and before you could protest, he was already behind you. His gaze swept the desk, eagle-eyed and determined, like he might actually see the thing lurking among the chaos of pens and loose papers your station had become. Then, he leaned in. Leaned over.

You felt the give of the upholstery that cushioned the back of your chair dimple beneath his talon-like grip, and slowly, he rolled your chair back. The swivel wheels spun, a mirror to the frantic cartwheeling in your chest, and it was far too late for you to counter-maneuver by the time he’d pulled you. It was too late to stand, or excuse yourself, or create any plausible explanation short of “I think I want you and I really shouldn’t,” and “this is going to be a problem so please go back home, oh god please.”

The solid weight of his chest hovered just behind your shoulder blades, the clean scent of fabric softener and soap invading your bubble like you’d walked past a perfume store. Too close, way too close. And then his forearms reached past you, one moving to grip the arm of your chair, forcing your own to drop limply down into your lap, while the other braced forward on the edge of your desk. Pinned, bracketed, you could do nothing but face forward like a statue bust.

Your breath caught and you held it in an iron fist, because every inhale welcomed more of that fresh Higuruma smell deep into your lungs, and you were pretty sure it was already imprinted into your cell lining. You had to actively remind yourself to inhale, exhale, repeat, shallow as you could manage, because your body seemed to have forgotten how. You weren’t sure if the lightheadedness was from lack of oxygen outright or lack of free oxygen. He stretched further, one arm snaking past you to lift a loose stack of leafed papers, then a book, then another book. “Hmm,” he mused, his voice low and thoughtful and you could feel the rumbling bass judder down each and every one of your vertebrae like a xylophone. “Nothing here.” You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering in your throat as he moved closer, his weight shifting slightly so that your chair gave a little rock forward with the accidental nudge of his pelvis. You could feel the soft brush of his sleeve against your shoulder, the rhythmic and completely calm exhalation of his breath against your temple when he deigned to tilt his head just so to address you. “I suppose it could be under here,” he murmured, reaching across to lift the edge of your keyboard. His fingers brushed yours along the way and your eyes slammed shut like old window shutters, blocking out the accompanying visual to the live-wire jolt that galvanized your spine to ratchet up straighter, inadvertently lengthening the stretch of your body pressed against the front of his. “I-it’s not under there,” you stammered, your voice a crackly whisper, too shaky, something he’d have chastised you for any other day. A good lawyer has presence. He’d scold. Enunciate. Use your chest. And maybe the fact that he doesn’t scold you should’ve clued you in. But you don’t think about it beyond the feeling of gratitude because you’re certain if he spoke to you in that tone he uses, if you were able to track the slow crawl of his lips down in that disapproving pout so close to your face, you’d simply self immolate. “Well you never know,” he said instead, his tone breezy and conversational. “Spiders are sneaky little things. They like dark corners. Lots of dark corners in a desk, on a desk, under a desk…” He shifted again, this time pressed just a little more firmly into your back – enough to be completely improper, you think, you’re pretty sure, but plausibly deniable as accidental. Because he’s only trying to help you, see? He’s looking for a spider that doesn’t exist, one that you made up because you were ogling the mouth watering muscle of his hips and wanted to trace the lattice work of fine blue lines with your tongue— You swallowed, and you were grateful you’d already crossed your legs because there was no way you could do so subtly now, grateful that instead you could just squeeze them closed a little tighter, your thighs squishing shut, chained and gated, and your nostrils flared with frustration and your brows knitted together just so at the slightest bit of pressure that pressed upon your center. “You sure it’s gone?” he asked, his voice dropping just a fraction lower in time with the tilt of his head towards yours. He craned around, forcefully catching your eye, and you met them feeling every bit a deer in headlights. You nodded, a quick up and down bob of your chin that you hoped passed well enough for an answer. You didn’t trust your mouth to open – you didn’t think anything would come out of it, but the things that could shouldn’t be afforded the chance to. He didn’t move right away. Instead, he lingered, his fingers idly toying with the edge of your mousepad. One of those ergonomic things, gelly and squishy, to elevate your wrist. A gift from a friend who didn’t quite care, who didn’t quite know you beyond your occupation as “office worker” so of course you would appreciate office supplies.

You watched with dawning horror, struck mute as his fingers gripped the gel pad, rolling it into his palm with a slow squeeze.

Your mouth went dry.

