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swordgrace · 3 months ago

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❝ 𝐨𝐡, 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: plagued by nightmares, bob takes comfort in the one person who’s pulled him from the shadows time and time again — you.

read part two here.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: robert reynolds (sentry) / fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mentions of past depression, substance abuse, and working through trauma. talk of insecurities and feelings of inferiority. no smut in this one. purely fluff and angst. kissing, confession of feelings. slightly suggestive towards the end.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: first time writing for bob but I really wanted to make sure that I got the mental health aspect right and didn’t minimize his issues. I am working on a part 2 with some very soft smut!

Perspiration clings to clammy flesh, flesh that crawls with gooseflesh, chest unusually tight, crushed beneath the weight of nightmares.

It’s the darkness — creeping, sinister, bleak — curling around the fringes of his room, kept at-bay by the soft illumination that hangs over his bed. Strangled gasps rip through his diaphragm, as if he’s swallowed water, pulled beneath the current.

He’s alone, surrounded by vicious mockery, by a cacophony of voices that claw at him, tell him he’s insignificant, tell him he’s nothing. Their rancor screams from the void, and he’s helpless, powerless against them.

It feels like drowning, falling into an endless pit of a ceaseless penumbra, the shadow that he keeps at-bay. A familiar pain blossoms from within his ribcage, and he’s desperate to be free from whatever nightmare he’s trapped in.

Bob startles awake, clutching at his sternum, brown tresses disheveled from a perilous slumber. Muscles ache, taut from a clenched fist, as if he’s being stretched too thin.

The nightmare disintegrates, carried away upon the wind, and the shadows slither to a mere lull.

Sweat glistens on his temples, strands of hair matted against his forehead, brows furrowing together. Tears wet his eyes, unshed, roused to the surface as he regains a shred of composure. Outside, the New York cityscape greets him — he’s home, in the Watchtower.

The skies have lost their pallor, no longer the hue of bruised violets, an inky atmosphere speckled with thousands of stars. Skyscrapers glisten through the haze, reflected against tinted windowpanes, and he begins to adjust to his surroundings again.

A dryness permeates his mouth, sitting uncomfortably upon his tongue, and he shuffles out of bed. The sheets are somewhat damp from perspiration, his body running inhumanly hot, hotter still from the nightmare.

The nightmares don’t get any easier — the pain sits raw within his chest, as if his heart has been spit over a searing flame. Bob exhales, reminding himself of where he is, they’re here, he isn’t alone, he’s safe.

Bare feet smooth over the cool flooring, making his way from his room to the tower’s lounge, greeted by dusk, pooling in through tinted windows. Starlight dances through a clear night, silvery whisper of the moon enough to bring him some semblance of comfort.

Wandering towards the sink, he’s quick to turn the faucet on, shoveling handfuls of water into his mouth to sate his thirst. The dry burn within his throat slowly diminishes, temperature beginning to regulate as he pulls away from tormented dreams.

A cool draft floats through the room, a soothing balm against his scorching flesh, smoldering with the temperature of the sun. A drawn-out, ragged sigh inhabits his lungs, and he begins to drift down from his state of panic, of fear.

“Bob?”

Nonplussed, Bob swivels, droplets of water rolling down his chin as his gaze finds you, standing there in your robe, groggy from the fringes of sleep. It’s as if you’re cast in some divine glow, the moon at your back, blanketing you in blanched light.

Within his chest, the pain ebbs, more of a crawl than biting, soothed by your presence. He doesn’t know what you are — you and him, but he knows that he’s comforted when you’re near, as if you possess some supernatural ability to console him.

He knows that you are a sanctuary, that you’re kind, you’re safe; and Bob knows that he feels something for you. It’s nearly overwhelming, whatever that sentiment is — he thinks it’s affection, or maybe it’s something else, something stronger.

Fisting his palm within the hem of his sweater, he forces a smile, threadbare; it dances along the line of genuine and despairing. “Hi,” He greets nonchalantly, as if he weren’t distressed. “What are you doing?”

Perplexed, you can tell that he’s had a nightmare again; a weekly ritual, wrought with melancholy, and yet you’re there with open arms, without question. “I heard your heartbeat.” It’s little more than a whisper, and you watch his smile waver.

“Did you?” Bob averts your gaze, digits twisting into fabric until it accidentally tears. He winces, shaking his head back and forth, brows drawing together as he attempts to navigate through the momentary swarm of emotions.

It’s been four months — he’s trying.

Unraveling the tangled web of trauma that blankets his life is easier said than done, and he’s put in the work, but it never seems enough. The nightmares don’t recede, still a haunting constant, a plague nipping at his heels without pause.

Silence fills the gap between, and the sting you feel never lessens when he’s had a nightmare. Affection pulls upon your heartstrings, a dull ache within your chest that blossoms into concern. Wordlessly, you step closer, hand seeking his own.

It’s an anchor; there’s a weight to it that grounds him, flesh to flesh, and Bob feels the unearthly chill that clings to your skin. Through a warbled exhale, he finally looks to you again, his smile threadbare yet easier, appreciative.

“I’m here for you,” Solemn, your oath to Bob is a promise, and you’ve kept it, never straying from the meaning of your words. The sheen of sweat seems to cool, and his body no longer feels coiled into a thousand knots. “Still tired?”

It was a poor habit he’d developed, not going back to bed once he’d awoken from a bad dream. Though, you’d been rather diligent about ensuring that he got proper rest — and you always stayed with him until the sun came up.

Bob nods, and the two of you make your way back to his room.

Hands flex and pull away from one another, kissed by fire, and you feel it, warmth spreading over the back of your neck like tendrils. It’s innocent, whatever you share with him — pure, clean. You don’t recall the last time you’d felt this about anyone, for anyone.

There’s a gentleness that radiates from his soul, burning brighter than the sun; it’s good, he’s good. He doesn’t fully know it, but he’s healing you, too.

As you cross the threshold into his room, the door shuts, met with the soft glow of his nightlight, the sparkling cityscape. Bob is visibly relieved, grateful to you for everything — he wonders if he deserves it, but the thought is fleeting.

There isn’t a shred of awkwardness as the both of you climb into his bed; you abandoned that a long time ago. Instead, there’s a peculiar tension — but it’s sweeter, more of a tenderness than anything else.

Curled atop the sheets, Bob’s gaze finds you, unknowing, enticed by the glitter within your eyes, the characteristic amiability that he clings to. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were some angel, a savior, pulling him back from the brink.

Facing one another, the hush of his room is comforting; the hum of New York drones on outside, save for the minuscule thrumming of the light above his headboard. Tucking an arm beneath your head, you feel yourself grow a touch flustered beneath Bob’s stare.

There is a sense of incredulity there, an amalgamation of gratitude intermingled with warmth, mesmerized, affectionate. He nearly shrinks when your gaze finds his own, mustering up a smile, one that quirks at the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” He mumbles, fearing that he’s wasted enough of your time on his troubled mind. Bob notices the flicker of fire within your eyes, a certain determination. “I …”

Before he can conjure up some apology, you begin to shush him, a gentle croon that is a placating gesture, intended to soothe. “We’re here for one another, Bob. You know that I don’t mind. It’s just as important to me as it is to you.”

That surprises him, bewilderment crossing his features, settling within his visage as he clears his throat. He wants to inquire, ask about why this matters to you so much, consoling him, but he’s quiet, absorbing every detail of your countenance. His memory is hazy, but he always remembers you.

“Why?”

A brief pang of ice stabs at your stomach, recalling a slew of past memories, none of which are pleasant. His loneliness is something that you empathize with more than he knows, the burden of nothingness.

Bob can see the ripple of pain that passes through your face, and he reaches out, hands interlacing once more. It’s innocuous, grounded; you tether one another to reality. For a moment, he’s standing in your memories — needles, a thousand jagged pricks of ice, threading themselves into your veins.

“This comforts me, too,” Your confession is laced with underlying melancholy, one that he shares, understands. Bob understands it better than himself, and he feels your digits tense around his hand; it’s a pleasant feeling. “You comfort me.”

It feels strange, to be important to someone; to matter in a way that transcends a simple human connection. His body heat warms the icy chill of your hands, sending a brief shiver throughout your spine.

As he involuntarily wades through your memory, he sees you again, alone — begging, sobbing for help, for someone to rescue you from the misery inflicted at the hands of zealous scientists. Like him, he realizes, and he wants to help you in the way you’ve helped him.

“I don’t know how.” Bob admits, but you’re swift to counter him with a smile. There’s an easiness to you, something kind, something secure, a home that he’s made, the heart where he has roots.

“You’re just you,” As the words slip from your lips, warm breath plumes between, tinged with sweetness. He finds it difficult to fully believe your words, but he hangs onto them nonetheless, heart lurching within his chest. “You’re Bob.”

If only things were that simple, he thinks, knowing that there’s much more to him than that. Darkness, a malignant shadow, constantly slinking around within the recesses of his mind — and something golden, a brilliant light, blinded by his own hubris.

His silence is telling, and you know he doesn’t fully believe you. You don’t press the matter, the pad of your thumb ghosting over his knuckles. Gooseflesh ices his spine at the brief contact, prompting him to exhale, nearly relaxed.

“You know that’s not true,” Bob stammers, wrestling with himself. Sometimes he wonders if you like all of him — even the tarnished, broken parts. His eyes briefly flutter shut before he shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” He murmurs, feeling your fingertips dance over his palm.

“All of you, then. You are comforting to me,” The sincerity within your cadence is incredibly soothing to him, hanging upon every word. “Even the parts that are still healing.” You assure, and his breath catches within his throat.

There’s plenty of mending left to do — learning, adapting, trying to find himself again. However, Bob knows for certain that he’s beginning to love you, in a way that he’s never experienced himself. Whatever parts of him are still scattered, you’re there to help pick up, no matter how dark.

His lips split into a smile — brighter this time, fully reaching his eyes. Grogginess hazes the fringes of his gaze, exhaustion beginning to seep into his bones, attempting to drag him back into the throes of sleep.

Still, he fights it, wanting to stay up with you and talk — it’s what you’ve done every time. Sometimes the conversation is light, airy, sweet — and sometimes it’s raw and poignant. Whatever way it goes, he’s content to converse, to better understand himself, understand you.

“Everything about you is perfect,” Bob utters, scarlet permeating his cheeks, flush snaking toward his jaw. Bewilderment crosses your features, eyes widening, throat thick as you swallow down a slight lump. “All of it.”

You want to blame it on the sleep deprivation, and you do, forcing a brief laugh, wrought with a sense of shock. “You must be really tired,” Attempting to pass off his remark as nothing more than kindness, you notice his sudden streak of embarrassment.

“I mean it.” Shrewd, he tries again, insistent as his teeth catch on the inside of his cheek. Earnestly, he sits up enough to look at you fully, cerulean hues glistening through dim illumination.

