Packing Them Lunch Smau (post Time Skip)

Packing them lunch smau (post time skip)

Category: fluff, crack

Includes: Atsumu Miya, Kenma Kozume, Kiyoomi Sakusa, Tooru Oikawa, Issei Matsukawa, Rintaro Suna

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︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶︶⊹

Being their fwb smau (post time skip)

Category: smut, fluff, crack

Includes: Atsumu Miya, Kenma Kozume, Kiyoomi Sakusa, Tooru Oikawa, Issei Matsukawa, Rintaro Suna

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

i love them so much, my babies

If Shoko and Gojo had noticed Geto spiralling.

Sort of a rough continuation of the previous set of drawings on what would have happened had Geto called them.

yummy, absolutely delicious depiction of Geto

“Didn’t expect to see you out here.”

Your head pops up as the unexpected voice makes itself known, twisting your face towards the sound only to see a figure standing at the end of the alley. He’s silhouetted where he stands—a shape more than a person. You can tell he’s tall, broad, and has a knot of hair tied up loosely at his crown. 

Geto Suguru steps into the light where you can see him better, though it makes his sudden appearance no less surprising. 

“Did you drink too much?” he asks, treading a few steps closer as he eyes you worriedly. You pull yourself up from where you’d been crouching on the ground.

“No, no. Just getting some air,” you reply with a stiff smile, dipping in a bow and quickly adjusting your pencil skirt once you’re back upright.

He has his tie loosened over his shirt with the top button undone, and his suit jacket is nowhere to be seen. He considers you for a moment, and his attention makes you want to fidget but you fight the urge.

You watch as he pulls packet of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his shirt and offers it out to you. “Do you smoke?”

“No, thank you,” you say with a quick shake of your head, smoothing your hands along the front of your skirt and then moving to step past him back towards the entrance of the restaurant. “I should go.”

He angles his body in your way before you can.

“No need to leave on my account,” he says, peering down at you. His face is partially in shadow because of how he’s standing, angled between you and the mouth of the alleyway that leads back to the busy street, caught in a small dark patch between the streetlights and the light affixed to the grungy brick wall. He tips his face up and the light touches his features once more, catching in his brown eyes as he waits in anticipation of your response.

“I should get back inside.” It’s strangely difficult to meet his gaze, so instead you look past him towards the street as an unwelcome heat surges up your throat to flood your face. A car passes quickly by the alley, and you watch as the headlights come and go in a flash.

“Why?” the man before you asks, placing the cigarette he’d fished out of the pack to his lips. He uses his teeth to keep it there while he fumbles through his pockets for a lighter. “You’re clearly having a terrible time in there.”

Your eyes snap up to meet his in shock.

“No I’m not,” your reply is notably indignant, even though his accusation is valid.

How would he know anyway?

“The smiley, nice-girl bit’s gotta be getting old, isn’t it? Pouring everyones drinks. Cleaning up everyones messes.” He laughs, though it’s only to himself, before clicking his lighter to life and holding it to the tip of his cigarette until it catches. The cherry burns red and bright on an inhale, and smoke slips from his lips as he adds, “You don’t have to lie to me, I’m not your boss.”

“I’m not lying,” you insist, but your performance isn’t particularly convincing. 

Truthfully, the very last thing you wanted to do after a ten-hour work day—capping off a fifty-hour work week—was come out drinking with your colleagues. You’ve never really liked these kinds of gatherings, even if the company is the one footing the bill. They always get a bit too rowdy for your liking. Always drag on a bit too long. And you know that you’ll inevitably be the one stuck forcing your plastered boss into a taxi in the wee hours of the morning, while the rest of your equally-sloshed coworkers find their own ways home.

But the department chair, the very same one you’re sure will be singing karaoke with his tie around his forehead in only a few short hours, had been adamant that everyone in marketing attend the gathering since the sales section was joining in too. 

Hence the sales employee standing toe-to-toe with you, blocking your path.

You know Geto Suguru, but only indirectly. The sales and marketing departments are separated by a single floor in your company’s office building, and often work on projects together. Geto is a section lead in sales, with a long, illustrious history behind him before he worked his way up to that role. He’s made a lot of money for the company, and a lot of friends along the way—what with his easy charm, silver tongue, and undeniable good looks. His reputation precedes him—in both good ways and bad.

The fact that he’s here talking to you—a fresh-faced, relatively new-to-role nobody in comparison to his lengthy history with the business—is what you have a hard time wrapping your head around.

