A Love Not Meant To Be, Pt. 1: Kaeya

"watch me retire and learn how to cook" – the genshin boys as househusbands

ft. aether, al-haitham, cyno, wanderer

2k words, fluff, themes of marriage, gn! reader; inspired by that meme asking guys what they would do if they married someone who earns 800k a year

AETHER – whose qualifications are outmatched only by his love

When Aether finally retired from the adventuring life, many have warned him that the domestic life will make him even more of a busybody. Aether can see where they’re coming from now. 

But there’s an overarching peace he feels when all he’s going through recipe books with Paimon and watering the plants in the morning. Sometimes, while you’re out for work and he’s at home, he gets a weird moment where he wonders if this is what it’d feel like if he hadn’t retired and you were at home instead. 

Then he remembers that him running across Teyvat while you had your own career back home was exactly how your relationship worked before he settled down for good.

When he’s out buying groceries, rookie adventurers would recognize him as the retired hero of Teyvat and eagerly ask for advice – to which Aether accidentally gives more advice about cooking and budgeting than on battles or domains.

“If you’re an adventurer on a budget, you might be tempted to run a tab on the diners you visit, like Good Hunter,” Aether says as he compares the ripeness of two tomatoes at the grocery. The rookies surround him with bated breath, awaiting every word of his advice.

“It’s more sustainable to just buy ingredients and cook simple meals in the long run. Also I’m more a fan of butter than oil to fry, but my partner says otherwise. It’s up to you.”

With a wink, he walks away, leaving a group of stunned but curious adventurers behind to fanboy about the hero of Teyvat buying groceries.

Aether is an amazing cook. It’s also how he calms down. Following a recipe, pouring care into every ingredient and step, and the sounds and smells of the kitchen all remind Aether of what home means to him.

Making sure you’re eating healthy is how he cares for people. He won’t be shoving food down your gullet, but should you have trouble with eating well from stress or anything, he’s sweet in a persistent way, slowly encouraging you through every bite and making sure you’re snacking well during all-nighters.

Not to mention that with his Anemo and future Hydro powers combined, he’ll make quick work of cleaning house, if you aren’t living in the Teapot (which is likely anyways, because Aether wants a real house for some stability).

You worried at first that he would feel cooped-up if he just stayed at the house. Thankfully, Aether will never run out of friends to visit or hijinks to jump into; such is his luck, really. A lot of his friends still find it jarring when Aether, renowned warrior and hero, can go on and on about the importance of a clean kitchen and what makes a good rice. He once had a discussion with Tighnari, Noelle, and Thoma on healthy cooking that lasted from night to morning.

“The hero is a kept man,” his companions would sigh with amusement at the lovestruck sparkle in Aether’s eyes whenever he talks about you.

He likes going on outdoorsy trips with you should you have the time: fishing by the lake, hiking the mountains of Jueyun Karst, or camping under the stars while chewing on adventurer food.

There’s nothing quite like coming home every night and seeing Aether and Paimon with handkerchiefs tied over their heads, dusting the room while the smell of dinner permeates the house. It’s like the skies have parted for the sun when he happily exclaims, “You’re back!”

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・゜゜・． tell me about love (show me how) | gojo satoru

◌ wc: 7.3k ◌ summary: you teach gojo how to love.  ◌ warnings: wrote this with f!reader in mind but idt i mentioned anything specific so it should be gn as well!, descriptions of blood (typical jjk canon type stuff), shibuya onwards manga spoilers, implied minor character death, there are swears, suggestive bit at the end (but it’s funny!), lots of internal thoughts/dialogues  ◌ a/n: this piece relates to my short blurb, do you believe in love? but isn’t necessarily a sequel to it! explores a lot on gojo internal struggles and beliefs (or at least the version of gojo i envision for this universe)! timeline is a bit ambiguous because it hops through a lot of in-betweens but it’s linear for the most part! also placed my own (optimistic and probably unrealistic) predictions of how things will pan out but i don’t go too much into it! i would also like to shoutout @stellamancer for leaving such lovely comments on dybil that it actually kinda pushed me to write this longer piece connected to it!! ◌ part ii of conversations on love: i | ii

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

When Gojo has love for the taking, he makes no move to reach for it. 

It’s unusual for him to be so restrained, being born into greed and predetermined purpose—a one-man clan fated to hold power close to God. There exists a hunger within him, insatiable and stubborn, unstoppable until he gets what he wants. It’s all he’s ever known: to take and devour, simply because he can. 

Yet with this, he doesn’t. He can’t seem to. 

“I think I’ll always want to be with you, Satoru.” 

When you offer your heart to Gojo, he looks at you softly. 

You catch his eyes and see the sky, bright, with flecks of light floating on his irises like cotton clouds in its periphery. It’s different from the piercing blue you’re used to—a terrifying riptide that washes you away. 

It wasn’t intended as a confession, but Gojo always takes whatever you have to say. He commits it to memory each time; how could he not? Words that come from you flow so naturally, so earnestly that the air around you shifts all on its own.

His lips part slightly, red spatterings lining pink inner corners before they close again. He doesn’t say anything, but you know Gojo and the fingerprints of his soul—the way he bites his lips to withhold himself from speaking. 

It’s dangerous, he thinks, how you make wanting something so complicated seem so simple.

He takes a small breath, then you feel it, pressed against you—the faint signatures of his cursed energy overlaying his entirety. It tickles a little. You don’t remember the last time he put it up around you.

A million things run through Gojo’s mind for every split second he breathes, but at this point in time, he counts a million and one—one thought that if he touches you by infinity instead of his hands, he can have this good thing for now, that this is the only way how. 

And you’d think this a rejection if any, but he doesn’t move away from you, and the red blooming at the tips of his ears says more than he ever could. 

────────────

The subtle intimacy you share with Gojo grows sporadically, from knuckles brushing to pinkies touching. He stands next to you more often, a few inches closer than he used to and sometimes, still, with an infinity connecting you.

────────────

When you hold Gojo’s hand for the first time, he jolts very slightly, as if you’ve shocked him. He’s started to put his infinity down around you again, and you continue the limbo of whatever it is you both are—except this time, he’s made it clearer, just a little bit. 

It’s the last few leaves of fall and Gojo skips to an ice cream stand like a pre-schooler on early dismissal. You follow, shaking your head but smiling; he’s the only adult you know that still acts like he’s 5. 

“You’re like a horse.” you jest, stopping next to him in line.

“You’re a snail.” he huffs, side-eyeing you, like a child. 

You gasp, hitting his arm. He fake-winces, but that’s all it is; Gojo’s the strongest and you don’t know of any human touch that has managed to hurt him, except—

Yeah. Your eyes trail to the side of his neck, hidden in the shadows of his jawline; there’s really nothing, but sometimes you blink and see red, oozing, gushing, leaking—you shake away the thought.  

When he receives his ice cream cone stacked with vanilla-strawberry-vanilla and rainbow sprinkles on top, the smile on his face parallels the sun. He looks cozy, beaming against the autumn breeze blowing on his thick gray hoodie. You wonder if he feels just as warm.

(Maybe that’s why you do it, then).

Just as Gojo turns to give you the cone, you reach for his other hand tentatively, shyly. You want to give him an out if he can’t take this, but he doesn’t move. He twitches a little, like he’s been caught off guard, but that’s it. 

You catch his eyes widen briefly, just a little bit, before turning into the same soft skies frequenting them lately. 

“Sorry, is this okay?” you whisper, peering up at him. 

He stares at you for a while, his hand in yours unmoving. You leave a sliver of space between your palms, your own version of his infinity, just in case. And he takes it all in: how tiny your hand is wrapped around his, how gently you speak—how warm he feels now amidst this autumn breeze. 

“The strawberry’s really good,” he finally replies, pressing the dessert closer to you, “try it.” 

You give him one last look before you indulge in his request. Gojo’s always been good at that: pushing and pulling—pushing you away with non-answers only to pull you back in with something else. 

But he doesn’t let go of your hand, so you keep yours there, palms nearly touching. You make a point not to mention how the parts that do touch become clammy for the rest of the afternoon. 

────────────

You start to think that your relationship with Gojo is going somewhere, then he disappears (‘gets sealed’ might be the more proper term). 

His absence is deafening. You’ve all lost so much, and it hurts, but you carry on knowing full well that this is what being a jujutsu sorcerer means. There aren’t many left to fight his fight, so you do what you can to. You stay with Shoko, mostly, if not going back and forth with Utahime. And the students, the kids—you can’t even bear to think about what they’re going through. 

Nights are the hardest, when the world is quiet but your mind is loud. There are too many questions you can’t find the answers to.

