#but... then his response was like. 'i think i get a bigger picture and maybe misunderstood what you had said' | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

s4lv4tions · 9 months

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numerology; nsfw

pairing; gojo satoru x reader / gojo satoru x geto suguru (past) / geto suguru x reader (past) summary; numerology — the belief in an occult, divine or mystical relationship between a number and one or more coinciding events. or: trying to move on. wc; 13.4k cw; death, angst, requited unrequited love, violence, smut (at the very end, but mentions throughout), canon divergence, spoilers for manga an; if you think you've read this before, you probably have! i posted this on my old tumblr a year or so ago, and it's still available on my ao3. this version is slightly updated and edited, but still diverges from canon as it was created at the start of the culling games arc :)

The first time you bathe with Satoru, he cries.

You don't notice at first; he's quiet — abnormally so —, and his face remains pristine, unchanged. The only hint you get is a small, barely audible sniffle that stops as quickly as it starts — and you think he wants it that way. You don't think he's ever cried in front of anyone.

That's why you don't say anything. Just continue washing the suds from his hair, and pretend that the tears rolling down his cheeks are beads of water dripping from his hair — but you take extra care to massage the conditioner in, and peck his cheek as you finger-comb through silky, cloud-white strands.

It occurs to you afterwards — as he lounges on your bed, scrolling through channels with a wayward hand planted on his stomach — that perhaps, it's the first time somebody has taken care of him. The first time ever, or just the first time since… since…

Geto Suguru's face smiles up at you from your vanity — a tiny polaroid, his face no bigger than the nail of your thumb. Beside him, Satoru grins, cheeky and bright-eyed — you don't think he's ever been any different —, and in the corner, the smudge of your thumb covers the lens. You don’t have to lift the photo and check the back to know what’s written there, in your scratchy, looping scrawl; the strongest, 2006.

"Lord of the Rings?" Satoru calls, carefree as ever. A yawn catches in his throat, and his fingers slip underneath his shirt to scratch absentmindedly at his chest. "Ooh, haven't seen this one yet…"

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

It was a better time. Less pain. Less responsibility. Less death — or maybe the same amount, just shielded by the blinding cover of childhood inexperience. Suguru was still alive and burning bright, Satoru was happy (happier. He didn't cry in the bath, at least). Shoko didn’t self-medicate as intensively as she does now. The days were spent in childish ignorance and stupid indulgence, and even when things seemed their darkest, you never lost hope.

(It probably says a lot about you that, if given the chance, you wouldn't return. Whether that's because of what you know is bound to happen, and the pain is too much to experience again, or because you're so utterly pathetic that you'll take sadness and grief and a tiny shred of affection over… whatever it is you were back then, you don't know. A smudge in the corner of a picture of the jujutsu world's greatest.)

Suguru's eyes seem to burn into you. You turn the picture over, and rejoin Satoru on your bed.

"It's been two years."

Satoru doesn't like to talk after sex. Not in any way that's really meaningful, you mean, nothing that lets you in. He loves jokes, empty small talk, work politics. Chatter that's deep enough to show he cares a little without bearing any part of himself — your injury healed up? When was the last time you had a break? There's a new teppanyaki place in Shinjuku, I'll treat you. Don't work yourself too hard, you'll put me out of business!

If you're being honest, you didn't go into this expecting anything more than a person to scratch an itch with.

You're already friends — though, you're not sure friends totally encapsulates what Satoru is to you, romantic or platonic. You've been friends since you were 12. Satoru, Suguru, you — and then Shoko, when you all met in your first year at Jujutsu Tech. That's how it's always been.

You swear sometimes you know him better than yourself. You swear sometimes it's his voice you think with. Is that what "friends" encompasses? Somehow, it doesn't seem enough.

Whatever. The point is that your relationship with Satoru is already strong; foundations tall and proud and unshakeable. You didn't start fucking Satoru in the hopes of forming a relationship — one was already there.

It's just... Satoru is young, yes, and he enjoys flirting, but (contrary to common belief) he's not all that keen to sleep with the first person who's willing. You don’t say this with the belief that you’re special. It’s just that with work, and especially with — y'know, his… romantic history, Satoru hasn’t found the time or will to just sleep around. At least, according to him.

Sheer willpower isn't enough to make those urges go away, though, and… well, you had them too, and you were willing, and he trusts you. And you'll take anything he'll give you, really, even if it's just scraps. Even if sometimes it makes you feel worse.

Today's one of those days.

You feel sick, after. Not because of him — because of yourself. Your polaroid of Getou and any other photo he's in has been turned over, anything that could remind you of him tucked away, but — but he's everywhere today, everywhere, and you'd fucked Satoru despite it. And Satoru is covered in memories of Getou, of course. Every freckle, every shifting of muscle, every jut of bone — did Getou touch him here? Caress every bit of him he could get his hands on? Tangle his hands in his snow-white hair, breathe against his collarbone?

When you came, you cried. Pretended it was just because it was so intense, but behind your eyelids, dark, cat-like eyes stared back.

"Hm?" Satoru hums as if he didn't hear you, eyes fixed on the TV. Dumb doesn't suit him — it's honestly a bit of an insult for him to even try it. Like you didn't sense the stiffness of his limbs the second he'd stepped inside, or the crumbling edge of his smile, or the way he'd forced you to love him harder — pull his hair harder, scratch his back deeper, his Infinity turned off and his skin yours for the marking.

Satoru's mannerisms are scribed into your brain. You catch yourself emulating them, sometimes; hands waving, head tilting, grin wide and posture open. You wear it like an oversized coat, an ill-fitting costume, and sometimes you wish you could stop taking on pieces of him. The more you take, the more you must throw away — and it's Suguru that your memory discards. You find yourself forgetting how he hummed when he woke up from a nap, or filled his cheeks with food like a hamster; how he scrunched his face up when he laughed, pretty all the while…

The point is that even with his incredible knowledge, his awesome strength, the sheer holiness of his existence — you know Satoru. And the fact that he came to you today isn't mere coincidence.

You decide to come out with it. You've tiptoed around it for 24 months, give or take, had a shockingly brief mourning period before the jujutsu world forced you along, and… even with what he did, Suguru deserves better. "Suguru died today."

A beat of silence. Then:

"Mm, I guess he did."

You'd spent the day staring out at the grey sky, the miserable sight of soaked pavement. Grey, grey, grey. Concrete jungle. Heavy rain clouds and an ocean of multicoloured umbrellas, bobbing and rolling to destinations unknown. You hadn't said it aloud; hadn't even thought of it, specifically. The knowledge of it had just sat over your head like a thick, sweltering fog — and if you know Satoru at all, you know that he'd done the same. Maybe he hid it better.

You don't have to look now to know that his lips are pressed thin. You find the sudden thought of looking him in the eyes daunting, anyways, so you turn onto your side, back facing him, and pick mindlessly at the sheets. You don't want to see what his reaction will be when you say—

"Did you know that I loved him — back then?"

You don't want to see the shock, or the confusion — and you'd rather not see a lack of them, either. What's worse, you wonder — him knowing and loving Suguru too, or not knowing and loving him?

"...Yes."

You screw your eyes shut and try to will away the sudden surge of cold, like a sharpened dagger to your chest.

(It turns out that knowing is much more painful.)

Suguru Geto had been the apple of your eye ever since you'd met. 11 and gangly and stupid in a way that all children were always stupid, Suguru had been a bit kinder than his white-haired counterpart. Satoru, being Satoru Gojo, had grown up with no fear of authority, no mindfulness for his less-powerful peers as anything more than people who existed around him. You and Suguru were allowed the title of friends, but very few were. Anyway — he grew out of that mindset, of course, but your fondness for Suguru stayed.

(Though they'd always seemed to be on another level than you — not even just in terms of power, but… just caught up in each other, always. Suguru had only ever wanted Satoru. And vice versa.)

And then Suguru changed. Right under your nose, he changed, and his sudden quietness made sense. His fatigue. The way his hands would always shake when swallowing an exorcised curse, always had since you were kids, and then suddenly they were ingested with a scary calm. Nobody understands the taste of curses. Not even you, not even when he’d explained it in sickening detail.

You sigh, then. Tired and lethargic and not from physically straining yourself for an hour. This is bone-deep, soul-weary. It's been held in for 730 days, or maybe more. Maybe you've carried it with you since birth. "I never apologised."

"For what?" Satoru asks — and he laughs, jolly, and the sound fits awkwardly in his throat. A clear attempt at feigning indifference, but he's a bad liar. He always has been, because he's never needed to lie. Perks of being the strongest, you guess. You can just come out and say shit — and if you can't, not saying anything technically isn’t lying.

"I hated you, after," you confess. You dig your thumbnail hard intoyour pinky finger, taking momentary refuge in the sharp shock of pain. "I couldn't stand to look at you. When I did, I saw… I saw what you did. What you had, and what you had thrown away. I blamed you for Suguru. I blamed everyone except Suguru."

Another snicker, a bit too humourless. "You can't stand to look at me now."

"I…" You don't know what to say to that.

Truth is, you don't want to see his face. Contorted in pity, or disgust, or sadness for you. You've gotten used to living in his shadow — most everyone has — but that doesn’t ease the ever-present blanket of insecurity that you carry around your shoulders. It doesn’t dull the ache of inferiority you’ve been housing in your chest from the moment you were saddled with your technique. As you aged, you got better at hiding it, and you generally prefer your self-pity to go unnoticed, but Satoru—

He could always read you like a book. And you hated it. You hated being pitied by someone who was as powerful as him — someone as close to God as one could get. It was demeaning. Patronising. It makes you feel like a child again, bowing your head as your mother makes excuses for you.

You shift over — onto your back, and then onto your other side — and you look at him. You force yourself. Blankets pooled around his waist, his skin so pale it could be translucent, eyes icy blue and framed with fluffy white.

