#hover board guide
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deathbxnny · 7 months ago
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Hi I love your writing!! can I request headcanons of arcane characters if they’re s/o was blind??💕
Arcane characters with a s/o that's blind! | Ekko, Vi, Jinx, Viktor x Gn! Reader
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I absolutely love this idea, so thank you very much for your request, and I hope you'll enjoy this!<3
Content: Reader is blind/visually impaired, romantic relationships, fluff, sfw
Reader has no set pronouns.
((Not proofread))
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》EKKO
He doesn't treat you any differently than anyone else, just based on your disability, but still does his best to make the hideout as accessible as possible for you. Ekko never wants you to feel like a burden either.
He definitely sometimes forgets that you're blind and asks your opinion on things he was looking at aa if you could see them too. He gets very embarrassed after realising, but you at least find it endearing.
Anyone who comments on your disability negatively will be dealt with. The last thing he wants is for you to feel bad about it when you should feel supported instead.
Allows you to touch his face or hair whenever you want, since that's the best way for you to visualize him. He'll shyly deny any compliments you give him but is deep down very flattered that you find him handsome even with your inability to see.
Since you can't fly a hover board on your own for obvious reasons, he often takes you on rides himself. He'll keep a tight hand around your waist whilst he enjoys the sight of you giggling and laughing in the evening sun with him.
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》VI
God forbid anyone ever mistreats you or speaks badly about your disability because she won't hesitate to end them. You definitely have to hold her back at least once a day from putting someone 6 feet under.
With that said, she's extremely overprotective, perhaps near overbearing at times. She doesn't want you to accidentally get hurt or lost, especially when you're walking around Zaun.
She guides your fingers across her many tattoos, hoping you'll be able to visualize what they look like that way when you're curious about them. Vi is thankful that you can't see her red face.
She definitely also sometimes forgets your blind, which always ends up in a laughing fit for you. Hearing her embarrassed apologies always makes you feel so at ease about your disability.
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》JINX
She was fascinated by you from day one. Something about you perceiving the terrible world she grew up in so differently drew her to you deeply. You couldn't see the flaws across her face and body or the shimmer that glowed in her eyes and ruined her from the inside. No, you saw her soul, and that's what made her love you.
Her hideout is practically baby proofed for you with special handrails and fences that protect you from accidentally falling off. It took her days to make, but seeing your excited face at the accessibility made it all worth it.
Jinx and Isha always hold your hand when walking around outside, as Zaun, just so you don't get lost or hurt.
Anyone who tries hurting or insulting you is as good as dead, so you never have to worry about a thing with her around.
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》VIKTOR
He understands you better than anyone else due to his own disability. He never wants you to feel like he does and therefore makes sure you don't feel like a burden or discouraged by it.
Viktor makes many little inventions for you that help you around the house or in public. Whether it's for navigating the city safely or cooking up a meal completely on your own without incident, everything he does is for you to strengthen your sense of independence, since he knows you can't always rely on him.
He takes small walks around campus with you and describes your surroundings in great detail whilst holding onto your hand tightly.
Viktor also definitely likes to joke that you're matching whenever you both are out with a cane in hand. Hearing you giggle about it every time makes his day.
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leyavo · 2 months ago
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TF141 x Intelligence Analyst!Reader
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You’re used to being stuck at a desk, staring at intel or listening in on classified voice recordings. All seeing and all hearing, your call-sign Data because you quite literally memorise everything you read first time. You’ve been with the 141 for a couple years now, but you’re always with a laptop or desktop, hidden away and advising the team. The hours are all over the place, but you like having something to solve, a puzzle where you don’t know what the pieces look like.
Sometimes you’re still there when the guys go to sleep, just you and the glow of the computer screen and a dull yellow lamp.
The Captain shoulders the door open, carrying two cups of dark coloured builders tea. One for him whilst he checks over your fresh reports and another placed beside you as you work. John Price offers you three biscuits in a square of kitchen paper, a little reminder for you to take a fifteen minute break. He’s always got a pack of biscuits in his locked drawer, rations them so he doesn’t put on any weight.
“Now this is classified,” he says, sliding the biscuits towards you. “Just between me and you.” He taps the side his of nose and returns back to his own designated space. Grumbles about how “the guys are sodding animals, would eat the lot in one go.” As if he hasn’t done the same.
You glance up at him after your break, hiding the smile behind your hand as you see the crumbs in his beard. Working both in silence till he bids you goodnight and warns you to do the same soon.
But you’re hardwired to stick it through, one vital source of intel making you dig deeper into a whole new thing. The cork board behind you full of information you’d gathered and would no doubt present to the team when they got in.
Kyle arrives first, placing a cup of coffee down for you with a splash of your favourite caramel syrup. A wave of his hand, not wanting to disturb you or get you to remove the headphones on your head. You raise the cup in thanks, focusing on scribbled mess of post it notes stuck to the monitor. He’s normally the one to drag you out for breaks and go on a coffee run with him.
Piecing together a timeline, that’s when Johnny appears and shoves a cold piece of toast into your free hand (smothered in jam instead of butter, his mum sends homemade jam to him). A heavy pat on your back sending you forwards. He hovers by the cork board, arms crossed over his chest as he reads whatever story you’ve discovered. The event they’re trying to plan for. He normally helps present, excellent map reader and knows the lay of the land.
Simon’s the last one to arrive, you’re setting up the interactive screen whilst Kyle wheels the cork board beside it. Johnny’s standing close by, adding bits and pieces crucial to the overall picture. You even jot down everything he says on your note pad.
It’s not till you collapse in your chair again do you feel the tug on the back of your fleece. “Off to bed with ya.” Simon’s grasp twisting the excess fabric and guiding you to the door. “At least four hours, Data.” And then he closes the door in your face before you can argue.
[Masterlist]
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sierra-r-a-e · 11 months ago
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nsfw ♡ mdni
Nanami Kento was most likely the handsomest man you had ever seen, especially when he was making love to you.
He was a man that usually stuck to routine, and that was the case for the bedroom as well. Now don’t get me wrong— he could give you orgasm after orgasm with just his hands, whether that be gently rubbing your clit, or fucking you on his fingers— he was skilled.
But that doesn’t mean you didn’t want to try something new, perhaps a new position would suffice. The two of you typically did it in missionary or a mating press, with him practically folding you in half and stuffing you full of his cock.
You brought the idea of a new position up to Kento, suggesting that you should try to be the one on top for a change. He was on board with the idea after some convincing that you’d be alright and that it wouldn’t hurt you in any way— such a gentleman he is.
That led you to find yourself in this position, hovering over his cock as you gripped his shoulders for support. He guided himself inside you as he sat propped up against the pillows. You didn’t realize just how much deeper he’d get in this position— it was almost too much.
Kento wasn’t an extremely vocal man, other than a few grunts and groans; but when you bottomed out on his cock, your walls snug around him, he actually let out a moan. The sound caused you to tighten up around him due to the effect it had on your body, it was so fucking hot.
You carefully began moving up and down on his cock, his hands rested on your hips. He bit his lip to stop himself from cumming too fast, he could feel so much more in this position. He’d been inside you many times, but this was a definitely a new feeling.
The way you were squeezing his cock was so good, he almost couldn’t take it. He did his best to not just start fucking his hips up into you, wanting to go at your pace.
That was until your thighs started burning and your body beginning to give out— you had been going for awhile so it was only natural that you’d get tired and begin to slow down.
He picked up on your exhaustion and moved his hands from your hips to your ass, squeezing the flesh. He braced himself and began pounding his cock into your sopping hole.
Your whole body went slack as you leaned into him, moaning into his ear. His pelvis brushed up against your clit so good, your orgasm quickly approaching because of it.
He could feel as your hole tightened around his cock at every thrust. It was important to him that you came first— so when the coil in your abdomen finally snapped and he felt your pussy flutter and convulse around him; that’s when he finally let himself give into the immense pleasure he was feeling.
He spilled his seed in your pussy, his hips stuttering and his arms moving to hold you close to his chest as you both rode out your orgasms. He was still letting out guttural groans, his cock twitching in your pussy from how hard he came. Your legs were trembling slightly as you laid against his chest, feeling his cum start to seep out of you.
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sorry for not posting in forever, schools hard 😭🙏
please forgive me if this is absolute garbage, i tried
my request box is open but try to stick to jjk requests for now, since those are the easiest for me to write
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ryanisasleep · 6 months ago
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Reader who is a biter and a scratcher
MDNI/NSFW/KINKY AF
Ft: Soap, Ghost, Price
- - > Ghost: he is complicated, I picture him as a kind of a feral guy in bed so having a lover that matches his freak is a peak win. Loves to know that he will somewhat find a scratch on his body that wasn't training related. May that be on his lower belly or his sides, he knows your fingernails did it.
He is jealous of them, he never shows them, not even to Johnny but looks at them with a difficult expression. You know what those heart eyes mean though, under that mask, he is red as fuck.
Talking about matching his freak, I think he is down bad to forcing you into submission. You two want sex? Good, who takes it and how? There we go, you two are at eachother's throats going for the kill. By the end of that you two are exhausted but happy. Having Simon with scratches and bite marks on his back is a sign that you are going to guide him through all the night, may you be on top taking him and riding him like a champ denying his release or simply him taking you from behind (may you have a strap-on or dick).
Fucking hell, he will surely remember who he belongs to, those marks around his nipples and nape and back are going to be there for days...expecially the ones on his lips, good thing he has a mask
- - > Price: He loves it. He can't get enough of you scratching and marking him all over. During training I like to think that if he gets the possibility, he'll bite you back. Just like two kids fighting, you know you can't always behave like a good and well mannered soldier so when the occasion presents itself, you go for it.
You do not kiss, rarely we can say. Instead you go on and gently bite whatever skin you can find, a finger? You are tugging it, his wrist? you are tugging it too and shaking it gently, his cock? He loves the thrill of knowing you will use your teeth why giving him a blowjob like the good little lover you are.
Taking risks, that is what he likes, so he has you sometimes under his desk between his legs and he can feel your teeth hovering the base of his dick or his puffy and fat red head. Of course, you do not bite him with force, just gently nibbing at it. No way you want to injure your boyfriend.
But with sex? Oh god he is a total mess after. On the bed with his hairy chest quickly taking in breath after breath as his shoulderblades and neck are strawberry red...maybe even his ass is a bit red...even his inner thighs...His body is like a chess piece filled with hickeys, bites and scratches.
He doesn't mind of any of that, actually he always wants some of your presence with him.
- - > Soap: loud bastard, gotta know how to shut him up properly. Deny him what he loves, affection and realease and he is whimpering like a puppy.
Still time though he wants to get what he wants, he will beg you to give it to him, even if it takes having the heel of a military boot crushing his weeping and red cock in the confinements of his jeans.
Gag him, you he talks too much. Bite his nape, after all puppies become pliant when they feel teeth on that part of their neck, it tells them to shut up.
If he had a tail he would swag just for you, and his mowhack? Perfect love handle to give pain to that masochist. He smirks as he knows he will get what he wants, he just needs to bribe you.
But you know, he likes to have some reminder that he must be a good boy, that collar is giving wonders around his red neck filled with red lines. You thought you were going over board but he said no, if you did, he would've said the safe words and things would be taken to an halt.
After all, he cant wait to do the same thing to you too, he just need to grow his nails a bit longer and then he would be ready to call you his personal slut.
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sweetsbfreex · 4 months ago
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Bucky gets drafted I
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summary: what if bucky was never taken from hydra? What if through all his ptsd, Bucky had a wife and two kids to come back to. 
wc: 2259
warnings: talk of war?
-
February 1942
The whirring of the machinery is heard throughout the brownstone. It’s only twelve, but everyone has been fed and you need to finish this before Sunday. A beautiful red smock dress to wear with black mary janes and ruffle socks. 
You had to, your sweet Adelaide had pleaded with you for a new dress. Not in an ungrateful manner, no, but this Sunday the Children’s choir would sing for everyone. So here you are, focused, pushing through the red cotton as the matching thread pierces through. 
Bucky is on child duty. Seven-year-old Adelaide practices her reading, ever the perfect girl, sitting prim on the floor, legs out and a book between. Ten-month-old Georgie (George), named after the late George Barnes, plays with his wooden blocks next to his sister. Stacks them, then crashes them down. 
Bucky is sat up at the end of the couch, ears pierced to the radio. The list of rationing only grew, the fear for his family only grew, many women were working now, volunteering their time away from their families. It seems things are only getting worse before they get better. 
He sighs, deflating into the sofa at what he’s hearing. 
“Daddy?” a voice snaps him out. 
“Hm?” he answers.
“What is this word?” Adelaide points at her book, as if he could see a thing. So he waves her over and when she’s close, sits her on his leg. 
“What word, Addie?” he asks and she points to the word again.  “Sound it out with me, ‘skw-er-l’” 
She tries and tries, and within those attempts James is there to guide her along, encouraging her to try again when she doesn’t get it right.
His bright spark he likes to call her at times. She’s intuitive and loves to learn. Every night, without fail, either him or y/n were meant to quiz her on at least ten words, like a spelling bee. If there was room to ask why, she would.
A rap is heard on the door. 
“Who’s that?” Addie asks. The attention of Georgie is also grabbed as he looks up at his father with an open mouth and a wood block in hand. 
“I’ll go find out, look after your brother and keep practicing” he kisses the side of her head, before setting her beside him, and walking straight to the door. 
“James Buchanan Barnes?” is the first thing Bucky hears from a pristine young-man standing on his welcome mat. A pressed black dress shirt, green tailored pants, a green tie, with shining wing tipped black shoes, and a side cap dresses up the man. 
The man’s eyes are void, almost sad (if he could guess) and he has to stop himself from looking at the gash on his cheek. 
“Yes."
An envelope is thrusted towards him and his heart drops, he could hear it shatter from a mile away. His ma wouldn’t take well to this, his sister wouldn’t, Steve definitely wouldn't, weeks without seeing his kid’s bright face would kill him. Y/n. 
“What is this?” he looks down at the letter accusingly, keeping his trembling hands by his side. 
“Mr. Barnes” The man persists, his voice softer it seems, as if he gives his condolences. 
“Thank you” Bucky has no choice but to smile and take the letter from the man’s outstretched hand. 
The man gives a curt nod in response and walks away, to hover a stormy cloud over someone else’s bright day it seems. It seems the list can only grow larger, will it ever end? He shuts the door and stares down at the envelope in his hands. His name and the address of their home is written neatly in the middle. 
He rips the bandage off his bruise. Ripping into the envelope until the letter is open and held between his hands, and his eyes fly over the ink. 
To, James Buchanan Barnes
notified that you been selected…army
report to the Local Board named above at 107th Infantry Regiment.
10:00 am on the 26 day of February, 1942. 
Only a week. 
“Daddy!” Addy calls for him impatiently. 
“One- one second, sweet girl. Just need to talk your ma for a split” he shouts back, before hearing her dramatic sigh in response. 
He strides to the stark white door of her sewing room, knocks once to get her attention then walks in. His wife is sitting at her sewing table, whose eyebrows are knit and her bottom lip rolled in. Just like his sweet Addie. Unlike many men, James had no problem letting everyone know both their kiddos got their brightness from Y/n. 
“Honey,” Bucky calls out, fingers fiddling with the papers. 
“Yes? I’m almost done, honey, do the kids need anything?” she glances up swiftly, then goes back to her work. 
“I just need to talk to you for a quick second, if that’s alright.” 
She removes her hand from the crank of the sewing machine. Noticing the worry clouding her husband's features. The swish of her polka dotted, a-line dress fills the air.  
Her hand clutches the lapel of his striped suit, while the other splays against his forehead, “What’s wrong, honey, are you out of sorts?” His skin felt normal and his eyes weren’t the prickly pink they usually were when he was sick. 
“No, no, I’m solid.”
At least he hopes he would be, he thinks to himself. Removing her hand from his forehead and kissing her knuckles gently. He can subconsciously feel the heat rising in her cheeks, watching her eyes look at anywhere but him. 
Time to rip off the second bandage. He raises the letter between the two of you. She stops and stares intently at the piece of paper and the envelope next to it. 
“What is this?” she asks, staring into his sky-blue eyes. 
Bucky doesn’t need to say anything, his softening eyes tell her everything she needs to know. Bucky couldn’t fool the young man at his step, and there was no way Y/n would be able to fool Bucky. 
“I leave in a week”
She lets out a breath, before she’s stepping away. One hand splays over her waist while the other presses a hand to her throat. Her head shakes side to side as tears pool in her eyes. She shouldn’t be surprised, Bucky is perfect in every way. Healthy in every way, of course he would be drafted. They both knew this, when was the only question that dangled in front of their faces.
“It’ll be okay. Doll, look at me” he clasps your flushed face tilting it up. 
“Oh, Bucky this is-- this is--” her words break up and before she knows it she’s broken into an uncontrollable sob, shoulders bobbing and an unbroken stream falls down her face. 
He hushes you, bringing you to his chest as his hands run up and down your back. 
“You can’t leave me, us… Trash it!” you pull away, eyes wide and tinted. “They’ll never know, Bucky”
“Honey, you’re talking junk, you know that can’t happen.” he coos, his palms take her face once again, thumbs running circles on her cheeks. 
“Please.” 
She wasn’t in her right mind is the only excuse she can think of. Her mind is running a mile a minute with a thousand gory scenarios, things she’s only read about and heard about. She didn’t want any of that for Bucky. 
“It’ll be okay, I’ll be okay and i’ll come to the three of you in one piece” he crouches down slightly, so you’re at the same eye level “I promise” he speaks softly. 
“You can’t promise something like that”
“I can and I will” he brings you into his chest, kissing the top of your head. 
“Would you be dismayed if I proposed that you break a leg? You’d still be an honorable man in my eyes” she says, voice muffled against his dress shirt. 
“It’ll be okay, honey, I promise” he answers with a breathy chuckle at the end. 
-
That night he breaks the news to Addie. She tries to stay strong at first, only humming in response with a tight smile on her face before tears run down her face silently. He consoles her as much as he can. Reassuring her that he would be alright, that everything would be alright. At some point this would all end and she’d have him back in one piece. And it repeats itself twice as he consoles his mother and sister. 
Telling Steve was one of the easiest bandages, no sticky residue was left behind.. He, of course, took in the slight disappointment on Steve’s face. Steve’s been trying like hell to get enlisted, the only thing holding him back was the long list of health issues and his small stature. 
Never the matter, he’s proud of Bucky. He knows his sharp mind will keep him safe. He’ll miss him while he’s gone and he’s promised to keep an eye on his favorite three while they’re gone. As long as he’s known Bucky, never in a million years did he see him falling in love and settling down with anyone.
“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone,” Bucky points a playful accusatory finger towards Steve.
Steve only chuckles breathily before he’s slammed into Bucky’s chest. 
-
The week whirls by, as if Y/n’s prayers for the days to slow down even for just a second aren't heard. Just three days ago Bucky stopped by the enlistment depot to get everything he needs, including his uniform. 
Two days ago, after getting home from work, Bucky had taken a quick nap in the living room. George laid on his chest, his chubby cheeks squished against the breast of his coat; and his tiny fist clasped around a lock of Bucky’s hair. On the other side of Bucky, lays Adelaide, who snuggles up to his side while she watches the television. 
Adelaide has stuck to her father’s side like glue this past week. 
You stood by and watched the three silently, like a shadow, knowing days like this were slowly dissipating until his departure. 
His last day at home, Bucky takes his family to Coney Island, their favorite place. Bucky doesn’t let money hold him back as he throws it all away to put a smile on his kid’s faces. He buys them as many tickets as they need, gets them whatever they want to eat, and wins them as many stuffed animals as he can-- sending a wink to his wife as he throws the rings onto the milk bottles. Knowing how bittersweet this moment was, their first date was Coney Island, and now he’s winning her a prize, like all those years ago, except he’s going off to war. 
Presently, the both of you lay in your dimly luminated bedroom. Bucky has just read Adelaide, her last bedtime story for an unknown time, he’s made it extra special by doing a voice for every character and acoustic effects at every scene. 
