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godmadeaterribleerror · 24 hours ago

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Chapter 22 - Everyone Pulls Away

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Back on their road trip shit. Show Bucky the world's biggest ball of twine.

Chapter Title from Black Sheep by Metric

Word Count: 7.6k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You and Bucky makes some visits. Usual Warnings.

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff

Chapter 21 - Chapter 23

Read on A03!

Bucky wouldn’t let you go in alone.

You’d tried to talk him out of it. The deal had been he’d visit your father with you, but this was more. This was a whole day of driving, and maybe an overnight. There was no promise it would even work, to bring Bucky, but he’d just dismissed you with a flat look.

“You want me there, Butterfly?”

“You know I do, but-“

“Nope. You want me there. I’m there.”

You’d sighed, dropping your brow onto his shoulder. “You really don’t have to-“

“I don’t.” He’d given you a stern look, his voice dropping to the commanding one, and his hand had grabbed your chin, tilting your head back to hold his gaze. “But I’m going to. For you.”

There could have been more ways for you to push back. To remind him of all the ways it might be worse, if he did come. Maybe bargain, and agree to bring him to see your father, but leave him for the other part.

But Bucky had let your face drop back to his chest, his arms wrapping back around your body as he all but pulled you into his lap, and you’d given up.

It won’t be worse for you, if Bucky comes. It will only make everything feel better. And you sort of need him there, for both.

You need him to see your dad. Bucky already met Charlie, and you’d prefer to only keep it there, but if you want to keep him—if he means it when he says he’s keeping you—you’re going to have to let him meet your dad.

And you’ll need him there when you get answers. To catch you, and keep you together. Maybe hold you like no one else can, if it makes you fall apart.

You don’t ever want him to go.

So Bucky wins, again. And now he’s driving you upstate, his hand far too casually resting on your knee, and you’re not pushing it off.

Miles doesn’t have eyes in your car. And the contact is making it easier to breathe, clearing your head of any frantic planning. It’s just you, Bucky, and the low music on the radio as he drives.

“You drive like an old man,” you hum, scanning over the printed papers in your hands, and he chuckles.

“I am an old man, sweetheart. And I’m driving safe.”

You give him a flat look. “You’re going 65 on the freeway.”

“That’s the speed limit.”

“You’re a literal felon-“

“So I can’t afford to get a ticket,” he drawls, shooting you a Look, and you don’t even need to think to know them anymore.

You’ve spent enough time watching Bucky, floating around him and studying him, that knowing him is starting to be engraved into your head. He��s amused with you. And you grin right back, because it makes his eyes shine even brighter.

He looks back to the road, but the feeling lingers. The beat of the wings in your chest, taking you higher under his attention. The Mist, spinning up your spine, a little less painful as Bucky’s thumb rubs on your knee.

Everything is, for now, really fine. The sun is warm through the windshield. The windows are cracked enough for some wind to get into the car, and weave through Bucky’s hair. It’s still getting longer, and you don’t really think he should be allowed to cut it. Not at least until you get to tangle your fingers in it and tug, maybe see what kind of sound he’d make if you kissed him and let him between your thighs. See if he could make you a needy, breathless mess below him, or if he’d yank your hair if you feel to your knees and took him in your mouth.

“You’re starin’, Butterfly.”

You flush, glowering at the papers. “No I’m not.”

“Sure.”

He’s smirking, and you slap his arm.

“Ow.” His tone is flat, and you roll your eyes.

“Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He squeezes your thigh as he says it, and you glare at him again.

He’s doing it on purpose. Teasing you. Trying to see which one of you is going to risk this first. The narrow but clear path that seems inevitable, and only becomes more certain every night. When he cradles you in his arms and reassures you, when you pass him coffee every morning without a question, and his hand lingers on your lower back as he walks around you.

You know he’s not going to do anything until this is figured out. You don’t know if it’s the gentleman in him, or just the Miles of everything.

You’ve been trying not to think about it. How one day Miles might return without warning, be unable to find you, and figure out what you’ve been doing behind his back. That you’re maybe worse than a cheater, sleeping in Bucky’s bed without even fucking him. Maybe he’ll even put together that the bond has been fraying, and use whatever time there is left—for you, before it snaps and you die, or for Miles to keep you in your collar—to make you hurt Bucky.

You’re trying not to fucking think about it.

It’s easier to think of Bucky. Of what might be. Of the dreams and visions where everything is nice and easy, that are always shining and vibrant. They’re right there, right where you can reach when they hit you, but not quite reality.

You want them to be.

If they are what you think, you might be willing to do whatever you have to, if it makes them real.

But you won’t be the one who caves first.

So Bucky can keep smirking and using smooth words all he wants, you’re not going to give in.

“What does made of dark matter mean?” You frown at the blueprints, forcing your attention to refocus, and Bucky shrugs.

“Don’t know. Would guess it’s like Banner, though.”

You frown at him. “Banner?”

“Hulk. Infused with gamma rays.”

“Oh.” You nod slowly, looking back to the blueprints. “Do you think you could read these?”

Bucky snorts. “Hell no. I’m just saying what I think, I’m not a physicist or whatever.”

“You’re better at science than I am,” you mumble, shredding at the edge of the paper, and Bucky sighs.

“I’ll read ‘em later, if you really want. But you can handle yourself, Butterfly.”

“I know I can-“

“Good.”

You shoot him another glare, and just get an amused look in return.

“You gonna tell me what else is in there?” He asks, lip twitching, and you roll your eyes.

“I told you, I can’t understand most of it. It’s schematics, not a treasure map. It just-“ You let out a slow breath, glaring at the papers. “I don’t know.”

You hate saying it. It’s going to fucking eat at you, until you do know. And Bucky knows that, because he sighs, and keeps talking before your thoughts can spiral out of control.

Bucky hums. “You checked for a goal, or- Things about what the Leviathan is supposed to do?”

You flip through the papers, pausing when you get to the very back.

“Summary.” You read aloud, and Bucky’s grip on your knee tightens. “The Leviathan is the goal to create a better, more protected world- Fuck, that sounds like Tony.” You drop your head back on the seat, and Bucky sighs.

“I know. We’ll figure it out.”

You grumble a low, incoherent noise, and tilt your head to rest on his shoulder as you continue.

He doesn’t push you away. Doesn’t even mention it.

So you keep going.

“They will be able to manipulate time, growing extra resources and healing any damage humanity brings to Earth, while also seeing all possible realities, guiding us in the right direction- There are a lot of run on sentences.”

Bucky snorts. “You gonna write Stark’s grave a letter of complaint?”

“Yes.” You scan over the page, continuing to read. “Time, future-“ You hum, scanning over the paper until you find anything else noteworthy. “Oh. They will be able to travel between minds, and assess sincerity of allies and world leaders. We will be safe in their hands, as they will be chosen like-“ You cut yourself off with a swallow, and Bucky frowns.

“Like what?”

“Captain America.” You finish, and he tenses. “This will be our Leviathan. This will be our world bringer.”

There’s a long silence, that Bucky ends with a clear of his throat. “World bringer?”

“Yeah.” You frown, flipping over the pages again. “Huh. Yelena said, uh-“

“Пожиратель Мира.” Bucky mutters. “There’s none of that, in there?”

“Nope.” You drop the paper back down near your feet, tipping your head back with a sigh. “Fuck.”

Bucky grunts an agreement, and that’s just another puzzle you’re going to have to solve.

The list is looking long, right now. At the top of it is figuring out how you’re the Leviathan, if you have no memory of it. Then you need to figure out the bond, as Yelena said she’d never heard of it, but it’s pretty fucking real. You can feel it tearing all the time now, something in your body always seeming to be ripping itself apart. There are a lot of smaller issues—telling Sam, telling your siblings, getting away from Miles, figuring out a future with Bucky—but they’ll have to wait until you’re not in the middle of this.

And it’s good that Bucky made you bring him.

You wouldn’t have stopped for food.

Bucky makes you.

“Alright.” He parks the car in the drive-thru’s lot, watching you carefully as you poke at your fries. “What should I be ready for.”

You chew on your lower lip, shaking your head. “I- I’m not sure. I haven’t seen him in almost- Two years?”

Bucky raises his brows, waiting patiently, and you sigh.

“I told you about how we knew Sam, right.”

“He worked with your dad.” Bucky says slowly, nodding. “Then his old partner died, and your dad blamed himself. Drank himself to- Not death.”

“Not death.” You mutter, letting out a slow breath. “Just loss of custody. Got- Loud. Angry. Never hit us, but he threw things. Fought with mom a lot. Then left. I didn’t even know he was still in the country, until everyone blipped, I made it big with Tony, and he reached out to me. Charlie and Tommy haven’t spoken to him. I’ve had one conversation. But it’s not- I don’t know what to expect. I don’t even know if he’ll admit it- We just have the contract about a trial-“

“You have me.” Bucky grunts, giving you a firm look. “I’ll make sure we leave with something.”

“Thanks.” You mumble, giving him a small smile, and he returns it. Warm from his eyes.

“Can we go to the farmers market?” You prop your chin on Bucky’s shoulder as he drives, and he scowls at the road.

“No. The soap guy always tries to hit on you.”

“Then you’ll just have to stake your claim, Barnes.”

He snorts. “I don’t need a claim, Butterfly, you call me about fifty times a day when I’m on a mission-“

“Big words from the man who texts me a hundred times a day.”

“I’m thinkin’ of you. Who else am I supposed to tell about Sam flying into a window.”

“You could wait until I get home.”

“Nah. That’s dumb. I love you too much.” He grins at you, and you roll your eyes.

“Smooth, James.”

“It’s gonna get you into bed when we get home.”

“Correct.” You smile at him. “After the farmer’s market.”

“No.”

“I’ll make out with you in front of the soap guy.”

Bucky snorts, shaking his head. “Smart mouth, Butterfly.”

“You love it.”

“I do.” He mutters, giving you a soft, adoring look that melts you into his side. “Fine. But I got other plans for you, babydoll.” He nips your nose, and you squeak. “So get ready.”

The vision fades, the Mist sinking back down, and that’s it.

That’s what you’re fighting for.

Bucky speeds up a little, the more upstate you get. And you manage to hit the long, dirt road before noon. Your face presses to the glass, as you approach the cabin, and Bucky squeezes your hand.

“This it?” He mutters, nodding up ahead, and you sigh.

“Yeah. This is it.”

He squeezes your hand, before stepping outside. And you don’t bother to try and move until Bucky rounds the hood of the car, opening the door and offering you his hand once more.

You take it, letting him help you to your feet, before shoving yourself right into his chest.

His arms wrap around you in a second, rubbing firm circles on your back as he sways you back and forth, and you take a deep, ragged breath.

“Thank you.” You mumble, and he shrugs around you.

“Nothin’ to thank me, Butterfly. I told you. I’m keeping you.”

“But you don’t have to do this-“

“Stop trying to talk me out of caring about you.” He grunts, kissing the top of your head. “I’ve told you, it’s not going to work. You’re just wasting time.”

You hum, smiling against him. “You sure? I’ve heard I’m a lot.”

“You are. But I’m into it.” He draws back, giving you a small grin that shines in his eyes. “You think I’m screwed up enough that I shouldn’t have you with me?”

“No.” You whisper, a little too fast, and Bucky gives you a pointed look. “Shut up.”

“Nah.” He kissed the space between your eyes, and they flutter closed.

He’s been doing that so much. Leaving soft kisses all over your face—everywhere but your lips—as if he’s trying to remind you that he’s here. He’s watching you, keeping you safe, and you’ve given him so many chances to leave but he won’t take them.

Whatever he sees when he looks at you, he likes.

And he’s not going to let you fall alone.

You grab his arm, staying right at his side as you walk up to the cabin. The Show slips on, but not fully. Chin raised and expression bored, turning you into something bulletproof.

But you don’t move away from Bucky’s touch, even though that ruins the illusion. And he glances at you every few seconds, his gaze drives right into the raw piece of you only he gets to have, before continuing his scan of the woods around you. It’s unlikely that Hydra is going to try and kidnap you when he’s right here, and you’re in the middle of nowhere.

You’re not going to tease him for it.

It makes you feel cared for. Comfortable. Valuable, that you’re something he’d be this vigilant for, all the time. And when Bucky raises his fist to knock on the door—the wooden porch creaking under your steps, the only sound birds singing and your own, slightly unsteady breathing—you don’t miss how he shifts you slightly, making sure you’re safely tucked into his side.

You won’t hold your breath, as you see him through the screen. He doesn’t deserve that, not with where this conversation might lead.

But it your stomach does form a pit, when you see your father’s eyes flick up to Bucky, and widen.

Bucky sees it as well. Of course he does. You can feel him bracing, trying to figure out if it would be worth chasing your father if he runs. He seems to decide against it, only pulling you closer to his side at keeping his gaze narrowed on Dad, gaping at you and Bucky on the porch.

He suddenly stumbles forward, almost running to open the door, running his hand through thinning hair. He says your name with a wide grin, as he swings it open, and Bucky somehow manages to stand taller.

“I didn’t know you were coming, I would’ve cleaned up- Are your siblings here-“

“No.” You force your voice to remain bored. “Just me and Bucky.”

“Right.” He repeats, glancing up at Bucky’s rigid stance. “Bucky.”

“That’s his name.” You shrug. “Can we come in? We need to talk about something.”

Dad nods, still eyeing Bucky like he’s going to explode any second, and you sigh.

“Dad. You have to move.”

“Course. Sorry, kiddo.” He steps aside, still not looking away from Bucky. “Come in.”

You give him a small smile, pulling Bucky after you into the cabin.

“So,” Dad says, leading you to the back porch, shooting Bucky more and more odd looks every few seconds. “You finally break up with that trust fund dick? I never liked him, and I’m sure Sam didn’t either. How’s Sam doing? He introduce you to the Soldier?“

“Don’t call him that.” You mutter, tugging down a tense Bucky to your side. “And Sam’s fine. He did introduce us, Bucky’s been my bodyguard for a while-“

“Bodyguard?” Dad frowns. “What’d you need a bodyguard for-“

“Hydra.” You rip it off fast, and he pales. “I know Dad. About the Leviathan.”

“Ah.” Dad looks back to Bucky. “He tell you?”

You frown, but before you can push on what that means, Bucky does it for you.

“Should I have?” He grunts. “Cause I’m good at knowing when people recognize me. And you do.”

“Course I recognize you, you’re on the TV-“

“No.” Bucky leans slightly forward, narrowing his gaze. “You got the look like you’ve seen me before. In person.”

“James.” You mutter, pressing your palm to his chest, and he relaxes slightly as you look back to Dad. “Do you? Know him.”

Dad frowns, letting out a slow breath before nodding. “Yeah. I do. He was there, kiddo. The few times I got to see you.”

“Got to see me?” You feel sort of sick. The only thing keeping you together is Bucky’s hand, firm but gentle on your thigh. “Where was I?”

“That lab.” He mutters, something far away behind his eyes. “Horrible place. Sterile. I- Kiddo, I don’t think you want to know this-“

“Yeah. I do.” You take a deep breath, and it doesn’t really matter if you really don’t. If you’re terrified of the answers.

Bucky’s got you.

And you’ll never be able to move forward until you know.

“Please, Dad.” You mutter, and the Show is slipping. “I- I don’t know who I am.”

Bucky’s expression softens slightly, his jaw relaxing, and he squeezes his hands on your thigh as Dad sighs, shaking his head.

“I don’t know as much as you might want,” he mutters your name, giving you an apologetic expression. “It was mostly your mother, running the show. You know how she was, she got what she wanted. But it was just supposed to be a trial. You had a sickness, they said it would cure you, and we’d get paid for it. They even told us it might just be a placebo. But, kiddo,” he chuckles to himself, shaking his head. “They didn’t give you no placebo. It was the real deal. And once we were there, we couldn’t go back. We’d signed it away.”

“It?” You say softly, tilting your head. “I found the contracts, Dad, in the lockbox-“

“Oh, those were nothing.” Dad waves you off. “A front. The real contracts- We weren’t allowed to have them. Too much evidence. Then after, we had to sign NDAs-“ He freezes, looking between you and Bucky with wide eyes. “Shit-“

“Dad-“

“If Hydra got you, it don’t count as me breaking it-“

“Hydra didn’t get to me.” You sigh, turning your hair between your fingers. “Dad. Just- Tell me what happened. I didn’t get the placebo, there was no going back.”

He nods, shooting Bucky a weary look, and you bite on your lower lip.

“Going back from what.”

“It.” He mutters, looking back to you with a grimace. “You were the Leviathan. Your mother told me you were the one who survived, and they- Hydra. They wouldn’t let you go. I wasn’t good at being strong for you,” he says your name, reaching forward, and you lean back. “I’m sorry. But I let them take you. I knew what they were doing was wrong, drank myself half to death about it. Made the Falcon gear, to distract myself. Hoped one day I’d be able to us it to save you, but- I did nothing. Those people- They were dangerous”

“Dangerous.” Bucky grunts. “Like me.”

“It was you.” Your dad says, giving Bucky another weary look. “They let us go in sometimes. Just to see. And sometimes you were there. But it was mostly just you,” he nods to you, frowning at the air. “Heinrich, and the blonde girl.”

“Yelena.” You mutter, glancing at Bucky. “And it was Zemo’s father-“

“We’ve got the trip to Wakanda.” He says, giving you a firm nod. “I’ll deal with it.”

Dad frowns. “With what?”

“Don’t worry about it.” You look back to him. “What happened. If they were going to take me, why did they let me out?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean-“

“One day, your mother just tells me you’re coming home. That something happened, and now they want us to raise you like normal. You walk through the door, not remembering a thing, and- That’s it. Never saw any of that power, they told me about. Never saw nothing.”

“And the bond?” Your voice is almost pleading, and Bucky’s thumb rubs gently on your thigh. “What about the bond?”

Your dad frowns. “What bond?”

The Mist rises. Flashes up and up too fast, splitting you in half, and your dad’s eyes are wide as he scrambles back-

You’re crying. You can hear your own sobs, ripping through the room. You can’t stand, so you fall into Bucky.

He’s catches you. Holds you up.

And you grab his face, trying to hold on, but you can’t. He’s shaking his head, saying something you can’t hear, but looking so broken about it.

You don’t want him to be broken. You don’t want him to hurt at all. But this is the worst thing you’ve ever felt. It might be death, or something worse, made of blood on your hands. Hands Bucky is holding, and you shake in his arms.

Only he’s going to be able to save you.

But he’s still just shaking his head no.

The world comes back into focus, and you’re slumped fully over Bucky’s body. He’s saying your name—voice full of something pleading—and when your eyes flutter open, the wood is rotten under your fingers.

“Hey,” he mutters, carefully turning your face for him to see. “It’s alright, Butterfly, I got you- Talk to me-“

“Bucky.” You mumble, and shudder of pain rolling through your body. “It- It hurts-“

“I know, sweetheart, I know- C’mon.” He helps you to your feet, and when your knees buckle, they’re swept out from beneath you.

But it will be fine.

Bucky’s here.

“She’ll be okay, right?” That’s your dad’s voice. He sounds hurt. “I- I’m sorry I’m not able to help more, can you tell her I’m sorry-“

“I will.” Bucky grunts, and you can hear your dad sigh.

“Do you think she hates me? That she’s angry?”

“I don’t speak for her.” Bucky mutters, and you turn to bury your face in his neck. “But she doesn’t get angry. And I don’t think she really hates anyone.”

You don’t.

And Bucky doesn’t speak for you. He never would.

But he knows you.

So he’s right.

And he tenses around you, turning slightly before he leaves, his words slow and careful.

“When I was there.” He says. “What was I doing. Just standin’ there?”

“Yes.” Dad says, sounding a little closer than before. “You never spoke. Are you sure she’s gonna be okay, you can sleep on my couch-“

“She’ll be fine. Thanks for the offer.” Bucky turns back around, and you hear the creak of the door. “But I’ve got her.”

He’s got you.

So you’ll be fine.

Bucky drives about twenty minutes—the music a little louder, and you know he’s doing it for you, and it makes you feel sort of raw—before he’s pulling off to the side of the road and turning to you with a frown.

“We can go back.” He says, watching you carefully. “If you got more to say to him. Or if you just want to go back to the city-“

“No.” You fiddle with the fabric of your pants, staring at his chest as you speak. “I- I don’t want to say anything to him. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to- He was just going to let me-“

A choked sound rises in your throat, and you’re not sure why it hurts so much. He’s not a good father. He left you before, has only spoken to you to try and act like nothing happened. First like you never had to sell yourself to survive, then with weak apologies as he tells you he sold you. Admitted he wouldn’t fight for you.

You’d always been right. You’ve always been alone, with no one to fight for you. No one willing to drag you up from the dark, stop apologizing for things that are too late to change or trying to fix things that are broken, and just hold you.

No one until this.

Until Bucky.