Biting back a retort, you reluctantly accept the compliment, digits idly twisting into the pillow beneath you. You are far from perfect — the sum of many flaws, self-esteem still tattered from your past. Bob understands, insecurities marrow-deep, gnawing away at him.

He sees you — glimpsing through whatever guilt and sorrow plague you, seeing the light that emanates from within. With bated breath, your lips part, enough to make room for a soft exhale, attempting to decide on your next words.

“Thanks,” It’s all you can muster, grappling with the bewilderment of it all, being called perfect. You’ve never been labeled as anything other than a mistake — but not to him. “No one’s ever told me that before.”

Bob feels your digits still across his knuckles, akin to silk, still somewhat icy. “I’ll tell you,” His voice is disarmingly gentle, the ghost of a smile fluttering over his face. “You’ve helped me, more than you know. I can return the favor.”

There’s still pain left inside, ashen remnants of a fire that nearly engulfed him, but it’s more manageable. Most of his life was one of isolation, of longing for a purpose — he’d found the team, and he’d found you.

He still remembers meeting you for the first time, even if the memory is clouded, faint. It’s you that breaks through the veil, piercing sunlight through his own shadow. It was the softness of your touch that lingers still, guiding him from the dark.

“It’s only fair if I tell you, too,” Through a murmur, you shift atop the mattress, the distance between bodies slimmer than before. You can hear his heartbeat begin to climb, notice the way in which he shuffles closer, too. “We’ll remind each other.”

Bob smiles again, eyelashes fluttering, accidentally bumping his knees against yours. “Sorry.” He mumbles, but you shake your head, able to savor the proximity. There’s something else he wants to say, stuck upon the tip of his tongue.

Words simmer to ash within his throat, struggling to vocalize the turbulent storm of inner thoughts that wage war within his head. He wants to tell you how much you mean to him, how much he likes you, how you burn away any lingering darkness.

“It’s okay.” Assuring, you absentmindedly untangle your hand from his, much to his disdain, only to card your fingertips over his brow. Brushing aside sweat-laden tresses, you feel the heat of his flesh, like that of an open flame.

The gesture is sweet, and he craves your embrace with a pathetic desperation. Bob’s eyes widen, pads of your digits ghosting toward his cheek, until your palm is nearly flat against the side of his face.

His hand finds your wrist, his hold disarmingly delicate, as if he’s cradling something precious, fragile. Bob is fearful of his own strength, letting it fester just beneath the surface. As your thumb traces over his cheekbone, his gaze doesn’t stray from you.

Floating within a wordless silence, you’re unusually content, feeling the pang of tension that crackles between, embers stoked to a low flame. Everything about him is warm, inviting, gentle — his heartbeat jumps again when you smile at him.

“I like you,” He whispers, as if he’s just revealed some earth-shattering secret. Despite the sudden excitement that washes through you, he seems anxious, as if this news is something you’d detest. “But I don’t know if I’m good enough.”

Offended on his behalf, your brows furrow together, caressing his visage with lingering strokes of your fingertips. “You are more than good enough,” You know it’s a struggle for him to have faith in such words. “You’re so good, Bob — you’re resilient, you’re perfect.”

Bob laughs; a subdued, nervous sound as his own compliment is thrown back in his face — he should’ve suspected you’d do something like that. Foreheads ghost against one another, and he realizes how close you are, bodies nearly entangled.

His divulgence of his affections dawns upon you, realization raw and palpable. However, you don’t let it swallow the remark he made, of not being good enough for you — he’s everything, he’s more than enough.

“I like you, too.”

Disbelief, as sharp as a blade, cuts through him effortlessly — he knows you mean it, but it’s difficult to let the feeling sink in fully. His thumb caresses over the heel of your palm, tears burning his eyes, a wet sheen that he continues to fight off.

Somewhere within the recesses of his mind, he hears the voice again — the Void, some festering spectre that looms still, as black as ink. Bob’s jaw tenses as he staves off insecurity, finding a steadfast adoration within your eyes; your gaze softens, consoling.

“I have a lot of low days,” It’s almost as if he’s giving you reasons not to be with him, to avoid acting on this pull that you feel towards him. “Some good days.” Bob whispers, voice hoarse, as if he’s been scraped too thin, choked by swimming tears.

“I’ll stay with you — no matter what kind of day it is,” Something wet coats your thumb, inklings of salty droplets rolling from his eyes. “Low or high, you mean so much to me.” The softness of your cadence is unmistakable, his hand gliding to rest over yours.

Tears flow freely now, most of them born of an elation he hadn’t experienced in such a long time. He’s happy — joy tastes foreign, something new and unfamiliar, but it’s liberating, all the same. Your voice washes over him, curling around him; tranquil, serene.

It’s as if the voices are squashed, momentarily snuffed out as he looks to you, the center of everything. Wiping at bleary eyes, he regains his composure, enough to plant a kiss against your palm. The gesture is chaste, sweet — your lips part slightly, smitten.

Still holding your hand against his countenance, Bob gawks, stars swirling within his dark-blue hues, the look of something more. His heartbeat thrums within your ears as it jumps again, jumbled and erratic in your newfound closeness.

“You can hear it,” Bob murmurs, a reddened flush crawling over his neck, settling within his cheeks. “My heartbeat.” He knows it’s quick, knows the way you make him feel — beloved, comforted, some semblance of normalcy.

“It’s fast,” Your observation only furthers his twinge of embarrassment, but he smiles — your heartbeat quickens, too. “Never noticed the flecks of green in your eyes.” Muddled by the growing grogginess, your voice tapers off, nothing more than a hushed whisper.

“Reminded her of moss,” He recalls, forlorn, as if he’s miles away. Bob doesn’t talk much about his past — only the naked ugliness of it, but this is something lighter, something good. “My mother.” His throat stirs with a soft hum.

“They’re pretty.” Again, your fingertips brush above his brow, nudging brown tresses aside. The change of subject is all a ploy for Bob to gather his courage to kiss you — it’s building, the tension. You’re content to let it simmer.

Bob relinquishes his grasp upon your hand, enough to touch you, too. He’s hesitant, the way he reaches for you, trembling digits warm against your lips, chapped and scabbed from you constantly biting at the thin flesh.

Exhilaration swirls within your stomach, a thousand butterflies dancing around, gooseflesh crawling across your spine. His fingers skirt toward your cheek, palm large enough to cradle your countenance, and you let him.

You cannot recall the last time someone had touched you with a gentle hand, as if you mattered, as if you were worthy of such kindness. His touch is incendiary, fire to ice, eyes searching his own for something else, something unspoken.

As if urged by invisible strings, your movements are sluggish, deliberate; the closer you get, the louder Bob’s heartbeat gets — yours too, joined in-tandem. He doesn’t recoil or push you aside, doe-eyed and mesmerized, though still somewhat nervous.

His gaze flickers over your visage — ethereal, gravitating, and he’s pulled in. He’s asking, you realize, hushed yet expectant, lips parted and flesh plagued by scarlet. Bob’s hand remains steady, caressing your jaw, characteristically shy as you lean forward simultaneously.

Lips brush against one another, slow to start, perhaps agonizingly slow. It doesn’t bother you in the slightest, allowing yourself to merely bask in the pleasantness of it all.

Kissing isn’t something foreign to him, but he’s inexperienced, stumbling over himself, still clumsy in his ministrations. He drowns his anxiousness, throat bobbing as he swallows, finding some tranquility in the shape of your mouth.

Velveteen, just like the rest of you; his heartbeat crescendos before it begins to steady, fingertips pluming over the dip beneath your jaw. Nothing ever moves faster than it needs to be, lips growing accustomed to a sweeter embrace.

Noses brush together, warmth of his tremulous exhale feathering over your features, a heat that eases whatever chill holds you still. Bob’s mouth shifts just slightly, brows creased in concentration, your stray tresses tickling his cheek.

This is real, a blissful reality that he merely grasped at, once upon a time. You’re flesh and blood in his grasp, scent an amalgamation of something floral, coupled with the clean smell of your bathrobe.

Bob withdraws, only to marvel at the sight of you, picturesque, flustered as you struggle to maintain your composure. The distance is still slim, almost nonexistent, limbs tangled, hearts galloping together, a tandem of exhilaration.

His smile is shy, chest bubbling with gentle laughter, as if he can’t comprehend what happened. It evokes a giggle from you, too; his hand never strays from your jaw.

“Was it that bad?” The teasing nature of your cadence flusters him, but he knows that you don’t mean anything by it. Bob shakes his head, extinguishing the gasp that nearly floats from his lungs as your palm rests over his collarbone.

“No,” Breathless, he steels himself, flesh beginning to burn when he fully realizes how close you are, intertwined at this point. “The opposite.” Bob remarks, shivering as your fingertips lightly graze against the bare flesh near the collar of his sweater.

Neglecting to press him further, you’re content to simply swim within your shared affections. It’s quiet for a moment, and he stares at you as if you’ve moved mountains. “I’m rusty.” You utter, eyes half-lidded, sleep nipping at your heels.

A glint of pearlescent teeth shimmer from behind his lips, brief; Bob nearly says something cheeky, but cringes at the mere thought. Instead, he concedes, shifting slightly beside you. “Me too.” He concurs, swallowing the growing lump within his throat.

“It might be worthwhile to practice,” A soft snort escapes you, followed by laughter. You’re being playful again, partially serious, but you’d never force Bob into something he didn’t want. “Sorry.” You mumble, nose crinkling.

“No, hm,” Bob’s smitten, and he’s agreeable — though, he prefers if you were more awake. You’re fighting slumber with both fists, shoving it away, but it keeps chasing after you. “Maybe when you’re not tired.” He hums, and you open one eye.

“Okay,” You’re smiling and he’s falling, as if he’s soaring through the skies, crashing down on solid ground. “M’holding you.” Slurred, a mere wisp of a grumble, your arms flex and adjust, making space for Bob to rest his head against your shoulder.

He’s much taller, larger, but you don’t seem to mind, arm extended beneath his head, the other splayed somewhere else. His arms tangle around your middle, feverishly hot, but the warmth is more welcoming than the cold.

You’re asleep before he is, digits curled into the back of his sweater, something to hold onto. Shallow, relaxed breaths stretch through your diaphragm, a melody that brings him peace; the pain subsides into a dull ache.

Bob exhales; it’s even, steady — the sensation of your digits carding through his tresses lulls him into submission. Rest is much easier to find this way, caged within your arms, a sanctuary that he crawls into without hesitation.