Your head is laid in the crook of his neck, and a hand runs up and around his toned chest. You’re winded within his arms, his fingers running circles around your shoulder. 
At the moment all you wanted was to sink into him like the sugar cubes in his coffee. You wanted to keep everything about him in eidetic memory. 
The slope and flat bridge of his nose, his startlingly-intense blue eyes that always looked at you with adoration, his always perfectly gelled hair, and his heart of gold that fills his family with love (something most of your friends couldn’t say.) 
Bucky did the same, engraving everything from your scent to the plush of your skin to his mind. 
A moment passes before you speak up. 
“I don’t know what to say, and I know i’ll regret it later”
“You don’t gotta say anything, just promise you’ll take care of yourself and the kids, maybe visit Steve once in a while or invite him to dinner. Just make sure he’s alright?”
You nod in agreement. 
The way Bucky acts on his overcome emotions is automatic. He pulls you in for a searing kiss, his hands roaming all over your body as if it were braille. Your hands rest on his broad shoulders, squeezing them when Bucky pulls away from your lips to your neck. 
The night is full of heavy, panting breaths and scorching, gently touches. 
When Bucky does that trick you love so much, you have to muffle yourself in your pillow. 
The night is filled with sugared words from Bucky. As he calls you his sweet girl, kisses you everywhere he can, and drains you with every push of his hips. 
-
Afterwards, the both of you are slicked in sweat. You both lay on your sides, facing each other, and holding onto each other. Time seems endless in his embrace. 
“J-James” 
Everything overcomes you within minutes, as you cover your face. It’s wretched and draining as the mountain collapses. It was happening. He would be leaving in just a few hours, and there was nothing she could do about it. 
Bucky pulls your head into his chest swiftly, shushing you as he cradles the back of your head. Kissing the top of your head in comfort. 
“You-- You have to p-promise to come back safely.” You pull away from his chest, eyes glazed over in tears. 
“Baby, you know I can’t promise that. All I can tell you is that I’ll try my best. I promise I'll try my best.” 
-
tysm for reading!! I missed writing and can't wait to tell this story <3
pls don't forget to like & reblog
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cece693 · 5 months ago
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PART 2 OF THE BUCKYxLOKI’S BROTHER PLEASE!! (And thank you)
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He's Cute Pt. 2
pairing: bucky barnes x male reader tags: date night, cute moments between bucky and reader, protective bucky, reader having eyes only for his man, couldn't help myself so we have some jealous bucky
The morning sun cast a warm glow on the bustling New York street as you and Bucky left the Avengers Tower, side by side, for your much-anticipated coffee date. You could practically feel Bucky’s heartbeat thrumming—his energy was a mix of nerves and excitement, hidden behind a carefully maintained cool exterior.
Still, you caught the way he’d sneak glances at you, how he kept a polite but protective distance between you and the street, and how his hand hovered near the small of your back whenever you paused to look in a shop window. If there was one thing you’d learned about James “Bucky” Barnes, it was that beneath the stoic shell, he was a sweet, attentive soul.
When you reached the little coffee shop a few blocks away, the sweet aroma of espresso and baked goods made you inhale appreciatively. Bucky let you step in first, his eyes still straying to you while you gawked at the menu board.
“Wow,” you murmured, half to yourself. “So many options. Mocha latte, flat white, salted caramel… Are these incantations?”
Bucky suppressed a grin, remembering the first time you’d asked that. “No magic, promise,” he said, nudging your shoulder gently. “What are you in the mood for?”
Before you could answer, the barista—a cheerful guy in his mid-twenties with a neat man-bun and bright green apron—leaned over the counter, practically beaming at you. “Hey there! First time, huh? Don’t worry, I can help you pick the perfect drink,” he offered, sliding an elbow onto the counter in a move that was definitely meant to come off as suave.
You blinked, oblivious to the barista’s flirty smile. “That’s kind of you,” you said politely. “I’ve only tried a couple coffees so far.”
“Awesome,” the barista replied, eyes dancing with interest. “You should let me whip up a custom latte just for you. Something sweet, with a little extra foam on top, maybe a heart design…”
Bucky cleared his throat, stepping forward so that his broad shoulder was just enough in the barista’s line of sight to cut off the direct gaze. “He’ll have a caramel macchiato,” Bucky said firmly, voice low in a way that suggested the barista hurry it up. “And I’ll take a black coffee.”
The barista’s smile faltered, eyeing Bucky with a mix of confusion and polite fear. “Sure thing.”
As the barista fiddled with the espresso machine, you turned to Bucky, eyes sparkling. “I didn’t realize there were so many specialized drinks. Custom lattes?”
Bucky’s jaw unclenched, and he mustered a small, reassuring smile for you. “Yeah, they get creative. But trust me, you’ll like the macchiato.”
Once you two collected your drinks, you picked out a cozy table near the window. The morning light bathed you in a soft glow that made your hair look…well, downright ethereal, if Bucky were being honest. And from the corner of his eye, he noticed more than one patron shooting glances your way.
You sipped your caramel macchiato, eyes lighting up at the sweet, creamy flavor. “This is wonderful!”
Bucky felt a surge of pride, as if he’d personally crafted the drink. “Glad you like it,” he said, resisting the urge to reach out and brush his fingers across your knuckles. Before the conversation could deepen, another interruption arrived—this time a fellow customer who lingered by the pastry display, giving you a once-over before sauntering over.
“Good morning,” she said, flipping her hair with a practiced flourish. “I haven't seen you here before."
You, perpetually polite, offered a friendly nod. “Yes, I’m new to Midg—New York. It’s very different from home.”
She giggled, eyes trailing over your features. “Well, if you need a local guide, I live right around the corner.” She lowered her voice, leaning in conspiratorially, “And I know all the best spots.”
Your eyebrows lifted in genuine curiosity. “Really? That sounds interesting.”
Bucky’s grip on his coffee cup tightened until his knuckles turned white. He cleared his throat, but she didn’t budge—she seemed more than happy to ignore him entirely, focusing on you like a hawk. “Yeah,” she continued. “I could show you a real good time. How about—”
“He’s good,” Bucky cut in, voice dangerously soft. He stared her down, his intense blue eyes flicking to her face with a distinct warning.
She blinked, finally noticing the murderously protective glint in his gaze. “Oh—are you two…?”
“Yes,” Bucky said bluntly, not even letting the question hang.
You, still oblivious, looked between them. “We’re on a date,” you added helpfully, as though trying to clarify.
The woman looked between you, Bucky, and his metal arm resting on the table. An awkward laugh escaped her. “My mistake. Enjoy your coffee.” She walked off, adjusting her purse with forced nonchalance.
As soon as she was gone, you turned back to Bucky, your expression perplexed. “She was hitting on me, right? Is that like a phrase, ‘hitting on someone?’ Because you said—”
“Yeah,” Bucky confirmed, irritation still simmering just behind his calm veneer. “She was.”
“Oh,” you murmured, taking another sip of your drink. “Well, that’s not a problem, is it? I mean, people here are friendly…”
Bucky exhaled heavily, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He reached across the table, lightly brushing the back of your hand. “You’re too nice for your own good,” he said softly. “Just...it gets on my nerves when strangers try to pick you up right in front of me.”
Understanding dawned on you, and your eyes softened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
He shook his head, giving a dismissive little shrug. “Not your fault at all. I just…might have a jealous streak, I guess.”
A warm smile curved your lips. “That’s kind of sweet. In a protective way.”
Your words made him relax, and he actually managed a genuine, sheepish grin. “Glad you think so.”
With the interlopers gone, you and Bucky finally got some quieter moments. You asked him about the differences between the 1940s and modern times—he gave you quick anecdotes about old radio shows, dime coffees, and awkward attempts to use smartphones now. In return, you regaled him with tales of Asgard—though you stuck to the less epic parts, not wanting to overshadow the mundane joy of a simple coffee date.
Sometimes Bucky would reach out and tap the rim of your cup with his vibranium fingers, almost like he wanted an excuse to brush against your hand. More than once, your gentle laughter made him forget the rest of the café altogether. That is, until your phone chimed with a text—a reminder from Tony about some meeting in a couple of hours.
“Guess we need to head back soon?” Bucky asked, trying and failing to hide his disappointment.
You nodded regretfully, finishing the last sweet sip of your drink. “Seems so. We can’t exactly ditch the meeting, can we? Tony would… he’d probably show up here with an Iron Man suit,” you joked.
Bucky gave a small smirk. “He’s petty like that.”
With some reluctance, you both stood, disposing of your cups and stepping out into the warm late-morning air. The short walk back to Avengers Tower was surprisingly pleasant, even with the occasional sideways glances from passersby who recognized one of Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. Bucky kept close to you, occasionally brushing his shoulder against yours, as if to remind everyone this is my date.
The moment you stepped through the Tower doors, though, you found yourselves ambushed by the rest of the team loitering in the lobby—clearly waiting. Tony, arms crossed over his chest, grinned like a cat who caught the canary. Steve, Sam, Clint, and Natasha stood behind him in a loose huddle, each wearing various degrees of curiosity and mischief.
“Would you look at that,” Tony drawled, “our resident star-crossed duo has returned.”
Sam smirked. “Didn’t think a simple coffee run would take this long. Or is that code for something else?”
Clint raised an eyebrow suggestively. “‘Coffee run?’ That’s a new one.”
Bucky glowered at them, ears turning pink. “It was just coffee. And we walked.”
“Walked,” Tony echoed, lips twisting in an exaggerated pout. “Uh-huh, I’m sure.”
You, still glowing from the morning’s events, decided to speak up. “There was coffee, yes, and a few people...tried to start a conversation.”
Natasha picked up on your hint of confusion. “Tried to start a conversation? That’s a polite way of saying they were hitting on you in front of Bucky?”
You nodded earnestly, unwittingly dropping the bomb the team was waiting for. “Yes, actually! Twice, in fact. Bucky was not pleased.”
A collective gasp and a few stifled laughs rippled through the group. Sam hooted, patting Bucky’s shoulder. “Oh man, did you go all Winter Soldier on them? Metal arm intimidation?”
Bucky shrugged off Sam’s hand, trying to maintain dignity. “I just told them to buzz off. That’s all.”
Tony snickered. “I can see it now: ‘Move along, buddy, or you’ll be meeting Mr. Vibranium.’”
Steve, at least, tried to look sympathetic. “Glad it went okay, though. The date, I mean.”
“It was nice,” you said, the corners of your mouth lifting in a sincere smile. “Very…sweet.” You turned to Bucky, stepping closer. “Thank you for showing me more of Midgard’s culture.”
Before Bucky could form a reply, you leaned in and planted a quick, affectionate kiss on his cheek. The lobby erupted in whoops and cackles. Sam feigned swooning against Clint, who patted his forehead dramatically. Tony cupped a hand to his ear as though straining to hear wedding bells. Bucky froze, eyes going wide, heat rushing to his face. But the grin that broke out was nothing short of radiant.
“Oh, that’s how it is, huh?” Tony teased, crossing his arms with a smug grin. “Looks like we’re gonna have to start calling you guys ‘Sugar and Spice.’”
Clint made an exaggerated smooching sound. “Or do we call you both ‘Buzz Off!’ and ‘He’s Mine!’”
Bucky grumbled something incoherent, but he still looked over at you with soft eyes that said he didn’t regret a thing.
441 notes · View notes
tinyshyteacup · 3 months ago
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Taglist: @jozzieblood @buckysteveloki-me @dragonoftheshadows @plaidconvers @kateawolf13 @keira-kaz2y5 @frog-fans-unite @doilooklikeagiveafrack @verynormalsstuff @nynxtea @iminyourceiling @seventeen-x @mgchaser @y0urgirl @lovely-seb @laughterafter @mysuperlaserpissnumber1fan @irasciblemogwai @svtbpbts @vivalas-vega @chonkybonky @bmyva1entine @6urmom @homiesexual-or-homosexual @aoi-targaryen @bitter-semi-sweet @soflegacy @kath-666 @hiireadstuff @highhopes1008 @sineminuse @hawkinsavclub1983 @buckingforbuckybarnes @fandomsearcherforcuntymen @huang-the-geek @joewhs @witchywannabe3263 @iyskgd @ironenemycollective @bumblebeebutter @sizzlingstarlightsky @buckybarnesslutshop @starstruck-cowgirl @angelicdarkn3ss @confused-simp-jpg @hufflepuffsforjoy @nicolebarnes @avatarobsessedgirly @escapismurmom @paige0103
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Tw: cussing, tension, description of Hydra tortures (if you squint)
Part 10
Words of command - Part 11
The kitchen gleamed in the sterile kind of way only billionaire kitchens do—glass, chrome, and tech woven into every cabinet.
The sun poured in through the massive windows, streaking golden light across the countertops and the back of Bucky’s shoulders as he stood, stock still, facing a cutting board like it might explode.
You stood to his left, a good half a head shorter, sleeves rolled up, voice guiding him.
“Hold the onion like this,” you said softly, demonstrating. “And curl your fingers under, so the knife doesn’t catch.”
Bucky's expression didn’t change, but his eyes—cold steel rimmed with caution—locked on your hands. He mimicked the movement with uncanny precision, down to the slight shift of weight in your stance.
He didn’t breathe.
He didn’t blink.
His metal arm hovered just slightly, tense and unreadable.
“Good,” you offered, reaching out to nudge his wrist slightly to adjust his angle. “Just like that.”
Tony strolled into the kitchen like he owned it—which, to be fair, he did—with a half-drunk coffee in one hand and his usual exasperated swagger.
“Oh good,” he drawled, leaning against the island. “I see we’ve reached the 'culinary assassin' phase of rehab. What’s next? Battle baking? Murder muffins?”
Bucky’s head snapped up.
The knife paused mid-slice, his entire body tensing like a drawn bow. His expression didn’t change, but his pupils narrowed slightly. Assessing. Calculating.
You reached out and gently placed a hand on his forearm, just enough pressure to signal.
“Non-threat, Soldat,” you said quietly. “That’s Tony. He likes to run his mouth, but he pays my wages too"
Bucky looked at you. Immediately, his shoulders eased—just a bit.
“Understood,” he muttered. But his hand didn’t leave the knife.
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Tony raised a brow. “Y’know, if looks could kill, I’d be halfway to a death by now. He always this… stabby in the morning, or is that your influence, Dollface?”
You shot him a look. “Don’t you start that shit too”
Bucky’s gaze snapped to Tony again.
“She’s Doll. To me.”
For a second Tony Stark actually stopped speaking.
Bucky’s metal hand was hovering uncertainly over a carton of eggs.
The other hand now gripped a wooden spoon like it was a combat knife.
You moved slowly, always narrating your actions, never touching him without warning. He still flinched if anyone else came too close.
But you? He leaned into your presence like a plant seeking sun.
“Okay, ready?” you asked, sliding a bowl in front of him. “You’re going to crack the egg like this—not too hard, just a little tap on the side.”
Bucky’s brows furrowed in deep focus. “Like a pressure point?” he asked, staring down at the fragile shell like it might explode.
You bit your lip to hide a smile. “Kind of, yeah. But just a little tap.”
He nodded. Took a breath. Then—
CRACK.
The entire egg shattered in his grip, shell and yolk crushed into his palm. It slid through his metal fingers, gooey and viscous.
You heard applause as Tony’s voice floated from across the room.
“Well done, that egg’s dead. Good work, Terminator. Want me to get him a frying pan or a flamethrower next, Thumbelina?”
Bucky’s jaw twitched. He looked to you immediately, awaiting your reaction.
You just ignored Tony and gave Bucky a soft, reassuring smile. “That was a good first try. You’ll get it. Want to try again?”
His tense shoulders eased just slightly. “Yea, please.”
You guided his hand over the second egg, placing your fingers lightly on his. The difference in size was striking—your hand so small, his flesh palm practically engulfing yours.
“Let me show you,” you whispered.
He watched you carefully, eyes tracking every tiny motion. This time, the egg tapped lightly on the side of the bowl. A clean break. He tilted it just the way you showed him, letting the yolk slide out without spilling.
He looked at it. Then at you.
“I did it,” he said, almost surprised.
You beamed. “You did.”
Tony, mid-sip of coffee, raised a brow. “Great, now teach him how to make toast without treating the toaster like a bomb.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes.
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While you whisked the eggs, Bucky watched your hands move, his voice quieter now.
“I think I remember something…burned toast. Steve made it. Said it was ‘perfectly fine.’” His lips twitched into something almost like a smile. “It wasn’t.”
You looked up quickly. “That sounds like Steve.”
He nodded. “I don’t remember everything. Just… pieces. Smells. The way someone laughed. Cold mornings.”
You didn’t say anything—just listened. Encouraging without pressure.
Bucky's gaze shifted and fixed on the scrambled eggs wherever they went. “ I like this Doll, its quiet. Warm. I think I like the way you… are.”
You hesitated, then touched his hand gently, curling your fingers around his flesh ones and giving them a quick squeeze.
Tony walked past again, intentionally dropping a dishtowel in your direction. “Just make sure he doesn’t use the whisk like a tactical baton. And maybe warn me next time the terminator gets cooking privileges. Stark Tower’s insurance premiums aren’t infinite.”
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The island counter is now cluttered with mixing bowls, a half-dozen eggs, and two kinds of cheese—because you weren’t sure what kind Bucky would prefer.
Bucky's metal fingers are twitching slightly at his side, the other hand hovering above the whisk like it’s a weapon he hasn’t figured out how to disarm yet.
“Like this?” he asks, the words a little more fluid now, though his accent still shadows every syllable. He watches you closely, mimicking your motion.
“Perfect,” you murmur with a small smile, reaching up instinctively to adjust the bowl under his arm. “You're not going to break it. Just be gentle.”
He watches your hands again—small, soft, and completely unafraid of him. That still confuses him. No one’s hands have ever touched him with that kind of absent affection, at least not that he remembers.
Tony takes a dramatic sip of his coffee. “God, this is precious. Should we all hold hands and sing Kumbaya next? Maybe teach him how to use a dishwasher without stabbing it?”
"Jesus Tony, I know where free entertainment but give it a rest" you quipped.
Bucky narrows his eyes slightly. “The machine hissed at me. I don’t like it.”
You stifle a laugh, which makes Bucky tilt his head toward you, eyes flickering with curiosity like he wants to keep making that sound come out of you.
Tony’s already halfway out the door, waving over his shoulder. “Just don’t burn the place down, lovebirds.”
You glance up, expecting a flare of confusion from Bucky—but he doesn’t seem to register the implication. Or if he does, he’s pretending not to.
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When it’s just the two of you again, the kitchen suddenly feels smaller. Quieter. The whisk clinks gently in the metal bowl as Bucky stirs again, this time slower, more natural.
“Hey Doll,” he says softly.
You look up from where you've turned a pan on, on the stove.
“Why does he… say things like that?”
You blink. “Like what?”
“Like we’re… more.”
Your breath catches. Not from fear—just surprise.
“He just teases. That’s how he talks to people. He’s not serious.”
Bucky stares at the eggs, then at you.
“But I don’t think I'd mind,” he says slowly. “If he was serious... your ... kind to me.”
You freeze—not because you’re afraid, but because something in his voice has changed.
Less mechanical.
More his. There’s a quiet pull behind his words. Not fully formed, not romantic exactly. But raw. Almost.
You open your mouth to answer, but he takes a step closer, something unreadable in his eyes.
He’s close enough now that you can feel the heat off his skin, see the faint scarring at his collarbone, the way his jaw tenses like he’s bracing for something.
“Soldat…” you start, voice trembling just a little.
But he interrupts.
“I like hearing you laugh,” he says. “Even when I don’t understand why. I think… maybe I did that ... made people laugh once.”
You say his name again, this time softer.
He’s so close.
So close you can feel the warmth from his chest and the faint scent of old leather and soap rising off his skin.
There’s a tension in the air, soft and dangerous, like something fragile perched at the edge of a knife.
His metal fingers curl slightly where they rest on the counter, not in threat but in restraint.