He turns and pulls you tight against his side, one hand coming to slowly trace your features, the other wrapping around and keeping you steady. You bury your face in his chest, wrapping your arms around his torso, and cling to him as the Mist burns in your body with that dark, hollow ache. Neither of you speak. You don’t have to.

Right now, there’s nothing to be said that you don’t already know.

You need Bucky.

He’s going to keep you.

And slowly, your breathing comes back down, and your finger relax their grip on his shirt.

“I’m okay.” You whisper, and he chuckles.

“You’re convincing, Butterfly.”

“I am,” you repeat, leaning back to give him a glare. He just raises his brows, and you roll your eyes. “I am, James. I- I just want to get this over with.”

He sighs, his hand reaching up to hold your chin. “You sure?”

“I said I was.”

His lips twitch. “Smart mouth.”

He traces your lower lip with your thumb, and you sniff, trying to fight the scream of every instinct to just relax. Give in. Let him take over, and see how high he can carry you.

But you won’t. This is the one game you refuse to lose.

So you steel your features, trying to make your voice firm when you know you’re still looking at him like you’d sit at his feet until the world was nothing but ash.

“Drive, Sargent.”

He hums, giving you one last amused look. “Yes, ma’am.”

It’s not a long drive, the rest of the way. Just a few towns over, the world getting quieter and quieter, until you hit the lake and you know you’re only a few minutes away.

“So.” You turn to fully face Bucky, and he hums in acknowledgment. “They know I’m coming. I… Neglected to mention you.”

He snorts. “Wonder why.”

“It’ll be fine, Buck, I’ll do the talking-“

“If I need to, I can wait in the car.” He sighs, squinting at the road as the glare of the sun hits the windshield. “It’s Stark property. It’ll have guards.”

“And you can always, y’know.” You shrug, giving him a weak smile. “Leave the car. If I need you.”

He smirks, glancing at you from the corner of his eyes. “You think you’ll need me.”

“Shut up.” You mutter, and Bucky laughs, slowing down as you approach the house.

You haven’t been here since a few days after Tony died. You hadn’t been to the funeral—all Avengers, which meant Sam, which meant probably a big fight about how the Hell do you suddenly knew Tony Stark—but you’d come over when everyone was gone, and sat with Pepper while she figured out what she was going to do.

They’re both waiting for you, on the porch. You place your hand in Bucky’s, giving him a small, encouraging smile, and pull away to step out of the car.

Morgan squeals your name, before sprinting across the lawn to jump into your arms. And Pepper’s smile is soft on yours. For a second.

Then you hear Bucky’s door close, and watch her lips turn into a tight line.

You don’t have to look over to know Bucky’s tensed. Probably standing tall, with his shoulders thrown back and chin raised, arms on his hips. Pepper seems to be mirroring it, her eyes flicking to Morgan for a second, before looking to you.

She raises her brows, and you give her a weak shrug, starting the walk across the lawn.

You don’t need to look to check if Bucky’s following you, either.

He always will.

“You’re early.” Is all Pepper says as you approach her, and you shrug, rocking Morgan back and forth as she giggles.

“The other meeting was fast. How you doing, Mor?”

“Good!” She reaches up to poke your cheek, then point at Bucky over your shoulder. “Who’s that?”

“That’s… my friend.” You glance at Pepper, who’s still looking at you like you’ve lost your mind. “He’s helping me pick up the things I need.”

“Daddy’s things?”

“Yeah.” You sigh. “Pepper, can we-“

“Morgan.” She cuts you off with your name, and you pass Morgan into her arms. “She might be sleeping over, tonight. Can you go check the guest room for bugs?”

Morgan nods, steeling herself for the mission, then sprints up the stairs of the house as Pepper stares between you and Bucky.

“Friend?” She asks, and you wince. “Happy told me he was body guarding you, not driving you upstate on a weekend.”

“He’s- We can do both.” You bounce on your toes, and Bucky isn’t helping.

His hand flies to your lower back, holding you steady. And Pepper sees it, even if she doesn’t say anything.

“I told you, Pepper.” You sigh, staring at your hands. “I- I’m looking for something. That Tony might have had-“

“To help you with Hydra.” She finishes. “I was on the phone call. Are you staying the night?”

You blink at her. “I- Bucky would have to stay, too-“

“That’s fine.” She waves you off, and Bucky tenses behind you, clearing his throat.

“I understand if you’re- Less than happy with me being here-“

“Barnes, I am not kicking my friend out of my house because of you.” Pepper gives him a glare, and he falls silent. “Tony forgave you a long time ago, and you didn’t kill my parents-“

“He didn’t it on purpose,” you say, before you can stop yourself. “It was Hydra. Which is, um-“ They’re both staring at you. “Why we’re here.”

“I know.” Pepper gives you an odd look, but doesn’t push it. “I’ve been keeping all of Tony’s old work things in the garage. You should go before Morgan finishes her inspection. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

You wait a second, making sure that really is it, and grab Bucky’s hand.

“Butterfly, where-“

“Just down here.” You pull him after you, and he quickly falls into an even pace at your side. “We’re looking for anything. Tony fed the slappy with everything he had. From the internet, from databases, from just- Anything. I know for a fact he fed Stark Industries things into it, because Pepper and I had to tell him not to put in the financial records and company healthcare forms.”

“Alright, so you think we’re just gonna find the papers lying around-“

“No, I think I’m going to see what Friday knows.”

“Friday-“

“The AI.”

“Right.” Bucky mutters, and you glance up to find him frowning at the air. “The AI.”

“Old man.” You hum, and he pinches your waist.

You squeak, whacking his chest before stepping out of his reach with a giggle. Bucky’s eyes flash with something hungry, and you barely get time to see what’s coming before he ducks down, tossing you over his shoulder.

“James.” You hiss, trying to twist to glare at him. “Put me down-“

You yelp as Bucky, slides you back down in a second, and suddenly you’re pinned between his body and a table. The room is dim, but you can still see the shine of his eyes as he grins at you. Smell the mint and rain from his hair, hanging a little over his eyes. You reach up, and it’s soft to touch, as you brush it to the side. Bucky’s eyes are so soft on yours, with that impossible unreadable expression you still have yet to understand, and you can feel his thumb brushing against your ass. If you grabbed his shirt, you could yank him down for a kiss. You said you wouldn’t break first. But he’s so pretty, and he’s doing that impossible little tongue thing that’s designed to drive you out of your mind.

“Computers are behind you, Butterfly.” He drawls, and you flush.

“Right, um-“ You take a deep breath, staring at Bucky’s chest. It’s rising and falling almost as fast as your his. The muscles of his arms—flesh and metal—keep flexing at your side. It’s hard to remember how words work. “I- Friday?”

“Hello,” A smooth, accented voice hums your name from somewhere above you, and Bucky stiffens.

“What the hell was that-“

“Just Friday, Buck.” You squeeze his normal arm, and he relaxes slightly. “Friday, do you know Bucky- James Barnes.”

“I am familiar, miss. He is in my record as Manchurian Candidate.”

“Stark called me that, once.” Bucky mutters. “A million years ago.”

“Well,” you shrug. “Tony liked his nicknames.”

“That he did, Julia Roberts.”

Bucky frowns at you, and you sigh. “Pretty Women reference. We’ll watch it tomorrow. Friday, do I still have full access?”

“Your full access is not removable.” Friday says, and you blink. “Mr. Stark was very clear that you, Miss Potts, and Morgan Stark will have unlimited access, permanently.”

“Oh. Cool.” You swallow, not looking away from Bucky’s chest. He’s breathing. You can follow that pattern, and breathe as well. “Friday, what do we know about the Leviathan?”

“The Leviathan was a biblical monster from the ocean-“

“Sorry, the Leviathan from project Ouroboros. The- World Bringer.”

“Ah.” Friday pauses for a second, before continuing. “I do not have much, miss. There are a few old blueprints, but they died with Mr. Stark.”

You sigh. “Fucking- Tony-“

“Not Tony.” Friday cuts him off, and you both freeze. “The elder Mr. Stark. Howard.”

“Howard?” Your gaze shoots up, and Bucky’s eyes are wide on yours. “Howard Starkmade the Leviathan?”

“He never made it. But it was one of his growing projects that got shut down, after his untimely demise.”

Bucky jaw clenches, and you tip your head back, letting out a slow breath. “Thank you, Friday. That’s it.”

“You are welcome,” Friday says your name, vanishes back into nothing, and you look back to Bucky.

“Howard Stark designed me.” You say slowly, and he gives a tight nod.

“I killed him. For Hydra.”

“Bucky, is there a chance-“

“I don’t know.” He grunts, pinching his brow. “I- I don’t fuckin’ remember. And the timeline, it’s not matching. I killed the Starks-“

“December 16th.” You say softly. “Like in the letters.”

Bucky stills, and you stare at each other for a long, silent moment.

“It would make sense.” You whisper, and Bucky shakes his head.

“No, I didn’t do this to you-“

“You didn’t.” You take his hand, and even though it’s the metal one, he lets you pull it from his face. “Hydra did.”

“Yeah, I know.” He grunts, scanning over your features. “What are you thinking.”

“I- I’m wondering how we knew each other.” You drop your head back to his chest, choosing your words carefully. “Before. And- Why we don’t remember it now.”

Bucky lets out a slow breath, tangling his hand in your hair and holding you so delicately.

“We’ll figure it out. Together.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m just happy I know you now.”

You hum softly, and he’s right. At least you have each other now.

It’s a while, before you pull apart. Bucky takes your hand, glancing back to the door into the house, and you tug on his arm until his gaze falls back to yours.

“Pepper wouldn’t say she was fine with you here if she didn’t mean it, Buck.”

“I know, but- I can get a hotel or somethin’-“

“I want you to stay.”

Bucky stares at you for a second, then nods. “Alright, Butterfly. You win.”

You beam at him, bumping your shoulder, and he just rolls his eyes before walking with you back into the house.

Morgan seems to have been waiting for you, if the force of the hug you get is any sign. You’re sent a few steps back as she slams into you, and Bucky makes an unsteady half-step towards you before he realizes it’s just a child, and relaxes.

“Are you really staying?” Morgan looks up at you with hopeful eyes, and you smile.

“I think we can. Buck?”

He grunts, shrugging in the corner and staring around the room, and you sigh.

“That means yes,” you whisper to Morgan, and she giggles.

“Good.” She whispers back. “Cause Mommy made Indian for you.”

You glance up at Pepper. “You did?”

“Tony’s magic kitchen did.” She shrugs. “We’re going to eat out on the porch. Did you find what you were looking for?”

“We did.” You give her a thankful nod, and Morgan clears her throat loudly.

“What were you looking for?”

“Some old books.” You shrug, gently moving your body away before offering her your hand. “How’s school, Mor?”

“It’s good. We’re learning about space.”

“Space is pretty cool.” You hum, letting Morgan lead you outside, looking back only to check that Bucky is still following you.

He is. With that same unreadable expression, as he looks between you and Morgan.

You smile at him.

It only takes a second for his eyes to find yours, soften again, and smile back.

“What’s his name?”

You blink down at Morgan, who’s followed your gaze back to Bucky. “You should ask him.”

Her nose wrinkles. “He’s your friend.”

“I know.” You shrug, sitting down on the porch table. “But he’s shy. He won’t say anything unless you help him.”

Pepper muffles a laugh, across the table, and Bucky shoots you a dry look. You barely get a chance to stick your tongue out in response before Morgan is tugging on his sleeve, and he has to look away.

“What’s your name?”

“Bucky.” He says. “What’s yours?”

“Morgan.” Her eyes land on Bucky’s metal hand, and her mouth falls open. “Your hand is shiny.”

“It’s metal.” He flexes it, holding it out for Morgan to touch, and pokes his knuckles before giggling.

“Morgan, baby.” Pepper nods to the last seat, between you and herself. “Come eat.”

Morgan nods, scrambling to her chair, but her eyes never leave Bucky’s hand.

And this was a horrible idea. Maybe the worst you’ve ever had.

Bucky’s knee is pressed to yours, under the table. He’s sitting tall, and using all his old 1940s manners, and every time he talks to Morgan his voice gets a little gentler than you’ve ever heard it. This suits him. The sun falling slowly over the horizon, the—at first awkward, but quickly finding its footing—conversation with Pepper about work and technology and other, boring things. Every once in a while, he shoots you a small grin, like it’s just a secret for you to have, and it’s like you’re being struck by lightning.

It’s so quick, this flash. Just an image, a snapshot, something imprinting over your vision like a neon light. Bucky sitting at a picnic table, looking just a little older, with softer wrinkles near his eyes, and his hand resting on your thigh. Your head is on his shoulder, and his attention on a little boy and girl across the table, both of them poking at their vegetables as you steal some steak off his plate.

He sees you. Shoots you an amused look.

You just eat it with an innocent expression, and he kisses the tip of your nose before looking away once more.

“Mommy?” Morgan says suddenly, the Mist settling back down once more, and Pepper hums. “Can I have a metal arm like Bucky?”

Pepper chokes on her drink, and you expect Bucky to tense. Instead he just sighs, leaning forward with a shake of his head.

“Metal arms are for big, big kids. You’re gonna have to ask again when you’re older, kid.”

Morgan nods, holding Bucky’s gaze. “How old?”

“As old as I am. But,” he gives Morgan a small smile, if you can take mine, you can keep it.”

Morgan squeals, looking to Pepper. “Mommy, can I-“

“On the lawn.” Pepper sighs, and Morgan bolts away without another word.

Bucky pushes up out of his chair with a groan, and your lips twitch.

“Your back alright, old man?”

“No.” He grumbles. “You hit it earlier.”

“You made me hit it, James. It was self-defense.”

“Nah.” He starts to follow Morgan, pausing to rest his hand on your shoulder as he passes you. “I don’t think that’s how it happened, Butterfly.”

“Next time I’m going for your balls.” You mutter, and he laugh.

“Sure. You want ice?”

You nod, and he takes the empty glass from your hand, before trading it out for his own.

“I’ll be back,” he glances out to where Morgan seems to be doing warm up punches on the lawn. “Maybe without an arm. You’re gonna have to drive home, sweetheart.”

“I’m gonna have to do everything for you.” You muse. “Can I have your gun-“

“Only if I lose.” Bucky squeezes your shoulder, and walks off the porch to Morgan.

He really does look good, somewhere as natural and simple as the woods. As a backyard, his guard down and shoulders relaxed. And he’s barely out of ear shot before Pepper clears her throat, and you have to tear your gaze away from the way his back muscles are visible through his shirt.

“So,” she hums, giving you a pointed look. “When did that happen?”

You sigh, turning your head up to stare at the ceiling. There’s no use in denying whatever this is. But-

“I- I don’t know.” You mutter. “Sam paired us together, for the Hydra stuff. And I hated him, and then- I didn’t.”

Pepper nods, waiting you to continue, and you chew on your lower lip.

“He’s- I feel like I’ve known him my whole life. He’s been really helpful with the Hydra stuff, and I’ll tell you more later, but- I don’t know if I could have gotten through this. Alone. Without him. And I don’t want stop- Having this. I- I can see more with him.”

“More?”

“Life.”

Pepper hums, giving you a small smile. “Tony would think this is the most hilarious thing in the world.”

You huff a soft laugh. “He would.”

“And I think once he threw his tantrum, he’d like this for you. Barnes seems to care about you.”

You flush, looking down to your ice. “He does.” You mumble, and he really does.

Pepper’s not asking about Miles. She doesn’t have to. You think she might have always known, who he was. And she’s smart enough to work out that, when you really think about it, Miles isn’t even in the picture anymore.

Not really.

Not in a way you’re going to let yourself think about right now.

Because life with Miles—life before Bucky—had been glamourous. Hollow. Cold and shiny and lonely.

But now you have this, as doomed as it is. You have Bucky, knowing what you want before you ask. Touching you so casually. Holding you when you need it, and sticking with you even when it’s hard.

You have all these visions, of a better life where there’s no Show, and you smile and mean it. You have the power of the wings, beating in your chest, stirred only by Bucky’s smile.

It’s something that’s going to be so fragile, to keep. To tend to, and make sure Miles doesn’t get to it and break it. To make sure you won’t break it.

You don’t think you could, though. Break it. You’d tried to, at the start, but it just kept growing and growing, not caring for anything but Bucky, and the way he could see you. The way that made you feel high, and confused, and dizzy.

This isn’t something Miles could damage it beyond repair, either.

It’s not that weak. And you’ve never known it before—never known something so soft and simple, made of all the smallest things in the world, woven into the most beautiful tapestry you’ve ever seen—so you weren’t sure.

But you’re sure now.

Bucky smiles at you across the yard, and this is all you’ve ever wanted. Not the money, or the power, or any sort of glory.

Just this.

Just something as simple and strong as love, and the way you think you might feel it for Bucky until time stops turning, and everything starts over.

You’ll find him again, when that happens.

And you’ll love him, and keep him, over and over and over.

Forever.

And a long while after that.

End Note: A second love realization has hit the fanfic. Romance is imminent.

Thank you so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Buy me a coffee!☕️ (or get early access!)

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concretejunglefm · 2 days ago

Note

Thinking about specifically this photo of wolfcut!noah. He's so cute and soft and his little smirk- Anyway, I think he'd make the cutest whimpers and whines while being pegged but that's just my personal opinion. Thinking about making a bet with him, one that he loses, which ends up in you pegging him. You've been friends with him for a while now, and it wasn't the first time that you two had strayed into territory that wasn't purely platonic. He's all cocky and self-assured - at least until you start touching him 😵‍💫🥴. Thinking about ruining him so well, that afterwards he can't even walk, wiping that smirk off of his face 💕

Oh, my favourite brand of Noah, and you’re absolutely right about him making the cutest whimpers and whines. Do I sense a teeny 🤏 smidge of a fuckboy in him that needs to be thoroughly fucked out of him? 🤭 He’s just so full of himself, and maybe he has a right to be. He wants to brag about his latest conquest, about all the compliments he got. He can’t help it, and maybe that’s exactly what fuels this bet 😏

CW: pegging, teasing, noah likes being called a good boy, kinda sub!noah

Smut below the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

“I bet I could make you cum.”

Noah says it so confidently, laid back on the couch with that smug little smirk on his face, that you can’t help but want to wipe it off, but all his statement earns is a scoff from you.

“Oh, please. Some days I can barely make myself cum, what makes you think you can?” You cock a brow at him.

He just shrugs, the smugness not slipping for even a second. If anything, he’s oozing with it now as he lifts a hand and wriggles his fingers, like that alone is an answer.

“Oh, I just have my ways.”

“Mhm, mhm. And is that mouth only good for talking, or other things too?”

“Why don’t you find out?” He sticks his tongue out and wiggles it at you, his brows raising along with his grin. You just shake your head, laughing quietly.

Shifting slightly, you move closer, pressing a hand to his thigh and slowly inching it higher as you lean in. You catch it—the way his breath hitches, how he freezes under your touch. Clearly, he’s all talk, and that just makes this even more fun.

“Well, I bet I can make you cum without even touching your dick.”

You tilt your head, batting your lashes so innocently as his eyes widen. He knows exactly what you’re talking about. It’s the same conversation you often circle back to—flirting with the idea of pegging him, of being the one who makes him fall apart.

Despite his long limbs, he’s so easy to maneuver. He even lets you, spreading his legs apart as you shift onto your knees between his thighs, lifting his ass so it’s aligned with your own hips. You rock your hips forward, pressing against him, teasing the idea, and even without touching him, just looking over the front of his jeans, the bulge forming is unmistakable.

“Oh, I bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

You taunt him, amused at how the cat’s got his tongue now—how his eyes already look like they want to roll back in his head. You can only imagine how pretty he looks when they do, how sweet he must sound when he moans for you.

“What do you say, pretty boy? Wanna make a bet on it?”

He agrees without hesitation, barely needing any convincing—far too eager for what’s to come.

The rules are simple: if you don’t make him cum hands free, then he gets to try and make you cum, but if you do then you get exactly what you wanted—to peg him.

You’re gentle with him at first, choosing a toy small enough for him to handle, and just like on the couch when the bet was made, you’ve got him spread out for you now on the bed. He’s gazing up at you, legs bent back at the knees, cock resting against his stomach—hard, leaking, and twitching, the tip flushed red from the buildup of teasing as you worked him open.

“There you go… such a good boy for me, aren’t you?”

You coo softly, watching how prettily he spreads around the toy—around you. Your hands settle on his thighs, keeping him open for you, using them for leverage as you begin to rock your hips, sliding slowly in and out of him.

When you look up, his face is a picture of pure pleasure. It’s even prettier than you imagined—squirming under every deep thrust, each stroke against his prostate making his cock twitch harder, leaking more. The pressure is building inside him, a white hot coil tightening with every motion.

You know it’s only a matter of time.

The soft whimpers and whining noises he makes spur you on, especially when they rise into squeals from each increasingly harsher thrust.