#mcu #marvel #thunderbolts #robert reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x reader #sentry x reader #robert reynolds x you #bob reynolds x you #bob thunderbolts #thunderbolts x reader #lewis pullman #sentry x you #sentry thunderbolts #robert reynolds #marvel x reader #thunderbolts fanfic #thunderbolts fanfiction #marvel fanfic

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gf2bellamy · 6 months ago

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drunk — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: spencer is drunk and is spilling things about your relationship content warnings: established relationship, drunk spencer, the team mocking them a/n: i've never had a sip of alcohol so if i made any mistake i'm very sorry honestly i just went of what i've seen in tv shows, movies and books

You sat nestled in the corner booth of the bar, sipping your soda. The ice clinked softly against the glass as you absentmindedly swirled the straw, half-listening to Garcia and Emily’s gossip.

Their conversation faded into the background, however, as your attention drifted elsewhere, specifically, to the two men across the room. Spencer, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, was talking at a rapid pace, gesturing wildly with his hands as Derek grinned at him, clearly entertained. Your brows furrowed as Derek slid another drink into Spencer’s hands. You sighed, not bothering to hide your disapproval.

“What’s up with you?” Emily asked, her head tilting slightly as she sipped from her drink.

“That.” You nodded toward the scene unfolding across the room.

Emily followed your gaze just in time to see Spencer take another eager gulp of whatever Derek had handed him. A second later, Derek’s mouth dropped open before he burst into laughter, clapping Spencer on the back like a proud older brother.

“Yeah… Morgan’s having way too much fun with drunk Spencer,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes at them.

Spencer, completely unaware of your scrutiny, continued rambling, his hands moving faster than his words. Meanwhile, Derek's smile just grew bigger and bigger.

Garcia snorted. “Oh, come on, it’s adorable.”

You weren’t sure if you’d call it adorable. More like mildly concerning. Because if history had taught you anything, drunk Spencer Reid was unpredictable, and God help anyone who had to deal with him when the alcohol finally hit its peak. And from the looks of it, the moment was about to happen or based on Derek's grin , has happened already.

“What is he doing?” you mumbled, eyes narrowing as you watched the two of them. You had a bad feeling about this.

Garcia glanced at you with a smirk. “Sweetheart, we are at a bar. That’s what people do. You know… drink?” She gestured pointedly at your own glass.

You scoffed, lifting your soda in mock acknowledgment. “Yeah, well, some of us have to drive,” you muttered before taking another sip.

Before Garcia could quip back, you caught movement out of the corner of your eye. Derek had turned toward you, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face.

Oh no.

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god,” you muttered.

Oblivious to what was happening around him, Spencer continued rambling, hands flailing dramatically. You watched, unamused, as Derek made his way over to you, his smirk growing wider with every step. Trailing beside him, Spencer was entirely oblivious. He barely paid attention to where he was walking, nearly stumbling into Derek at one point, but that didn’t stop him.

When they finally reached your booth, Derek didn’t even bother with pleasantries. Instead, he kept his gaze locked on you, his grin downright devious.

“You don’t say?” he mused, clearly continuing whatever conversation Spencer had been having, though it was obvious his real focus was on you. Spencer finally seemed to register where he was, his hazy eyes flickering to you. He blinked, as if surprised to see you there.

“Hi,” he said, his voice slightly softer than before.

Before you could respond, he slid into the booth beside you, well, more like half on top of you. He scooted in so close that his thigh was practically draped over yours.

You stared at him. “Hi.”

He grinned, leaning in ever so slightly, the scent of alcohol and something distinctly Spencer clinging to him. His eyes, glassy but bright, studied your face with open admiration, like he was seeing you for the first time all over again. His curls were a mess, strands falling over his face, making him look even more disheveled than usual. You reached up instinctively, tucking a stray lock behind his ear, but he barely seemed to notice.

“Seems like you’re having fun,” you murmured, shifting your gaze to Derek, who was watching the interaction with barely contained amusement.

Derek simply shrugged. “Guess so.”

You turned back to Spencer, who was still staring at you, completely dazed, his hazel eyes glassy and unfocused, like you were the most fascinating thing in the room. With a chuckle, Derek turned his attention to Garcia and Emily, leaving you to deal with your very drunk boyfriend.

“You okay?” you asked softly, tilting your head as you brushed more of his hair out of his face.

Spencer hummed in response, his eyes fluttering shut for a second before he blinked them open again. “Mhm.”

You let your fingers linger in his curls, absentmindedly threading through them, and Spencer melted under your touch.

“What were you telling Derek back there?” you asked, keeping your voice gentle, watching as his eyelids drooped slightly.

He mumbled something incoherent before finally managing, “M’don’t remember.”

Before you could press further, he sighed contently and let his head drop onto your shoulder, his body going slack against yours. Your hand was still tangled in his hair and you felt his breath fan against your neck as he let out another sleepy hum.

Now Garcia and Emily were both staring at you, matching grins on their faces. You frowned.

“What?” you asked warily.

Emily’s smile widened. “Oh, nothing. It’s just… Spencer had a lot to say about you.”

On cue, Spencer lifted his head from your shoulder at the sound of his name, his movements slow and a little clumsy. You turned to him, raising an eyebrow.

His brows furrowed in concentration, as if trying to grasp onto a fleeting thought. “I remember now,” he said, dragging out the words, squeezing his eyes shut like that might help jog his memory. “I think.”

You waited, not sure if you wanted to hear whatever was about to come out of his mouth.

“I told them… about how much you like touching my hair,” he finally said, his voice a little too loud, like he was completely unaware of the fact that everyone was now hanging onto his every word.

Your mouth fell open. “What?”

You whipped your head toward Emily, Garcia, and Derek, who were all watching you with knowing smirks, looking way too amused for your liking.

“Oh, and I told them about how you—” he paused, blinking a few times, “—always trace patterns on my back when you think I’m asleep.”

Your face burned.

Spencer, oblivious to your horror, continued, his voice dreamy and soft. “And how you always steal my cardigans, even though you claim they drown you and make you look ridiculous. But I know you secretly love wearing them.”

Derek let out a full laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, this is gold.”

Garcia sighed dramatically, clutching her chest. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Spencer, why—”

He leaned in even closer, his lips nearly brushing your ear as he whispered, though it wasn’t much of a whisper at all, given his current state—“And I told them that you—”

You slapped a hand over his mouth before he could say anything else. Spencer blinked at you, wide-eyed, and you felt his lips curl into a grin against your palm.

“Okay, Spence, I need you to stop talking now,” you said firmly, your hand still covering his mouth.

Spencer blinked at you, his hazel eyes glassy with amusement. Slowly , hesitantly , you removed your hand, watching him like he was a ticking time bomb.

Then you turned to your friends.

“Don’t,” you warned, narrowing your eyes as Derek parted his lips, no doubt ready to deliver some smart remark.

Derek smirked. “But—”

“Don’t say anything,” you groaned, already exhausted, cutting him off with a pointed look.

Emily took a slow, deliberate sip of her drink, her expression entirely unreadable as she observed the chaos unfolding in front of her. Penelope, however, was a different story.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she cooed, placing a hand over her heart as she looked between you and Spencer like you were her new favorite romance novel come to life. “This is adorable. I mean, we knew you were soft for our resident genius, but this?” She gestured at Spencer, who was still pressed against you, his head once again finding its way to your shoulder. “This is next-level domesticity.”

You sighed, “I am never letting him drink around you guys again.”

Spencer hummed sleepily against your shoulder. “M’not even that drunk.”

Derek let out a loud laugh. “Oh, you so are.”

Spencer attempted to lift his head in protest but gave up halfway and settled deeper into your side. “M’just happy,” he mumbled, and if your heart didn’t squeeze at that, you’d be lying.

Emily set down her drink, eyes glinting with mischief. “So, what else does our drunk genius have to say about you?”

You shot her a glare. “Emily.”

Spencer, on the other hand, perked up slightly, as if the question had unlocked another memory.

“Oh!” he said suddenly, lifting his head, a dreamy smile spreading across his face. “I also told Derek about how you always fall asleep on my chest when we watch movies, even though you swear you never fall asleep during movies.”

Derek actually clapped at that one. “Man, you are so whipped.”

You buried your face in your hands as Garcia gasped dramatically, reaching for Emily’s arm like she might faint. “They’re so disgustingly cute! .”

Spencer, now clearly on a roll, turned his dopey, love-struck gaze back to you. “And I told them—”

You groaned. “Spencer!”

He grinned, resting his forehead against your shoulder. “Love you,” he mumbled sleepily.

You patted Spencer’s thigh three times, a silent I love you, too, acting as if you weren't melting completely on the inside. You weren’t about to give your friends any more teasing material.

“We’re going home,” you announced, realizing how sleepy Spencer was getting.

Derek groaned dramatically. “Oh, come on. We wanna hear more.” His grin was absolutely wicked.

At that, Spencer lifted his head slightly, as if he was about to continue his drunken confessions. You shot him a look, a playful but very clear don’t even think about it kind of look. “Spence.”

His lips parted like he was going to argue, but instead, he let out a soft hum and dropped his head back onto your shoulder, completely surrendering.

Derek laughed. "Man, he's totally wrapped around your finger."

You ignored him, instead rubbing soothing circles into Spencer’s back. His eyes fluttered closed, and he was half-asleep, his weight pressing into you completely.

“One word about this at work,” you warned, shifting your gaze between the three of them, “and I’m never talking to you guys again.”

Emily smirked over the rim of her glass. “Oh, sure. No words at work. Can’t promise about the PowerPoint presentation Garcia is definitely going to make, though.”

Garcia gasped, scandalized. “Emily, you know me so well.”

You groaned. “I hate all of you.” Derek chuckled, waving you off. “Nah, you love us.”

Spencer hummed sleepily. “Mhm. Love them.”

You sighed, adjusting him slightly. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get you home, Dr. Love-Confessions.”

“Okay, come on,” you sighed, scooting Spencer out of the booth. He stood, well, wobbled, barely managing to keep himself upright. You steadied him with a hand on his arm as he instinctively laced his fingers through yours, clearly unwilling to let go. His drunken state had made him extra clingy, but you weren’t exactly complaining.

Turning back to your friends, you gave them a pointed look. “I’ll see you all at work,” you said, voice laced with warning. “Where we’re only going to have professional conversations. Got it?”

Emily smirked, raising her glass in mock agreement. “Oh, sure. Definitely professional.”

Garcia let out a dramatic sigh. “No gossip whatsoever,” she said, not even trying to sound convincing.

Derek just grinned, shaking his head. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

Meanwhile, Spencer was barely paying attention to any of this. His eyes had glazed over, staring blankly into the distance as if lost in thought, or maybe just lost in general. You exhaled, already exhausted and thinking of calling in sick.

“You,” you said, pointing a finger at Derek, “you get to pay for both our drinks.”

Derek’s eyebrows shot up, realization dawning on him. “Whoa, hold up—”

“Nope,” you cut him off immediately, shaking your head. “Not happening. You let him get like this, you pay for it.”

Derek let out a laugh, looking at Spencer, who was still in his own little world. “Man, I didn’t force him to drink.”

You shrugged. “Don’t care. Enjoy the bill.” You tugged Spencer’s hand, leading him toward the exit.