“Doll…” he says, low, and there’s a crackle in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Like a wire shorting out. “You make me feel—different.”
You swallow, heart thudding. “Soldat, do you know what that feeling is?”
He tilts his head slowly, eyes narrowing as he studies you. “No.”
Then, the smallest shift—his flesh hand lifts toward your face.
Trembles slightly before it even touches you.
He’s not sure if he’s allowed.
Not sure if this is part of the program.
His fingers hover just above your cheekbone.
You don’t move. Not forward. Not away.
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“Hey,” Bruce’s quiet voice cuts into the moment, followed by the distinct shuffle of shoes. “Sorry—am I interrupting something?”
You blink and take a quick step back from Bucky, your cheeks warm. Bucky's hand lowers slowly, mechanically, as his gaze flicks to Bruce, all warmth wiped from his features.
Bruce holds up a tablet and gives you a tentative smile. “I ran another scan this morning. His neural pathways are stabilizing in some areas. I think I might’ve found something that could help trigger more of his long-term memory. Safely.”
You blink in surprise. “You did?”
Bucky’s gaze sharpens. He doesn’t move, but his stance shifts ever so slightly—too still. Too alert.
Bruce steps in closer, holding out the tablet to you. “It’s a low-frequency transcranial stimulator. Not invasive. It mimics some of the electrical patterns from sleep cycles and REM states—what helps memory form and reconnect.”
You see it—the soft, hopeful data on the screen—but Bucky doesn’t.
He hears only one word.
Electrical.
A noise escapes his throat—sharp, guttural. Not quite human.
“No.” It tears from his lips in a ragged breath, his eyes wild and suddenly gone again. “No electricity. No chair. You said—no chair.”
His hands slam down on the counter, hard enough to rattle the bowl.
You flinch instinctively, and he sees it.
That’s when he panics.
He backs up like he’s been shot. “I didn’t mean—Doll—I didn’t mean to—”
You move forward quickly, voice low and steady despite your heart thudding in your chest.
“Soldat. Look at me.”
His chest heaves.
His fists are clenched.
His metal arm twitches with barely controlled adrenaline. But he locks eyes with you, like you’ve just thrown a lifeline into the storm.
“I’m here,” you whisper. “I promised you—no chair. No pain. No one is going to hurt you. Do you trust me?”
He swallows hard, lips parted slightly. The panic hasn’t gone, but he’s trying to hold it back—for you.
“I don’t… understand,” he murmurs, softer now, as if ashamed. “But I trust you, Doll.”
Your heart aches at the way he says it—like it’s a truth he doesn’t fully comprehend, but feels all the same.
You glance at Bruce and give him a small shake of your head. “Not yet,” you mouth. “Give us time.”
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You find Bucky later, curled in one of the chairs on the balcony just outside the rec room. His knees are drawn up, arms wrapped around them.
He stares at nothing.
You step out into the cool air and sit down quietly beside him. No words. Just your presence.
Eventually, he speaks.
“I don’t like electricity,” he murmurs. “I remember… metal. Pain. Then forgetting. I dont want to forget.”
You nod, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
A long pause. Then—
“But if you ask me to,” he whispers, “I will.”
And that—hurts more than anything else.
Because he still thinks he has to.
You slide your hand over his. He stiffens, then relaxes.
“You never have to do something just because I ask.”
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The lab is lit low, the usual sharp white lights dimmed to a softer gold that Bruce said might make things feel less clinical.
The transcranial device sits on the medical bench—more like a padded headband than the hulking mechanical monstrosities Bucky remembers from before.
You can hear the low hum of the cooling system, the soft hiss of hydraulics in the walls—every little sound feels louder with the way Bucky's breath holds still in his chest.
He stands just inside the doorway, like a man staring into a cage.
The chair in the middle of the room looks innocuous now.
Padded headrest, ergonomic design, subtle LED lights rather than cold metal restraints. But Bucky’s eyes don’t see any of that.
They see the chair. They see Hydra. The screams, the static, the burning nerves and ripped memories.
His body language is screaming tension. Rigid shoulders. Chin tucked slightly like he’s protecting his throat. His left hand—the metal one—is half-raised, twitching like it’s already calculating escape routes.
But his flesh hand… his right hand hovers, almost uncertain, before curling into a trembling fist.
You walk slowly up to him. You don’t touch him yet. You just stand in front of him, letting your frame create a space where his fear can breathe.
“Doll,” he mutters, voice low and hoarse. “I don’t know if I can—”
“You don’t have to,” you say gently. “I’ll go first.”
His eyes flash toward you, full of panic.
“No.”
You pause. He almost never says no—it’s fear.
“It's ok Soldat, I need you to see that it’s safe,” you whisper. “You don’t trust the chair. But I trust Bruce. And I trust you.”
“Banner,” Bucky snaps, his voice suddenly cold. “What does it do?”
Bruce looks up from the console. “The device emits a low-frequency transcranial stimulation—non-invasive, non-painful. Think of it like acupuncture, but for the brain. It promotes neural plasticity and helps reactive suppressed memory pathways. There’s no electricity. No shocks. Nothing painful. And nothing remotely like Hydra’s machine.”
He walks over to the chair and lifts the headpiece. It looks more like a padded visor, a soft halo of tech with small light sensors and cooling gel pads.
“See?” he says, letting Bucky inspect it. “No wires. No needles. It just sits on your head and… helps open a few doors.”
You reach out now. Slowly. Carefully. Your hands find his flesh hand—and you take it into both of yours, gently wrapping your fingers around his. His hand is rough, cold with adrenaline, and shaking faintly.
“I’ll sit down first,” you say again, eyes on his. “I want you to see exactly what it does.”
He doesn’t let go of your hand as you move, and you have to ease away carefully to take your place in the chair.
His entire body follows you—watching, tracking, trying to prepare for the worst.
"You hurt her, I hurt you" his eyes are on you, but his words are for Banner.
Bruce give Bucky a reassuring smile before moving to set the device on your head. It emits a soft whirring sound, like a cooling fan.
"If she forgets m—" Bucky murmurs.
"I'm ok Soldat, that wont happen" you say squeezing his hand as you cut him off gently.
There’s no shock, no jolt—just a gentle pulse behind your eyes, like a flicker of warmth moving across your skull.
You smile.
“It just feels like… like a tingle,” you say softly. “Almost like soda bubbles in your brain.”
Bucky’s brows knit, his jaw still tight.
“No pain?” he asks, voice thin.
“None,” Bruce confirms, monitoring the screen, and showing Bucky. “Her vitals are normal. Brain activity looks calm. This is actually encouraging—it’s exactly the reaction I hoped for.”
You glance back at Bucky.
“I’m okay. You don’t have to do this today. But if you want to try—just try—then I’ll be right here the whole time. I promise.”
He hesitates for a long moment.
You can see the war behind his eyes.
Fear.
Conditioning.
The ghosts of command protocols.
He swallows hard.
Then he nods once, slow and sharp.
“…Okay,” he breathes. “But you don’t let go. Don’t leave me in that thing alone.”
“Where you go I go, Soldat”
Bucky moves toward the chair like a man walking into a fire. Every step is a silent scream of resistance. His body sits stiff, muscles clenched so tight you can see the tension trembling in his thighs, his jaw, his neck.
When Bruce tries to approach with the device, Bucky tenses violently, eyes flashing wide with remembered pain.
“Don’t touch me,” he growls.
“Hey,” you murmur gently, stepping into his line of sight. You kneel beside him, taking his flesh hand again. You cup it in both of yours, thumb softly stroking the back of his hand in slow, rhythmic motions.
“You’re safe,” you say quietly. “It’s just me. You don’t have to hold on so tight.”
His fingers twitch, then curl around yours in a slow, deliberate motion. His grip is terrifyingly strong, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.
“I’m here,” you say again. “I’m not leaving.”
Bruce, carefully watching, steps in again.
“Just putting the band on. It’s going to hum a little. No pulses. No shocks. You’ll feel pressure—not pain.”
The device is secured around Bucky’s head. You see his breath hitch—chest rising sharply as the hum begins.
His eyes flash wide.
“Doll, I'll remember, you promise” Bucky almost whispers to you.
“Yup, no ones taking anything away, promise” you say immediately.
You press both your hands around his hand and lean closer. “Focus on my voice. It’s just static. Like soft rain on a roof.”
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His eyes dart between you and the ceiling. His grip tightens. His mouth opens—then closes again. But he doesn’t scream. He doesn’t break.
“You’re doing it,” you say softly. “That’s all you have to do. Just let it be. I’m so proud of you.”
“Don’t say that,” he murmurs, eyes wet. “Don’t be proud of this.”
“I am,” you whisper. “Because this is you, choosing something for yourself. Not because someone made you. Because you wanted to try.”
His breath breaks—just once. A faint exhale, a soft tremble, and a barely audible
“…Okay.”
When the hum fades, Bruce gently removes the device. He gives you both space, backing away to the monitors without a word.
Bucky blinks. Looks around. Waits—for pain, for punishment, for someone to shout again in Russian.
But nothing happens.
He looks at you. Eyes exhausted, but clear.
“…That wasn’t the chair.”
“No,” you say softly. “It wasn’t.”
His hand is still in yours. He doesn’t pull away.
“…Can we do it again sometime?”
You smile. “Whenever you’re ready.”
309 notes · View notes
cupidsworstcrime · 2 months ago
Note
re: dolphin!graves, do you know about the researcher who ended up having to regularly jerk off a captive dolphin in the sixties or seventies? seems relevant
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It starts with complaints.
He’s more aggressive in training. He bites, won’t listen, slams his weight against the tank walls. He won’t vocalize his needs properly. Stops eating unless you feed him. At one point, he grabs your wrist with both hands and holds, just… staring at you.
You report it. Again.
“Maybe he needs enrichment,” you say. “Something’s agitating him.”
But they brush it off. “He behaves fine when you're in there.”
So you start tracking patterns. When he acts out. How often. You hate what you’re starting to piece together.
He's not just bored. He's pent-up.
You try everything first. Toys. Food-based puzzles. Simulated hunts. Nothing helps.
Until one day you’re so fed up—so tired of being growled at and bumped and circled and eyed up like you’re dinner—you finally snap:
"Jesus Christ, Phil, what do you want? Do you need to be jerked off or something?! Is that what this is?”
He freezes in the water.
Tail still. Eyes wide. Clicking starts. Low and slow.
You’ve nailed it.
You shouldn’t do anything. You know that. But every report you send goes nowhere. Every handler they’ve tried has left. The ethics board only checks in quarterly. And Graves is staring at you now, practically trembling with need, the glossy skin of his lower abdomen pulsing where his slit is.
“…Fine,” you mutter. “Just this once. And then you calm the fuck down.”
You tell yourself it’s clinical. Necessary. You put on gloves. You don’t even look him in the eye.
The moment you sink into the tank, he is right there. He doesn’t lunge like he used to—no, he’s learning. Being good. Patient. Hovering just close enough to feel his presence prickle along your spine, but not touching. Yet.
Clicking, low and fast, like he’s giggling underwater.
You know what he wants.
So you reach for him. Carefully. The slit low on his abdomen pulses when your fingers graze it—warm, sensitive, and already parting.
And the moment his cock starts to slide free, he lets out a sound that’s not dolphin at all—human, almost. A groan deep in his chest. One hand grabs your wrist—not to stop you, but to guide you. The pressure is firm. Insistent. Like he's been aching for this.
"That’s it, sugar,” he murmurs—thick and filthy, like molasses dripping from a knife. “Knew you’d take care of me. Knew you couldn’t stay mad forever.”
Your hand wraps around the thick base of him and God, he's hot in your grip, throbbing with each stroke. His hips twitch forward, barely restrained. His tail flicks lazily behind him, keeping you both buoyant as he focuses every ounce of attention on your hand.
You try to keep it impersonal—just tension relief, just enough to calm him down—but Graves doesn't make it easy.
He moans for you.
Gasps when your grip tightens.
"You do this for all your animals, darlin’? Or am I special?”
Clicks and purrs and praises you in that syrupy voice, half-mocking, half-desperate:
"That pretty little hand knows me so well now."
His other hand drifts to your hip under the water, fingers curling possessively as if to remind you—he’s choosing to behave.
"You feel how hard I get for you? Don't need words to know what I want."
When he cums, it’s sudden and violent, holding your wrist with both hands as his whole body shudders, heat pulsing thick into the water. His cock jumps in your grip, still twitching long after, and he doesn't stop cooing—low little whines and growls, all directed at you.
And when it’s over, he’s quiet. Calm. Sweet. Nuzzles your arm before diving.
You realize, belatedly, that he was playing you.
He knew you’d cave.
And now he’s going to want it again.
191 notes · View notes
muniimyg · 3 months ago
Note
if this aligns w the bed chem universe..
probably when the rest of the group reacts to them dating or them seeing these 2 as a couple now or something. their friend group is so iconic !!
♡ 04: dinner and friends
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series m.list // taglist unavailable
note: hangry vibes LOL
//
wednesday nights are for home-cooked meals.
as in: sleeves rolled up, veggies sacrificed, egos bruised. what started off as a sweet bonding tradition quickly devolved into a survival sport. a test of how many times the boys can push jungkook’s buttons before dinner is even plated. it used to be lighthearted. funny.
then jungkook started dating you.
and now? it's less who can piss him off first, and more how can we interrupt this weird domestic romance before we all throw up.
tonight, you’re running late.
not terribly. just enough that the boys are halfway through the prep, and jungkook’s slipped into his notorious silent treatment—head ducked, brows pinched, knife working like it owes him money. the onion he’s chopping is probably filing a restraining order.
he doesn’t look up when the door clicks open. doesn’t greet you. doesn’t soften.
instead, he just mutters, “took you long enough.” 
wow! it’s like he didn’t scroll through your texts four times waiting for your last message.
you smile anyway, dropping your bag on the counter and walking straight to him. your hand brushes along the slope of his back. gentle. grounding. he doesn’t flinch. just shifts a little, the smallest tilt, like he’d been saving that space beside him all night.
his hand finds your waist like it’s done it a thousand times before.
firm. steady. routine.
“careful,” he murmurs, still focused on the cutting board. “oil splashes.”
you blink, reaching for the salt beside him—and immediately feel him tug you back by the waist, slotting your body behind his like a human shield.
“i was just grabbing—”
“and i’m just trying to keep you alive,” he says, tone flat but hand protective. “sorry for caring.”
his fingers don’t leave your side until you’re holding the salt.
“wow,” jin says from the stove, spoon in hand. “didn’t you threaten to stab taehyung 15 minutes ago for breathing too loud?”
taehyung gasps, scandalized. “you said, and i quote, ‘look at my knife and look at your life.’ now you’re—fondling someone at the stove? betrayal. pure betrayal. all for what? a girl?”
“for my girl,” jungkook corrects, not missing a beat.
you snort.
yoongi doesn’t look up. just brushes past you to grab a stack of plates, muttering, “you two are a food safety violation.”
you pout. “i just got here. what’s with the hateful energy?”
namjoon points at your boyfriend, spoon dripping over his wrist. “ask your boyfriend. he’s the one with rage issues and a god complex.”
“he called me a butter fingers 10 minutes ago,” jimin says solemnly. “i don’t disagree but it still hurt… and now he’s being handsy and gentle? pick a personality, jeon.”
“hmmm. sounds like you’re being a dick, baby,” you agree, tossing in your vote for public shaming. “hangry?” 
the boys howl.
jungkook doesn’t defend himself. doesn’t even pretend to care. he just rolls his eyes like they’re all beneath him—and then gently guides you in front of the soup pot like the world’s grumpiest sous chef.
he hovers. doesn’t speak unless it’s to correct your form.
when you chop tomatoes, he adjusts your grip with a firm hand over yours. when you stir, he tucks your hair behind your ear.
“it’s gonna fall in and i’m not fishing it out.” 
when you reach for the apron, he wordlessly takes it from you, ties it himself. his knuckles graze your waist. linger there. 
and the thing is—you know him.
jungkook isn’t a patient man. he’s snappy, sarcastic, and occasionally evil when hungry. he’s got a fast mind, a quicker temper, and a long list of grudges taehyung is definitely at the top of. but when it comes to you?
he simmers.
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“why are you standing like that?” you ask, peeking up at him.
“like what?”
“like you’re trying to merge into my personal space.”
he doesn’t even blink. “it’s our space.”
“you have your own counter.”
“yours has better lighting.”
you raise a brow. he raises you a soft smirk. 
challenge accepted.
you lean in, press a kiss to the sharp line of his jaw, and catch it—that moment. the buffering. the breath he forgets to take, the slight hitch in his chest, the twitch of his fingers.
he glares at the cutting board like it offended him. “can you not do that when i’m holding a knife.”
you grin. “does it distract you?”
he mumbles something.
“what was that?”
“...obviously.”
and then—
the teasing does not stop.
“look at him,” jin points with the ladle. “she kisses him and he forgets he has opposable thumbs.”
“he cut onions faster than that earlier,” jimin adds. “now he’s like… stirring with love or something.”
“he asked me to move my elbow five times,” namjoon deadpans. “she bumped into him twice and he said ‘it’s fine, baby.’ i feel like crying—”
“fuck.”
a small ouch breaks through the kitchen chatter.
you turn instantly. “what happened?”
jungkook holds up his finger.
it's just a shallow nick, but it’s already reddening. he’s not panicking, but he’s definitely blinking like he can’t believe it happened. the room stills.
you step closer. “let me see.”
“it’s fine.”
you grab his wrist. “you always say that when it’s not fine.”
he lets you inspect it. lets you tug him toward the sink and run water over it, thumb brushing over the back of his hand, jaw clenched as he watches you work.
the room is silent.
“babying him now?” yoongi mutters, but it’s weak. even he’s watching curiously.
you dry jungkook’s hand with a paper towel, inspecting the cut again. “it’s not that bad. you’re lucky.”
“i’m always lucky,” he says, voice low. “i have you.”
you stare at him.
taehyung actually gags.
“can you kiss it better?” jungkook asks, way too earnestly. “baby, it’s ouchie.”
he says it too fast. 
way too fast—like his mouth jumped the gun before his brain could catch up. there’s a beat of silence where no one moves, like the kitchen collectively paused to process it. then it hits him.
his cheeks tint a slow pink, crawling up to the tips of his ears. he clears his throat once—twice—eyes darting to the floor as his thumb rubs against the side of his cut finger. you watch the way he fumbles for recovery, eyes scanning for a way out, but nothing lands. he’s already too far in.
and then—your lips press against the tiny scrape on his knuckle, gentle, like a whisper.
just once. soft and quick.
that’s when the teasing starts.
“it’s ouchie?” jin repeats, blinking like he’s trying to make sense of a foreign language. “you really said that out loud?”
jungkook glares. “i was in pain.”
“in your soul, maybe,” jin mutters.
taehyung leans against the counter, arms crossed, expression exaggeratedly solemn. “you’ve changed, man. you used to be cool. i used to admire you. the whole tsundere thing was really working for you—but ouchie? holy fuck.”
jimin’s already grinning, eyes flicking between you and jungkook like he’s watching a very slow, very romantic sitcom. 
“so all i have to do is get hurt and i’ll get kissed too?” jimin says, holding up his palm with an invisible wound. “look, i think i have a paper cut. right there.”
“i think i pulled a muscle reaching for the soy sauce,” taehyung adds, clutching his side with a dramatic wince.
“you guys suck,” jungkook mutters, quieter now, rubbing the back of his neck with his good hand. “don’t forget i’m a chem major. i’ll poison you all.”
he says it without much bite.
mostly embarrassment.
regardless, his gaze flickers to you like he’s checking whether you’re laughing at him or with him.
you try to hold it in.
you really do...
but your shoulders shake a little, a quiet smile curling at the corners of your mouth. it’s endearing. all of it—his flustered attempt at asking for comfort, the way his ears haven’t cooled down since, and the petty threats he tosses out to keep from completely combusting.
he sees it. 
sees the way you look at him and don’t tease, just soften.
and under the edge of the counter, almost like it’s second nature, you feel it—his pinky hooking around yours.
