porty
98 posts
still learning how to live in a world this big
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WHATTTTT

I gotta lock in…
name your favorite fic from each of your mutuals
okay i got this yesterday and took all day collecting links! here we goooooo! keeping descriptions short but please know that i love every single one of you and i truly am so grateful to be able to sit here and appreciate your art <3
logic of love by @mia-can-yap-too
fake dating au with nanami x reader!
under the sea by @carnalcrows
ariel!suguru x prince eric!male reader
way out there by @lily-bisque
lumberjack!sukuna x citygirl!reader
if I believe you by @kunareads
clan head!gojo x reader
double or nothing by @spearofheaven
toji fushiguro x fem!reader
be your idol by @shotosjupiter
sukuna x fem!reader
take it; this is my body by @theorphicangel
suguru geto x gn!reader
passion’s stage by @bxnfire
toji fushiguro x afab!reader
pick your player by @indiewritesxoxo
*read the sukuna one and died*
birds of a feather by @sukunahs
god of war!sukuna x goddess of love!reader
gag on it by @sluturu
nanami x f!reader
breakout by @fayerie
nanami x reader
sports car by @nialovessatoru
streetracer!sukuna
honeymoon with kento by @fear-is-truth
namami x f!reader
overstimulated by @eraserbread
foreign!gf x gojo
heaven is a bedroom by @prosypepper
nanami x f!reader
dilf!toji x college student! reader drabble by @nanamisbbygirl
i asked my best friend how to know if a girl likes you, and he gave me the worst advice ever by @letteremi
gojo x fem!reader
cleared for entry by @karvokr
pilot!gojo x flight attendant!reader
high and horny by @caffine-exe
poly!satogu x fem!reader
marriage pact by @lvl109
bsf!gojo x reader
wolf in sheep’s clothing by @starmapz
satoru gojo x fem!monster hunter reader
sleepy suguru x reader by @sugurusladyknightt
vanilla with a cherry on top by @aquasoftware
nanami x fem!reader
thighriding!nanami by @bistrocatxx
nsfw alphabet by @v1x3n
simon “ghost” riley x fem!reader *i don’t read cod things but this made me feel things*
to be loved by you by @lafleurperdue
suguru geto x fem!reader
when hell freezes over @satorus-princess
dad!jo
crush by @junuru
geto suguru x fem!reader x gojo satoru
t.h.i.n.k by @bluukive
satoru gojo x gn!reader
ice cream by @birdiechrips
dad!toji fluff
in my nightmares by @callmeakaashi
breaking nanami’s restraint by @gojosconsort
afab!reader x older!nanami
lucky girl syndrome by @porty
t. oikawa smau series
their favorite hairstyle on you by @runaarinn
haikyuu boys!
creampie by @lazyjellyfish300
fem!reader x nanami
r/marriage: am i (24m) overly obsessed with my wife (24f)? by @getouyuri
oyabun!gojo x secretary!reader
semi charmed life by @ludrift
suguru geto x fem!reader
kento drabble by @kaitoru
sukuna drabble by @gojotech
whipped ‘kuna by @cupidstrace
sink your teeth into my veins, the marks in my skin are fading by @d3cay1ngst4tic
satoru gojo x gn!reader
even the soil still knows you by @oporotheca
suguru geto x f!reader
so high school by @bloodb3nders
shota aizawa x f!reader
i might have missed some people but i do have a list that i will try to constantly update, here! ily all!!!
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WHO DAT IN THE BACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCK
night fever ˙⋆✮