"You were forced to do it," you murmur. Your eyes remain trained on his chin — his are much too bright, much too all-seeing for comfort. "If you hadn't, he would've gotten worse. He never would have stopped. You knew that, you always did. It… took me a while to come to terms with it."

Satoru sighs. Then, he slumps down so that — like you — his head rests flat on the pillow, and his body arcs towards yours. He's forced himself into your sights again, in a way that’s gentle, but not so much that you wouldn't be able to figure out what he's doing: forcing you to face him.

"Would it have made you feel better," Satoru begins, reaching forward to brush his fingers against your chin, "if you were there when I did it?"

Would it have?

Would it have given you closure? Would you no longer spend your nights wondering what he'd looked like, what his last words were, his last thoughts? If he had spittled and roared in anger, if he had wept in fear, if he had attempted a smile, a joke? If he thought of you, or if you were just another insignificant blip in his radar?

In your mind, Suguru exists as his 17 year old self — smiling and mischievous, polite yet humorous. He puts extra broccoli on your plate and gently berates you to eat more. He tells you that you're a precious part of the team, that none of them would be who they are without you. He calls you crybaby because you always wear your heart on your sleeve, and tells you not to worry about things you cannot change.

Change what you can. Forget the rest and leave it to me, crybaby.

The bubbling hatred that had festered inside him has no place in your head. You want him to stay as he is, your Suguru that was never yours, shining like gold in your mind.

"No. He hated me at the end, I think," you say quietly. For a second, you dare to meet his eyes — bright and pointed in how they stare at you. You know he can see the tears that have begun to burn in your waterline, the way you ball your fists so hard you dig half-moon into your skin. He doesn’t need to be blessed with the Six Eyes to see.

"I wasn't interested in changing the world like he was, even with my Technique. That made him despise me, I think."

Satoru stares for a few more seconds. You wonder what he's thinking about. A second in your time is a lifetime in Satoru's; he must be thinking hard.

But he blinks, at last; sighs so deeply that his chest caves in with it, before he winds an arm around your waist and pulls you close, bare chest to bare chest, only atomic space between you.

There's nothing sexual about it. You're nothing but bones and skin and blood, here. He moulds your head to his shoulder with one large hand and cocoons you in his embrace, warm. Protected. You're not sure who the action is meant to comfort.

And just when you think the conversation is over — just when minutes have passed with nothing but the sound of the TV between you both — he speaks.

"Suguru could never hate you. Trust me."

You don't want to know what that means. You're only beginning to get over it, two years later.

Satoru is holding three onigiri in one hand, and two Starbucks' cups in the other — extra sugar, extra cream, extra ice, extra unicorn-marketing, just the way you both like it.

"There she is!" Is the first thing he says as he meets you just outside the metro, grinning.

It's sweltering hot today — the sun had risen early and would surely set late, and Satoru seems to be taking advantage of it. Gone is his Jujutsu Tech uniform and thick blindfold, but he's stuck with the all-black theme like he usually does — black jeans, black linen shirt, black socks and shoes. Even the frames of his sunglasses are black.

(Handsome. He's handsome. He's always been handsome — years later, you'd think you'd stop feeling the effects of it.)

Lucky for him. You're not, y'know, the strongest sorcerer in the last century, so there's no leeway for you — and even in your summer uniform, the skirt and short-sleeved blouse, you're sweating. Your only respite is that the combined force of you and Satoru will mean this mission is going to be a breeze.

Satoru tsks. "Took your time. I almost ate your onigiri."

A man nearby jogs past, clearly in a rush, and Satoru has to step closer to you to avoid him. He could've stayed still. He wouldn't have touched him, anyway, with his Limitless.

"And you would've had to buy another, genius."

A pout. "You only love me for my bank account, don't you?"

(He's joking. It's a joke.

But your hand shakes — a miniscule tremor — as you reach out to take one of the cups, and you know he sees it because he's Satoru and he sees everything. You turn away as quickly as you can, setting off in the direction of whatever place it is you're here for, and pretend that the fact that he can say it so casually doesn't kinda fucking hurt.

(He could never say it like that with Suguru — so bluntly, so crassly. Not without softened eyes and softened smiles and a gentle tilt of his head — those are mannerisms reserved only for him, never to be seen again. Instead, you get snickers and digs in the arm and teasing pulls of your hair. Of course it’s a joke. That’s all you are.

Perhaps you should just be grateful for what you get. Perhaps you should try to stop comparing yourself to a man you once loved. Perhaps you should try to stop comparing yourself to a dead man. Perhaps, in the end, you just love the pain of it all.))

"Yeah," you reply, taking a large, sugary sip. "And don't you forget it, either."

Satoru catches up to you quickly, effortlessly; his arm flops around your shoulder as he tugs you in the opposite direction, chastising you for going the wrong way — but it stays there long after it needs to.

Itadori Yuuji — Sukuna's dead-but-not-really vessel — thinks your cursed technique is powerful. He thinks it’s amazing that you can use reverse cursed technique — you must be really powerful, right? Gojo-sensei says you’re special grade. He also thinks you're very pretty. He tells you this over his fourth grilled pork belly wrap — this one bursting at the seams with kimchi, garlic, and roasted sesame seeds.

He doesn't say it in a flirtatious way — it's just an observation to him, simple and blunt, and you figure he has about as much of a filter as Satoru does.

"O-oh," you say, metal tongs frozen over the sizzling meat. "Thank you, Yuuji."

You had briefly met him for the first time before his death — Nobara, too. Megumi, the third piece of the golden trio, has been something of a little brother ever since Satoru had taken him in, and you know him well enough to know that Yuuji's death (or lack thereof) is weighing on him terribly.

(There are too many parallels you could make. Suguru and Satoru. Haibara and Nanami.)

Hiding it does make you feel guilty. To experience that grief, that loss — even if it will soon go away when Yuuji rejoins jujutsu society — isn’t something to take lightly. But Yuuji needs a guide that isn’t completely off the rails. Satoru and you balance each other out, and balance seems to be something Yuuji needs.

He reminds you terribly of Satoru when he was younger. Maybe that's why you have such a fond spot for him — he's too goofy and well-meaning and genuine to dislike.

"Why are you acting surprised?" Gripes Satoru, chewing with his mouth open. "I tell you that all the time."

Your eyes narrow. You place a perfectly cooked slice of marinated beef on his plate. "You're you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He whines. "We're best friends, crybaby!"

"You don't say I'm powerful. You say I'm helpful. There's a difference. And don’t call me that."

"Is there?" Satoru asks, turning to Yuuji for guidance. The teen boy shrugs, preoccupied by assembling his newest monstrosity. "I call you pretty, too."

"Yeah, when—"

When you're eight inches deep in me, face buried in my neck, trying to get yourself off. Your cheeks flush with warmth at the thought, and you shut your mouth. Yuuji doesn't notice your slip up, busy as he is; Satoru does completely, and fixes you with a grin so sharp that you vow to not give him any more meat until Yuuji is completely full.

"It's not the same," you say, voice final. It's a lighthearted lunch. You don't want to ruin it by getting touchy over semantics, and that's exactly what'll happen if you keep going. "You say it to reward me. Like tossing a dog a bone."

You reach for the scissors to snip the meat into little pieces — and in doing so, you miss the brief frown that presses against Satoru's brow.

Neither of you say anything more on the matter.

Satoru has known you for five years when he realises that he resents you. Not completely, and not for one particular or solid reason, either. He prefers not to think about it, in any case, because you're one of his closest friends — and even at 17, he knows that that's hard to come by. Especially as the Strongest.

Satoru stares up at his ceiling; stares at the miniature striations only he can see, the starburst-shaped gyrations of clay used to finish it off.

Tonight, he's thinking about it. And many other things.

He hates that you're so hesitant about everything — he hates that you believe yourself so weak that you have to tiptoe. You, with your reverse cursed technique — which is a feat in and of itself — that could transcend time and space, just like he could. A technique passed down for hundreds and hundreds of years, accumulating power all the while…

(Your technique has lots of rules and regulations, of course. A handicap, and he understands it frustrates you, but his own frustration eclipses his understanding. Why should someone so strong feel anything but their own strength?)

He hates that you curl in on yourself when you're sad, or lonely, or angry. He hates that you wear your heart on your sleeve — he's never allowed himself to, not fully. He can't, never fully, because there are people who are watching him, people who hate him, people who want him dead. He can joke. He can make his political desires clear — but he can’t love like he wants to, and God forbid he cries.

He hates that you close your eyes and bask when it's sunny, like a cat in a sunspot; hates that you remember that he doesn't like chicken wings and prefers thighs; he especially hates that you watch over Suguru like it's your job, when Suguru doesn't need it.

And some part of Satoru hates Suguru, too. It was strange for him to come to terms with it, fond of him as he is, but as he grows Satoru realises that there's no love of his that isn't closely affiliated with hate. It makes the love all the more strong.

Satoru, for one, dislikes how polite Suguru is, even when he doesn't need to be. He hates that Suguru becomes a straight-faced, unfeeling thing when he's upset, and tries to hide it — the emptiness in his eyes unsettles him like nothing else.

Most of all, above all, Satoru hates that Suguru loves you, crybaby, and is too pussy to do shit about it. Satoru doesn't understand why, anyways, because he'd made it clear that if he wanted, Suguru could have you both and Satoru wouldn't care. Usually, the thought would offend him. How can you love someone when you already love me? When you've already sworn yourself to me? You already have the strongest, who else do you need?

But… he doesn't know. He kinda understands. You're precious to him, too, after all, sunflower soaking up the sun.

Like he said: there's no love of his that isn’t closely affiliated with hate.

Six and a half hours after the hours-long meeting that followed the ruined School Goodwill Event, you find yourselves in a diner somewhere in Harajuku. It’s one of those weird fusion places, loaning ornamentation and tokens from classic American diners, serving omurice with fries, sushi with mashed potatoes, with a cute little mascot that looks like Elvis. It’s loud enough and bright enough to make you feel timeless. It's a sensation you can appreciate.