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ethelshound · 3 months ago
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CHECKMATE. • S.REID
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─── IN WHICH Spencer has always been a strategist, whether in the field or over a game of chess. But when the game takes an unexpected turn, he finds himself flustered by an entirely different kind of move.
Spencer Reid 𝓍 𝑔𝓃!reader 1.6K ⋆ fluff ⋆ established relationship ⋆ awkward Spencer ⋆ soft moments ⋆ innocent make out
Spencer Reid doesn’t usually let himself lose at chess.
He’s too used to calculating every move, to knowing the exact number of steps it will take to win. But when you walk into his apartment, bright-eyed and smiling, holding a pizza box in one hand and a soda in the other, his mind suddenly feels... a little too cluttered for strategy.
You're the kind of presence that doesn't need to be analyzed. He can feel the pull of your energy before you even say a word, a gravitational force that brings him a quiet kind of peace. It makes the chessboard between you seem small, insignificant in comparison.
“You ready to lose?” you tease as you sit down across from him at the small coffee table, the board between you both. The game has barely begun, but you’re already looking at him with that playful smile that’s just too good for his sanity.
Spencer, of course, doesn’t answer the challenge outright. Instead, he adjusts his glasses and squints at the board, his mind quickly picking apart the different combinations. But as his fingers hover over the pieces, he realizes he hasn’t moved in what feels like ages, his focus drifting to the way the sunlight hits your hair, the soft laugh that escapes you when you take a casual sip of soda.
You, however, notice.
“You’re stalling,” you observe with a knowing smile, leaning forward just a little, catching his eye. You know exactly how he works.
He’s blushing before he can help it, but he shrugs it off, moving his queen to the center of the board with an exaggerated gesture. “Just contemplating my options,” he says, his voice a little too steady for the warmth spreading through his chest.
A few more moves pass, but the tension between the pieces only grows. It's not that Spencer minds—no, he’s lost in the rhythm of the game, but also in the rhythm of you.
And then, with a gentle, teasing smile, you make your move, carefully nudging your bishop forward, putting his king in check. The game isn’t over, not yet, but his mind seems to stop entirely. The move is so simple, so easy, and yet Spencer can’t help but notice the softness in the way you move—your fingers delicate, the way your eyes soften when you glance up at him.
Before he can even think about his next move, you’re standing up, slipping around the edge of the table, and without a word, you gently push him back onto the couch, your hand on his chest.
He lets out a soft laugh, startled by the sudden movement. "What are you doing?" he asks, his voice quiet, but amused, unsure whether this is part of the game or something else entirely.
But you only smile, your touch warm against his shirt as you guide him back into the pillows. “Just giving you a break,” you say, your voice soft, and for a moment, everything else disappears.
You climb onto the couch beside him, close enough that Spencer can feel the heat of your skin near his, but not close enough to make any real move. You don’t rush him. You never do. Instead, you lean against the couch and watch him, your gaze steady, filled with something warm and trusting.
Spencer finds his breath catching in his throat. It’s like time slows down around you, the moment lingering, sweet and soft. His mind isn’t thinking about the chessboard anymore, or the game he’s losing. He’s thinking about you—how your hand rests lightly on his knee, how you haven’t pulled away, how his pulse seems to beat in time with yours.
And then, without thinking, his hand moves to the back of your neck, gently guiding you closer. It’s slow, deliberate, a question. And when your lips brush against his, it’s everything. Soft. Languid. No rush.
The kiss is sweet at first, a quiet touch of warmth and tenderness. Spencer feels his pulse race, his mind slipping into the moment entirely. His glasses fog up instantly from the proximity, and he smiles against your lips, the warmth of your kiss too much for his senses to process all at once.
You pull away slightly, just enough to catch your breath, and Spencer laughs softly, his voice low and a little embarrassed. “I... I can’t see you,” he admits, his glasses so fogged up he can’t make out your features.
You chuckle, brushing his hair back with your fingers. “I guess that’s one way to win the game.”
Spencer grins, his heart fluttering at the way your fingers feel in his hair. "I’m not sure I’m winning anything right now."
But then you kiss him again, slower this time, your lips gentle and languid against his, and Spencer’s world narrows down to the warmth of you, the softness of your touch, the quiet hum of contentment between you both.
His hands move instinctively, resting lightly on your waist, pulling you just a little closer, but still with no rush. He’s content, lost in the peacefulness of the moment—no moves to calculate, no moves to make, just this.
The kiss lingers. The world outside Spencer’s apartment fades into nothing. You’re here, in his arms, and nothing else matters. Not the game, not the strategies, not even the foggy glasses that sit crookedly on his face.
“You’re distracting me,” he murmurs when you finally pull away, his voice thick with a contented smile.
You smile, that same mischievous look in your eyes, but there’s a softness to it now—something warmer. “I’m not sorry,” you say, your fingers brushing the side of his glasses, gently moving them back up his nose.
And Spencer, without thinking, pulls you back into him, his lips finding yours once more. This time, the kiss is lazy, a slow, tender thing that speaks of nothing but the quiet affection that’s settled between you both.
The game doesn’t matter anymore. Not when this is what he wants. Not when you’re right here, with him.
And as you finally pull away for good, both of you a little breathless, Spencer laughs softly, a deep, content sound that fills the space. “I think we both lost.”
You grin, your eyes sparkling. “We can always start a new game later.”
Spencer smiles, leaning back into the pillows, his hand still resting lightly on yours. “Yeah. Later sounds good.”
And for once, the game doesn’t matter.
All that matters is the way you fit perfectly next to him, the way your touch makes everything in the world feel a little more at ease. The way you’ve already won, without even trying.
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backtothefanfiction · 3 months ago
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THREE: BLACKOUT
Summary: you feel guilty after a mission glitch
Warnings: slight tension and guilt, mission action, a little bad language
Word Count: 1.6k
A/N: once again I am writing and uploading this from my phone so can’t really get the tag list organised to be sure to reblog and share around so everyone can find, please and thank you. Anyway, enjoy!
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THREE
It was late. You were feeling tired. Joaquin and Sam had been out on this mission all day and the time difference was kicking your ass. You were on your third cup of coffee, your body slightly jittery as you tapped and typed and observed and did everything you could to keep up.
“Shit, they’re headed outside,” Sam called out stressed through the com link.
“I’m already headed to the roof, I’m on it,” Joaquin called and your heart rate picked up even more as you saw him burst out into the early morning air in Minsk.
“They’re getting into the black jeep,” Sam called through the coms.
“F.E.A.R.N lock on and track that vehicle,” Joaquin called out to you and you began to carry out the task.
You focused on your monitor as you guided the bird down and hovered carefully out of sight over the top of it as they began to move through the streets of the city.
“F.E.A.R.N, can you do a scan on the inside of the truck so we can get a better idea of what’s going on?” Joaquin’s voice asked again. Your fingers typed furiously to enable the thermal scanner and do a loop of the car then patch the visual of the feed straight through to Sam and Joaquin’s helmet.
“Looks like they took the weapon with them,” Sam said as the men in the back of the car shifted to exchange vials from a large reinforced briefcase into smaller cases.
“I think they’re gonna split up,” Joaquin said.
“There’s only two of us and four of them. We have to intercept them now before they go their separate ways,” Sam retorted.
“How far behind are you?” Joaquin asked him as he continued to fly overhead, following the car at a greater distance.
“I’m on your 6,” Sam replied. “On three, get FEARN to wipe out the battery on the car. I’ll take the left side, you take the right.”
“Okay,” Joaquin confirmed and you frantically began to get up the application for when that next command finally came through.
There was a beat and you took a deep breath to steady yourself before Sam counted you all in.
“3…2…1!”
“F.E.A.R.N cut the battery,” Joaquin commanded and you hit the button on your keyboard that allowed the drone to give off an electrical pulse to take out the car.
You could hear the sounds of the men’s confused shouts as the car cut out and rolled to a stop.
“What the?”
There was a sudden boom and crumpling of metal as both Sam and Joaquin punched out the back passenger doors on either side of the car and began to haul out the first guys they could lay their hands on. As they began to tussle, you coordinated your flight pattern with Red Wing in order to have their backs.
As the men realised who they were up against they began to panic. Realising there would be no way to get the chemical weapon back to their master if they were caught by the new falcon and Captain America, the other two men who’d been in the front of the car began to flee.
Sam quickly moved to knock out the struggling man in his arms so he could go after one of them, but Joaquin was still struggling with his own guy to go after the other.
“F.E.A.R.N follow the driver,” Joaquin called out and you jumped to your feet with the adrenaline now boarding through your body as you raced to tail the man dressed in all black who had initially driving the jeep.
When he realised you were hot on his tail, he decided he needed a new mode of transport if he was to try and put enough distance between himself and whoever came to track him down. He knew the drone following wouldn’t shoot him and risk detonating the chemical weapon, but it didn’t mean you weren’t gonna keep tabs on him for as long as you could.
“Where’s the driver?” Joaquin called out and you quickly patched through the man’s current location back through to his visor.
“He just stole a bike,” you informed him as the motorcycle the man now sat on roared to life.
“I’m on my way, keep following him from a distance,” he instructed and you moved the drone higher to follow at a distance.
“Have you got eyes on the driver?” Sam called out to Joaquin through the com link.
“Yeah, I’m just-“
Suddenly there was nothing. Your feed cut out, your computer completely shutting down. All of the lights in your appartment went out and you were plunged into sudden darkness. There was an eerie silence as the air conditioning clicked off and the fan inside began to slow.
“SHIT!” You shouted out loud. “Joaquin!?” You shouted desperately into your headset, but there was no response, the call had cut out with your computer. “No! No! No! No! No!!” You cried. This was not happening. “FUCK!” You shouted as you realised the power had gone out in the whole building. There was nothing you could do until the backup generator came on, but even then it would take time for your computer to reboot.
You reached desperately for your phone. There was no signal. As you raced to look out the window you realised it wasn’t just your apartment block, the whole neighbourhood was down. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” You chanted again.
You tapped your phone against your mouth as you began to pace back and forth, trying desperately to come up with any solution at all, but ultimately realising you’d have to wait for the backup generator to kick in.
You looked at your phone again. 1 minute. 2. Your heart felt like it was swelling up in your chest, suffocating you. This was taking way too long.
3 minutes…. 4 minutes… FUCK!
Just before it hit 5 there was a faint click and a whiring sound as the generator kicked in and everything began to come to life again, your microwave beeping in the background and your computer making a whirring sound as it switched itself back on and began slowly loading your desktop.
You quickly hurried to sit back at your desk, your fingers thundering urgently against the keys to log you back in the second it came up. You frantically typed away as you relogged into the FEARN operating systems. You hoped to God the drone still worked. The second you disconnected it it would have immediately fallen from the sky.
“Come on. Come on,” you muttered to yourself as you waited for the video feed to load.
“Oh shit,” you heard his voice come through startled as the drone kicked back to life and detached itself from Joaquin’s back.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” You began to ramble into his ear as you pivoted the drones camera around to work out what you’d missed and make sure the mission was still going smoothly.
He was stood on top of a roof now, his hands reaching out for the drone as if trying to catch it. “Wow, what is up with this thing?” He muttered to himself. “FEARN? FEARN.” he said, both with concern and a command as if he was suddenly confused by the drone.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you said, “I lost power and the whole system shut down. We were in the middle of a mission. Is everything okay?” You asked frantically.
“Yes, yes. Just stop moving a second,” he instructed almost frustrated and you quickly took your hands off the controls allowing the drone to just hover in space in front of him.
You watched through your screen as his hands moved out of shot as he took the piece of machinery in both hands, pulling it closer to inspect.
“Is there something wrong with the body of the drone?” You asked him, taking in the way his brow furrowed as he inspected it.
“No, I’m just trying to work out why the power would have just cut out like that.” You frowned at his response. Did he think the issue had been with the drone itself? “I’ll get tech to get a look under the hood and check it out when I get back to base,” he continued nonchalantly.
“Did the body sustain damage when it hit the ground?” You asked.
“It didn’t hit the ground,” he said, his dark brown eyes still fixated on checking over the drone. “I caught you when you started to fall out of the sky.”
“But what about the mission? The driver?” You asked.
“He got away,” he huffed, finally letting go of the drone so it was hovering in the air at his eyeline again. “We’ll get them next time,” he tried to rally. “I mean 3 out of the four ain’t bad,” he said. But you could see the look of pain and frustration on his face at having failed.
“I’m so sorry,” you said, realising it was probably your fault. If the power hadn’t gone out. If he hadn’t raced to save the drone, he probably would have got the guy.
“It’s okay, these things happen,” he said, but you couldn’t deny the guilt in your stomach. You knew there’d be a hearing after this. An inquest into what happened. And although the power going out technically couldn’t be helped, you also knew that if you got to keep this job, you most likely wouldn’t be able to work remotely anymore for risk this may happen again. You’d both gotten lucky this time round, but who knew how different the circumstances could be if it happened again.
“FEARN, power off.” You heard him command, his voice slightly broken and dejected. And although you didn’t want to, although you wanted to talk to him and explain what had happened properly, your job was to ultimately follow his orders… so you did.
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sixeyesonathiel · 4 months ago
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a guide to ditching the world’s most persistent nerd!
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CH05 – scientific method: be vanilla, observe gojo, spiral
pairing - nerd!gojo x baddie!reader
summary : gojo satoru has been the bane of your existence since kindergarten. you invited him to play during recess? he chose studying instead. you tried to give him chocolates? he rejected them for the sake of your dental health. you called him boring and never looked back.
years later, you’re a party girl with daddy issues, and he's the smartest, richest, greenest green flag at your elite university. when you're paired up for a project worth 60% of your final grade, you think you can slack off—except gojo keeps finding you at every exclusive club, dragging you back to work like the menace he is.
you flirt to distract him, he humors you. you push, he pulls. you seduce, he tucks your hair behind your ear and makes it your move.
oh no.
tags -> modern au, university au, tooth rooting fluff with a side of light angst, unresolved romantic tension, suggestive themes, gojo satoru is a green flag menace, reader has issues, power struggles but gojo is unaware he's in one, forced proximity via group project, reader tries to ditch gojo satoru and fails spectacularly, pining disguised as irritation, rich kids and their rich kid problems, the art of denial, humor (i hope), eventual happy ending
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chapter summary : step five in ditching the world’s most persistent nerd: do not spend 50 million yen on an elaborate disguise. do not let him see through your every move like it’s a mildly entertaining game. and absolutely do not, under any circumstances, let him call you cute.
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the moment you step inside your walk-in wardrobe, a cold wave of realization crashes over you. racks upon racks of luxury pieces gleam under the warm downlights, their fabrics whispering wealth, seduction, and power. bold reds, deep blacks, striking whites—everything tailored to make a statement, to command attention the second you enter a room. there isn't a single piece that says sweet, nothing that murmurs innocent, not even an outfit that pretends to be soft. your fingers skim over the silk, the lace, the fur-lined coats, searching for something—anything—that fits the brief. but the deeper you dig, the more suffocating it becomes, a graveyard of high fashion swallowing any hope of blending into the aesthetic of a delicate, vanilla girl.
your manicured nails grip the nearest hanger like it’s personally offended you. a fitted black dress, sharp at the waist, plunging at the neckline, dangerously slit along the thigh. it is undeniably stunning—you are undeniably stunning in it—but it doesn’t fit the image you need to craft tonight. with a sharp exhale, you shove it aside and move onto the next. the next is no better. nor is the one after that. everything screams influence, confidence, the kind of beauty that does not ask for attention but demands it outright.
your stomach knots as you retreat a step, surveying the battlefield of failed options. you could just go as yourself, abandon the plan, let satoru deal with whatever version of you he gets tonight. but no—no. that would mean letting him win, and after everything, you refuse to let him have the satisfaction. he wants vanilla? he’ll get vanilla. even if it kills you.
frustration bubbles up as you snatch your phone off the nearby vanity, nails tapping aggressively against the screen. soft girl outfits aesthetic. vanilla girl fashion cute but hot but innocent but classy???? HELP. pinterest floods your feed instantly—beige, florals, delicate bows, ruffles so sickeningly sweet they make your eyes burn. you grimace, thumb hovering over the screen, hesitation sinking its claws into your resolve.
“no,” you whisper, horrified. “no, no, no—”
your grip tightens around your phone as you glare at the pastel-infested pinterest board before you. bows. lace. ruffles. it’s an assault on everything you’ve carefully curated, an aesthetic so far removed from your own that it feels like a personal attack. but you refuse to falter. if satoru wants vanilla, then vanilla he will get.
steeling yourself, you toss your phone onto the vanity and square your shoulders, turning back to the daunting expanse of your wardrobe. you’ve built your image on power, on allure, on the kind of beauty that dominates a room without effort. but tonight isn’t about you—it’s about strategy. a game. and you? you always play to win.
with newfound resolve, you reach for the nearest dress that even remotely fits the brief. it’s a disaster. but so is the next one. and the next. until you stand in front of the mirror, fists clenched at your sides, glaring at your reflection like it personally betrayed you.
the first dress you actually try on is a catastrophe. the fabric clings to your curves like it was made for sin, the neckline dipping just a little too low, the fit sculpted to perfection. standing in front of the mirror, you turn slightly, assessing the damage, and instantly shake your head. no. absolutely not. this isn’t vanilla, this is devour them whole and leave no trace, and while that might be your natural state, it isn’t the disguise you need tonight. with a sharp exhale, you yank the zipper down, stepping out of the dress and tossing it onto the bed without a second glance.
the second dress has potential—soft florals, delicate lace, a silhouette that skims rather than suffocates. you almost let yourself feel relief until you catch the mirror at a different angle, and the truth smacks you across the face. an open back, a perfectly placed cutout, a subtle yet undeniable whisper of rich girl on vacation, sipping champagne on a yacht. you groan, dragging a hand down your face, cursing the day you ever trusted your fashion instincts. this should be easier. it should not be this hard to find one outfit that doesn’t scream wealth and power.
by the third attempt, you’re starting to lose hope. the dress looks innocent enough at first—modest neckline, soft fabric, pastel tones—but the second you move, the betrayal reveals itself. the slit—the unforgivable, thigh-high slit. you freeze mid-step, eyes locked onto your own reflection as a slow, pained realization creeps in. there is no winning here. no matter how much you try, your closet is not built for innocence, and you are not built for restraint.
you start pacing, fingers twitching at your sides, the mountain of discarded outfits growing higher with every failed attempt. your reflection watches, unimpressed, as you mutter under your breath, frustration curling into every syllable. “why do i own nothing vanilla??” despite the ridiculous amount of money spent in your room, it offers no answer, only the overwhelming silence of luxury failing you for the first time. "this is a hate crime against my entire closet." another glance at the pile of rejection confirms it—this is beyond repair. “utahime is dead to me for making me do this.”
the thought slithers in then, quiet at first, almost reasonable. you could cancel. send satoru a last-minute excuse, claim a migraine, a scheduling conflict, a sudden and overwhelming disgust for social interaction. you could just go as yourself—let him deal with the sharp edges, the undeniable presence, the you that refuses to be anything less than commanding. but then you remember the way he smirked earlier, the way he always expects you to push back instead of play along, and something in your chest tightens. no. no, no, no. he will not win.
if shoko was right—if satoru really has a weakness for vanilla girls—you are going to drag him through hell with it. and for that, you need a whole new wardrobe.
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the moment you step inside the luxury mall a wave of unease settles in your chest. the mall is luxurious, yes—polished marble floors, glimmering chandeliers, soft classical music humming from hidden speakers—but it lacks the exclusivity you’re used to. there are no private shopping lounges, no pre-arranged selections waiting for you upon arrival, no personal stylists greeting you by name with curated ensembles. instead, the boutiques here are open to the public, their doors wide for anyone who can afford them, but still restrained, catering to the wealthy enough. rich, but not your kind of rich. your fingers tighten around the handle of your bag, nails pressing into leather as you force yourself forward.
your usual boutiques stand proudly among the others—chanel, prada, dior—familiar, gleaming, calling to you like old friends. their displays are immaculate, their garments pristine, the kind of luxury that fits you like a second skin. you slow, just slightly, gaze flickering toward prada’s newest collection, the temptation curling around your resolve. one step. one moment. that’s all it would take to slip inside, to sink into the comfort of what you know, to let the attendants fawn over you instead of navigating this battlefield alone. but no. no, you can’t.