“Sure, sure.” Geto waves his hand dismissively, ash fluttering off in tiny specks from the end of his lit cigarette. “I’m sure you just love making all those copies, remembering coffee orders, and running that section lead of yours’s errands too. Oh, and don’t forget when he takes credit for your ideas.”

Your stomach drops. 

He keeps going.

“This upcoming brand collaboration is exciting,”—he takes a puff of his cigarette, his eyes sparkling as he looks at you—“too bad no one knows it was you who came up with it, huh?” 

Your fists clench tightly at your sides, your lips pressing together in a thin line.

Geto blows the last of the smoke in his lungs from the corner of his pursed lips, away from you.

“That’s the first honest expression I’ve seen on your face all night,” he says with a sly smile tugging at his lips.

Your hands are shaking.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask him weakly.

He tilts his head to the side, like your question confounds him.

“I’m not doing anything,” he says, and he sounds like he genuinely means it. “Have I said anything that isn’t true?”

You bite your lip, staring down at your pretty, professional pumps as you stand on the craggy pavement of the alley.

“You’re allowed to be angry, but don’t direct it at me for pointing out the people who keep screwing you over,” Geto says, and the way his voice sounds a bit nearer and the smell of his cigarette gets stronger tells you that he’s dipped down closer to you even though you don’t watch him do it. “No one’s gonna hand anything to you if you don’t fight for it.”

You glance up at him, your expression and your tone equally flat. “And what if I’m not a fighter?”

“Oh, I don’t believe that,” he says, chuckling a bit as he backs away from you.

You watch him as he watches you—contemplates you, like he’s sizing you up. He drops cigarette suddenly to the ground, still only half-burned, and crushes it with the toe of his shoe. You hold your breath as he takes another step towards you.

He leans forward.

“Hit me.”

“Pardon me?” The bewildered question rushes out of you all in one gasping breath, and you take a loping step back in shock.

“Come on, just one,” the man goads you further, rapping against his jaw with the knuckle of his index finger as a smile twists his lips up at the corners.

“You’re drunk,” you spit out incredulously, shaking your head and quickly moving to step past him.

“I’m not.” He sidles smoothly into your path once more before you get the chance to flee, like he’s half-a-step ahead of you at all times. 

It’s infuriating.

“Alright, then you’re just insane,” you offer instead.

You knew the sales department had a reputation for being a bit wild, but this is beyond all your expectations. This is nothing like the charming, easy going Geto that you’ve heard all your female colleague gossiping about in the break room.

His smile falls, and he crosses his arms over his chest. You try not to pay too much attention to the way his forearms look with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“I’m still your senior, y’know,” he says, and his voice is a little bit colder now. More admonishing.

You’re very acutely aware of that fact without him saying it.

You huff out a frustrated little breath through your nose, crossing your own arms over your chest in a mirror of his stance.

“I’m not hitting you.”

Geto’s brow quirks curiously.

“Why not?”

You can’t believe you’re having this conversation.

“Because that’s assault,” you counter his question shortly.

“It’s only assault if I press charges—which I won’t.” You know he’s telling the truth but it doesn’t make it any more convincing. He tilts his head to the side again, and a silky strand of his dark hair slips into his eyes. “Haven’t you ever hit anyone before? It’s cathartic.”

Your lips part in an expression of astonishment. “Of course I haven’t.”

The man in front of you looks mildly surprised at your answer.

“Do I look like someone who goes around fighting people?” you ask him incredulously.

“You look like you’ve got some repressed rage in you,” he says with a smirk, and the expression only worsens when he sees the way you react to it.

He taps his cheek again before tucking both his hands behind his back and leaning in close to you, like a man offering himself up to the executioner’s block. He shuts his eyes.

“C’mon, just a little one.”

“I won’t.”

“You should.”

“I won’t.”

“How come?”

You take his face in your hands suddenly, tilting it up to meet your gaze.

“Geto-san,” you say quietly, your tone bordering on desperate. “I’m not going to hit you, so please stop asking.”

He opens his eyes slowly, his dark lashes fluttering as he blinks up at you. After a moment he smiles, and his eyes curve into narrow crescents as he leans subtly into your touch.

It’s quiet in the alley, but your heartbeat is quick underneath your skin.

“Can you blame a guy for trying?” he asks you coyly.

You’re still cupping his cheeks in your hands. 

They’re warm.

“You really are crazy,” you reply softly to his question, though it’s not much of a reply at all.

He hums, turning his face so his nose drags across your wrist. His lips brush against your palm as he speaks once more. “I’ve been called worse.”

You don’t doubt he’s telling the truth.