“Bye,” he mumbled sleepily, barely loud enough to be heard. His steps were slow, and his body felt heavier against yours.

You pushed open the door with your free hand, the cool night air rushing past you. Spencer let out a quiet sigh at the change in temperature, his grip on your hand tightening just a little. Without thinking, you started tracing slow, comforting circles with your thumb over his skin.

Spencer hummed softly, leaning into you as you walked toward the car. “Feels nice,” he mumbled.

You glanced at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” he nodded lazily, his curls falling into his face again. “You always do that.”

“I guess I do,” you smiled softly at your boyfriend, your heart warm as he squeezed your hand tighter. Spencer didn’t seem to notice how tightly he was holding onto you as you arrived next to your car. But when you tried to pull your hand out of his grasp, he made a small noise of protest, a soft whimper that almost made you stop in your tracks.

“Spence,” you said gently, “I need to look for my keys.”

His hand reluctantly loosened, but his gaze never left you. You opened your bag, rummaging through the contents, your eyes scanning for the keys.

“You usually keep them in your front pocket,” Spencer mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.

You froze, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, right.”

Without missing a beat, you reached into your front pocket, feeling the familiar jingle of your keys. “Thanks, Spence,” you murmured, more to yourself than him, as you unlocked the car. You quickly moved to open the passenger door, holding it wide. “Okay, come on. Sit down.”

Spencer gave you a sleepy, lazy look but you gently tugged him towards the car, your touch soft yet insistent. His steps were slow, and as he started to get into the car, you reached up to guide his head down so he wouldn’t hit it on the top of the doorframe.

“Head down,” you instructed, your voice a little more authoritative than usual, though the affection in your tone made it clear you were only looking out for him. Spencer let out a soft, obedient hum as he finally slumped into the passenger seat. His body collapsed back into the seat like a ragdoll, eyes heavy.

“Good,” you said, closing the door behind him, watching as he settled into the seat, already half-asleep. As you slid into the driver's seat and closed the door behind you, you glanced over at Spencer. His head was resting against the seat, eyes shut, his expression soft and peaceful. You couldn’t help but feel a little bad for disturbing his rest.

“Do you want to go to your apartment?” you asked quietly, glancing at him as you started the car.

Spencer’s voice was barely above a whisper when he replied, “I wanna stay with you.”

You paused, looking at him, his face relaxed, eyes still closed as if he were half in a dream. Your fingers itched to reach out, and you gently brushed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. He hummed contentedly at the contact, leaning into your touch without even realizing it. You smiled softly, your heart melting at how utterly endearing he was. “Okay. We’ll go to my apartment, then.”

You drove in silence for a few minutes, just listening to the soft hum of the engine and Spencer’s breathing. It wasn’t long before you arrived, and as you parked in your spot, you glanced over at him.

He hadn’t moved, still in the same sleepy position, his head leaning against the seat.

“Spence,” you said gently, turning off the car. “We’re here.” All he did was hum in response, barely acknowledging you.

You sighed softly, knowing this was going to take a little effort. Stepping out of the car, you closed your door quietly before making your way to the passenger side. When you opened the door, Spencer was practically asleep, his head resting against the seat, lips slightly parted. He looked so peaceful, you almost felt bad for waking him.

“Spence,” you muttered, reaching out to touch his shoulder lightly. He didn’t budge.

You frowned, leaning in slightly, careful not to hit your head on the car frame, as you gave his shoulder a firmer shake. Still nothing.

“Spencer,” you said a little louder, this time with a touch of amusement in your voice. Finally, he stirred, cracking one eye open lazily.

“Hi,” you greeted with a soft smile, watching as he blinked sluggishly.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing his face with one hand. “We’re here?” he mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion.

“Yeah,” you chuckled. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

Spencer groaned lightly, shifting in his seat as if even the thought of moving was too much effort. You reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “I’ll help you, but you have to stand up, Spence.”

With a deep sigh, he finally nodded and let you pull him to his feet. He swayed slightly, and you immediately steadied him, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Whoa there, genius,” you murmured, adjusting your grip. “Let’s not face-plant in the parking lot.”

Spencer huffed out a sleepy chuckle, leaning into you more than he probably realized. “You’re warm,” he muttered.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile never faded. “Yeah, well, let’s get you inside where it’s actually warm, okay?”

“Okay,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper as you guided him inside the building. He leaned into you slightly, his steps slow and heavy. As you waited in front of the elevator, you tapped your foot lightly against the tile, watching the numbers slowly descend. Then, out of nowhere, Spencer spoke again, his voice soft but certain.

“I like you a lot, you know that?”

You turned to look at him, surprised by the sudden confession, but the sincerity in his hazel eyes made your heart melt. His gaze was a little unfocused, heavy with sleep and alcohol, but the emotion behind his words was crystal clear.

“I know, Spence,” you said, smiling warmly as you reached up and brushed his curls away from his face again. It was something so simple, yet something you always found yourself doing. He leaned into your touch instinctively, his body seeking out your warmth.

The elevator doors finally slid open with a ding, and you gently tugged his hand to lead him inside. As soon as the doors shut, Spencer sighed and rested his head on your shoulder, his body completely relaxed against yours.

“You smell nice,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your jacket.

You let out a soft laugh, wrapping an arm around him for support. “Thanks, Spence. You smell like alcohol and bad decisions.”

He chuckled sleepily, barely lifting his head. “Bad decisions? No, no. Liking you is the best decision.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you just stared at him, warmth spreading through your chest. Even drunk and barely coherent, Spencer Reid somehow managed to be the sweetest person alive.

The elevator doors opened, and you shook your head fondly, guiding him toward your apartment. “Come on, Casanova. Let’s get you to bed before you pass out in the hallway.”

Spencer let out a hum of agreement, still clinging onto your hand like he never wanted to let go.

You let go of him just long enough to unlock the door, pushing it open before guiding him inside. As soon as you shut it behind you, Spencer immediately reached for you again, clinging onto you like he had no intention of letting go.

You sighed fondly, helping him shrug off his jacket while he clumsily toed off his shoes.

“Okay, Spencer, just a couple more steps,” you encouraged, wrapping an arm around his waist as you led him toward your bedroom.

When you reached the bed, he sat down heavily, sighing as his body sunk into the mattress. His eyes scanned the room, though they were hazy with sleep. “I like your room,” he mumbled, as if just realizing where he was. You smiled softly, watching as he flopped back against the pillows, his head sinking into the plush fabric.

“Me too,” you murmured, standing by the edge of the bed as you watched him.

Spencer’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, but then, with a small, sleepy smile, he peeked up at you again.

“You know… I think my favorite thing about your room is that you live in it,” he said, his voice thick with exhaustion but filled with sincerity. Your heart swelled at the unexpected sweetness of his words.

You shook your head with a soft laugh, brushing his curls out of his face once more. “You’re such a sap when you’re drunk, Spence.”

His smile grew just a little. “M’not drunk,” he mumbled, already halfway to sleep. “Just in love.”

You felt warmth spread through your chest as you pulled the blanket over him, watching as he relaxed further into the bed.

“Go to sleep, Spencer,” you whispered, but the smile on your lips never faded.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x you #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fic

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wickedzeevyln · 1 year ago

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Ink and Paper

To Romy, wherever you are. In the arms of silence, when we drift into the realm of our thoughts, forgotten snapshots from long ago come to focus along with a scent we try hard to remember, scents are intertwined with our memories, and memories are strands of our past we continuously weave with our present, little by little, our minds are swathed with a gossamer, adrift as fleeting wisps. The…

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nanamiskentos · 7 months ago

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SHE TOLD YOU THAT SHE CELIBATE, SHE TOLD ME I COULD NAIL HER SH*T — gojo satoru minors dni

PART I. of the new years letters, a series of fics dedicated to some of my lovely mutuals! 🎁

prologue. → you wish gojo satoru would stop trying to ask you out. not that you don't like him, but dating the one guy that you're smacked silly about would mean that he could break your heart and leave you in ruins. so it's best to keep some distance right?

pairing. gojo satoru x afab!reader

warnings+. college au, reader wears a skirt, reader is choso's twin and yuuji's older sister, but no appearance detailed. kissing, making out, óral (f) receiving, general bitchiness and fuckups 😚 ensemble cast of poor bystanders (geto, shoko, sukuna, yuki etc)

word count. 10k! song inspiration. gang baby — nle choppa

a/n. it's because of that one edit by satorupedia that's going around rn. yall know which one 😭 art by touno_stupa on twt!

dedication. yayyy decided to start my little gift series for new years with this fic inspired and dedicated to @fushitoru who was one of the first blogs i followed on here before i was super familiar with jujutsu kaisen. aashi writes thee most wonderful gojo fics that are so well characterised and heart-stoppingly adorable and HAWT. 😁 🤭 and i easily associate her with physics/college au gojo now, ever since her spiderman gojo fic that lives in my head!!!!

gojo in this fic:

ACT I. don't puck around and find out!

"i ran into gojo today," choso says, his voice as unbothered and monotone as ever, scraping the gravel lazily with the heel of his scuffed combat boots, "or he ran into me."

"gojo satoru?"

"how many gojos do we know?" your twin brother huffs, giving you a dry side-eye. but before you can retort something equally acrid, he's yanking at the sleeve of your sweatshirt, halting you midstep, "wait. car."

you blink out of your tired daze just in time to see a battered camry putter past, its engine groaning like it's on its last legs. just how you feel after a long day of seminars and lectures. the car rattles down the street with the grace of a tin can tied to a string.

"thanks," you mutter, half-heartedly as you shift your laptop case from one tired arm to the other, "could have been the end of my genius academic career."

"would have been a short one either way," choso quietly quips, earning himself a sharp elbow to the ribs.

"so?" you press on.

"so, what?"

"what did gojo say?"

"ohhh," choso drawls, in that irritating way of his that indicates he has no idea how to deliver good gossip, news or any form of tea, "he asked if i wanted to play hockey for his team tomorrow. they're down a player ever since kento went on exchange."

"hockey?" your eyebrow arches, and skepticism curls your lips for choso is hardly known for his athleticism. you mean, you're sure he has the physical ability in him somewhere but you (and the rest of the world) are yet to see it, "are you gonna join the team, then?"

not that you care about gojo's stupid, state-tournament winning team. of course not. you're just curious. and curiosity is harmless.

it has nothing to do with the fact that you woke up last night wanting to jump gojo satoru's bones. just like you did the night before, and before. and the week before that. yeah, suffice to say that this has been going on for a while.

"nah," choso says, shaking dull, greasy strands of dark hair out of his eyes, "got placements tomorrow."

right. placements. choso's all about pathology and lab medicine and test tubes, while you get queasy at the mere mention of haemoglobin. and it unsettles you mildly at how your twin brother's eyes light up at the mere mention of a blood test.