Nothing is more magical than a Saturday night — especially in New York City.
pairing: satoru gojo x fem!reader
synopsis: one saturday night soaked in desire and disco, two dancers meet — one magnetic, one mesmerizing, both lost. on this fateful night, they find a rhythm in each other they’ve been searching for all along.
warnings/content: non curse au, fluff, love at first sight (kinda?), reader is so sassy (i love her), i also gave the reader some physical traits, cursing, drinking, club scene, smut: public sex, oral (fem!receiving), piv, unprotected, doggy, not finished.
word count: 6.3k
note: this was so fun to make! i hope you enjoy it :) *all pictures found on pinterest!*
listen
New York, New York
A summer’s night in 1978
Satoru Gojo — the self declared King of the Dance Floor — has a feeling that tonight is going to be much more than disco music and dirty dancing.
His white, frosty hair is in perfect place. His blue eyes covered with the sleek black sunglasses that fall perfectly down the bridge of his nose; he is aware just how much the women love this. The gold chain his friends all chipped in to give him after he swore (once again, self declared) he won the title of King of the Dance Floor, clings to his chest from the sweat gathered there. The humidity thick with anticipation, something almost magnetic.
The horns of the yellow taxis yelp in his ear as he struts across the cross walk. The concrete vibrating from the trains underground — the tremor feeling like the bass that flows through him when he enters the club.
The night time air is swarming with bodies and mumbled conversations about wrecked work weeks and who knows who is going to be dancing tonight. He weaves and ebbs his way through the crowd of people. Shoulder bumps and scowls towards his get up go unnoticed. Not when the neon lights are glowing for him, and him alone.
Nothing is more magical than a Saturday night — especially in New York City.
Satoru’s limbs are practically acting on their accord, leading him down the packed sidewalk to the one place where he and everyone else could be free.
Home.
No thoughts, no judgment, no one asking who he is and who he wants to be — and even if that question did somehow come into conversation over a booming Donna Summer’s song, “a dancer” would suffice.
On Saturdays at Studio VI, Satoru and every other seasoned Saturday dancer is allowed to feel. Using the dance floor as a therapist, a mouth to talk from, a friend at times. He has and will always have the space here to close his eyes and look for himself in the groove of bodies and funk music. No claim to a throne that he does not want (and truthfully doesn’t want him either). No need to be anything more than Satoru Gojo.
Dancing gives him this high — one he has been searching for in everything else. Sunday through Friday, his brain racks up ideas and his cerulean eyes search for a meaning, for a want that drives him forth. One that rivals the feelings of a Saturday creeping up on his week. All he wants is to grasp onto this high, letting it flow into everything he does, into everything he is.
He is sometimes so jealous of Saturdays, of funk, of Studio VI, of other people who get to see him dance, even sometimes of his own feet — because they have no restraints. All of those things can be what they are, no questions asked. They watch Satoru with pity in their eyes as he walks home with his sweat slicked on his hairline, the high feeling sweeping into the sticky air. His head down, his resolve gone again — the clock waiting to strike 12:00am next Saturday, just for him.
So lost in his thoughts, lost in the magnetic pull that ties him to the bright lights and the secrecy of Studio VI — he doesn’t realize he is standing in front of it.
Then the pink haired bodyguard that Satoru has grown to love and associate with the feeling he gets when he steps foot into the club — swings the door open for him. Granting him access to a burst of music, heat, and cigarette smoke. It wraps him up and squeezes like it knows his name, like it knows him personally.
He sometimes thinks that it does.
He steps forward, a slight push from the tempo spilling out of the door. His sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as a waft of a humid summer breeze ruffles his perfectly styled hair. It also brings along a scent so sweet, he feels like he could die from a sugar rush. Right at the doors of heaven. No better way to go, he thinks to himself.
The velvet ropes locking in the other Saturday dancers waiting to step into their place of reprieve catches his attention. That feeling of something magical, something more than dancing grows stronger. The smell of sweetness practically dancing around… her.
A shimmer of red, a bare back of smooth, glowy golden skin. It almost looks like she sat in the sun today just to accompany the red dress with a summer tan.
Jet black hair, feathered at the bottom sways against her back. Everything about her flickering in neon, the club’s awning of lights acting as her own personal spotlight.
Everything moves in slow motion — the way she shifts on to her left foot. The way her hips sway, even as she stands still — not dancing, just existing in a rhythm he would kill to hear. A tempo he wishes he could be the producer of, so that he can boastfully tell people he created something for… her.
His mouth parts just slightly, as if her name is on the tip of his tongue wanting to be spoken into the summer’s night. His foot stuck in its first step into the club — essentially stepping on air.
Then someone calls his name, and the bouncer waves him forward. New York City roars behind him, and he just realized everything was quiet when his eyes trailed along her spine.
He’s pulled in, just when she starts to turn. Her side profile teases him as he pushes forward into dancing bodies and into the feeling that everything is going to change.
Once inside, the lights swallow him whole. But something about those velvet ropes, bare golden back, and the stillness that came with it stays stuck in his chest. Like he’s heard the start of a song, but missed the hook.
“It’s me, yo’ boy DJ Who Dat in The Back ,” Ino yells over the lyrics of Bad Girls. You stifle a laugh, knowing where he’s going with his weekly joke. “Ladies, ask me about my stage name and I’d show you how I came up with it. But, after my gig. I’m here to make y’all dance!”
The bass thumps against your heels as the record for Ring My Bell starts to play. The tempo is steady in the soles of your feet, rising slowly through your ribs as if it’s a string pulling you upright.
Your movements are slow, on purpose. Letting the music move you, the dance floor welcomes you to a secret that only you can hear.
Kento’s hands are light on your waist, respectful. Solid. Missing out on the secret that you and the dance floor are sharing — the rhythm flowing through him differently than how it’s flowing through you. But, he trusts you how you trust the music to guide you. He has never been here to take, just witness. Bringing you back to reality after Saturday night cascades away from you.
But tonight, you felt that reality will forever be altered. You felt it on the train ride here, the stares of non dancers drilling into your bare back and reminding you that this is who you are. A dancer that sometimes clashes the reality of everyday life with the neon lights and tempo beats in the dream land of Saturday night clubs.
But with the rickety air conditioner on the train, the summer breeze that smelled of garbage left out on the side of the street and the gas exhaust from taxis, the velvet rope rubbing against your thigh — the air was different. There was a shift that electrified but also kind of scared you.
The red dress you specifically sought after for tonight, clings to your hips effortlessly as you roll and sway. Sweat glides down the curve of your spine, but you don’t swipe it away. You don’t even feel it. You let it glisten.
“Ken,” you say over the music. Your best friend’s hazel eyes meet yours, a quirk in his eyebrows. “Is someone staring at me?”
“People are always staring at you,” he replies, missing a step and nearly stomping on your toe. You ignore how he is right, wanting to tell him this stare was different. It’s been following you since you were waiting in line. You almost want to tell him you welcome it, you want more of it.
There’s a weight pressing in between your shoulder blades. It’s hot, and hungry — it makes your skin prickle from the contact.
Someone isn’t only staring at you but they’re tracking. Watching every movement you make before you even think to act on it.
That feeling of magic, of a new reality feels heavy in your chest. You do the only thing you know to do — you keep dancing. Knowing that the watcher knew you’d do that.
You try to ignore the heavy gaze to focus on your feet moving. Focusing on the way your hips feel lighter whenever it follows the rhythm of a song. The stress from everything leaking out onto the dance floor.
That pull is wrapping itself around your ankles. Kento’s hand slipping from your waist, giving you the freedom to let go.
And you do.
You turn in a half circle, hips still moving, your head tilted back just enough that the room blurs. Streaks of neon light bleeding like watercolors, the disco ball spinning stars across the room.
The perfect picture.
Kento leans in to ask you something, his words floating past you. Because there it is again — the intent stare, the awareness, the goosebumps climbing up your spine.
The look is cumbrous, focused. Too sure of itself to be casual.
With half lidded eyes, and sweat dripping from your hairline — you don’t have to know what it means. Your gaze lands — past the crowd of couples rubbing against each other, through the smoke, the watercolors and heat —
Blue.
Behind black sunglasses. Frosty hair framing his face. Leaning against the wall like he owns it. Like he knows the secrets of the wall and every object in here, maybe even yours. Like he’s been watching you since the beginning of time.
And grinning.
Satoru’s friends try to grab his attention — Suguru pulling his arm and yelling something over the DJ's new song choice. Haibara pushes a red drink in his hands, he only slid attention to that because it matches the color of the lipstick on your lips.
His eyes have not left your fleeting back, carefully tracking every movement you have made since leaving the dance floor. A continuous loop of you dancing and catching his gaze — your eyes blown out as you watched him grin at you, your lips agape as if you too knew his name and wanted to have it spill out — plays on one side of his brain while the other plays what’s happening in front of him.
You’re seated at the bar, your back slicked with sweat as one of your golden legs fold over the other. He feels like an intruder just watching you, but he can’t help it. He doesn’t want to stop. He knows he wouldn’t be able to.
He knows better than to chase someone.
He’s never had to.
But, with your presence pulling at places he didn’t know could be pulled at unless it involved dancing, he knew he couldn’t let you strut away.
You looked at him as if you felt the feeling too and honestly that warmed him to the core. He is happy he isn’t a lone stranger to the idea of the disco changing his life between the sweat glands of dancing bodies and the watered down vodka his friends drink.
Without so much as a plan, nervousness (a foreign emotion) stacking on his shoulder, and the feeling of maybe forgetting his name IF you ask for it — he pushes the drink back into Haibara’s hands. And he starts walking, or more like following the invisible string that connects his feet to the bottom of your heels. Like a headphone jack to a speaker playing a song only you two know.
You don’t turn your head to greet him when he reaches the bar. You already know he is there.
“I think you need a new partner,” he says, leaning one elbow on the counter. That fruity smell from outside flows into his airstream and he almost thinks he’s walking by those fruit stands on the corners.
Your response is slow, and he finds himself fidgeting on the spot. But all the confidence that you had on the dance floor oozes out and tickles his ear. His chest lurches and he almost slaps himself at the absurdity of this.
“Do I?” Your hands grip a sweating glass of the same color drink that was placed in his hand. He always jumps at the coincidence — this must mean something. Your lips, his drink, your drink.
“Your friend,” Satoru pauses on the world friend to watch how you react to the word. Your lips meet the rim of your glass, showing no change in your expression. “He dances like a log, so yeah you do.”
You shrug. “Didn’t know logs danced. I’d keep that in mind when I look for another partner.” Your tongue laps over your bottom lip and Satoru finds himself leaning in closer. “No log dancers, got it.”
Satoru thinks this is easy, he has you right in the palm of his hand. “You don’t have to look too far,” he hums, and he watches how you roll your shoulders out. The red dress clings to your body perfectly. “I’m here,” he points to himself, despite you still not looking at him. “You’re my dream girl, I’ll be your dream partner.”
Finally, you meet his eyes. Your head swivels to where he is standing and Satoru has to grip the edge of the bar. Your glare is intense, but known. As if he has been on the receiving end of it everyday of his life before this. He hopes he is after tonight.
The awareness about tonight is gnawing on his spine. He feels himself stand up straighter, as if that would grant him all the change he so desperately wants if it has anything to do with you.
“Well, Blue,” you almost purr, and he can’t help but watch how your lips form every world. “Can I call you that?” You bat your eyelashes in faux innocence and he goes to nod his head — because truthfully he’d let you call him anything if it means your eyes were on him.
“If you’re looking for a dream girl … close your eyes and go to sleep and have a fucking nightmare.”
You send him an amused smile and he can’t help but let the chuckle bubbling in his throat squeak out.
Your eyes bore into his and Satoru all of sudden becomes a master of stillness. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink, afraid that any sudden movement would shift your attention elsewhere.
“I’m here to dance. Not be anything for anybody.”
You glance away, back at the bar. The scratch of a record indicates the DJ is setting up a new song and Satoru knows this might be the only chance he gets, so he jumps.
“So put your money where your mouth is and dance,” he pauses to place his hand in front of you. Your eyes drop to look at it with a confidence that tells him you might not place your hand in his. “With me.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Dancing with the King of the Dance Floor,” he sends a gleaming smile your way, his glasses slipping just a bit. “I’d say that’s pretty neat.”
You start to smile and Satoru is sure he’s never seen anything so beautiful. A soft exhale slips from your red lips, your lipstick smudged from the sips of your drink you took. It makes you look even prettier.
“I made you smile,” he points at you. You send him a sideways glance. “Next base is dancing,” he shrugs.
You turn to face him, your legs knocking into his and his skin prickles at the contact. “I’m laughing at you.”
“Wow, what a feat.” His hand reaches for his chest, his heart actually beating harder than it ever had before. He secretly prays that he is playing it cool. “What is funny?”
“The color of your eyes match your shirt,” you point at his shirt, your finger mere inches away from his bare chest.
“Aw,” his hand on the bar reaches up to touch the ends of your raven hair. You move away when you notice. “So you were looking into my eyes. We’re practically married now.”
You scoff adding an eye roll. However, Satoru doesn’t miss the sly smile on your lips. Like you both are in on a joke that no one else could hear. He finds himself grinning down at you.
Then, your hand finds his and you step down for the bar stool. And everything starts to morph into one — the warmth of the club rivaling the warmth of your hand in his. Your fruity smell dancing along with the multiple fruity drinks that are being passed along the bar to other patrons. Everything that goes against you pales in comparison.
“You’re following me, Blue.”
The music starts up and at this Satoru feels like he’s watching himself from the disco ball above. He watches the way you walk into the crowd, his hand in yours as everyone makes room for you to pass. As if the dance floor only called for you and everyone got the memo.
You don’t look back, you know and feel him following. Even if your hand wasn’t pulling him along — he knows as well as everyone in this club, that he would’ve been nipping at your heels anyways.
And that’s when he knows — he’s hooked. Maybe he would chase you. Wherever you bring him.
“Don’t fall in love, Blue.” You call from over your shoulder. Your fingers are dancing with his as you lead him to your home. This act being the highest form of intimacy in this world of yours. “It’s just a dance.”
The music drops — sticky, heavy bassline crawls over your skin like the summer heat. Your fingers tighten around his, indents of each other gathering around your hands at how tightly you two are holding on. As you step into the full pulse of the crowd, you let go. You don’t look back, you don’t have too.
You feel his presence just as you still felt his hand in yours.