“don’t look at chanel. don’t look at prada—”
you look.
you suffer.
your exhale is sharp, controlled, forcing your shoulders to relax as you turn your focus back to the task at hand. the boutiques surrounding you are still luxury, still refined, but their purpose is different—designed for the kind of rich that still checks price tags, that considers budgeting, that hasn’t reached the level where money is merely a concept. a part of you recoils at the thought, but you push forward, determined. if you’re going to do this, you have to commit.
step one: find something vanilla.
step two: survive.
you hate this. everything is too soft, too delicate, too boring. the fabrics lack weight, the silhouettes lack edge, and the colors—god, the colors—are an endless sea of beige, pastels, and florals that make your skin itch. you aren’t just choosing an outfit; you are standing at the edge of an identity crisis, staring into the abyss of vanilla and feeling it claw at your very existence. your wardrobe is built on dominance, on presence, on the kind of beauty that leaves no room for interpretation. but here, in this carefully curated battlefield of innocence and sweetness, you are drowning.
your fingers twitch as you flip through the racks, skimming over soft-knit cardigans, frilly blouses, and dresses that look like they belong to women who giggle instead of smirk. the fabrics are light, breathable, wholesome—everything you are not. you pick up a cream-colored sweater, feeling the softness under your fingertips, and immediately recoil. this isn’t you. this isn’t anything like you. your stomach twists as you push deeper into the store, searching for something, anything, that won’t make you feel like you’re shedding your skin.
a store associate approaches, all bright eyes and perfect customer-service warmth, her hands neatly folded in front of her. “are you looking for something specific, miss?” her voice is polite, professional, but something about the genuine friendliness in it makes your eye twitch. you want to say yes. yes, you are looking for a personality reset, for a lobotomy, for an alternative reality where you don’t have to do this. instead, you force a pleasant smile, voice smooth as glass. “just browsing.” which, in this case, translates to actively losing your mind.
you pull a white, flowy sundress from the rack, holding it up with a deep sense of unease. the fabric is airy, the design innocent, the silhouette made for a girl who probably spends her weekends baking cookies and sighing dreamily into the wind. you stare at it. it stares back. a long, drawn-out silence stretches between you and the offending garment before, with a quiet shudder, you drop it like it personally insulted you.
you leave the store, your steps brisk, your patience fraying at the edges. the next boutique offers no salvation—just more pastels, more lace, more delicate little bows tied onto sleeves and collars like some kind of personal attack. your hands flex at your sides, the sheer injustice of this entire situation making your jaw clench. this is not just a shopping trip. this is psychological warfare. and you are losing.
eventually, you manage.
except, ‘manage’ is a generous word for what actually happens. because what happens is a complete and utter annihilation of your dignity, your self-respect, and—most critically—your bank account. at some point, you stop thinking, stop hesitating, stop fighting the growing pit of despair in your chest. you just buy. every pastel dress, every soft cardigan, every demure, heartbreakingly vanilla piece of clothing in sight.
you don’t even check the price tags.
but the sales associate does. and she sees an opportunity. her eyes flicker with the kind of predatory excitement usually reserved for jackpot lottery winners, her polite smile stretching just a bit too wide. “oh! this dress would look perfect with these ballet flats. should i add them to your pile?” her voice is honeyed, but her eyes gleam dangerously, like a shark that just scented blood. you nod. dead inside.
her grin widens. “and maybe this sweater? it’s giving cozy first date vibes.” her tone is casual, but there’s a sharpness in the way she tilts her head, already holding the sweater against you as if daring you to refuse.
nod.
“ooh, you’ll need accessories, right? how about a delicate pearl bracelet?” this time, her voice takes on an innocent lilt, like she’s merely making a friendly suggestion—not executing a masterclass in high-speed commission farming. her fingers are quick as she plucks the bracelet from the case, the glint in her eyes now unmistakably ravenous.
nod.
“what about this makeup set to complete the look?” her expression is impossibly pleasant, but the sheer giddiness hiding beneath it is almost terrifying. she’s barely restraining herself now, hands moving with the precision of a seasoned con artist, slipping the set onto the counter before you even process what’s happening.
nod.
at this point, she is practically vibrating, her sales instincts on overdrive, eyes darting wildly around the store for one last kill. and then, like a divine blessing, she spots it. “you know what? let’s throw in a scented candle. vanilla sugar. really gets the vibe across.” her smile is so radiant, so victorious, that you almost admire her dedication to the craft.
you nod again.
you have completely disassociated.
the mountain of bags in front of you is obscene, an overwhelming pile of soft fabrics and delicate accessories suffocating you under a weight of beige betrayal. and then your total flashes across the screen—a number so outrageous it would make most people gasp.
fifty. million. yen.
the sales associate visibly struggles to maintain her composure, her hands folded neatly in front of her, but her eyes—her eyes—are practically shimmering with triumph. she looks like she just paid off her student loans, put a down payment on a luxury condo, and secured early retirement all in one transaction.
you don’t flinch. you swipe your black card without blinking, your soul already halfway to the afterlife.
the sales associate beams, voice dangerously sweet. “thank you for shopping with us! should i send these to your car?”
you blink. then, slowly, your head tilts, expression smooth, controlled. “no need.”
she falters, confusion flickering behind her perfectly trained smile. “…no need?”
you sigh, feigning mild impatience. “no car.”
a beat of silence. her brows lift just slightly, eyes flickering to the absurd number of shopping bags now surrounding you. her expression wavers between impressed and mildly horrified as she hesitates. “do… do you need a ride, then?”
your lips part—before you remember that you did have a driver. briefly. except he was a boy toy, not an actual chauffeur, and he had served his purpose the moment he dropped you off. you had shooed him away with a lazy wave of your hand, not even sparing him a second glance.
which means you are now stranded in a luxury mall, drowning in fifty million yen worth of pastel suffering, with no actual way to get home.
your fingers tighten around the receipt.
and then.
voices—loud, familiar, male—drift from the hallway just outside the boutique. you glance up, and there they are—the university basketball team, a cluster of tall, broad-shouldered figures making their way down the mall, their conversation casual, easy. they must have just come from the food court or some sporting store, half of them holding protein shakes, one of them lazily spinning a basketball on his fingertips.
your gaze drifts, scanning their faces, noting the way conversation slows as they pass by the boutique and see you—framed by designer bags, dressed like a walking privilege complex, standing in the aftermath of what must look like an absurd shopping spree.
perfect.
you move with purpose, slow and deliberate, every step a silent command that draws their attention like a gravitational pull. the shift in the air is immediate—conversation dulls, movements slow, postures straighten, as if some unspoken instinct demands their focus solely on you. their eyes flick to the mountain of shopping bags framing you, then back to your unreadable expression, and you can already see the gears turning in their heads. this is their moment. this is their chance. the first one reacts without hesitation, shoulders squaring, voice eager. “hey, you need help with those?”
another one steps forward before you can answer, his arm shoving the first guy aside with casual force. “don’t be stupid, of course she does. here, let me—” his fingers are already reaching for the bags, confident, assured, like touching your things is some divine privilege. but before he can claim his victory, another one cuts in, scoffing under his breath. “no, i got it—” he’s taller, broader, flexing just enough to make a statement, fingers twitching like he’s prepared to fight for the honor of being useful to you.
“you guys are pathetic,” a fourth voice sneers, stepping in like he’s already won. he doesn’t wait, doesn’t hesitate—just lifts three of the heaviest bags in one smooth motion, barely acknowledging the weight, gaze flicking toward you for approval. “i can carry more than all of you.” it’s a challenge, a declaration of superiority, but no one backs down. within seconds, hands reach, arms extend, and before you can even feign reluctance, your burden is gone. divided amongst eager, competing hands, shuffled and redistributed like a prize to be won.
you exhale, slow, calculated, your amusement hidden beneath a well-practiced air of indifference. of course they’re fighting over your things. of course they’re tripping over themselves, desperate to be of use to you, eager to carve a space into your world—even if only for a moment. the weightless relief in your arms is almost laughable, but the true victory lies in the way they look at you. like you are untouchable. like you are something to be pleased.
one of them hesitates, shifting slightly, an ounce of regret creeping into his expression. “uh, we were supposed to go to a movie, but—” the sentence barely escapes before another cuts in, smooth, immediate, certain.
“cancel it,” he says, adjusting the weight of your bags in his arms, as if the decision had already been made long before this moment. “we’ll drive her home instead.”
a chorus of agreements follows—unquestioning, effortless, their priorities shifting in real-time, restructured entirely around you.
you hate the clothes. you hate the concept. you hate satoru gojo.
but you love winning. you have to.
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you stare at the ridiculous amount of shopping bags scattered across your bedroom floor, arms crossed, expression murderous. you spent fifty million yen on this—this farce—and now you have to wear it. the thought alone makes your skin itch, but you’ve come too far to back out now. with a sharp inhale, you kneel down and begin your suffering, sifting through the carefully folded garments, grimacing at every delicate fabric that passes through your fingers. soft pastels. fragile lace. silhouettes designed to whisper rather than command. disgusting.
after what feels like an eternity of self-loathing, you pull out the final choice: a pastel midi dress, flowy, feminine, with just a hint of lace trimming along the hem. you hold it up, inspecting it under the light, hoping—praying—that it will suddenly become unbearable so you’ll have an excuse to throw it across the room. but it doesn’t. it remains innocent, demure, sweet, and that realization alone makes you scowl. still, this is the most tolerable option among a sea of floral oppression, so with a defeated sigh, you peel off your robe and step into it. the fabric is light against your skin, the fit annoyingly comfortable. it’s a nightmare.
and then come the shoes. flats. the ultimate betrayal. no heels, no satisfying click against the floor, no added height to tilt your chin even higher. you slip them on, and the absence of power in your stride makes your body physically reject the experience. your lip curls in disgust, arms outstretched as if the shoes might somehow infect you. “this is a crime.” your voice is flat, resigned, but the only judge and jury in the room is your reflection, and she is already condemning you for every choice that led to this moment.
you grab the matching shoulder bag next, small and pastel, still designer, because you refuse to let yourself completely suffer. you sling it over your shoulder, feeling its weight—or lack thereof—and your fingers tighten against the strap. even your accessories have been stripped of their usual sharpness, reduced to something delicate, something sweet. the thought alone makes your jaw clench, but the real final blow comes when you sit in front of your vanity and pin your hair back with a dainty little clip. this is where the urge to scream truly sets in.
the last step is the perfume, the final nail in the coffin of your identity. you reach for your usual scent—bold, sultry, commanding—only to stop yourself at the last second. no. if you’re going to do this, you have to commit. with slow, begrudging movements, you swap it out for something lighter, something delicate—floral with hints of vanilla and white musk. the scent settles around you like a cage, gentle, inoffensive, wrong.
you step back, taking in the reflection staring back at you.
innocent. sweet. soft.
you inhale slowly, forcing your expression to remain impassive. it's almost funny. almost.
your head tilts, gaze narrowing. you look right, in the way that little girls in perfect families should. in the way your mother used to dress you—delicate, lovely, a porcelain doll for the world to admire. back then, pastels weren't a costume; they were second skin. love was pink ribbons in your hair and kisses on your forehead, and you thought—naïve, blind, stupid—that it would always be like that. that the smiles at the dinner table were real, that your parents’ murmured conversations were nothing but soft reassurances in the dark. that love was something true, something lasting, something that didn't unravel the second no one was watching.
but then you grew up. and you learned.
your father came home with lipstick stains that weren’t your mother’s. your mother left in the middle of the night with perfume that wasn’t for your father. the walls of your pristine, picture-perfect home echoed with silence, with forced laughter, with empty pleasantries exchanged over candlelit dinners. they were still together, still playing house, still pretending like the whole damn thing wasn’t a farce. you were the only one suffocating in the lie, watching the threads fray while they smiled through it, unbothered. and so, you adapted. you shed the pastels, traded lace for silk, ribbons for diamonds. if love was nothing but performance, you would outperform them all.
so why, then—why—do you look at yourself now and feel something twist in your chest?
your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag, nails digging into the soft leather.
no. you were that girl once. but that girl is dead. she died the moment she realized her family’s love was nothing but a well-rehearsed act.
you exhale sharply, forcing the thought out of your head.
this is just a role. a disguise. nothing more.
therefore, if you’re going to do this, you might as well commit to the bit.
but let’s get one thing straight—you are not baking. absolutely not. the last time you poured your heart into something for satoru, you were five years old, gripping a box of carefully wrapped chocolates with all the hope in the world, only for him to crush it beneath the weight of dental hygiene. you learned your lesson. never again. instead, on your way to the café, you swing by a small, homey cake shop—the kind with handwritten labels, tiny ribbons on the boxes, and an old lady behind the counter who probably invented love itself.
you stride up to the counter, nails tapping against the glass display as you scan the selection of delicate pastries. after a moment, you exhale sharply, tilting your head toward the woman. “i need something that says ‘i made this with love’ but also ‘not too much love’ because he doesn’t deserve that much effort.”
the old lady blinks at you. then, very gently, she asks, “ah, young love?”
you recoil. violently. “no.”
but it’s too late. the grandma’s eyes twinkle, her hands clasping together with the kind of delight only an elderly woman with a lifetime of wisdom and absolutely no fear of being corrected can possess. “you remind me of my husband when we were younger,” she sighs dreamily, already lost in nostalgia. “he was the most frustrating man alive. always unpredictable, always unreadable—but i adored him.”
your face twists. “that’s tragic. i’m so sorry.”
the old lady just waves you off, smiling like she didn’t just say something horrifying. “oh, no, dear, that’s how you know it’s real. the best love stories are the ones that keep you on your toes. why, when we first met, he used to steal my hair ribbons just to hear me scold him. it was his way of flirting.”
you almost bite your tongue. because wow. wow. stealing? that sounds way too familiar.
you shift, arms crossing, eyes narrowing. “uh-huh. did he manage to be infuriating for years? pop up wherever you went like a bad omen? make you want to throw a shoe at his face every time he opened his mouth?”
“oh, constantly!” the grandma laughs, as if this is the most romantic thing in the world. “he used to read me poetry but only the worst ones he could find, just to make me suffer. and when i finally fell for him, he acted shocked—like it wasn’t part of his master plan all along!” she shakes her head, still fond despite the betrayal.
you nod slowly, eyes dark. “right. master plan. men are actually the worst.”
“they are.” the grandma hums in agreement, then pats your hand, voice softening. “but if he makes you feel like the world is brighter when he’s near, like you could push him away a thousand times and he’d still be there, smiling at you like you hung the stars—then maybe, just maybe, he’s worth keeping around.”
you stare at her.
then you think about satoru. about the way he always finds you, always pulls you back in. about the way he looks at you sometimes, like he knows something you don’t.
your stomach twists. your eye twitches. you clear your throat.
“yeah, no. i think i’ll just take the cupcakes.”
the grandma chuckles but doesn’t argue, already packing up a box with delicate care. “of course, dear.”
before leaving, you toss the receipt and the bag, making sure to completely erase the part where you trauma-bonded with a sweet old woman over the single most annoying man in existence.
…except you forget to check the bottom of the box. (critical mistake.)
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of course, satoru's already secured a private room.
you step inside, carefully, deliberately, every movement rehearsed down to the placement of your fingers against the strap of your bag. and there he is—leaned back in his seat, effortlessly put together, the picture of practiced ease. his button-down is slightly loose, sleeves rolled up just enough to be infuriatingly intentional, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose like he’s been waiting for you all day. his gaze flickers up the moment you enter. slow. deliberate. like he’s taking his time—like he’s assessing, analyzing, already trying to get ahead of you before you’ve even had the chance to open your mouth.
and then—
“…huh.”
your entire brain short-circuits.
for a split second, your carefully crafted persona wobbles, the saccharine sweetness cracking at the edges as your body tenses instinctively. what does huh mean? huh is too vague, too unspecific, too—too much. your heart kicks up a beat faster, pulse drumming against your ribs as you force yourself to stay calm, to stay in character. focus. science. this is for science.
your lashes flutter, expression smoothing over as you lower yourself primly into your seat. “excuse me?”
satoru leans in slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching up in something that is definitely a smirk. “nothing. just… not your usual look.”
his voice is smooth. unreadable. too unreadable.
your fingers twitch against the table. the back of your neck prickles. for someone who never shuts up, he’s saying far too little. his expression is amused but otherwise unbothered, gaze dragging over you like he’s filing away every detail for later use.
you force a smile, light, easy, as if you aren’t hyper-analyzing his every microexpression. “i thought i’d try something new.”
satoru hums, tilting his head, gaze still lingering, still watching. slow, lazy, measured, like he’s picking apart every piece of this transformation and cataloging it for later. but there’s nothing—no narrowed eyes, no suspicion, no telltale flicker of what the hell are you up to this time? it’s infuriating, the way he doesn’t react, the way he gives you nothing to work with. satoru is always smirking, always pushing, always ready to pry into your motives with a teasing lilt and a knowing look—but right now? nothing. it’s as if this version of you doesn’t surprise him at all.
your grip tightens around the edge of your dress, nails pressing into soft pastel fabric as something unsettles in your chest. but then his gaze dips lower, trailing down, assessing, and for a split second, anticipation coils in your stomach. and then—his lips twitch, the barest upward curl at the edges. slow. deliberate. smug.
“flats?”
your eye twitches. oh, so now he’s paying attention to details? now he decides to notice? as if the fact that you’re drowning in frills and softness wasn’t already an earth-shattering revelation? heat simmers under your skin, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface, but you refuse to crack. not here. not now. not when the game has barely begun.
you inhale sharply through your nose, a carefully measured breath, voice smooth as glass. “yes, satoru. flats.”
he leans back, all ease, all enjoyment, watching you like you’re the single most entertaining thing to happen to him all day. “never thought i’d see the day.”
you are going to kill him.
but you do not break. you will not break. instead, you smile—sweet, vanilla, effortlessly composed. legs crossed, hands neatly folded, posture the perfect imitation of someone soft, someone sweet, someone who does not spend every waking moment plotting this man’s demise.
satoru blinks. once.
that’s right.
you tilt your head, expression just shy of concerned, like you’re the one who should be questioning him. “is something wrong?”
he exhales, slow, measured, tipping his head back slightly, gaze flickering over you one last time before settling, unreadable. “nope.”
your stomach sinks.
nothing. no smirk twitch. no furrow of his brows. no flicker of confusion or oh god, is this woman scamming me?
no. no, no, no.
he’s… unfazed?
not even a little bit weirded out? not even mildly confused about why you’re suddenly dressed like someone who makes her own jams and says oopsie daisy unironically?
your fingers tighten against your lap, nails pressing into the soft fabric of your dress as you steady yourself. okay. fine. phase two. you can do this.
you exhale slowly, just enough to smooth out any lingering tension, and soften your expression. widen your eyes—just a little. tilt your head at just the right angle, the way you’ve seen other girls do when they bat their lashes at satoru like he personally put the moon in the sky. everything is calculated, precise, carefully controlled. your voice, when it comes out, is feather-light, saccharine-sweet, soft in a way that makes your stomach churn.