"and?" you prod when he starts to drift off again, his attention wandering like it always does.

choso is often like a calm river. slow, broad and lazy.

this time, you pull at his one of his headphone cords to reel him back, "did gojo say anything else?"

choso gives you that dull look, quiet but loaded. like he's already solved a puzzle that you didn't know you were trying to hide. it just makes your stomach twist, "why do you care what gojo satoru says?"

"i don't," you snap, far too fast, like your tongue is racing your brain to a crash site. the lie sits heavy in your throat, thick and obvious.

choso's pale and dry lips twitch, and you wondered what happened to the lip balm you threw into his christmas stocking last year, "should i have told him you could sub in for his team instead?"

"no-one likes a smartass, cho," you grumble, speeding up your steps as your twin leisurely rummages through his fraying backpack for his house keys. you roll your eyes and push ahead, jamming your own keys into the lock before you die of boredom waiting for him to dig through the trash heap that lies at the bottom of his bag, "anyway, i was just asking. you brought gojo up."

choso trails behind you, his tone infuriatingly casual, "you always get weird when someone mentions him. i thought you guys were friends."

"we are friends. and i don't get weird."

"you get so weird. even yuki said so."

"i love yuki, i do. but she has no idea what she's talking about —"

the door swings open, cutting off your false deflection. standing there is yuuji, with half a sandwich dangling from his mouth like he's some kind of feral creature. there's a smear of mayonnaise clinging to his cheek as he yanks a red, track hoodie over his tank top.

"mmph! hey, you guys!" he muffles through a mouthful of bread, waving at you with the enthusiasm that only a teenage boy could muster after inhaling half the fridge.

"where are you off to?" you peer at your younger brother, your eyes zeroing in on his mutilated sandwich. a sandwich that you're certain you made for yourself this morning, leaving it for a study session upon your return.

"track practice," yuuji says, swallowing the last bite whole, "then dinner with fushiguro and kugisaki." he's already halfway down the driveway, sneakers untied and laces flopping on the pavement behind him.

choso narrows his eyes, "got money? or a water bottle? a hat? did you wear sunscreen?"

"i'm good!" yuuji calls back without breaking stride, waving a quick hand at the two of you.

"why don't you hold his hand and walk him to school, mother?"

"shut up," choso grumbles as he brushes past you into the house, throwing you an exaggerated scowl of wounded, elder-brother pride over his shoulder, "why don't you hold gojo's hand to hockey practice?"

your bookbag swings through the air, connecting to the back of choso's oversized head and a loud thud follows.

ACT II. long overdue and lacking a spine

you had been in this library for hours, eyes blurring as the words in your textbook stubbornly refused to make sense. it was all a gross blur of terms and diagrams, and your $8.00 coffee had gone lukewarm an hour ago.

study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that was the plan, no distractions.

your phone, however, had other ideas as it sat innocently next to your stack of notes. you tapped the screen quickly under the guise of a 'quick break' but before long, you were deep into instagram stories. someone's dog, a flyer for a rave that you definitely weren't going to, and then, of course, him.

gojo satoru. on someone's reposted story with a classic, grainy photo of one of the campus's most darling boys. long arm draped casually over some girl. both of them lit in the neon glow of what looked like a party bus. he wasn't even looking at the camera, just flashing that effortless grin that you had seen your entire life growing up. and the girl was gorgeous, obviously. not that you cared about that.

but speak of the devil and he hath appear. a long shadow fell over the table, and you felt the chill in your bones, trying not to shift in your seat.

"go away, gojo," you muttered, not even deigning to look up.

"how'd you know it was me?" his voice is teasing, all light and airy as he's pulling out the chair next to you.

"what can i say? lucky guess," you reply dryly, keeping your eyes glued to the suspiciously-stained textbook. worried that you'll look up and your iron resolve will disappear from one glance at big, blue eyes.

but out of the corner of his eye, you try not to twitch at the sight of the soft, pale blue hoodie that swallows his broad frame whole. thick, white strands of hair that fall gently over his face. and that cloying scent of mint and something faintly sweet that leaves your ears hot and your heart sitting in your throat.

study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that's what you tell yourself in a now failing mantra.

"are you following me today?" you ask, flipping a page with exaggerated nonchalance, like you're not about to tear up pathetically from a stupid crush.

"caught me," gojo says, the grin audible even in his voice, "i just couldn't resist finding you. is that what you want me to say?"

you finally look up, swallowing at unfairly fine features, "saw you were at some party yesterday. i didn't think you'd be on campus today."

gojo just laughs, the sound soft and infuriating, "keeping tabs on me now?" and he's rifling through his bag for something, "or you don't think the library's a good look for me? i'm broadening my horizons. testing the waters."

you narrow your eyes, willing the heat rising in your face to stay put and not crawl into your voice, "i think you're testing my patience. i have a test tomorrow, so if you're here to waste my time..."

"maybe i just wanted to hang out with my friend," gojo says, tearing open a kitkat wrapper in an obnoxious way that echoes through the silent hall, and the crinkle of plastic grates against your nerves, "we haven't seen each other in ages."

"don't you have a lot of other people to hang out with nowadays?" you're mentally beating yourself with a bat at your question, wincing at how it sounds like you keep count of who he hangs out with, and you're pathetically down bad for him. like a 90s singer begging on his knees for a kiss.

"i mean, i could hang out with them," gojo says, breaking his kitkat horizontally like a monster, "but they're not you."

his sunglasses are gone, revealing eyes so blue they look otherworldly, and he's throwing you that smiling, lopsided grin that makes your heart run around a room and bang into the walls. but no. you were not going to let gojo satoru get to you. he probably made every girl feel like this, like they were the centre of his fast-paced universe. until the next shiny thing came along.

besides, gojo satoru dated models. or stunning cheerleaders. the kind of people who looked good under strobe lights, and in the glow of his party bus digital camera pics.

and hey, it's not like you were self-depreciating or awfully insecure. you liked who you were and you would never change it for anyone. quiet and ambitious. reserved, but down for some fun. you'd like to think you were the type of person who saw the world in a beautiful, cinematic light. but it was maddening how gojo satoru seemed to bring out the most juvenile issues in you that had your stomach turning itself into ugly knots.

"gojo," you try to sound as nonchalant as possible, "are you even here to study?"

as in why are you really here? please ask me out.

gojo looks unbothered, unshaken, "coffee. cake. maybe even some flirting, if you're up to it."

the universe hates you. it has a way of delivering what you want right into your hands, when...you don't exactly want it.

you blink at the white-haired man, disbelief bubbling under your skin, "you're not serious."

"why wouldn't i be?"

"c'mon, satoru. everyone knows you're not the actual dating type. you ever been in a relationship that wasn't pr and lasted for more than two weeks?"

absolutely bonkers at how your heart and your tongue are not on the same wavelength at all. it's like your mouth missed the memo and is just firing bullets that have gojo's grin faltering a bit, as a flicker of heated annoyance flashes in his eyes. even hurt, but it's gone too quickly for you to read into it.

"didn't realise that you thought i was that much of a joke," and you're not fond of how gojo's voice is quieter now, and a pretty sneer is dancing across his lips. you're biting your lip before you lose your stupid, petty resolve to not get involved with someone who could truly break your heart.

"if you didn't make everything a joke, it wouldn't be," you snap at him, and you're not even sure what you're angry at. there's no reason to be annoyed, or frustrated or even hurt and snippy with a friend who came and sat with you to catch up.

but you don't want to untangle whatever you're projecting onto gojo satoru, so you let bitter words spill over, "some of us don't have time for your games, gojo. we have real lives to deal with."

gojo's expression shifts completely, and that playful spark in his eyes is replaced with something colder as he stands up and shoves his hands into his pockets, "right." and his tone is clipped, pissed, "got it. no time for games."

you watch as gojo walks away, already tapping away on his phone, but his footsteps are quieter than you expect. part of you wants to call after him, to take back the teeth and claws that painted your words.

but instead, you just look away from him and grimace. you must have pulled an awful, twisted face — for the man sitting across from you leans in and asks if you need to take an aspirin, or if you're low on fibre.

ACT III. between the covers

the bookstore smells faintly of old paper and new ink. a sharp contrast to the chill lingering outside, so the warmth hits you like a welcome blanket. the air buzzes with the muted chatter of customers, and the occasional beep of a cash register.

you're winding your way through the aisles, set on two missions. find that jacket-cover book that you had been wanting for weeks, and to hunt down the manga that yuuji had begged you to pick up for him.

you dart past a couple lingering in front of a 'booktube' bestseller display, narrowing avoiding a child wielding a stuffed dragon that you can only assume is smaug the magnificent from the hobbit. straight into the quieter section of the store, tucked in the back and smack-bang right into —

thud!

your shoulder collides hard with someone else, sending you stumbling back a step.

"fuck's sake. watch it," the person snaps, his tone sharp.

"maybe you should —" you start to retort, before the words die and patter out on your tongue as your mouth goes dry.

gojo satoru, ladies and gentlemen.

he's scowling at you, with sunglasses pushed up onto his head that expose those ridiculously pale eyelashes under the glow of the overhead lights. he's layered on a crisp varsity jacket, over a thick hoodie, all shades of soft blue and grey. and he looks irritated, with thick brows furrowed at you. but you don't miss the faint surprise that flutters across his face when he takes you in.

"seriously?" gojo murmurs, though more to himself, and his voice still holds an edge that has you wilting, "out of all the aisles in this store..."

you blink, caught somewhere between an apology that dances on the edge of your lips, and a bewildered laugh at how the divine powers deliver the worst luck on you. instead, you shove your hands deep into the pockets of your aviator jacket, "sorry. didn't see you."

gojo's shoulders relax, but just barely. as though he's still caught in the heavy fog of tension from your last words to him. but to your mild credit, he doesn't quite look ready to storm out either. progress?

"so. what are you doing here?" you ask, trying to break the ice and pretend that you're not doing internal pirouettes.

"just had to pick up a textbook," gojo mutters, holding up a thin and over-priced looking book on something like...quantum mechanics, "exams are coming up. gotta keep the top spot, you know."

you blink, "you're actually studying?"

gojo raises his eyebrow, lips twitching into the faintest smile, "what? you think i roll into my classes and ace everything through sheer willpower? or i spend all day being a joke and annoying everyone, right?"

you sigh, feeling the frosty, ice-gaze settle once more over you, paralysing you from head to toe, "look, gojo. i don't know what came over me that day," and now you're being sincere, looking away from his narrowed stare, "it's like some crazy, evil monster came over me and it possessed me. i think i incarnated some demon king in me and i said all that mean shit."

he shifts slightly beside you, and you don't miss at how gojo's lower lip juts out at your apology, or how close he is to you right now. "and i was jus' being stupid. swear i don't think you're a joke." you try to pick up some random book, pretending you're very busy as you speak.

but it's very hard to look genuine when you've just picked up a glossy copy of 'stand and deliver: a hard look at fixing male erection problems.'

it earns you a small laugh, light and quick, that has you almost falling to your knees, and you can hear choso's voice in your head. muttering out a dulcet 'i told you so. you want him so bad.' but it's worth it as gojo leans against the nearest shelf, the annoyance from earlier starting to ebb.

and for a moment, gojo studies you and his expression is unreadable. for your part, you're pretending to read the back cover of 'stand and deliver' and some blurb about how this award-winning author managed to help her husband 'get it up' after twenty years of marriage.

but the tension in his posture dissolves, relaxing further and gojo hums, "noted." that's all he says, and an awkward silence hovers. it hovers so uncomfortably, leaving you floundering for a new topic until gojo's voice breaks the silence.