“That’s a good boy,” you praise, watching the way his body flushes at your words. You slide your hands up from his thighs, carefully avoiding his cock and settling them on his stomach instead, pressing down just enough to feel the way his muscles spasm beneath your palm.

“You gonna cum for me? Cum all over yourself like a little slut?”

You taunt, and he rewards you with the prettiest moan—something so needy, so whoreish, it makes you want to fuck him harder, until a mess, until he can’t stop, and maybe that’s exactly what you’re going to do.

#♱ 𝔞𝔰𝔨𝔢𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔰𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 #ami 💕#noah thots #noah sebastian fanfiction #bad omens fanfiction #bad omens smut #noah sebastian smut #wolfcut!noah #noah sebastian x reader #concretejunglefm fics

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widowsistersandfriends · 2 days ago

Text

The Mac and Cheese Thief

Request: genuinely anything Kate bishop

we could have her and Yelena and Natasha just spending time together which turns into Kate being tormented by the sisters

Word Count: 1134

----------------------------------------------------------

Natasha, Yelena and Kate were spending an afternoon together after running errands. While shopping, Natasha let the two younger women choose a treat. Yelena chose mac and cheese and Kate chose a box of chocolate chip cookies.

“You know savory is way better than sweet,” Yelena said, pouring hot sauce on her mac and cheese.

“You do know that you’re making it spicy not savory, right?” Kate asked, as Yelena rolled her eyes.

Kate set her box of cookies on the counter, out of reach from the dogs. The girls then settled down on the couch to watch a movie.

“Are you serious, Yelena?” Natasha asked, sighing as her sister chose to watch Captain America and the Winter Soldier.

“What? Is it not a good movie?” Yelena questioned, smirking because they all knew she chose it to tease her sister about kissing Steve.

“Any objections?” Yelena asked, as Kate shook her head no, afraid if she disagreed with Yelena that she would turn on her.

Natasha gave her a knowing look, one that struck fear in the young girl. However, she would rather take her chances on Nat, who at least showed her mercy every once in a while.

“Alright, steamy Natasha and Steve movie it is,” Yelena said with a giggle, as Natasha threw popcorn at her.

After the movie, Yelena went out to take Fanny on a walk, while Kate and Natasha stayed behind.

Kate wandered into the kitchen, looking for a snack. She knew her cookies would just make her hungrier and she could predict Yelena lecturing her about savory versus sweet.

“You looking for something to eat?” Natasha asked, following her.

“Yeah, I’m a little hungry and I don’t think a snack will do me much,” Kate commented.

“How about this? You eat some of Yelena’s mac and cheese to get vengeance for me for those little digs during the movie,” Natasha said with a slight smile.

“But won’t she know it was me? You don’t even like mac and cheese,” Kate said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle Yelena. Do you want to be on my good side or not?” Natasha asked.

Kate sighed, knowing that this was her best chance to eat and also avoid Natasha’s punishment.

“Good girl,” Natasha said, ruffling her hair slightly.

Kate quickly ate some, hoping that Yelena wouldn’t notice at all. However, Yelena was hungry after her walk and went straight to the mac and cheese.

“WHO ATE MY PRIZED POSSESSION?!?” Yelena shouted, quickly going to confront Kate and her sister.

Kate clearly stiffened up, but Natasha looked like she was used to this.

“It was you Kate Bishop wasn’t it?! You’re a dirty little thief!” Yelena accused.

“It wasn’t me!” Kate defended herself.

Yelena turned towards her sister, looking for an answer.

“It was indeed Kate,” Natasha said, now smirking.

Kate’s mouth dropped open in disbelief, feeling betrayed as the redhead outed her.

“That’s not true!” Kate insisted.

“Your reaction says otherwise. Besides, I know Natasha doesn’t like mac and cheese. Just Steve,” Yelena said with a cackle. Natasha narrowed her eyes at her sister, knowing that she was past her three strike limit. But her focus right now was to get revenge on Kate.

“I can’t believe you tricked me!” Kate cried.

“Hey, you didn’t vote against the movie and let Yelena make fun of me the entire time,” Natasha said, as she helped her sister pin the brunette.

“No, please! Don’t tickle me!” Kate said.

“Tickle you? Well now that you suggest that, it’s a good idea for what you’ve done,” Yelena said, sitting on her waist, as Natasha held her arms up.

The blonde began to skitter her nails in her armpits, causing Kate to burst out laughing.

“YELEHEHENA I HAHATE YOU!” Kate shouted, kicking her legs frantically.

“And I hate the fact you ate my mac and cheese,” Yelena commented calmly.

“I DIDN’T EHEHEAT AHAHALL OF IHIHIT!” Kate laughed.

Yelena smirked, bringing her hands down to softly squeeze her sides. Kate bucked against her, thrashing around to try to get away.

“You’re not going anywhere little girl,” Natasha teased.

“PLEHEHEASE! STAHAHAP IHIHIHIT!” Kate squealed, as Yelena began to poke her ribs and tummy.

“Where are you most ticklish?” Yelena questioned.

“IHIHI DOHONT KNOHOW!”

“Try her feet,” Yelena told her sister.

Natasha let her arms go and went down to her feet. Kate tried to use this opportunity to push Yelena off of her, but the blonde was too quick, pinning her hands to her chest.

Natasha smirked before gliding her nails over Kate’s soft feet. Kate let out a squeal, scrunching up her toes in an attempt to protect them.

“YOHOHOU SNAHAHAKE,” Kate shouted at Nat, screaming with laughter now as the redhead sped up her nails as a result of the insult.

“OHOHOKAY STAHAHAP PLEHEHEASE NOHOHO MOHOHORE!”

“Just tell us your worst spot and we’ll stop,” Yelena said.

“FIHINE! MY STOMACH!” Kate shouted over her laughter. The two sisters shared a look before they decided to take turns blowing raspberries on the poor girl’s stomach. Kate tapped out shortly after, and the girls let her go.

“That’s what you get for eating my mac and cheese,” Yelena said triumphantly.

“And this is what you get for all the teasing you’ve done all day about Steve and me,” Natasha said, grabbing her sister in a bear hug and tickling any open spot on her upper body.

“HAHAHA NATAHAHASHA NOHOHO!” Yelena laughed, flailing wildly.

“This will teach you both who’s in charge and has all the power,” Natasha said, reaching up to skitter her nails on the back of Yelena’s neck, making her scrunch up and beg for her sister to stop.

Natasha let her sister go reluctantly, truly enjoying the ability to make her squeal and giggle with a light touch.

“You two are both troublemakers,” Natasha commented.

“Yeah but you set me up,” Kate complained.

“Hmm, that’s true. You might be slightly more well behaved than Yelena over here,” Natasha quipped.

They could both tell that Yelena wanted to retort so badly but was afraid of being tickled again.

“Cat’s got your tongue?” Natasha teased.

“There is no cat on my tongue,” Yelena said in disgust.

“It’s just a saying,” Kate said, giving Yelena the side eye.

“Whatever Kate Bishop.”

“Alright you two, no more bickering,” Natasha said.

“Such a mom,” Yelena said with an eye roll.

Natasha raised an eyebrow at her, reaching out to tickle her again.

“No, stop! I’m sorry,” Yelena whined, quickly moving away from her sister.

“That’s what I thought,” Natasha said.

Kate decided it was best to keep her distance from both of them and to keep her mouth shut. She didn’t want them to tag team her again. She seemed to always get it the worst, but of course she didn’t mind.

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inseobts · 21 hours ago

Text

Roses or Swords - choose your story pt.4

zoro x fem!reader + sanji x fem!reader

how it works

part 1 - part 2 - part 3

tags: love triangle, secret admirer, slow burn, crew dynamics... the rest tags will come with your choices.

words count: 1.9k

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

“If you’re not too tired… the stars are nice tonight,” Sanji says “We could… just sit. If you want.”

He doesn’t look at you. His voice is low. No flirting. No masks.

Just a quiet offer.

Just Sanji being serious, quiet, almost nervous. He won’t meet your eyes, like he’s worried he asked too much.

You nod “I’d like that.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, and gives you a small smile. No words. Just turns and leads the way toward the upper deck.

It’s quiet up there.

The kind of quiet you don’t get often on a ship full of chaos and noise. The kind of quiet that feels safe.

The sea glows dark and endless around you. Above, the stars are scattered in the big dark sky. You sit near the edge of the deck, side by side, not too close, not too far.

He doesn’t light a cigarette.

You notice.

Instead, he leans back on his hands and looks up.

Neither of you speak for a long moment.

“I didn’t mean to make it worse,” he says, voice low “With the last gift.”

You turn your head toward him, but he still doesn’t look at you.

“I just… I saw how happy you were before. And I thought maybe if you thought it was from him, you’d… or maybe that he’d…” He swallows “I don’t know what I thought.”

You don’t interrupt him.

“You looked so happy when you made that petal heart,” he adds “You smiled in a way I hadn’t seen before. And I just… wanted you to keep smiling.”

You finally speak “So you gave me a reason to.”

He winces “No. I gave you a lie. That’s not the same.”

Another long silence.

You lean back beside him, copying his posture, looking at the stars above.

“You were right, though,” you say “I did smile.”

Sanji breathes out a soft, bitter laugh “Yeah. At him.”

You don’t say anything to that. Not yet.

“I’m not asking for anything.” he says suddenly, and now he finally does look at you “I just don’t want to hide anymore. That’s all.”

The way he’s looking at you now is too honest. You see it clearly for the first time. There’s no mystery left. It was him all along. And not just the gifts.

Every quiet glance.

Every unsaid thing.

Every time he complimented someone else just to see if you’d look back at him.

It was always him.

And now he’s here. No roses. No boxes. No charm to distract you.

Just Sanji and the stars.

The wind is soft against your skin, carrying the scent of the sea.

You’ve both fallen into a comfortable silence again.

Then you speak, voice low but steady “You don’t have to keep giving me things.”

Sanji tilts his head, curious. You glance at him, trying not to look too serious, but still meaning every word.

“I mean it. The gifts were beautiful. They meant something. But I don’t want you to feel like you need to keep proving something to me.”

He doesn’t answer right away but you see the shift in his eyes.

So you continue, trying to make it clearer “I don’t want to sound materialistic, or… make you think I only smiled because of what I was given. I smiled because someone cared. Because I felt seen.”

Sanji breathes in like he might speak but he holds it and just listens.

“And now I know who it was,” you add, softer, “and that means more than any gift.”

Sanji lets out a long, exaggerated sigh, flopping back onto the deck like a dramatist in a tragic play.

“Well, there goes my next plan,” he groans “Was gonna carve your name into a rare sea pearl and bake it into a soufflé.”

You blink “You were not.”

“Of course not. Pearls would ruin the texture,” he sniffs “Please respect the soufflé.”

You laugh… a real one, full and bright, and he grins wide, basking in it.

“God, you’re such a dork” you say, smiling so wide it almost hurts.

“Unapologetically,” he says, dramatically flicking an invisible strand of hair from his face “But I’m your dork now. At least part-time.”

That makes you laugh harder. He sits up a little straighter, watching your expression shift from amusement to something warmer, like sunlight after a storm.

Then your voice turns quiet again “You really knew…”

He looks at you “Knew what?”

“That I wanted it to be Zoro. Even before I knew it myself.”

There’s no bitterness in your tone, just an open truth.

Sanji breathes through his nose, gaze dropping to the deck.

“Yeah,” he says “I knew.”

You look away too, fingers brushing the edge of your sleeve “So why keep going? Why keep doing all that?”

“Because,” he says softly, “Part of me thought maybe if I showed you the kind of love you deserved, one day… you'd want it from me instead.”

Your breath catches a little.

He notices, but he doesn’t push, doesn’t press.

“And if you don’t?” he shrugs, “That’s okay too. I just wanted you to feel loved. Even if in secret.”

Your chest aches, but not in a bad way.

He means every word. No pressure. No claim. Just truth.

“I do,” you whisper “I did.”

Then, for no reason at all, you chuckle “You really were out there making charms and arranging perfect deliveries like a love-struck teenager?”

Sanji presses a hand to his heart “I’m wounded by your tone.”

“You're ridiculous.”

“Yet charming.”

“Yet ridiculous.”

You both laugh again and when the laughter fades, it leaves something gentler behind. You’re sitting side by side, your shoulders almost touching.

He doesn’t reach for you, but this time, you’re the one who leans just a little closer.

You look up at the stars. Then you say “This one’s my favorite night so far.”

Sanji smiles, eyes half-lidded with warmth “Because it finally came with a face?”

“Because it finally came with yours.”

He doesn’t say anything back but the way his fingers twitch beside yours says everything.

—--------

Morning sun creeps over the edge of the ship, golden and quiet. The crew is already loud as Luffy is begging for more meat, Usopp and Chopper are arguing about who won their game, and Nami is yelling at both of them to eat without knocking over the table again.

But your world is quiet.

Sanji approaches with a warm plate in hand, steam rising in gentle curls. He sets it down in front of you with a bow and a teasing smile.

“Your royal breakfast, my lady. Crafted by the hands of a secret admirer, now slightly less secret, but just as desperate for your affection.”

You laugh. Soft and genuine “You’re such an idiot.”

“And yet, you smile every time.” he says, winking.

He leans slightly closer as if to say something else…

“Oi.”

The interruption slices the moment in two.

Zoro stands a few feet away, arms crossed, his voice flat but tight around the edges “Can we talk?”

Your smile fades. So does Sanji’s. His expression hardens just for a second, but then he straightens, nods once, and turns to walk away.

“I’ll go get the others’ plates” he mutters.

You notice the way his shoulders drop as he disappears toward the kitchen.

Your gaze lingers on the plate in front of you.

“After I finish here.” you say calmly, picking up your fork.

Zoro blinks “Can’t we go talk now?”

You don’t look at him.

“If you could avoid me for days,” you say, voice still quiet but sharp beneath the softness, “then you can wait a little longer now.”

The words don’t bite but they hold weight.

Sanji hears it and he pauses, hiding a faint smirk behind a cigarette.

Zoro stays quiet, he doesn’t argue. He sighs through his nose and sits down next to you, grabbing his own plate, eating in silence.

The crew remains loud. Robin turns a page in her book with a smile. Brook hums a tune under his breath. Franky is already talking about a new cola-powered grill idea.

But at this table, it’s just you, Zoro, and a quiet Sanji returning now and then to refill cups or clear plates.

He never says anything but his eyes flick to you every few minutes, checking in, soft and silent, and you notice, so you glance up, meet his gaze, and offer a small, private smile.

You lift another bite of food, savor it like you mean it.

“This is perfect.” you say quietly, just loud enough for him to hear.

Sanji doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t need to.

He turns before Zoro can see the grin trying to pull at his lips.

Zoro sees it anyway, and so he stops eating.

You push your plate forward with a satisfied sigh and lean back in your seat “Alright. I’m done.”

Zoro glances sideways, and before you can even stand, he mutters under his breath “Can we go talk now, you damn princess?”

You narrow your eyes at him and smack the back of his head, not hard, but also not gentle either “Do not act like this was all my fault, you dumbass.”

He grunts, rubbing his head like a sulky kid “Tch.”

Sanji watches the whole thing as he places another plate in front of Luffy. His eyes flick to you, lingering, not tense exactly, but… alert, guarded.

You stand and follow Zoro as he leads the way out of the kitchen, but right before you step through the doorway, you pause and turn around.

Sanji is still standing behind the counter, wiping his hands on a towel, pretending not to watch.

You catch his gaze and offer him a small, soft smile, like a whisper saying: it’s okay, I’ve got this.

Sanji freezes. Then slowly, his features melt into a small smile back, gentle and full of trust.

Only when you see it you finally step out of the room.

You and Zoro stand near the edge of the deck now, just outside the range of the others’ voices. It’s quiet. Still.

Zoro has his arms crossed, back resting against the railing, eyes focused somewhere far out at sea.

You wait.

He doesn't speak right away, and when he finally does, he doesn't look at you.

“I… should’ve said something earlier.” he mutters, almost too quiet.

You blink “You think?”

Zoro winces slightly but doesn’t fight back “I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to say it. I just… didn’t want to make it worse.”

You exhale, leaning beside him but not quite touching “You didn’t have to yell, Zoro.”

“I know.”

“And you didn’t have to disappear everytime.”

“I know.”

He rubs the back of his neck, still avoiding your eyes like they burn.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he adds after a beat “About… you not knowing anything about me. That was… bullshit.”

You stare at him “Why’d you say it then?”

Zoro is quiet for a long time, then, finally, he looks at you… not angry, not cold. Just raw and strangely… shy.

“Because you were smiling at me.”

That catches you off guard.

“You smiled at me like I was the one behind all those things. Like I… meant something more than I knew how to deal with.”

You don't interrupt him. You let him speak. It's rare when he does.

“It scared the hell out of me,” he admits, softer now “And I messed it all up.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward.

It’s heavy. Full of choices you haven’t made yet.

Tag List: @merrymars - @bubblefishiepop

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sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth · 2 days ago

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Chapter 10 - The demon

7.3k words. Hostage situations. Gunshot wounds. Possession.

An old enemy shows himself and questions are answered.

The ride is short, but by the time you make it, darkness has fallen. You see the houses, unwrap one arm from Dean, point.

“There!” you say. Both men, without so much as a word exchanged, guide their horses in that direction.

You can tell Sam keeps shooting you looks, but you are concentrating hard not to return them. This isn’t the time. Jo is your focus, and to keep that focus you cannot look at him, because you’re pretty sure you’ll fall apart if you do.

All of the houses are dark, you see, as you come closer. Could you have been mistaken? Could Jo not be here? Did you somehow get this all wrong? But there’s something about the air - something strange, like just before a storm. It makes your skin crawl and your head hurt.

The three of you stop near an old, overturned cart. The houses are in a half circle. It feels like hunched giants staring at you, having you surrounded. You don’t like the feeling of it.

Dean helps you off the horse and you bring one hand to the rifle hanging over your shoulder. The moon is bright, but you can see no movement in any of the houses. It’s strange. Even if Jo isn't here, nor Billy, there should at least be a few of the squatters you know usually hang around. You swallow.

“Dean,” you hear Sam behind you, and you turn to look at him. He’s frowning, his eyes narrowed as he looks around, until his gaze finally settles on his brother. “This is it.”

You look at Dean, hoping he will give some kind of indication of what Sam means. For a moment, he looks clueless, then he raises his chin, like he perfectly understands.

“This is what?” you ask, looking between the two. Sam looks at you, not answering.

“You’re sure?” Dean asks and Sam looks back, nods, then suddenly walks towards you. He comes close, so much so that you need to tilt your head up, and part of you wants to tell him to keep his distance while another part wants nothing more than to drag him closer.

“You need to stay out here, okay?” he says and then his hands are on your shoulders and you need to catch your breath at the touch. “I know how much you want to look out for your girls, but you have to promise me. Dean and I are gonna go through these houses and you stay outside, no matter what you see.” You frown at him.

“What I see? ” you ask but Sam shakes his head.

“Promise me,” he repeats, looking into your eyes. It’s hard to see now in the darkness but you know what they look like in the light. Know their beauty.

“I promise,” you say and Sam lets out a low breath. He lets go of you and you immediately miss the warmth of his closeness. He unholsters his revolver, then nods at Dean. Without another word, both of them start walking towards the houses on the right.

You take a step back, closer to the horses, their warmth and size feeling like a shield against the dark. Baby nickers and you raise your hand, run it along her flank. You should be happy, glad that the two have taken over the task of finding Jo. You’re not. Terror sits low in your gut.

You keep watching the dark houses. Watch for movement, listen for sounds. There’s something eerie about it, this place that is supposed to have people but doesn’t. You run your hands over your arms, trying to keep the cold away.

You see the movement just as you look somewhere else. You look back and you’re sure you must have imagined it. Probably just some creature of the plains, a rodent, or a snake. You step from one foot to the other.

But there it is again. In the second house from the left. For a second you think you see a pale face deep in the darkness of the house. Dark hair. Billy.

He might not have seen you. He must have heard you arrive, but you’re half hidden by the horses and maybe he thinks it’s only Sam and Dean. A horrible thought comes to you then - if he has Jo in there with him and he thinks the brothers are coming to get him, would he use her as a hostage? Hurt her? Scared that one of the outlaws would just shoot him? Would Billy be capable of that?

If it’s you he sees though, maybe you can talk to him. You don’t even know for sure if Jo is here, and a quick cry from you could surely bring the brothers running. But what if Jo is in there? What if Billy gets nervous? You’ve seen him loaded, the way his eyelids go low, the grind of his teeth. How on edge he is.

You press your lips together, throw another look into the direction Sam and Dean disappeared in, and then start walking, as quickly and quietly as you can, until you reach the porch of the house. You try the door, and it’s unlocked. Swings open with a creak.

The rifle goes to your hands, because as much as you don’t want things to escalate, a deep shudder goes over you as you look into the dark house. You grip it tight. It won’t be very practical in the small confines of the house, but it makes you feel brave.