What will Gojo come back to? Then the scarier thought: Will he even come back? 

You don’t want to doubt him, ever, but your mind continues to play back that day, like a final memory. The unintentional confession; his eyes like the sky. 

You don’t want it to be the last important thing you tell him. 

“I should start looking into retirement plans, like Nanamin.” you raise an eyebrow, questioning. Gojo’s never spoken this far into the future before, most especially his. 

“Work is shit now for you too?” you scoff, leaning back on the wooden ledge. 

Gojo rolls his eyes; he isn’t wearing his blindfold today. 

“Well, after I remove the old geezers and change everything, there won’t be much left to do.” 

You hum in response. He does make a point. 

“Also, Megumi won’t need me anymore,” he pouts, whining, “who else will want me around?” 

You try to hold back your laugh, wanting so badly to tell him that Megumi doesn’t even really like him around already to begin with—but you figure breaking Gojo’s heart isn’t really something you want to do if you value your peace. 

“I don’t know,” you reply, shifting your weight, “I think I’ll always want to be with you, Satoru.” 

Even now, especially now. You wish you were with him, too. 

────────────

The day you hear of Gojo’s potential return, you drop your breakfast outside the 7-eleven near Jujutsu Tech. You’re supposed to meet up with Utahime for a weekly check-in but your feet take you to Shoko, and the footsteps in your heart have never echoed louder. 

This is the first good news in a while—especially after finding out about the state of Megumi and what happened to Tsumiki, your sweet girl Tsumiki. 

When Gojo comes back, it’s like he never left. He pops out of the box joking the same way, talking the same way. He proves himself to be the strongest all the same, and when he wins—there are scars, but he wins and that fact stays the same. 

So, when you reach for his hand now and he moves away, you’re stuck wondering what’s changed. 

────────────

You let it stay that way for a while, your understanding extending to Gojo the way it always has—you don’t push, and he gives you what he can. It honestly isn’t all that bad, because at least he’s still talking to you the way he always has.

Jujutsu society is still shaken from its core. You and all who have survived bear the task of building everything from the ground up; it’s exhausting, especially since most of you are still mourning. 

Megumi’s been put in an induced coma; you understand why but it still tugs at your heart when Shoko tells you it might take a while. Everyone else has been assigned to sweep through the rest of Japan, just to ensure that any remaining curses are taken care of. 

You see Yuuji and Yuuta visit Megumi sometimes, along with Maki and Toge when they’re free. Gojo’s there pretty often too, using healing sessions with Shoko as an excuse to see the boy he’s practically raised at 17, with you. 

And while Gojo’s smiles to everyone else remain as charming as ever, you can always tell when they’re untrue. 

“Are you okay?” 

You find Gojo a little after midnight on the rooftop of the faculty building. The city always looks pretty from up here—a sea of lights reflected up on the sky. In the many years you’ve known Gojo, you notice that he always comes to places like this to think; you also know that he’s been here almost every single night since being unsealed. 

Sneaking up on Gojo is almost impossible; he senses you before he hears you, sees the familiar traces of your cursed energy through his six eyes. 

“Can’t sleep thinking about me?” he teases, looking straight ahead.

The steps you take towards him are careful, afraid of running him off like you seem to be lately. You sit beside him and shrug, “These days, yeah.”

It’s times like this when Gojo forgets how honest you can be, how he takes your word for everything, completely. 

It’s threatening, he thinks, how you can say so much with so little. 

“Well, maybe I can suggest—” 

“Seriously, Satoru,” you grip the ledge tightly, knuckles turning white, “please.” 

You tend to let Gojo dodge your questions a lot of the time, his elusiveness a hallmark of who he is. So you never sound like you do now, serious, pleading. 

Gojo fiddles with his fingers, pondering. He hums lowly before speaking, “Does it matter?” 

It hurts you a little, how that’s even a question. He should know better than to ask that to you. 

“It matters to me, Satoru,” you sigh, “you know it does.”

You barely catch the way his brows furrow at your response, but there are creases on his blindfold that can’t be created by anything else. And Gojo knows—is so painfully aware of the way you care. 

Since coming back, he’s never felt like he’s fully returned. It’s an odd existence of in-between, like he’s everything and nothing all at the same time. The emotions are even worse, overloading his senses with feelings he can never pinpoint. 

How does he tell you that he must be fucked in the head? That every second in his mind is another step closer to insanity? That he’s lost your tether on Satoru in pursuit of Gojo—of being a god? 

“I’ll tell you,” he starts, “but you have to look away.”

You’ve always treated Gojo tenderly, patiently, and he knows, without a doubt, that no matter what he says you will continue to do the same. But he can’t allow that, not anymore. Not after the way you looked at him that day.

“Okay,” you mutter, turning your head the other way. 

He breathes out and you can almost picture it: half-bitten lips and eyes like low tide. 

“I’m okay,” he says to the back of your head, “you have nothing to worry about.” 

A breeze picks up and brushes past your neck. It’s a lie. He knows it, knows you know it too, but—

it’s easier this way, he thinks, to give you answers when you’re not looking.

Gojo’s never found a weakness he can’t work around, but he might have just found one with you—in your eyes, that read through his every lie. If you turn around now, he’ll want to tell you everything.

“Satoru,” you whisper, letting his name fill the air. You get it—him, and even when you don’t, you try damn hard to because you refuse to let Gojo carry all of it on his own. 

There are crescent indents on your palm from squeezing your knuckles too hard. You think, is this how you form shallow cuts on your heart?

“It’s just me,” you continue, facing him when you say it. 

He takes you all in—your eyes that hold the city lights, your lips, the only vessel that handles his name so delicately. It’s that look on your face again and Gojo’s hit with the overwhelming truth that whatever it is, he feels the same. 

────────────

There’s a secret Gojo keeps, one he’s certain he’ll never tell you: that when he looks at you upon his return and finds an emotion he can’t name, he’s never felt so afraid.  

He takes in the shadows under your eyes and the sunkenness of your cheeks—the number of blinks it takes you to reign in tears on the brink of leaking. Your voice shakes when you say his name.

Shoko tells him about it because she knows you never will—about how you’ve been running yourself dry, speeding through colonies to gather intel for any possible way to break the seal. She tells him about the sleepless nights, how she catches you standing outside his office at 3 a.m. before travelling to Utahime the next morning. 

And he cannot comprehend it at first, cannot understand how he’s caused you to crumble this way. 

If this is all because of him, how you’ve broken yourself all for his sake, he can’t allow it. To see you ruin yourself over him, over anyone ever—you deserve better.

So, when Gojo has love for the taking, he makes no move to reach for it; he cannot possibly take any more from you if this is what is left of you when he does. 

────────────

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you catch him by the door of the conference room. 

Rebuilding an entire society requires work and apparently a lot of meetings. Gojo doesn’t usually go to most of them, leaving you and Utahime to carry the chunk of his attendance when he’s not there. In the rare times that he does go, he makes it a point to be the last one in and the first one out. Utahime hates him for it but you don’t blame him—he isn’t exactly amicable with other figures of authority.

He pauses when he steps out of the door, hands in pockets as he turns to face you. 

You’re not mad or anything, just stating the fact. You lean against the wall next to you, keeping your arms crossed. There are still people filing out of the conference room, some eyeing the two of you curiously as they pass by.

Gojo glances at them before clearing his throat, “Right, I’ve been avoiding the paperwork you left in my office,” he speaks louder, practically announcing it to everyone in the vicinity, “let’s finish it now.” 

You don’t know whether it’s irritating that Gojo’s so terribly bad at acting, or comforting that he still can’t, for the life of him, successfully lie to you. 

He motions for you to follow him as he strolls down the hallway. You intentionally lag a few steps behind, careful not to encroach on his space lest it make him avoid you any more than he already is.

Stepping into Gojo’s office after so long feels weird, like you belong here but only to a memory of it—as if closing the door behind you feels like activating a muscle you haven’t for a while. It’s been months after all. 

Your eyes skim over the entire room, zeroing in on the stacks of paper lined up on his desk; paperwork has always been Gojo’s least favorite part of the job, often leaving you to do them with him (or alone, when you’re feeling generous). Not much has changed in his office; the mini living space still exists to the left of the room, with little bits of you in its interiors—the pillows, the coffee table books. 

Gojo plops down on the sofa chair and props his feet up on the ottoman, giving four scrolls to his phone before pocketing it. He has the audacity to casually offer you the seat across from him, as if nothing’s wrong—as if he hasn’t been avoiding you for god’s sake. 

Ever since the rooftop, he’s canceled lunch with you six times for reasons that you’re now realizing are less likely to be true. He’s kept a distance of at least one person in between you at all times, and to this day, you still don’t understand why. 