Pinned between his palm and the meat of his thumb, he lifted it, checking beneath for the arachnid interloper, before he sighed and returned it back down to your desk. But his hand stayed put, circling his thumb in slow, rhythmic circuits over the material, rolling the gel beneath his fingertip in an unhurried, back-and-forth knead, and you swallowed. Hard enough to hurt your throat, loud enough to know he heard, and with equal parts mortification and shame, you could feel the slick evidence of your unabashed ogling pooling between your thighs.

This man was a danger to society, and most certainly a danger to you.

“Hm…” he grumbled. And you watched as his hand quit fondling the squishy mouse pad you’d never be able to look at the same way again, one long finger flicked up to your computer screen. “You’ve got some typos there. Planning to fix those?”

Your jaw ticked and your eyes snapped to narrow slits. Your head jerked to face him with an indignant defense on your tongue – failing to account for how that would put you nearly nose to nose. And instantly you were cowed. You watched in real-time as your reflection deflated, mirrored in the gleam of his glasses, and your voice came out far more petulant when you muttered: “You’re distracting me.” His expression shifted, subtle, but there – your proximity made you privy to the amusement kept captive behind the lenses of his readers, a patient and knowing hook that drew a single brow up over the wire rim. “Am I?” His voice was mild, casual as you’ve ever heard it, but the way his fingers traced a deliberate line along the desks surface betrayed him, there was nothing absent about his mind in the gesture. His thumb grazed the edge of a page, smoothing over the corner before flicking it back with a sharp snap. You jumped, flinching to look at the offending sheet. It was not a fidget at all, but a consideration, a temperature check, and he smiled at the side of your turned head. “You’re jumpy today. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” His hand moved again, his fingers walking toward the armrest of your chair, resting on the small island of space unoccupied by your elbow. He didn’t touch you, but he hovered close enough that you felt he already had. You could stop this. You should. You could laugh it off, spin your chair, remind him and yourself that this is not the time nor the place, and isn’t professional in the slightest. You could try to convince yourself that your boss wasn’t reading you like an open book, and wasn’t seconds from confirming something you could never walk back. But you didn’t. “Well, I saw a spider, you know how I feel about those,” you tried to excuse. Higuruma’s lips puffed and pursed, daring to inch his thumb just a little closer, piercing your bubble to pluck a frayed string on your sleeve. “I didn’t see any spiders.” You were floundering. What the hell is happening, who is this man, and what has he done with your boss? It was the glasses. It must be. This overconfidence – even if irritatingly warranted – had to be a byproduct of knowing he looked good dressed down. And you wouldn’t mind dressing him down, undressing him, peeling off those already flimsy layers yourself, but you couldn’t. So you resisted, your arguments a sieve through which not a drop of water would hold. A shitty lawyer you’d make. “So just because you didn’t see it, it was never there?” you rebuffed. And that, it seemed, gave Higuruma pause. At least for a moment, until his head teetered down to almost rest on your shoulder, his back quaking with a vibrating laugh. “Oh? Schrödinger, is it? That’s what we’re doing?” You cringed as soon as you said it, knowing full well that quantum theory would not save you, but you certainly wouldn’t have minded a convenient box into which you could crawl and die. But he didn’t let it go. He never did. He thrived on contradiction, lived and breathed the thrill of the argument, got off on unraveling logic until all that remained was the truth. And right now, you hid yours poorly. You were caught red handed, red faced, damned by the scarlet that creeped ever higher up your throat and refused to be swallowed down. His voice dipped, amusement curling at the edges. “If I don’t see the spider, how do I know it’s real?” Your lips parted, but nothing came out. His hand still perched on the armrest curled inward by degrees – knuckles brushing against the back of your hand in the barest contact.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You inhaled, sharp and shallow between your teeth. “Higuruma.”

He stilled. His jaw twitched. And then—

“Do you want me to stop?”

No soft edges, no careful subtext. The words landed between you with a dull, leaden weight, devoid of that razor-edged coyness he’d been wielding like a paring knife. No shields, no plausible deniability – just blunt, naked truth.

You blinked at him, pulse thudding erratically against your ribs. Surely you had misheard.

But his eyes, fixed on yours, were clear. Watchful. Expectant. Beneath the wary composure, something raw flickered – uncertain and unsteady. A breath, a blink, a second too long with no answer, and you watched him start to fold in on himself like a flimsy card house.

“Shit,” he exhaled, quiet, almost to himself. His lashes flickered in rapid succession – once, twice, again. Like shaking off a trance, dragging himself out of something he knew he shouldn’t have sunk into in the first place. “I overstepped. You’re uncomfortable, I’m sorry.”