The front door opens into the kitchen. One of the chairs at the dining table is turned over. There’s animal droppings and empty cans everywhere. A floorboard whines under you as you slowly walk deeper into the dark maw.

The smell hits you out of nowhere, makes you nearly gag. Rotten eggs and smoke. You need to stop walking for a second, press your hand against your mouth. It’s strong, burning your nostrils and throat.

There’s a sound from the next room, a shuffling. Your hand goes back to the rifle, finger close to the trigger. You take a slow breath, hoping you can somehow stave off the horrible smell, and then you step forward, push open the door.

Billy’s there. He’s standing in the middle of the room, turned away from you. And Jo is in front of him. He has one arm around her small waist, the other raised to her head, pressing a small revolver against her temple.

You raise the rifle and undo the safety as you step into the room.

“Put it down, Billy,” you say, keeping the rifle trained on him.

Billy turns towards you, turning Jo along with him. He's sweating, grinding his teeth. He must be high out of his mind. But he looks terrified, and so does Jo, and you look at her, try to catch her eye. There’s dirt on her face, and tracks of tears through that dirt, but for the most part, she seems unharmed. You hope that somehow you can make her less scared even though you have no idea what you're going to do, even though your heart is hammering so hard in your chest that you can hear it in your ears.

“I'm sorry,” Billy says, half a sob. “He told me to do it, I didn't want to.” He makes a whining noise, and you take a careful step closer to them.

“Just let go of her,” you repeat, trying to push down the fear so it doesn't bleed into your words. “You can just leave. And I know you don't want to hurt Jo.”

Billy's face is screwed up in terror, but his grip on Jo only tightens.

“I can't,” he whines. “You don't understand. He told me to a-and I didn't have a choice.” You frown at him.

“Who, Billy?” you ask.

Billy is just opening his mouth to say something, when Jo’s hand shoots up and grabs the hand Billy is holding the revolver in. You stand there, watch as she squeezes, as Billy starts crying out and then there is the snap of several bones breaking.

“I told you not to talk about me,” Jo says in a deep and mean pitch you've never heard from her, and in the next second, Billy goes flying.

His back meets the wall with a loud thud, and he falls to the floor. You look after him, then back at Jo, your breath loud in your ears.

“Jo?” you say, your voice loud in the quiet room.

Jo whips around to face you, and at the same time you fly back, the rifle dropped somewhere in the dark. It’s like someone attached you to a pulley and ripped you backwards. Your back meets the wall so hard that all breath is punched from you.

Jo takes a step towards you, but she moves strangely. Jolted, jerking, not the usual quick step she has.

“Jo–” you say again, but she raises her hand, makes a fist and suddenly it feels like someone is pressing down on your windpipe, choking you, not hard enough to cut off all air but enough to make you unable to talk. You’ve felt this way before, a long time ago. An alleyway and you sure that you would die. Panic surges through your veins.

Jo takes another step towards you, some of the moonlight from outside falling onto her face. She looks different. Strange. Like someone has taken her face off her and then put it back on wrong. You try to move your hands, your legs, anything, but nothing will budge.

“Little Jo’s not home right now,” she says, her cadence all wrong, so unlike her. More sing-songy than the sharp and quick way she speaks, her drawl that she makes stronger so she seems tougher.

You open your mouth, try to say something, but only a few sounds come out. It’s like your voice was ripped from you. Your heart beats as fast as a rabbit’s foot.

“Oh, now,” Jo says, her voice mocking, pretending to be kind, a tone you’ve never heard from her but heard from enough people to recognize it immediately. “No need to be upset. She’s just taking a little nap in here. A well deserved break. Stops her from making dumb decisions.”

Jo - or that thing that looks like Jo - takes another halting step towards you. A strip of moonlight falls onto her face. It looks like someone else put on her skin. Her mouth is formed into a disgusting grin, and her eyes have a tinge of yellow, that you know must be some trick of your panic.

You frown, which you are still able to do. No, her eyes are definitely yellow. Not like someone who’s sick. There’s a swirl of it, almost like her irises are swimming, and it’s no honey yellow either, it’s sick, like pus.

“Jo, please–” you press out, voice hoarse, but nothing more comes out.

“She hates you, you know?” Jo says, lips pursed in a pout. “She hates you because she knows you think she’s useless. She went here tonight cause she wanted to prove you wrong. Wanted to show you she can make smart choices. It’s either this or eat dope again. Shove it down her throat until no more can go in and she's bleeding all over.”

She’s close to you now, looking at you and you can’t escape the sick color in her eyes.

“She wanted to die,” Jo says in a half whisper. “Because at least that meant being away from you.”

The front door bursts open with a bang, and Jo turns towards the sound while you can only turn your head a little. Still, a desperate, relieved sound leaves you a second later as he strides into the room.

It’s Sam.

He has a revolver, not the one you’ve seen him carry, raised, adjusts it so that it is pointing straight at Jo, and the brief relief you felt bleeds out of you.

“No,” you gasp out again, but Jo raises her hand, makes a fist, and the pressure is back on your throat. It feels like someone pressing a boot down on it.

Sam’s staring down Jo, his face concentrated, his eyes narrowed, his chest and shoulders slowly rising and falling with his breathing. Jo tilts her head just a little.

“Sammy,” she says, her voice honey sweet and intimate. “Sammy, it’s so good to see you, my boy. My special boy.”

“Let her go,” Sam says through clenched teeth. A low chuckle comes from Jo.

“But it’s nice to wear her,” she says and you don’t understand. “It’s nice to be in here, all snug and warm and so sad.” You see something pass over Sam’s face and then his gaze quickly shoots over to you, almost as if the movement is involuntary.

“Oh,” Jo says, turning back to you. “Her? ”

“Both of them,” Sam replies, voice raw, but the thing that looks like Jo ignores him, takes a step closer to you.

“Is she someone special?” she asks, her voice breathy, excited. “Is she someone special to you, Sam?” Sam looks back at you, his face that was tensed just a second ago now tinged with worry.

“No,” he presses out, and Jo throws her head back, laughs, then raises her other arm and Sam flies back, meeting the wall with a loud thud and a grunt. You try to call his name, but it’s to no avail.

Jo steps closer to him, her face turned away from you, but you can see the curl of her lips still.

“Don’t lie,” she says, then tuts, shakes her head at Sam. “I already know, Sammy. Why do you think I took this whore to bring her here? Cause I knew you wouldn’t be able to help yourself.” Sam grimaces, but Jo must be choking him just like you.

“Well,” she says, turning back to you. “I know just what this occasion calls for.” She turns back to Sam again, her grin widening.

“A bonfire.”

Sam’s eyes widen as he begins struggling against the invisible hold again, harder this time, low grunts leaving him, his hair flying into his face, as he tries to move away. Jo, meanwhile, walks closer to you. She brings a hand up, runs her fingers over your cheek.

“You must understand,” she says, and you can barely hear her over Sam’s loud and desperate noises. “It’s a long standing tradition.” She chuckles, but turns back to Sam when he manages to press out some words.

“Please, no,” he says, his voice hoarse and broken. “Please, anything, just don’t–”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. You hear him cry out, unable to make your own noises as your body suddenly moves higher up the wall, feet leaving the ground. You try to move again, struggle until your muscles burn, but there’s nothing you can do.

“Sam!” you manage to cry out, look at him down there as you are moved closer to the ceiling. Sam shouts, an animalistic, raw sound as Jo begins laughing, loud and demonic.

You see the bullet pierce her through the shoulder, and for a second, she doesn’t react. She stops laughing, her mouth closing as she looks down at the wound. Then her head snaps up, and she starts screaming.

Her mouth opens wide, her eyes are ripped open and under the scream of her light, sweet voice is another scream, unlike anything you’ve ever heard. The sound goes into your bones, makes your head ache, and it feels like your skull is about to burst when suddenly something shoots out of her. It looks like smoke, but it’s the darkest, thickest smoke you’ve ever seen.

Dean is on the other side of the room, standing in the doorway. He has a revolver raised - the one Sam was holding earlier. His face is a mask of pure hatred.

A second later, you feel yourself falling, the wooden floor suddenly rushing towards you. You extend your arms, and you meet the ground with a bone shattering bang, a low groan leaving you. The world swims before your eyes, the pain nearly making you pass out, but then you hear shuffling, hands grabbing your arms as you’re being pulled up into a kneeling position.

A large hand gently cups your cheek and you look up, focus. Sam’s face is close to yours. He’s breathing fast and hard and he looks terrified. You can tell his fingertips are shaking where they’re resting on your skin. There’s a wet heat on the side of your head, but right then, you couldn’t care less. You don’t think you’ve ever seen anything as beautiful as the man in front of you.

You hear more shuffling, turn towards it, the movement making Sam’s fingers drop to your chin.

“Jo,” you gasp and then you press yourself away from Sam, half stumble and half crawl over to her.

Dean is faster than you. He kneels in front of where Jo is cowering. She flinches when he touches her as if she is awoken from sleep, and stares up at him with wide eyes. A second later, a low whine leaves her as her hand goes to the bullet wound in her shoulder.

She begins crying just as you reach her, grab her hand. Jo slings her unhurt arm around your neck, presses her face against you and begins sobbing in earnest. She sounds like herself again. You’ve seen her cry often enough to know.

You hold her close, stroke the back of her head. Shush her and begin rocking, to soothe yourself as much as her.

“It’s alright,” you say, your voice cracked and broken. “It’s alright, Jo, e-everything’s alright.” You pull back, look at her face.

“Did he hurt you?” you ask. You watch as her bottom lip quivers.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I came here and he told me the money would be in the house, and then, and then… I think there was another man, a man with yellow eyes, and then I don’t remember anything.” She leans forward again, presses her forehead against your shoulder.

“That must have been him,” you hear Dean say, turn to him. He’s moved to the other end of the room, is kneeling next to where Billy is lying. He nods down at him. “He’s dead.”

“Oh God,” Jo gasps, peeking out from where you’re holding her.

“We need to get out of here,” Sam says. He’s standing, looks down at you, then peers out the window at the surroundings. Dean moves back over to you, passing his brother the revolver he is still holding in one quick move. He squats, and as Jo lets go of you, looks at him, he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, nods towards her shoulder.

“That looks like the bullet came out the other side, but we should still try to stop the bleeding,” he says. Jo looks at you, as if she’s looking for assurance and you nod. She lets go of you, turns herself so that Dean can access her shoulder.

She cries out when Dean wraps the fabric around her and you grab her hand, let her squeeze it. She sniffles, but Dean must be practiced, because he’s done only seconds later.

“There ya go,” he says, then gives Jo a charming smile and a wink. “Good as new.”

“Come on,” Sam says. He walks over to you, extends his hand and you hold Jo by her unhurt arm, help her stand. The four of you walk outside.

The night is as quiet as it was when you arrived, the air cold around you. You’re a stone’s throw from the horses when you feel Jo sagging in your grasp.

You turn to her, can already see her falling to the ground, but Sam is there, suddenly, not having strayed far from you. He grabs her, holds her, then picks her up, her back over one arm and her legs over the other. Your hands go to her head, holding it up, but she already seems to be coming back to herself a minute later. It must be the shock and the blood loss.

Dean gets on Baby first, then reaches down, and Sam passes Jo up to him. He secures her in front of him, and you see her wrap her arms around him, her head lulling against his chest. You keep watching, making sure she doesn’t fall, and it’s only when you feel Sam’s hand on your shoulder that you turn.

“Come on,” he says, his voice soft, “she’s gonna be alright.” You nod and when he indicates his horse you hold on to the saddle, climb up. Sam does too, his front pressing against your shoulder. You grab onto the horn of the saddle, nervous to hold on to Sam, but then he takes the reins which makes his arms go around you, and the next moment, all of you are moving.

They can’t ride fast with two people on each horse, and Jo hurt. But you can tell Sam and Dean are as eager to get away from this place as you are. You can see the lights of Blackbird off in the distance. It’s a while before you notice you’re shivering - the night’s cold rolling in and the shock wearing off.

You feel Sam move. He takes the reins into one hand and you turn, see him shrugging his jacket off of one shoulder, then the other. You open your mouth to protest, knowing exactly what he’s planning, but then he’s already laying it over your lap.

“I know,” he mumbles as you take it, lay it over your shoulders. “You don’t need it.”

The sound that leaves you could be a sigh, a sob or even a chuckle. You’re not sure yourself. All you know that the smell of his jacket, the warmth of Sam’s body makes you lean back. You shouldn’t, and you’ll chide yourself soon, you’re sure, but right then, the comfort his presence and big body brings you is too tempting to resist.

“Just had to go and be a goddamn gentleman,” you mumble and you hear a huffing laugh leave Sam.

“Yeah,” he says, and then nothing more.

The gang meets you just outside the town. They’re carrying torches and ride in with you, only exchanging a few words. They don’t seem to need explanation. That, or they’ve learned not to ask for it.

Dean helps Jo off the horse, and you help her walk. Donna and the others already come rushing towards you, swarming around you like a hive of bees. Your hands are tight around Jo’s arm, using the leverage to keep her close to your body.

Something about seeing them all, seeing the lights of your home, the faces of your family, makes your throat feel tight.

“She’s been shot,” you press out, voice croaky. You can see Anna widen her eyes.

“By who?” she asks. Dean Winchester, you think, but don’t say. You see Bela walk out too, watching the scene with a tense face. What a strange first day she must be having.

You don’t notice Donna trying to pry your hands off Jo’s arm until she says your name. You turn to her, her face close, her voice gentle but clear when she speaks.

“We’ve got her now,” she says and you nod, dumb, unable to say anything. “It’s okay, we’ve got her.” You nod again, but it’s only then that you remember that you will actually have to let go of Jo. You look down at your hands, then at her face. Swallow. Finally relent your hold on her.

Donna and Meg hold her on both sides, while Max and Anna stay close as they walk her up the stairs. You can hear someone stepping up beside you, but for some reason you can’t tear your eyes off of them.

“Your housekeeper know how to patch up a bullet wound?” you hear Dean’s gruff voice close to you. There’s many things you could say - that Donna is more than any housekeeper, that she is the first person you would entrust with your safety and well being.

“There’s nothing she doesn’t know how to do,” you land on instead. You see Bela, who didn’t follow the others upstairs, approach out of the corner of your eye and turn to her. She takes your hand.

“You’re hurt,” she says, gaze going to your temple. You shake your head.

“It’s nothing,” you say, but Bela reaches into her décolleté, pulling out a white handkerchief. She passes it to you and you press it against the place you felt the blood run out of. The handkerchief comes away with red stains, but it seems the bleeding has mostly stopped. You bunch it up in your hand as Bela steps closer.

“Who are these men?” she asks, voice careful. You let your hand sink down.

“Friends,” you say, then turn around.

They’re all standing there, Sam and Dean front and center. Careful, watching, and for a moment, they remind you so much of your own group that you nearly feel dizzy. You press your lips together, turn back to Bela.

“Miss Talbot,” you say, “would you go upstairs and see if they need anything? I don’t know how you are around blood—”

“It doesn’t bother me,” she says and you nod, and with another look at the group, she walks away. You turn again. Dean watches her walk upstairs, but Sam’s eyes are on you.

“What the hell was that?” you ask, your voice more steady than you expect it to be. Sam looks at you, mouth in a thin line, and then he gives a small nod.

“I’ll tell you everything,” he says and you’re not completely sure what he means, but his brother turns to him.

“We need to talk,” Dean says, face serious. Sam nods.

“I know,” he replies, turning to him. “Later.” Dean opens his mouth, but then shuts it again as some kind of silent understanding passes between them.

“I’ll take the others to make sure the town is secure,” he says under his breath. He tips his hat in your direction and begins walking towards the door, as well as his friends standing there, but you’re quicker.

He stops and turns when you touch his elbow, a surprised look on his face. He looks at you, and you reach your hand out.

“Thank you, Mr. Winchester,” you say, looking at his face intently so he knows you mean it. “I don’t fully understand what happened tonight, but I know that you saved Jo. And I know that you helped me when you didn’t have to.” Dean looks down at your hand, almost as if he thinks it’s a trap. Then he sniffs, takes it in his. His palms are just as callused as his brother’s.

“Please, call me Dean,” he says, and he actually sounds shy. He gives a quick smile. “Mr. Winchester was my father.” You nod, squeeze his hand and then let go. He continues walking, awkwardly, towards the door.

At last, you and Sam are alone. He has his hands on his belt, is looking at the floor, chewing on the inside of his lip. He doesn’t look at you when you turn, but you still watch him for a moment. The stubble has grown thick on his jaw, you notice. His clothes are dusty.

You break yourself out of your trance and walk over to the bar. Sam or Dean must have grabbed your rifle, because it’s lying there on the wood. You leave it there, sure you’ll feel better having it close. You grab two glasses and an open bottle of whiskey, then walk over to one of the tables.

You sit and when you look up, Sam is finally looking at you. He looks tired, weary. You open the bottle of whiskey, indicating towards the chair opposite you with the other hand.

“Sit,” you say, your voice seeming loud in the room. You concentrate on your pouring, but a moment later, you hear Sam move. He sits in the chair opposite you, takes off his hat, laying it on the wood. He runs one hand through his hair, then gives a deep sigh before he finally looks at you again.

“Alright,” he says.

“My mother,” Sam starts, voice steady, “came from a family of hunters. Hunters of demons and monsters.”

You open your mouth to protest. It’s such an insane thing to claim. But then you think back to what happened not even an hour ago at the cabin. Remember the feeling of the wood against your back as you slowly slid higher towards the ceiling. The black smoke. So instead of answering, you reach for the glass of whiskey, raise it to your lips, and down it in one go. You press the back of your hand against your mouth, then nod, look up at Sam.

“Keep going,” you say, and just for a second, the deep frown on his face disappears, a soft smile breaking through. He swallows, looks at the table, nods as if he’s collecting himself.

“She left that behind when she met my father,” he continues. “She just wanted a normal life.” You keep watching him as he talks. He looks down again, wistful. Then takes a deep breath, continues.

“My father broke horses,” he says. “He had an accident. One of the horses trampled him and he… He was in a bad way. She didn’t know if he was going to make it through the night. She was going to lose the man she loved, so she used the knowledge she had gained from her family.” Sam looks back up at you but you listen, intently. It sounds insane, what he’s saying, but you have a feeling his story is about to get stranger.

“She made a deal,” Sam continues, “for his life. Demons have that power. But in return, he wanted something from her.” You frown at him.

“What did he want?” you ask. Sam clenches his jaw.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he answers. “She never told my father about it. What I do know is that the demon came back. I was six months old. And he killed her.” You hold your breath, then let it out slowly.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” you say. The corners of his mouth twitch.

“He burned her alive,” he says, his voice halting. A shudder goes through you. “The same thing he was going to do to you tonight.” You squeeze your eyes shut, bring your hand to your face.

“I don’t understand,” you say and you hear Sam lean forward.

“I know, I’m–I’m trying to make it make sense,” he says, clears his throat. You drop your hand, look at him. While he still collects himself, you reach out, shove the second glass towards him. Sam’s eyes go to you and you hold his gaze. Something softens inside of him.

“My father saved Dean and me,” he continues, “but our farm was lost for the most part. He started moving us around, started learning about its kind, how to fight it. He trained Dean and me, like soldiers. He was sure the demon would come back. But he didn’t. Not until I left to go study.” Sam swallows again.

“I was engaged,” he says, his gaze careful. You breathe in through your nose, then nod. “Her name was Jessica. She was the cousin of a friend I met at school. On the night before our wedding, the demon came for her and killed her too.”

It’s like a bolt of pain going through your heart for Sam. Jealousy, too, and you’re not proud of that, not proud of that at all, but more than that, pain.

“That’s horrible, Sam,” you say and he presses his lips together. Finally, he reaches for the glass in front of him, drinks it. While he swallows he looks at the empty glass in his hand.

“That demon,” he says, “he did something to me on the night he killed my mother. He… he fed me some of his blood.” He looks at you, quickly, but the story is so absurd, so strange, that you don’t think you know how to react appropriately.

“His blood?” is all you can say, probably sounding like you’re simple. But Sam just nods.

“He did the same to many different families,” he continues. “The demon blood was supposed to give the children he fed it to certain powers. He was hoping to build an army with them, make himself untouchable.” It feels like your head is spinning.

“I wasn’t addicted to opium,” Sam says and you focus back on him. “I was addicted to demon blood. I… would drink it and it gave me powers, the strength to exorcize and kill demons. I thought I was doing the right thing. But it was just the sickness he’d given me.” He looks to the side, sighs.

“Sam,” you say, after both of you are quiet for a while. “What does all of that have to do with tonight? With me?” Sam turns back to you. He’s grinding his teeth, blinks, like he’s gearing himself up to say something. What could he possibly still have to tell you that surpasses everything else you’ve just heard?