You sigh, taking a seat and leaning back to cross your legs. 

“You’re so bad at acting.” you start.

Being with Gojo for so long, you’ve come to realize that there’s no point being angry with him when your heart can never take it. 

“I technically wasn’t lying.” he replies, sticking an index finger up. 

“Yeah, I can see that,” you snicker, nodding to his desk. 

It’s always like this with Gojo: he pulls you in and you follow. No matter the distance between you, when you sit down together like this, it still always flows so easily. The banter you’ve built together over a decade and more shines through no matter what state your relationship is in. 

Neither of you say anything until Gojo replaces his blindfold for his sunglasses, placing the piece of cloth on the coffee table. 

You break the silence. 

“Why have you been avoiding me?” you ask quietly. Gojo aches at that, how you still choose to regard him so kindly. 

There’s a war in his head right now—a million thoughts and one. Why has he been avoiding you? 

Gojo’s a pretty bad communicator; for how much he talks, he doesn’t really say much—and maybe that’s the root of all this. There are too many things he wants to say but can’t formulate in the right way. 

“If it’s something I did, can you at least let me know?” you continue. Gojo frowns, how can you be wronged yet still think of yourself as the one to blame? 

“Why do you do that?” he tuts, head tilting sideways as his hands dig deeper into his pockets. 

“Do what?” you furrow your brows, confused. 

“You didn’t do anything, so don’t worry about it.” he says dismissively. 

You arch an eyebrow; he has it all wrong. 

“Satoru, I’m not worried because I feel guilty,” you sit up, inching towards the edge of your seat, “I’m worried because you’re pushing me away.” your voice is level, but your pupils shake.

Something grips at his chest seeing you this way; together or apart, he seems to be the main contributor to your heartache. 

You wonder if confronting him like this is any good if he’s not going to say anything anyway. 

“If you want space, that’s okay, I get it, but,” you exhale, “at least just tell me why.” 

This entire time avoiding you, Gojo’s had you on his mind—the million and one. He’s come to terms with what he feels when you’re together, and how it amplifies when you’re not. 

It’s shitty of him to practically ghost you, not just in text but in real life too. But he’s thought about it logically, really, that removing himself from your life should be just like ripping off a bandaid—painful but quick. At least that way, you’d get over it fast. 

He’d been resigned to doing that and that was the plan—until now. 

All it takes is seeing that look in your eyes, and his resolve falls apart. 

“I can’t.” he speaks softly. The part that hurts the most is that beneath his sunglasses, you still see eyes holding the sky. 

You think you want to cry. 

You take this as your answer and close your eyes, taking a deep breath before getting up to leave. If this is goodbye, you don’t want your last interaction to be an awkward standstill of him watching you bawl in his office chair. 

You push yourself up with the armrest only to sit back down—because Gojo is right in front of you, blocking your way. His infinity is up but touching, creating tingles on your knees.

“Wait,” he swallows, a franticness you’ve never seen before. His head stays down as he bites his lips, sunglasses hanging by his fingertips. You wonder what he wants to say; you want to tell him that it’s just you—that you’ll always want to hear it all. 

What comes next is unlike any version of Satoru you have ever known—nervous and uncertain, almost like he’s afraid. He lowers himself, slowly coming down to his knees in front of you. A giant of a man so small in your presence. 

“I don’t know how.” he mutters, dropping his sunglasses to the floor. 

You blink once, twice, still surprised by what’s in front of you. Gojo has always towered above you, has always known how to do anything and everything so effortlessly without fail. 

Watching him now, with every inhale and exhale dragging in slow motion, you do your best not to startle him. 

“How to what?” you whisper like it’s fragile. 

He looks up, eyes locking with yours. A reaction happens in that moment—the split second of all his thoughts collapsing into one. You see a clear sky, blue and bright as day, the Satoru he saves for you—while he sees you, with that look on your face, the one that he knows has always only meant love. 

The sincerity in your gaze overwhelms him—makes him look away before it becomes too much. Red blooms at the tips of his ears as he bites the inner corners of his lips, fingers grabbing at the fabric of his pants. You’re afraid he might run away again, but he doesn’t and stays right where you are. 

“You know…” he looks to the side, pouting, “whatever you do….”

“Like…?” you coax lightly, trying hard to hide the small smile forming on your lips. 

You wonder how many versions of Satoru you’ll meet in your lifetime, and if this one, shy and nervous, will be one you’ll fit into the crevices of your heart just like all the others. 

He grips his pants tighter, fabric bunching under his fingers, “When you hold my hand… those things. You get it.” 

And you do (get it), so you don’t push, taking whatever Gojo has to give you like you always have. 

The tension relieves from you slowly, comforted by the fact that at least he’s given you his reasons now (no matter how vague they still seem to be). That at least there are no non-answers this time. 

You tell yourself that it’s okay, that you’re content as long as Gojo’s in your life even without the possibility of becoming something more. 

“Ok—”

But there’s always one thing you forget about Gojo—

“So show me how.”

—in the moments you least expect it, he speaks the words that matter most. 

────────────

You choose to show him slowly, gently, like the trickling introduction of water to a man who is first learning how to drink. 

In the first few weeks of you and Gojo readjusting to one another, he turns on his infinity again—but only when he gets close enough to touch you. Lunches together happen more often, dinners sometimes too. Then he puts his infinity down, indefinitely. 

For the most part, your relationship falls into the usual steps of your dynamic with Gojo; there’s no pressure for anything and he likes that, appreciates the time you’re giving him to learn things at his own pace. 

It grows organically that way: knuckles brushing as you both reach for the stapler, pinkies touching whenever you walk side-by-side during site visits—until you’re able to hold his hand fully again, leaving that little infinity between your palms for him to close (hopefully, one day). 

────────────

The faculty room is cold, especially during winter. The heating system is never warm enough to keep your hands from shaking whenever you mix your morning coffee. 

“So loud so early,” Gojo saunters into the kitchen like he owns the place, hands in pockets as he approaches the pantry. 

You stop mixing, ceasing the clinking of the spoon against your mug. “How are you not freezing?” 

He shrugs, grabbing his box of (heavily sugared) cereal. “I guess I’m just hot.” he says, turning to wiggle his eyebrows.

You roll your eyes and set your coffee on the table, Gojo following with a bowl brimming with cereal and milk. 

Mornings usually consist of you and Gojo, with an occasional new hire who has an early class that day. Most of the time, it’s just you two though, with Shoko coming in much closer to lunch time already. 

“Want some?” he asks, holding out his spoon.

It’s routine—Gojo asks and you decline, choosing to save yourself from the cavities that he somehow manages to evade despite having a diet of 80% sugar. 

Today though, you’re feeling a little adventurous. 

You nod, opening your mouth. Gojo’s eyes widen, nearly dropping the spoon at your request. You see the flush of his cheeks and smile, corners of your mouth extending wider. The spoon is shoved to your mouth too quickly, almost like he’s embarrassed to feed you (considering he’s never before). 

“Too sweet,” you say, your face scrunching at the copious amount of sugar you’ll feel for days. 

“Like me, right?” Gojo winks from beside you. 

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Gojo throughout this whole relationship trial period, he recovers from any state within a nanosecond. There’s no end to how shameless he can be. 

“Sure,” you drawl sarcastically and Gojo smiles like it’s high praise. 

You sip your coffee slowly, revelling in the heat that flows down your throat.

“Can I have half of that?” you point to his bowl. Gojo looks at you, confused, but slides it over anyway.

What happens next is an abomination to Gojo’s eyes—pure absolute disgust: you pour half of his cereal into your coffee and mix, taking a sip and crunching on a few pieces every now and then. 

His face contorts into complete distaste, horror and revulsion in the way his mouth hangs open. 

“What are you doing? That’s gross!” he nearly yells, reaching over to bring your mug down. His hand goes over yours for a moment, still causing gallops in his heartbeat. 

You laugh, giggling as he processes what you’d wasted his cereal on. It honestly doesn’t taste that bad, you think. 

“You’re weird,” he says to you, the grin on his face uncontained. This morning, he feels fond, like the butterflies in his stomach are warm, tickling him from the inside. “Give me.” he motions to your mug. 

You hold it up for him to take a sip but he wraps a hand around yours when he tastes, sticking his tongue out once the bitterness of your coffee hits. You set the mug down but his hand takes yours, interlacing your fingers together. 

Gojo doesn’t normally reach for your hand, much less interlace them together—a recent evolution to your hand-holding. But this feels nice, how your fingers fit right in the spaces of his. 

You turn to him, a shy smile on your face. The tips of his ears are red but he looks at you the same, “Your hands were cold,” he pouts, “is this– is this okay?” 