“it’s nice to sit down with you like this, gojo.”
you want to die.
it’s painful. nauseating. every instinct in your body is screaming at you to stop, to drop the act, to throw a drink in his face just to purge the sickly sweetness from your system. but no. you have to do this. if his eyes twitch, if his lips quirk, if he reacts at all, you’ll know. you’ll have proof.
satoru pauses for a fraction of a second.
his glasses slide down his nose ever so slightly, catching the dim glow of the café lights, the reflection obscuring his gaze for a beat too long. and then he only grins. “it is, huh?”
your soul leaves your body.
this is wrong. this is very wrong. there should be something—a moment of hesitation, a flicker of what the hell is going on, a single sign that he’s thrown off his axis. but instead, he looks amused, pleased even, like this is exactly where he expected this conversation to go. he shifts, adjusting his glasses with his index finger, the motion slow, precise, and way too composed for your liking.
your stomach sinks further.
this was supposed to be a test, and yet somehow, you’re the one being tested.
but alas, this operation requires no room for hesitation. you cannot hesitate.
onto phase three.
you slide the box across the table with both hands, placing it directly in front of him with a shy, almost bashful smile. it’s careful, intentional—your fingers linger on the lid just long enough to suggest hesitation, as if you’re nervous about his reaction, as if this moment matters. your head tilts ever so slightly, lashes fluttering just once, voice feather-soft when you murmur, “i made these for you, satoru.”
soft voice. delicate hands. wide, innocent eyes. vanilla.
satoru, ever skeptical, lifts an eyebrow. “you baked?”
your stomach tenses, but you do not falter. you have trained for this. “mm-hmm.” you nod, smooth, effortless, exuding nothing but the confidence of a woman who definitely spent hours in a kitchen, flour-dusted and glowing with domestic bliss.
his head tilts, amusement flickering across his face, sharp—too sharp. his gaze drags over you, slow, assessing, like he’s already figured you out but is entertained enough to watch you squirm. you hate that. satoru likes his conclusions quick, his reactions effortless—but this? this isn’t hesitation. this is confidence, the kind that comes from knowing he’s already won.
and then, to your absolute horror, his lips curve.
“aw,” he croons, resting his chin on his palm, “you made these? just for me?”
your stomach twists.
oh, you hate that tone. that slow, syrupy, indulging tone. the one he uses when he knows you’re full of shit but finds it infinitely entertaining to let you dig your own grave.
your fingers tighten around the menu, nails pressing into the laminated surface, but you do not break. instead, you nod, lashes fluttering just slightly, letting your lips curve into something warm, sweet. “of course,” you murmur. “i wanted to do something special for you.”
satoru hums, dragging his finger along the edge of the box. his smirk is lazy, his eyes sharp, watching you too closely, gaze too knowing. it makes something in your chest clench.
“that’s so sweet,” he sighs, flipping open the lid. “so thoughtful.”
he looks down at the cupcakes—perfect, pastel, borderline obnoxious in their homemade aesthetic. then, too casually, his fingers curl around the box, and with an obnoxious amount of patience, he lifts it over his head to check the bottom.
your stomach plummets.
no.
because right there, on the bottom was a price sticker.
no, no, no.
you feel the blood drain from your face, fingers twitching slightly against the menu as you fight the urge to launch yourself across the table and rip the box from his hands.
satoru tilts his head. “huh.” a pause. then, insufferably casual, “2,800 yen. expensive for homemade.”
your jaw locks.
but you do not falter. oh, no. you have committed too much to this bit to go down now.
so instead—you gasp. softly. delicately. the perfect picture of distress. “oh, no.” your eyes widen just the right amount, a hand fluttering up to your lips. “i must have grabbed the wrong box! i always reuse packaging—sustainability is such an important initiative in our family’s conglomerate, you know?”
you sigh, shaking your head, exuding just the right amount of gentle disappointment. “it’s so easy to overlook these little details when you’re focused on making something with love.” your lashes lower, voice dropping into something almost melancholic. “but of course, you’d never doubt me, right, satoru?”
your eyes are wide, shimmering. your voice, just the tiniest bit wobbly. a damsel in distress, tragically wronged by the evil forces of capitalism.
satoru leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his movements slow, intentional, like he’s settling in for a show. his smirk is lazy, almost languid, the kind of expression he wears when he’s far too amused but hasn’t decided if he’s going to let you know just how much fun he’s having yet. the dim glow of the café lights catches on his reading glasses, a flicker of reflection obscuring his gaze for half a second before he tips his chin, looking at you with something dangerously close to delight. the way he’s watching you is unbearable—too sharp, too knowing, like he’s waiting to see just how deep you’ll dig yourself into this hole. then, with a voice so smooth it makes your stomach tighten, he hums, “…of course.”
your pulse stutters.
he picks up a cupcake, turning it between his fingers with deliberate ease, thumb brushing idly over the edge of the wrapper. he doesn’t look away from you—not even for a second. “so, just to be clear—” his head tilts, reading glasses sliding down just slightly, revealing the glint of sharp blue beneath. “you mixed the batter? sifted the flour? cracked the eggs all by yourself?” his voice is light, too casual, but there’s something just beneath it, something waiting, pressing, like he’s toying with a puzzle he’s already solved.
you nod, ignoring the way your palms start to sweat, ignoring the way your heartbeat has kicked up just a little too fast.
he peels back the wrapper, slow, deliberate, movements unrushed like he has all the time in the world. “and you piped this frosting by hand? swirled it into these perfect little peaks?” his fingers are precise as he traces the frosting, a slow, idle movement, gaze flicking between the cupcake and you, as if he’s comparing, measuring.
“obviously,” you say, batting your lashes, voice steady, perfect, practiced.
satoru chuckles, low and quiet, the sound curling around the space between you like smoke—thick, insidious, cloying. “huh.” just one syllable, but it lands heavy, weighted, knowing. the kind of sound people make when they’ve figured something out but want to let you stew in the tension of not knowing how much they know. he doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t press—not yet. he just watches, gaze lazy, comfortable, dragging over you like he’s measuring every tiny shift in your expression.
your stomach twists.
why did he say it like that?
your fingers curl against your lap, pressing into the soft fabric of your dress as you force yourself to remain still, to breathe, to not react. but before you can decide if you’re spiraling or if he’s actually drawing this out on purpose, he moves. finally, he moves—brings the cupcake up to his lips, takes a slow, deliberate bite, the motion so unhurried it feels intentional.
the moment stretches as you watch him chews.
his jaw shifts, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as he swallows, throat bobbing in one smooth motion. his fingers tap against the wrapper, slow, rhythmic, like he’s thinking, like he’s considering. his expression doesn’t change, not even slightly, and it makes something tighten in your chest. it’s the silence that gets you, the unbearable, crawling silence where you should have won something—should have seen a flicker of hesitation, of confusion, of anything.
“delicious,” he declares, licking a stray bit of frosting from his thumb, voice smooth, unbothered, infuriatingly indulgent. “i had high expectations, princess, and somehow, you still managed to exceed them.”
your eye twitches as you watch him reach for the menu, mimicking his action.
because he knows.
he knows, and he’s indulging you anyway, letting you keep up this ridiculous charade just to see how far you’ll take it, how long you’ll dig yourself deeper.
and what’s worse? he’s enjoying it. so instead on glorifying him with an answer, you double down.
your posture shifts—prim, delicate, legs crossed just so, hands resting lightly against the table, every movement slow, controlled, the picture of soft, demure femininity. it is an art, a careful craft, and if he won’t fall for it, then you’ll force him to. you soften your gaze, let your lashes lower, let the corners of your lips curve just slightly. then, with the sweetest, most gentle tone you can manage, you sigh, “gojo, isn’t this such a lovely place?”
satoru doesn’t even look up from the menu.
his lips twitch. “hmm. very romantic.”
your lashes flutter. perfect. “isn’t it?”
“mm. makes me want to settle down. buy a house in the suburbs. maybe get a golden retriever.”
your grip tightens around the menu.
this is fine.
this is fine.
you inhale, re-center, refuse to let him win. the act is still in play, the performance still running, and if there’s one thing you refuse to do, it’s let gojo satoru make you break character first. when the waiter arrives, you smoothly hand over your menu, voice pleasant, poised, as you say, “i’ll have a croissant and a vanilla latte—”
“she’ll have a chamomile tea,” satoru interrupts, handing the menu back without even looking up.
your entire body stills.
“excuse me?”
“no caffeine after two pm,” he says, too casual, still not bothering to meet your gaze. “your circadian rhythm is already ruined.”
your what?
“my what?”
he finally glances up, tipping his head, glasses catching the soft café lighting in a way that makes it impossible to read his expression. “your sleep cycle,” he clarifies smoothly. then, with an air of pure, faux innocence, he adds, “unless you like looking exhausted? in which case, carry on.”
your fingers tighten around the tablecloth, the fabric crumpling under your grip as you fight every single urge in your body not to break character.
soft. you have to be soft. sweet. agreeable. not the kind of girl who flips a table over utter audacity.
“satoru.”
he doesn’t even flinch.
“also, swap her croissant for the yogurt parfait.” he tells the waiter, still maddeningly at ease, as if this is just another natural law of the universe—gravity, time, and gojo satoru dictating her breakfast order.
your jaw locks. your nails dig into your palm under the table. “i wanted a croissant.”
he barely even looks at you. “and i ignored you,” he replies, flashing an infuriatingly easy smile before turning back to the poor, unfortunate soul standing beside the table. “we’re good, right?”
you stare at him, fingers twitching against the tablecloth, the effort of maintaining your soft, vanilla-girl persona weighing heavier by the second. the room around them is warm, filled with the gentle hum of low conversation beyond the wooden partition. the soft glow of string lights casts a golden hue over the space, making the whole setting feel too cozy, too comfortable—completely at odds with the absolute rage simmering beneath your carefully crafted exterior.
somewhere in the café, plates clink, a faint laugh carries from another private room, and the air is thick with the scent of fresh pastries and brewed coffee. the atmosphere is deceptively peaceful, a stark contrast to the silent battle waging at your table.
and then, mercifully—the drinks arrive first.
the waiter sets them down carefully—his glass of milk, your infuriatingly caffeine-free chamomile tea—and vanishes before you can contemplate dragging him back and demanding your croissant by force. across the table, satoru lifts his glass with a smug, slow ease, fingers tapping idly against the smooth surface. he doesn’t say anything at first, just takes a long sip, obnoxiously casual, like he knows exactly how much he’s getting under your skin and is savoring the moment. you inhale, steadying yourself, refusing to engage, forcing your shoulders to relax as you pick up your own cup. the steam curls up softly, floral and warm, but the taste is bland, utterly unremarkable, a reminder that you are suffering, and it is his fault.
and then—out of nowhere—he hums, setting his glass down with a quiet clink, and says, “as i've mentioned, i met with our professor earlier.”
your fingers twitch against the delicate porcelain of your cup. of course he did. of course he used consultation hours. of course he went out of his way to have a chat with your professor like some insufferable academic try-hard. you barely refrain from rolling your eyes, instead lifting your tea to your lips, taking a slow, measured sip.
“he said our intro was weak,” satoru continues, swirling his glass like he’s leading a business meeting. “something about needing stronger market segmentation.”
your grip tightens around your cup.
this is it. this is another test. if he even hesitates, if his expression shifts—even slightly—you’ll know. you keep your face carefully neutral, letting your eyes soften just a touch, keeping the performance intact. and then, just as planned, you tilt your head ever so slightly and murmur, "you always know best, satoru."
his gaze sharpens.
not noticeably, not in any way someone else would catch, but you see it—the microsecond of stillness, the almost-imperceptible flicker of amusement in his eyes.
he knows.
he knows you know exactly what market segmentation is.
and now he’s testing you.
because here’s the thing—he might beat you on numbers, but when it comes to people, to reading them, to handling them, to winning them? that’s your domain. and yet, right now, he’s flipping the board, turning the strategy against you, waiting for you to break character, waiting for you to get frustrated and snap back with something too sharp, too you.
he raises an eyebrow. “do you want to know what that means?”
your stomach tightens.
he’s baiting you, dangling it in front of you like he wants you to fold, like he’s waiting for you to slip. because satoru knows you. not just this version of you—the carefully constructed softness, the vanilla girl performance—but the one underneath it. he knows you’re smarter than the version of you that laughs at dumb jokes and pretends to be charmed by men who don’t deserve your time. he knows you dumb yourself down even outside of this act, that you play a different kind of game—one where you let people underestimate you before tearing them apart.
he knows you can tear through people as easily as you can tear through him when it comes to social maneuvering. but if you call him out, if you drop the act now, you’ll lose.
he leans in slightly, smirking. “want me to dumb it down for you?”
you almost tense. almost.
instead, you exhale slowly, control seamless, and match him.
your lips curve.
you lean in too, slow, deliberate, eyes half-lidded, gaze locking onto his like you’re sizing him up, like you already know how this is going to end.
“sure,” you whisper, voice light, lilting. “use small words, professor.”
his smirk twitches, just the slightest tell, barely there—so small that anyone else would have missed it. but you see it. you catch the way his fingers tap once against his glass, the way his jaw shifts, the way his amusement flares, barely restrained. he recovers fast, too fast, and it sends something sharp curling in your stomach. you almost got him.
almost.
before you can push further, the soft clatter of plates interrupts the moment. the pasties arrives next.
you inhale slowly, steadying yourself, and pick up the small glass cup placed in front of you. layers of yogurt, granola, and an insulting amount of fruit stare back at you, mocking you with their nutritional value. your jaw tightens as you exhale through your nose, setting it down with controlled precision. “…this really isn’t what i wanted.”
satoru, completely unbothered, picks up his strawberry shortcake, fork twirling idly between his fingers. “i know.”
you slowly, painstakingly force your expression into something soft, something sweet, something that won’t immediately give away the absolute rage simmering beneath the surface. your lashes lower, your smile curves just so, your voice dangerously pleasant as you murmur, “satoru, you didn’t have to do this.”
“of course i did,” he replies, utterly smug. “someone has to look out for your nutrient deficiencies.”
your eye twitches.
briefly, violently, you envision flipping the table, sending his milk flying, watching his stupid glasses slide down his nose in sheer shock. instead, you inhale again, slow and measured, hands folding neatly in your lap, the picture of composed gratitude. “you’re so thoughtful.”
satoru hums, tilting his head, the corner of his mouth twitching—like he knows exactly how much this is killing you. “aren’t i?”
your jaw tightens, but you do not break. instead, you exhale softly, lashes lowering just slightly, and murmur, “so, so thoughtful.” sickeningly sweet. perfect.
he lifts his glass, taking a slow, deliberate sip of milk, watching you over the rim. “well, eat up, princess.”
your grip on your spoon is deadly
satoru hums, eyes flicking down to his plate, fork sinking into the soft layers of sponge and cream. you seize the opportunity, lips curving into something saccharine, something sharp. “cute choice,” you say, voice syrupy sweet. “very pink. very you.”
he doesn’t even flinch. doesn’t smirk, doesn’t gloat, doesn’t so much as blink. just meets your stare with that same effortless confidence, utterly unshaken. “you’re just mad because mine’s better.” his tone is obnoxiously certain, like he’s already won, like this isn’t even up for debate. the sheer audacity of it makes something in you tighten, irritation curling at the edges of your already-frayed patience. because the worst part? he’s not just saying it to mess with you—he genuinely believes it.
your eyes narrow. “that’s a big assumption.”
his gaze flickers to your stupid yogurt parfait, utterly unimpressed, a silent judgment passing over his face as he gestures toward it, utterly smug. “yours is healthy.”
“and?”
his expression remains steady, voice smooth, patient, like he’s stating the obvious to someone who should already know better. “and you hate healthy food.”
you stare. for a moment, you actually can’t argue, because—fine. fine. he’s not wrong. but you’ll be damned if you let him have this, if you let him sit there looking so pleased with himself, as if he’s cracked some grand mystery instead of just pointing out something extremely rude and inconvenient. you exhale sharply, blinking slowly, the weight of your suffering pressing against your ribcage. “wow,” you deadpan, voice utterly flat. “so romantic of you to insult my entire diet.”
his grin widens, like your misery is his favorite entertainment, his blue eyes practically glowing with amusement as he lifts his fork, a perfect bite of cake balanced on the edge. “try mine.”
you stare at it. at the impossibly soft layers of sponge, at the thick, fluffy cream, at the single perfectly placed strawberry sitting atop it like an insult. he holds the fork aloft, patient, expectant, as if there is any universe in which you would accept such an obvious trap. your jaw tightens, fingers curling slightly against your lap as you inhale, slow, composed. then—deliberate, measured—you lean back, tilting your head just slightly.
“no.”
his brows lift. “no?”
you keep your expression smooth, unbothered. “i don’t want it.”
his lips twitch. “you sure?” he shifts slightly, letting the fork hover just a little closer, like he’s offering some grand, once-in-a-lifetime experience.
your eyes narrow. “positive.”
he shrugs, like it’s no loss to him, like he hadn’t expected anything different. then, still infuriatingly casual, he takes a slow, exaggerated bite, eyes fluttering dramatically as he hums, dragging out every second of the experience like he’s performing it just for you. the fork lingers at his lips a second too long, his tongue flicking out to catch a stray bit of frosting before he sighs, deeply, like this is a spiritual revelation. “mm. wow. so soft. so moist.”
your glare sharpens. your fingers tighten around your spoon.
and then—aggressively, defiantly—you take a bite of your stupid parfait, stabbing the spoon into the granola like you’re personally avenging your dignity.
you won't lose again. 
you refuse. refuse to crack, refuse to let him get the upper hand, refuse to let this ridiculous battle of pastry dominance end with gojo satoru walking away victorious. so you hold your ground, meet his obnoxiously pleased gaze head-on, and take another slow, pointed bite of your parfait. the granola crunches aggressively between your teeth, the texture dry, unimpressive, but you swallow it down without so much as a twitch. your grip on the spoon is steady. controlled. unyielding.
the tension lingers, but the conversation begins to drift.
the banter slows. the teasing quiets. for a moment—just a moment—the game pauses, and the space between you both settles into something almost easy. you stir your tea absently, watching the way the steam curls up from the cup, dissipating into nothing. it’s comfortable, in a way that feels wrong—too still, too quiet, like the moment before a storm.
“you sure do this a lot.” satoru muses, voice lazy, but not quite teasing.
you blink, glancing up. “do what?”
his gaze flickers, studying you, something unreadable behind his glasses. “act like you don’t care when you do.”
your fingers still around the spoon.
absolutely not.
you let a slow breath slip past your lips, steadying yourself before tilting your head ever so slightly, feigning mild amusement. then, voice smooth, light, just a touch condescending, you murmur, “or maybe you overestimate my humility.”
his lips twitch.
so you take a slow sip of your drink, gaze leveling with his over the rim. “not everything is that deep, satoru.”
satoru, unbothered, tips his head back against his seat, sighing like this is all so easy for him. “not really,” he muses, one hand idly tapping against his glass. “just calling it like i see it.”
you exhale slowly, resisting the urge to glare. “congrats, satoru. you can observe things. your kindergarten teacher must be so proud.”
his grin widens, slow, lazy, pleased, like a cat watching a cornered mouse finally realize there’s nowhere left to run. he tilts his head, glasses slipping down just enough to let sharp blue peek through, gaze steady, unrelenting. “aww, you don’t like being read, princess?” his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else underneath it—something certain, something that says he’s not just guessing, not just throwing words out to get a reaction. no, he’s sure.
your pulse jumps—and not for any of the reasons you’d like.
so you do what you do best. you pivot.
your lashes flutter as you lean in, slow, deliberate, tilting your head just so, letting your lips curve in a way that has always worked before. your voice drops, smooth, lilting, sweet as honey. “so attentive. such a keen eye for detail. you must be amazing with girls, satoru.”
he doesn’t even blink.
“oh, i am.”
your smile twitches, just barely, just enough for him to catch it.
he lifts his glass, takes a slow, measured sip of milk, like he has all the time in the world, like this is easy for him. the smugness radiating off him is unbearable, thick enough to choke on, but worse than that—worse than the way he leans back so casually, worse than the way his fingers tap idly against the rim of his glass—is the way his lips curve, knowing. “but that’s not going to work on me, princess.”
he knows.
you hate that he knows.
so you lean back, exhaling dramatically, waving a dismissive hand like this entire conversation has bored you. “then stop psychoanalyzing me and focus on being my eye candy instead.”
satoru snorts, shaking his head, but there’s something lighter in his expression now, something amused, “that, i can do.”
the conversation between you shift afted that, the tension dissolving before it can linger, before it can settle into something you’re not ready to touch.
yet the damage is already done.