A sharp nod. A muscle clenched in his jaw, then smoothed out, his mouth flattening into something more neutral and practiced in its artificiality. Already withdrawing. Already gone.

And he looked—

God, he looked like a kicked dog.

Panic surged up your throat, knocking the breath clean out of you. Your hand shot out before your brain could catch up, fingers latching around his wrist, gripping firm. Warm skin, quick pulse beneath your touch.

“Stop what?” The words tumbled out, unsteady, breathless.

His gaze flickered back to you, impassive, unreadable. He didn’t answer.

You squeezed his wrist. “Stop what, Higuruma?” Higuruma swallowed. His wrist tensed beneath your grip, and you felt the subtle flex of his fingers curling inward, like he wanted to hold onto something but didn’t quite dare. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

You dragged in a breath, forcing your voice into something steadier. “Higuruma,” you pressed, voice softer now, urging. “Stop what?”

A beat.

Then another.

His mouth twitched. Not in a smirk, not in amusement, but like he was physically fighting himself, trying to bite something back before it slipped past his teeth. His head tilted just slightly, his gaze drifting – not away from you, not entirely, but somewhere to the side, anywhere safer than your face, as if the words he was about to say were too much to deliver straight on.

Then he exhaled, slow and shuddering.

“I lied,” he confessed.

“I didn’t come in for a book,” he admitted, and now it was like the floodgates had cracked. “I didn’t need anything. I just—” He laughed, soft, humorless, dragging a tired hand down his face. “I just wanted to see you.”

Your fingers twitched against his wrist.

He shook his head, incredulous at himself. “It felt wrong. Not seeing you today. Kept thinking I forgot something. Like I was missing a step all day and couldn’t figure out why until I caught myself reaching for my phone, halfway through texting you, trying to find an excuse, hoped you’d need me to come in after all, and I—” He inhaled sharply through his nose, closing his eyes for the briefest, tortured second before forcing them open again. “I just wanted to see you. That’s all.”

Silence pooled thick and electric between you, and now you were the one who had no words.

His throat bobbed with a swallow, his voice quieter when he spoke again. “So – I don’t want to stop. But I can. I will.”

There it was.

The inevitable moment where everything clicked into place and left no room for interpretation, no exit route to hide behind. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t testing you, waiting for you to fold and deny it. His face was open, stripped of all pretense, and that earnest sincerity – the kind that people mistook for courtroom performance but you knew better – hit you like a freefall drop straight to the pit of your stomach.

Higuruma Hiromi wanted you.

A slow, consuming warmth curled through your limbs, filling your veins, burning your capillaries.

Your grip on his wrist softened, fingers smoothing over the bone. A shift of weight, barely perceptible, but his breath hitched all the same. He was still watching you, eyes darting minutely between yours, scanning, waiting, bracing for rejection, for hesitation, for anything that would tell him he’d misread this, that he’d just set himself up for ruin.

You leaned in, just slightly, just enough to catch the scent of his cologne clinging to the fabric of his shirt, the warmth of his skin beneath it.

And you whispered, “Then don’t.”

Higuruma inhaled.

He was closer now, his weight shifting like his body had made the decision before his mind had caught up. His knee brushed yours. His fingers flexed against the armrest. His head dipped, slow, inevitable, like the pull of gravity was stronger now, like whatever unseen force had been keeping him tethered had finally snapped.

Your mouth parted – either to speak or meet him halfway – but then his forehead dropped, pressing briefly, firmly against yours.

His breath shook against your lips. “God,” he muttered, laughing softly in disbelief. “I really shouldn't.”

Then his fingers brushed your thigh, just barely, tentative at first – like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed. You exhaled, heat curling low in your belly, and reached for him, closing the space with a slow, deliberate roll of your knee to the outside of his. “I promise I won’t call HR if you don’t.”

He groaned.

And then he sank to his knees.

His hands slid over your thighs, smoothing upward in slow, reverent strokes, coaxing them apart, and your breath hitched. He watched, eyes heavy-lidded, flickering up to catch yours as he pressed a kiss – light, lingering – to the inside of your knee.

“Keep working,” he murmured, voice a little raw, a little wrecked already. His fingers curled into the hem of your skirt. “Don’t mind me.”