“The demon blood gave me another power,” he says. He has a hard time looking at you, you realize. It makes nervousness bloom in your stomach, so you shift around. “It gave me visions of the demon. Things he did. I’m not sure if it was an involuntary side effect of the blood, but… We would go out to hunt him, my father and brother and I. But we were always too late. The last vision I had of him was nearly ten years ago. When my father died.” He swallows, his thick, beautiful neck moving.

“How did he die?” you ask, your voice low. You think you see tears in his eyes.

“The demon killed him,” he replies. “I saw it happen twice. Once in the vision. And then once when it really happened.” Sam presses his tongue against his teeth, maybe to contain his feelings.

“And I didn’t have another vision until six months ago,” he continues, seemingly pushing himself over the edge, “a vision of you dying in that cabin tonight.”

His gaze shoots to you and he watches you as you take in the information. Your brain feels slow, sluggish, as you try to order your racing thoughts.

“That’s why you came here?” you ask. “To Blackbird? To–” To me, dies on your tongue. Sam nods slowly.

“Yes,” he says.

“And you knew this was going to happen to me and that’s why you… why you stayed close?” you ask, a chasm opening up inside you.

“I stayed here in town because of the vision,” he says. “I stayed close to you because, despite not planning for it, I fell in love with you.”

It’s like something knocking all air out of you, for the second time tonight. Sam knew you were going to be attacked. He lied to you, yet again. He also said he’s in love with you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you say, looking at him. “Why wouldn’t you let me know?”

“Would you have believed me?” Sam replies immediately. “I’ve seen the way people react when they find out what is really out there. You would have thought I was crazy and told me to leave, and then I would have had no chance to protect you.” You shake your head, but you know he’s right. If Sam had come in here, talking about demons and visions, you would have gotten Rufus to run him out of town. Hell, you’d have helped along.

“Then why didn’t you tell me later?” you ask. “Why keep it from me?”

“Because the truth of it all was so big,” Sam says, leaning his arms on the table as if he needs to steady himself. “I was terrified you would stop wanting me around. When I told you my real name and about the gang, I thought you’d tell me to leave right away. But you didn’t, and I kept telling myself I’d tell you the rest, that you would accept it, but…” He sighs.

“That’s selfish,” you reply. Sam nods, looks right into your eyes.

“It is,” he says. “I know it is. But the thought that you could stop caring for me if you found out…” He looks away. You did find out. The marriage, his wife that he’s kept from you, now this insanity. You take a deep breath.

“Will the demon come back?” you ask. “What does he want from you?” Sam drops his shoulders, which were tensed.

“Recruit me, or kill me if I don't join him,” he says, shrugs. “All of the other children he did the same thing to are dead, as far as I know. So yes, I believe he will be back.”

“Then you have to leave town,” you say. “For all our sake, it’s too dangerous.” A sad, angry smile comes onto Sam’s face.

“He’s not gonna come for me directly,” he says. “He’ll come for the people I’d die for.” He looks back at you. You hate what his words make you feel. How much it makes you want to be close to him, to let him protect you, throw your life at his feet. But you can’t do that. You lean back in your chair, defeated.

Both of you sit there, not speaking. Thoughts whirl in your head as you’re trying to make sense of everything Sam has told you. You don’t know what to feel, is the truth. Betrayal, yes, but also something else.

“Is there anything else?” you ask, eyes going to Sam. He looks back at you, his expression gentle.

“A thousand gruesome details,” he says and for some reason, you’re relieved that he doesn’t pretend that’s all. “But yes, that is the gist of it.”

You look at him and keep looking at him. He holds your gaze. Then you reach forward, take the bottle and pour another drink into both glasses.

“Then tell me the details,” you say.

He tells you. Tells you about never staying in one place when he was a child, about monsters in the dark. His father, who seems to have been a sad man. About Dean protecting him and never stopping.

He tells you about Jessica, the woman he was engaged to. At some point you get up, make coffee. Place it in front of him. He blows on it, then drinks it.

He tells you about finding out that demon blood made him stronger. Tells you about being attacked on the road when he was with another from his gang, the other killed and Sam kept prisoner, by the demon and a female lackey, how they made him drink their blood over and over, until his body was yearning for it. About how he escaped them, exorcized the demon out of the body it was in, killed the lackey. About getting out only to realize his body craved more. Finding justification to keep drinking it with his newfound powers. How his brother forced him to stop, and how his powers disappeared as well.

About his father’s death, violent and sudden. His brother and him traveling alone, and then picking up more and more people along the way. Benny, whose family had been killed by vampires when he was a child. About Jimmy, who had been tricked by an angel - an angel, you take another drink of the whiskey at that point - to allow him to use his body for good, and how that angel betrayed his trust. How he still hears him, which is why he drinks. All those other stories of the people he travels with.

How he had the vision of you. Saw you pinned to the ceiling in that cabin, burning alive. Felt your pain and your fear and only one other thing: the word Blackbird. How Dean cautioned him to stay calm, to wait, find out more first, saying that this had to be a trap, but how Sam couldn’t be stopped. Stole his brother’s horse in the middle of the night and rode off. Weeks to find the place, because he didn’t realize it was the name of a town. He was sure he was too late. That another person he couldn’t save had died.

And then how he walked in, that morning. His eyes are endlessly soft and you think you’ll lose your mind if he keeps looking at you like this.

“When I first saw you,” he says.

Sam concludes his tale right around the time the sun starts coming up. You’re both bleary eyed, have drunk too much coffee, making you feel like there’s bees under your skin, but you listen, only asking clarifying questions.

At last, there is a lull in the conversation. Sam looks down, into his emptied cup, sighs deeply. You watch him for another second, then stand from where you were sitting.

“We should get some sleep,” you say, and Sam nods, still looking down into his cup, like his head is too heavy to raise it again. So you walk around the table towards him.

He finally looks up when your hands reach for the cup, put it to the side. He looks surprised, and then immeasurably soft when you reach for his hand. Once again, he moves as if you are twice as strong as him, stands, no, unfolds himself and walks behind you. He doesn’t speak until you’ve climbed the stairs and stand in front of your bedroom.

“I should–” he says, interrupting himself, but you don’t let go of his hand, and it makes him look at your face.

“You and your gang might be insane,” you say, still holding on to him, feeling the soft pressure of his thumb against your knuckle, “and I might be losing my mind right along with you. That or everything you said is true. Which would actually be worse.” You breathe out of your nose, humorless, and then look deep into Sam’s eyes. You’ve missed them so much. Missed all of him, the gentle part of his lips, his shoulders, the way he lets you speak like every word you say is scripture.

“Either way,” you continue, “I’m scared. And I don’t want to be alone right now.”

Sam’s eyes go over your face, over your mouth, your nose, your cheeks, until he finally meets your gaze again.

“I don’t either,” he says and you nod. Without letting go of him, you open the door with your other hand and lead the two of you inside.

You don’t let go of Sam. Not when you kick off your boots, not when you climb onto the bed, dragging him after you. You can’t let go. You haven’t let go. Not really.

The two of you lie down, facing each other. You put your hand on the bedding between you two, palm down, and Sam’s larger hand covers it, his thumb slipping into the space between your palm and fingers, and you squeeze it.

You keep looking at him, and he at you, until you can’t keep your eyes open any longer. Until your lids are so heavy, they fall shut of their own accord. You see the same thing happen to him, once, before he blinks a few times, catches himself. You want to tell him to get some sleep too, but your lips are too heavy to move and finally you fall asleep, a small noise leaving you before you are taken down into the warm dark.

#blackbird #western au #sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #spn #supernatural #spn fanfic #spn au #dean winchester

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turinspeachjam · 2 days ago

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Is it the weekend already? Damn time flies!

You know the drill: Make Me Write!

To the people who have been tagging me the past couple weekends: this is for you 😘

Rules: Send me an emoji corresponding with a fic and I'll send you a snippet of what I'm working on!

This weekend's docket:

👻 Stranger. Honored Guest. Family. - my Steddie Big Bang Project (Under the Whispering Door au)

⛈️ The Way That We Weather the Storm - Steve Storm Powers au (still gen)

🧠 A Place For Crows to Rest Their Feet - Marbles by TAD inspired Stobin Songfic

🌸 Untitled Hanahaki fic - inspired by @withacapitalp 's Daisies fic

💀 Untitled spooky Jeff fic - new addition!

Here's a snippet from 👻 my Steddie Big Bang to sweeten the deal:

“Is this a prank?”

Robin scowled at him in a way that was almost intimidating. Eddie simply glared at her in return, waiting for an answer.

“Is what a prank?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” Eddie scoffed irritably. “This doesn’t look like a fucking gateway to the afterlife. We’re standing in a goddamn tea shop!”

“Keen observation skills you’ve got there,” a voice declared behind Eddie, causing him to jump out of his skin—or at least he would have if he still had any.

Eddie whirled around, ready to rip a new one into whoever had interrupted him, only to find a burly looking old man wryly smiling down at him. The guy was huge, dressed casually in a flannel jacket draped over matching pajamas and wielding a cane in a way that implied he used it more as a prop than a tool. This had to be the guy Robin had been telling him about earlier.

“You must be Steve,” Eddie said, barely holding back his annoyance—and not very successfully if Robin’s unsubtle coughing was anything to go by. “Robin’s been telling me about you.”

There was a gleam in the man’s eyes and a roguish smile gracing his lips, but Eddie could not for the death of him decipher the look he was receiving.

“Oh? What was she saying about me? Good things, I hope.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. He was not here to boost some old man’s ego. He just wanted to go home, goddamnit.

“She said that you knew more about all of this shit than she did. That you could answer my questions better than she could.”

Robin scoffed behind him, but he ignored her. The old man nodded, rubbing his hand against his chin thoughtfully.

“Sure, I can definitely answer your questions.”

Eddie sighed, relieved that he could finally get some goddamn answers. This whole death business was frustrating enough without all the not knowing that went with it.

“Okay, so Robin here says I’m dead, which I guess is true enough since I was at my own fucking funeral—”

“Funeral?” The old man choked on a laugh, but Eddie ignored it and pushed onward.

“—and I’m not really ready to be dead, you know? I’m a little young for that and I’m supposed to be working on a new album right now, so if you could help a guy out and fix this for me, that would be great.”

The old man—Eddie supposed that he should really call him Steve since he was helping him out and whatnot instead of relegating him to the title of old man—stared at him for a moment before grinning. Eddie hoped that was a good sign.

“You want me to fix it? Well, let me see what I can do.”

The sense of relief that swept through Eddie was better than any sex he had ever had in his life, which was saying something. Once Steve fixed it so that he was alive again, Eddie was going to give Rick and the label what for. Hell, maybe he would call up Gareth and the guys, try to apologize for being an ass and get the band back together.

“Okay, so what do I need to do?”

If Eddie sounded a little on the eager side, that was no one’s business but his own. Robin’s muffled laughter could shove it.

“First, you need to stand on one foot. Your left one.”

Eddie was unsure about that considering his balance was not the greatest, but he gave it a go anyway, standing on his left foot and only wobbling slightly. Steve nodded at him thoughtfully.

“Okay, now hop counterclockwise for three full rotations.”

Taking a deep breath, Eddie maintained his balance as best he could as he did as Steve instructed, only slipping a bit a few times. He managed to not fall on his ass and honestly he counted that as a win.

“Stop! Now fan your fingers out and cross your arms in front of you.”

Eddie did so, at this point feeling a little bit like he was back on stage performing, which only made him feel like this while concoction of movements was working.

“Now repeat after me: I am an idiot,” Steve stated slowly.

“I am an idiot,” Eddie repeated with the same cadence.

“And I’m dead.”

“And I’m dead.” Eddie swore that he could feel something in the air change. It made him hopeful for the first time in years.

“There’s no way for me to come back to life because that’s not how it works,” Steve continued.

“There’s—HEY!”

This time it was both Steve and Robin’s laughter that surrounded Eddie. His face felt hot and knew that if he still had blood that he would be the same shade of scarlet that Vicki was on the day he called her out on her bullshit.

“Where the hell do you get off on making me look like a fool, huh,” Eddie demanded, positively fuming. He was so done with this whole ordeal. He just wanted to get back to his life dammit. Was that so hard to ask?

No pressure tags: @tinytalkingtina @stellarspecter @helpimstuckposting @kikidoesfanfic @eriquin @sidekick-hero @shares-a-vest @dreamwatch @sourw0lfs @little-annie @onirislanding @penny00dreadful @klausinamarink @griefabyss69 @queenofshenanigans @machtaholic @yesdangerpls @felixir-of-moths @beingmissbatty @hbyrde36

And, of course, @strangerthingswritersguild

#wip weekend #my writing #stranger things

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biowaredisasterbisexual · 3 days ago

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Thursday Bangers

Thanks to @gutz-ingellvar for the tag and this week’s lyrics, and to @woundedsoul12 for the tag and the game itself!

Rules for your Copy and Paste:

Free form a blurb or drawing based on the weekly lyrics prompt. It doesn't have to include the prompt just whatever you're inspired to write, write it! Then tag some friends so they can play as well. It doesn't have to be finished on Thursday just post it whenever you can (you have a whole week between Thursdays).

Lyric:

Have you ever had a dream? // Would you fight for it? // Would you go to war? // Would you die for it? // So now I'll take my stand // Now I'll make you see // That if you seek forgiveness // You'll get nothing from me

Bow Down - I Prevail

I’ll send out some low-pressure tags to: @mageofquandrix, @bygonesigh, @basedonconjecture, @dymme, @hyperions-light, @thedissonantverses, @mythals-whore, @theunsinkablesappho, @jouskaroo, @davrinsleftpectoral, @bronzieinthedas, @andthekitchensinkao3, @operative-arrow, and if you’re reading this YOU! Yes, you! If you want to play, please consider yourself tagged and tag me in your post so I can come read!

And if you want to be on my list of potential victims tag-recipients for games like these, let me know HERE.

Wrote some of a scene I’d been planning out for The Ventus Job in response to this prompt below the cut.

A thick coat of ash and grime clung to Mercar, and he knew he smelled like smoke. Not the smoke of chimneys, of kitchens, of hearth though. No. This was the smell of destruction. It clogged his nose and irritated his throat, forcing him to clear it and taste the ash of burning buildings more often than he’d like.

“Here, and here,” his Pilus instructed, gesturing to two areas on his map. “Claudius, you’ll attack the garrison here. And Mercar, this settlement.”

Mercar raised an eyebrow in question, even as his stomach began to sink at what he suspected the answer would be. “They don’t quarter the Antaam there. That’s an outskirt village.”

The Pilus’ eyes narrowed on him, irritation etched into the dirty lines of the officer’s face at any response to his orders that wasn’t simply acknowledgment and execution.

“And the Merchant District of Ventus didn’t house our Legions, and too was destroyed. Remember what they did to us.”

Mercar remembered. The smoke, the gas, explosions, the clang of weapons as the Antaam had rampaged through Ventus.

He remembered the screams as civilian homes went up in flame, as soldiers were slaughtered like animals, as mages were…changed…in the streets. Men. Women. Children.

He remembered the wailing, the sobs, and grief and fear torn from the throats of innocents.

Mercar didn’t feel a hurry to hear those screams again. Even if they were Qunari this time.

“But Pilus—”

“You have your orders. Go relay them.” His superior went back to giving instructions to the others, clearly having decided this conversation was over.

Mercar’s legs felt leaden as he made his way back to where his men stood, wiping their faces ineffectually to remove the dirt, ash, and blood they were caked in.

“Orders?” Gaius asked as he approached.

‘Go slaughter the baker and his staff, burn the Tamassaran house and its children, become the evil we saw in Ventus.’ He couldn’t say it. Wouldn’t.

Mercar could hear his pulse, blood thudding in his ears, as his heart pounded at the realization of what he was about to do.

He’d never defied an order, not like this at least, not so openly. And never had he brought his men into it.

He wouldn’t ask them to defy the orders themselves — couldn’t ask that of them — they would need to make their own choices. It wasn’t truly mutiny.

Mercar knew it wouldn’t matter.

Well, everyone died some day, right?

Rook woke with a start, the sheet sticking to his sweaty body as he sat up, heart beating fast and chest heaving. Again. It was happening again; being in Ventus was making it worse. He didn’t think about before often. And would even less if he’d been able to help it. But the Fade apparently never forgot, and before still existed in dreams.

#thursday bangers #rook mercar #the ventus job #wips #my wips #someday I will respond to a Thursday banger without it being pure angst #someday #but not today apparently

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xyztrio721 · 2 years ago

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I don’t know if I should talk about any of this, but… here we go…

So… for anyone who’s stuck with me for the past year or two (which I doubt anyone did, but if you did… thank you), you’ll know that I had been going through a lot of therapy and filled out self-report forums to figure out if I have ADHD or not.

To recap, here was the first post I made in December of 2021, when I first began to suspect that I had ADHD.

Here is the second post I made in June of 2022, when I first went to therapy and filled out the self-report for ADHD. My dad also filled out a report based on his observations on my behavior when I was young.

And here is the final post I made in July of 2022, when I first began to suspect that I might have autism spectrum disorder (ASD). You’ll have to look in the tags to see what I said when I first began to suspect ASD as well as ADHD.

Well… it’s been over a year since I last provided an update on the ADHD/ASD situation. To make a long story short, after seeing my therapist for two years and seeing a psychiatrist for almost a year, I finally underwent a neuropsychological evaluation in July of this year to get a definitive diagnosis on any mental health or neurodevelopmental disorder I might have had.

Today, I got the results.

And I was right.

As of today, I’ve been officially diagnosed with ASD and ADHD. This revelation, despite the fact that I knew it was coming, still shocked me to my core.

What do I do now that I know the truth? Where do I go from here? Will my life change in any way now that I’ve been diagnosed with ASD and ADHD?

If anyone has any answers, feel free to tell me in the replies or in reblogs. As relieving as this diagnosis is, I will still need some time to process this information and figure out what I should do next.

#adhd #autism #neurodivergent #neurodiversity #an ADHD and ASD diagnosis is… confusing.#Not because of the diagnosis itself #but because I was so unprepared for it to be a real diagnosis I would get #I don’t know what I should do with this knowledge #Who can I tell? Can I trust anyone with this information?#Will I be discriminated against? Will my college life be impacted by this diagnosis?#So many questions but no answers…#Or at least I don’t have any answers right now #Eventually I’ll find them but for now I just don’t know what to do now

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cuteniaarts · 1 year ago

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Digitalised + coloured + redesigned version of my Suiren and Vaatu sketch from two days ago, as promised!!

Coming up with Suiren’s design was a very long process of trying and failing because after you’ve drawn 9+ different versions of one character, the creativity starts to run a little dry, but I’m actually really proud of this one, she looks absolutely adorable <3

(Also yeah I did mostly just scribble Vaatu’s pattern because who has the energy to draw the all out accurately. Not me, that’s who, I’m chronically tired. People who draw him on the regular have my utmost respect. He’s still a funky little guy though :D)

Bonus, Raava incessantly screaming inside Suiren (and being completely ignored because Suiren is tired of her) while all this is happening:

#and yeah I did say I’d do a fuckass background but all my energy went to figuring out Suiren’s design #plus I suck at backgrounds so.. woe. LoK screenshot be upon ye #my art #artists on tumblr #the legend of korra #avatar suiren au #original character #sotrl suiren #vaatu #I don’t really know what to say in these tags lmao #usually I reach the tag limit really really easily but between my previous post and answering that ask I’ve ran out of things to say #someone please indulge me in this au I have Way Too Many Thoughts about it #hmm…#you know. I think people often make different avatar aus because they dislike Korra or think she’s a bad avatar #I don’t. I love Korra. I would kill and die for her #(says the red lotus stan. yes I’m well aware. no need to call me out)#and I think she’s a good avatar who was dealt a shitty hand both in universe and by the show’s production team #I’m making this au BECAUSE I love Korra. if Suiren is the avatar Korra gets to be a normal SWT girl #she’ll get to grow up with her parents. not isolated and degraded all the time for not being perfect. maybe she’d have a sibling or two #and Suiren gets spared her sotrl trauma too. win win for everyone!!#(I return Suiren gets the weight of the world on her shoulders lmao. but it’s fine. 1. she isn’t alone in it. she has her family #2. three quarters of the LoK threats are basically automatically eliminated for her. the RL are her parents. she fuses with Vaatu #and all she has to do to defeat Kuvira is to take her dress off 😁 /hj. basically. she’ll be okay. better than in sotrl at least)#also look. I love Suiren. she’s my dear child who’s been with me since I was 12. of course I wanna make her the main character in everything #and dark avatar Korra AUs have been done countless times before me. Kat’s doing one right now!! I just wanna do something that’s my own #and also I wanna focus less on pain and trauma for once and more on the sheer hilarity of the shenanigans that will occur post-fusion #cause this isn’t Adumbration where Korra lets Raava go and fuses with Vaatu instead. here Suiren’s got both of them at the same time #and they have 10000 years’ worth of grievances to air out. it’s like living with your divorced parents #trust me I would know. except mine aren’t divorced. they’re Worse and everyone wishes they’d just separate #anyway. that aside. Suiren’s not getting any sleep any time soon while those two duke it out

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always-a-slut-4-ghouls · 1 year ago

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I have this tea cup I made in highschool (it’s really cute and was designed more like those Japanese ones without a handle than it was those fancy English style with even more elements to them) but I never actually asked if the glaze we used was food safe (we all used the same glaze on those cups specifically because the teacher glazed those ones in particular and I don’t remember checking. I glazed and painted every other project but only one of them was something you would use for food and that thing broke a few years ago and was honestly more decorative) and this has haunted me ever since. It’s a super cute cup and I adore it, but I have no idea if I can use it for its intended purpose and while I could buy a lead testing kit I’m not sure how I would check for anything else that might have been in that glaze. I know the color used but not the brand, so that’s not really a help either. The teacher I had left the district after that year because our school district paid art teachers a shit wage and we rotated through them like elementary school kids needing new shoes every year. I’m not entirely sure how I would contact her, but even if I did track her down (something not entirely impossible from what I know about her life outside of teaching us for a year, I would feel slightly weird about it though, even though she was my favorite art teacher) but I highly doubt she would remember something like the glaze she used on one project her students made at a school she taught at for one year. I’m not sure what other testing kits I would need besides lead to confidently say it’s safe enough for my personal use, and it’s annoyed me for several years now.