“Yeah, it’s warm. Thank you, Satoru.” you nod, beaming. He hopes you see the light in his eyes, how it feels to be ignited within him only when he’s spending breakfasts like this with you. 

────────────

Shoko asks what you are and you don’t know what to tell her other than you’re happy and it’s good. Gojo’s existence is loud and vibrant, easy to spot from miles away—but he cares for you discreetly, in the hand that gently rests on your lower back while crossing the street, and the seemingly unlimited supply of your favorite coffee when you have no recollection of restocking it ever. 

He gives you a new mug for Christmas, one with little cereals painted all over while you give him his own tube of hand cream that he claims always smells like you. 

During the faculty New Year celebration, you hear one of the new hires make a move on Gojo, and you aren’t bothered by it or anything, simply walking past to sip your sake by the couch. You can hear them talk a bit from the kitchen, but you try not to pry despite how curious you are about his response. 

Until—

“I’m taken,” you hear Gojo say bluntly. 

Everything rings in your ears after that. The countdown music is loud, but your heart beats louder; there are murmurs and footsteps around you, but only one man crouches down to check on you, glass of water in hand. 

You snap out of it and see blue, the sky—a familiar light; you don’t think you can control the smile on your face, the alcohol lowering your inhibitions to paint on something lovesick. 

And when he smiles back, pink lips stretching wide—oh your heart can’t take it. He places one hand on your knee, rubbing gently. You hear it faintly, how he asks if you’re okay, but all you can do is nod, words failing to express how you feel right now.  

The countdown starts. 3 — and you take his face in your hands, squishing his cheeks to an image of him many, many years ago. 2 — you go closer and his eyes go wide, a mixture of panic and surprise, but soft at the same time. 1 — you lean in and he closes his eyes, his chest on rampage. Then it lands, there, on the tip of his nose: a delicate peck and the smell of sake mixed with mint (like the lip balm you always carry around in your pocket). 

When you pull away from him, you’re smiling the biggest he’s ever seen, and he doesn’t know it, but he does the same. 

────────────

That kiss to his nose serves as the catalyst to the months that follow: Gojo becomes more comfortable touching you now, and though he blushes every single time, there’s nothing to be ashamed of because you do too. Shoko can’t believe the slow burn this is taking you both, but you think you like it—like the slow drizzle of honey on Gojo’s favorite breakfast waffles. 

“How is it?” you ask, watching as Gojo takes a big bite. 

“D Beft.” he replies, mouth full as he chews. You take the seat beside him and take a spoonful. 

“There’s a secret ingredient.” you say mischievously, wiggling your eyebrows. 

He swallows before he scoffs, “What?” cutting up another piece, “Love?” 

You’re surprised because he says it so casually, and Gojo’s never talked about love, has never even mentioned the word since this shift in your relationship. He realizes a beat late by the expression on your face and gets flustered, thinking of how to brush it off like it didn’t just happen. 

You had meant to say that you used that infused sugar he buys whenever he goes to Kyoto, but… you suppose love works too. He should know by now, right? 

“If it is?” you whisper, putting down your spoon. 

Gojo doesn’t know how to approach this, really, but he’s learned leaps and bounds to back out now. So he clears his throat and composes himself then says, “Good. ‘Cause that’s what I put in your coffee too.” 

You laugh and the tension dissipates; there are hearts in your eyes for how hard Gojo has tried after denying himself of this for so long. 

He stares at you—at the laugh lines by your eyes and the soft curves of your lips, the moment moving much too slow. He’s drawn in until you’re all too close, a few centimeters from your noses touching. 

Your laughter dies and your cheeks feel like they’re on fire; he’s so close you think he might kiss you. The signs are there—his eyes scaling your face to focus on your lips, his tongue peeping ever so slightly to wet his lips. So you wait. 

But he doesn’t, because he moves away after wiping his thumb on the side of your mouth. Even though you know there was nothing there. 

Gojo continues to eat, blabbering about a site visit he’s assigned to next week, but you don’t miss the way his ears are fully red and how he’s biting his lips to death.

•

The tension this time is different; instead of a growing rift, you can’t seem to be close enough. Every time you part ways, he lets go of your hand more reluctantly—as if he wants to say more, do more, but stops himself while he still can. 

When he leaves for missions, you kiss his cheek, pulling him in by the hand and lingering there, shyly. He gets embarrassingly red but tries to cover it up by telling you not to miss him too much (even though you know you will, and he knows he’ll miss you more). 

Your near-kisses with Gojo happen more frequently, and it comes to a point where he even manages to land one on your forehead, while you fall asleep next to him on his office couch. 

It’s driving you crazy, this tension. You try to kiss him a few times on the lips, but he evades them each time. You’ve caught Gojo staring at your lips more times than you can count; if that isn’t a sign, you don’t know what is. 

It’s insane, now that Gojo thinks about it, how he’s come so far yet the prospect of kissing you properly still scares him. What if he fucks up? Doesn’t do it right? What if it’s not how he wants you to be kissed? 

There’s that secret Gojo will never tell you, of how seeing that look on you has never gotten him more afraid. And he’s worked through that now, but it’s evolved into something else: how Gojo is now afraid of love, more than anything else, not because of loss but because he might not know how. 

And kissing you, loving you this way—he’s never done it before, doesn’t know how to make you feel love without his lips shaking and heart palpitating; how to do it while letting you know he feels the same. 

•

It happens during an assignment to exorcise curses out of town. They aren’t as bad as they used to be, but they’re still stronger than what any of the available sorcerers right now can handle. 

You don’t remember the last time you saw Gojo use his technique that way—almost forgotten how powerful and ruthless he can be. Every time since, holding your hand, keeping you close—he’s just been your Satoru. 

Your apartment for the weekend is a two-bedroom unit with one bathroom and a decently sized living area and kitchenette; Gojo always chooses the room in front of the bathroom because he tends to wake up in the middle of the night to pee (information you know from your many other assignments with him before). Still, going as what you are now—it feels different. 

There’s a charged air between you as you move around the unit; you make your nightly tea while Gojo looks through the groceries for some crackers. It’s peaceful and quiet—domestic almost, but there are goosebumps on your skin for reasons you can’t explain. Being around Gojo lately has felt that way.

He brushes past you to throw the finished packet of crackers and the feeling intensifies; it’s not awkward, just tense, like anticipation sitting deep in your bellies, waiting on each other to make the first move. 

He announces that he’ll use the bathroom first, if you don’t mind, and you motion for him to go ahead. Your mind is fuzzy and having Gojo around seems to only make it worse.

When you walk past the bathroom and straight to your room, you hear Gojo humming that soft pop tune from a popular girl group playing on the radio earlier. You giggle, thinking it’s sweet—how he sings obnoxiously around everyone else but is actually pretty good when it’s just him, alone. 

You still have the rest of the weekend in this area, having agreed to monitor the site and any nearby areas for other suspicious activity contributing to such a large curse, but at least the worst of it is over (maybe just to you though; Gojo hates paperwork). 

The sound of running water stops and you hear the bathroom door swing open. You don’t see Gojo when you exit your room but he leaves the door open to release any remaining steam. Gathering your things, you head straight in. 

There’s a reason why people say showers are good for the mind but you still don’t know what it is, because the only thought plaguing your head right now is Gojo—and whether you should greet him goodnight, if you should kiss his cheek or hug him tight. The tension between you now is palpable, almost like an electric current waiting to zap on both ends. 

Your mind is so out of it that you don't realize you’re missing your skincare bag until after you finish brushing your teeth and dressing for bed. You open the bathroom door with the sole intention of going back to your room to get it, but instead, you’re met with a wall of chest.

Gojo’s eyes are wide, bright blue with damp strands of white falling like curtains barely shielding the sky. He’s just as surprised as you are, toothbrush in his hand as you hold up the towel wrapped around your head. 

You’ve seen Gojo in his pajamas many times before—white long sleeves with gray cotton pants, but your eyes trail to his collarbones and the way the bathroom lights cast it under a soft glow. The redness on his cheeks, a visual manifestation of the heat on yours. 

Gojo can’t stop staring at your lips, at how soft they look—at how soft you look fresh out of the shower. The little baby hairs sticking out under your towel are cute, and he leans in without knowing—a pull he can’t seem to resist. For once in his life, Gojo’s mind is still. 

You try to meet him halfway, tiptoeing, but you’re a little out of your element; you don’t know where to put your hands and your heart’s about to explode out of your chest. When your noses touch, you can’t breathe, closing your eyes while you wait for it. 

But it doesn’t come. 

You feel Gojo’s breath stilling before speeding up into little exhales. Something is wrong. You open your eyes and find him staring back at you, a version of Gojo you haven’t seen in a while—that you rarely see ever, except that day during your confrontation in his office. 