"choso's doing good, yeah? i heard he got a girlfriend."

you smile, "yeah. yuki, she's like really cool. i don't know how he did it."

gojo snickers, "i asked if he wanted to play hockey and i think he's been avoiding me all week."

you try to pretend its not because of how you re-enacted your little spat with gojo, demonstrating the entire thing for your twin brother. who had just called you stupid afterwards. among other not-so-flattering terms, with little consideration for your crushing, beating heart.

"you going to suguru's party next weekend?"

ah, now that's a curveball.

because, again, you are your own brand of cool. or so you'd like to think, so this isn't really a matter of pitying comparison. but geto suguru is like on another level of effortlessly vogue. at least in your eyes. you know that he's gojo's best friend and he delivered a (controversial) and killer project on gene editing last semester. you know that geto's involved with gig photography as a hobby, and thus, has personal access to some of the coolest bands in the city.

and you also know that he occasionally waves a hand to you, but it's not like you actually know the man. it's just mutual association.

"i wasn't planning on it," you hesitate, for you really had been planning to cram through a mid-term session, "but someone asked me to go as their date."

gojo's smile evaporates, "who?"

"naoya zenin," you say cautiously, watching as gojo's face twists. like he's resisting the urge to gag and tear his hair out.

"naoya? he's like a walking billboard for being an entitled cunt," gojo groans, running a hand through glossy hair that has you trailing your gaze over slender, sculpted hands.

you narrow your eyes, "he seemed...okay. smart, i think."

"oh, he's smart. i'm not questioning that," gojo crabs, "he's so arrogant though. i grew up seeing that guy everywhere. our families were like, half friends."

you cross your arms, suddenly defensive, "are you warning me? or just mad that he asked me out?"

gojo seems to flounder for half a second, quick enough that you could miss it and he could deny it, "jealous of naoya? please," and he scoffs as he leans back against the shelf, "i have taste. unlike some people."

"you can't be the one giving me a lecture on dating etiquette. i mean, how many dates do you have lined up for geto's party? two, three?"

gojo gives you a sly grin, "more than that, hah. gotta keep my options open."

"tacky," you wrinkle your nose, trying to pretend that you don't feel like you just guzzled a gallon of curdled milk, "and classless."

"yes," gojo sighs sadly, "and endlessly charming. it's so hard being me," shooting you back a quizzical look as he pulls up to the register, paying for his textbook.

as he paid, you linger near the shelves, pretending to browse while stealing glances at gojo satoru. there was something different about him today, something quieter that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

and on gojo's way out, he pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at you. his expression is still entirely unreadable, his gaze lingering for just a second longer than usual. and then he was gone.

ACT IV. blush confidential

there's a soft hum of pop music wafting from someone's phone, blending in with the rustle of fabric and the hiss of a straightener. your bedroom is a whirlwind of motion and chaos, with clothes thrown over chairs, and pre-game drinks piled up over your vanity.

"i can't believe you're not coming with us," you gripe to yuki, watching as she lounged up on your bed, denim crinkling as she shifted to adjust herself.

"tch, you know i love a good party," yuki grins with sparkling ideas, "but choso and i have a date tonight. he's been texting me about it all day."

you snicke at the thought of your hapless twin, "yeah. he was practically glued to your dm's. ran into the kitchen table twice this morning."

shoko snorts from her spot at the vanity, from where she's running a brush through cropped, chestnut hair, "choso nervous? i need to see that," she catches your eye in the mirror, "do you still have that lip gloss?"

"on it," you're digging into the vast depths of your purse, grazing your wallet and a hal-featen granola bar. stubbing your finger on an opened gel pen, before clutching a small shiny tube that you toss to shoko.

"so," shoko smacks her lips, "how's it going with naoya?"

you blink, pausing in the middle of capping all your drying pens, "what do you mean how's it going? nothing's going."

your friend swivels on her stool, raising a thin eyebrow, "he's your date at this party, right? and why him, of all people?"

"seriously. that guy's got a reputation. and not a good kind, for a very good reason," utahime chimes in from her corner, where she's yanking on a ribbon woven through her hair.

you shrug, suddenly feeling defensive under their collective scrutiny, "hey. he asked, i said yes. it's not that deep."

shoko exchanges a pointed glance with utahime, and both of them looking equally skeptical in a way that has you flushing.

"he's just annoying, you know," shoko points out, "he thinks he's better than everyone else, and half the time? it's just hot air."

"and the other half?"

"still hot air," shoko flatlines, "you can do better."

"anyone's better than gojo," utahime mutters, "you don't want to be stuck with him."

yuki's snickering, and you're doing your utter best to pretend that the mention of gojo satoru doesn't have you crawling up and down the walls like a termite on crack.

"speaking of gojo," yuki drawls, running a comb through a golden sheaf of thick hair, "is he going with anyone to this party?"

you freeze for half a second, before busying yourself with some new body mist that you picked up from a sale, all vanilla and coconut and macademia, "i ran into gojo the other day," and you keep your tone as neutral as possible, "and he said he had a few dates."

"ugh," shoko groans, wrinkling her nose, "of course he does," and utahime mutters an affirmative, exasperated sigh, echoed only by yuki, who pauses mid-brush to look at you sympathetically.

"what?" you snap, defensive, "why are you all looking at me like that?"

shoko tucks a thin strand of hair behind her ear, "well, i mean. you like gojo, right? like really like him?"

"huh?" the question catches you so off guard that you're left sputtering, as the perfume leaves a sharp and awful taste on your tongue, accidentally leaving a fresh spritz into your mouth, and not the curve of your neck.

"oh, blech. absolutely not," you say vehemently, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, "i don't like him like that. not that i think he's awful or anything —"

utahime crosses her arms, white sleeves brushing against each other, "he is awful."

"yes, thank you for that, utahime. but he's just not my type," you finish firmly, "he's loud. he's disruptive. he can't take anything seriously. i can't date that."

yuki gives you a long and knowing look, "oh, he likes you," she says lightly, as though she's telling you a casual piece of news, and not something that has you biting your tongue till iron spills, "he's been crushing on you for so long."

you feel your stomach twist uncomfortable, like little, evil goblins are dancing in your gut, "that's ridiculous," you mutter, fiddling with the clasp of your purse, "if he liked me, he would ask me out properly. and not date half the student population."

"he probably thinks it's fair, because you keep turning him down," shoko says matter-of-factly, standing up to grab her bag.

"i just don't think he's good for you. or anyone," utahime mutters, earning a pinch from you.

ACT V. stereo love

normally, gojo thrived at these parties. suguru was always able to pull a crowd that straddled the line between chic and cool, with just enough alcohol to keep things interesting. the thrum of the bass-heavy music should have been the perfect escape after a gruelling day spent staring at equations, leaving him half-convinced that his course coordinator was plotting against him and wanted him dead.

but now gojo satoru was just jittery, restless. and he hated that.

so for now, he leaned against the kitchen counter with a full cup in hand, watching people spill out of the living room and into the backyard. it seemed that other students had been aching for a party, something to take them off mid-terms and yet here he was, scowling like a storm cloud. he took another swig of his drink, ignoring how his own stomach was doing unexplained cartwheels.

"you good?"

suguru's low voice cuts through the noise, startling gojo enough that he has to tighten his fingers around his cup so sticky beer doesn't spill over pristine tiles.

gojo waves his closest friend and confidante off, "i'm fine. obviously."

suguru's frown deepens, though it's obscured by his loose, choppy dark hair. and there's skepticism painted all over his face, "you're never this quiet at any party. i thought that by now, i would have had to convince you not to jump off the roof."

"you think too little of me."

"you think too much of yourself," suguru drawls, but he's leaning against the counter beside gojo, as leather and cool metal rustle against each other, "so where's your date? or dates, i should say?"

gojo freezes, his cup halfway to his lip, "come again? what are you talkin' about?"

suguru arches a thin brow, "it's practically all over campus, man. apparently, you had several dates with lovely, young ladies lined up tonight. and i tried to defend your fragile honour, said it was too ambitious even for you. but..."

this revelation hits gojo like a punchline that he wasn't in on, and then it clicks for him. oh, he had started that rumour a few days ago. in the bookstore, to you. his brain replays the scene like a cruel, little highlight reel: the way your expression had wavered minutely, just for a moment, when he had straight up lied and claimed that he had a few dates.

truth be told, gojo had only said it to make you jealous, to see if he could ruffle you and play your game even better.

but now the joke was so clearly on him.

because gojo satoru had no dates. and you? you were here with someone who wasn't him.

suguru's following his gaze across the room, and gojo doesn't even bother to hide his petulant interest. he can see you standing near the back walls, laughing at something that naoya zenin, mayor of all things putrid, had said. naoya, with his stupid green roots and louis vuitton jacket, standing just a little bit too close to you for gojo's liking.

but before he can stew in it any linger, suguru's reaching out and pinching his ear. hard.

"ow! fuck was that for?" gojo's yelping, jerking away from his clearly evil, traitrous best friend.

"that," suguru says evenly, "was for looking like a lovesick idiot. pull yourself together, man."

"i'm not lovesick," gojo weakly protests, rubbing his bruised, throbbing ear and moving further away from suguru geto.

"you're not exactly screaming cool and collected," suguru dryly comments, "sulking like a sore loser while your crush laughs at another guy's jokes."

gojo feels his face heat up, just a little bit, because he knows that suguru's hitting close to home, "i don't sulk and do all that whiny shit. second of all, it's not my fault she went with zenin of all people. it's up to her if she wants to be stuck with someone who talks about his family's real estate portfolio as foreplay."

suguru snorts, and it's clear that he's not playing the role of sympathetic best man for life, "you know what's more obnoxious? watching you fuck around like this. you need to figure out how to ask her properly."

"i did all that!" gojo shoots back, throwing his arms up so his drink dances over the edge of the cup, "she said no. each time. you know what they call a guy who can't take a hint? she thinks i'm a loser!"

"and are you?"

gojo narrows his eyes, "am i what?"

"a loser."

"is it easier for me if i just say yes?" gojo half-heartedly gripes, "is that what you want me to say?"