Slowly, the dark haired man picks himself up to his usual height. He’s closer to you now than he’s ever been—and thanks to the little cat and mouse game that the two of you have been playing, you’re very nearly pressed against the alley wall. You can’t even see the street anymore beyond the expanse of his wide shoulders.

Everywhere you look, you only see him.

The realization sits hot and heavy in the pit of your stomach.

“I know you’re a good girl, but what are we gonna do about all that stuff you’ve got pent up in there?” Geto lifts his hand and presses a featherlight touch to your sternum over your diaphragm, his fingertips trailing delicately against the smooth plane where the arch of your ribs ends. Your breath hitches painfully as you stare up at him, a sticky knot at the back of your throat preventing you from forming any response—not that you can think of anything to say. 

Geto smiles down at you, his expression soft.

You see the faintest flash of sharp teeth behind his pink lips.

“Don’t you want me to help you let it out?”

Word count: 2.7k

Category: Angst, Smut

Warnings: smut, a bit of rough sex ig, reader is sad tm, cult leader geto, an awful lot of dog metaphors, veeeery slight masochism but not really explicit. Takes place eight years after Geto left but reader's age is not stated.

Summary: When Suguru left, a part of you went with. It's not a surprise, that eight years after, you still come crawling back to him.

***

When Suguru left, a part of you went with. The school years spent together passed by in a flash and then he was gone without saying goodbye. No words, no letter, not even a short message to your phone. The wallpaper was still set to the picture of the two of you. He wasn’t smiling in that one. When was the last time he did? The more you study the phone screen, the more your hands tremble. His skin looks pale, the bags under his eyes holding all the colors of the night sky. How could you not notice? How could you possibly be that stupid? How were the signs so glaringly obvious yet slipped past your radar?

You were too happy, your brain suggested. Lost in the bliss, living in the soft summer days, only noticing that you had nothing warm to wear when winter came along suddenly. Shoko had told you not to blame yourself, yet you noticed that she had started smoking way more. You were often with her, when she allowed the nicotine to surround the air around you, letting the bright red cherry tip burn right to the filter. Those moments were quiet most of the time.

Satoru didn’t say anything to you, during that time. You often wondered if he was hurting more than you. If the guilt ate him completely instead of chipping away as it had on you. You wondered if he had any tears left to shed. Yours seemed never-ending.

You also wondered what your friends (if you could still call them that, after so many years of no contact) would think of you if they saw you like this. Hair matted with sweat and sticking to your forehead, skin clammy and flushed, eyes rolled to the back of your head and countless loads of cum decorating your pliant body.

Right now, Suguru had you on all fours, back arched harshly, his large, unforgiving hand aiding the pose with a tight hold on your hair, the other resting on your hip with a bruising grip. His hips were unrelenting in their pursuit of his pleasure, almost punishing with how harsh they were. Your body bounced back and forth with each mean thrust, your hands fisting the silk sheets until the knuckles turned white.

You squirm forward a little and his strong body chases right after. His lean, toned body leans on yours, more weight landing on you, his soft hair forming a dark halo around you.

“Not trying to run from me, are you, darling?” His voice is dark and a little breathy.

A soft grunt slips past his glossy lips and you still, taking and taking and taking until there’s nothing but him. His clean, woody scent surrounding you, his silky hair tickling at the sensitive skin of your neck and his huge cock tearing away at your insides.

“N-no. Sorry.”

You’re surprised by the breathlessness of your own voice, sounding so far away. Geto rewards you with a content hum as he kisses the shell of your ear with befitting gentleness. The only sound besides your own deep breaths is the loud squelching of your awfully wet cunt.

It’s not like he hasn’t prepared you. He spent what seemed like hours between your legs, dark hair pulled into a bun because he didn’t like distractions while doing the thing he enjoyed most. He dangled your pleasure just in front of you, only allowing you to cum when you begged real pretty and tear tracks embedded themselves into the soft skin of your cheeks. After that, he had stretched you out with his fingers, cooing at you almost mockingly when three seemed to be too much. And they were, they really were with how long, thick and calloused they were and yet-

Nothing ever prepared you to take his cock, not even when you were dripping, messing up his expensive sheets. He was massive — long, and thick and slightly curved to the side, hitting all the right spots instantly yet never fully fitting inside.

“No? Seemed that way, doll.”

Another kiss, this time to your exposed neck, before his thrusts pick up speed. It’s nasty and loud, yet missing the usual sound of hips connecting that most often came along with sex. Those two last inches never did fit, much to his displeasure.

Suguru angles his hips in a way that hits that spot deep inside, the one that despite countless times of trying, no else was able to hit in the way he was. You keen loudly, burying your head into the bedsheets and sniffling loudly, hands clawing around in search of reprieve.