You sway your hips, confident and smooth — the rhythm of the song already memorized before it even started. Like your body had the blueprint for this. Bodies press around you, arms flinging along the beat penetrating the air. The heat rises like steam from a crowded sidewalk, but you can’t register it. Not with those blue eyes boring into your back like a handprint left behind.
Your turn towards him, slowly and sultry — but making sure to keep a sliver of distance between your bodies. A challenge. An invitation to a changed reality.
“My dream partner wouldn’t be so far away,” you add a pout to your lips. You relish in how his eyes stray from your swaying hips, to your lidded eyes. Like he’s collecting every piece of information you’re offering him, just for himself.
He takes it.
Two steps, that’s all it takes and he is in front of you. Smiling down at you like you’re the answer to all those hard hitting questions that attack him at three in the morning. He smiles and watches you, like he knew you’d make space for him.
His hand hovers over your hip, respectful, but you could feel the ache for him to touch you. You feel the way he is holding back. And that makes you smile back up at him.
You tilt your head. “I don’t bite, Blue.” You bat your lashes at him, watching his adams apple bob from the swallow he lets down. “Unless you beg.”
His grin widens and suddenly his hands are at your waist. The nerves and restraint you felt from him is slowly slipping away — you hope it doesn’t follow you into next Saturday.
He pulls you into him — heat to heat, chest to chest — your bodies instantly catching onto the same rhythm. It’s almost as if you’ve been dancing for years. Your body knows his and he knows yours.
The crowd disappears — just watercolor lights and blue prancing through your eyelids. You question yourself, how is it possible to feel free, even more so than you do dancing, in the arms of a stranger?
Everything in the club spins slowly, like together you two are the center of gravity and everyone at Studio VI came to orbit around you.
You trace your fingers down his arm, light as silk, until you reach his hand. It’s oddly cold now, not matching the heat emitting from his chest against yours. You guide his hand lower, where the small of your back burns, where your dress clings like a second skin. And when you roll your hips against his, just right, you feel it — that little stutter in his breath. The way his fingers curl, gripping harder — holding on to you as if he’ll lose you if he lets go.
Your eyes bore into his. His smile is gone, yours too.
It’s something hungrier nipping in between you. And you’re sure that you’d both welcome it with open hands. It’s Saturday night, after all.
You loop your arms around his neck — bodies staying pressed together, moving in sync to a beat that you’re sure lives within your bones. Every sway is deliberate, every roll of your hips matched with tension from his grip on your hips.
You two move like two magnets snapping together.
You feel him holding back, like he thinks the club might collapse if he touches you the way you both want.
It excites you.
It confuses you.
You want more.
You step closer, your arms slightly pushing his head closer to you. Your lips brush against the tip of his ear. His cologne swallows you.
“You told me you were the King of the Dance Floor.”
He exhales through his nose, the rush of air tickling your shoulder blade. And in a tone that sounds like he’ll surrender any minute he says, “I am.”
“Prove it.”
The beat slows. People brush past you. Your bodies stay linked.
His hand drags along your spine, slow and firm, until his hand reaches your hip where he grips — hard enough to leave a bruise. You grind into him, shamelessly, harder. And for the first time since he followed you onto this dance floor, he lets go — no sassy quip, no boyish grin. Just his hips bucking into yours.
You gasp. Barely. Just enough to have him catch it.
His blue eyes darken as you continue to stare up at him through your lashes.
He leans forward, his lips grazing your jaw. Not kissing, but close enough that you believe he’s trying to memorize the scent of you or the taste of your skin brushing his lips.
“What are you doing to me?” He murmurs against your skin, his voice all husky and you smile because you know you’ve caused it. The smell of his cologne lets you know that he’s still your Blue. “If you keep looking at me like this, I might have to take you someplace more private.”
You hum, eyes fluttering close for a second. Your gut is dipping at the shift of the air and the heat crawling between your pressed bodies.
When you open your eyes, you don’t recognize yourself in the mirror of his gaze.
You step up on your tippy toes, your nose brushing his as you feel him exhale. “I dare you.” You whisper with your lips pressed to his.
He does not really remember how you both made it back here. All he could remember is the way your hips rolled against him, as if you knew what you were doing to him — like you knew just a couple movements from you would make him lose all control. His usual charm is not loaded onto his personality tonight, and there is a club of eyes that saw him embarrass himself by grinding shamelessly against you.
But that feeling that has followed him all day today, making its way into his bloodstream and psyche feels so alive in this room that all he has to do is reach his hand out and he is sure he can hold it. He can shove it into his pocket and have it help him guide the rest of his life — and he hopes you’d be joining along.
He’s never felt like this. Not until… you.
You’re pressed against a dark, velvet wall, lips swollen and breath uneven. All Satoru can do is stare at you. His eyes are tracking every single movement you grace the room with.
“Don’t need to hide behind these,” you whisper, your fingers curling around the edges of his glasses. You pull them off slowly, like you’re undressing him — giving him the chance to stop you if it’s all too much. But, Satoru wants to show you everything. He wants to dig into his chest and possibly give you his heart in the process. He’ll stick with the glasses for now.
His lashes flutter when you finally remove the glasses, letting them slip from your fingers and hitting the floor with a small thud. The air feels different now that you’re looking at him fully. At the real him. Nothing blocking his eyes from staring straight into his. Satoru shudders at this. “I felt your stare on me all night. No need to hide anymore.”
He doesn’t really have anything to say, he doesn’t know what to say. His mouth is dry, his is dick hard. He can’t concentrate on anything but your smudged lipstick and just how short you are to him.
He towers a good foot over you, and somehow he feels small under your stare. The way you tilt your head to the side as if you’re the one looking down at him.
“You’re short?” He mumbles, his voice rough.
You blink, right at him. “Short?” He hears the snicker that wants to slip past your lips.
“Yeah, short.”
You pause, well everything pauses for Satoru as a smile starts to grow on your lips. A dangerous, devilish kind of smile — and you say, “I’m the perfect height go do this.”
Your palm press right over the bulge in his pants, and his knees almost buckle.
“Get down,” you whisper, and he doesn’t even think to disobey.
He sinks to his knees, like he is praying to an altar made just for you. His hands skimming down your body and stilling at your hips.
He looks up at you, his voice getting stuck in his throat as you stare down at him. Your cheeks flushed, pupils blown out, bottom lip tucked in between your teeth.
You hook a leg over his shoulder, dress hitched higher than before, and Satoru gets a full view of the damp spot between your folds. His hands press into the back of your thighs, spreading you open like a prayer, like he wants to crawl inside this moment and never leave. Stay right here with the bass banging in his chest and your eyes locked on his.
He places a chaste kiss on your inner thigh, your skin soft and supple. The scent of your arousal follows, as he guides more kisses until his nose is basically brushing against your covered pussy.
“Like being taller, huh?” He mumbles, breathless almost. His hands are gripping the back of your thighs so hard, he wonders if you’d leave here with mementos of him littered around your body.
“I like having you look up at me,” you hum, amused. You buck your hips forward, his nose brushing against your clit.
“Hmm,” he pushes the fabric of your panties aside, and he is thankful for the position of being on his knees — he wants to thank whatever higher power would listen to him.
He drags his tongue, slow, almost possessively between your folds. The first full lick of you — hot and slick and already aching — makes Satoru groan like he’s the one being touched.
You taste better than anything he’s ever known.
You lean your head back and moan, and Satoru takes it as an endorsement — his tongue flattening, dragging up and down, then flicking exactly where you need him. Your moans ring in his ears and right here, he establishes that this is favorite song. One he’d listen to for the rest of his life if given the chance.
One of his slender hands spreads over your stomach, anchoring you to the wall as he buries his face deeper between your thighs like he’s famished.
He licks your clit gently, nibbling at it softly. His eyes stay glued on you, watching how your legs tighten, how your hips twitch against him. One of your heels digs into his back and he smiles against you. He sucks you clit into his mouth lazily, then a little harder once he notices your head hitting the wall again.
Your hips tremble around him. Your moans hitting a higher pitch, Satoru groans. He stands in one quick motion, your legs wobbling from being held up by him.
Your head falls forward onto his shoulder, your chest heaving. One of your hands reaches up to grip the ends of his hair at the nape of his neck, he shudders at the feeling.
“When you first introduced yourself,” you pant, your lips brushing his ear. “You should’ve said you were really good with your mouth.” He groans, his hands palming at your hips.
He doesn’t give you a second to breathe before he presses his mouth to yours — messy and heated, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You moan into the kiss, and he swears his dick got harder than it already was.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he pulls your hips back, turning you to face the wall.
“I’ve been waiting, King of the Dance Floor,” you tease. Your hands clawing into the velvet walls, your back lightly arching, reaching for his touch. He unbuckles his pants like a man possessed.
He slides in with a hiss — you’re so wet it’s obscene — and his hands fist in the fabric of your dress as he fucks into you hard. The red looks deeper as it flushes against the paleness of his palm.
The beat of the music outside matches the frantic pace of his thrusts. His balls are slapping against your clit, his hips snapping into yours like how they did on the dance floor.
You’re gasping. Moaning. Arching into him like you own this moment, like he’s yours to ruin. As if you haven’t ruined him before this.
One of his hands reaches for your neck, his hand wrapping around your throat. He sighs as he feels you swallow a moan down.
“I hope no one is using this room to fuck,” someone yells from directly outside the door. Hand jiggling the locked door handle, his heart dropping with every twist of the knob.
Satoru stills inside of you, his forehead resting on your quivering shoulder, hand stilled around your throat. His cock twitches as your gummy walls tighten around him. He wants to groan at the sensation, but quiets at the thought of getting caught.
There’s a knock at the door, heavy and a little disarming. You clench tight and involuntarily around him. His breath shudders, his eyes roll back.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he grits, the hand around your neck adding some pressure.
You smile at him from over your shoulder, “Get us caught and you’ll never fuck me again.”
“So there’ll be a next time?” He murmurs, placing a soft kiss on your shoulder.
“I don’t really want someone seeing your bare ass, Blue,” you laugh. Your hair brushing his face as you try to shift.
“It’s a nice ass,” he tries to laugh this off. His voice comes off almost like a growl.
“I’d kick it if people see us like this,” you huff, you move your hips but all you do is burrow him deeper into your slick. Both of you letting out quiet groans.
With a hand on your hip to still you from pushing him any further, he stares at the side of your face. The jiggles on the doorknob become more frantic, but right he could care less. “What if I’m into that?”
“Blue, get out of me.”
The city is still awake, still loud, still buzzing. It’s still yours and his as you walk side by side. The moon dimmed itself to let the sun take over in a few hours. Stars not visible in the night sky, but neon lights and flashing billboards guiding you home.
“Who are you?” You ask, breaking the silent blanket that wrapped around you both.
Blue has a pizza slice in his hand, some tomato sauce at the corner of his lips and you want to tell him, so that he doesn’t gawk at his reflection about it. But, it’s boyish and it’s him, and you personally think he looks cute so unguarded.
The glasses now atop his head, his shirt pulled out of his pants from earlier — you know you look just as unguarded. You’re happy that you’re doing it together.
“Satoru Gojo,” he answers, his voice low and hesitant. You wonder if he didn’t want you to know his name.
“No,” you shake your head, your hair feeling frizzy from the humidity as it rubs against your shoulders. “Who are you?”
He stops, pizza still in his hand. You stop too, grabbing his hand to bring the pizza closer to your own lips, taking a bite. “I don’t know,” you hear the nervousness in his voice, as if he’s being interviewed. You watch as he scratches the back of his neck, his eyes darting from your lips to the sidewalk straight ahead.
You give him time to find his words. You want to hear him. You want him to know he could be heard by you.
“On Saturdays, I’m a dancer.”
“Well, Satoru Gojo,” his eyebrows hitch up at the sound of his full name slipping from your lips, like it belongs there. It does after tonight, you just won’t tell him that … not yet.
“You could be a dancer everyday. Whenever you hear music, just dance.”
“It’s not what is wanted for me,” he shrugs. You notice the crease in between his eyebrows as he thinks hard, and you hate that you know the feeling.
Sunday through Friday you hide, molding yourself to the status quo. On Saturdays you could squeeze into a red dress you spent your entire check on and just dance. Just feel. Just be yours.
“Who gives a fuck,” you shrug and he lets out a croaked chuckle. His eyes running back to watch you, almost like he’s studying you.
“I want it for you, Blue,” you almost don’t recognize how soft your voice sounds. It feels weird, but it feels like it belongs here. Like it belongs to be heard by him. “Do it for me, for you, and for all the Saturdays that are going to be spent in the grave after we’re gone.”
You send him a smile, turning to start to walk again. You hear his feet scurrying behind to catch up and you both walk in a comfortable silence. The hums of cars stopped at red lights, the train still chugging down below, and your heart leaping whenever his arm brushes against yours. It warms you in a way you can’t really explain.
Like you’re sitting in the middle of your bed with your Grandma’s quilt wrapped around you so lovingly, you’d stay there for the rest of your life if you could.
“You’re not so nightmarish, huh?” He hums, his voice filled with nostalgia as if you guys haven’t met tonight.
“Don’t push it, Gojo,” you bump your hip into his. He barely moves, just a smile gracing his plump lips.
“It’s Blue to you,” he bumps back into you, his hand grasping your wrist as you falter just a little. “Want to dance next Saturday?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“There are so many other days of the week,” you smile at him, his hand still on your wrist. His thumb rubs small circles near your pulse point. “We’re splitting here,” you stand at the corner, the walk lights blinking quietly.
“Can I walk you home?” He nods, removing his hand from your wrist. The pizza is gone, both of his hands stuffing into the front of his bell bottom pants.
“Nope,” you laugh, and you watch as his whole face lights up at the sound. His gaze soft, his foot nudging your heeled one.
“No?”
“Nothing personal. It’s just that you’re not supposed to ask, you just do it.” You shrug, turning completely around and starting to walk across the crosswalk.
“Next time then?” He calls out, and you hear his grin, and smell his cologne. You feel his stare as if it’s still his hands on the small of your back, on your thighs, around your throat.
You laugh, already missing his boyish grin. And you know that here, tonight, is what your body has been planning for.
That air of new possibilities. The new reality linked with blue eyes and a self imposed title of King of the Dance Floor. Boyish grins, neon lights, the humid early morning air that’s going to cling to your dress even after you slip out of it.
Two people following a rhythm that could only be heard, understood, and loved by them. The sounds growing with you both since birth — this hot summer Saturday is when it finally decided to tie you together.
And, you couldn’t wait to hear it again.
“Bye, Blue.”
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Their collective singular braincell was nowhere to be found that day
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for my starlight