And then he dragged his mouth higher. Higuruma was breathing hard. You could hear it, feel it – the unsteady push of air against your bare thigh, the way it stuttered. His hands, already so warm, traced slow, sweeping lines up the outside of your thighs, fingers flexing against the hem of your skirt, seeming fascinated by the give and shift of the polyester, gathering the courage to do what he really wanted.

Like he still thought he needed permission.

You exhaled, shifting slightly in your chair, parting your thighs just enough that his fingertips slipped over the sensitive inner skin. His breath hitched, a quiet, sharp inhale through his nose. His head dipped lower, hair brushing against your knee, and you felt the tremor in his fingers as he finally, finally pushed your skirt up.

He did it slow, like he wanted to savor it, like he was unwrapping something precious.

Higuruma dragged the fabric upward, baring inch after inch of soft, warm skin, his thumbs pressing into the meat of your thighs, kneading absently like he couldn’t help it. And then he reached your panties, delicate lace darkened at the center with proof of your wanting. He made a sound, low and unsteady between a groan and a whimper. His fingers curled into the elastic, hesitating, holding.

Then he hooked them to the side.

He went still.

For a long moment, all he did was look. His hands tightened against your thighs, fingers dimpling the flesh, and he let out a sharp, unstable exhale. His glasses slipped a fraction of an inch down the bridge of his nose, but he didn’t move to fix them this time, didn’t move at all – just stared, breathing through his mouth now, lips parted like he was on the verge of either something catastrophic or panting like a dog.

“Oh,” he murmured, voice wrecked.

His thumbs smoothed against your skin, a reverent, subconscious caress.

“Fuck.”

You should have felt self-conscious, spread open for him like this, but the look on his face, the sincere, trembling hunger in his expression burned away any hesitation. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing up the brown of his irises black as pitch, his brows furrowed like he was in pain.

His hands slid under your thighs, lifting them, shifting you forward in your seat, making you open for him, spreading you wider. His nose – sharp, sloped, aristocratic you’d always thought – skirted along the inside of your thigh, his breath scalding, his lips dragging heat against skin. His stubble caught, a scratch of sensation that made your stomach jolt, made your cunt clench around nothing.

“Higuruma—”

He shuddered. “Hiromi,” he corrected, wide and needy eyes slowly swiveling up to your face, though not without great effort at having been reeled away from the exquisite glistening between your legs. “Hiromi’s just fine for right now.”

Then his mouth was on you.

The first stroke of his tongue was slow, broad, deliberate – a long, dragging lick from your dripping entrance to the stiff, aching pearl of your clit. Your whole body jerked, a broken gasp catching in your throat.

Hiromi moaned. Deep, desperate, guttural.

It vibrated against your cunt, made your thighs twitch where they bracketed his head. His hands flexed against your hips, squeezing like he needed something to ground himself, like the feel of you under his palms was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality; he’d mold the clay of your flesh into a life preserver, because he fully intended to drown here.

And then he did it again.

He was savoring it, the obscene, deliberate press of his tongue slipping through the slick mess of you, catching every little twitch, every tiny intake of breath. His nose brushed your clit with every motion, the bridge of it dragging just enough to make you squeak, your hands curling into the armrests, nails biting into the leather. A moan spilled from your lips before you could snag it back, too loud. Hiromi’s hands tensed against your thighs. He pulled back just slightly, just enough to glance up at you, his lips wet, mouth gleaming with dew, and glasses hopelessly lopsided. His voice was low, giddy and playful but the effect was outshone by how breathless he spoke – shaken and twitchy. “You’re supposed to be working, remember?” It took too long for you to realize what he was waiting for as he looked up at you. The clack of the keyboard. The pretense of professionalism. You laughed, choked and gravelly. Your gaze wrenched from the delicious sight of him below you up to the bleary glare of your monitor, blinking cursor and abandoned typo’s and all. Your fingers hovered over the keys before you forced yourself to type something, anything. A sentence. Just a few words. Hiromi hummed against you, pleased. His hands slid higher, hooking around your thighs to grip their fronts and tug you closer to him. Then he dipped his head and sighed – long and low, the sound that made your stomach tighten and heat pool in your gut, and would fuel countless wet dreams for the rest of your life.

You barely registered the way your thighs started to tremble, the restless shifting of your hips to wordlessly tempt him back, your body chasing after every slow, devastating pass of his tongue.

Hiromi felt it, though.

Felt the way you arched into him, the way your muscles twitched when he flattened his tongue against your clit and pressed, the way your breath caught when he let out a quiet, helpless whimper against you. He felt utterly pathetic, deranged, oh he could write empirical dissertations on every ethical breach occuring in his office today – but you liked it. Whether it was the taboo of it all or simply him – he hoped to god it was him – he could hardly drink you down fast enough before your sweet pussy drooled down into the cleft of your ass on the seat.