Something’s been telling you that time’s ticking, and you’re not quite sure what it is. Trauma, probably. Anxiety. The fact that curses have been banding together, learning spoken language, amassing power — planning an attack on Jujutsu Tech, gaining intelligence, gaining anger.

Satoru doesn’t say it — doesn’t want to say it — but you think it’s unnerved him, too. The last time outsiders entered school grounds was… two years ago, wasn’t it? It’s crazy. Everything always seems to lead back to Suguru.

The attack has fueled something in both of you, anyways; something that makes you both stay up instead of knocking out like you usually do; something that makes you both hungry and restless and liable to travel across Tokyo past midnight. By public transport, no less. No warping or high-speed flying for you, tonight.

But you appreciate it. And you think that Satoru is taking things slow for the same reasons you want to — to take things in, to appreciate what you never think to appreciate. To admire the mundane, even for a little while. Satoru’s less emotionally attached to the jujutsu-less aspects of life than you are — bullet trains and waiting in line and standing on the train platform, escalators and traffic — but he enjoys them all the same when he has time to. And it’s not often The Strongest gets to experience pure, genuine normality, too, so maybe sitting in this gaudy diner and watching the world pass you by is a luxury he rarely affords himself.

He orders the most complicated drink they have — a sakura-caramel milkshake topped with whipped cream, glacé cherries, and an entire slice of cheesecake. He’s down to the last dregs of melting cream within 10 minutes, swiping fries from your plate between sips, ignoring your chides of rotten teeth and high blood sugar.

Blindfold swapped for glasses. Strands of hair drifting down against his forehead.

You’re always reminded at the worst times of how handsome he is. It’s not like it’s a secret, or he’s unaware of it — and he takes pride in his looks, if his extensive skincare shelf and general attitude is anything to go by — but he puts much more stock in his strength, in his usefulness to others, his intelligence. The things he can provide for others. Not many people realise that.

Maybe you shouldn’t act so high and mighty. It’s not like you don’t appreciate his appearance as much as the next person — hell, half the time you’re trying to stop it from distracting you — but maybe you get a pass. Y’know, as a person who actually has reason to marvel over the stretch of his neck and the flush of his cheeks and how his lips go the prettiest pink when you kiss him. Or the cords of muscle along his arms; the slender-yet-thick bands of muscle of his chest and legs. The large, veiny expanse of hand — slim, delicate fingers wrapped around a paper straw…

"Are you gonna eat those?" Says Satoru, slurping obnoxiously. “Haven't eaten since dinner."

You push the basket across the table, uncharacteristically void of argument. "Go crazy."

Satoru sets his empty glass aside, but the straw remains in one hand. The other he uses to pluck up fries, 4 or 5 at a time, his gaze suddenly fixed on you as he chews nonchalantly.

"Y'know," he says, licking salt from his fingertips, jabbing the straw in your direction, "I can always tell when you're horny."

"Excuse me?"

"You squirm," Satoru continues — matter-of-fact, casual, as if he's talking about the weather. "And you get quiet.”

“I’m a quiet person,” you snap, nails pressing against your palms under the table. “Sorry I know when to shut the fuck up—”

“And then you get flustered. And when you’re flustered, or embarrassed, you get angry.” He raises his hand — signals the cute waitress for another basket of fries, and leans back with his arms splayed along the back of the booth. “Don’t look so surprised! How long have we known each other?”

If you were a better person, you’d probably admit that yes, he’s right. You do get quiet when you’re horny, and you do get angry when you’re flustered — if you were a worse person, though, you’d remark on how you're the first person he crawls to when he’s sad, or overwhelmed. How getting you into bed and losing yourselves in each other is a sort of therapy for him. How he always tries to distract you with cheeky grins and sly, flirty comments, but then afterwards he cries in the bath as you clean him up.

You don't say that, obviously. Seems like a pretty shitty thing to bring up today of all days. He'd probably deny it anyways, but you don't think it's a coincidence that the attack has left him restless and he obviously wants to take you home.

The new fries are delivered to the table, but he looks right past them. He bows his head slightly, glasses slipping a little further down his nose so that his white-framed eyes peek over the top of them.

"Let's warp home," Satoru says — and oh. There's that voice. That drop in tone, that lack of boisterous humour he always employs. It's soft enough to have goosebumps rising on the back of your arms, smooth enough to have you squirming — yes, squirming, you admit it — in your seat. "Alright?"

"Yes." And it's embarrassingly breathless, and embarrassingly quick, but Satoru doesn't tease you. Just smiles, raises a hand for the bill, and watches you all the while.

You count seven stitches in the forehead of Geto Suguru.

Count, because it's all you can do. Everything else is lost to you.

Breathing.

Standing.

It feels like even your heart has stalled. Because—

Because—

Because Geto Suguru is dead. Dead, in the ground, no longer breathing, no longer living. Satoru had killed him. Satoru had demolished him.

The lips of the Geto in front of you twist — a sickening, stomach-turning imitation of the smile you once adored. On his face it's a sneer, a mockery. Your Suguru did not smile like this when you knew him.

"Hello," he greets pleasantly. His arms are hidden within the sleeves of his yukata. Hair down. Suguru always tended to wear his hair up, unless he was fresh out of the shower. Unless he was upset. It was too much hassle to take care of. You know when he took over the Time Vessel Association and donned the gojo-kesa he began wearing it down. "_____ _____, yes?"

You can't answer. Your ears are ringing. Your stomach gives a worrying lurch that winds up your throat — you think you're going to be sick.

How? Why? Who — who is this in front of you? Because it's not Geto, not Suguru — and you don't say that because of longing or a pathetic desire for ignorance. This thing feels wrong. Inherently, blasphemously wrong. Looking at him for too long makes your cursed energy prickle. Seeing Suguru's image painted in such slimy, rancid energy has you gasping for breath.

Satoru, your mind whispers. Satoru needs to know.

He should. He needs to. But this pseudo-Geto does not look friendly in the slightest, and you are isolated.

Looking back, it had seemed fine to go alone to exorcise curses in the belly of Tokyo's metro. Taking old service tunnels and eventually entering abandoned tracks hadn't felt scary. You're a semi-special grade sorcerer with years of experience under your belt and a powerful cursed technique that could get you out of most, if not all, pinches, restrictions and regulations be damned.

"I'm sure you're very confused. I apologise, really…"

The reality of the situation hits you. Maybe hit is the wrong word — it doesn’t come as a bloody, stinging smack in the face. It’s a trickle of ice-cold water down the nape of your neck, drawing dread from your head all the way into the pit of your stomach. You don't think this is a pinch you'll come out of — at least not battered half to death, especially when a silver-haired curse decorated with stitches steps out from behind pseudo-Geto. The curse Kento had fought. The one that he said to look out for. Patchwork.

Immediately, you know fighting isn't an option. But what else is there to do, in the face of pseudo-Geto and his silver-haired, sentient curse? Your technique may not be limitless in your possession, but in theirs? If they did to you what they did to so many others — transfiguring you past the point of recognition, stealing your body and technique, desecrating your corpse with cursed energy…

"I can feel it from here," titters the curse excitedly. "So warm… I have to have it! Her soul, I have to have it!"

Fuck.

You could try to escape, but you wouldn't have enough time to run past them and through the winding corridors of the underground, even while distracting them with your cursed technique. They'd catch you within seconds. You’re sure they have curses lurking around waiting to thwart you, too.

You could burst directly into the layers of concrete and metal above — use your technique to revert them back millions and millions and years to their very first forms, atoms and subatomic particles, and then rebuild them up as an ascending platform — but that would take too much time, and you'd be completely defenceless while you did. Not to mention the toll it'd take on you.

(Not to mention the fact that you'd be bursting into the public eye from a giant crater in the ground.)

"I'm sure you know what I'm going to do," continues pseudo-Geto, amiable. "I would ask you to join us, but I know that is impossible. Therefore, there is only one course of action."

Can't fight. Can't escape. Can't get answers. Can't stay clueless. How contradictory.

You're not dying, that's all you know. And if you have to do the one thing you never wanted to do, then so be it. Anything is better than death. Death is not an escape, in this scenario — it’s a guarantee of imprisonment.

"It's a shame," pseudo-Geto sighs, bloodlust swelling. "Such a waste of a good technique."

You make a Binding Vow with yourself within seconds.

Using a magnitude of cursed energy usually out of your reach, your entire body will be reduced to atoms — intangible, untrappable, unkillable — for as long as it takes to retreat to safety. In return, you will be unable to think, unable to move according to your own will, only a mere pawn to entropy as the rest of the galaxy is — high risk, high reward.

There are many things that could go wrong.

In reducing yourself to essentially nothing, in splitting your cursed energy into billions of particles, you could reach a state of such low cursed energy concentration that you are, for all terms and purposes, considered dead. In doing so, your Binding Vow could break, and you would be unable to return to living.

Or you could float for days, weeks, years — safety is subjective, subjective is dangerous when it comes to contracts, and you can only hope that your own understanding of it sets the standard.

It's either this, this fleeting, terrifying chance, or death. With one, you can return to your school, your students, your Satoru — you can tell them what happened. You can bring justice to whoever has disturbed Suguru from his slumber. With the other — nothing. Just plain, utter nothingness forever and ever.

(You know which you'd rather.)

The last thing you recall, in spotty haziness, is the heart-stopping sight of Suguru surging towards you, eyes bloodthirsty, face contorted in malice.

The last thing you hope is that Satoru isn't too upset about the risk you've taken.

Eight days after your solo mission, you resurface — a discombobulated, stumbling mess on the outskirts of Shibuya, eyes glazed and mouth stuttering over syllables. A nearby Window calls the college within seconds, and Gojo is there just as soon — hands shaking when he grasps your arm and turns you to face him, fingers trembling when he cups your cheeks and brushes them under your eyes.