"or," suguru says calmly, "you're a guy who hasn't proven he's worth saying yes to."

gojo groans, tipping his head back so he can block out the vision of his irritatingly wise best friend, "you sound like my grandmother."

"that's not even an insult. your grandmother is on some metal shit," suguru counters, unbothered, "and you sound like a twelve-year old. you can't flirt and sleaze your way through this. if you want her to take you seriously, i don't know how else to say this, you have to stop being...you."

"excuse me?"

"no. stop, don't make that face," suguru scowls, "you know what i mean. stop being a stupid flirt, and be a genuinely better person. otherwise, you're just spinning and burning out your wheels."

"did you pick up a self help book?"

suguru elbows him, sneering, "i'm trying to help you. if you don't want my help, i'm telling her you have an std."

"maybe you should just do that. end my misery," gojo downs the rest of his drink in one go, the burn of cheap beer doing nothing to ease the olympics in his alimentary canal. what's worse is that suguru is right, the bastard always is.

suguru claps him on the shoulder, "relax, satoru. you've got charm in spades. just use it...wisely."

"yeah, yeah. thanks, man," gojo mutters, brushing him off as suguru wanders away, probably to mediate some dumb argument between that big oaf, toji fushiguro and the even bigger oaf, ryomen sukuna. honestly, why were they even invited?

but gojo stays where he is, eyes flicking back to you. away from the distracting curve of your thighs in that skirt, and rather on how interested you look in naoya's stupid, animated gestures. and you look so at ease, but there's something hot and sharp twisting inside his gut.

suguru's soft, measured voice echoes in his head, "prove yourself as a person first."

oh, yeah. gojo could do that. he would absolutely do that. for you, he'd do just about anything, short of donating his vital organs (but he would definitely be considering it). but how hard could it be to be better? more mature? more grounded?

gojo satoru can handle all that. all he had to do was be a dignified, charming man. you know, someone who puts his best foot forward into the world. someone that you might actually consider taking seriously. someone calm and respectful.

if you were happy with naoya zenin, then who was he to interfere? who was he to ruin that for you? even if the guy looked like wile e. coyote when he smiled. even if naoya zenin was the most smug bastard to walk the earth.

gojo scowled at nothing in particular. but the point was that it wasn't his place to meddle. not if it meant risking your happiness. all he could do was be the best version of himself. polite, kind and above reproach. a good and respectful friend.

ACT VI. a shot of love, on the rocks.

"please, i want you so fuckin' bad."

gojo satoru is on his knees. at a party, in the middle of the living room. for you.

you feel like your mind isn't able to process all this fast enough, like your brain is on some pause. the music is still thumping in your head, but not as fast as your poor cardiac muscles as you're rendered frozen from pathetic, piercing blue eyes blinking up at you.

"please," gojo satoru repeats, and his voice vaguely warbles out like he's kinda lost his marbles and —

let's rewind.

five minutes ago, you had been standing with naoya zenin. and despite your initial reservations, you had been entertained. he's sorta witty, and definitely loaded with snarky remarks that cut through the noise of the party. it's hard not to laugh at his biting commentary, although half the time he's skewering people for fun, and the other half? just out of pure spite.

his golden eyes gleam with that edge, the kind of sharpness that makes you think of a hyena circling around its next meal. naoya is definitely full of himself, but it doesn't help that he's also ridiculously good-looking. and he knows how stunning he is, but its bothering him that you're not showering him in enough compliments for it.

still, he's here with you. he's your date. and you're doing your best to remind yourself of that. naoya is the only option you have at the moment, and he's definitely offering you more attention than anyone else tonight.

from across the room, utahime gives you an exaggerated, pained thumbs-up — while shoko shrugs in her usual blithe manner, but she gestures for you to smile more. you plaster on a wider grin, a little too obvious but naoya doesn't seem to notice.

"you know, if you're getting bored of all this, we could always find another room," naoya's low hiss slices right through the bass-thrum of the pulsing room, "do a little more than just talk."

for a moment, it's easy to imagine slipping away with him. but the sharpness in his killer-smile makes something in you bristle, like he's already envisioned you saying 'oh yes, naoya! please take me to bed!' and you shake your head, and give him an amused look.

"maybe later," you say lightly, "not now."

naoya zenin doesn't seem quite offended, but his smile grows wider as he stands up straight again, from where he had curved his tall frame into you, "i'm a patient man. fine by me, 'm gonna get some more drinks."

and you watch as his golden head of hair disappears into the crowd, leaving you all alone while the music blares around you, like a suffocating fog. you rub your temples, wondering if you should just go after naoya and tell him to go to town, something for the night's enjoyment. but before you can go any further, you hear a shout cut through the noise.

"hey!"

you whip around, blinking in surprise at gojo satoru.

but also not quite the gojo that you're used to. the one that you grew up with, and held hands with in kindergarten, one who smiled easy and laughed too loud. it seems he's ditched the oversized hoodies and varsity jackets tonight, opting for a black tee that fits him a little too well and dark cargo pants that only highlight...

you're getting distracted. but it's hard to remain focused, when he's walking towards with you. seemingly determined, as his white hair falls forward over thunderstorm-eyes. for a moment, you're not sure if you’re hearing him over the pounding music, or if it's just your own pulse making everything seem louder.

"i hate that you're here with naoya," gojo says suddenly, and his voice is low and serious, something that you've never really heard from him before.

your brow furrows, "what?"

"i lied about the dates," he continues, as words just jumble out his candy-pink mouth, "i don't have a bunch of dates. fuck, i don't even have one date. i only want to date you."

you blink, and then you blink once more, because again what?

the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and for a moment, you think you might have misheard the man. his blue eyes are wide and earnest, and they're staring right at you.

and before you know, he's on his knees. muscular thighs bending so his knees hit the cool tiles with a heavy thud, hands splayed out for you.

"please," he implores, "you gotta understand. i need you to feel what i feel, because it's not even a passin' thought, i swear. it's not even a stupid crush. this is like —" and he's gesturing wildly with one hand, still kneeling like a knight about to beg for his lady's favour, "this is destiny."

"gojo," you manage, "are you on drugs?"

the white-haired man, bless his sassy heart, rolls his eyes, "no. i'm on beer and vodka. will you please let me finish?"

"yes, but what are you doing?" you hiss, exasperated and sibilant, as more eyes turn to the most ravishing man on campus, who's absolutely off his rocker. and there are phones being pulled out, god help you.

"what am i doing?" gojo smiles, and it's unnervingly wide, "i'm like laying it out all here for you. my love. because that's what you are, to me. like you're everything. and i swear everyone knows this already. should i call you my sun, my moon, my entire universe? it's like time stops when i see you, a-and trust me, i do physics. i know time shit," and he must have caught at how your mouth is flapping open because he suddenly wags a finger, "no! i'm not done. i haven't even told you how the world fades, and all that's left is you glowing. like a star that i can't reach."

he's placing a hand on his broad chest, digging into the tight top clinging to his pectorals, like he's being dramatically wounded, "i have to reach you. i have to be with you."

you're not sure what parts you've processed, or what part of this slow train-wreck has settled in your head, "are you, like, actually begging right now?"

gojo's eyes flash with the intensity of a thousand suns (well, fuck — gojo's awful poeticism is rubbing off on you already). you can hear the low snickers of two men that had been beating the living daylights out of each other half an hour ago, those fuckwits that go by toji and sukuna. you can hear sukuna's deep mutters about how no-one ever would like toji enough to do this for him. and yep, you can hear them scuffle again.

"yes!" gojo booms, and more than a few heads have turned now. you wonder if naoya zenin is watching in the background, and realising that this isn't a battle he wants to pick, "i will kneel for you. like i'd do this shit for eternity, even if my knees hurt so bad right now. but as long as you give me a chance to prove my worth. and my devotion, d-don't forget that! deep as the ocean, endless and vast. and the stars align...oh, how they align for us."

"ah, satoru," you cut in, and you realise that you're now smiling. embarrassment and mild humiliation be damned, there's a quirk tugging at your lips, "you can get up now. this is a bit dramatic."

gojo blinks, not missing a beat, "i'm dramatic because i'm in love, okay? and —" he swivels his head to the crowd, grumbling, "shut up, sukuna! i heard that, i'll beat your wonky ass. you don' know shit about love."

he's turning back to you, all sticky and soothing sugar once more, "where was i? eh, my confession. well, it's all for you. and it's me, givin' you every part of me. beggin' you to see that you're the only one who can break the walls around my heart."

you think that you've completed a full speed-run on every stage of grief that there is to experience, and if the small plink! coming from someone's phone is any indication, gojo's monologue has already made it's way onto someone's private story. and so naturally, everyone will have seen it by tomorrow.

"can you get off your knees? you look ridiculous."

gojo's grin falters for a split second before he straights up, all with a hefty groan as he runs a hand through snowy strands, "ridiculous? i'm being vulnerable as hell, and you think i look stupid?"

"a little," you admit, but you're reaching a hand out to push a strand of thick hair out of his eyes. and it's maddening at how gojo seems to tremble mildly under your touch, at the brush of your fingers against his temple, "kneeling at a frat party is crazy work."

gojo sinks his teeth into a plush lower lip, "that was me trying to show how much i care, and all that sweet shit. you make me lose all my cool, and this isn't even a joke."

"you never had cool, and now you've lost your dignity too," but you're blushing, and it's a giddy feeling at how he's now close enough that you can feel his body heat.

gojo satoru's eyes twinkle, "maybe. but i'd do all that again if it won you over."

"with your future oscar nomination?"

the man shrugs, broad muscles rippling, "he who be a fool for love is far better than he who doth never dare to try at all."

"fair point," you murmur, feeling dizzy in that familiar scent of lemon candies and mint, like the world is swirling around in a heady haze, "do you wanna kiss me to seal the deal?"

"yes please. i think i'm gonna pass out and — mmph!"

you've pulled yourself up, and thrown your arms around his warm neck, drawing gojo into you. crashing your lips into his before either of you can say anything else. it's an urgent, reckless kiss. like a dam has burst and all the pent-up emotions that you've been carrying have finally exploded.

gojo's lips are soft, but demanding, taking more and more air from you. they fit against you with an ease that feels almost too natural. and his broad arms come around your waist with a force that leaves the air punched out of you. he's holding you tightly, as though he's afraid that you'll just disappear if he doesn't keep you close enough.

you can feel the heat of his body against yours, the muscles in his arms that flex as he pulls you in, deepening the kiss. all while his mouth moves against yours with a slow and deliberate intensity, as his tongue parts your lips. all so messy.

when gojo finally pulls away, the last brush of his lips catches your quiet whimper. just as his breath goes ragged, and you're left standing there, dazed, with your forehead resting against his. you can still feel the warmth of his lips on yours, that electricity that's crackling and buzzing through your veins as you giggle.

gojo, however, doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath. he tugs your wrist with a sharp, swift motion. but his grip is firm, not harsh as you pulls you away from the living room, "c'mon. let's get outta here."

shoko's eyes are wide, her jaw practically locked in disbelief, "what the hell just happened?"

utahime's lips curl, "someone took gojo's brain out and replaced it with a clone. ah! geto, what did you do?"

suguru has been standing near the kitchen counter, absolutely floored, and he's shaking his head so hard that he feels a headache forming, "hand on my heart, ladies. i told him not to pull any stunts. swear on destiny's child that i didn't tell him to do all that."