His fingers curled lower, slipping between your thighs from above, thumbs spreading you open.

He was shaking.

His shoulders quivered, adrenaline puppeteered his muscles into a jittery mess and he could do nothing but try to work through the tremors.

Then, like something in him had finally snapped, he gripped your thighs tighter and shook his head – side to side and feral, his nose rubbing against your clit, his tongue pressing inside you, spreading you open for him in a way that had you gasping, a choked-off moan catching in your throat.

“Oh, fuck—”

Hiromi growled into you, deep and needy, and then he was fucking his tongue inside you, quick and filthy and wet. His nose ground against your clit, his stubble rasping against the delicate skin of your inner thighs, and your entire body jolted at the overture of conflicting sensation.

You didn’t notice the way one of his hands slipped from your thigh, moving lower, until you felt the determined press of his fingers, felt the slow, careful stretch of two of them sinking into you, filling you alongside the obscene, messy slide of his tongue.

Your head dropped back against the chair, a broken, gasping moan slipping past your lips.

Higuruma growled into you, curling his fingers, pressing them just right, like he already knew exactly where to touch you, like he’d spent months learning your body before he ever laid a hand on it.

And maybe he had. Maybe those long, bleary nights where you caught him watching you – when your skin prickled under the self-conscious weight of his gaze – had never been idle, absent-minded staring at all. Maybe he hadn’t been zoning out, lost in legalese and exhaustion. Maybe he’d been looking at you like this all along.

Noticing the way you chewed on the end of your pen when you were thinking. The way you stretched your arms over your head after too many hours hunched over case files, the soft sigh you let out, the way your shirt lifted just enough to show the barest sliver of skin if he were lucky. The way your fingers tapped against your coffee cup in restless little rhythms, how your brows knit together when you were deep in thought, the way you bit your lip when you were holding back a smile.

Maybe, when he used to linger a little too long after walking you to your car – hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels, like he had something else to say but couldn’t quite get it out – it wasn’t just his usual brand of overworked buffering. Maybe it was this, all of this, eroding at the edges of his restraint, wearing it thinner every time you laughed at one of his dry remarks, every time your shoulder brushed his in passing, every time you looked up from your desk and caught him already watching.

And those guilty little smiles he used to give you?

Maybe they weren’t guilt at all. Maybe they were apologies.

For thinking about you in ways he shouldn’t have. For picturing you like this, like you were now, spread open beneath him, panting and flushed and trembling under the crooked curls of his fingers.

The realization hit you like a live wire, striking something deep and low inside you, flicking the taut rubber band behind your navel. Hiromi made a sound – low, half a moan, half a fuck, muffled into the slick, messy heat of your core.

And now that you knew – now that you saw it – there was no unseeing it.

Your pussy clenched around his fingers, sucking him deeper to the knuckle.

His whole body jerked, a sharp inhale through his nose, and his hips rolled against nothing, a ragged whimper spilling out muffled against your pussy.

He finger-fucked you slow and deep, his lips sealing around your clit and sucking it clear of its hood, rubbing with the flat of his tongue like it was his job. Like he’d done this a hundred times before, and he reckoned he has, if the lackluster imaginings in his head while he jerked himself to completion in bed were to be tallied. And just below your desk, he shifted, his breath fleeing the deflated balloon of his lungs in an embarrassingly high-pitched whine as he shouldered your legs and palmed himself through the soft grey cotton of his sweatpants. His cock twitched under the roll of his palm, thick and aching, the damp patch down the inseam darkening with every helpless grind of his hips against air.

His voice was wrecked, muffled, words half-swallowed against your skin.

“—fuck, y’taste s’good…lil’ more. Lemme have it…s’wet n’ pretty—”

Your breath stuttered, your hands flew to collect a fistful of his hair and yanked. He gasped against you, the vibrations shooting straight through your core to strike flint to steel, igniting the short and kerosene-soaked fuse in your belly.

“Hiromi, I—” you only just managed to squeak.

His free hand – it hadn’t been free though, but he’d sooner abandon himself than abandon you –  shot up, grasping blindly for yours, lacing your fingers together, squeezing tight. His tongue dragged over your clit, slow and deliberate, then he sucked, and—

You shattered.