Concern laces your features and you move back a little, hands coming up to caress his cheeks. His eyes still look frantic, but they focus on you when you cup his cheeks so gently. 

“Satoru,” you whisper, voice grounding. His breaths slow down a little. 

You realize that it must be true then, what they say, that those who love to be feared, fear to be loved, because you’ve never seen anyone afraid of something so good as Gojo is of this. 

“Satoru,” you repeat, massaging his temples with your thumb, “we don’t have to if you don’t want to.” 

Gojo hates it, how you’ve always had to adjust for him. He hates that he can’t give you this one thing, hates that you’re still so patient, that he’s still so afraid. He swallows, closing his eyes tight before opening them again. 

“I want to,” he chokes out, “I just don’t know—”

You chuckle, without judgment, “I don’t either,” you lean forward, foreheads touching, “but do you want to try together?”

You learn that Gojo sees himself so differently from how you do—and maybe that’s everyone, but Gojo tends to say things while doing the other. He says he can’t bother with kids, but continues to take so many of them under his wing anyway; he calls your cereal concoction disgusting but tries it regardless; and he says he can’t think about love, doesn’t know how, but proceeds to try so much harder, everyday. 

When you look at Gojo, you see a heart so big, so capable, that he can’t see it himself. 

You nudge his nose with yours and he breathes deeply, closing his eyes once again. If he doesn’t do this now, how much longer till he does? 

Gojo hums before nodding his head slightly. His hands come up to cover yours, toothbrush wedged in the spaces between his fingers; they’re clammy, he’s sure, but he’s kept you waiting long enough. 

When you kiss Gojo for the first time, everything trembles—his pupils, his lips, the breath he takes. It’s all shaky and nervous, but your lips touch and all you know is that you like it there. He’s a little bit stiff but you don’t mind, pressing closer just for a little bit before pulling away. 

Gojo keeps your hands in place, half-lidded eyes staring at you lazily. His ears are fully red now but he’s giving you a look you’ve never seen before—like lightning crackling in the gaps between his eyelids. 

When you kiss Gojo for the first time, you don’t expect it to be by the bathroom door of a rented apartment, while away on a mission. You don’t expect it to be in your pajamas, towel wrapped in your hair as you’re getting ready for bed. You definitely don’t expect him to guide your hands down his neck while he places his on your lower back, squeezing lightly before pulling you in to kiss you again. 

This time, his lips move more pliantly, parting yours slightly; he tastes mint, mixed with the strawberry candy he had earlier and it’s nothing he could have ever imagined before, but is now everything he’s ever wanted. The push and pull between you is magnetic, soft lips and the intermingling of something steamy in the air. All Gojo can think of now is to take, to devour—to keep you with him, like this, always. 

You wonder if Gojo is lying—that he’s never done this before, because you don’t think you can kiss anyone after this and not think of his lips on yours. 

By the time you part, the air is significantly warmer. Your fingers thread through the hair at the base of his neck and you smile, sighing. Gojo looks warm, with his swollen lips and red cheeks. 

“That…” you trail off, nudging his nose. 

Gojo looks at you fondly; to ever even think he could have this now, with you—he doesn’t believe in god but you must be his prayer come true. 

“We can practice a bit more, I think.” he pulls you closer, hands gripping your hips. 

You feel it against you, something solid and firm against your stomach and your eyes go wide at the realization; Gojo does the same. 

“Satoru, you–” he moves back and freezes, untangling himself from you completely. There’s a faint outline on the crotch of his pants and your whole face goes red. 

“Let me use the bathroom real quick.” he panics, rushing past you and closing the bathroom door. 

You stand there stunned for a good minute before you shake out of it, laughing. Gojo yells about how you’re being so mean, making fun of him when he’s like this, but you aren’t—not really. 

It’s been a long time getting to this point with Gojo, but considering all things, you think, this might just be the beginning.

Albedo and Tighnari doing research together?

harbingers youtuber au (part 1)

—𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦

✦ wet dream hc’s feat. heizou, tighnari, kazuha, diluc 

✦ warning: smut, 18+ content, minors do not interact

✦ disclaimer: afab!reader with no set pronouns, clothed sex (heizou), fingering (heizou), biting (heizou), exhibitionism (tighnari), blowjob (tighnari), facial (tighnari), aphrodisiacs (tighnari), masturbation (kazuha), face-sitting (diluc), squirting (diluc), unedited

Waking up completely drenched in sweat, hair sticking to his forehead was something Heizou wasn’t expecting. All he could do was suck in his breath feeling the sheets rub against his thick, pulsating cock. His juniper eyes bore down into your sleeping, watching your chest rise and fall as he zoned out on your peeking cleavage and taut nipples through the thin fabric of your shirt.

With a shaky breath, Heizou could help but press his side against your behind—cock nestled between your plush ass as his lips dragged against your sensitive neck waking you up. He heard you simply laugh at him, shaking your hip causing him to suck another breath in. 

As you tease him, asking him to use words to describe what he wants you turned over to see a slightly irritated look morphing to a cruel smirk before his hands wandered beneath your pajama bottoms—nimble fingers grazing against your clit. You whined, trying to grind your clit deeper into his touch as his fingers dragged and flicked the small bundle of nerves before slowly dipping into your newly wet cunt.

His lips dragged against your earbud, telling you how you should never egg him on when he is in this state.  His name echoed from your lips as he ground his needy clothed cock against your ass trying to resist the soft moans threatening to come out. He could feel your soft walls beginning to cave into his fingers, now curled and brushing that spongy spot inside of you. 

As you shifted, legs shivering in pleasure wiggling from his grip as you couldn’t help yourself, Heizou’s pearly whites sunk down on your nape hips raised and bucking as a stain made its way to his briefs. He could only lowly moan, feeling his warm cum seep through his clothes and upper thighs—fingers still plowing through you, riding your own orgasm out. 

As a researcher, Tighnari wasn’t afraid of trying the various mushrooms of the forest to write in his survival guide. His philosophy was, that it’s better he experience it than unexpecting ones. He didn’t expect popping an interesting pink mushroom that his body would immediately flush, cock hardening.

His head felt like it was on a cloud as half-lidded jade eyes shockingly gazed down at you between his thighs. As he struggled, asking you just how you managed to get to his location, your fingers already made their way to his pants, others on his inner thigh. The way you licked your lips as you slowly revealed his cock, springing forth and slapping against his lower stomach.

As if in a trace, you sat in between his legs, telling him he could do absolutely whatever he wanted with just a pretty much. Shoving a growl down his throat, the hazy Tighnari couldn’t help pressing his heavy cock against your cheeks. God, they felt so soft under it, precum now glistening on it. You smiled, pressing a kiss on his tip before completely taking him into your mouth.

You bobbed your head, as Tighnari's head fell against the base of the tree, feeling you slurp and slobber against his length. He could feel the flat of your tongue pressing against one of his prominent veins, ripping another moan from his lips. His hips began to jump, pushing his cock even deeper into your mouth as you began to gag as a string of Sumerian curses came from Tighnari.

He pushed you away, pumping his cock rapidly as thick ropes of his cum shot out, staining your face, as you timidly looked up at him with glossy lips. A lazy smile fell onto Tighnari, seeing you slowly take your pants down, opening your legs to reveal your pretty sobbing cunt…

But with a gasp, Tighnari shot up from the forest floor, body hot and cock pulsating as he looked around in the direction seeing the mushrooms below him. He could only wince as he palmed his cock, leaning his head against one of the trees as he moved up from his position. To keep his reputation, maybe he should leave out the details of what this mushroom could do to you. 

Traveling with you could be a little more difficult than Kazuha liked to admit, simply because you always managed to pull at the strings that unleashed his lust. He could only stare at a wall, trying to ignore his heavy cock pulsating beneath the sheets, before softly sighing and getting up from your shared bed.

He left the tent walking up to a nearby pond, staring at the moonlight’s reflection. Bags were under his eyes as this spell of lust has haunted him since he woke up from a dream. He sighed, slowly disrobing before letting his body submerged in the cool water. As Kazuha rested against the shallow side, his hands slowly wrapped around his length, squeezing it with a gasp.

His teeth dug against his bottom lip, slowly fisting his cock beneath the water, covering his mouth that was beginning to softly moan out. His stomach tensed, gliding his fingers along his sensitive tip trying to desperately reenact whenever you would grace him with your touch. Even as his hips shook in pleasure as he came, the relief was only momentary before he felt hard again under his touch. 

He wanted to feel your cunt instead of his hand. He wanted to hear the whispers of your moans, not the winds. He wanted you so bad, so desperately that his dreams plagued themselves every night of different positions he would take you in. 