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the check arrives.
immediately, you move.
two sleek black cards hit the table at the exact same time, a perfect synchronization that might have been impressive if it weren’t the opening move of what was about to become an unnecessarily competitive battle.
the waiter pauses. blinks. glances between the two of you with the cautious hesitation of someone who definitely doesn’t get paid enough for this.
“i’ve got it.” you say, tone light, casual, like this isn’t a battle to the death, like you aren’t already bracing for the inevitable argument.
satoru hums, entirely unbothered, nudging his card just a fraction forward, an unmistakable power move. “honorable,” he muses, tone amused. “but unnecessary.”
your fingers tighten slightly around your card as you push yours forward too, refusing to back down. “i can pay myself,” you counter, smooth, confident, meeting his gaze head-on. “im the one who asked for this date.”
“nope.”
“yes.”
the waiter, visibly uncomfortable, starts sweating.
your jaw tightens. fine. if he wants to be difficult, then you’ll just play a different game. “then we’ll just split it,” you declare, tone sharp with finality, ready to snatch the bill and end this entire ordeal.
satoru immediately looks offended. “that’s inefficient.”
your brow furrows. “what?”
he gestures lazily toward the waiter, who is standing there, smiling awkwardly, clearly regretting every decision that led him to this moment. “why are you giving minimum-wage workers more workload?”
your lips press into a thin line. “it’s not inefficient,” you argue, fingers drumming once against the table. “it’s fair.”
“oh?” satoru leans forward, slow and deliberate, resting his chin on his palm, his smirk widening just slightly. the light catches the lenses of his glasses, obscuring his eyes for a fraction of a second before they sharpen back into focus—sharp, knowing, infuriating. “so is it fair if i tell you that, given our current financial standings, letting you pay at all is mathematically unreasonable?”
your stomach drops.
“gojo—”
he doesn’t let you finish. “fact one,” he announces, casual, unbothered, as if he isn’t about to make you violently ill. “my net worth is higher than yours.”
your fingers twitch against the tablecloth. “shut up.”
“fact two,” he continues, way too smug now, swirling his glass lazily. “my liquid assets alone could cover this bill a thousand times over without making a dent in my quarterly earnings.”
“oh my god.”
his smirk deepens, practically glowing in self-satisfaction. “fact three—”
you know what’s coming. you feel it, deep in your bones, in the unbearable smugness radiating off of him, and yet you still aren’t prepared for what leaves his mouth next.
“by splitting the bill, you’d be covering 50% of the cost when, proportionally, you should only be covering—”
“take his card,” you snap, cutting him off violently, gripping your empty teacup like you desperately want to throw it. your voice is sharp, edged with barely restrained suffering. “just take it before i kill him.”
the waiter, visibly relieved, snatches satoru’s card and flees.
satoru leans back, all smug satisfaction, swirling the last bit of milk in his glass before taking a slow, obnoxious sip. then, setting it down with an infuriating clink, he tilts his head at you, grin widening.
“good choice, princess.”
you cross your arms, seething, your entire body wound tight with irritation. your jaw is locked, your shoulders tense, and the absolute smugness radiating off of gojo satoru is making your blood pressure skyrocket. he’s leaning back, comfortable, entirely too pleased with himself, and it only makes you want to flip the table that much more.
he hums, eyes flicking over you, taking in every small tell—the way your fingers curl slightly against your sleeves, the way your brows twitch, the way your lips press together in frustration. then, with the kind of lazy amusement that makes you want to commit a crime, he muses, “you look like an angry rabbit. very on-brand for the vanilla look.”
your jaw tightens. “you are actually the worst person alive.”
“and yet,” he hums, tipping his glass of milk toward you, “here you are, having a date with me.”
your glare sharpens, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “because you weren’t even supposed to agree!”
silence.
a beat.
satoru's smirk widens, slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment, stretching it out just to watch you unravel. there’s a flicker of something sharp behind his glasses, something too knowing, and it makes your stomach twist before he even speaks.
“oh?” he drawls, tapping a finger lazily against his glass, the sound light, rhythmic, calculated. his voice drips with amusement, low and teasing, like he’s already won a game you didn’t even realize you were playing. “so you admit it?”
your stomach drops.
your back straightens, a little too stiff, a little too reactive. “admit what?” you say, too quickly, too defensive, the words snapping out before you can stop them.
his grin stretches, slow and pleased, and you know—you know—you’ve already lost. “that you keep trying to trap me,” he says smoothly, tilting his head, mock thoughtful. “but i never fall for it.”
your face heats, warmth creeping up your neck, pooling under your skin in a way that only fuels your irritation. “shut up.”
satoru laughs, stretching his arms above his head, every movement obnoxiously slow, infuriatingly at ease, like this is all so easy for him. “maybe one day you’ll learn your lesson, princess,” he muses, dropping his arms with a sigh, voice almost fond. “but knowing you? probably not.”
your arms tighten against your chest, frustration bubbling under your skin, simmering. “why do you even indulge me, then?”
he shrugs, expression unchanged, voice effortlessly light. “because it’s fun.” his smirk curves, lazy, amused, and it makes something in you itch. “and as long as you’re not running off to party instead of contributing to our project, i don’t mind.”
then, offhandedly—like it means nothing, like it isn’t about to send your entire nervous system into shock, he adds with an appreciative hum, “plus, you’re cute.”
you freeze.
your brain stalls, like a system overload, like an error message flashing behind your eyes.
your grip on your sleeve tightens, fingers curling instinctively around the fabric, like anchoring yourself to something physical will keep you from completely short-circuiting. “don’t call me that.” the words snap out, sharp, too fast, too reactive.
satoru tilts his head, blinking at you, slow and deliberate, as if studying you, as if memorizing every microexpression. “what? cute?”
your jaw clenches. your fingers curl tighter. “i am not cute.”
his smirk returns, smooth, easy, like he knows something you don’t. “sure you are,” he says, completely unfazed. “all wide-eyed and pouty, like a little rabbit. it’s adorable.”
you nearly choke.
because—no.
no one calls you that. no one has called you that since childhood. not in years, not in this version of your life, not in the world you’ve carefully built around yourself.
hot? of course. gorgeous? obviously. stunning, breathtaking, irresistible? those are the words you’re used to—the ones murmured into your ear at exclusive parties, whispered against your skin by men who don’t even know you, by people who see you as nothing more than something to be admired, desired, owned.
but cute?
absolutely not.
your eyes narrow, irritation sparking, a knee-jerk reaction you can’t suppress, sharp and immediate, fueled by something you don’t want to name. “you’re deranged,” you snap, voice edged with far too much indignation, because this isn’t just about the word—it’s about him, about the way he says it, like it’s some obvious, undeniable truth. “i am literally the furthest thing from cute.”
satoru simply shrugs, still impossibly unbothered, like he didn’t just drop a grenade in the middle of the conversation and walk away from the explosion. “if you say so.”
your glare sharpens, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver.
why is he so unbothered? why does he look so entertained?
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the ride back to your condominium is quiet. well—almost. satoru has the radio on, some soft jazz station playing low in the background, the kind of music that belongs in an overpriced cocktail lounge, not the interior of his sleek, sports car. your head rests against the window, the cool glass grounding you as your mind races, dissecting every moment from dinner like an unsolved mystery. he indulged me, you think, fingers curling slightly against your arm. that much is clear—he let you bat your lashes, let you tilt your head, let you serve up the most sickeningly sweet performance you could muster. but then again, he always indulges you.
so the question remains: was it the act? or was it you? your reflection stares back at you through the darkened glass, expression unreadable, a mirrored version of yourself picking apart every interaction with a precision that should concern you. every move you made—every calculated glance, every softened word, every ridiculous, vanilla-infused attempt—he saw it. but he didn’t fall for it. he smirked, teased, let his eyes linger just long enough to make you second-guess yourself, but that’s just him, isn’t it? gojo satoru, the most insufferable, unreadable man alive, amused at your suffering but untouched by your tactics.
the cupcake stunt should have been the turning point, but instead, it was just another game. he knew. he knew, and he let you flounder, let you scramble, let you weave your desperate little lie just to see how far you’d take it. and even when you leaned in, voice soft, eyes lidded, practically purring his name—nothing. not a slip, not a falter, not a single moment of hesitation that proved you had gotten to him. your jaw tightens, fingers drumming against your thigh as frustration settles heavy in your chest. what the hell does he even like?
before you can stop yourself, the words slip out. “satoru.”
he hums, lazily, like he hasn’t just been given a pop quiz, like he’s completely at ease behind the wheel of his ridiculously expensive car, the city lights reflecting off the windshield in a soft, rhythmic glow. one hand is loose on the steering wheel, the other resting comfortably against the console, fingers tapping idly to the slow, steady beat of the jazz station he still hasn’t bothered to change.
you turn to him, dead serious. “are you gay?”
the car stays perfectly steady, but his hands flex over the wheel, the only sign of reaction he gives you.
he blinks. once. “what.”
“it makes perfect sense!” you insist, sitting up abruptly, ignoring the way the seatbelt strains against you. the pieces are clicking into place now, and you can’t stop. “you never flirt back. you always evade. you are completely unfazed by me.”
satoru exhales through his nose, long and suffering, like he’s trying to breathe through a migraine. “so your first conclusion isn't that i'm picky. or that i'm immune to your charms.”
“obviously not.”
his fingers tighten around the wheel, grip flexing. “it's that i'm gay.”
“obviously.”
he nods slowly, the kind of nod that comes with a long, deep internal sigh, like he’s calculating exactly how much patience he has left. he keeps his eyes on the road, gaze steady, but you can feel the exasperation radiating off of him. “okay.”
your eyes narrow. “so?”
he doesn’t look at you. “so what?”
“are you?”
he clicks his tongue, shaking his head in pure disbelief. “you are, without a doubt, the dumbest smart person i’ve ever met.”
you cross your arms, unimpressed. “that’s not a no.”
his chest rises and falls in a sharp, deeply irritated sigh. “no, i’m not gay.”
your suspicion lingers. “bi? pan?”
“still no.”
you squint at him, narrowing your gaze like you can force the truth out of him. “satoru, look, i know things have been awkward between us after i rejected your carrot apology but this is a safe space—”
he physically flinches, muttering, “oh my god.” his head tips back for half a second, and his free hand drags down his face, fingers pressing into his temples like he’s warding off an oncoming stroke.
you watch him carefully, hyper-analyzing, waiting for any crack, any tell, anything to suggest he’s hiding something—because if he’s not gay, if he’s not bi, if he’s not pan, then that means—
nope.
absolutely not.
your thoughts halt so violently you feel it in your spine, like hitting an invisible wall at full speed, the impact rattling through you before you can stop it. because this isn’t that. this isn’t you sitting in a car, overthinking a man’s every move, picking apart his reactions like they mean something, like he means something. that is not what you do. you don’t play those games, don’t ask those questions, don’t give yourself room to consider possibilities that lead nowhere.
you do not do this.
so you won’t think about it. you won’t think about what it means that satoru never crosses the line, that he teases but never pushes, that he indulges but never wants. you won’t think about how, despite all his smirks and smug comments and exhausting, infuriating presence, he has never treated you like anything other than someone worth understanding.
because that would mean—
no.
your jaw tightens. the seatbelt strains against your chest as you shift, staring hard out the window, shutting it down before it can breathe, before it can exist. “never mind.”
he glances at you, slow, assessing, something too knowing in his expression, like he’s already figured you out. “what?”
“drop it.”
he glances at you, slow, assessing—not with any grand realization, not with any deeper meaning, just acceptance. because, honestly? he doesn’t care what ridiculous conclusions you come to, as long as you’re not calling him gay.
so he doesn’t press. doesn’t push. just shrugs, loose and easy, like this has been nothing more than a mildly entertaining detour in his day.
“whatever helps you sleep at night, princess.”
your jaw tightens.
you turn your gaze back to the window, arms crossing, shutting the conversation down entirely. the neon lights of the city blur past, casting streaks of color across the glass, but you don’t really see them. your mind is still racing, looping through the night, picking apart every moment, every interaction, every single time he indulged you without actually giving anything away.
because that’s just it, isn’t it?
satoru lets you play your games, lets you push and prod and bait him—but he never falls for it.
so what does that mean?
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tag list : @s4ikooo1 @gojoswaterbottle @blubearxy
comment to be added on the tag list! xx
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thesecondhandwoman · 8 months ago
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HOVERBOARD PRACTICE
Ekko x f!reader
Synopsis: Another day, another morning with Ekko. Today you were practicing riding a hoverboard, a ride that both Ekko and the other fireflies use. However, practice comes with failure, especially when it came to you, and Ekko was there for you every step of the way.
The faint hum of Zaun’s flickering neon lights was drowned out by the steady whir of hoverboards cutting through the air. Ekko stood ahead of you, one foot firmly planted on his own board, the other dangling off lazily, his balance impeccable as always. His lopsided grin reflected both confidence and amusement.
“You’re overthinking it,” he called out, spinning in a lazy circle to face you. “It’s all about flow, y’know? Let the board do the work.”
You groaned, planting your foot back on the ground for stability as the board beneath you wobbled. “Easy for you to say, Mr. Gravity-Doesn’t-Apply-To-Me.”
He laughed—a sound that was warm, teasing, and annoyingly attractive. “Alright, alright, keep your balance steady, then push off. Use your core.” Ekko gestured toward you with a sweeping motion. “And for the love of everything, stop looking down.”
You rolled your eyes, but obeyed. Lifting your gaze to meet his, you swallowed your nerves and tried again. With a deep breath, you nudged the board forward. This time, you moved a few feet before wobbling uncontrollably.
“Whoa, whoa—” Ekko’s voice barely reached you before you veered sideways.
The hoverboard jerked, and you let out a yelp as you careened toward a nearby tree. You braced for impact when—just before disaster struck—a strong hand grabbed your arm, yanking you to a stop.
Ekko’s face was inches from yours, his chest heaving from the effort. His chuckles rumbled against your arm where his grip lingered. “You okay there, rookie?”
You glared, though the heat rising in your cheeks betrayed your composure. “Barely.”
He smirked, letting go of your arm but not stepping back. “Guess I gotta keep you outta trouble, huh?” He climbed back onto his board and rolled around you in slow, playful circles.
“I think I’ve had enough for today,” you muttered, crossing your arms.
“Nope,” he said, stopping right in front of you. His grin widened as he flicked a strand of your hair out of your face. “Not until you’ve learned to not almost die. Besides, I’m having too much fun watching you flail.”
You smacked his arm lightly, earning another laugh.
“Alright, alright. We’ll take it slow.” Ekko nudged your board gently with his foot, guiding you back onto it. Then he jumped on his own and slid in beside you, hands hovering close in case you stumbled again. “Just keep your eyes forward. Trust your instincts. And hey,” he added, his voice softer now, “if you fall again, I’ll catch you.”
With a huff, you pushed off the ground, this time with Ekko right at your side. His presence, steady and sure, made the task seem a little less impossible. As the board hummed beneath you and the wind began to whip past your face, you couldn’t help but laugh at the thrill of it all.
Ekko’s own laugh joined yours. “There you go! I told you you’d get it.”
You smiled, the fear giving way to excitement. “Still not sure I trust you,” you teased.
He shot you a playful look. “Good. Keeps things interesting.”
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After a bit, you were finally starting to get the hang of it, though the occasional wobble made Ekko reach out instinctively to steady you. His hands brushed against yours once or twice, and you felt your stomach flutter each time, though you played it off with a smirk or a sarcastic comment. He didn’t seem to mind—if anything, he thrived off your banter.
“Alright, let’s see if you can handle a turn,” he said, his board gliding effortlessly ahead of you. He slowed just enough to match your speed, skating backwards like it was nothing.
“A turn? I just learned how to go straight!” you protested, your voice rising in mock indignation.
Ekko only shrugged, his grin infuriatingly smug. “Guess there’s only one way to find out if you’ve got what it takes.” He darted to the side, smoothly curving around a piece of scrap metal embedded in the ground.
You gulped, eyeing the path he’d taken. “Easy for you to say when you’ve been doing this for years,” you muttered.
“Hey,” he called over his shoulder, “the Firelights don’t wait for anyone. If you’re gonna roll with us, you gotta be able to keep up. No pressure or anything.” His tone was teasing, but there was an undeniable challenge in his words.
You grit your teeth.
No way were you going to let him think you couldn’t handle it.
“Fine. Let’s do it.”
You tilted the board slightly, leaning into the motion like he’d shown you. The board shifted beneath you, and for a terrifying second, it felt like you were going to fall—but then you found your balance, cutting a clumsy arc around the scrap metal. When you emerged on the other side, your heart was pounding, but you were still upright.
“Ha! Look at that!” Ekko whooped, his smile wide with pride. “Told you you had it in you!”
You slowed to a stop, panting slightly as you grinned back at him. “Not bad for a rookie, huh?”
“Not bad at all.” He skated up beside you, reaching out to give your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “But don’t let it go to your head. You’ve still got a long way to go before you can keep up with me.”
“Oh, is that a challenge?” you shot back, your competitive streak flaring to life.
Ekko raised an eyebrow, his grin turning mischievous. “You bet it is. First one to the water tower wins.” Without waiting for your response, he pushed off, his board shooting forward like a bolt of lightning.
“Hey, no fair!” you yelled, scrambling to get moving again.
The chase was on, and though Ekko had a head start, you threw everything you had into catching up. The wind whipped through your hair, and for the first time, you felt like you were flying. You stumbled once or twice, but you managed to stay on your board, fueled by determination—and maybe just a little bit of your desire to wipe that smug grin off Ekko’s face.
He reached the water tower first, of course, lounging on his board as he waited for you. “Took you long enough,” he teased when you finally rolled up beside him, breathless but grinning.
“You cheated,” you accused, though you couldn’t keep the laughter out of your voice.
“Maybe,” he admitted with a wink. “But you still did good, especially since that was probably the only way I would make you actually try without being clumsy. Heck, you did better than good, actually.”
His praise made your cheeks warm, but you tried to play it cool. “Guess I had a pretty decent teacher.”
“Decent?” Ekko repeated, pretending to be offended. “I’m the best in Zaun. You’re lucky to have me.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “Whatever you say, hotshot.”
As you both rested against the base of the water tower, the city stretching out beneath you, Ekko nudged your arm gently. “For real, though. You did great today. You’re a natural.”
The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, and you turned to meet his gaze. His golden eyes sparkled with pride and something else—something softer that made your heart skip a beat.
“Thanks, Ekko,” you said quietly, feeling your usual bravado fade under his steady gaze.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Anytime.”
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marie098887 · 3 months ago
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Early airport morings. ✈️
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Going to the airport with your boyfriend.
Part 1: Isagi, Chigiri, Rin, Bachira, Kunigami, Reo, Nagi
📝 Requests: OPEN
After months of talking about it, canceling plans, and pretending you’d “definitely do it next break,” you and your boyfriend finally found the time. No matches. No press. No chaos. Just a trip, something small, something together. It’s early in the morning. The sky’s still dark. You’re both running on no sleep, dragging your bags and trying to act like this isn’t the most exciting thing you’ve done in weeks. Sleepy faces, overpriced airport food, and that quiet buzz of we’re actually doing this. The trip hasn’t even started yet, but it already feels like a good memory.
💙 Isagi Yoichi
Isagi shows up exactly when he said he would.
4:57 a.m. on the dot. Hoodie on. Backpack slung over one shoulder. Hair messy in a way that somehow still looks good.
He doesn’t knock, just sends a soft little “I’m outside”
You’re barely awake when you slide into the car, still zipping your bag and rubbing sleep out of your eyes. He just laughs under his breath and takes your bag without saying anything.
The drive to the airport is quiet. Music low. His playlist, soft and slow. Your hand resting next to his on the seat, almost touching.
He points out how empty the roads are. You mumble something back. You’re both too tired to talk much, but you don’t need to. It’s not awkward. Just warm. Familiar.
When you get there, he grabs both bags like it’s nothing.