california dreamin’ (part 1)
1 month after the events had taken place:


masterlist || Previous: extra 4: losing my religion || finale: california dreamin’ (part 2)
AN: :”) so sorry for the disappearance…
Taglist: @aionishoh || @inojinieeee || @rinniebinniebay || @twilightsumu || @dremerys || @thatmf-jay || @amvpk01 || @yxruxp || @risagichi
@porty || do not plagiarise or translate any of my work. I do not own any of the Blue Lock characters all rights goes to Muneyuki Kaneshiro and Yusuke Nomura.
#bllk#blue lock#oliver aiku#bllk isagi#blue lock isagi#bllk x you#bllk x reader#smau#bllk smau#blue lock aiku#bachira meguru#bllk bachira#shidou ryusei#bllk shidou#isagi yoichi#blue lock x reader#blue lock smau#ness#bllk ness#blue lock ness#bllk kaiser#blue lock kaiser#michael kaiser
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PLEASE LIKE DONT WE LIKE TO LAUGH?!?!
@porty would like for you guys to please choose sukuna’s series next


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Hi porty :)
I was wondering if we’ll be getting updates for starlight anytime soon? I hope you’re doing well :D
hi anon :>!! i’m alright, i hope you’ve been well too 🩷!!
yes, don’t you worry!! for my starlight will come out 😭😭! i haven’t forgotten about my bby, but writing these last two chapters has been a bit of a struggle for me, and i haven’t been really satisfied with the endings i had. but i would say HOPEFULLY within this upcoming week, we will have the final two chapters out!!
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mad as hell
woooooooow we just don’t want a comedy fic…
LMFAOOOOOOOO
my sister is the biggest sukuna/office fan 😭😭 i’ve been talking about this for months to her
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i miss him everyday 😞🤘🏼
wave goodbye ⋆。⋆❀˖°