It was when he felt your hands touch the one that was wrapped around his cock, was when he realized his lust had invaded all aspects of his senses too. He could feel your chest press against him, lips pressing against his back—reprimanding him for not getting you sooner.

But as Kazuha slowly opened his eyes, seeing daylight creep into the small tent he realized…all of that was simply a dream. He didn’t go outside, you didn’t join him, but the tent beneath his sheets remained the same.

He just needed to go ahead and tell you his needs at this point.

The dreams Diluc had of you were so vivid. There was one particular recurring dream he refuses to tell you about, regardless of how many nights he woke up and privately deal with his “issues” once he had this dream.

In this dream, you would be laying on top of him, the perfect view of your cunt clutching on absolutely nothing. He could see just how wet you were, your slick even coming down to drip on his face, hovering below it. And suddenly, after admiring the view, you’d finally put your weight down—letting his senses completely wrap themselves into your beautiful hole.

You should squeeze his legs against his head, hands reaching up to grab your chest as his tongue lapped up and sucked on your clit as if he was completely starved. The blunt of his nails would dig into your plush thighs, as he finally dart his tongue completely inside of you, nose nudging your sensitive nub instead. 

Hearing your voice waver, repeating his name over and over again made Diluc’s cock throb, even more, precum completely coating his length. As he sucked more and more, it wouldn’t take long before you would completely cover your face, squirt shooting out as he happily drank and lapped up every part of it, only for your to grind on his face more and start the process all over again until he finally woke up.

Even as he got up in bed, cock was animated and ready to be touched —you finally caught him only to be surprised by the massive bulge beneath his briefs. He finally came clean to you, discussing this dream seemingly haunting him wherever he went, only for you to get on top of him asking why not make the dream a reality.

It’s safe to say, the two of you didn’t sleep that night.

deadass need this cause I cant write dialogue to save my life

Apparently a lot of people get dialogue punctuation wrong despite having an otherwise solid grasp of grammar, possibly because they’re used to writing essays rather than prose. I don’t wanna be the asshole who complains about writing errors and then doesn’t offer to help, so here are the basics summarized as simply as I could manage on my phone (“dialogue tag” just refers to phrases like “he said,” “she whispered,” “they asked”):

“For most dialogue, use a comma after the sentence and don’t capitalize the next word after the quotation mark,” she said.

“But what if you’re using a question mark rather than a period?” they asked.

“When using a dialogue tag, you never capitalize the word after the quotation mark unless it’s a proper noun!” she snapped.

“When breaking up a single sentence with a dialogue tag,” she said, “use commas.”

“This is a single sentence,” she said. “Now, this is a second stand-alone sentence, so there’s no comma after ‘she said.’”

“There’s no dialogue tag after this sentence, so end it with a period rather than a comma.” She frowned, suddenly concerned that the entire post was as unasked for as it was sanctimonious.

This is the good shit right here literally chef kiss 🤌✨

aries,,i need to know ur thoughts on sneaking into a supply closet w aki while there are literal devils outside trying to break down the door …

sin supplier | hayakawa aki

PAIRING.  aki x fem!reader

LENGTH.  3.6k words

NOTES.  this is just. so horny laksdlk im sorry

SYNOPSIS.  aki knows he shouldn’t, but he just can’t help himself. 

CONTENT.  pwp, power imbalance (aki is the reader’s superior, but the reader has the upper hand for most of the fic), switchy dynamics (reader initiates and instructs), foreplay + teasing, dubcon (reader has persuasion/mind control abilities through a contract with a corruption devil), intoxication (aki’s state of mind is influenced by the reader’s abilities), slight corruption (m rec), blowjob, deep throating, cum swallowing, handjob, overstim (m rec), multiple orgasms (m + f), thigh fucking, cumshot, cum as lube, creampie, (unintentional) manhandling, ripping clothes, spit, biting (f rec), reader is insatiable and just generally insufferable

DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS WORK IF YOU ARE A MINOR. BY CLICKING THE READMORE, YOU CONSENT TO VIEWING THE CONTENT STATED IN THE WARNINGS.

Aki knows he shouldn’t. 

He shouldn’t be condoning this, not when there are dozens of little Devils scratching at the door, bloodthirsty and desperate to get in—the same Devils the two of you were sent to this decaying old school to take care of. The same Devils the two of you were right in the middle of hunting down, when you’d pulled him into this crowded supply closet and kicked the heavy door closed behind you.

In the end, the Devils had been the ones to hunt the two of you down instead, and now they’re all congregated right outside the door to the supply closet. Attracted by the scent of his unease, if he had to guess. Or maybe another, more devilish, instinct that lies beneath it.

Aki shouldn’t be alone in small, dark rooms with any of his subordinates. Especially not you.

You: the Corruption Devil’s human consort—Division 6’s problem before the transfer made you Aki’s problem. And there’s no question that you are a problem; that much had become clear when he’d discovered exactly what ability your contract gives you.

You call it Persuasion; he’d call it Mind Control: an uncanny knack for getting exactly what you want, especially when it comes to things that shouldn’t be done. More specifically, your contract with the Corruption Devil—one of your many contracts with many dubious Devils, and arguably the most dodgy one of them all—grants you a certain, near-irresistible allure: you make people want to give you exactly what you want.

Near-irresistible. Not impossible to resist. There has to be some natural element of attraction present for Persuasion to really work. That’s what Aki knows from what he read in the paperwork, at least. 

He also knows that, as your superior, there’s no way in hell he should be letting you back him up against the supply shelf behind him—but the metal’s already digging into his back, and your fingers are pulling at the knot of his tie, working it loose. 

The insistent scratching at the door grows louder, and Aki manages a strained What the hell do you think you’re doing? 

“Depends, boss,” you offer sweetly, moving closer until your tits are pressed up against him. “What is it that you want me to do?” 

“This is…”

Inappropriate? Untimely? Fucking insane? Something like that; but his head’s cloudy and getting cloudier, and he loses the words as soon as you get on your tiptoes to press your lips to his throat, scattering hot kisses there as you undo the buttons of his shirt. 

He shudders, bringing a hesitant hand up to squeeze at the back of your neck—encouragement that he shouldn’t be giving, but the feeling of your tongue on his neck sends blood rushing between his thighs, and the space between the two of you so small that his stiffening cock is aching as it strains against your body. 

He knows this is risky in more ways than one: that the noises outside this tiny room keep getting louder, that the door won’t hold, that this shouldn’t be happening; but all these little things that he knows don’t mean a single thing when you’re murmuring up to him—Oh, you’re so hard. You know, I can help you out, Captain. 

Whatever misgivings he might have don’t stand a chance when you’re rubbing his cock through his slacks, and he can feel the grip of that allure—Persuasion—tightening the closer you get. Desire shoots through his veins like a drug, heightening into an insatiable craving for you, you, you—tunnel vision that narrows, senses that sharpen until all he can see, smell, hear is you. It’s a desire so intense that just the smell of you hits him with the dizzying urge for more.

And something else: an ache to please—the irresistible imperative to give you exactly what you want, whatever you want.

By now, Aki understands something that wasn’t in the paperwork: that your ability must grow stronger with proximity—and if it’s a concentrated, airborne vapor that somehow emanates from your skin like he thinks, he must be right in the thick of it. But he’s past the point of caring about which desires are natural and which aren’t; he’s already feeling you—one hand still wrapped around the back of your neck, the other slipping down the small of your back to squeeze your ass. 

And he shouldn’t, it’s not like him, but all he cares about is one thing.

It’s definitely not the banging at the door, which he only registers dully, managing the weakest of protests—They’re right there—as you sink down to your knees in front of him.

You look up with an insincere pout, retort with an equally insincere, “What’s right there, Captain?”

“The fucking Devils,” he slurs, “they’re—”

But you’re running your tongue over the stiff bulge in his slacks, and the heat of your mouth is hitting his dick through the fabric, and he’s cutting himself off with a groan.

“Are you really that worried about it?” you tease up to him. “I never thought a guy like you would stress over small fry like that. Plus, don’t you have some…” —you pause, squeezing his cock through his slacks, sending precum oozing down his thigh— “...bigger problems?” 

Another slam against the door. He wants you so badly he can barely even bring himself to say, This isn’t—I should really—

And even then, it doesn’t sound that convincing.

“Should really what?” you muse, pulling his zipper free.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he should do; he only knows that he wants you to keep going, that you’re tugging his slacks down to pull his cock out, and it feels so good when you grip the throbbing shaft that he’s oozing precum all over your fingers and moaning before you even start to jerk it. 