Suguru grants you that one relief, the hand that was knit tightly into your hair finally leaving and intertwining with yours, fingers squeezing tightly, as if he was the one afraid to let go. His thrusts are still mean. Now, that he had finally granted you the pleasure of feeling his cock against that one sensitive spot, he abused the newfound power over and over and over again.

“You close, love? Tell me how it feels.”

His voice is sweet and as smooth as honey. The word “love” feels like venom dripping from his perfect lips. Another mean thrust and you’re keening, thoughts jumbled in your head, saliva dripping down your chin as if it’s your brain leaking out.

“Feels, ngh- Feels soo- Suguru!”

He actually laughs, sound melodic and heavenly. He’s a god above you, a vision of utter perfection, and you’re a mortal, on your knees in his temple, begging for reprieve, for pleasure, for him.

“Use your words, dear. Can you do that for me?”

It’s completely condescending. The only thing that’s betraying how tight you’re squeezing him is the slight grunts he allows to slip past. He had nothing to hide from you, anyway. Who would you tell, when you were so afraid of admitting that you shared your bed with him?

“M-mhm, wanna be good. Feels, ah, feels good-“

His thrusts slow and you can’t find it in yourself to feel bad for actually whining at the loss of friction. He’s a henchman and you’re the victim, willingly walking to him and laying yourself under the shining silver of the axe. Nothing seems to matter anymore, save for your pleasure.

Your hips buck back, trying to get him to speed his thrusts back again, but Suguru is not the one to give in that easy. His hand still on your hip tightens, fingers curling in a way that’s sure to leave bruises, that’s sure to leave his mark.

“You can do better. You want to come, don’t you, darling? Yeah, you do… So do better for me. Talk all pretty, okay?”

And how can you refuse Suguru, when he asks like that?

“You’re s-so big and n-no one else can fuck me like tha-that. I love your cock, love to fe-feel it in me, love the way i-it hu-hurts and lo-love you, ah-!” words tumble past your lips as fast as running water, afraid to disappoint him, afraid for him to leave.

Finally, finally his hips pick up their speed, the hand that was just squeezing your hip now slithering under your body and finding that little bundle of nerves in an instant. He seems to have no trouble playing you like an instrument, his practiced fingers drawing tight, fast circles on your clit. You just do your duty, keeping your back arched, your hips thrusting back to meet his movements.

It doesn’t take long for your vision to completely black out, screams and moans and little ramblings leaving your spit-soaked lips. Suguru aids you through your orgasm, never ceasing his movements against your clit. He gifts you with a couple more shallow thrusts before he’s pulling out with a soft grunt. In a moment, you feel the warmth of his cum hitting your back and your knees finally give out, body splayed out on the bed.

Suguru rolls over in order not to crush you, his own breaths labored and loud. You spend a long moment just catching your breath, head turning to the side and drinking in his painfully pretty features. The arch of his jaw, the gentle slope of his nose, his tired, dark eyes and his mused hair.

“You confessing your love for me was not something I had expected tonight.” He answers with a chuckle, your name slipping past his lips unprompted. No matter how soft it is, it still sounds foreign.

“It was just a slip of a tongue.” You reply, still studying each movement of his body. He was still so coordinated and delicate in his maneuvers, as if the intense session before didn’t tire him out at all.

“Some phrase about a cat and it being out of the bag seems to come to my mind.” Suguru chuckled, before standing up and disappearing for a moment.

He comes back with a wet towel, wiping away at the mess between your legs and then carefully caressing your back, removing all evidence of what has happened before. He puts it away immediately, always the one to stick to neatness and tidiness.

“Why didn’t you just finish inside? It’s less messy and I’m on birth control.” You find yourself mumbling the words. Perhaps you just missed his warmth, craving it to be so deep inside you that even after you left, some part of him still lingered.

Suguru hums softly, pulling you into his strong arms. His skin is warm against yours. He’s still naked, his chest pressed up against your back. It feels right. Like that’s the way it should have always been.

“Admittedly, I am not that possessive, darling. You can fuck whoever you like, someone who fits your moral compass and all that. I don’t need to cum inside to prove that you’re mine.”

He’s always so nonchalant about this. Like he’s absolutely sure that you would always come crawling back, even if it resulted in bruised knees and absolute banishment of your dignity. It hurt that it wasn’t exactly wrong.

“It seems that no one fits my moral compass nowadays. Perhaps I am getting too picky.” You answered quietly, softly. The smell of sex was still heavy in the air.