It’s you. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you, and he can breathe, he can fucking breathe, his chest is lighter than it’s been for those entire 8 days — all the while, he burns with an anger so intense it hurts. And Satoru is no stranger to anger, of course — knows it as intimately as he knows himself — but he's not sure if he can remember the last time it had rendered him breathless, trembling. Bloodthirsty.

It's not the time to think about it. Not when you're shaking in his arms, so frail and weak everywhere except your hands — no, your hands remain strong, fingers digging into his clothes and skin. He turns off his Infinity. The sting of your touch grounds him.

Shoko is already waiting in the clinic for him — she’d been preparing ever since the call first came in. The students (the ones on campus, at least) crowd together at a distance, buzzing anxiously as Satoru disappears swiftly into the depths of the infirmary with you in his arms.

Bad things happen often. Too often. Satoru isn’t sure whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing that they haven’t gotten used to it yet.

“Gibberish,” Satoru answers when Shoko asks if you’ve said anything competent since he picked you up. “Just gibberish.”

Shoko is poking and prodding you with the usual doctor's shit — stethoscopes and thermometers and that blood pressure band that goes around your arm — and you just lay there and take it. Head rocking side to side, limbs trembling, mouth lolling open, and Satoru's trying not to lose his head because what good is taking your temperature? Do you look like you have a fucking cold? Is the way your eyes focus and unfocus normal? The way you can’t string together two syllables that make fucking sense?

But even with how he can see your cells malfunctioning all over your body, Shoko knows more about this shit than him. So he sits pretty on her swivelling chair, twisting back and forth, body the image of boredom but mind anything but. Time and time again, he’s reminded of how unprejudiced tragedy is — how it leaves no hint, no mark of itself, no time to prepare for the toll of it all.

Satoru had greeted you briefly before you’d left. Said something about getting lunch together, that you better be careful because you were treating him — the same shit he said time and time again, his real plea hidden within the folds and twists of his jokes and quips. Be careful. Don’t die. I can’t lose you. You’re precious to me.

You’ll be okay. You have to be — he won’t allow anything otherwise. But if he’d known last week that you’d end up like this, would he have said those things out loud? He doesn’t think so. He’s cowardly in that way.

A few moments later, Shoko straightens up. Immediately reaches into the pocket of her lab coat and pulls out a cigarette and a rusting lighter, and is puffing out clouds of bitter air just seconds later.

Shit. That’s not a good sign.

Shoko sighs. Rubs at her dark undereye circles and only makes them worse, taps her cigarette so that the ash falls to the floor. “I know what it is.”

Well fucking tell him instead of keeping it in!

“Oh?” Satoru says instead, leaning forward onto his knees. “What is it, then?”

“She used her technique on herself.”

“She does that all the time to heal."

“She didn’t heal herself,” Shoko snaps — and Satoru remembers that he’s not the only person you’re important to. That while he and Suguru had gotten ahead of themselves being the strongest, they’d left you and Shoko to stroll humbly along your own paths. The only girls in their year. The only person Shoko could fully confide in, really — at least in Tokyo —, the only person who had bothered to check up on her when she drank too much, smoked too much. Even if Shoko hated it.

Shoko is upset. Satoru doesn't what to do with it.

(Alcohol — she likes alcohol. Satoru reminds himself to pick up the most expensive bottle of the stuff the next time he's out.)

(No. She’s trying not to drink so much, isn’t she?)

(Whatever. Life is short.)

“She dissipated herself.”

Satoru knows about your technique intimately enough that it immediately gives him pause — but he runs over the details in his head, just in case, as if it isn’t already imprinted on the flesh of his skull.

Your cursed technique allows you to disassemble items down to their most basic units — subatomic particles — while your reverse cursed technique allows you to reassemble them. Items can be reassembled into their previous form, or to another related form, but you cannot exceed the item’s natural entropy threshold. If you do, the item cannot be reverted back to a physical state, and you will bear the brunt of the resulting shift in energy.

It's a finicky technique. Finicky and fickle and the risks tend to outweigh the rewards — but you'd always used it so elegantly, so gracefully. Even when you doubted yourself, you had a handle on it. Satoru admired that about you.

("You don't say I'm powerful. You say I'm helpful. There's a difference."

You'd said that to him once, when he brought you and Yuuji to lunch. You'd acted like it didn't bother you but he could tell it did — he didn't need his Six Eyes to notice how your nose twitched and your eyes narrowed, displeased.

But Satoru believes in two types of helpfulness.

The kind he is — powerful, needed, a force to be reckoned with. Someone that keeps things afloat, that acts as a beacon in the dark.

Then there's the other kind. The usefulness of pawns, of bait. Necessary, but not fundamental. Desired, sure, but rarely crucial.

You've always been the first. Always. You and him and Suguru and Shoko, always. Even he could admit that.)

You disassembled yourself into atoms. Into nothingness. You lost your mind, your body, your energy, everything—

Satoru sighs. He's been doing that a lot today.

“I didn’t know she could do that,” Satoru says. His throat is covered in a layer of sawdust. He can’t remember the last time he had to actually focus on not throwing up. “Why would she do that?”

“She talked about it, before,” Shoko says. She leans against the bed you’re laying on, gazing over her shoulder — and the way she looks at you turns his stomach, the upturn of her brows, the sad downturn of her mouth. It’s as if you’re already dead. As if she’s looking at a living corpse. “Just… as a theory. A last resort to help her get away, if needed, but—”

“But what?”

“She knew she didn’t have the power for it,” Shoko mutters. Breathes another puff of cigarette smoke. “If she tried, she'd end up just… fading away. In breaking herself up, she'd negate the cursed energy that gives her the power to put herself together.

"And the side effects would be… well, you can see that for yourself. Stupid, so fucking stupid…”

“Well, obviously she has the power for it,” Satoru murmurs. “Or made the power for it.”

“A binding vow?”

Satoru shrugs. Clenches his jaw, watching as you scratch at the faux-leather underneath you. “It'd make sense. Explains how she put herself back together."

(But for what? What could have driven you to such lengths?

A curse like Jogo wouldn't be all too difficult for you to defeat.

So who…?)

Shoko hums. She stares into space for a moment, eyes unfocused, and for a moment Satoru sees her younger self — the one who just started smoking, just started drinking, who carried the weight of all the people she healed (and those she'd failed to) tucked in her pocket. The Shoko that would make sarcastic quips and humble them when they needed humbling, but humour them when she knew the outcome would be funny.

A time when they had very little responsibility. Even him, shackled with it since birth. Comparing his duty from then to now is like comparing a boulder to the weight of the world.

He feels very old, suddenly, at 28.

"There's nothing I can do for her," Shoko says, softly. Regretfully. "If she did make a binding vow, I can only assume she made a condition about returning to normal. If so…"

Satoru can’t do anything about it, basically, she explains. Your condition is one that will only heal with time, patience, and the odd boost from Shoko’s technique. Maybe, she says — she's still unsure about that last bit.

It sickens him. It festers as a deep, curdling annoyance in his bones, his uselessness. It’s a sensation he had only felt once before, standing before the slumped-over body of Geto Suguru. Nothing he could do for him except put him out of his misery, and even then that felt like a cop-out.

So… he can't go directly after the thing that had forced your hand, because they had left no trace. He can't heal you, either. He can't take care of you while your body repairs itself, while your supposed binding vow returns you to your rightful state — that duty will fall to Shoko, or one of her interns.

He can do nothing. And Satoru is nothing if he cannot be of use.

Nine months after the events of the culling games, Satoru enters your room to see you sitting up — eyes wide, eyes seeing, and it only takes you fixing him with a single look to know that you're okay.

(Subjectively. Relatively.)

Suguru Getou — Kenjaku — is finally dead — exorcised. He’s not sure which is the right word to use. All of his allies, killed or exorcised too. Nanami, murdered. Nobara, comatose. Yaga, dead. Inumaki, Maki, Okkotsu, maimed; the great houses of sorcery destroyed and rebuilt in the image of Satoru’s will.

Itadori Yuuji — dead. Sukuna Ryomen — exorcised.

Adding up the gains, subtracting the losses, carrying the ones… Both sides seem to have lost pretty evenly. And he should be happy about it, too; things could have turned out much worse. And they would have, too, if he hadn’t pushed himself out of his pouting and escaped the prison realm — a feat that was half out of spite and half concern for the outside world, and maybe a little curiosity. Rage. Longing to see the bastard who’d stolen Suguru’s face and body, who dared to reanimate him and rouse him from peace — longing to slaughter the thing that had rendered you bedridden and half-mad for months.

He had been the one to kill Kenjaku. It only felt right to be the one to do so — he’d killed Suguru, after all; had been the one to leave him defenceless and open to manipulation. If Suguru hadn’t been dead, Kenjaku wouldn’t have been able to steal his body.

Of course, Satoru ignored the fact that the very last rotten, desperate dregs of Suguru would have enjoyed Kenjaku’s plan — it was the only way he was able to keep his eyes open when he blasted his brain to bits. It was hard enough the first time.

All of these things sit on his tongue, bitter and souring and curdling — every detail of the battle, of the culling games, the colleagues and peers and students he’d held in his arms, the ones he’d comforted as they slipped away, the ones he’d reassured and promised.

(Pink, blood-covered hair; a smile that never dimmed, a nervous murmur (“It’s okay, Gojo-sensei. I know what I got into.”). The shaky laugh that had followed.)

Satoru’s hands tremble at his sides.

Your eyes are wet with tears when you look at him.

“How long has it been?” You croak — voice dry and cracked with disuse, whining in some parts, low and wheezing in others. Bone-deep, the fear in your voice, and for good reason — things had already been at a boiling point when you’d been taken down. Everything had moved past you. “Satoru—?”

Another selfish decision on his part: he doesn’t tell you. At least, not now, when the words threaten to vomit out of his mouth, when the pain is suddenly too fresh and too raw.

(For one strange, too-long second, he’s reminded of his mother — weak, presence-less, powerless as she was. Empty-eyed and unhappy. She was hardly even a mother with the amount of governesses he had.