“You should really take care of those Devils, right?” you laugh, leaning forward to spit messily on the tip of his dick, smiling up at him when he inhales sharply through his teeth. “Go do something about them, then,” you say—spit coating the length of his cock as you stroke it, spit glistening on your upturned lips in the half-dark—it’s a dare.

In those truth-or-dare games as a kid, Aki would always choose truth; he’s come to terms with the truth of this situation—that he should take care of the things beyond this room, but all he cares about is what’s happening inside of it. 

He’s too far gone, too hooked on the feeling of your mouth as you swallow up his dick. All the way, until the tip of your nose hits his pelvis and he’s twitching in your throat, leaking hot precum balls-deep in your mouth. You pull back when you have to gag, then swallow it again—bobbing your head over and over, leaving him covered in spit and moaning from the soft, wet flesh of your cheeks and your tongue on his cock. It’s so good; you fuck him with your mouth until he’s one swallow away from cumming down your throat.

He holds it, tries to pull out, slurring, God, I’m gonna—, but you ball your hands up in the fabric of his shirt to pull him forward, sucking him in to the base again; and he’s knotting his hands up in your hair, groaning—You wanna swallow my cum? 

You gargle around it, digging your nails into his skin. So he stays where he is—one hand resting on the back of your head, his dick buried in your mouth—and lets the pleasure hit, twitching against the tight ridges of your throat with each spurt of cum he shoots into you. 

You cough, choking on it over and over, with tears pooling in your eyes. But you keep it down until he’s done, swallowing almost everything he gives you, so there’s just a little pool of thick white left on your tongue when he pulls out. The sight of his cum in your mouth sends his head spinning, sends more blood between his thighs—but he’s still hard, never went soft; he wonders, studying you through lashes weighed down by pleasure, if it’s a result of whatever you’re emanating, or if he just wants you that badly. 

He pants, tries to catch his breath, but he doesn’t even have time to do that before you wrap your fingers around his cum-coated dick. He grits his teeth, swears at the intensity, watching you tilt your head, part your lips, and adjust to take his balls in your mouth. It’s sloppy, messy: sucking him with spit dripping from the corners of your mouth and your fist slippery with cum as you jack the sensitive tip of his cock. 

It’s—ah, fuck—it’s—

It’s too much, it’s so good; something in between the two. He’s groaning, gripping the metal of the shelf behind him as another high builds, intensifying when you start to moan with your mouth full of him—a needy, muffled sound that goes straight to his head and clouds whatever coherent space might have been left with one urge: he needs to fuck you.

Something hits the door from the outside with enough impact to make the hinges groan.

Fuck, he slurs feverishly. It’s not gonna hold, c’mere, get up. 

You’re up, pulling him down by the collar and into a sloppy kiss; he tastes his cum on your tongue, feels the desire flare in his chest like he took a hit, runs his hands down your sides.

So are you gonna fuck me? you ask, pulling away to look up at him through your lashes. Or are you gonna stall until the door breaks?

His hands catch your hips; he squeezes, twists you around before pushing you forward against the metal with enough force to send supplies rattling off the sides of the shelf and crashing to the floor.

“Shit,” he says hazily, so drunk on the intensity of the want in his veins, his head so muddled with it that he’s worried maybe he hurt you. “Are you okay?”

But you’re laughing, hands tight on the metal; he dips his neck down to bury his face in your throat, to get closer. Because the closer he gets, the more intoxicating the smell of you is—the more addicting.

“Attaboy, Captain,” he hears. There’s a buzz in your voice, as if he’s hearing you through static. “To be honest, I didn’t really think you had it in you.”

He takes a deep inhale of the dizzying, up-close smell of your skin, and slurs, “Why’s that?” 

“You’re Public Safety’s good boy, aren’t you? Proper, moral, obedient. I know you play by the rules. You do whatever they tell you.”

He’s sucking at the skin of your throat, pulling blood to the surface over and over, and you’re laughing, “But look at you now. Getting your dick wet on a mission. Fucking the subordinate you’re supposed to be protecting.” 

He laughs wryly against your throat. “God,” he murmurs. “You’re such a pain in my ass, did you know that? This is all because of you.”

“You’re as depraved as they get,” —your words are shaky, disrupted by your shudders as he nips at your throat; he runs his tongue over the skin, feels an instant head high the moment he tastes you— “but I like it for you. Keep going.”

The taste of you is like an addiction; he can’t get enough, keeps licking and sucking your skin and getting himself higher.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he says without thinking, barely even in his head; his body seems to move on its own, his hand slipping down the front of your slacks to rub over your pussy through the fabric. “How long have you been wanting this?” 

There’s a series of bumps at the door as he unbuttons your slacks, pulls your zipper down, hooks his thumbs over the sides and pulls them down, bringing your panties down with them. His dick leaks precum onto the bare skin of your ass. 

“It’s been—” you say, breaths catching when he positions his cock at the apex of your thighs from behind and slides in between them, “—it’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” he slurs, with his dick throbbing between your thighs—slick from your pussy, hot from your warmth, “I thought so.”

He spares a glance back at the door, watching the shadows swarming in the sliver of light beneath it; he’s running out of time, but he could spend forever nestled between your thighs, feeling the slick from your pussy dribbling out onto his dick, getting the shaft sticky and warm. He places one hand on the shelf next to yours, rests his weight there as he sucks your throat, each second at that proximity getting him drunker.

“Don’t act like you haven’t wanted it, too,” he hears you say through the fog in his head, each sentence punctuated by a gasp. “Just because you never acted on it doesn’t mean you didn’t want to. My Devil shows me how easy someone would be to Persuade. I know exactly how much attraction is already there. I barely even had to do anything and look at you—I could give you any command in the world and you’d do it.” 

His free hand is on your tits now, squeezing, kneading. “So why don’t you?” he murmurs.

You laugh a little. “Okay.” And then comes the command: “Touch me.” 

The urge surges in his chest—the imperative so compelling that he forgets all about the buttons on your shirt and instead balls his fist up in the fabric right where it is and pulls, tearing your shirt open. Your buttons go flying: some to the shelf, some to the floor; but he doesn’t apologize this time, just slips his hand through the opening in your shirt to pull down your bra and knead your tits. They’re warm in his palm, soft enough to make his dick pulse against your ass.

“And what else do you want?” he murmurs.

“Move,” you instruct. “Don’t make me wait.”

You were right; he is obedient, he does follow instructions—especially when you’re the one giving them, especially right now, with the fog in his head and that control of yours overwhelming him. He does just what you ask—moves: licks the fingers of his free hand and brings them to your clit to circle it as he fucks the slippery space between your thighs, sliding his dick back and forth until he’s coated in your sticky, hot mess.

“I’ve got the most morally upstanding guy in Public Safety,” you laugh shakily, squeezing your legs around his dick, “and he’s right between my thighs.” 

“Can you blame me?” he says hazily against your ear, overtaken by the desire for more instruction, another opportunity to please. “I just wanna give you everything you want.” 

There’s a cracking sound at the door: wood splintering, maybe, but he doesn’t care about that when you’re saying, I want you to put it in, I want to feel your cock stretching me out. 

That little half-gasp, half-moan when he pushes past your tight entrance; the feeling of you clenching on his dick, your gooey walls sucking him deeper as he eases into you—it’s overwhelming. It’s almost as addicting as the smell of you, as the sounds you make when he fucks you up against the shelf, nipping at your ear and asking—Is this what you wanted from me? 

Yeah, you gasp, now fuck it deeper.

And he does; he buries his cock all the way in you over and over, slurring, Spoiled brat, you always get exactly what you want, don’t you?

Always.

And what do you want now, huh—do you want me to make you cum?

You slur an affirmative with his fingers rubbing your clit, so he fucks you harder—hitting some spot that makes you moan Right there. A few more deep strokes in the same place and then you’re cumming: walls pulsing around his dick, gasping and moaning and squirming, pressed up between him and the shelves; it takes everything in him not to pump you full while he fucks you through it. 

He pulls out when it’s over, but you whine for more: Put it back in, I want you to fuck me until you cum. 

So he pulls you over to the little desk sitting beside the shelf, pushes the things on it to the floor in the same second that he bends you feverishly over the surface. You’re laid out over it, hand gripping the opposite edge, and he watches it tighten as he nudges your hips up and eases back into you.

Whatever you want, baby. 

He buries it deep, feels your sensitive walls tense up as he leans over you—one fist balled up on the desk, the other gripping your hip. There’s a crash at the door, another loud crack; but you’re turning your head to him and he’s tilting his, slipping his tongue into your mouth to swallow up your moans as he fucks you from behind. 