༄ pairing: k. nanami x f!reader
༄ synopsis: you visit kento’s favorite place to live in the pockets he has left behind and to say goodbye.
༄ warnings: wc: 3k+. little a bit of everything: angst, fluff, and smut (very soft), canon (in the sense that nanami dies), staggering flashbacks (the same day but different years), mentions of death, sadness, heartbreak, quiet ending.
༄ a/n: for the lovely @lily-bisque’s (ily) summer collab!!! my chest caved in a little while writing this.
July 5th, 2017
Postcard from Kuantan, Malaysia
To my love,
The sea is loud, but she is constant. The ridges of the waves speak to me in a way that drags the salt from the water into my hands. It’s where I know I’ll always find you. You’ll find me in the tides.
I wish you were here. But, I see you in the glitter on the early morning sand and the waves that follow me as I walk along the shore.
Your Kento.
July 5th, 2019
The postcard feels heavy in your hands. The sun bleached edges bite into your palm, familiar now. Like it’s trying to cling to you as hard as you’re clinging to him.
You’re not sure if you want to dip your toes in yet… not when it feels like you’ll be stepping into his ghost.
It feels unnatural. To be in his favorite place without him. You ignored the heavy feeling in your chest when you got on the plane to get here — sitting in the middle of two strangers. Kento’s thigh not the one to press into yours. His hand not weaving into yours when the turbulence became too much to handle.
Now, the deep lavender sky envelopes the warming peach and gold hues flowing in. The horizon stretches on forever. You stare long enough to start hoping it’ll give him back. It stares back — probably wondering where he is too.
This was the place where he came to breathe. You returned just to remember the sound of it. But the ocean — loud, aggressive — doesn’t let you mourn quietly.
It remembers him too.
You swear, for a second, you hear him.
“It always sounds angrier before it calms.”
You look over your shoulder, just to be sure. The waves knock in a humid breeze, one that tangles your hair. One, that if the stretch of sand wasn’t empty, but had your Kento walking towards you — his feet would have sunk deeper into the sand, the pages of the book he brought to study the animals he’ll see, would have flutter.
But he isn’t walking towards you. The salt isn’t clinging to his sun kissed hair. It’s just, your sandals, and the tide crawling closer.
You press the postcard closer to your chest, right where it aches the most. The paper’s warm from the sun, but you tell yourself it’s kept the warmth from his hands when he first picked it out for you. You wish it really was his hand on your chest. His breath on your neck when he’ll lean down and ask if you wanted to get breakfast before the stalls ran out of roti canai. Instead, the waves crash another humid breeze towards you.
Your body still remembers how to love him. It keeps reaching — for his hand, for his laugh, for the sound of him breathing next to you.
But there’s nothing to catch. Only wind.
You inhale, sharp. It smells like sandy seashells and sunscreen and fruit. Like him. Like then. You blink against the sting in your eyes. You want to blame it on the salt. But that isn’t fair.
Your heart aches for the sea.
Maybe it misses him too.
July 5th, 2018
You’re straggling behind — Kento leisurely walking along the shore. His footprints clear, the tide trying and failing to wash them away. The crystal clear water pools in his footprints, letting you walk in his steps.
The water is a quiet kind of blue today. It folds over itself, staying near Ken’s feet a little longer than necessary — rolling with a hush, retreating with a wistful sigh.
The sand is pale and warm, packed firmly from where the waves have kissed it. You smile at the sensation when the sand becomes sugary and crumbly when you’re closer to the dunes. Your feet are still stepping into Kento’s path. The path you know you’ll follow for the rest of your life.
The air is thick with salt, the salt that you know will cling to Kento’s lashes and you’ll be even more memorized when he looks down and blinks at you. The smell of sunscreen and rambutan settles sweet and sticky into your hair — you even consider skipping shampoo tonight. The smell of Kento’s favorite place wrapping you up and being presented to him later tonight.
You’re not talking to each other. The sounds of the waves crash towards you, pulling you both into the blues of the unknown. The sand gently shifts gently under your feet. Birds you don’t recognize call out overhead (Ken knows them, you saw the book about animals in Malaysia snuggled near his socks in his suitcase). The early morning bustle of beach goers setting up camp. It’s calming. But, hearing Ken’s breathing is louder than anything. Words aren’t needed — you know he’s here and vice versa. He hears your toes imprinting into the prints he’s left behind.
You squint at Kento’s bare back, your heart squeezing with it. You want the sun to hold him like you plan to — forever and ever.
And then, he turns around. Facing you.
Golden in the sunlight.
Shoulders relaxed. Head tilted like he’s listening to the water speak. The smallest hint of a smile, the real one that you’re lucky to know. You could feel it, your heart leaping when his lips quirk. You’ve had this thought before — that you’d know this smile, even from miles away.
At times you think his mother created him in a lab, grabbing inspiration from Greek sculptors.
“You okay?” He calls out to you, and then you realize you stopped walking. A line of his footprints slowly filling up with water — tiny little puddles gasping with your love and the sea’s love for your golden boy.
“Perfect,” you whisper. You can’t help but smile back at him. A bird caws in back of you, it sounds closer than the others. It’s pretty. You could see the gears in his brain start to turn, the bird book coming in handy.
“Well, come over.” He waves his arm and like a snake charmer to a cobra, you follow along. The sand pushing on your heels as you lightly jog to be near your love.
“Look at what I found.” As you approach, you see a line of seashells — not just scattered, but arranged deliberately. Like little offerings from the sea, pulled in just for him. You’re just happy to be involved.
Your arms are brushing each other — sweaty and salty. The sun is now shining on you both, and you wonder if Kento feels the warmth as softly as you. The heat isn’t beating on you, no fear of sunburned skin and aloe kisses happening. But, it’s easy and tender — like his fingers running along your spine when he wakes you up in the morning.
You look up at him, ignoring the pile of seashells that he’s so intrigued by. Sweat drips from his temple and you realize — the sun is yours and the sea is his.
“Let’s see who could find the prettiest one.”
He crouches down, skilled fingers lightly brushing sand off the variety of colors flashing in front of you. Hues of pink, blues, and beige weave around his digits, a content humming coming from him and ringing in your ear.
You kneel beside him, watching the way the sun glints off the water droplets still clinging to the shells — like they haven’t quite let go of the ocean. Like they’re not ready to be taken.
Then you spot it — the blue one that looks like it’s curling into itself. You immediately reach for it, your fingers brushing his. A shell so blue, it matches the button up he wears everyday for work.
“It reminds me of you.” You hum and he chuckles. You lean into his shoulder a bit. The shell rolling in your palm — you want to squeeze it so that the salt and the tales of the waves it rode in lives in you forever.
“So I have to find one that reminds me of you.” His voice is gentle, his lips brushing on your hairline is even gentler.
He jumps up — sudden and determined. You hold in the giggle that wants to escape. Watching as he starts to lightly jog across the beach, following the line of shells laid out in front of him.
Giddily, you jump up too. The shell is still in your hand, the light waves are still filling his footprints, and his chuckle is still swimming in the air. You follow him.
The sea chased him. So did you.
July 5th, 2019
It’s quiet — and not the quietness that used to follow him. His quiet was still and calm, waiting to be popped by your invasive questions and his hearty chuckle. Or even by the gallops of the beach just outside, it was always waiting. Always patient, and loving.
This quiet is lonely. It’s eerie almost — as if it is just cloaking itself over what you and Kento have built in this little bungalow. It knows it isn’t welcomed, it shouldn’t be here. But, like your grief and his wavering quiet — it doesn’t know where to go.
You fully step into the bungalow, the palm tree right by the door sending you a little wave as you brave this home that once was filled with salty kisses and Kento’s calm sigh, alone.
You don’t realize the tears are falling until you’re inside.
Your eyes skirt around the familiarity of the place, despite the most important piece missing. You see the blue seashell you picked up last year — the one the color of his work shirt. A shirt you have tucked in your suitcase for when you just want to feel him draped over your shoulders.
Your knees buckle at the simpleness of the seashell. The sunlight warms the dust that’s settled on it. It’s still beautiful. It’s still him.
Your fingers reach for it, fast and unsteady. You silently pray that you don’t drop it. You don’t know how you’ll react to a piece of him shattered at your feet.
The curves grove along your palm the way the postcard did earlier. It feels smaller now, more lived in. And the fact that this little remnant of life has the audacity to keep moving without him causes your chest to heave in.
And you let yourself cry.
You let yourself imagine his fingers combing through your hair, his sunscreen penetrating the air with such force you’ll stop crying just to make sure he rubbed it in correctly.
While the tears flow out violently and unending, your feet graze the floorboards — every inch of this place memorized in your DNA. Your body knows where to go, what to walk around. It’s only missing his hand in yours.
Red rimmed eyes and the sluggish, aching feeling of crying creaks in your shoulder blades as you walk to the bedroom window. The shell is still craved into your palm, you crack the window open.
You let the world in. The breeze, briny and humid. The faraway call of someone selling food on the street. The scent of rice and palm sugar wafts in like a ghost. The distant rhythm of children laughing down the beach. The sea doesn’t crash here — not yet. It hushes. It lulls.
From the corner of your teary eyes, you realize something waves for your attention. And there, hanging as if he just placed it there a minute before is his tie. Your free hand immediately reaches for it.
That stupid patterned one you use to tease him about. The same one you helped him knot because he could never get the length quite right. You grab it slowly, as if he might be around the corner to question your motives. The fabric is stiff, sun-worn, but you can still imagine it looped around his neck. You can almost feel him though the threads of the funny patterns.
You press it into your face. Inhaling. It doesn’t smell like him anymore — not that you expected it too. But still your chest caves. Your body jerks slightly, waiting to feel his arms wrap around you.
But the tie doesn’t hold him. It should. It always did.
You pull it back for a moment, almost dropping it. Your nose running, searching for his scent.
Your memory does the work anyway. You taste him in the back of your throat.
You can’t move, so you stay there with pieces of your love in your hands. The tears are the only thing that could move out of you.
Not because you’re alone.
But because the air still feels like him.
And you know he would’ve had his head out the window, letting the sea speak to him. Their secret conversations were nothing more than his slight, slow breath, and his listening.
Letting the sea carry all the words neither of you could say.
July 5th, 2018
The lights are dimmed, the curtain losing its fight with the salty breeze tangling in — allowing just the lightest kiss of moonlight to flitter throughout the room. The air smells like pockets of the sea and skin, the ocean breeze wrapping around the room like a cloth.
You hear the moon dictating the tides as they whisper along the shore — allowing for your moans and Kento’s grunts to dance around the room without a care. All of the sounds create a melody that’s steady and heartfelt. One that will live in your heart and the breeze that the palm tree would feel tomorrow.
His breath is hot against your neck, but his touch is soft and reverent. His heart is beating against your palm from where your hand is plastered to his back. He moves as if he’s trying to keep you tucked in the bed, in this bungalow, with the beach leading his hips into yours.
You’re staring at him from below, his blonde salty hair tickling your nose. Legs are tangled together, skin sticky from heat and love. One of his hands is buried under your head, cradling you as if you’re delicate. His other hand traces your ribs, the dip of your waist, the beauty mark he loves on your stomach. Over and over. You think he’s memorizing you for a moment when you won’t be here. As if he doesn’t know who you are or what you are to him.
“Kento,” you whisper along with the salty breeze. You feel his heart stutter on your palm. A welcoming feeling. You almost want to grab on to it, keep it engraved on your skin for years to come.
He sinks into you deeper — bottoming out in you with a low, broken groan. Your own moan follows, accompanied with a shiver down your spine. He holds still there, buried in your warmth like it’s sacred. His hazel eyes boring into yours. Unsaid words floating between your bodies and floating out the cracked window to join the palm trees.
Then he begins to move again — slow, deliberate rolls of his hips that grind him deeper into you. He drags soft, needy sounds out of you with every thrust. His hand presses into your lower belly like he’s grounding you to the earth, to him.
“I love you,” he breathes, lips brushing your cheek. “I love you even more you’re here with me.”
He kisses the curve of your shoulder, his hair tickling you even more. You could almost see the particles of sand that didn’t wash out in the shower twinkle in his hair. His rhythm doesn’t change, it’s still slow… it’s still him. He takes his time, stretching you out so that you could feel him whole.
“Because I bought you that bowl of nasi lemak?” You whisper against his lips. The hand that was pressing on your stomach is dipping in between your legs, you arch your back at the invasion. His hips are still slowly kissing yours in a pace that’s matching the sound of the waves rolling in.
He chuckles against your lips — warm and wet. “Maybe.”
His hips roll forward, even slower this time — dragging his length along your gummy walls. The only response you could give him at the moment is clenching your walls around his creamy shaft. And an airy breath, not from urgency, but from how deeply you feel him.
“Where else would I be, if not by your side?” You ask. Your voice is soft, even you had trouble hearing yourself. The vibrations of your chest as you spoke let you know you said it out loud.
Your hand that’s been grasping at the thumping of his heart runs along his back, stopping at his shoulder to give it a squeeze before crawling its way to tangle into his blonde hair. His hair is damp, curling at the ends and you can’t help but fall in love again.
He stares down at you, his brows relaxed. His eyes are shining so brightly, you have to remind yourself you shut the lamp off before you guys became tangled in bed. Plump lips parted just slightly, you catch his tongue running over his bottom lip.
“We could just stay,” his tone is dreamy and you can’t help but just nod along. “Let the sea age us.”
His index finger has found your clit, tracing lazy circles that echo who he is — slow, certain, and achingly tender.
The sea sighs, creeping through the windows, entering your lungs and his. And with it, so do you.
July 5th, 2019
The quiet from the bungalow follows you and the moon to your spot on the sand.
The postcard is still in your hand, the shell that is the color of Kento’s button up shirt is snug in your pocket. His tie looped around your fingers lazily, soft in the wind. You don’t remember doing that. Your hand just knew to drag it along.
“I wish you were here,” you whisper, but your voice breaks halfway. The words come out watery and achy. Like you’re in physical pain. You feel like you are.
A wave replies, gently brushing your feet.
You scurry your feet closer to you. It feels cruel and wrong to be kissed by the sea. It feels too much like him.
A chilled breeze weaves through the palm trees. Dragging along good night kisses from lovers in the bungalows behind you. Kisses filled with promises of seeing each other in the morning. The kisses you miss the most.
Out of heartbreaking anger, you roughly grab onto the postcard — holding it a little tighter. Your thumb running along the ink smeared words acting as if you don’t know how he crosses his ts.
“You’ll find me in the tides.”
You shove it to your chest, ignoring the slight pang of physical pain. Not when the grief is growing from under your ribs and pressing your heart out of your chest.
You’re not ready. You weren’t ready for him to go. You doubt you would ever be ready for that to be true.
The moon brings the tide closer to you. The usual warm water feels cold tonight. The waves are soft, so soft. You just have to sit there and wonder if he is controlling the waves — having them match his kisses. Maybe he thinks this is making it easier.
But, the burn in your throat and the crack in your shoulders as you try to push them down from your ears tells you it’s time. You know that you have too. He would want you to.
If you don’t let go now, it will keep breaking you in newer and sharper ways everyday. Like how those heavy waves erode rocks on cliffs. The crash and pull created something the rocks weren’t planning on becoming.
The shell is burrowing itself into your pocket, or maybe it’s your hand trying to keep it there.
A wave rushes towards you, this one heavy and dark.
You drop the postcard first. Your eyes closed, like it’ll hurt any less. It didn’t. Your fingers grasps at air as it rushes out of your clammy hands.
You feel the pain in your chest coming out as full body sobs. Your shoulders shaking, leaving that knowing soreness that is going to riddle your body in the morning.
Another roll of a wave, and your fingers grasp the shell. The sound it makes when it hits the water is too soft. Like it doesn’t understand what it meant to you. It doesn’t understand who it is.
The tie wraps around your fingers, a gentle tug to be kept in your hand. Your stomach caves in. All you could do is allow your toes to get wet while you hold on to it, bringing it closer to your nose. Still looking for his scent.
You feel your body curl into itself, like the shell you just left go of. Your whole body aches. Your teeth are clenched together. You want to scream — at him, at the sea, at everyone involved. You want him back. You want the sea to rewind time, so that it can get him back too.
You don’t think you can let go. You want to laugh at the pattern one more time. You want to loop it around his neck, tugging on it softly to lead him down so that his lips meet yours.
But, another wave comes and you think your mind is playing tricks on you.
It sounds just like him. His laugh, his voice, the way he used to say your name when he was tired.
You let the tie sway out of your hand.
Eyes still closed and spilling out hot tears, you stay sitting in the cold wet sand. Your knees curled into your body.
Even with your eyes wet and shut, you know the moon is bright, you see glimmer of it whenever you move your head. The sky is calm.
The sea is endless and forgiving. The waves have stopped lapping at your feet, staying nearby quietly. You’re grateful for the companion.
He’s gone. He has been gone for months now.
But, he’ll be in the sea. In the tides, waiting for your toes to curl in the wet sand. For your fingers to graze over seashells that match his eyes. For the salt that would cling to your hair, dropping on his pillow — since you can’t sleep on your side anymore.
For now, he’s floating in the groves of his favorite place. For now, he’s everywhere where he's meant to be.
In the sea. In your heart.
happy belated birthday kento bean <3 you deserved better (sorry i can’t write that way).
dividers: @bernardsbendystraws
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lucky girl syndrome