Somehow, though, every problem would seem worse when her eyes were upon him; every cut and bruise was more painful; every slight against him a grave insult; every mistake a cause for self-pity and temper tantrums — and none of it mattered, as long as she took him into her arms.

A rarity, yes, but… maybe one of the only fond memories he has of his childhood in the Gojo household.

Satoru feels like a kid again — suddenly sniffling from a bruise he swore didn’t hurt, his mother ready to pat his head and baby him and coo his name. Satoru. Not Gojo-sama.)

He crosses the room and plants himself upon your bed and takes you into his arms for the first time in months, and—

And for the first time since Yuuji’s death, since Nanami’s, since Suguru’s, since your injuries—

He cries. Openly. Heaving, chest-wrecking sobs; red, wet nose and ugly whimpers. It’s overwhelming. It’s cathartic. It makes the pain worse, for a second, before it begins to taper out in a bruising wave; with it, he remembers his darling underclassmen who died, his colleagues that he’d wanted to live at least a few more years; he remembers that despite years of being told so, he’s not God — he couldn’t stop Yuuji’s death, or Suguru’s, or Toge losing his arms, or—

“Thirteen months,” he manages to get out. “Thirteen months — you couldn’t talk, or move properly, or—”

Satoru grabs handfuls of you — hair, waist, belly, it doesn’t matter. He can feel you beneath his skin. Rushing, pounding blood, cells, micromolecules — and he doesn’t need to, but he engages his Six Eyes for a moment — actually engages them, doesn’t let them run unconsciously in the background. It’s a comfort to let himself see each receptor interact with each signal on each plasma membrane, to let himself see the tissues that formed organs that formed organ systems forming you, breathing, living, sentient—

He kisses you — or you kiss him, he’s not sure — but it’s far more intimate, far more tender than any touch he’d delivered unto you; hands clutching the sides of your face, your fingers digging into his wrists. You’re crying, salt on his tongue — and he only knows they’re not his own tears because you give a great, shuddering sob when you part, trembling like a leaf in the wind.

“I had to,” you gasp, and he wants to tell you that he knows, he knows, he doesn’t blame you, sweet girl — did what you had to do to live, to survive— “I had to—”

“Only go where I can follow, okay?" His eyes are burning again, voice cracking with the promise, regardless of the fact that he’d rather you do it 100 times over than die. But it's the only way he can tell you he loves you without telling you he loves you, and he can't remember the last time he said the words aloud.

(He does. He remembers. And he remembers that Suguru wouldn't mind if he said it to you — that Suguru loved you as he loves you. And he remembers that Suguru is dead and doesn't have an opinion anymore, so it really doesn't matter, anyways.)

Satoru calls Shoko when he rights himself, barely pulling back from your embrace to text her something barely understandable and hurried. You don't say much while he does; still acclimating to being aware, being awake — he catches you with your eyes screwed shut and your nose buried in his jacket, fingers tight on his arms again. Grounding yourself. Reminding yourself that you're alive, and with him.

Shoko scolds you between rummaging around for a thermometer and scribbling your prescription in messy, barely legible cursive — calls you a dumb bitch for doing what you did, tells you that you owe her a bottle of wine and a trip to a fancy hot spring, and it all seems a little lighter.

(She cries a little — if the slight glassiness of her eyes can be considered crying. Satoru only teases her a bit for it, though you're quick to mention how he'd blubbered like a baby when he saw you, and he's humbled quickly.

It's the most normal he's felt in weeks.)

Shoko clears away after a few hours — gives you strict orders to rest, and sends him a knowing look that he's not all too sure of the meaning of.

"You look tired, Satoru," you finally say when you're alone again. Your smile is sad, knowing, and Satoru curses it all. You deserve a grace period, a moment of ignorance before the grief settles in. "What happened?"

But when have you ever wanted a moment of ignorance? When has he ever been able to hide the truth of things from you? When have you ever been anything but his equal, his confidant?

"Everything," Satoru says. A short, humourless laugh punctuates his single-worded sentence. "Everything, crybaby. Everything that we thought could happen, and everything we thought couldn't."

A flicker of a smile — uncomfortable, flat. Your eyes flicker down to the bland, starched sheets of the hospital bed. "Did you see him?"

He doesn't need you to elaborate. There's really only one person you both mean when you say him.

"Yes."

"Who was he?"

Satoru shifts in his seat. "An ancient sorcerer named Kenjaku. His cursed technique allowed him to transplant his brain between bodies and possess them."

"And he chose Suguru."

"Yes. And many others, too."

"And you killed him."

"Yes. For Suguru, and for you. But mostly for Suguru.”

“I’m glad,” you say, but your fingers twist the sheets tightly. “When I saw him, I was angry. So angry, I… I wanted to kill him. I knew I wasn’t strong enough, and I knew he would kill me, but for a second—”

He understands. God, does he understand. “You wanted to take the risk.” No matter the cost, no matter the damage to your own body. Anger like that consumes.

“I did.” You swallow. Your eyes meet his. “It was like… adding insult to injury. As if it’s not enough that Suguru is dead, but this — this Kenjaku has to puppeteer him too. Disturb his peace."

The wind rustles the trees outside. The late-afternoon gold of the sun settles along the horizon, a burning orange that stretches the shadows and warms the wind and turns the side of your face honey-soft and sad.

“But I realised that I was probably the first person he’d revealed himself to," you continue, "so I was the only one that could warn you."

Always thinking about the good of others. It was another thing he admired about you — Nanami, too. Satoru, for all his big talk about changing the world of jujutsu, about being better than those who came before him, is really quite selfish.

It's why his hands had trembled when he'd had to kill Yuuji. It's why he couldn't put Suguru in the ground the first time they met after he became a curse user. Even when he knows things are necessary, he tries his damnedest to hold on — just for the chance of it all. The chance that Suguru could change his mind. The chance that Sukuna could be removed from Yuuji without him needing to die.

"And…”

One snow-white brow raises. “And?”

“You’ve already lost too many people that you love,” you say simply, shrugging — like it's a simple fact, no need for experimentation, no need for an academic paper complete with its own abstract and footnotes. Like you've always known, in some little way, but you're only able to bring yourself to say it now.

And Satoru — well, it's no secret to him, is it? He's known it since he was 13, 14, 15 — had a bit of a buffering period, sure — and now here at 28, he knows it just as well. The point is that you're not supposed to know. Not while you're still healing from Suguru and… being attacked by fake-Suguru.

Regardless of what he knows and how long he's known it, Satoru feels his throat begin to close up, twisting and turning and holding his breath tight. He doesn’t like the feeling.

“Love?” He echoes. His voice has gotten a little empty. It's too soon for him to say it aloud, he thinks. It was okay when he whispered it in his head after making love to you; it was easy when he grinned at your scrunched up nose and scoffed comments and thought fuck, I love you. It was easy when he could pretend it was a simple, passing comment, a trick of the mind — but having it said as fact?

Not so simple. But you don’t need to know that. “Is that so?"

You don't seem to notice his momentary pause — a lifetime of rambling in his time, a second's hesitation in regular time — too busy staring at the space where his fingers stretch apart over the sheets. Just inches away from yours. "We're friends, aren't we?"

Oh.

"Oh." Satoru blinks back. "Oh, yeah. Best friends, you and I, crybaby."

"I know it's normal for us," you say, ploughing ahead, "to just lose and lose and keep losing, but… I'll be honest. I never fully got used to it, and I don't want to."

He wishes he could say the same, but he can't.

He understands, in some capacity. Nobody wants to see the people around them die, a continuous and vicious cycle. Nobody wants to get so used to loss that most funerals no longer hold any emotional significance. But getting used to it had saved him. Getting used to it helped him act without consequence, without remorse, and that's what the battlefield both needs and requires of him.

He could count on both hands the people he wants to save in this world — about half of them were dead, at this point. A lot of them died while he was imprisoned. Two, he had to kill himself. He swore he'd protect the rest with all Six Eyes, every non-existent boundary of his Limitless.

So Satoru doesn't care much about getting used to death and dying and loss and grief. As long as you're okay, he's okay. As long as his job as the Strongest is done, everything is as it should be.

He doesn't say that to you, of course. You'd probably curse him out and call him a heartless bastard. Instead, he nods, hums and agrees and tells you the names of those who died when you work up the courage to ask.

It's a long night. It's an even longer list.

10.

Shoko keeps you for observation for 10 days after you wake up — three days longer than necessary, but she won't hear it from him, no matter how many times he reminds her that technically she falsified her degree—

He's joking. Mostly.

Satoru volunteers himself to help you back home, taking with you the plastic bag filled with your cleaned sorcerer's garb and weapon. He carries it over his shoulder along with two teddy bears, a half-wilted bouquet of tulips and a half-eaten box of chocolates (all courtesy of the second years — except for the chocolates, which are half-eaten because of him). He winds his other arm around your waist even though you can walk perfectly fine, but — it's just in case. Purely precautionary. For once, you don’t argue about being babied.

In the midday sun outside, you tilt your head back and close your eyes and smile. For a moment, it's as if the sadness has melted away from you — the tears you shed over Yuuji, Nanami, Suguru. The tears you shed over him, and he wasn't even dead. Satoru is glad your eyes are closed — even beneath his sunglasses, it's painfully obvious that he's staring.

You decide to take the subway home — it's my first time outside in almost a year, you remind him, so he pushes down any arguments he might have and enjoys the too-cramped journey towards Akihabara. You’re both shoved standing together, between a panicked looking man holding a tray of coffee and a woman with her child hanging about her legs, your head bobbing against his chest as the train moves.

For a moment — as the train passes momentarily out of the underground and becomes encapsulated in light — it's easy to drown in the normalcy of it all. For a moment, he sees himself looking in as a stranger would. Here, he isn't the Six Eyes; just a simple man taking his girlfriend home, standing close on the train, wishing to be closer. Riding home to your shared apartment where he'll peel oranges and feed them to you, where he'll lay his head in your lap and hold your hands to his heart.