And when he pulls away to nip at your lips you’re slurring instructions: fuck me deeper, fuck me harder, give it to me. Each little command makes his head spin; the grip you have on him is so strong, and your pussy is eating him up so greedily—how could he not give it to you exactly how you want it? How could he not fuck you deeper, harder, give it to you until your thighs are shaking, until everything’s so wet and tight and your moans are turning into pleas? 

It feels so good fucking into you that when you tell him to shoot his cum all over your pussy it only takes one more thrust before he’s ready to give it to you; and then he’s pulling out, breaths catching, jerking his fist over his cock until the tension snaps. His cum spurts out onto you—coats your puffy, glistening lips and stretched hole in a sticky white mess.

He leans over you: fucked out, head hazy, his dick still twitching in his palm—still hard as he watches his cum dribble down the outside of your pussy. And when you tell him to fuck you again—put it back in, I want more, make me cum again—he drags the sensitive tip through his own cum, smears it over your hole, and pushes it back into you while it’s still hot. 

Hot and—God, it’s wet, he’s groaning; it’s wet and tight and so slick in you, so lubed up with your juices and all of the cum he pushed back inside that the thick white liquid smears back onto his cock with each stroke, gathering all over the shaft and the base. He grips your ass, spreads you out, watches the rest of his cum drip down your skin, watches his cock disappear into your pussy with his teeth gritted against the sensitivity; it’s too much, but he’s so feverish with the urge to give you what you want that he’ll take it. 

He’s panting from the overstimulation, but by the time you tell him you’re close—bent over the desk with your fingers on your clit and your back arching—the pleasure’s building up again for him too, another knot tightening in his stomach. 

So when you gasp I’m cumming, and he feels the waves of another orgasm hitting you—your cum-slick walls contracting on his cock over and over—he’s right there. He’s already on the edge when you slur, Cum inside me, fill me up. 

Yeah, baby, yeah—he digs his teeth into your shoulder, and the tension snaps; with a shudder, he shoves his cock in deep and lets your convulsing walls milk him while you cum, pumping you full of the rest of it as he rides the same wave that’s making you squirm under him.

There’s a pause: just a few moments of respite.

His breaths slow as he listens to you catch yours, and for a second even the Devils are quiet.

And then there’s a deafening crash and another loud splintering sound—the door’s going to give. He’s still breathing hard as he disentangles himself from you; then he’s pulling up his slacks, buttoning his shirt and crossing the room to swipe his sword off the floor. 

“They’re about to break through,” he says, looking your way to find you reclining lazily on top of the desk. “You should get ready.”

He fixes his face with a stern expression, but for a split second he wonders about this feeling he has: the grip, the imperative—the Persuasion—is gone, but the desire lingers. 

“Can’t you take care of those Devils for me, Captain?” you smile crookedly, gesturing to your tattered shirt. “I can’t really work like this. Wouldn’t be professional.” 

Aki clenches his jaw. “You make this job even harder than it already is. You know that?”

“How so?” 

“Slovenly. Insolent. Lazy. Not to mention—”

“Gee,” you interrupt. “No wonder you like me so much.”

“Can’t stand you, actually,” he mutters, glancing at the door, which is rocking in its frame from repeated impact on the other side.

“My Devil doesn’t lie to me,” you say, studying your nails. “You’ve wanted me since the moment I joined your Division.”

“God, you’re a pain,” he says wearily as another deafening crash puts a massive crack in the door. “I’m this close to killing you instead of them.” 

“You could’ve killed them already if you weren’t wasting all your time flirting with me.”

You laugh when he rolls his eyes, then twist your face into an exaggerated pout. “Won’t you protect me, Captain?”

“Fine. I’ll take care of it by myself. Not like you’re giving me a choice.”

“Perfect.”

“But when I’m done,” he says, pulling his sword from its holster, “I think it’s time I taught you some manners.”

You smile widely.

“Yes, sir.”

Talking in the sheets ~

I simply watched a reel on Instagram of male hands firmly grabbing some sheets and here I am, a horny mess.

CW: sexual intercourse, size mentions, dirty talk, knotting, releasing inside

How Genshin men would sound in bed

Feat.: Itto, Cyno, Tighnari, Kazuha, Heizou and Al'Haitham

Itto

Very loud, sometimes too loud for your likings. Everyone nearby would know what you two are doing after only MINUTES - so his companions would always greet you with a mischievous smirk

It's difficult to get in the right mood with him when Itto is overly excited, you have to frequently tell him to slow down a little and lower his voice for you. He doesn't intentionally act this way, he's just so excited to be this close to you that he simply cannot hold back

Tells you repeatedly how difficult it is to fit inside you, after all as an Oni he is HUGE. Panting and moaning near your ear he either grabs the sheets or squeezes your hands firmly while slowly sinking into your tight hole

Growls and moans loudly when he finishes, similar to a tiger roaring, while burying himself deep inside you. When he is too exhausted from railing you - he not only possesses great strenght but also a lot of stamina - his voice may also crack a little ~

Heizou

Would talk dirty to you all the time. Sweet whispers in your ear while slowly working you two towards your release, pushing the right buttons and doing you in a steady pace.

Quiet by default. As a detective Heizou always has to lurk in the shadows and wait for his time to come, therefore he is no different in bed. His words are meant only for you to hear so he always makes sure to keep his voice down. His whispering is quite arousing though ~

Stamina is NEVER a problem with Heizou; although he looks gaunt, due to his work and being up on his feet all day he built up a very decent stamina. Also he completely fits inside you, his tip only slightly touching your cervix and giving you some extra pleasure

His voice changes in tone when he's close to his release, sounding a bit higher, sometimes he even whimpers softly

Kazuha

Barely talks during your love making and rather enjoys it quietly. Kazuha only talks when he wants to compliment you during your intercourse and prefers to enjoy your time together in silence

Holds back his voice when releasing himself inside you except he feels VERY safe and knows that nobody else is within hearing range. Otherwise you will only hear him moan and pant with IMMENSE self-control, even if you encourage him to just let himself go

Kazuha smiles at you most whole-heartedly after you two reached your climax, you clearly see and feel the unconditional love he holds for you as he gently wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his embrace

He fits inside you perfectly and his long time wandering has gained him a lasting stamina although he prefers to be the bottom part

Tighnari

Similar to Heizou and Kazuha, Tighnari is not too loud during love making by nature. He keeps his lips close to your ear or neck, his puffing and panting sending shivers down your spine as his hot breath crawls over your skin. Moaning is kind of rare for him but once he reaches his climax some unholy noises may finally escape his throat

This is followed by embarrassment soon afterwards. His ears turned sidewards and his cheeks slightly red he can't look at you for more than a split second for a while. Instead he buries his face in your neck and enjoys the warmth of your skin on his while cuddling

Tighnari is big - his people possess some animal attributes after all. Especially during his heat he doesn't completely fit inside you even though he wants to so badly, knotting and creating new life inside you is all he can think about. You will receive looots of apologies later for his lack of self-control and all those naughty things he wanted to do to you - and the things he actually did ~

When aroused his voice can become unusually deep - not that you dislike it though. Actually you enjoy those rare opportunities to hear him growl in pleasure

Al'Haitham

Looots of growling and mumbling in a deep husky voice. His lips are right beside your ear while he's taking you slowly, sliding himself deep inside you with every thrust and gradually working you both to your climax. "You're so tight around me... I want you to come hard for me..."

Loves it when you dig your nails into his shoulders, doing so is always followed by a satisfied, deep moan. Al'Haitham somehow has a faible for complimenting you in bed - but in bed only. Daily conversations are filled with his sharp, sometimes even mean comments

For a mere Scribe his body is built insanely well, and so are his stamina and size. Al'Haitham has trouble fitting inside you and strangely enough it boosts his confidence. Still he tries to get you as comfortable as possible and you will definitely get a reward for accomodating so well to him

He can hold up a very long time without getting exhausted, longer than you would have ever expected

Cyno

Similar to Kazuha he will barely make loud noises during your love making. Still, his voice becomes raspy, almost smokey when he moans and growls in pleasure right next to your ear, steadily thrusting into you. His fingers are always entangled with yours, squeezing your hands tightly with every thrust

The reason of him keeping his voice down: his profession. He haunts the villains down to bring them to court so Cyno often has to remain in the shadows. As he is accustomed to suppress any possible noise for there can always be an enemy nearby he can hardly let himself lose control unless you two reside in a safe place. But you sure know ways to make him utter some unfaithful noises ~

He is slightly too big to fit inside you completely or at last comfortably but Cyno still finds his ways around this problem. At first he doesn't last as long as he would like to as you are simply too tight for him to hold back. But the more he gets used to be inside you the better he becomes at controlling his climax