Your whole body seized, back bowing, thighs clamping tight around his head. You barely heard the choked, desperate groan that tore from his throat as he swallowed you down, tongue fucking you through your orgasm like he was starving for it.

Everything blurred, your breath stuttering, your fingers tangled in his hair, clenching tight as your body pulsed around his fingers, your cum soaking his face, his mouth, slicking his wrist.

And still he didn’t stop.

Didn’t stop licking, sucking, devouring, his consumption of you was absolute. His lips wrapping around your clit, gentle and coaxing, dragging you through the trembling aftershocks until your body sagged, boneless, against the chair. But you felt the way his whole body shuddered and suddenly convulsed, the heave of his shoulders beneath your limp legs, the muffled broken moan that gargled in his throat as his fingers squeezed tight against yours— And the way he abruptly stilled.

When he finally pulled away, his breathing was ragged, panting against the inside of your thigh, his glasses fogged up, his lips swollen and shining, his stubble slick with the mess he’d made of you, earned from you.

“… fuck,” he rasped. His forehead dropped against your thigh, his fingers squeezing where they still clung to yours. “God. I—” He swallowed hard, his voice thick. It was rare for Hiromi to be rendered anything resembling speechless.

His shoulders shook between laughter and disbelief.

“Would’ve done that ages ago if I knew you’d let me.” Hiromi exhaled a slow, steady breath against your thigh. Then another. His fingers flexed in your grip once, twice, before finally loosening, slipping free only so he could smooth his palms along the tops of your legs, rubbing lazy, absentminded circles into your skin. His forehead rested against you, warm and damp, glasses tilted near sideways and lifted from his face.

Neither of you said anything for a long moment. The hum of the office settled back in around you – the faint click of a keyboard from down the hall, the intermittent trill of a phone ringing elsewhere, the low hiss of the air vent. But all of it felt far away, like a different world, like something that had no bearing on the one you were currently sinking into, pacified and hazy in your chair, while Hiromi sighed heavy and contented into your lap.

Then, just as the static buzz of post-orgasmic bliss started to fade—

His jaw went slack against your thigh.

You barely had time to react before his mouth stretched wide, lips grazing your skin, and chomp.

Not hard – just enough to make you squeal, swatting at him with the force of a wet napkin.

“Stop it!” you half-laughed, half-scolded, still breathless, shaking him off as he grinned, cheek smushed against your thigh.

He hummed, entirely unrepentant, his lips pressing an exaggerated, obnoxiously loud mwah right where he’d bitten you.

“Sorry,” he said, voice still raspy. “Couldn’t help myself.”

You huffed, still laughing, running absent fingers through his hair in retaliation. “You’re awful.”

“Mm,” he agreed, eyes slipping shut as he nuzzled deeper, getting comfortable like he had every intention of staying there for the rest of the afternoon.

You hesitated, still gathering the courage to say it, but you were riding the same high he was, and you wanted to. So you smoothed your hand down, fingers slipping under his prickly chin, tilting his face up just enough that he had to look at you.

“You want me to return the favor?”

His eyelids lifted just slightly, heavy-lidded and unreadable, like he was parsing whether or not you were serious. Then his mouth quirked, slow and wry, his voice a quiet rasp.

“There’s no need.”

You blinked. “No need?”

A beat.

Then – his ears went pink.

Oh.

Oh.

A slow, wicked grin curled at the edges of your lips.

“Hiromi Higuruma,” you said, voice rich with delight, dragging your fingers through the sweaty, mussed strands of his hair. “Did you—”

He groaned and dropped his face back into your lap, burying it in your skirt. “Don’t.”

You laughed, warm and breathless, carding through his hair, absolutely gleeful. “Oh my God,” you whispered, voice high-pitched, teasing. “I didn’t even touch you.”

His arms curled around your thighs, squeezing once in a half-hearted warning, but the damage was done.

“That’s…” You exhaled, still smiling, still floating. “God, that’s so hot.”

A muffled groan vibrated against your lap.

You weren’t going to let him off easy. Not after this. Not after knowing that just getting you off had been enough to get him off, too.

“What happened to all that patience, Hiromi?” you teased, nudging his chest with your knee. “What happened to self-control?”

He grunted, shifting, and you rolled your head to the side and saw it – the sticky, wet mess that turned the pale grey of his pants a darker charcoal.

You grinned. Oh, you were never letting him live this down.

He lifted his head slightly, glaring at you from under his lashes, though there was no real heat behind it. “I was patient,” he grumbled, jaw ticking. “It just… caught up to me.”