paring: t. oikawa x fem!reader
masterlist | profiles 1 and 2
faceplant
summary: kuroo woke up wanting to hate on yn. sadly bokuto get in the middle of that. yn is meeting the official lineup in person and she don’t know how to deal with it.



Taglist: @twilightsumu l @kamikokii l @faesix I @kokoiinuts | @lovley212
AN: yay chapter 1 after some time. and did not proofread anything 😛🤘🏼. i’m really setting the tone for these people.
@porty Il do not plagiarise or translate any of my work. I do not own any of the Haikyuu characters all rights goes to Haruichi Furudate.
#haikyuu#oikawa tooru#haikyuu oikawa#hq#hq oikawa#hq iwaizumi#haikyuu iwaizumi#iwaizumi hajime#oikawa x reader#oikawa x you#smau#hq fluff#haikyuu smau#hq smau#haikyuu hanamaki#haikyuu matsukawa#bokuto koutarou#haikyuu bokuto#akaashi keiji#haikyuu akaashi#kuroo tetsurou#haikyuu kuroo#kozume kenma#haikyuu kenma#haikyuu x reader#hq x you
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GOTTA READ
even when i slip away | c. kamo



pairing: choso kamo x gn!reader
synopsis: in a world where memories could be erased, choso clings to the pieces of a love he barely knew how to hold. even when you both forget — something in him remembers.
contents: modern au — inspired by the movie, non curse au, angst, post breakup grief, relationship troubles, altered reality, memory loss, themes of loss, longing and emotional isolation, suggestiveness, talk of medical procedures, no usage of yn or gender, quiet ending (open to your interpretation)
phy’s memory: this is my first complete writing piece for our cho! i hope i did his voice justice. i’ve really enjoyed writing this piece and i hope you enjoy reading it! :)
wc: 7K
italicized indicates flashback
“You don’t tell me things Choso.”
The sun is barely peeking above the horizon. The room is still dark besides the corner closest to the window — where your chair of miscellaneous things is. An opened book that wants to be closed, the words snuggling together in the safety of the book’s spine. The orange sweater you wore the first time you two met, the sleeves dipping into the slight touch of light filtering in.
The room is quiet besides your breathing and Choso’s fingers tapping on your thigh. He’s laying on his back — the palm further from you is gripping the sheets below. You’re lying next to him, hiked up on your elbow. He’s grateful for the position — his head could easily tuck into your armpit. The tips of your colored hair tickles his nose. He wants to wave it away, tuck that strand behind your ear but he thinks you’ll be too far away if he moved it.
“I’m an open book and you’re barely a bookmark.”
Your voice is tired, and understandably so. The clock on the bed side table is reading 5:34 am. The night was taken by your plight of hums and little conversations that couldn’t wait till morning. Your laughs inch Choso’s eyes open whenever he felt that he was drifting into a slumberland. One where your voice drifts away like a tide at the beach. So, he fought the tiredness to listen. To hear the real version.
“I like to listen to you.” He hums, his fingers near your thigh tapping in morse code. What is he saying? He doesn’t know. He almost never knows what to say to you.
“All my life that’s all people offer.” Your voice has this soft bitterness to it. Your chest heaving inwards when you let out a long exhale. He watches the way your heart beats against your chest from the corner of his eyes. The tank top you’re wearing is clashing with the dark that is seeping in from behind you but welcoming the warm light driving in.
“I want to be the listener. Especially when it comes to you.”
“Nothing I have in my life is interesting to talk about.” His hand is gripping the sheet below rather tightly. He hopes from your position you can’t see how white his knuckles are becoming. “The most interesting thing I have is…”
“Cho..”
“You.”
The room is quiet again. He turns his head, his face snuggling into your chest. He skips your eyes, but he feels then running along his face.
Without the words, he hopes you’ll read his body. The way his breathing chills whenever his body comes in contact with yours
“I don’t think constant talking is necessarily communicating.”
You don’t answer, not even offering him a hum. He smells your body wash, it’s etched into the threading of the sheets below and everytime you breathe, it washes off of you and over him.
He hears the clock’s hand tick by. You’re breathing stable, your hair now tickling his ear. His eyes are feeling heavy and he so badly wants you to lay your head on the pillow next to him — so that he can watch your eyes slowly droop as sleep takes over you as well. The streaming sunrise would give him the assist to see how your eye color looks in these hues of color.
“It is.”
You finally speak and once again Choso’s eyes fly open. His ears perk at your voice, trying to find any hidden meanings behind your tone or the words you chose to say to him.
Sleep is slipping out of his fingers the faster the sun merges in. The more you keep up with your need to tell him everything that passes through your mind.
“It’s about knowing what matters to you, Choso.”
The strand of hair tickling his ear feels more like a drill now. The presence of it isn’t comforting anymore. He raises his hand to swat it away.
“What makes you real.”
He feels you shift, his eyes focused on the beauty mark on your chest. The sunlight is now sparking on your soft skin. He almost wants to reach over and place a chaste peck on the mark. He hopes that it will turn you away from this conversation. He missed when you talked about the beach.
“What makes you mine.”
He’s now staring at your back. Your body quickly moves along with the beeline of light that’s shining in. Your breathing slowed, your back rising in a melody he has memorized.
He places the pillow he’s laying on over his head. Squeezing his eyes shut, one hand under his head, the other above the pillow. His leg carefully prods through the quilt, looking for yours. To let him know that you’re here.
That you’re his.
The box of things in his hands is heavy — and not physically but emotionally. The tension is obvious in his shoulders and how his feet are dragging through the slush. Last night’s snow is already being ruined by commuters — the white landscape now grey and even black on some sides of the street. Bootprints and tire marks act as signatures on the snow.
He wonders if you woke up excited to see the snow. Your eyes running to those rainbow mittens you wear as you run your hands among snow covered windows and trees. The white fluff falling at your feet like an offering to the gods.
Then he hears the gloves calling from the bottom of the box. Actually, you must have woke up angry. A rare emotion that sometimes comes in these huge waves that neither you nor him knew how to handle.
The colors mock him along with the other little debris of you rattling in the box. He wished you left even a smidge of something that wasn’t physical.
The smell of your body wash has faded over the months. His ears erased the tilt of your voice, the bass of your laugh, the sigh that would ease out of you and wash over him like a spotlight.
Instead, he has a box of your underwear, your gold rings that decorated every finger (besides the third finger on the left hand), mittens, a cookbook where you found the recipe you used for Yuji’s birthday cake last year. He hears the pictures in there flutter as a practically heavy gush of wind pushes him into the door that’s going to change everything.
You’re going to be out of his mind. You’re going to live a free person that doesn’t have an impending Choso shaped cloud raining over you. You made it look easy, this should be a piece of cake.
And he’ll be able to breathe — breathe in as hard as he wants without the want of your body wash to sneak into his airstream. He’ll sniff in the garbage he walks by without a daydream of your scent.
“Hello! How can we help you?” A white haired man greets Choso’s rigid body. The cold air that creeped in from behind him falling flat at the warmth of the man’s tone.
The room is stuffy. Other people sitting with teary eyes and heavy boxes on their laps. The last bit of memories slithering into their thighs hoping for another chance to be kept. To be felt. To be real.
He sways on his feet, his eyes not looking up at the other faces — at the start of life without you.
A picture of you and him has found its way on top. Your smile is bright, as you always were. He is standing behind you, his eyes on you, lips tucked into a slight grin, his hands on your hips — like you’re fragile.
You were. He must have forgotten that.
“I have an appointment, for the..” Choso cuts himself off. Eyes still on the picture, one of his hands coming from under the box to point to it.
His nose is still sniffing out, searching for your scent like a guard dog.
“Yes! Yes! You’re, let me check here…” Choso finally looks up. His feet are frozen, planted by the slush and dirty snow by the door. He can’t escape but he doesn’t think he could walk forward either.
“Choso Kamo?”
“Yeah, that’s me.” Choso’s voice is low. He feels his fingers gripping into the box with everything he has. Everything that still keeps him within your orbit — even if you decided to erase him from yours.
“Well, the doc is ready for ya!”
And there, Choso takes the first step. His eyes ignoring your bright smile. Ignoring the lady who’s holding a dog bowl while she weeps into a plaid collar. Just his legs are moving, arms screaming out in pain, and the snow slowly melting into the carpet below.
“So, you’ll be going through with the memory erasure procedure process.”
Choso is sitting in one of those uncomfortable hospital chairs. His leg hasn’t stopped bouncing since he sat down — the box heavy on his thighs, his arms still protectively wrapped around your mementos.
The room is warm, but uncomfortably so. The brown, peeling walls holding the heat in like a sauna. Stock photos plastered on the walls behind the desk where the doctor is sitting. He wonders if anyone left in the middle of the presentation. Taking their memories and pain, leaving their dignity (and hefty copayment since there are so refunds).
He could picture you here. Your fingers dancing along the chair’s armrest. Your voice would be steady, calm. Your legs would be still, the box containing his memories would have been filled to the brim with the things you wanted Choso to have.
Pages filled with those quiet words he just could never say out loud to you. Maybe you’ll throw your eardrums in there — in hope that you’ll finally hear what Choso had to say. Filling your memories with conversations that didn’t happen but tapped on his vocal chords and filled the blanks in the relationship.
“This little box of things would be compiled into a memory casket of sorts.”
Choso finally looks up at the doctor. Her long hair tucked behind her ears. Her eyes are distant, as if she’s done this a thousand times before. The qualms of heartbreak not affecting her in the slightest.
“So I’ll have access to it?” His eyes feel heavy, those pesky tears brimming on his lash line. The thought of having access to you when his mind isn’t going to know you causes a hole to push through his chest. He’s not sure if he is crying out of relief or fear.
Fear of not knowing you. Relief in leaving you behind, the way you did him.
“Not right away. No.”
Choso hums. Nodding his head towards her direction. His arms are hugging the box tighter. The doctor eyes his forearms around the box, her right eyebrow twitches in confusion.
“Before anything, I like to have my patients tell me about the subject they want to forget.” Her hand rummages through a desk drawer. “It’ll be recorded. So the memory lives, it just won’t haunt your everyday life.”
A recorder is placed in the middle of the table. Choso could only stare at the doctor’s nimble fingers pressing the buttons with ease. He wonders how a piece of metal could capture what is you.
Words don’t come easy for him, that much is true. That is why he is sitting here, why his brain is screaming, causing the headache of the day to beat through his temples. Why does he feel sand in his shoes despite it being a blizzard last night?
He thinks it’s a joke to sit here and think this box of things and this measly recorder could capture who you are. Not when you know languages and words he could never comprehend.
“Well she did this procedure. So I thought it’ll be fair to forget her as well.”
The back of the chair feels hotter than before now. The box once again becoming heavier, his thighs feeling the wrath from those mittens.
The doctor peeks up at him. He ignores the look, like how you ignored him when he went to “talk” to you last week. Your eyes looking him over with the stare you give a stranger who mumbles to themselves on the walk down the street.
“Forgetting indicates growth. Being forgotten indicates heartbreak. Two outcomes you can’t steer from while living.”
“I didn’t want to forget her.”
Choso feels like he has to defend himself. Defend you. Because in what world is it reasonable that you out of all people should be forgotten?
“Yet you’re here.”
“She wanted to forget me.”
“Or she wants to forget you, forgetting her.”
The perils he was holding on to slip. Hard and fast around his feet, into the box, out of his eyes. His eyes shedding his tears like how the ocean sheds its waves to you.
“In all honesty, you weren’t supposed to know about her procedure. So I apologize for that.”
He nods. Accepting the apology. Accepting that it happened — there’s nothing he could change now. Not as his back begins to stick to the chair.
“Her personality carries me out of the mundane.”
“Carried, you mean?”
He stops, ignoring the correction. His eyes are searching the meek room. Not for answers, he could write a two hundred page book about you without stopping. He’s searching for a reason to give you life in the room right now. Especially when he isn’t going to remember you tomorrow.
“She just wanted to listen. That’s all.”
Yuji has run ahead, sand flying behind him as he runs to the group of friends ahead. His pink hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. His hellos are loud and real — his need to welcome everyone into his circle screaming louder than the beaming sun.
Choso is sitting on the steps to an abandoned house. His toes touching the invisible line that cuts the sand off from his spot of safety and the overheated beach in front of him. Everyone he knows and should be communicating with suffering the stabs from the burning hot sun on the bottom of their feet.
His eyes wander — spotting a seagull flying a little too low, a rainbow kite flying in the stale summer breeze, and a person. There are plenty of people here, but this one… he’s never seen and even across the beach, he feels like he knows you. Or he should know you.
Your back is towards him and the group of people he does know and who know him. An orange sweater thrown over the top half of your body, you’re almost as bright as the midday sun.
Your hands skim the waves rolling towards your shoe covered toes. Your colored hair swaying with the smoke from the grill closer to him.
He hated sand. He hated the beach in all its entirety. It’s too hot, and too clingy — he hates finding sand in his shoes weeks later and hates that Yuji never wipes his feet correctly. It’s bright, no corner for him to hide from the scorching sun or the judgmental moon. Just the sand in his shoes and his eyes squinting at the light. Don’t even get him started on how loud it is. The waves are always crashing, no sign of rest, no lul quiet no matter how relaxing others may find it.
So, he’s shocked to say the least when his feet tread through the sand. His steps are heavy and off balanced as if he’s walking through mud. Your back is still facing him and the party, but the inhale you breathe in snaps something in him. He knows you. He has to know you.
The waves roll in, low and soft the sun letting the waves roll leisurely to your ringed fingers. Seashells crunch under his feet as he continues to walk to your back. The shouts of his friends mend with the battle cries from the seagulls screaming above.
“Isn’t the beach just beautiful?”
Your voice catches him off guard. It’s warm like honey and instead of the waves overpowering it, it flows together. Like you’re the one with the power of the waves and the intimacy of the sand sticking in places where they do not belong.
“The waves call for everyone to listen. To feel. To even smell them.”
He smells the salt water, it’s strong and wafting over his body he feels like he’s swimming in the water — your fingers toying at the wave.
He’s closer to you now. The orange sweatshirt is even brighter than he saw when he was on those steps. When he was safe from the sand and the pull of your voice.
“I think the beach is the only thing that allows me to just listen to it.”
You finally look over your shoulder. And at that moment with your soft gaze running over his misplaced body and foreign steps — he wonders if you know him. Your ears trained on his steps as he sunk into the sand to you.
He feels like this happened before but at the same time, it didn’t. At least not like this. Both of you have had time to tweak the words you say, the things you do, the wave you’ll grab on.
“It wants nothing from me. And I don’t have anything to give.”
Choso hums. His hands find their way into his pockets. Your hands continue to train the waves. Roll in. Roll out. Sputter here. Crash there.
“I hate the beach.”
You laugh, and it’s soft and melodic. The wave rolling into your palms at the moment acts as a backtrack for it.
“I know.”
You’re standing to your full height now. Wet fingers clinging to the sleeves of your sweatshirt. Your eyes are still staring into his from over your shoulder. The sand sinking around you two — like it’s about to open up a portal for you to explore. Wet fingers laced around his fidgety ones. Sand pushes you closer to him, sneaking into the places you both can’t see.
“You do?”
“I think I know.”
You’re turned fully around. Your smile is bright, rivaling the sweatshirt, the sun behind you, the blue of the water, Yuji’s pink hair hopping around in his peripheral view.
It felt so intimate. Threading the line between strangers and lovers. The line between the sand and where the tide pulls and pushes the water.
Choso finds himself sitting in a train car. Hushed conversations holding space with the chug of the wheels rattling below.
He feels like he’s been here before. Right in this spot, the seat is swallowing him as if it’s aware of every slight movement his body has made before.
From the corner of his eye, he sees a woman mending to her dog. The dog is lapping at the snack being shoved through the gates of its cage. He smells the beefy smell of whatever his owner is giving him. A glimpse of a plaid collar makes him turn his eyes towards the dog.
He’s been here before. Why is he here now?
Before he could stare at the dog — maybe telepathically ask it how to work on his sniffing skills. He hears a voice. One that lives in his bones and scratches at his back when he feels nervous.
“Do you think we’ll find each other in every lifetime?”
And there. By the window. Your bright colored hair stuck to the window as your eyes trail the things that the train zooms by. Your fingertips are placed on the window — as if you’re trying to exit the train car. Have half your body here next to him, the other half feeling the wind and smelling the trees out there.
You’re in shorts, a tank top that shows the constellation of beauty marks that litter on your back. He smiles at the thought of the planetarium he had in his bed — offering a nightly show whenever the moon shone just right.