Suguru brushes figures into the skin of your arms, making your body instantly relax in his strong arms. It shouldn’t feel so safe. Not when the blood of so many people stain every inch of his skin. You can’t find it in yourself to mind. He had never hurt you, at least, not physically. The emotional damage was something you preferred to think about over a nice bottle of wine, alone.

“Perhaps you are. Or maybe we are just two sides of the same coin. I cannot seem to find someone who’s presence satisfies me as much as yours, either.

His words never fail to make you blush. You’re not a school girl anymore, it shouldn’t affect you at all, let alone this much and yet, when it’s Suguru, nothing is off the table.

“We are not the same and never will be.” You find the strength within yourself to answer. The words are weak and uncertain.

“Oh, are we not?” He answers immediately, the movements of his nimble fingers ceasing for a moment before continuing their path down your arms. He’s soothing you, you realize. How stupid. As if you ever needed that. As if he actually know how much you did.

“What are you implying, Suguru?” You ask, and your head finds it’s way to rest on his chest. Suguru finally relaxes, as if it was him who craved it instead of you.

“I will never change my ideals and yet you still crawl back to me like an obedient little dog.” He lets the words linger in the silence of his bedroom for a moment, “You will never change yours and yet I welcome you back into my arms each time.”

“Comparing me to a dog now?” Is all you manage for an answer.

The words have no real bite behind them. A metaphor of a dog with no teeth comes to your mind briefly. You are a scared animal, cornered in somewhere, just waiting for a hand that will feed instead of hitting. Suguru embodies both.

“That’s not what you should be focusing on. And that wasn’t even my point.” He waves you off with a gentle flick of his wrist.

“Spit it out.”

“We were doomed from the day we first met. It was meant to be happen this way.” He begins, and you can’t begin to understand what he’s getting at. Suguru often got philosophical after sex, “I believe it was Emil M. Cioran, who said “If you are doomed to devour yourself, nothing can keep you from it: a trifle will impel you as much as a tragedy. Resign yourself to erosion at all times: your fate wills it so.”

“Are you saying that there was nothing that I could have done to prevent you from leaving? That you are devouring yourself?” the words taste bitter on your tongue.

“I’m saying exactly that. The guilt is written all across your features each time I see you. Not only because you feel bad about us sleeping together. You can’t let go of it even eight years after, you carry it with you like a deadly weight. It’s going to drag you down one day, don’t you know?” He asks so nonchalantly, like he’s not expecting an answer. You offer him one anyway.

“And the part about devouring yourself?”

“Exorcise. Consume. Repeat it until everything inside you aches. My fate was written down on the day my cursed technique developed.” He’s quiet as he tells you this. Honest, for the first time in a while.

“And for you, that is synonymous to devouring yourself? Your technique?”

“More or less so. The rest of devouring is me reaching for a goal that is impossible to reach. Icarus flying too close to the sun, Laika trying to reach the stars.” He’s silent for a long moment after that.

You don’t really know what to say, either. The need to ask about why he was still doing this if he knew what the outcome was, dies down on your tongue. Instead, you hold onto his hand still tracing shapes on your arm. He gives your fingers a squeeze. The atmosphere of his bedroom is heavy and dark, melancholy weighing down heavy on your bones.

“You’re bad at pillow talk, Suguru.”

He offers you a small laugh, sound melodic and airy.

“And you’re trying to evade the topic. There was nothing you could’ve done, okay? And I don’t have plans for returning.” Your throat burns. The harsh reality that you have been trying so hard to avoid comes crashing down around you, “It’s not that you’re not good enough for me to turn my back on all of this. The thing is, you’re pretty, and caring, and your laugh, and your touch are the only things that can soothe my tired body.”

“You’re pouring salt into the wound.” You answer, and your voice is hallowed. He either doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore it. Deep down, you know that it’s the latter.

“My goals just always come first.” He adds, as if that wasn’t obvious, as if it hasn’t been the thing that’s haunted you for years, borrowing it so deep inside your body, soul and heart that it’s become familiar.

“Your goals always come first.” You echo, “You’ll die a selfish man, Suguru.”

He rearranges you into a more comfortable position, laying you down onto his chest and enveloping you both in a soft, warm blanket. His breathing matches yours and you feel yourself teetering along the edge of unconsciousness.

Suguru presses a kiss to your hairline, chuckling softly, before closing his own dark eyes. Can you even hear him anymore? Ah, no matter. He can always tell you the next time you come back to him.

“Don’t I know it, dear. Don’t I know it.”

Tattoo artist Choso who finds out that the reader likes pain a little too much

Nghhh I need to write this asap or my brain might explode