“Terminal B,” he says, already scanning the signs like he’s been here a hundred times.
You two checked in your bags and headed down to security. He bumps your arm gently with his and holds out a coffee he grabbed without asking. It’s exactly how you take it.
At the gate, you both sit down. He leans his head back against the wall, eyes half-shut.
You look over at him. Sleepy, quiet, content.
He catches you staring.
“What?” he mumbles.
“Nothing,” you say. “Just… happy.”
He smiles, reaching forward and gently taking your hand, that soft, crooked smile he doesn’t do for cameras
“Yeah,” he says, eyes closing again. “Me too.”
Then he pushes himself up with a soft groan, glancing at the screen.
“C’mon,” he murmurs, grabbing both your bags. “They’re boarding.”
You both get in line. Still quiet. Still close.
And even with your eyes half-shut and your body running on no sleep, you can’t stop smiling.
Yeah. This already feels like a good memory.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
🌺 Chigiri Hyoma
He’s waiting outside your place when you come down.
Leaning against the car. Headphones around his neck. Hoodie layered under a long coat. Hair pulled back in a loose tie. And somehow, even at 5 a.m., he looks like he belongs on a magazine cover.
You blink at him through the morning haze.
“You’re really not tired?” you ask, dragging your suitcase behind you.
He shrugs, takes your bag without a word.
“I’m used to early mornings,” he says, voice soft. “And I couldn’t sleep anyway.”
you know that excitement where you can't sleep? Yeah, he won't admit it but that's what it was.
The car ride is quiet. He scrolls through his phone with one hand, the other resting between you. You don’t say much. Neither does he. But every few minutes, he glances your way like he’s making sure you’re still real.
At the airport, he moves like he knows what he’s doing, checking the gate, guiding you through security, keeping close but not hovering.
You catch your reflection in a glass wall and laugh.
“What?” he asks.
“I look like I just rolled out of bed.”
“You did,” he says, smiling a little. “Still cute, though.”
That shuts you up real fast.
He finds your gate and sits next to you, legs stretched out, coat bundled under his arm like a pillow.
You both sip on drinks you didn’t need and snacks you overpaid for, watching people walk past.
“This is nice,” you say.
He hums in agreement, closing his eyes.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “And it’s only just starting.”
A few minutes later, he stands, brushing his hair back from his face.
“They’re calling our group.”
You get in line together, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand.
And even through the exhaustion, it’s easy to feel wide awake.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
🐠 Rin Itoshi
He shows up early. Of course he does.
Doesn’t text. Just rings the doorbell once and waits by the car, hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable under his bangs.
You open the door with a yawn and messy hair. He looks at you for half a second, then says, “You’re late.”
You’re not. He’s just early. You don’t argue, you know how he is.
You get in the car and he pulls off without a word. The silence is easy. Comfortable. Just the hum of the engine and the occasional glance he throws your way when he thinks you’re not looking.
He keeps checking the time, even though you’re not running behind.
At the airport, he handles everything without asking. Checks your flight. Carries your bag. Pulls you gently out of the way when someone rushes past in the terminal.
You don’t say anything. Neither does he.
But when he comes back from the café and hands you a drink — exactly how you like it, with your favorite snack, you look at him.
“Thanks.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Figured you didn’t eat.”
You sit by the gate. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, jaw clenched, arms folded.
You’re about to say something, tease him, maybe, but he speaks first.
“This is good,” he mumbles. Eyes still closed.
You blink. “What is?”
“This,” he says, quieter this time. “Us. Going somewhere. Together.”
Your chest goes warm.
“They’re boarding now,” he adds, already standing. Already reaching for your carry on bag.
You both get in line. Shoulder to shoulder. Quiet.
And it hits you.
For someone who never shows much, he’s making this feel like everything.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
🐝 Bachira Meguru
You’re barely awake when you open the door. Hoodie on, bag half-zipped, one shoe untied.
And there he is, sleepy, grinning, at you like the sun’s already up.
“Goooood morning, sleepyhead!” he whispers like it’s a secret mission.
You squint at him. “Why are you so awake?”
“I didn’t sleep!” he chirps, dragging your suitcase toward the car. “Too excited!”
The ride to the airport is filled with soft music and random questions.
“What snack are you getting at the airport? What’s your plane movie? Can I sit by the window?”
You mumble your answers, not annoyed just tired, head leaning against the window, but every time you look over, he’s watching the road with a little smile on his face. Like this, just being here with you, is already the highlight of the trip.
At the terminal, he grabs your hand without thinking. Pulls you through the crowd like he knows exactly where to go.
You both end up at the wrong gate once. He laughs. You glare. He buys you a muffin to make up for it.
“I’m gonna draw our airport outfits later,” he says while you wait in line for boarding. “You looked cute with bed hair.”
You smack his arm. He giggles like it didn’t hurt at all.
When they call your group, he grabs his bag and nudges you gently.
“You ready?” he says, eyes bright, voice quiet now.
You nod. Still sleepy. Still smiling.
“Let’s go make memories.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
🧡 Kunigami Rensuke
He’s texting you five minutes before your alarm goes off.
“i’m outside. no rush.”
You look out your window and see him leaning against the car, arms crossed, duffel slung over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. Still yawning, but standing tall.
You come out with your bag dragging and your hoodie halfway on.
“You didn’t have to come this early,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes.
“I wanted to,” he says, grabbing your bag before you can argue. “Did you sleep at all?”
“Barely.”
He smiles like he expected that.
The drive is peaceful. You’re dozing in the passenger seat. He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other holding his coffee. The playlist is soft. Old songs you both forgot were favorites.
At the airport, he’s the one checking the gate. The boarding time. Your IDs. Everything. He doesn’t ask, he just does.
You catch him watching you while you sip your drink at the gate. Just quietly. Like he can’t believe you’re actually here with him.
“What?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “Nothing. You just look... happy.”
“I am.”
He nods once, slow. “Me too.”
They call your group, and he stands, taking both bags like it’s nothing.
You follow him into line, shoulder brushing his.
And even though you’re half, asleep and running on fumes, it feels right.
Like this was long overdue.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
💜 Mikage Reo
Reo is annoyingly put together for 5 a.m.
Hair brushed. his outfit coordinated. Bag already in the trunk. He’s standing by the car with your favorite drink in hand and the calmest smile on his face like he didn’t just wake up at four in the morning.
“You’re late,” he teases, but he says it gently, the kind of voice that sounds like he’s been waiting on you forever and didn’t mind one bit.
You slide into the car, hoodie pulled up, eyes barely open. He hands you the drink without a word.
He drives with one hand, humming along to the playlist he made for the trip.
“You excited?” he asks, voice low.
You nod, and he smiles like that answer was enough.
At the airport, he moves with purpose. Checks in early. Has your boarding passes printed and digital. Holds your passport in one hand and your suitcase in the other. You’re just there to vibe.
You point it out while standing in line for security.
“You act like we do this every weekend.”
He shrugs. “We should.”
You laugh, leaning into his arm. “You love this.”
“I love you,” he says, casually, like it’s not a big deal.
You go quiet.
He glances over and smirks. “Don’t get shy on me now.”
At the gate, he pulls you close, lets you lean on him while you scroll through your phone. They call your group. He stands and grabs your bag without asking.
“Let’s go make some memories, yeah?”
And just like that, you’re boarding.
(Yes y'all got first class)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
🤍 Nagi Seishiro
He didn’t want to wake up.
You had to call him twice, and even then he answered like he was still dreaming. By the time he picks you up, his hoodie’s barely on straight, hair a mess, and eyes half closed.
But he’s here. And the moment he sees you, he smiles, lazy and soft, like this is the only reason he got out of bed.
You slide into the passenger seat, and he immediately leans over, resting his head on your shoulder.
“Five more minutes,” he mumbles. “Drive yourself.”
“You’re already parked, idiot.”
He grins without opening his eyes. “Exactly.”
The airport is a blur. You lead the way. He follows. Quiet, dragging his suitcase with one hand and holding your sleeve with the other like he’s afraid he’ll float away if he lets go.
You stop for food. He rests his head on your shoulder in line. Barely speaks. Just leans on you like he’s charging.
At the gate, you sit. He lays his head in your lap. Looks up at you with tired eyes and zero shame.
“You excited?” you ask.
He hums. “Tired.”
“You can sleep on the plane.”
“Gonna sleep now.”
And just like that, he knocks out. Soft breaths, one hand loosely gripping yours.
They call your group, and he groans when you shake him awake.
“Already?” he whispers, voice raspy.
“Already.”
He gets up slow. Grabs both your bags without a word.
You get in line together, still yawning, still close.
And even though he’s barely awake, he smiles at you again.
“Glad we’re doing this.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Well here is part 1! I am thinking about adding more to this like being on vacation with them. We will see how I feel after I finish part 2 and 3 hehe
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anything-pov · 24 days ago
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I just saw TikTok of this and now I kinda wanna read a fic of it
Emily X reader please and thank you
https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP8ryLjKV/
you could change up this scenario/where they are but I feel like this would be so cute
Enjoy! (Quick disclaimer: I do not have POTS, nor do I know enough about it as I should, but I hope my depictions are accurate, and if they are not, please, let me know and I can change them to portray accurate representation!)
Out of Fuel ⛽️
The lights were dimmed low in the BAU conference room, the air still heavy with the weight of the case they’d just wrapped.
A local abduction case, resolved quickly, but brutal. They’d saved the kid, but no one was walking away untouched.
Emily sat at the head of the table, her usual authority settled in the way her arms crossed over the manila file on the tabletop.
But beside her, just slightly angled toward the board, was Y/N. Young, brilliant and quietly sharp in the way Emily adored, her girlfriend and one of the Bureau’s rising stars.
She rarely spoke in these meetings unless directly asked, but her notes were always pristine, her insights laser precise.
Y/N was focused, but something shifted. Emily caught it. It started in her shoulders, a slow slouch that wasn’t casual.
Then her hand, which had been wrapped neatly around a pen, twitched. Not a normal twitch. A POTS twitch. Emily’s eyes snapped down to her.
Y/N blinked slower than she should’ve. Her skin, usually flushed with the faintest nervous pink when under pressure, drained to a too pale shade.
Emily uncrossed her arms. “Em?” Spencer asked, confused as Emily suddenly pushed back her chair. “Y/N,” Emily said gently, already reaching for her, “you with me?”
Y/N’s head tipped toward her just slightly, eyes dazed. “Mmhm,” she tried to say, but it came out paper thin. The spinning office chair wasn’t safe now.
Emily moved fast, one arm under Y/N’s back, the other gently under her knees as she guided her down. “Okay, love. Floor. Let’s go to the floor. C’mon.”
The whole team stood in a split second. “She okay?” Morgan asked, already halfway around the table. “POTS episode,” Emily said quickly, her voice calm but tight, “She’s about to faint.”
As Y/N’s body gave out, Emily caught her fully, lowering her to the floor with practiced ease. She'd done this before. Too many times. "JJ-"
"I've got her legs," JJ said, already crouched, gently lifting Y/N's feet to rest on her own thighs, elevating them, "I've got you, Y/N/N." Y/N's body trembled once, then again.
A few muscle spasms, her body doing that desperate, silent fight Emily had learned to hate. The spasms never lasted long, but they were a cruel flash of just how little control Y/N had over her own blood flow.
Her chest rose with shallow, inconsistent breaths. Emily kept one hand under Y/N's head, cushioning it from the hard floor. The other hovered over her pulse point, fingers finding the thready beat.
"C'mon, honey... ride it out, slow... love." The team gave space but stayed close. "She had one earlier this morning," Emily said, her voice low but honest, "I was hoping she'd rest up enough after, but..."
"Second one's always worse," JJ murmured, hand still gently supporting Y/N's calves. And then... Y/N stirred. Her eyes opened slowly, heavy, almost like it hurt.
She blinked once, then again. Her lips parted, breath raspy, but she didn't speak. Emily leaned down, brushing sweaty hair from her forehead, voice barely above a whisper now.
"I know," she said, soft as a secret, "Second one's the worst. You're out of fuel, huh?" Emily kissed her girlfriend's forehead. Y/N's eyes filled slightly, not quite with tears, but exhaustion, the ache of her own body betraying her in front of a room of people she admired.
Emily pressed her forehead to Y/N's, just for a second. "Hey. No shame. You're safe. We've got you, love." Y/N couldn't speak. But she blinked slow and grateful, her fingers barely twitching against Emily's arm.
"She needs sugar," Garcia said, already rustling in her purse, "I've got juice... juice and granola bars. Always do." She rambles, her hands scrambling to her pockets and purse.
"Garcia, you're a saint," Emily said. Spencer nodded, "And once she can sit upright, she should stay reclined for at least fifteen more minutes."
"I'll take her home after this," Emily said, voice already moving into resolution, "She's done for the day." The team stayed in quiet formation, not a single person moving to resume the debrief.
Y/N, pale and boneless in Emily's arms, finally managed a small exhale, like she could rest now, safely tethered to the one person who never let go.
And Emily just kept whispering, "I've got you, Y/N. I always will, love."
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sungiepark · 1 year ago
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BEACH DATE
pairing - joshua x fem!reader
summary - a supposedly cute beach date takes a heated turn because your boyfriend is insufferably attractive.
wk - 1.4k
a/n - when joshua posted these... i cried. i creamed. missed my bf so much guys (>人<;)these pics destroyed me
NSFW CONTENT ! MDNI !
SMUT warnings under the cut !
SMUT WARNINGS: public sex (obv), marking, breast play, fingering, praise, pet names (baby, sweetheart, love), no penetrative sex. they’re on the sand okay but let’s just pretend it didn’t get everywhere .ᐟ.ᐟ
the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and joshua was driving you insane. AGAIN.
what was supposed to be nothing but a cute beach date, an excuse to get outside the house, was slowly becoming not so innocent for you.
joshua had been learning to surf recently, and wanted to show off what he’s learned. you, being the great girlfriend that you are, agreed to sit back, relax, and shamelessly gawk at your boyfriend under the guise of “criticism”.
as expected, joshua, straddling a board, wet hair and all, caused some heat to pool further south. it’s not your fault okay ? his thighs are on display. the thighs you have claimed as your seat multiple times. the thighs that you were in between just 3 hours ago.
you were trying your hardest not to jump his bones every time he turns back to check if you’re watching. but the small smile he sends you does nothing for the ache in core.
“babe !” his shout of glee interrupts the dirty thoughts clouding your mind, and you watch as he jogs up to you. “c’mon babe, swim with me !”
he ignores your small murmurs of "no i'm okay, baby". he grabs your hand and attempts to drag you towards the sea. seeing his grin up close, the way the sun was shining on his face, the thoughts from earlier left your mind, your love for the man in front taking over. suddenly, swimming didn't seem all that bad.
the two of you giddily walk hand in hand towards the water, joshua humming a little tune. suddenly, he turns to you, grabs your waist, and flings you over his shoulder. despite your pleas of “put me down !”, “let me go !” as well as various giggles, the way he manhandled you was all you could think about. god when did he get so buff and strong and handsome and -
he does a quick spin with you on his shoulder, before he slowly put you down, his arms still wrapped around you. he leans forward for what he expects to be a small smooch, but you place your hands on the back of his neck, and pull him closer, prolonging the kiss. your tongue slips passed his lips, granted access due to the gasp he let out. he has a little moment of hesitation, before he begins pulling you impossibly closer to him.
the kiss was hot. tongues and teeth clashing, sounds of lips smacking seemingly overpowering the harsh waves crashing onto the shore. listen, as confused as joshua was, he was not going to pass up the opportunity for a hot makeout sess with the love of his life, okay ?
the two of you stand there, middle of a desolate beach, tongues tied together. joshua begins to trail his hand lower and lower, stopping when his fingers graze between your thighs.
“sweetheart…” he mummers into your mouth, seemingly unable to detach himself from you for even a second. “s’ wet for me.”
his fingers begin to slowly ease back and forth across your bikini bottoms, as you begin to whimper lowly into his mouth. as the two of you continue, you guide each other to lay down, joshua hovering over you.
his previously light touches turned harsher, more desperate, and his kisses soon turning to nips peppered across your neck. the sharp pain of his teeth had you letting out whimpers with each bite.
even though this had been all your idea, you started to remember ( very slowly with how little your brain was working ) where the two of you were laying. resting your hands in his hair and tugging, attempting to signal for him to stop, you began looking around. the tugging on his hair did not stop him however. in fact the result it had was for him to let out a guttural groan before sinking his teeth into your neck much harsher.
after checking your surroundings thoroughly, and coming to the conclusion that the two of you were alone, or at least, have some time alone, you shoved him off you, before straddling him yourself.
your lips immediately connected again, joshua now moving his hands to move underneath your bikini, now beginning to roll your nipples between his fingers. you had taken on the task of beginning to grind your hips down to meet his, the feeling euphoric. the two of you moaned into each others lips. the kiss was no more as it had delved into nothing but heavy breathing into each others open mouths.
joshua left one of his hands on your tits, as the other roamed your body. rubbing your back, grabbing your hair, pulling your hips down to meet his rougher. the feeling of his hands on yours, his lips on yours, his erection rubbing against you, on top of the public setting, made your pussy throb.
his hands left a trail of fire. you felt hyperaware of the marks of his fingers. the fire slowly, once again, returning to down south. this time, however, he did not let your panties stop him, slipping his fingers passed to finally make contact with your soaking body.
no words had been exchanged up to this point. nothing but grunts and moans as the two of you lost yourself in each others bodies in the wide open space. joshua couldn’t handle not telling you how good you were for him, so he broke the silence.
“god.. just like that love- fuck- keep grinding f’me”. despite his need for speaking, he did not move his lips from their new home in the crook of your neck.
not one to disobey your lover, you continued the pace of your hips, albeit a bit harsher, as you now began to grind down on his fingers. his other hand began to hastily shove your bikini upwards, desperate to see your breasts.
after he was done with the task, you all but yanked him down to your chest, hoping he’d get a move on. he seemingly absentmindedly began to lick and suck at your nipples, as if it was second nature to him ( it really was at this point).
his fingers left your slit and travelled, finally beginning to play with your clit. the gasp you let out was sharp, sudden, and your body lurched forward from the pleasure. joshua left your chest as his hand returned to your back to support you, his mouth going to kiss your check.
“s’ok love i got you” he murmured into your ear, as your whimpers and reactions got more intense. he knew your body, and he knew you were almost there.
knowing what you needed, his fingers slipped inside, reaching to massage that certain spot, as he continued nipping and sucking at your neck. the hand on your back began to move up and down, in a comforting manner. a total whiplash to how the hand below your belt was abusing that spongy spot inside.
“let go baby, c’mon cum for me sweetheart”
your sounds grew in volume, indicating your high, before, like the waves right next to you, it crashed down hard. you hips lost control, mindlessly humping his hand, while your arms wrapped around his body, tightly wrapping your whole body around him.
“there we go love. there we go. so good for me. fuck- i’ve got you”
his words were muted at first, nothing besides the sound of the beach making its way into your ears. your body was shaking from the intensity of your orgasm. you could faintly feel his hand slip out of you, and the other still rubbing soft circles on your back.
pulling back, josh smiled up at you. you hadn’t seen his face much during that whole act. you kinda missed it. you leaned forward to place a kiss on his lips before muttering a quiet thank you to him.
“it’s okay love. bit intense ?”
you nodded your head, words feeling like too much at the moment. joshua slowly began moving you off of him, before attempting to get himself up.
waking up from your trance, you quickly tug him down. he lets out a small shriek before plopping down. his gaze towards you is quizzical, and also slightly pouty.
“babe ?”
you respond to his question by placing your hand upon his shorts, right where the tent is visible. a hiss slips out of his mouth as his hand reaches for yours. his fingers interlock with yours as he tugs both your hands away from his crotch.
“wanna finish this in the car ?” he smirks, bringing your hands up to lay a kiss on the back of yours.
he barely has time to see your excited nod as you all but rush to your feet, dragging him behind with you.
not proof-read ! lmk if there's any mistakes (づ ̄ 3 ̄)づ
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