#emma posts #it was peacock. peacock green I believe #and do you have any idea how many brands produce a peacock named glaze?#I could maybe narrow it down by looking for one that tended to be more forest green to dark blue #but that’s not really a great way to get a definitive answer #I also wish i could make more ceramic stuff right now! I’ve been hooked ever since yhat class #polymer clay sculpting isn’t quite the same (though better than nothing) and air dry clay often feels crumbly #neither of those could be used for cups and stuff #but even just making clay sculptures (my favorite) hits different with clay #I miss the smell and the feel and the way it worked #the closest I’ve gotten to the experience was digging up clay near my parents house and trying to fire it in the bonfire #it was only a half success #I tried to learn how ancient people made stone wear with raw clay and other materials added #but i just can’t seem to fire it the same way and it ends up slightly ashy on the surface from the soot #it’s also a bit more prone to cracking and I know I can’t expect the same as what it’s like working with the good stuff #and I know the clay on the farm is at least decent but not modern quality #also it doesn’t get fired all the way so if I get water on it it starts to dissolve a bit again #I should try to study ancient clay methods #it would be really fun to try to recreate some stuff in the area behind the lilacs #but it isn’t as good as modern clay #I’m getting really side tracked though #art problems #I wish I had an actual studio. I don’t see that happening any time soon though #my dream is to live on one of those houses in the woods north of town and have an art studio and room for more pets and gardens #i don’t think that’s ever gonna happen though #right now I’m just trying to figure out the local buses and stay in government housing #I can’t drive. I dropped out of college because of health problems. I’m living on disability and foodstamps. my health inssues make my #schedule and availability unreliable for a regular schedule #keeping up with the dishes is my worst enemy (aside from everything else)#i just don’t see myself doing much outside of my desk in the corner of my small living room any time soon

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tonycries · 2 months ago

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Cruel Summer - G.S.

Synopsis. The five times Gojo Satoru would rather díe than marry you, his (infuriatingly pretty, oh-so-irresistible) arranged fiancée - and the one time he comes back from déath to.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, arranged marriage AU, enemies-to-Iovers, 5 + 1 things, PINING, Geto and Shoko cameos, matíng press, big D, tummy buIges, GOJO’S POWERS, creampíes, maIe squírting, oraI (fem rec.), face-sítting, he’s FÉRAL, fíngering, chokíng, spítting, p talking, down bad Gojo, slight exhíbitíonism, making him PÚSSYDRÚNK, those Gege sketches, slight spoiIers, HAPPY ENDING, swéaring, pet names.

Word count. 11.5k

A/N. Oh y’all don’t know how those Gege drawings had me, I just had to…

“I’m never marrying you.”

“I’d rather marry a special grade curse than you.”

“Huh- I’m much hotter than a fuc-”

SLAM!

That sharp, pointed noise of a ceramic teacup hitting the winding table you were seated at had almost become ritual at this point. The first few jabs of an argument escaping the mouths of both you and the other heir being a signal for at least one of the grim elders to interrupt before either of you could ruin a four-hundred-year-old contract.

And with a stubborn huff, you’re leaning back into your seat on the tatami mat to appraise the boy opposite you.

Everything from his cropped, snowy bangs to the way his summer-blue eyes blazed into you. Honestly, if you closed your ears every time he spoke, he could almost be- nope, he was sticking his tongue out at you now.

The ever-mature Gojo Satoru; new head of the ancient Gojo clan, freshly-enrolled student at Tokyo Jujutsu High.

And your soon-to-be husband.

All cooped up in this traditional meeting room, one where generations of matches had been made and very rarely broken.

A coming-of-age ceremony, where the two of you had officially been declared leaders - and an engagement.

Your engagement.

It was a business transaction of sorts. One that didn’t require any input from either marrying parties, according to the council of elders who sat upon either side of the table and stroked their beards in smug success.

You’d heard that several clans had physically fought over this chance, before the Gojo clan ultimately chose you. And you knew why - you were one of the very few that had something to lose.

The chance to attend Tokyo Jujutsu High.

In short, play sorcerer all you want for three years, and in return they’d be free to enforce an old betrothal alliance between your two clans and demand a powerful new heir to jujutsu society - a win-win.

Though- looking at your reluctant fiancé, still donned in his dark silk robes from his ceremony, you wonder if you really should have just run away as your friends from Kyoto had urged you to.

And one look at Gojo’s scrunched-up face told you he might just be thinking the same thing. Delicate features marred. Pouty lips nothing of the whispered legends you’d heard of the young prodigy—a monster. A blessing. The strongest.

He sounded very much his age as he echoes, “I’m never marrying you.”

You open your mouth- “And I-”

“-will be part of young Satoru’s high school journey!” Your father puts a hand on your shoulder, lightly squeezing. Becoming part of the Gojo clan was just as big of an opportunity for him as it was for you. Apparently. “We’re sure the young couple will get over their pre-wedding jitters by the time they’re back from graduation to continue their duties- right?”

A tap on your figure, that was your cue to answer.

Instead, you just turn your face towards Gojo, look him serenely in the eyes, the sweetest practiced smile on your face- and flip him off. Pre-wedding jitters your ass.

The gasps that cloud the stuffy summer meeting chamber atmosphere were almost comical. As if you’d just sprung out of your seat and made an attempt on the poor, sheltered heir’s life. Out of the corner of your vision, you think you see one member of the council clutch his heart and faint-

“Pffft–!” That slight snigger rips through the air in sheer contrast, and every pair of eyes in the room peaks curiously over at the way Gojo muffles a slight chuckle.

Your eyes widen, you think you liked him better like this.

Almost as if he’d just sensed your thoughts, he’s schooling his face into one of a steady lack of emotion, lightly clearing his throat.

Though, you catch the pointed tips of his ears scorching cherry-red.

“Where is the ring, boy.” Gojo’s father was a stern man, and his commanding voice was just as cut-throat. Seated right beside his son in a mirror image of you and your own father, he didn’t have to be loud to make Gojo’s spine stiffen almost unnoticeably still.

Ramrod-straight, silent- the younger version of the former head stuffs one hand between the fabrics of his yukata.

And you weren’t sure what sort of ring might be bestowed on you by the famed Gojo clan - you didn’t allow yourself to imagine it. Perhaps a clean silver to match their emblem? Perhaps studded with sapphires for their new head’s irises?

Whatever it may have been, you don’t get to find out.

Because in that moment, Gojo Satoru flashes you with the obnoxious plastic pink of a ring pop. The very same kind you’d sneak out of your estate to buy from that little corner shop down the road, fifty yen maximum.

“Satoru.”

Make that twenty yen.

“What?” His voice almost lilts into a whine as he responds to his father - trying oh-so-hard to pretend nothing was wrong, and this was totally the silver heirloom engagement ring of his family. Just…smelling slightly of artificial strawberry.

Gojo senior pinches his nosebridge, “I swear to- if you are not serious about that damn- school-”

“It’s alright!” Your fiancé seems just as bewildered at your interruption as you are, and you narrow your eyes enough to tell him that if he messed up your chances at going to Jujutsu High then his blood would be on your hands. Strongest or not. Reaching out your left arm, “I don’t mind, truly.”

And while the rest of the chamber murmurs, Gojo leans over the table to slip his mocking engagement ring onto your finger. To be married. To be his.

Holding your hand in his larger, slightly roughened ones, “I’d rather die than marry you.” He’s crouching to whisper in a heated pant, each syllable sticking to your skin. Only mostly meaning it.

And you whisper back into his furiously pink ear—“And I’d rather marry a special grade curse.”

Gojo Satoru met you in the summer, like one of those heat-induced fever dreams.

Okay, perhaps that wasn’t the best comparison- but in his defense, penning flowery literature was never his best subject after he nearly caused a clan rift by comparing Zenin Jinichi to a bullfrog.

It was a compliment, really!

But you were a whirlwind, one that left his world tilted and his skin sizzling with heat in the aftermath- in a bad way, of course! You were a bad fever dream - a pretty one, sure, dressed in your most decadent cerulean robes and a withering glare - but still one of those you think back to even months later.

Even nearly a year later when he’s sixteen and had insisted on walking up the ancient stone steps of Tokyo Jujutsu High without his entourage of attendants and elders.

“Hello hello—” Gojo’s running his pale fingers through even paler, short hair to free it of pinkish cherry blossom petals. Looming around the naturally green gardens of campus, “Where is- oh!”

Just as soon as he was about to tug his opaque, round sunglasses off to inspect whether it would impress his fellow students- that lady working at the store said so, so it must be, he bought twenty-five! Gojo spots a figure leaned against one of the ancient oaks by the dorms.

That velvety blue of the dress code was one that he could recognize anywhere after so many years of yearning for it.

And before he can stop himself, he’s sprinting towards the dark blob as fast as his lanky legs could take him. Calling out, “Yoohooo–! Your one and only favorite classmate is here~”

“Ieri–!”

“Wait-”

“You-”

So caught up in both your excitements to meet your new classmate - one of Utahime’s friends who happened to be your age - you two didn’t notice the one, single thing that you two couldn’t deny. Right by your side.

Your betrothed.

You snarl, stopping short. “What are you doing here-” And he does, too, hands haughtily planted on either side of his slender hips as he leans in close.

Snapping at you, the brief glimpse of his electric blue eyes sends goosebumps down your body. “I could ask the same from you. Couldn’t resist my charms so you had to follow me, hm~?”

“I’m here to learn, obviously. Why are you here- to get exorcised?”

“Take that back! I’m here to learn, too.”

You knew that it was part of your betrothal contract that the two of you would attend Tokyo Jujutsu High, you knew that the two of you would end up seeing each other one way or the other. And you already knew your clan stowed that stupid pink ring away deeply at the bottom of your suitcase (where you’d hopefully never have to see it ever again).

But you still raise a brow at the flashy designer stamping on his shades. “…Really?”

And Gojo could’ve taken disgust- hell, he would have even welcomed anger.

But that genuine, wondering confusion in your tone as you swept your eyes up n’ down his defensive stature made him flush- “H-how dare you- duel me. Right here, right now.”

“Haaah? You would duel your future wife?”

“Scared?”

“No, just wondering why you didn’t ask sooner.”

Scoffing, both of you dart your heads in unison to the girl with the shortly-cut hair that was following your argument like the fiercest of tennis matches. Immediately turning ashen-faced at your attention, and damn near devastated when Gojo happily keens. “Bob girl! Can you keep score of-”

“No.” She deadpans.

Frankly, you wondered just how she managed to sound as if she’s seen every horror there was to see in the world already. Possibly because she already had, right there, but Shoko doesn’t spend her time answering your unspoken question.

Too busy digging in her jacket pocket for-

“Cigarettes!” Gojo squeals, never having seen someone his age take a puffed-out drag of one so close-up before. The clan always detested anything that would ‘stain the purities of the body’- and right now, Ieri Shoko looked like she couldn’t handle sitting there one more second longer if she didn’t have one.

He points a lengthy finger your way, accusatory. “I blame you for this- somehow- you must have corrupted her with your ways and made her feel all strange like you did me.”

You roll your eyes, “Yeah? I blame you for our marriage-”

And he’s uttering for the second time, “Oh yeah? Well, I’m never marrying-”

But just as Gojo was about to whirl on his feet and flick out a few cursed tendrils of energy like he’d taught himself. He was thinking of calling this one ‘Blue’ after that shade of your robes the first time you met, and the way you were about to be it’s first-

A deep voice cuts off his train of traitorous thoughts- “Yeah- mhm, I’ve gotta go. My new classmates are here.”

A new-comer.

And the black-haired boy looks as if he’d no sooner flip his cellphone closed to end his ongoing call and pretend he never walked out of the dorms than join whatever mess he’d just walked in on.

Amethyst eyes slowly swivelling underneath his tied-back bangs to look at a fuming Gojo…to an equally-matched you…to Shoko, already chain-smoking her fifth cigarette away by now.

“Actually…could you stay on the line for a bit longer, momma.”

“It’s legal if it’s personal property, isn’t it?”

You groan, “It’s not your personal-”

He quickly taps the polished handle- “Now it is.”

“That’s…” You’re squinting your eyes, as if it will somewhat blur and spare you the sight of Gojo Satoru attempting to steal that shiny red moped parked at the outer edge of campus. If anything happened, you didn’t want to go through the hassle of getting called in as a witness, at least.

Shoko puts you out of your misery as the one voice of reason, “Yeah, that’s a lie.”

Geto cups a hand over his gaze to fight off the breaking rays of sunset, voice amused. “Well, I don’t see any cameras here.”

“Perfect—!” Gojo sings, clapping his hands together as he stares over his ridiculously gaudy glasses. It was nearing the end of first year, early December wind your fifth uninvited guest as the four of you chose to stay over in the dorms for your first high school holidays. “The key’s still here so we can sneak out, buy me the best birthday cake in Tokyo- no, in all of Japan, and sneak back in right before grump ol’ Yaga-”

“Sneak off from who-”

And, there, was aforementioned grumpy ol’ Yaga.

Running at full speed toward your deviant little group from the top of Jujutsu High’s stairway. Which, considering the tough, rocky path, wasn’t too fast at all- but the four of you just bolt.

Faster than you’ve seen anyone move during any cursed mission, if you’re being quite honest.

Shoko running, phone in hand with a suspiciously blinking camera light that meant she was recording the entire ordeal. Geto urgently twisting his fingers into what you’d learned was his summoning technique - he’d meant to call his Rainbow Dragon for a rapid escape, but ended up manifesting the massive, sleek form of his Giant Catfish who scooped him up into the murky depths of its mouth and slithered away.

And Gojo?

Oh, Gojo was letting out the most impressive high pitched squeal before he’s slamming something hard, and helmet-shaped on top of your head.

“Wh- hey!” Before you can even register it, two massive hands are grabbing onto your waist to sit you down on the cushioned back of the moped. Backwards. “Wrong way-”

“I don’t know how to drive!”

Your feet hitting the side, your back hitting Gojo’s larger one, it takes only a singular split-second for him to jam that lil’ key and speed off down the stony path of the campus. With Professor Yaga yelling from behind and you yelping, “Gojo I’m gonna kill you-”

“My bad, I meant to grab Yaga.” He’s grumbling at you from the front, the roll of his eyes practically carrying on the whipping wind.

“Yaga would’ve known how to seat a kidnapee-”

“You want to touch me?”

“…No”

“Scared?”

Your wide eyes watch the disorienting way the lush nature of the Jujutsu High passes by, as if you were stuck in a kaleidoscope. “No.”

He only hums, finally getting used to controlling the vehicle enough that he was mostly sure he wouldn’t crash into every upcoming tree. “Prove it~”

Wordlessly, Gojo slows down enough that you won’t be part of his definitely-opportune traffic accident as you shift your body ‘round. The faux leather cover creaking! once you rover your palms onto his shoulders for balance- “There.”

“Ever seen anyone hold onto the driver like this? Ya prude-”

“Fine-” You’re cutting him off- cutting yourself off by clinging your hands in a neat knot around Gojo’s firm core. And through the flashing shard of the side-view mirrors, you catch the way his ears burn. “You better not get an erection.”

Okay, only partly sure he wouldn’t crash into an oncoming tree.

The deep timbre of his voice cracks- “H-hey!” You knew how to push his buttons just so. “Gods- why’d it have to be you?”

“And why’d it have to be you.”

The part he doesn’t say out loud is that it would’ve been stranger if it was anyone else.

Not that you needed to hear it- of course not, you were still his infuriating, bold- stubborn fiancée who was forced onto him, after all.

Yet, to Gojo who’s held close by you, and to you who was clinging onto him for dear life as the haven of Jujutsu High melts into the bustling city, he doesn’t think he’s had a more peaceful birthday.

It takes fifteen minutes for the two of you to ride to that cozy convenience store on the outskirts of Tokyo, and what felt like hours (but in reality was five minutes) to give up on convincing the elderly clerk that you both were totally not a couple out for an after-school joyride.

And then - as if the universe was directing its very own prank at your expense - only three for Gojo to grow impatient and throw a tantrum swerving the moped to and fro until you finally tore open that packet of sparklers bought as birthday celebrations.

Honestly, what else did you expect from a man who organized his own surprise birthday party?

“Cake? Check. These things? Check. Happy birthday to me~” He’s tipping the starlit firework upside down to draw bands of gold in the darkening air. “Must be in the top seventeen birthdays I’ve ever had-”

You scoff, your breath emitted as a small cloud. “You’ve only had seventeen.”

“It just dropped down to eighteenth thanks to you-” And you swear you see the strongest outline a dick in the air with his sparkler, you swear he purposefully made it bigger than the one you’d drawn. “And nineteenth if we get arrested for the moped.”

In response, you draw the biggest dick. One with his face.

You were parked on the side of a lazy road, only the occasional car and Gojo’s wonderment breaking the tense silence - perhaps the most civil one you’ve had in years.

It was odd being out with Gojo Satoru. No sniping over your betrothal, and if he tried hard enough- he could pretend that there was none. That there might be. But for now, the two of you were just two classmates sneaking out to ransack your local stores, “If we do get arrested, I’m blaming you.”

He nods, dramatically. Bumping his broad deltoid against yours, “As husband, that would be my duty.”

“So…” You’re blinking, your own sparkler’s ashy ends drooping onto the ground. There was no doubt on your mind that Geto would not have mercy on the two of you for finishing about half of these sticks. But you had something else on your mind right now, “You’re saying you don’t mind-”

“Wait. wait, no, that’s not what I meant. O-of course I mind!” And Gojo doesn’t give you the time to call out the way his breath gasps- the way his voice shakes, the way he’s flushing. Furious, “Never- in my right mind- would I marry you.”

A ring of gold from the dying sunlight wraps around your irises and irritates him so much when you finally look away to rustle your hand inside the numerous shopping bags.

Airily musing, “Then, I guess as my not-ever-husband you wouldn’t want your not-ever-wife to gift you this-”

“I take it back, I’m marrying you.”

If the elders of your clan knew that all it took for Gojo Satoru to accept the betrothal would be a packet of extra, extra-caramelized popcorn then they would have had the two of you married off by yesterday.

“Make no mistake, this was meant for me.” It wasn’t. You did eye this particular brand too long before swiping it off the shelf and paying when he wasn’t looking. You did think of nothing but the plastic ring burning a hole deeply inside your skirt pocket. And the way he’d whined and thrown himself on the floor of the nearby theatre on your last outing to the city, when Geto refused to buy him caramel popcorn.

So you’d bought it- to shut him up and spare your poor throbbing temples, if anything. Of course.

But you can’t help the words that tumble out of your mouth at the glowing expression gracing his features. “But- here- happy…birthday. I’m not getting you anything for the next ten years.”

He’s silent.

Pondering.

And he can’t think of anything more flat than a little ‘thank you.’

The red, red metallic bag with enough sugar content to put anyone but Gojo Satoru into a coma sits carefully where you’d plopped it into his arms. And he looks at it with the sort of twinkle in his eyes that you’d never seen before. “Well…If I brought Yaga instead of you, he wouldn’t have bought me this.”

“I take it back-”

“Thank you.” Almost as if realizing those awful, treacherous two words himself, he backtracks with a sputter. Strange, he should bug Shoko into doing some sort of heart check-up on him soon. “W-we’re married for as long as I eat these. And after that? Divorce, sweetheart.”

Pretending to wipe your forehead in relief, “Thank goodness-”

“Oi-”

“What-”

And with your grumblings and partially-filled bags in tow, he’s fastening the singular helmet on you - so fast that you think he might’ve just taken advantage of his powers to do so.