Before he could answer, tell you yes. That, yes! That is the hope. A voice that eerily sounds like him responds.
“No.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. Your face still inches away from the window. Just from watching the side of your face, he knows what’s your next movements would be. Your left finger is going to start tapping — like you’re sending a message to yourself and the trees. Your bottom lip is going to tuck in and you’re going to respond with a question.
“No?”
He looks down at his black jeans, sodden winter boots with the remnants of your favorite season dripping from his toes. He feels the warmth from his winter jacket circling around his neck, a gentle hold that isn’t needed for where he is right now.
The trees, full of life and green, are speeding past the window. Almost as if they’re running and the train is still. The day bustling by without a care of how uncomfortable or confused Choso may feel.
The voice that is his speaks up again. He leans in to listen, just like you.
“Yeah, no.”
Your left finger starts to tap and he feels his lips tick up in a knowing grin. But, an emptiness claims his chest.
“In another life I most likely wouldn’t have gone to that party. You possibly could have never been born.”
You turn your head to look at him. The sun shining through the window lightly kisses you. He’s almost jealous at how the sun lives on your skin without it saying a word. The shawls of light matching that orange sweatshirt, the gleam in your eyes, his apartment whenever you run in with a new topic to talk about.
“Bleek way to look at it, Cho.”
“Not at all. I’m lucky that it happened in this lifetime. I think we deserve each other now.”
You smile. He feels himself, or that version of himself smiling back at you.
“Cho…”
Your voice sounds far away. From the corner of his eye, the lady is weeping. The cage with the plaid collared dog is gone. It’s cold. Your eyes are planted out the window. The trees seemingly become bare, the sun setting behind a cloud.
Then, it’s sudden darkness. A rush into a tunnel, his hands grip the armrest for some stability. The loud blaring horn of the train brittles his bones.
He looks at your spot. Your normal hair color is weaving near your face. Your eyes are distant, but cold, never cruel.
Your bare fingers are clinging to each other. He wonders if the box is nearby so that he could give you those gloves, protecting your frostbite fingers.
“You’re not going to remember me after this, you know?”
He opens his mouth to answer. Tell you that isn’t true. Tell you the only reason he is here is because you’ve erased him first. But, the lady’s weeping is getting louder. His stomach is curling into himself. He knows that you don’t expect him to say anything.
He never does.
And just as quickly as the winter cloaked in, the train merged out of the tunnel. The sun is back, the trees are lined with luscious green leaves.
And you?
You’re gone.
Your eyes aren’t cruel but they’re distant. They’re not shining how they usually do. They’re not inching over his face, instead looking at your feet.
Your hair is your normal color now. The bright color that saturated every single inch of the tub for three weeks washed down the drain along with the words on Choso’s words on the tip of his tongue.
He feels like he’s on a boat in the middle of the Drake passage. His knees wobbly under him, wind gushing dangerously pulling and pushing him towards your shrunken body.
He has to snatch his eyes away from you to make sure that you’re both in his apartment. Your orange sweatshirt draped over your shoulders, your colorful picture frames looking out of place on his wall with his tacked dark band posters.
One picture on the wall catches his eyes immediately. Calming him down. Your eyes shining brightly — hair color just as bright. Your smile is real. He could almost hear your voice, your tone soft and happy. Not the heavy one you’re using now.
“Choso. Please.”
“This is it for us?”
He hates how clipped his voice sounds. Especially when his knees want to cave into the carpet below, the one you chose just for him. His hands feel sweaty and they keep running through his black hair. He wants to ask you how many steps it would take for him to make it to the bathroom before he hurls.
“We’re just two people who are meant to be alone.. even in a room full of people. Even with your hand in mine.”
He feels the words slither themselves into his chest like a caterpillar looking for an apple to bury itself into. The little pockets of you flashing along his walls, under his feet, in front of him — aren’t so bright anymore. A complete dullness washing over him. Loneliness coaxing him into a ball of nothingness.
“You’re not alone.”
He could take the loneliness. You don’t deserve too.
You let out a dry chuckle and he feels his knees give out — his hand reaching for his bedpost to hold him up.
“I don’t know who you are.”
The words hit hard despite your voice being low and mellow. A hint of nostalgia wrapped around the words, even with the knowledge of the fact that you’re leaving because you have nothing to hold too.
“That’s bullsh-“
“You sit here in silence. The words are always stuck in your throat.”
Your voice has risen. Your shoulders meeting your ears as you shrug. Choso’s shoulders feel like they’re being pushed down — not to be grounded or find balance but to push himself into the ground. Have it swallow him whole. Maybe then you’ll understand the true meaning of loneliness. You’d be in a room that was once haunted by him. Him watching from below, no way to reach out.
“You know every single embarrassing thing about me.”
Sixteen steps. That would get him to the bathroom. Sixteen long strided steps.
“You know every song I cry too. You know how I got that scar on my back in the seventh grade. You know I laugh when I’m about to cry.”
You laugh. The one that you just mentioned. It’s wet and stuck in your throat. He wants to reach out for you. But he knows he’ll throw up on you. Maybe then all the words would tumble out. No matter how late it may be.
“I don’t know who you are.”
The words are sticking themselves to the posters. Wafting through the bedpost and crawling up his arms, caging him to the room where it’s happening.
He can really see you anymore. The muted colors are not calling for him as it did all the times before. A blurry blob that’s you — he only knows because the body wash of yours is hanging above him like mistletoe.
“I’m tired of making this version of you that isn’t being shown to me. It’s not fair to you or me…”
“So I’m a stranger?”
You shake your head. He could barely make it out with how much water is pooling at his eyes
A tear drops and he’s reminded of the sea. Of the way the waves come to you, lapping at your toes and weaving through your fingers. He can’t help but let the rest of the tiny parts of the oceans seep out of him.
“No, we’re just two lonely people who love each other.”
He thinks he smells the ocean coming from you. The salt dripped from your eyes and fell onto the carpet. Maybe you just could make an ocean just for you two.
“I was never alone with you.”
"You didn't let me swim in. You just watched me drift away.”
He walks into the apartment — or the memory of it. It feels like he is floating, his feet barely touching the ground.
He hears the slick sounds of your bodies. The rhythm of it is a quiet devastation that's swimming in his gut. Like a soft knife twisting into an already airless balloon.
He passes the bare walls, pockets of empty places fighting with the posters on his wall. Only one hook for his keys, as they swing and clink lonely.
He peeks through the crack door of the bedroom — the blinds slightly peeled back. The ghost of the moon living above the bed. Where you’re in his arms, and he is in yours.
He creeps into the room, not too caught up on the mess his boots are making or of his loud imaginary stomping.
His eyes are sliding over every single aspect of this room. It feels like home. It feels lived in. But, it’s not real. At least anymore.
He stares at the chair of random things, books and pictures piling up on it. Words that Choso never said finding a seat to stay withering away for years to come. He wonders if you put the chair in your memory casket box.
He looks back towards the bed, your bright colored hair plastered to the pillows below. Choso’s face embedded in your neck as his tongue licks down the sweet column of your neck. Your back arches, one of your hands drifting from his face to tug at his hair.
“Talk to me.”
You whisper against his lips as you pull his face to yours. One of his arms holding him above you. The other one travels between the sheets to dip into you.
Your eyes are bleeding into his. Looking for an answer. And even as he stands back and watches, he doesn’t know the answer. Or rather yet, if he had it for you.
He hums against your lips. Choso walks over to the crowded chair to watch from there. His eyes falling to his fingers. His stomach feels empty. He doesn’t have to count the sixteen steps it’s going to take if he has to hurl.
He doesn’t pay attention to the unnatural creak of the bed, or the moans that sound distorted. He’s willing to take this as the last time he is within your reach.
“I never truly had all of you.”
He looks up. You’re speaking to him from the bed. The other Choso’s hips are moving, grinding into you. He hears how wet you are. Skin slapping against skin. His muffled moans, your pleasing gasps.
But you, you’re different. You’re… you. Dark hair. Soft eyes, distant but not cruel. The moon is shining on your face so gently, if he blinks he’ll miss it. The way it kisses the flutter of your lashes. The dimple in your chin.
“Yes, you did.”
His voice is hoarse, like he’s been swimming with his mouth open all day. His fingers are still pulling at each other. His chest feels tight. His eyes hurt from looking at you.
Your ringless fingers are gripping onto the other Choso. Your eyes watching him sweat in his coat. The way his eyes want to jerk away, he’s doing this to forget you. Not see you even more.
“No, not when you could barely tell me who you were.”
Choso wants to cover his ears, shut his eyes, and hide under the bed like a child. Escape the sounds of his body pleasuring yours, of your strong stare on him. He wants to get the memory casket back, live in the things that screams you — even if you want no part of him.
Instead, he stares back. His chest caving in the process. He misses the orange sweatshirt. He misses the bright colored hair. He misses when you talked to him, not looking for an answer in return.
“I was yours.”
You weakly smile, so weak that if he was not staring at you he would’ve missed it. A sob racks through his chest and he hates that he can’t get the tears to stop. He left some in his memory casket, shouldn't they be there?
The bed is still creaking. Choso’s moans are needy, yours are desperate. He thinks he could hear just how close you are by the tempo of your breath.
“I needed you to be more than just mine.”
Your response is kind, like you know how close he is from jumping over the edge. You were always good at bringing him back down. Your quiet sobs climbing over the sound of the bodies slapping into each other.
“Why did you do it?”
He nods towards you. His voice is still shaky from the previous sob. The other version of him is sucking on your neck, hoping to leave a mark to indicate that you’re his. He’ll skip the words and use his lips to mark and talk to you in different ways.
“It pained me to remember all the things you could never tell me.”
You shrug under him. The chair is starting to feel like it’s floating too. He hopes it floats away, following the moon’s call to the safety of the tides that wash along the broken rocks down by the pier.
“I was remembering a version of you that you didn’t even introduce to me.”
Your voice cracks, and he feels the crack in his chest again. And for the first time, Choso feels like he has some words to tell you.
“I thought I was who you needed me to be.”
You shake your head no. Your eyes are heavy as you now look up at the Choso pumping into you. Your ringless fingers lightly prodding his face, so gently with so much care.
Choso could do nothing but watch in the chair, hoping he feels a phantom touch. Your finger lining over the bridge of his nose, running along his eyebrow, maybe feeling the tickle of his eyelashes.
“Why are you doing it?”
Your hands drop, falling to the sides. Not affecting the other Choso. His moans are still deep and oblivious, his eyes staring deeply into the other you. He hopes they both feel the love.
“Because I can’t imagine a life without you. Felt it was easier to erase you.”
He answers honestly. His eyes began to water again. He knows even with you wiped from his memories, he'll look for you. His life would keep crawling to the little pockets he could find that keeps him orbiting around. Gone or not, his life would find a meaning for you in it.
“Are you erasing the choso that is mine too?”
He could hear you coxing your voice to come out calm and stable. He hears the tears that want to make an ocean right here. A clear line between the two versions of you both.
“No. I’ll keep him around to enjoy the little bit left of you that I have.”
You’re no longer under the other Choso. You’re walking up to him, in a winter coat. Your hair is still dark and your fingers are still bare. You’re floating too, to the chair of unsaid words. To him.
He ignores the other versions of you both. Ignore the smiles and the gasps still easing from you both. Ignore the want to yank himself by the hair and tell him just to say something.
But he sat on the sidelines. As you work the room, even as a ghost, a distant memory with so much nuance, he’s stilled to the chair.
He’s always been on the sidelines. His voice gets caught in the roar that is you. His eyes are always tracking every movement, but despite that — he could never understand how you got from point a to point b. Everything about you pulled him to you, confused him. Like those pretty paintings you’ll drag him to see in an art museum. Both of you get different meanings out of the same picture. Your answer would always be more integrated, more lived in.
“I’m already gone. You’ll be webbed in between the wedges of my brain like a song I can’t get the name of.”
Your eyes are still wet from the previous tears littering your cheeks. He wonders if he’ll be able to reach out and take one.
“Like sand that makes its way in between your toes.”
You let out an actual laugh. It’s hearty, coming from your gut. He can’t help but cry. Those sobs that puncture your chest punching through.
He could barely see you. He wonders if you’re crying again too. Or did you forget how to do that as well.
“Let's meet again, at the beach.”
You sound hopeful, like you've played this out before. You know he’ll trudge through the dunes to get to you, to have you be his again. He doesn't know if he’ll ever find the words, but his body will always find you. His heart would always be in the waves that roll into your fingers, the salt that clings to your hair.
“I hate the beach.”
He hopes you catch the joke he’s trying to let out. He wants to hear your laugh again. Try to remember it the way he filters into the moonlight.
“I don’t.”
Wet eyed, tired, and solid. You both smile at each other. The silent understanding that couldn't drive the relationship further.
“You won’t talk, so I won’t be able to listen. But you’ll know I love you and I will remember that you tried your best.”
His heart swells at the idea of you loving him. You knowing that you love him, no matter if he's been forgotten or not. The waves will tell you who he is and what he means to you.
“I think I could live with that.”
The morning is cold and dark. One of those weary days that makes it hard to drag yourself out of bed. The days that make it easy to ignore work and the feelings that are pressed into your chest with no way to be let out.
With a scarf wrapped around his neck, wet boots sloshing through the busy streets, and his hands shoved into rainbow mittens thar he has no idea where they came from. He makes his way to the one place on his mind.
A place that holds no bounds. A place he hates, but maybe they could hate each other together. Hate the cold, sheets of ice trying to hold the water down. The sand lays stif, the salt clinging into the air like discarded snowflakes.
The snow here is pristine. The steps are covered in it, no footprints destroying the pure essence of it. It’s quietish — the waves knocking into the sheets off ice. It sounds like thunder.
Just ahead, he sees someone. An orange hoodie is covering their head. Their back is straight as they look out towards the frozen waves, the water slowly rushing towards them.
Choso feels this weird pulling motion. Like you’re the moon and he’s the tide that’s getting called back to you. His boots start to follow the footprints you established into the snowy sand. The steps he’s following are soft and ghostlike, like you desperately wanted to keep the snow as white as possible.
“Do I know you?”
His voice calls out to you. Your head quickly snapping from over your shoulder to look at him. Your eyes warm but sad — like you’re missing something you’re not sure you truly ever had.
“I don’t think so.”
You hum. Choso is now standing closer to you. His feet planted in the sand below him. His brain is running at full speed to reconnect to the moment.
Figure out how he felt the color of your eyes instead of seen them. How your voice tugged lightly on his arm — offering him reprieve in the frozen, sandy waves rolling towards him.
You watch him. Your eyes are intense but caring. The wind whips an unnatural hair color out of your hoodie. It curls naturally around your face.
“I love the beach.”
“I know.”
He whispers. He’s not sure why this is what he decided to tell you — a stranger. Your eyebrows rise in speculation, your face turning back to the ocean. Like it has a secret you want to pull out.
“You do?”
“I think I know.”
You’re still facing away from him. And as if there’s is some distant memory off putting in the back of his mind, he hears the ghost of seagulls cawing in the back. Seashells cracking under his weight.
He looks away, the sky clear of clouds and birds. The winter sun chilled in the sky, like a painting.
“Why are you here?”
You finally turn towards him. Your hands stuffed into your coat pocket. Your eyes webbing down his body. He feels his heart lurch, as if it’s supposed to be given to you.
“I think we were supposed to meet. Why are you here?”
You respond confidently, tilting your head as you continue to assault him with your eyes. He doesn’t feel uncomfortable under your stare. He feels alive. As if you granted this specific spotlight before.
“To be lonely with the one place that allows me to not talk back.”
You hum, it’s quiet and thoughtful. Assessing his statement as if you heard it before. As if it holds meanings to both of you as strangers.
“Then let’s be lonely together.”
Choso walks closer to you. He smells your body wash — it’s comforting and a bit familiar. Like a smell he couldn’t get rid of even if he tried.
His hand closer to you twitches in his pocket. Crawling out to grab the sand particles above you, or to grab your hand.
“Even if you slip away?”
A huge wave crashes into a sheet of ice. The sound breaking off as an echo on the empty beach. Your breathing is still calm. Choso feels alive.
“Even when I slip away.”
© twilightsumu. all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, repost, or plagiarise my work.
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#cancelkuroo 2k25