ACT VII. i bet we'd have really good bed chem!

gojo satoru has absolutely lost his mind. but you wish that he had lost it a bit earlier, because you're practically pawing at his top now. critically working to make quick work of the tight fabric, letting your fingers run over hard planes of muscles and lower.

right until you're reaching a trail of soft white hairs that disappear into the band of his pants.

"seems like you're just as desparate as me, hah," gojo snickers, and his broad hand is trailing further up your thighs, letting your skirt bunch and crinkle under his ministrations. thick fingers brush over dewy cotton, and you moan.

"s-satoru!"

"you don't even know how long i've w-wanted this," and his hand clenches at the fabric, gripping it so tightly that you fear it may just be on the verge of tearing, but you can only buck your hips into him further.

no longer even mindful of how you must be already dripping onto the palm of his hand, "and i thought you knew. i r-really thought you knew how much i wanted you."

his middle finger is gliding through your damp and searing slit, with clinging strands latching onto his skin as you muffle a whine into his chasing, teasing lips.

it's sending deep, low curls of arousal in thick waves, settling low in your groin and you don't even care what room of the house you're now in, someone's bedroom with a dark, stylish bedspread and vinyls up on the walls.

the force of his large hands drives you down onto the bed, pressing your back onto the soft mattress.

and gojo looks so pleased, at how you're splayed and sprawled out underneath his torso, his hands tugging at your now bare thighs to spread your legs even further. pulling them far enough so they come to rest on either side of his face.

"fuck, she's so pretty. even better than i imagined," and gojo's voice is husky and low, almost strained, "and believe me. imagined her plenty." the sound of drenched cotton being torn rips through the air, slippery and resistant from your arousal.

it's even stubborn as the fabric refuses to budge, until it gives way under the force of gojo's tug, soft and tearing. leaving your pussy open to the cool, cold air. bare for gojo's eyes to rest upon and widen.

his lips brush against your thigh with an uncharacteristic gentleness, one that makes your entrance clench and wink.

but gojo is nothing if not teasing, and he feels light-headed. pressing featherlight kisses to the crevice of your thigh, and then closer to your aching mound. but even he cannot hold off for much longer, and he's pressing a flat, lazy print of his tongue against your cunt.

that first munch sends a burst of tangy sweetness dancing across gojo's tongue, and he thinks he might just bust a load right then and there. the heat of your clenching cunt is almost overwhelming, but hey.

gojo's never been a quitter, and he doesn't care if he creams his pants at this very moment, he needs to hear that sweet whimper of his name from your lips again.

his lips part, blowing a quick breath on your aching clit, right as his fingers begin to press and meld into your syrupy folds. it's got you practically jumping further into him, so wet strands are clinging to the very tip of his nose. and gojo knows that this is heaven. that he's unlocked true paradise.

"satoru, c-can't you...?"

he's too busy running his tongue over your clit, drawing small circles with the very tip of the hot muscle, "can't i what, pretty? don' want me eating you out?"

and you are so adorable, pushing your head up to scowl down at him with furrowed brows, but the flush in your cheeks paints you the most beautiful shade of cherry red. and gojo vows to spend the rest of his life ensuring that this shade never leaves your cheeks.

"can't you get to the eating part? thought that you were gonna — f-fuck! hnngh, 'toru!"

he's pulling your thighs tighter around his head, and he doesn't give a fuck if this is how he goes. suffocated in this tantalising heat, with your fingers lacing themselves into woven patterns in his white hair.

he's lowering his tongue once more into your throbbing pussy, making sure that his pleased vibrations send pleasurable rumbles right through your core.

grinning and slurring his tongue further into you, right as you buck desparate hips over and over. dragging yourself against his chin, so he's sure that the lower half of his face must be glistening with your sweetness.

gojo absolutely thinks he can get used to being like this, at having you angle and force his head further into your cunt. letting you angle and toy at him and use him for your pleasure. he snaps his teeth around glossy strands of arousal, once and then twice, before delving back in.

making sure that his spare hand finds your clit to draw quick flicks and shapes over it, pushing a finger right up against the throbbing hood.

"satoru, ah, satoru! 'toru!" it's all you can even manage right now, just chants and groans of his names, as he's practically sunken your hips into the mattress, while he's on his knees for the second time this night.

"hey, none of that, yeah?" and gojo's gently tugging at your arm. trying to get you to stop muffling your whimpers and cries, because he just needs to hear your adorable sounds. and he needs to hear your bird-like cries when you come undone.

what a joy it is for gojo. to be able to dive between your legs and run his tongue between your folds. he's losing his mind at how your body trembles under his touch, and how he makes the mistake of peering up at you. your lips are parted, open and glossy. and your brows are furrowed, as lashes flutter against your cheek. you have to cum, gojo satoru needs you to cum right now.

and so, he exerts all his effort ten fold into having you finish. it's so sloppy, and so messy. gojo lets his own eyes dip shut, letting himself feel your glossy, glistening cunt pulse around his tongue. and let there be no doubt that gojo satoru is a munch, for he's eating you out in such an ardent manner, and it basically sends you barrelling towards a heart-stopping orgasm, where tears spring to the corners of your eyes.

you needn't have even tried to warn him of your impending climax, for gojo knows in the way that your legs quiver and get sloppier over his face. stars fall over your vision as you heave and toss your head back, muscles rippling as "satoru, satoru!" falls from your lips, long and drawn out as the rest of the world goes dark around you.

you gasp, struggling to inhale as the syrupy air is stolen from your lungs, all while gojo runs his tongue through your folds, head spinning with the dizzying rush of sensation. it's as if you've been swept away, hurtling towards space, weightless and disorientated.

only to crash back into reality as gojo seemingly hasn't stopped letting himself taste all of you, with not a drop of arousal wasted. your back is further pressed into the soft mattress beneath you, and the surge of overstimulated numbness follows, all pleasurable pins and needles and ferocious need.

"look at that, 'm already addicted," gojo coos, almost to himself, scooping a finger through the translucent gloss that leaks from your cunt. bringing it up to his mouth to wrap his tongue around, "think you can handle giving me another one?"

you let out a weak, breathless laugh. your gaze lingering on gojo's face, the soft moonlight that casts an ethereal glow on his features. his chin still faintly gleams, coated in your mirror-sheen and his lips are a plump, rosy red. you part your lips, propping yourself onto your elbows, but before you can form the words, the door slams open with a force that makes your ears rattle.

"i've looked in every fuckin' room in this house, and i swear to everything holy, satoru. if you chose my bedroom, i'm gonna —"

geto suguru's voice cuts off mid-rant, his words dissolving into a strangled, pained gasp as he takes in the sight before him. gojo, kneeling between your legs, wearing a ridiculously pleased grin. just like the cat who got the cream. you let out a squeak, hastily tugging your skirt over you, but it's hard to look innocent when gojo is still unabashedly pawing at your thighs.

geto pales, his jaw going slack, and he looks like he's about to collapse, "god help me. satoru, i'll kill you tomorrow," and then he shoots you both a nasty look, "and you're both paying for new sheets."

"so you and gojo are...dating now?" choso pries, with a tone that is entirely too casual but his eyes are keen. your twin is nursing a cup of coffee while he absolutely demolishes a plate of fried eggs. he had been quiet so far, but it's clear that curiosity gave out and now he's peering at you like a big owl.

you try, or do your very best not to smile too hard. to not look giddy and ridiculously pleased, "yeah, i guess we are," you admit, keeping your voice as level as possible.

choso blinks once, before setting his fork down and shaking his head, "i knew it. it was only a matter of time," he mutters, and without further ado, he resumes shovelling eggs into his mouth, utterly unfazed.

before you can respond, sukuna appears in the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame, his tattooed arms crossed and his expression dripping with disdainful amusement, "oh, i was there," he drawls, sharp fangs flashing in a wicked grin, "that loser pulled the dumbest, most dramatic stunt of all time. got on his knees and everything."

choso freezes mid-chew, raising a thick brow as he glances at the older man with mild interest, "wish i'd seen that," he mumbles through a mouthful of toast.

to your utter astonishment, sukuna nods gravely, his face taking on an uncharacteristically serious look, "yeah. i've got a video if you wanna watch."

your jaw drops as you glance between them, "this is officially the first time that i've ever seen you two agree on anything," setting your mug down with a thud, "if i had known that dating gojo would bring about world peace, i would have done it ages ago and —"

yuuji bounds into the kitchen like an overeager puppy, his blush-pink hair still a mess from interrupted sleep. but he's clapping his hands together like he's just won the lottery, "finally! look at that! everyone's getting along for once."

sukuna doesn't even bother to hide his irritation, shooting yuuji a withering glare. but it's hard to take him seriously when his own pink hair rivals yuuji's in sheer disarray, "don't push it," sukuna warns darkly, grabbing a glass of orange juice and downing it in one morose gulp. he slams the empty, cold glass on the counter before stalking off towards the door, "i'm seriously gonna move out at this rate."

"promise?" choso quips, without missing a bit, "wish you'd stop getting our hopes up and actually do it."

yuuji is undeterred, and he elbows you with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, "you have to invite gojo over all the time now. i like him a lot. he's like super cool."

"of course," you grin, sliding a plate towards him as he eagerly digs in.

and your younger brother beams like the sun itself. right as a mocking, high-pitched voice floats from the other room, "and then we're all gonna be lovesick, and skip around town while holding hands!" right before falling back into sukuna's usual gruff tone that echoes through the kitchen, "god, you're all so insufferable."

your phone buzzes on the table, and you glance down. gojo's contact photo lights up the screen. it's a snapshot from a year or two ago, taken the summer that you both graduated high school. he's standing at the edge of the beach, with the sun dipping low enough behind to catch his white hair. turning it into a halo of glowing light. it's a photo that you never had the heart to change.

satoru 🪐

good morning princess!! my one and only!!!! my sugar plum (too much? i can tone it down but you just can't put a lid on love) hope you dreamed of me 🙂‍↔️ so what are you doing today because i've got abt eight possible things we can cover today starting with [read more.]

"ugh, gross."

sukuna's disdainful drawl cuts through behind you, as an icy finger prods at your phone, trying to scroll up and snoop through your messages. you freeze and slam your phone down on the table. whirling around to come face to face with the world's most judgemental gargoyle sneers at you, "i think i'm gonna throw up."

"get a life, holy fuck."

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