Just to watch you strangle out in what was definite annoyance as he pets the plastic top as if you were a child. Smack, smack!

“I’d be a good husband- not that you’d ever know.” Gojo sticks his tongue out at you, vrrrrr—ing the moped engine so that your snarky reply gets drowned out. “And next time I am bringing Yaga instead.”

He takes back those words soon enough when Yaga catches the two of you right at the gates of Jujutsu High. Trying to race back away on his brand-new moped.

“So- you see” Long, white lashes flutter rapidly, “Take pity on your poor, sheltered student. The Gojo elders really didn’t teach me-”

“I should’ve set the mission sooner so that I could be rid of-”

Geto pipes up above Professor Yaga’s booming lecture, a hand raised in every ounce of solemn discipline that his best friend didn’t show. Another mission. Constant. “In my defense, it was his idea.”

Valentine’s day. Also the early first day of second year; and it only brought about more missions, a couple more students as first-years, and a slightly-longer haired thorn at your side betrothed. And, apparently, this - three annoying, grating voices muffling through the gaps of your dorm’s front door.

“I call shots on not answering to that.” Utahime pipes up where she was sprawled out on your bed and knitting her brows at your interrupted girl time. It’s not often that she gets time off from Kyoto to bother her only friends in Tokyo.

Snickering at Shoko’s absent-minded ‘ditto’ and Haibara’s- why was he even here, anyway - “I could! But maybe you should do it, he is your fiancé!”

Utahime cackles, face twisting from mirth to disgust when she inspects that plastic ring from where she’d dug it up from your drawer. “On Valentine’s day, too- oh I would rather die if I were you.”

It takes you a few moments to realize that all three occupants of your bedroom were staring at you for an answer. Pointing at yourself, “M-me?” Facing Haibara, “And why do you know that- you’ve been here for a day.”

He smiles, dazzling. “Ah, Gojo-senpai was telling us- it was why Nanami was trying to call home and leave.”

“Oooo, you heard the man.” Shoko presses a few buttons on her phone, and you hear the suspicious beep–! of the camera starting. Only incriminating herself further when she’s raising it upwards and flapping her hands forwards to urge you to open the door.

You groan, “Next time, we are not having girl’s night in my roo- wait.” And it had never caused you any trouble to leave and enter your dorm, it had never taken you more than a gentle push to open your door. So why was it that it just refused to open right now- “What the-”

It’s as if the door was locked from the outside somehow.

Shoko leans in further with her recording camera as you prod, as you turn your shoulder to hit the wooden pane and shove-

“Why- isn’t this-” You’re hissing through grit teeth, feet planting firmly on the surface and cracking open the bedroom door inch by inch. Gasping, “-open-ing–!”

And the sight before you was one you’d remembered for years.

Not just because smack-dab front n’ center to your vision was a pathetically kneeling Gojo Satoru, cowering in front of your looming teacher- but because of what was actually blocking your entryway.

It wasn’t some lock on the outside as you’d suspected, it wasn’t a large desk or anything of the sort. It was a massive, heaping pile of buttons.

Gold with bits of purple. So many that it was almost as tall as your door.

“What. The. Hell.” Your deadpan voice cuts Gojo off in the midst of some complaint to Yaga about ‘why is it named the Vessel Mission anyway, that’s stupid.’ And three sets of eyes snap to you as they finally register your entrance.

“Ah…” Geto’s the first one to break the silence of your impromptu staring match, even though Gojo was pointedly staring away. Eyes twitching the longer his best friend stared at the mountain of buttons on your doorstep, he looked exhausted. “Satoru, care to explain?”

He’s gulping, “You see, this all has a very reasonable explanation and a very reasonable line of thinking-”

“It’s all Satoru’s fault-”

“What-”

“Of course, it is.” Yaga rubs his aching temples, as he often seemed to do whenever he was around his group of second-years for just a minute too long. The older man turns to you with a weary, tired expression - and you make note of his dark circles, “This is the fifth pile of second buttons I cleaned from your door today- this hour.”

Ah, that explained it.

And it feels like your brain had just short-circuited, “Oh…wait- second buttons-?” Nevermind how he’d come across so many. Bought, most likely.

“I told you the elders taught me nothing-” Gojo squawks, scrambling onto his feet. He’s flailing his hands about, it was not his fault he didn’t know that second button meant…a confession. Or the fact that Geto hadn’t bothered to tell him and only watched with an easy smile as he made a fool of himself. “It was a prank- a prank! And his idea- he helped! I was going to block your door with buttons-”

“-second buttons.”

“-and make you all huffy and puffy that way you get-”

“-on Valentine’s day.” You’re finishing off, arms crossed. Carefully scrutinizing up at him- he hadn’t come across a growth spurt since last semester, he’d rammed into one at full speed. You shudder, in disgust, surely. “Did the elder’s hypnotize you or is there something you’re not telling me…”

And he hates it.

He hates how you look right through him in a way that induces some sort of heart condition in him- and Gojo would know, he’s visited every doctor in Tokyo just because of it. They all laughed.

One even wrote up his letter of resignation.

Sputtering, ears pink in anger- and Gojo was glad that his pale hair had grown out just enough to cover it. Strangely. “Y-you wish, ex-wife.”

You’re swatting the back of his soft locks, and Geto doesn’t note how Gojo seemed to have put down limitless so you could swat him.

“Dickhead.”

“Delinquent.”

“Blind mouse-”

Gasping, he clutches onto the frame of his shades. “Oh, now I really don’t wanna marry you-”

Yaga’s had enough.

“Enough!”

One of the veins near the side of his forehead nearly pops, and you step back with a wince at the oncoming scream- Gojo shuffling behind as if he was bravely offering you up for sacrifice.

“Enough- enough with the- the confessions-” Yaga spears a finger straight at Gojo’s directions and speaks over his protests. “-and the flirting! Flirt after the mission-” Then at you, and you could hear your friends cackling from either side. “Detention for everyone!”

Dammit- another line on your divorce document.

You didn’t get to ‘flirt’ after that Star Plasma mission - not that you would, but still.

In fact, you didn’t get to do all that much after tasting death so close to your little haven at Tokyo Jujutsu High.

And life goes on, sometimes leaving those behind.

And other times honing others who choose to stay and snap-

“It’s Suguru.”

“I know.”

The defection of Geto Suguru. The murder of his parents. His mother.

Your voice was more empty than he’d ever heard it- and he wanted you to scream at him, he wanted you to sob. Anything and everything other than the trained, stable tone that clashed against everything he was feeling right now.

But you only stare out into the yolky yellow tint beaming over the sprawling grounds. Sat on the flat, stone staircase of campus with your knees hugged to your chest- and he was close enough on the steps to hear your low mutter. “I’ll be leaving, too.”

Gojo’s head snaps to you- “What?”

“It’s my clan.” You’re swallowing, refusing to look at him directly. And that in and of itself almost hurt as much as when you did- and, for perhaps the first time, he’d rather have his heart race in those strange little palpitations. Right now, it was just heavy. “And yours. They don’t think it’s safe for a ‘future Gojo bride’ to be so close to danger.”

“Then we won’t marry.” He’s declaring, snowy brows set stubbornly.

“I know.” You lilt your head back to watch the sluggishly swimming clouds above, likely the last time you will from here. The council will be here tomorrow, and with them, your departure. You had that silly pink ring on your little finger, he notices. “I’m leaving.”

“I already said we won’t-”

“No, dickhead. I’m leaving.”

Widened, quivering blue peripherals lock onto you- and Gojo’s rosy lips part into a soft oh!

He knew what you meant- hell, when he first wanted to enroll in this damn school, he’d threatened to leave the clan over and over until they’d finally relented. And suddenly he’s hit with the loss of his little group - no more missions, no more convenience store runs, no more you.

You were to graduate in a year, with only half the students left in both your grade and the one below. Nanami wasn’t even going to become a sorcerer anymore, not after Haibara.

And he knew - he just felt - that you won’t be there for it. That you might never be.

How he wished to run, too.

“Utahime’s friends with that one special grade sorcerer- Yuki Tsukumo. I’m leaving with her today to continue training my own way.” You’re continuing, hands flexing in your lap. “And leaving the clan. Officially.”

Huffing, “What? Gonna leave your poor husband at the altar—?”

“Like I’ve always wanted to.”

“Without even a kiss for the bride?” And he doesn’t know why he says it. Even more, he doesn’t know why he holds the line of your gaze and can’t bear to look away, even as his heart starts up that familiarly strange ba-dump–! rattling his chest.

The tips of his ears tinging the very same blood-red as the sun now, Gojo thinks he can hear his eardrums whistling once you lean in. Once you close your eyes. And once you press your lips to his plush, soft ones for a mere single second.

“There-” You’re murmuring, trying to sound stern even though the waver in your voice gives you away. “Now you’ve been deflowered and can’t complain. You’re an absolute curse, you know that?”

And, suddenly, he gets it.

Oh, so that was why all those cardiologists he visited laughed at him for about a year straight.

He gets it.

Chuckling bitterly, of course. Of course, he has to understand now. Of course, he loses every shred of sun just as soon as he closes his hands- because for what reason should a weapon crave normalcy? Crave sealed fate? For what right should he demand that you stay here to bind you to him?

His mouth quivers, head turning so that you won’t see the wet glitter of his eyes in the dying daybreak. “So now I’m a special grade and a curse? Does that make me the special grade curse you want to marry?”

Your flip phone buzzes, and he already knows it’s time. Standing up, “You had the curse part down pat even before you were a special grade. Probably why your bride’s running off, Satoru.”

It was the fifth and last time that Gojo Satoru would be declaring that stupid sentiment. Smile only half-true. It was a cruel summer.

But he always was good at waiting.

Gojo tugs on that cold second button of his uniform, calling out in place of a goodbye. “Good thing we won’t be getting married, sweetheart~”

Itadori Yuji has spied on his teacher’s phone before.

He didn’t mean to–he swears it! And was it even that much of an invasion of privacy if he simply glanced over at the glaring lockscreen wallpaper? Surely, it wouldn’t have been as bad as if he had peered over Gojo’s shoulder when he actually unlocked his phone…

…Okay maybe he had seen a snapshot of the older man’s home screen as well, but like he said- it was an accident. Flickering his curious eyes over as he opened up his catalogue of movies during their training together.

But what wasn’t an accident was just how vividly he remembered each wallpaper.

On his lockscreen; taken from the inside of what looked like one of Tokyo Jujutsu High’s dorms, with a massive pile of toppling buttons in the center and a much younger Gojo Satoru (and someone who looked faintly like Kenjaku?) kneeled on the floor. Clearly being punished.

Yet, what was most interesting was the scowling, arms-crossed figure of another student he was staring up at. Unable to tear his eyes away, even through his shades.

It was you.

That familiar face also featured in Gojo’s home screen - a more blurry photo, this time, as if it was still in motion. Of his teacher in the process of scrambling onto a shiny red moped, keys turning, with you stowed away in the backseat - yelling and sat backwards.

And Itadori tried not to think much of it, but he saw you in the small framed photograph that Principal Yaga pretended not to have on his desk, yet, polished every day.

He saw you in the postcards that Professor Shoko pinned up on the packed bulletin board of her infirmary, amongst diagrams of dissections and slaughter. He saw you in the brief, blurry facetime that the other teacher, Utahime, from Kyoto was on during parts of the exchange event.

And he saw you at the foot of Gojo Satoru’s bed, after he’d won.

Older, more mature now - but inevitably you.

Itadori could tell, even in the forlorn way you were slumped over the side of the mattress in Shoko’s clinic, body half-seated on a chair like you’d been there all night.

“You…” He’s breathing, making you stir against his will.

You blinky your teary eyes up in groggy confusion, fingers instinctively tightening on the large, callused fingerpads of Gojo’s digits. “Huh? Oh, you must be Yuji. And Megumi, and Nobara.”

Itadori was just about to open his mouth and answer that no, he was actually just Yuji- when a disgruntled voice behind him makes him realize he isn’t alone. “We apologize for the trouble, we can come back later if you-”

“Oh, no no.” You wave Fushiguro’s words off as the three enter - well, as Fushiguro enters and Kugisaki shoves Itadori inside. “I’m sure he’d want everyone here when he wakes.”

Gojo had won in Shinjuku, but Satoru was still sleeping.

Famed eyes closed. Bundled in the arms of bandages and reverse cursed energy ‘round his toned middle, he was breathing in slow unison with the beep! of the nearby heart monitor. Alive.

You really did have Shoko to thank later.

And Itadori knew that as a student he should be more invested in how his unconscious teacher was doing, but he just couldn’t help but keep sneaking glances over and over. Wondering just who you really were-

“So, is the wedding going to be anytime soon?”

Fushiguro speaks, and the rest of the trio gapes. How dare he ask something like that from a sorcerer so lovely. And wait- why were you chuckling? “Oh right-” Nodding down at Gojo’s large form, of course, he told his honorary son everything. “I am his fiancée.”

“His what-”

“How much did he pay you-”

“Kugisaki, don’t be rude-”

Fushiguro nods, “No, she’s right.”

“Unfortunately, only this.” You’re scrunching your nose as you answer Kugisaki’s question- pulling out a tiny chain from underneath your uniform with an aged, faded pink plastic ring pop.

And she responds like she’d been personally wronged, dragging her hands carefully down her eye-patched face. “Ohhh- I knew it- not only is he a deadbeat teacher, he’s a deadbeat husband, too.”

“To be fair I did leave him. Of sorts.” You wave a hand airily, already having heard from Ijichi about the fate of the higher-ups. The clans. Over the younger girl’s ‘understandable!’ “I just landed in Tokyo today, I wish I could’ve come sooner but- ah, well.”

“B-but…” Everyone looks at Itadori as he stammers out, cheeks burning a slight rouge once your hand drifts over Gojo’s exposed core. Whispering in one breath, “How did he get a wife so pretty…”

“Hey- that’s my wife you’re talking about.”

You could recognize that smug, simpering tone anywhere. You’d be able to pick it out from a crowd of thousands.

Laughing- as he’s tackled into a hug by an overeager Itadori, and the falsely reluctant rest.

It was quite strange to see Gojo Satoru like this - not just laid barren and sprawled over some hospital bed, but without any of his usual blindfolds and sunglasses. Just like when you’d met. And he always was so honest with his eyes.

And he was back.

And you were back - after ten years.

Which is why Itadori and Kugisaki have to fight the urge to look away at the expression settling over Gojo’s serene face. Wondering how you - his fiancée, of all things - would react. Winning against the King of Curses was quite the accomplishment, even for the strongest.

Would you cry? Would you throw your hands over him as they just did? Should they actually get up and leave the room-

“You- you complete idiot.” Gojo half-wonders whether your strength could rival Sukuna himself once you strike down a punch to his scarred shoulder. Yelling, glaring- crushing him into a hug.

Your voice is suspiciously thick once you’re gurgling out into the pale crook of his neck, “I thought you said you’d rather die than marry me.”

And they don’t know what they’re more surprised about- the way that Gojo had the audacity to say those words to you, or the way that Gojo had the audacity to listen to those very words and laugh. Head thrown back, “Sweetheart, I’d come back from death just to marry you.”

Pulling away, you take the longest look at your betrothed that you think you ever have.

Everything from his longer, still-snowy hair, tickling the tips of sparkling sapphire eyes. Slightly slicked back to reveal shyly red-dusted ears, and a cute lil’ dimple at the edge of his boyish grin.

He was still the same Gojo you’d left behind - even though he was taller, stronger. So much bigger that you could feel the flex of his deltoids underneath your palms, and the ripple of his beefy forearms looped around your waist.

He was still Gojo. Always beautiful.

SLAM!

“O-oh.” You’re jolting at the sudden closing of the clinic door, clearly his students had left the two of you to some privacy, and you’re almost embarrassed. “We’re an awful example.”

“When have we ever been a good example?”

“Well, I could say that about you-”

He only tugs you closer, breathing out as if the first breath he’d taken in a while since Shinjuku. Since you’d been gone. “I missed my wife.” And the two of you knew you should alert Shoko by now, but you only stay still- with you nearly in his bed by now.

For what felt like hours. Years.

“Yeah? Well, I- I missed you, too. I thought I lost you.” You wince, “I’m sorry for departing so suddenly.”

It was sincere - but the feeling of Gojo’s smirk pressing up against the side of your thumping pulse almost makes you reconsider it. “I know how you can make it up to me, wifey~”

Scoffing, he was really ramming up the ‘marriage’ part of your relationship by now. “Nothing with buttons or mopeds or-”

“No no-” Lurching back slightly, the plush, puckered fringes of his lips lean in oh-so-closely. Until you could practically taste the saccharine sugar of his heated breath, “You know, I never got to kiss the bride.”

Oh.

Then he’s kissing you- and you’re kissing him. And it’s all that you’ve ever wanted with the sharp, pointed ends of Gojo’s canines digging into your bottom lip to drag you back.

Drinking you in like a man parched- he’s finding life in your mouth. Slipping his tongue in past the spit-glossed crevice of your mouth and uttering a hot pant. “Please-” Manhandling you with his strong, scarred arms up to straddle him on the rickety mattress. “Please.”

And you’ve never heard the strongest beg like this.

Never heard him flutter his droopy lashes and look at you through starved, feral eyes. A translucent bubble of spittle sparkling by the end of his swollen lips, “P-please.”

Never heard him stutter.

Clearly he’s reading something in your sultry eyes because Gojo’s hastily shuffling the two of you down the bedsprings. Head hitting the puff of his pillows, your ass hitting his sharp pelvis.

Your fiancé holds you upright and rubs a clawing hand doooown the back of your spine, toying with the metallic zipper on your sorcerer’s uniform skirt. “Fuck that about hah- not marrying you.” He’s crooning out in a throaty tone, strands of white nearly covering his greedy gaze. “M’ready to consummate our marriage right here, right now.”

“B-but Satoru- you just woke up-”

“So?” There’s something deep n’ dark in his tone that made shivers skitter up your spine. Attempting to clench your thighs together but all it does is make your outer pussy push against the smooth path of his white happy trail. “Your husband’s the strongest, sweetheart.”

And then you’re being roughened up- then your skirt’s bearing the brunt of being almost torn clean off your hips.

Gojo barely even registered his power, not giving two shits if it meant that he got to admire your pale blue panties up close and personal. A firm hand groping your right cheeks help push your clothed pussy up until your slit strikes the edge of his chin, thighs now straddling his pretty, pretty face.

Rosy lips purring over that darkening wet splotch between your legs, “Bon appétit.”

“Shut up and just- oh, fuck!”

He’s flopping the pinkish crown of his tongue out just enough to dab a lil’ dewdrop of spit between your swollen pussylips. And it’s just all that it takes for the first taste of your saccharine pussy to coat his tastebuds-

“O-oh!” He gasps, his hazed peripherals widen. You’re faintly registering the way that the shiny overhead lights of the private room flicker-

Gojo grins as you gape, “Did you just…”

“Guess m’not in control anymore.” He’s snickering, stuffing himself nose-deep into your cunt. And there’s such a primal hunger in him, the way he’s not even caring for your poor, sodden panties before he’s hanging his jaw open and slide-slide-sliiiiding the edge of his mushy tongue up n’ down your folds. “Heh-” A light goes out somewhere down the corridor. “Whoops.

He’s whacking his jawline on the soft inner parts of your thighs and it still isn’t close enough. Tilting his head just so to slip his damp muscle between your ruined fabric.

“Shit- shit, your tongue is sooo big.” You find yourself keening, hips rocking back and forth at a mindless pace. And, truly, you now knew why Gojo talked so much because his tongue was so-very-lengthy, already circlin’ your sticky hole, “Like you better- hck! better like this.”

And the way he looks at you gets you even more drenched, haplessly watching as Gojo opens his throat wide enough to let the cloying droplets of your slick fall down to his maw.

“Oh yeaaaah–?” Gurgling already with the beads of sap that soak the lower half of his face, he’s starin’ you right into your fluttering eyes once he’s tugging your panties to snap! back on your heated core with an index. “Whaddaya gonna do about it?”

Before you can answer - before you can even think, the very tippy-top dome of his fingertip coils slimily down your naked slit. He feels you - so soft n’ warm - for the first time and pants. “Gonna ngh- argue with me from here to make up for it? Hmmm—?”

Almost as if on cue, your pert pussy is letting out the rawest lewd squeeelch at his touch. Bucking wildly, “Are you all talk or what ngh-”

“Looks like you’re all talk.” And you seriously were so wet that it was dripping down Gojo’s handsome chin, rovering a few more solid inches of his index to keep pryin’ your cunt apart with a wet plap!

Then a second inch- and a second finger.

His probing fingers are so big that the gummy channels of your walls have to mold to each size and measurement just to take him. “Look at ya- taking me in sooo well but ya don’t even- sit-” One of his hands claws on your left ass cheek to hold you down where you were hovering your weight, the other sinking in—

You’re squealing at the press of his thick, knobbled middle finger curving against one of your most tender spots. “What if I suffocate-”

“Then suffocate me.”