His nose wrinkles. He prefers reality, he thinks, where he can be powerful and have you by his side; where he can protect you, uphold peace, change the jujutsu world for the best — and then go home all the same, and have you to hold.

"What are you thinking about?" You mumble against his collar.

"Oranges," he replies.

"I don't have any at home," you say, "or if I did, they're rotted."

"Don't worry — we cleaned your kitchen up. Me and the kids." It was an afternoon of Yuuji attempting to shove rotting potatoes in Nobara's face. That was before Shibuya; before everything, really.

"Oh? You got your hands dirty?"

Satoru tries to not think about that same beaming, smiling Yuuji's last breaths. "Of course! This is me we're talking about, honey. I was front and centre."

You snort, soft against his neck. It's a wonder he went almost a year without you. "Housewife Satoru. I'll keep it in mind."

When you return to your apartment, you shower together for the first time in forever. He spends extra time and care massaging shampoo into your scalp, detangling each knot; spends extra time rinsing the suds out, tilting your head back with a gentle tap to your chin.

Steam clogs his mind. Almond shower oil and citrusy shampoo fog his senses. The realisation that you could have potentially been taken away from him sits heavy like a stone in his stomach — why it hadn't sunk in in the past, oh, 13 months or so, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he's terribly bad at caring for precious things — but if he could, if it's possible, he'll remould and reshape his hands, his heart, his mind, just for the chance—

"Satoru," you breathe against his lips, "Bow your head."

(Bow your head, you say. He'd kneel if you asked him to.)

You brush your hands through his hair; rinse him free of suds and bubbles and kiss his temples as you shut off the water. What is supposed to be healing for you is quickly becoming therapy for him — muscles relaxing, mind clearing of all responsibilities, mournings, obligations. All he knows are the soft, newly washed sheets beneath him and your nose in the crook of his neck.

It's a strange sensation, the lack of tension, his brain not working overtime. But hardly unwelcome.

11.

Satoru asks you if you saw anything when you were indisposed. Memories, flashbacks, prophecies? Blurry half-truths, nonsensical babbling? You tell him that you can't really remember — and you can't, not really, but you do remember one thing.

When you were 11, you met Satoru and Suguru for the first time. It's that memory that you can remember playing in your head, over and over and over again: Satoru and Suguru, scrawny and still-faced in their yukata.

Satoru was from a great, traditional house. Suguru was not, but upon discovery of his powers, was taken into unofficial custody of the higher-ups. In most circumstances, you wouldn’t have been allowed within two feet of them — but the elders had deemed your cursed technique a great gift, and so you were warily accepted into the upper echelons of jujutsu society, a stranger, a foreigner.

Introducing you to the most powerful sorcerers your age was nothing more than political play, of course. The adults followed behind as you walked through the grand grounds of the Gojo family — (maintained by a team of 12 gardeners, according to the Lady of the house) — muttering and scheming between themselves, making sure nothing would go awry.

Nothing did, of course. Satoru picked his nose and Suguru told him it was rude and they bickered for a while — Satoru bickered, Suguru replied calmly and quickly. Satoru asked you if your technique was good or bad ("No such thing," interjected Suguru) and whether or not you think you could beat him in a fight.

(That last question was to stroke his own ego, of course. Everyone knew he was the strongest sorcerer born in the last century.)

At some point, Satoru made you cry.

You can't remember what about, all these years later — you'd think you'd remember, considering the fact that you know the amount of gardeners employed by the Gojo estate — but you know that you had tried to stop it; fists balled, teeth gritted, full-body heaves. Crying was the last thing you had wanted to do. Crying meant weakness. Weakness meant being taken advantage of.

But you were so scared. It was all so alien. You wanted to go home, but home didn’t exist anymore. You wanted your mother, but your mother was long gone. All you had left were stone-faced adults that were only interested in your abilities.

Suguru had been confused at your reaction to what he took as a harmless quip — a little callous, as most children are — but he had reassured you nonetheless.

"Don’t cry. Satoru speaks before he thinks," he'd said, nudging your shoulder. "Sometimes you have to ignore him and he'll be so bored that he has to think."

"I can hear you," Gojo huffed. "I didn't mean to."

"See?" Suguru smiled. "Works like a charm."

Yes, Suguru had always been there to protect you. Emotionally, at least. He was willing to be kinder to people. More gentle, more forgiving. He'd believed that it was his duty as a sorcerer to protect those that couldn't protect themselves, and—

Well. That had changed, by the end, but having that memory replay in your head made you see the bigger picture of it all. Suguru's place in things. Your place in things.

You'd loved Suguru, no doubt. And you’ll probably always carry a piece of him with you — you'd hate to do otherwise. You’ll carry his kindness and his jokes and his catlike smile, all tucked away in bubble wrap somewhere in your chest cavity — but you will never disregard his wrongdoings. Since his death, you'd argued against the two sides of him; felt guilty for loving him after what he did, felt guilty for hating him after loving him and knowing him for as long as you did. Two halves of a whole. Darkness in light and light in darkness.

He was both of those things. You love him, but you don’t forgive him, and you probably never will. He will never again be the boy that comforted you after Satoru made you cry; he will never again be the boy who let you braid his hair back. He won't be the boy who slaughtered innocents, either — death's funny like that. Indiscriminately doing away with both the good and the bad.

And that's okay. Kenjaku is dead, after all, and Suguru can finally rest — and with him, your warring mind.

12.

Midnight strikes and you're still awake. You don’t even seem tired, and that's after a long shower and takeout and a movie. Usually you'd be a drooling mess by now, but tonight is different. Feels different. Satoru isn’t sure if it's just a year's worth of built up sexual tension or something else, but he feels it regardless.

He's flopped on his stomach, hair still damp; you're curled up in the shape of a C, skin reflecting the light of the TV. He might visit Nobara tomorrow. Megumi usually goes on Wednesdays, too — they could make a day out of it, and you could tag along, too. He's got a craving for the pistachio macarons they sell near—

"I'm in love with you," you announce.

Satoru doesn't bother asking you to repeat yourself because he knows he didn’t mishear. It isn't the knowing that shocks him — he's not stupid, and you wear your heart on your sleeve — it's the sudden, quick verbal affirmation of it that catches him off guard. After all, haven’t you two been putting this all off? Yearning for a dead man? Being pulled from two opposing poles?

He turns his head towards you, opens his mouth to ask you just that, and—

"After Suguru, I thought I'd never be happy again," you say, and you’re smiling like you didn't just say something inherently heartbreaking. But no, you look fond — content, even, blinking slowly at him. "And I thought I'd never feel for someone as strong as I did for him. But here I am: happy, and in love, and okay."

Satoru opens his mouth — then closes it quickly. For some reason, he remembers something Suguru said to you when you were younger: "Satoru speaks before he thinks." But he wants to think about this — about what he should say. How does he respond to you quite literally baring your heart to him? How does he tell you what he wants to tell you, what you deserve to hear? He's never been good with real, genuine words — emotional shit never came easy to him out loud. His thoughts are much more concise than his mouth is, but he guesses it's because it moves so fast in comparison.

Pity you can't read his mind. It'd make things much easier.

“You don’t have to say anything,” but he wants to, don't you know? "You don't have to pretend. It’s okay. I know that… maybe you don’t love me as much as you loved Suguru, but I know you love me in some way, at least—”

Satoru frowns — strings of ideas and thoughts bunching up and stopping short as your words register. “As much as I— hey, stop putting words in my mouth—"

"The truth is," you continue on, "I feel lighter than I have in years. I don't dread life so much anymore. I don't dread you anymore."

"You… dreaded me?"

You hum. Your legs stretch down, arms forward, face scrunched up in a passing yawn. "I'm not stupid to think you didn’t know how I felt, but… I hated that I was so obvious about it. Even when I was fighting with myself about it, I was obvious. It made me hate being around you, sometimes."

You sigh, then — not as heavy and melancholy as they used to be, no. This is a sigh of relief, of cathartic release.

Satoru blinks, and attempts to wade through the seventy-or-so compulsions telling him to make a joke, to laugh, to tease you. Maybe he should actually be serious for once. Say it straight and say it firm, so you can't take anything the wrong way. If there was ever a time for him to not beat around the bush…

"I've liked you since I was 17," he confesses, finally. "Me and Suguru, we were together, y’know, and we were happy. And Suguru loved you, and somewhere along the line I… began to do the same, but we were so young and then… Everything changed so fast. Everything broke so fast.”

Your fingers brush against his, and he breathes in a sigh. Your eyes are wide and watery, low light reflecting like glitter in your eyes.

"Sometimes, it keeps me up at night," Satoru says, laughing a pained sort of laugh. "Out of everything, that's what keeps me up — that we could've been happy together, all three of us. It never would’ve been enough to make him change, but…"

At least you would’ve known what it was like. To be happy together in that way. To be content. To find your places in the world, hand and hand. To know what it was like — even if Suguru’s fall from grace was inevitable — so you wouldn’t have to keep wondering until your untimely, gruesome, sorcerer-style deaths, or whatever.

Back then, Satoru didn’t understand why Suguru never told you how he felt. He couldn't understand how he could be content watching from afar, looking but never touching. What Satoru wanted, he learned to take; the Strongest didn’t need to ask for permission, only forgiveness.

He learned quickly that some things were better left unsaid. And now, 28 years old, half of his friends, students, colleagues dead — he understands even more.

He remembers how Yuuji had tried to stave off tears when he realised he had to die; remembers how his student’s throat had felt being crushed in his hands. He loved Yuuji like a little brother. Like a son, even. He was family. He was his student, and yet his death had been necessary, and Satoru battled with it. It allowed him to succeed in the mission he was born to complete. But he had given up Yuuji in return.

There is no curse more twisted than love.