“Uh-huh,” you mused, biting back another laugh, still stroking your fingers through his hair. “Maybe you should take days off more often.”

Hiromi made a sound, indistinguishable between a laugh and a groan, squeezing your thighs where they still rested over his shoulders. “Don’t start.”

You hummed, smirking. Then, gentler, pressing the pads of your fingers to his scalp: “Seriously. You should.”

He went quiet for a moment, then sighed, long and slow, shifting his arms so he could rest more comfortably in your lap. “Maybe I will.”

Maybe he would. Maybe he’d let himself have more than just a stolen afternoon, a guilty indulgence. Maybe he’d stop making himself wait for nice things. Or at least consider it.

But for now, he'd stay there, warm and content against your thighs, letting you thread your fingers through his hair, letting you touch him like you wanted to.

And for the first time in a long time – maybe ever – he let himself enjoy a day off.

Sui-Feng ; Bleach ☆ MegaHouse

When tumblr refreshes itself and the fic I was reading fucking disappears forever 💔

I’ve been searching for a smau I was reading for three days 😔

Just gonna..drop these here for some inspo…

(User is @centaaurea on TikTok btw 🫣)

He- he's just so.....big 🤤 And that tongue....so...big 🤤

I feel like a virgin when I search up “x Reader” with a new character I like

calebmc core:

Childhood trio Pt. Groupchat

[6:35PM] Caleb: :(

[6:35PM] Caleb: :((

[6:37PM] MC: Caleb? What's wrong? Are you okay?

[6:37PM] Caleb: Promise me you won't be mad. :(

[6:38PM] Zayne: HE JUST HIT ME WITH HIS CAR.

BEST BOYS AND TURBO GRANNY ???? THIS IS SO CUUUTE

i love his backshots. 😛

Best friend!Gojo proposed to you at precisely age six and held up the honor of your marriage all throughout. He was loyal, devoted, celebrated your anniversaries without you realizing the pattern. 

Even a good couple decades later when you two are finally together and settled when he tells you this- you’d be like “Satoru, what do you mean you always acted married to me- I dated other people in high school??” 

Only for your boyfriend (longtime husband?) to answer serenely, “I merely forgave you for you infidelity, my wife.”

Nanami: Initiate Phase 2.

Yuji: I forgot what Phase 2 is, but I'll assume we just run in like we discussed.

Nanami: Affirmative.

Yuji: I'll assume that means "yes".

Nanami: Roger.

Yuji: My name's Itadori.

I don't know about y'all, but it makes me so angry and not able to understand why people still use the 'fluff' tag even when their writing is pure smut.

i should not have the displeasure of seeing literal SMUT when i search for fluff. like why should the top post be of reader receiving devious backshots from gojo. make it make sense.

you can continue writing what you wanna write since it's not hurting anybody, but PLEASE, use the tags correctly

Sukuna having no clue on how to propose so you just randomly wake up one day with an engagement ring on your finger.

And you're just so confused and panicking and when Sukuna wakes up next to you and grumbles "You're being too loud, wife-to-be." you are even more thrown off.

"T-This isn't how you're supposed to do it!"

"And if I did it any other way, you would have still said yes."

"Well... yes. But that's not that point—!"

You can never win against this guy.

Sukuna is the type of husband who NEEDS to hold you when he sleeps.

Before he started being in a relationship with you Sukuna had trouble finding sleep in most nights, probably due to his bad working routine and messy habits that got fixed after you came into his life. And now he can't sleep unless his wife is safely wrapped in his arms.

You could be watching TV after a day at work and Sukuna will come home next probably tired as hell and in need of a nap. He is quick to wrap his arms around your hips and gently take you into his arms as he carries you to the shared bedroom, Despite your endless protests asking him to take a shower first,

"Kuna you stink, go take a shower first"

"Calling your husband stinky? You wound me darling"

"Sukuna please.."

"Fine then, but we shower together"

"But I just showered-

"Too bad brat"

When it's time for sleep, he patiently waits till you're done with your skincare routine. And if you take way too much time for some reason, like your friend calling you at the last minute to spill the hot gossips of the day Sukuna is there to remind you he's ready and set for his bedtime by scoffing loudly enough for you to hear. Petty man.

Taking a pee at night? Grabbing a late night snack because you're hungry? Those are impossible to do without waking Sukuna up. The moment you sit up in the bed, he's already awake, grumbling in his sleep and asking what the hell are you doing before pulling you back to his arms.