“You just came back to life.”

“I came back to life just to ngh- see this pretty pussy.” Gojo snarls up at you, tugging you down. Pulling you. Manhandling you. He just wanted to French kiss your pussy until he had that smart mouth of yours stupid. And those silly lil’ panties were a barrier-

Within seconds, he has shreds of your underwear tattered and ripped between his pearly whites.

Looking like a fucking animal once he’s finally sitting you down properly and stuffing himself so deep that you nearly see his pale, straight nosebridge disappear between your folds.

Snaking his tongue to stuff and stuff where two of his fingers were pumping in n’ out in n’ out in n’ out. You were being dually stuffed open, the sting of him stretchin’ you out and swiping the gooey bottom of your core just delicious.

“Don’t mind- haaaa-” Breaths ragged, movements sloppy. Gojo wastes no time in pursuing his delicate lips and spitting, “-dying now that I got ta see her. Now that I got to- hck- taste.”

Hand shaking where he slides it along your thigh, breaths stuttered.

He’s feeling your slick waterfall down with every lap and slash of his tongue, bearing no mercy. Your thighs rendered all jittery and sleek with a sheen of syrup every time he flicked the tip of his tastebuds on top of your clit.

“I’ve been so fucking thirsty- sooooo fucking thirsty.” Gojo whines, and you swear his baritone voice cracks. Hitches. Hips rutting up into the empty air, “You know how long I’ve wanted this- do you have any. Fucking. Idea?”

He sounds genuinely ruined, spitting back into your treacly pussy just to follow the wad dooown the seam of your pussy with his tongue.

A third finger puckers ‘round the edge of your entrance, and you’re whining once Gojo lazily slugs the first pad inside and scrapes the roof of your cunt. “Please- since when- ngh- s-since…”

Giggling, higher-pitched than usual. “Oh, sweetheart- you don’t even wanna know.” You’re whimpering when he’s swatting down the velvety edge of his tongue on your sensitive nub three times before pulling away. Smack-smack-smack. “Spit in my mouth n’ I’ll tell you, h-heh.”

Breathless, “What did you just ask—?”

“Scared?”

And Gojo’s pale brows raise when you’re hunching forwards just enough to grab his clammy cheeks, streaming out a glittery streak of spittle straight into his ajar mouth. “Not if it gets you t-to- shut up-”

You spit in his mouth, and from the slightly-angled turn of your head you catch the way that his throbbing erection twitches.

His fingers thwack so hard your very bones rattle, and Gojo drools the knot of slick straight back through your hole. Letting the jointed bumps of his digits stretch rub your pussy all red and raw from the inside.

“That’s it that’s it.” He’s goading you on, scouring the searchlights of his digits inside of you for that one fragile target. And you’re feeling him poke his fingertips into the nooks n’ crannies near your g-spot, making you see stars. “I’ve wanted you to shut me up- use my ngh- face since I fucking knew what it was. Heh- if you’re not scared-”

“As if I’d be scared-”

“Prove it. Ride me.”

“I am-”

“Not enough.” Within just a single blink of your glassy eyes, Gojo’s raising his non-dominant hand up with enough cursed energy that the neglected ol’ blindfold strewn on the edge of his bed flies into his grasp.

Twisting his thick fingers over the silken fabric, circling it over your neck and immediately hauling you further down- “Ride me. Ride the st-strongest like you own it- h-haaaah- I’m your husband, aren’t I?”

With every word, with every second he’s thrashing four exact strikes of his fingertips scraping your poor g-spot. Slurring out a damp sluuurp every time your sheeny pussylips are gobbling him up.

“Yes- hck! yes.”

Grumbling, sleazy grin just glued to the knobbly tip of your clit. “Yeah- yeah, then use me like I am.”

Kissing right back every time he’s surging his head up and mazing the flexible ends of his tongue muckily. It’s so wet n’ long that you’re damn near feeling the scrape of his tastebuds by your favorite spot, sloppily—“D-don’t think m’gonna last, Satoru.”

Gojo audibly, pornographically moans as you start carnally hastening your tempo.

Cumming on his face- fuck, this was the wettest of his dreams all those long, lonely nights. In response he only latches his strawberry-pink lips against your cunt further, feeling every hot gush flood his throat.

And you were so close that Gojo was drooling- pupils stirrin’ around the whites of your eyes with every circle of his thick tongue, throat cracking with whines every time he’s slushily spearing your pussy with his fingers. Over n’ over.

Rovering alllll around to prick your tenderest areas with- fuck, now four of his fingers.

Your husband spikes the edge of your g-spot, hard. Pulling you down with the corner of his blindfold just to dig his finger in deeper, “W-wanna cummm— ngh- please.”

“Call me husband.” He cockily smiles over the rim of your cunt where he was devouring you like a feast. “Call me- nghh- husband and I’ll let you cum.”

“Please-” Grabbing a fistful of his hair to shove him deeper and hopefully quieten his teasing. “-h-husband.”

Gojo groans like he’s the one cumming, “Ohhhh- again. Louder.”

“Husband-”

“Again.”

“Husband– Toru–!” Pouting stubbornly, “Unless you fucking can’t- oh, fuck.”

Both you and the protesting bedsprings sing out in embarrassing synchronization once he’s shoving you into your high with a soft, sudden zap–! of one jujutsu-coated fingerpad across your g-spot. “Cumming- nghhh- m’cumming m’cumming–!”

And it feels so good you lose your vision to pure white, it feels so good that you can only throw your head back and ride him through each one of your peaks.

Milking the highs of your orgasm in repeated, filthy drags of your hips that knock the top of your glazed slit against his buttony nose. Whack!

“O-ohhh—” Gojo throws his head back at the sheer, sensual motion. It just feels so good having you slickly rovering your pussy over his gaping maw, chasing the heat of his tongue slithering across your clit. Your sweet insides squeeze around his long fingers that Gojo thinks he could just cum right then n’ there.

And he almost does.

Almost- with almost inhuman reflex, he’s sneaking his free hand underneath the covers to plug up his leaking, red-hot orifice. Drivelling out a few creamy cobwebs of pre before he can plop his thumb over it. Close one.

You ogle with a parted mouth as he grits his teeth hard enough that the plane of his neck throbs with a few veins, “Fuh-fuuuck–!”

And if you didn’t know any better, you’d have claimed that sounded like a whine.

A whimper.

But before you can call Gojo out on it, he’s sitting nearly ramrod straight against the cool metallic headboard. Starchy blankets - all drenched and coated at the hem with your trickling sap - all but thrown to the bottom of the bed.

“Don’t worry- hah-” Suddenly, you feel something hot and moist gliiiiide between your puffy core. And it was so thickly curvy that your folds are being smeared apart as much as possible, “Made sure to save the big one for when m’inside, sweetheart.”

Mewling, “Big one?” Pathetically swaying your mouth open the moment he starts suckling on your tongue like some cute candy, “You sure about that?”

“See for yourself, my wife.”

You don’t know what to gape at more.

What Gojo Satoru looks right now - eyes hooded, face flush, ivory tendrils of hair slicked back with sweat, several layers of sickly sweet slick stuck from the tops of his cheeks and gleaming down to his jawline - or the way that his cock looks like right now.

He was completely naked underneath, and you’re mentally counting about nine inches- possible even ten. Ten inches of solid, barreling length scrubbed all red n’ raw with ribbons of precum. Bursting out from the hole at the top of his fat mushroom tip and all the way down to the soft white hairs at his base.

Drenched.

And Gojo gives the left of your ass cheek a good spank when it seems like you won’t be talking any time soon. Too hypnotized. “There there- big, huh?”

You’re huffing, “Y-you wish.”

“No need to liiiie- s’all yours.” Something in him cracks when he bucks up ever-so-slightly to let the shiny bulge of his cocktip scrape down your slit, mixin’ a heady concoction of white pre and slick that makes him salivate. “Look at her- she’s sayin’ she wants more.”

“You’re pussydrunk.” Such loud squelching noises that he jerkily lurches his head closer to listen to, as if his favorite song.

“Hell yeah I am, my wife.” With a raspy chuckle, Gojo slips the circle of his divot just underneath your swollen folds and hisses. “Now- I won. Your husband ngh- won today, why don’tcha gimme my reward, sweetheart?”

Oh-so-ready to make him cry on your tongue, you eagerly start snaking your hand downward.

Fist almost enclosed around the bulky cylinder of his hilt before he stops you right there. V-line hitting your pelvis as he fucks up, up, up-

“Nononono- another time. Right now…” Gojo slouches back, liiiicking that candied glaze of your juices off of his right hand. One by one. Before cushioning it underneath his head and watching you through sexy half-lidded eyes. “How do you want me?”

You hum, pretending to tap your chin in thought. “How you’ve wanted ta- ngh- have me, Toru–”

How he’s dreamed of having you.

Of shoving his thick cock between your pussy folds and fucking that smug smile off of your face while you tried to snap back at him. And his body moves before his brain.

Your back hitting the dampened sheets, your shirt and bra puddling onto the floor.

He doesn’t think he can breathe, he doesn’t even think he can think—especially when he sees that pink plastic ring pop as a pendant on your necklace and leans down to kiss it.

Every ounce of blood sprinting down from his hotly melted mind to balloon up his shaft so hard and cherry-red. Gojo’s tip is practically bawling by the time he’s flipping the two of you over and swiping the hard, aching bulge of it down your cunt.

Your thighs on his shoulders, his pelvis against your ass.

Eyes widening—a mating press. A fucking mating press.

Gojo’s barely even done folding you completely in half before he aligns the round, spheroid edge of his cockhead to crown your sloppy hole and rut. Gasping, he shuts his eyes firmly at the warmth. “Wanted this.”

“O-oh fuck–” Coming your jittery fingers through Gojo’s sweat-splattered hair. He’s just so big that just the feeling of his globular tip makes you see white.

“Wanted this wanted this- wanted this.” Gritting his teeth, furiously. He’s hiking his thighs up so that yours are pushed all the way up to hit your tits, bending you with all his powerful strength. “Have no idea how long- I’ve wanted you like this. Always in this position.”

“Why this one?” It was so filthy - even for him.

“What? Your husband’s the ngh- strongest and you expect him not to put you in a mating press the minute he sees you?”

Spanking the slivery slit of your cunt with one hand, Gojo fucking angles his head and grins at the slight puddle of sap that collects on his wrist.

“So soft n’ sweet-” He bends his knobbly thumb in to twist the button of your clit, licking his pink lips lazily at the way your arousal glitters further soaked. And it wasn’t just that- your husband was just so girthy that he’s tuggin’ your entrance apart to fit his heavy shaft inside. “Oh, always wanted this pretty hole begging f’me.”

Just as he speaks, Gojo slips yet another inch inside and makes your oversaturated pussy keen. “B-bold of you to assume- ngh- I’m the one begging.”

“Ohhh- she’s not?”

“She- fuck!”

Before you can even speak, he’s rolling his sculpted hips and slamming your spit-glued mouth shut. Cooing down with fluttering lashes, “What was thaaaat–?”

You feel a damn sob break at the back of your voicebox at the feeling of his rounded slit lodging against the treacly roof of your cunt. So wet that he’s constantly rubbin’ his veins back and forth on your walls, half-ruts. Half-thrusts. Just to fit in. “Fuh-fuck you!”

And then you’re swearing that Gojo grows harder. Bigger.

The corner of his head swelling up to an even thicker circumference that strikes your soggy cervix with a plop!

He’s bottoming out with a breaking tone, “Who’s fucking who now?”

And now that you’d given him an inch, he was taking a mile.

Fucking you into the rickety clinic bed like he was trying to stop your cute, arguing mouth from shrilling out. Every swab of his bulging cock enough to make your tongue flood with cockdrunken spit, he pounds his entire length into you like he hates you.

Slap!

So hard that the skin on his prominent v-lines stains completely red. And Gojo isn’t even feeling the pain, he’s only spanking hard abs into your front again. And again. And again.

Mouth falling into a sagged oh! as Gojo tilts his head down and watches when your geysering cunt swallows him up from the ruby-red tip to the bulk of his base. Heavy balls just peeking out cheekily.

All the way up until his pure white tufts of hair scratchily massage your clit and make you rut. “There- there.” The flat mountains of his palm come creeping down your tummy to press as he sliiides inside. With a smile, “Inside. Fuck- it’s inside. Can feel me all deep inside, s’like you’re hngh- made for me.”

“S’just s-sooo big, though!” You’re whimpering once he rubs over the callous of his thumb right at the bumpy point of his mushroomy head spearheading in.

Gojo grunts, “And what happened to me being small~”

You clench in response- the only thing you can do. And it’s like the entirety of the chamber tenses with something thick coating each atom of the air.

You just had to clench once and his cursed energy was lapping. Out-of-control.

So powerful that it might just be enough to cause alarm-

“Oh.” As if alerted by something invisible, Gojo raises his free arm towards the door. Lengthy lashes coating with a flicker of blue lightning- before, like nothing ever happened, he’s back to rutting and rutting. In long, methodical strikes of his bashing, bulbous head. Probing deeply into every ridge.

Before you can ask what was the matter, there’s the metallic jiggling of the hospital doorknob. Locked - by his power.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

“I-is anything the matter in here?” Someone- you think it might be Ijichi - calls out from the other side. “The cursed levels were just so high that-”

“Listening to the voice of another man when I’m the one fucking you?” Gojo snarls out, two of his battle-hardened fingertips swatting the side of your cheek so that you’ll stop staring at the door.

Not when he was looking at you like that.

And not when he was the one unsticking your left hand from the side of his muscular obliques, gently kissing your ring finger even though he was drilling into you ferally. “Don’t you think of anyone else when- haaah- I’m the one fucking you-” The fangs of his canines bite in to the flesh of your digit, “Not when I’m your husband.”

“Wh-what if he hears—”

The end of your whine is caught up in his mouth, gnawing down on your lower lip and draaagging. “So let him.” He melts his glissading abs down onto your core, making you feel every bump and scar. “Let him- fuck. S’our long overdue honeymoon- and you’re gonna fucking- take- it-”

Mewling, “Fuck- fuck yes. More.”

It’s like those words have him going mad.

Gojo’s slick orifice grovering into the very bottom of your pussy, he tugs back on the blindfold dangling ‘round your neck to arch you further. Letting his zig-zagged veins creep down your g-spot, precisely.

“Yes- fuck. Your husband.” Repeating and repeating every time he hits your sweet splotchy areas. “M’your husband” And then he clings onto your clit, then he twists his wrist and lets the pads of his digits buzzzz–! with cursed energy. “Your husband.”

Almost as if he couldn’t believe it.

He’s departing his breath out in a scalding breeze every time you squeeze. Bodily shoving apart the inner parts of your legs with his large, flexing shoulders.

“Please- please please-” You’re wailing out utterly raw, the top of your throat feeling like it was clogging up after every ba-thump–! of his sweetly leaking cock probin’ every space inside your cunt. Swelling up so big that it was almost hard for you to clench- “Feels so ngh- good–”

“Yeaaaah–? Your husband’s makin’ you feel all good, huh?” The strongest couldn’t even give a shit about the way your screams were reaching a fever pitch.

Faster, sloppier.

Fingers starting to stain with a bright syrupy coating of your slick, he doesn’t even mean to- but he can’t help the way that the air touching his skin crackles with energy. Drawing out hearts on your perked clit like a lil’ bullet vibrator.

“Go on- say it.” He outlines a very obvious ‘S’ on top of your rugged nub that makes you quiver like a leaf underneath him. And then an ‘A’, a ‘T’, ‘O-R-U.’ Coaxing out your tiny whimpers, “Say my name—”

“Toru- hck! Satoru.”

He twitches, syllables taking on a shaky manner. “O-oh right, that’s my name.” Chuckling, fuck- did he forget his damn name? Just that drunk on your pussy that he’d rather just be called your husband forever and ever. His flushed face pushes forwards to bite on that blindfold and pull you back down, “Call me your heh- husband again.”

Just uttering those words makes him jolt his mushroomy, flared tip inside you until the ridge hits the door to your womb. His balls on your ass. Bruising.

You almost felt shy as he hastily brings down one of your hands to caress his rippling core. From each washboard ab to scar, sensually. “H-husband. My husband.”

Shit- he needed to make you cum now or he was going to, already feeling a steaming drop of pearly liquid empty out from his balls.

“There- there we- go-” And by now Gojo’s fucking you so hard that he’s starting to scrunch his partially-closed eyelids with the weight of big, sparkly tears of sensitivity. “Whatever my wife wants.” The crowned tip of his shaft red and swollen enough to burst, pushing and pushing. “Anything my wife wants.”

“I’m close-” You’re sobbing, reeling him in so close with a grasp of his tensed back muscles. And it was true, his Six Eyes was showin’ him the way your nerves were sizzling, the way your mouth flooded with spittle.

He counts underneath his breath. Five. Four.

Lips wobbling oh-so-adorably, “Toru, m’gonna cum. Let me cum.”

“Ohhh— s’that what you want, sweetheart?” He rolls his thumb over your overstimulated clit until you scream a yes. “Cum then.” Three. Spitting on the hills of his crowned fingerpads, Gojo makes sure they’re tight with particles of cursed energy. Two. Before spanking down- “Cum, my wife.” One.

You don’t know who cums first.

But to Gojo Satoru it doesn’t even matter- all he needs is to make sure is that you were creaming all over his ravaged cock, and that he was there to pump all his columns of wadded seed inside.

Room lights shattering, somewhere in the distance sounding with a sonic boom! Gojo fucks himself hoarse on your pussy until the expanse of his skin was littered with pure power and lightning.

“O-oh my god s’too mmm–” Your mouth dribbles with sap, gooey walls of your cunt sticking to the sides of his veiny shaft. Every tiny drag of his winding lines makes your high explode- “There’s so- hah- so much of it-”

So much that it was overspilling.

And Gojo can only glide the planes of his digits down the saccharine white sap that leaked from between your legs. Gluing his fingers to the stray gaps of your hole, and they were buzzing. “No wastin’ now.” He bites down on the plush gum of his bottom lip and still can’t hold back his snickers. “Gotta g-give you the ring- and my second button. Then take you out for a- a ride-”

He could almost laugh at the dazed confusion on your face, arching up his spine just so that his cock pummeled into you deep and stayed there.

“A ride and then a real ride. On a moped.” Giggling at his own joke, “Take you to eeeevery sweet convenience store in Tokyo you ngh- missed out on. Tell each one m’your husband and we’re having a summer wedding.” Kissing you softly, “M’thinking theme colours blue.”

That in and of itself is enough to make his drivelling orifice stream out yet another jetstream of cum, wadding up the entrance to your womb with clingy sap.

He finishes off with another lecherous slurp that makes you feel so hot inside that it was almost feverish. “A-and then what? S’this all for you big- ngh- honeymoon idea?”

“And if it is?”

“Should’ve left you at the altar-”

Gojo’s red, raw cock jolts. “Ohhhh- just for that m’gonna fuck you in every hah- convenience store, too. Maybe they’ll hear- doesn’t matter.” Grinning, he hikes up a thigh until he is gyrating just enough to swirl his pummeling length in circles. The plump curve of his balls digging into your ass, eyes glowing with blue in the darkness. “Your husband’s the strongest.”

You don’t know if you can do anything but scoff through your embarrassment, “A-and real humble, huh?”

“Well…” He tilts his head with a dopey smile, “Did I tell you that was my first time? Been savin’ myself for heh- marriage, my sweetheart.”

Fuck.

“I love you. Isn’t that the worst thing you’ve ever heard?”

Oh- “I love you, too.”

And something in you told you that this was far from over.

Maybe it was the way that Gojo’s cock strikes the back of your cunt with a splosh of sap, slimily mazing through until it feels like he streams out a squirt of something. You’d just made him squirt- or maybe it was the way that he kisses your plastic engagement ring.

Gaze delirious. Ears red. Fucked-out.

“So…what was that they said about a Gojo heir, my wife?”

“The electricity has been suspiciously unstable today.” Shoko wrinkles her nose up at her completely shattered office lightbulb. The sixth today.

Urgently flicking through her notes before she made a break for her most important patient as of late - the strongest.

Or, as she knew him, that damn Gojo with a penchant for tantrums and harboring a hopeless love for his betrothed. Often both at the same time. Speaking of said betrothed, she’d already shared a hasty greeting with you once you’d first arrived here- before you practically ran to the idiot’s room, that is.

Two peas in a pod.

“We have been getting strange him-level readings on cursed energy levels in this area since a few hours ago.” Utahime grumbles, barely out of the hospital herself but already steady at work as one of the new higher-ups.

“That so? Strange.”

“Yeah, and when I asked Ijichi about it he only looked pale and ran like he saw a-”

The two gasp. In unison.

“He finally proposed.”

A/N. Wrote this with a fever (Gojo was just that hot aha).

Plagiarism not authorized.

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