Therein lays the problem, he supposes. The second you love someone, you run the risk of having them end up like Yuuji did. Like Suguru did. Like Nanami did. When you are burdened with incredible power like Satoru is — like Suguru was — you must be able to sacrifice for it. The closer that people are, the more likely they are to be caught in the crossfire, the more likely you are to be hurt. Suguru hoped to avoid that at all costs. It was easier to watch from afar, less painful.

Satoru is a tad more selfish. Which is bad, he knows, because he's too prepared to sacrifice. Even now. Even now, he knows that if caught between saving you and saving society, he would be forced to — to—

Satoru inhales. The only thing for it is to simply stop things from getting that far.

He could explain all this to you. He could talk circles around you about it, in fact, but the truth is that it's all conjecture. Suguru isn’t here to tell him why he did what he did. He can’t speak for him, no matter how well he knew him.

"I don't know why Suguru never told you," Satoru says instead. He folds his fingers tighter, taking yours in his grip as he does so. "Guess that's something he took with him to the grave."

"I've stopped wondering," you say. “I’ll never stop regretting, but I’ve stopped wondering. I can’t stay rooted in the past any more. It was doing more harm than good."

And you raise your interlocked hands — nestle them under your chin and screw your eyes shut, like you're wishing on the evening star, like he's something precious to be treasured. All of a sudden he's 17 and confused about why he can't stop staring at you. He doesn’t have Suguru to tease him about it, now.

“I’ll never forget him,” Satoru announces — a warning, or a reassurance, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s telling the truth and nothing but the truth, and whether or not you like his truth is not his concern. He respects you too much to lie about this to you.

Your lips twitch upwards, a phantom of a smile. “Neither will I. "

"I'll never forget you, either."

The smile grows, blooms, blossoms, until it stretches bright and full across your face. The first smile of yours he's seen in a while that wasn't at half-mast, or tinged with sadness, or pain, or fatigue.

"How lucky I am," you whisper, "to be known by you, Gojo Satoru."

It should be the other way around, he thinks.

(12.5.

It's the first time he makes love in years.

Satoru has always fucked you. Always. No matter how tired you both were, no matter how injured — he'd always force himself to be rougher, force his touches to not linger as much as he wanted them to.

If he felt too much, he'd crack a joke instead of drowning in it; if he felt his eyes beginning to burn he'd bury his nose in the crook of your neck and push it down. If he thought of long, dark hair and cat-like eyes, he'd tighten your grip in his hair and the shock of pain would clear his mind. He fucked quick, and when he was done he'd lay far away enough that he couldn't feel your skin against his.

Tonight, he lets himself love and be loved again.

You're on top of him, ass flush against his thighs, taking every inch he has to give you; his hands have found your jaw, thumbs brushing back and forth across your dewy, sweat-slick cheeks. One hand of yours clasps around his wrist; the other bands to his chest, nails digging red into his skin. Your cursed energy blooms, flushes, flourishes when he opens his eyes to look at you.

He sees every pore, every hair, every dimple, every broken capillary, every scratch and scrape. Every part of you, bending to him in some places, unfalteringly stubborn in others.

"Look at you," he mumbles, blinking dumbly. "So… pretty…"

You snort something like a laugh, and continue: up, down, up, down. Slow, grinding gyrations of your hips that make his head spin pleasantly; and with his Limitless nullified, he feels every inch of skin, every tensing of muscle, every scrape and press fully and completely. He’s never felt so engulfed in it before — the sensations of it all, the warmth, your scent, your weight above him.

He'd drown in you, if he could. Take you in his mouth and nose and ears and everywhere, until he's left gasping for air and grappling for something of substance. Maybe once upon a time he would keep those thoughts to himself, for whatever reason — but now he's allowed to be selfish in his affections, allowed to give more than surface-level compliments and vague declarations of love.

Between pleasure-ridden shudders and sloppy, wet kisses, he breathes:

"I want you everywhere," he says, "All the time. Over me, on me, in me—"

You raise a brow, impudent and teasing in a way that makes his abdomen tighten. "In you?"

And maybe he didn’t mean it in the way that you took it, but he plays along anyways, waggling his brows. "You heard me."

"You're terrible."

"I'm not joking," Satoru argues — but it’s hard to take him seriously when his voice quietens, when he arches up eagerly to meet your lips—

When his grip on your lower back becomes painfully tight, when his lips part in a moan and his eyes screw shut and he throws his head back, hips rutting up to meet yours, and—

His peak rises to greet him — and his heart swells all the while. He finds himself clawing for you as his orgasm builds, hands clambering against your back, your neck, your hair, until (with a great, shaking breath, may he add): "Fuck, I — mmf, I love you—"

It carries him off to a state of fuzzy, empty-minded ignorance — pleasure tightening his entire body, fizzling from the tips of his fingers to his curling toes. Your name on his tongue, slurred and mellifluous, his smile dizzy and drunk.

As you smile down at him, so unbearably fond, Satoru thinks that he doesn’t mind saying I love you aloud after all.)

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owliellder · 9 months

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Two's A Crowd

College Bully! Leon Kennedy x fem! Reader

MDNI 18+

(Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5)

Description: College is proving to be a lot harder than you imagined. You cannot fail this math class. So when you've tried everything else, a well-known student is recommended to you by your professor for tutoring lessons, not really leaving you with much of a choice but to work with him.

Warnings: Not proofread, No Use of Y/N, Dub-Con, Unprotected Sex, Bullying, Yelling, Cursing

Tags: College AU, Bully! Leon, Shy! Reader, both are in their early 20's, Leon is Rude AF in the beginning, Loss of Virginity, Oral Sex, Fingering, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mention of a Fight, Additional Tags to be Added

Author's Note: Ahh thank you for 1,000 followers!! I don't even know how that happened!! Anyways, I think it's a little anticlimactic? I just feel like since I am definitely not the kind to raise my voice, a shy reader wouldn't either. Besides, disappointment hurts more than anger, right?

Cross-posted onto AO3

Chapter 4:

Leon really did like you, honest. You were such a sweet girl, so innocent and clueless. Maybe it’s because he never gave his one night stands the time of day, or maybe it was just the sheer amount of time he had to spend with you to get this close, but now he knew he was a pretty terrible person for taking that bet

In the beginning he didn’t feel the slightest twinge of guilt due to the words the frat spewed at him. He knew all the right questions to ask, all the right things to say, the sweetness of it all had you under a spell. It was also such a menial thing to get, a single pair of panties… You probably wouldn’t even know it was missing!

But as time went on, it got harder and harder for Leon to stomach just what he was doing. You’d opened up so much to him about your home life, how stressed you were, how much pressure you were under. Doing this would absolutely ruin you so he did his best to convince himself that he was being the nice one by waiting to complete the bet until you had finished all your finals. All that time spent together had him second guessing, triple guessing, even quadruple guessing his decision to go through with this. The good grades were important to you, he didn’t want to draw your focus away from that.

It was a shame his friends couldn’t keep the damn thing to themselves even if their life depended on it. He’d explicitly told them that it’s done and there was nothing more to it, yet of course they just had to snicker and make snide little comments to each other the next day when they saw you in passing.

Leon wouldn’t admit out loud that you’d really grown on him over the months, so he could only brush his friends off whenever they’d tease him about getting angry whenever the topic arose. Chris was the worst out of all of them, being his best friend, it seemed like his mission was to dance on Leon’s nerves any chance he got.

“Delete that.” A scowl graced Leon’s features as he glared at Chris, who’d stepped back from the agitated man. Almost the entire frat had posed with the panties Leon stole from you, all of them making some form of exaggerated pose and face. What was only meant to be goofy on their part was making the man responsible furious.

“Relax, it’s just a picture. I thought you’d find it funny.” Chris chuckled, bringing his phone back in to look at it again himself. “You’re acting real sour for nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. You’re all acting like a bunch of fucking idiots and I’m sick of it. Now delete that damn picture before I smash your phone with a hammer.” The nonchalant attitude from Chris was driving Leon up the wall. He already knew he’d fucked up big time, and with the way everyone was acting would only get him into bigger trouble.

“Shut up, man.” Chris laughed, like this was all some big joke. Everything was a joke to him. “Acting like you’re gonna explode or something.” This man was an actual dumbass, never taking a moment to actually think about what consequences having photo evidence with the entirety of the frat’s members posing with something stolen would have.

Leon scoffed, holding his hands up before letting them fall dramatically to slap against the tops of his thighs. “No fucking way..” One hand came back up to cover his mouth, breathing out sharply through his nose. It was a sad attempt to keep himself from pouncing on the other man, seeing as not barely five seconds later he tackled Chris, hands scrambling to rip the phone from his hand.

Chris was a few inches taller than Leon, a bit stronger too, so the scuffle didn’t last long. Some punches thrown here, a few kicks there, and Leon had the wind knocked out of him at some point, thrown to the side and left to struggle to get up off the floor while Chris decided to make his way to a different part of the house, muttering under his breath all the while.

“God dammit-” Leon wheezed, on his hands and knees, one hand against his chest as he tried to catch his breath. Sure he reacted purely on instinct, but Chris could stand to be knocked down a few pegs in his opinion. The guy is an ass.

After finally collecting himself, Leon slowly spun around to rest his back against the foot of the couch, elbows resting on his knees. He coughed a couple times and let his eyes fall closed, eyebrows furrowed as he silently seethed. Chris was most definitely going to send that picture around since he obviously thinks it’s the funniest thing to ever grace this planet. You were going to see the picture. That thought alone had his head falling forward in defeat, breathing out a weak sigh and a few more coughs.

If he had just followed his own shitty advice, he would’ve taken a second to think about it. Why didn’t he just tell you in the first place? Why didn’t he just go to the store and buy a random pair of panties? Why did he follow through on such a meaningless bet?

Now that Leon thinks about it, he was the dumbass in this scenario. A royal one.

He probably sat there for an hour with his eyes closed, mind racing a million miles a minute. Trying not to make another stupid decision, he decided the best course of action would be to tell you before you saw that picture. You should hear it from him and not a total stranger. It was the right thing to do. Right?