꩜ characters included: kuroo, kenma, bokuto, akaashi and fem!reader (all above 18; not timeskip)
꩜ warnings: explicit language, suggestive jokes
꩜ description: you said “goodnight” 2 hours ago. since then, they’ve sent 103 memes, live-ranked disney villains, and now bokuto’s debating the ethics of cereal. [OR] your very chaotic group chat with your very chaotic friends.












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could i be added to the taglist for lucky girl syndrome pls?? thank youuu
Of course :>!!!
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lucky girl syndrome



paring: t. oikawa x fem!reader
masterlist | pu bokuto & kenma 🤢🤮
hotties with jobs (-1)🤑
summary: makki’s and mattsun’s song just so happens to be a drake song… jumpscare….
twitter accounts:
— tooru oikawa
• dimmed • still thinks about that girl from 7 years ago • DRAMATIC • will talk to you in spanish to try to impress you - will fuck up somehow • fake injuries… but everyone knows he’s faking and iwaizumi would cruse at him •

— iwaizumi hajime
• severed • stressed • can’t understand why he’s still around the three of them • just wants to work and go home • lowkey just wants kawa to be happy… but would never tell him that •
— matsukawa issei
• synched with makki (bro 🩷) • supports makki financially, he loves it though • knows about the girl from 7 years ago • can’t bring himself to tell makki about the girl, he can’t afford to comfort him • just a chill guy, without his synched… •
— hanamaki takahiro
• synched with mattsun (bro ❤️🔥) • would do anything but get a job • cried when he found out he’s not going to paris • “alpha sigma gooner” (he’s 26…) • only one that doesn’t know about the girl from 7 years ago, tbh would probably freak out and cry •
a sneak peek at their group chat:
Taglist: @twilightsumu | @kamikokii | @faesix | @kokoiinuts | @lovley212
AN: now let this very unserious love story begin!!!
@porty || do not plagiarise or translate any of my work. I do not own any of the Haikyuu characters all rights goes to Haruichi Furudate.
#haikyuu#oikawa tooru#haikyuu oikawa#hq#hq oikawa#hq iwaizumi#haikyuu iwaizumi#iwaizumi hajime#oikawa x reader#oikawa x you#smau#hq fluff#haikyuu smau#hq smau#haikyuu hanamaki#haikyuu matsukawa#bokuto koutarou#haikyuu bokuto#akaashi keiji#haikyuu akaashi#kuroo tetsurou#haikyuu kuroo#kozume kenma#haikyuu kenma#haikyuu x reader#hq x you
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lucky girl syndrome



paring: t. oikawa x fem!reader
masterlist | hotties with jobs (-1)🤑
pu bokuto & kenma 🤢🤮
summary: bokuto had a bad dream and is now scare it might come true.
twitter accounts:
— yn ln
• dimmed • dummy #1 • loves fighting with kuroo • surprisingly good at her job (loves it too) • barb •

— tetsurou kuroo
• synched with kenma • dummy #2 • love himself a pop girlie • knows about kenma’s ‘secret’ account and is jealous that it’s not about him • little shit #1 •

— kozume kenma
• synched with kuroo • wishes it was shouyou • runs a shouyou fan account and thinks kuroo doesn’t know about it • current game he’s streaming: animal crossing • little shit #2 •


— bokuto koutarou
• synched with akaashi • dummy #3 • so excited for the olympics, but don’t know where paris is located • everyone is still so impressed that he synched with akaashi • everyone loves him •

— akaashi keiji
• synched with bokuto • mom friend • weird, but it gets overshadowed by the rest of the group • forces bokuto to shower daily • proud trophy wife •

a sneak peek at their group chat:
Taglist: @twilightsumu | @kamikokii | @faesix | @kokoiinuts | @lovley212
@porty || do not plagiarise or translate any of my work. I do not own any of the Haikyuu characters all rights goes to Haruichi Furudate.
#haikyuu#oikawa tooru#haikyuu oikawa#hq#hq oikawa#hq iwaizumi#haikyuu iwaizumi#iwaizumi hajime#oikawa x reader#oikawa x you#smau#hq fluff#haikyuu smau#hq smau#haikyuu hanamaki#haikyuu matsukawa#bokuto koutarou#haikyuu bokuto#akaashi keiji#haikyuu akaashi#kuroo tetsurou#haikyuu kuroo#kozume kenma#haikyuu kenma#haikyuu x reader#hq x you
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for my starlight






extra 4: losing my religion
a journal entry.
for my starlight’s eyes only.
april xx, xxxx
starlight, last night I had a dream about us. a dream where you and i were together. we had children: a little boy and girl, and you, my starlight. you were just there smiling ever so gracefully.
last night was a slumber i wished i never woken up from.
i know you were manipulate by them. i saw the tweets from shidou. i can never be mad at you. am i hurt? of course. i just wanted to show you that i loved you.
it was me that was always in your corner.
it was me that wanted you to flourished in life.
now i sit here knowing that you will never be in my grasp. knowing that someone else will be in the place.
it will be him that will hear you laugh, see you smile, get to touch you. his eyes will always be on you. he will always be at your corner. not me.
i hate that for you and him.
it’s supposed to me. all of that. me being there for you. i will keep saying this until i’m blue in the face.
starlight, i don’t know what will happen now. but just know i was always thinking of you and i will always love you. i just wished you loved me too. i just wished i was your endgame.
not him.
such a shame it just had to be him.
by your dead star, michael kaiser.
————————————————————————
his final tweets:


@/user_3685421568 has deactivated their account.
masterlist || Previous: house of the rising sun || finale: california dreamin’
Taglist: @aionishoh || @inojinieeee || @rinniebinniebay || @twilightsumu || @dremerys || @thatmf-jay || @amvpk01 || @yxruxp || @risagichi
@porty || do not plagiarise or translate any of my work. I do not own any of the Blue Lock characters all rights goes to Muneyuki Kaneshiro and Yusuke Nomura.
#bllk ness#bllk smau#bllk x you#blue lock smau#blue lock x reader#smau#bachira meguru#bllk bachira#bllk isagi#bllk shidou#bllk x reader#bllk#blue lock#oliver aiku#blue lock isagi#bIlk smau#blue lock aiku#shidou ryusei#isagi yoichi#ness#blue lock ness#bllk kaiser#blue lock kaiser#michael kaiser
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