That one time you managed to sneak out of the bed without waking Sukuna up. You mentally praised yourself for the victory as you snuck in to the kitchen to eat the last piece of the chocolate cake. Before you can even take 3 bites you hear footsteps behind and when you turned to look, it's half awake and half asleep Sukuna with the blanket hanging by his hips like a toddler who ran out of their bedroom searching for their mom. He's scrutinizing his eyes at you, trying to figure out what the hell are you doing. Then he sees the chocolate cake and the icing around your lips and his face instantly takes a betrayed expression.

"Kuna-"

"So you left your husband, all alone, in this fucking cold weather just for chocolate cake?"

"We have a heater-"

"That's not the point, the point is how a chocolate cake worth more than your husband"

"okay now you're being dramatic"

"This is straight up gluttony"

"Sukuna!!"

It's gotten bad to the point where you can't even sleep one night away without feeling guilty because you know this man is wide awake and restless without you in the bed. Yet you wouldn't change a single thing. The way Sukuna's strong arms wrap around you, keeping you warm and safe while soft hum of his snores disappearing into the crook of your neck, it's everything you will ever need.

And you hope it never changes.

You look up from your book to see your husband standing over the bassinet with his arms crossed, his brow raising as he looks down inside of it with a tiny scowl. He stays like that for about a minute. You sit up in your shared bed, then call out to him. “Ryo.” 

“Hm.” He doesn’t look up. 

“May I ask what you are doing?” 

“The little brat is staring,” Sukuna says matter-of-factly. “I am simply staring at her in return.” 

Inside of the bassinet, your baby daughter coos. Her scarlet eyes—exactly like her father’s—glitter with interest. You hear her giggle, and you scoff lightly and return your gaze to your book. “She thinks you’re playing a game.” 

“I am doing no such thing.” 

You flip a page. “Put a hand over your face for a few seconds.” He doesn’t respond, but you know he listens. “M’kay, now lift.” There’s silence for a few seconds, then your daughter bursts into a fit of giggles. 

Sukuna rolls his eyes. “I do not understand what is so entertaining about that.” When you look up again, you see that he’s covering his face again, then revealing himself to get the same reaction from the baby.

“It’s called peek-a-boo. It’s a game most babies love to play.” 

The little princess babbles as she lifts her arms up, and Sukuna tilts his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

You snicker. “One: You’ll figure out what she’s saying the more you talk with her. Two: She wants you to pick her up.” 

He sighs dramatically, then reaches into the bassinet to pick up the small girl. Though she has her father’s eyes, she has your hair, the shape of your nose, and your ears. She also has your fearlessness, because she smiles directly in the face of the king of curses. Now at his eye level, she reaches her arms towards him excitedly. “What is it now, you brat? I’m already carrying you.” 

He looks over at you in question, and your smile grows. “She wants to touch your face,” you say. 

“Why?” 

“Because she’s a baby, and she’s curious.” 

Sukuna pulls her closer, and once in range, his daughter lays her tiny hands against his marked face. She giggles more, and you can see his eyes soften. “Hmph. You have your mother’s smile.” 

— — — —

The next morning, you walk into the kitchen where you hear Sukuna speaking with someone. When he turns to the side, you see your daughter nestled in the crook of one of his muscular arms, staring up at him as he concluded whatever story he was telling her. 

“...At the end of the battle, only I remained. Victory was mine.” 

The baby babbles excitedly, and Sukuna scoffs. “Ha, you will do no such thing. How do you expect to join me in battle when you aren’t even a year old, brat?” 

Her face scrunches in what looks like annoyance, and she repeats to him what he taught her the night before. “Hmph.” 

You burst into laughter, and Sukuna raises a brow at the little girl in his arms. “Great. Your mother’s smile, and her attitude.”

Woman to woman, I tell you this because I care about you:

• Get your degree, get your bag and be your own man. Be independent.

• Don't get married or move in with someone until your brain is fully developed (age 25)

• Be obsessed with improving yourself every single day. You can create your own dream life.

• Don't get pregnant unless you're emotionally, physically and financially ready.

• Be surrounded by people that make you wiser, happier and prettier.

• You are still young in your 20's, 30's, 40's and more.

• A relationship is partnership: Make sure he helps you too

• Always take care of your appearance

Sabrina Carpenter x Short n’ Sweet Tour

Renée Downer

I could NEVER being the same room as Gojo, I be getting a little too hungry sometimes. I'll have to be put down like a dog.