He let out a few more strangled coughs and wheezes as he stood up off the floor and threw his coat on, beginning the walk of shame to your building. It wouldn’t have taken that long, but the snow and sludge on the ground made it a bit more dangerous, he needed to tread carefully. In more ways than one.

The extended walk left him alone with his thoughts, seeing as he didn’t grab his own phone to bring with him. With every step his mind grew heavier, an involuntary grimace scrunching his face up as he mulled over what exactly he’d done. He was mentally beating himself up over how easy it would’ve been to avoid this situation if he’d just thought outside of himself for one singular minute.

What had he done?

Leon stomped the excess snow off his boots once inside of the dorm building, hands hidden in the pockets of his jackets as he meandered over to the stairs to get up to the second floor where your dorm was. He took his sweet time, practicing what he wanted to say under his breath as he stared down at his feet while walking up the steps.

Your dorm was down the hall around the corner, allowing him the few extra seconds it would take to get there to get his heart under control. You would be mad, rightfully so, but would you forgive him? Is it selfish to hope that you would?

He stood in front of your door for a minute longer, hand hovering just in front of it, trying to bring himself to knock. Licking his dry lips, he quickly hit the knuckle on his index finger against the door three times, his eyes downturned. As much as he wanted to be the bigger person, it scared him to no end. He’s never cared this much before, so why was he so worried about it now?

Leon’s eyes shot up at the sound of the door opening, immediately showing his confusion when it was Sky on the other side. They didn’t say a word, but they looked mad, or at least very irritated. “Hey, I really need to talk to-,” they cut him off by simply holding up the palm of their hand to him, taking in a deep breath. “We saw it.”

Those three words made his heart drop to his stomach, his eyes quickly darting to look through the opening in the door to see if he could see you. “Please, if you would just let me explain I can-”

“Don’t embarrass yourself. Just go.” Sky was just about to close the door before they quickly looked over their shoulder, shutting the door almost all the way. Leon could hear them whispering to you, and though he desperately wanted to listen in, he decided to take a step back from the door and wait patiently. It was the least he could do.

He looked side to side to make sure no one was walking through the hallways, not wanting anyone to eavesdrop on such a sensitive situation. The door reopened, only this time it was you standing in the doorway. You looked so sad, so disappointed.

Leon hesitated before opening his mouth, yet you cut him off before he could even get a word in. “I trusted you,” you rasped quietly, a shaky sigh passing your lips, “I-.. I trusted you… and this is how you treat me..?” His shoulders slumped as he listened to you. He didn’t think he could feel any worse about this, but here you were, reminding him just how much of an ass he’s been.

“All that time we spent together.. all those kind, encouraging words you told me.. were all a lie?” You sniffled, arms slinking around yourself tightly. Sky was standing out of his view rubbing your back, knowing you wanted, no, needed to confront him yourself.

“No- I-..” Leon stuttered, trying to find the best way to explain everything. And no matter how many times he formulated it in his head, the explanation would never justify his actions. Instead he settled on something that would probably mean and do nothing for you. It was worth saying, though. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m so sorry,” his voice fell to a whisper as he repeated himself, eyes remaining on yours. What else could he say?

Silence fell between you as you only stared back at him with glassy eyes, your every breath shaky as you held back sobs. Crying in front of him would only give him more fuel, was your thought process. In your mind, he couldn’t even be trusted with your trash.

By now, Sky had walked over and grabbed your suitcase, rolling it over next to you. You were leaving a day earlier than you said you would, Sky having offered to drive you back home since your hometown was only a couple hours away from where theirs was.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response, instead taking the handle of your suitcase from your friend before silently walking out of the room, past Leon, and down around the corner. He only stood and watched you walk off with a deep frown, head turning back to look at Sky when he heard them lock the door behind themself.

“You’re only sorry that you got caught.” They grumbled as they walked past him, giving him a quick yet harsh glare. They soon disappeared around the same corner you had, leaving him all alone in the now quiet hallway.

You were the nicest, most considerate person he’s ever had the pleasure to know and he blew it. The worst part about it all was you didn’t even seem mad, just heartbroken. Disappointed in him.

You had put so much of your trust into him, even after he’d been so nasty towards you in the beginning, and what did he do with it? He basically spit on it, lit it on fire, and then flushed the remnants. He was only annoyed with you the first few times he had to help you study, the bickering the two of you shared easily becoming one of the things he liked about you.

Leon honestly liked you from the start, so determined to pass a class that you’d put up with what was basically harassment from him. When he told his frat buddies about you, they were quick to draw up that bet. Unfortunately, he’d known most of these guys since middle school, and you were just a girl he met on chance. His friends’ words blanketed his own morals, and because they saw you as a target, so did he, that subconscious need for peer approval leading him to make one of the worst decisions he’s ever made thus far.

If he was in your shoes, he’d raise hell, so your decision to leave was completely understandable. For some reason you’d let him off easy and he knew he didn’t deserve such light treatment.

All he could do now was hope you’d come back next semester. He’d be fine just getting to see you in passing since you most likely wouldn’t want to be anywhere near him anymore, your friends would certainly keep him at a distance away from you.

Would writing a message be okay? You need time before he approaches the topic with you. Should he leave you be? No, you deserve an apology, even if you don’t want it, nor accept it.

Someone brushed by Leon, breaking his train of thought. He was still standing in the hallway in front of your dorm room. He needed to go and try to make this right, or at the very least rip everyone at the frat a new one. He wasn’t sure, maybe it was because he was angry at them and himself, but leaving the frat sounded like a pretty good way to start righting his wrongs. Not before he made sure that the picture was wiped from everyone’s phone and the panties he stole were kept far away from everyone there.

Chris sent the picture to you, which means it was sent to a bunch of other people too. He’ll spend all winter break tracking down every last person it was sent to, tell professors what he’d done just so it didn’t spread any further. And if it meant he’d lose his scholarship, then so be it.

tags:

@kayotee4 @k-fallingstar @bobastayhigh @mi-zer-y @chasingkennedy @l30nva @espressonerd @jjouki @5tarx @bunnybreadloaves @whoisgami @cyanscribe @c4b3r1a @darichvep @mmmangel @kingtacocat @klee-iii @baby--vera @dakiniii @kenma-izhu @aliidarling @leonsmamacita @deadghxsty @nekoheist @dumbassmortal @cassiecasluciluce @iovewilliams @maeplayscello @deddiemunsonsblog @paranoid-but-android @mariesmain @tteokhwaa @bonnibuckets @eilonwykennedy @1dk-anym0r3 @papatyacikcik @animesnowstorm @lexi-zsy09 @mylifedoesntexist @ifeellikedying @yourmommylol04 @ravioli19 @dakiniii @papichulo120627

(few of your blogs won't work, i tried though 😭)

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seeingivy · 1 year

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family rules (alternate version)

satoru gojo x f!reader

in which you’re the one who gets in the accident this time, not satoru and megumi

**read the other ones here

content warning: car accident, mentions of glass and blood, reader in pain satoru says daddy, megumi wants you to break satoru’s neck

an: for all my very lovely family rules fans, this is the part for the request I received here. I hope you all enjoy :D

Satoru pushes his key into the door, swinging the door open as he calls out to the three of you. He’s balancing the pink box in his hands, very excited to see your very irritated face when you open it.

He stops for a second, eyeing the light purple around Megumi’s eye as you push green peas into his face, before turning to the fridge to steal your leftovers from last night.

He can feel you opening the box out of his peripheral vision, preparing his silly little consolation piece to calm you down. He knows you’ll be irritated, obviously, but he’s always sweet talked his way out of situations, especially with you. He just wanted to ease the air after the lecture you were probably going to give Megumi, settle everyone down.

“Megs, do you mind joining Miki upstairs? I need to talk to Gojo over here.” you say, watching you press a very strained smile to your face.

Maybe the cake was too far. He should have settled for balloons instead.

“You have got to be kidding me, Satoru. You bought him a cake for punching another kid in the face?”

“It’s just a joke, my love. No harm done. I’ll talk to him about it later. You know, all that cheesy stuff you say - words before violence, be the bigger man by walking away.” he leans over, pressing a kiss to your cheek, before he sets out to set the plates for dinner.

“Satoru. Be serious for one minute. Megumi is our responsibility. You’re doing him a disservice if we keep letting him process his anger this way. Don’t lead him down the wrong path.”

He can feel the stinging in his chest, the anger developing in his chest. He would be lying by saying things were perfect between the two of you, as of late. The two of you were polar opposites, something he always considered as a strength to your relationship. When he was drifting away too far, you grounded him in reality. When you were too stuck in the little things, he always reminded you of the big picture. You worked - moon and sun, salt and pepper, black and white. However, the two of you had been finding it harder to find compromises lately, arguing more lately, especially when it came to Megumi.

It’s a few fights, not mass murdering people. If anything, Megumi’s doing very well, considering who his father is and what happened. He’s doing very well, considering the fact that he’s being raised by two twenty year olds. Satoru’s doing very well, considering the fact that he’s trying his best to be there for him.

“I’m not leading him anywhere wrong. You’re setting him up for failure if you keep letting kids push him around like that. You’re the one leading him down the wrong path.”

“Solving your problems with fists isn’t always the right answer, Satoru. This is why he doesn’t talk to us when we ask him what’s wrong. We just have to wait for him to explode, just to find out he was suffering the entire time.”

He feels your words sink into his chest, burning him in a place he hadn’t been before. No. Surely you couldn’t be insinuating what he thought you were. You wouldn’t.

He thinks back to the third grade, his parents' faces engraved in his mind. He learned all too quickly that punching another kid in the face, pulling a girl's pigtails, running out of class would get their attention - faster than asking them to tuck him into bed, eat breakfast with him, or come to a school play. They would drop everything, run to his side to see him at the first sign of trouble. There’s no way you’re insinuating Megumi is doing the same.

It kills him. Even the thought of it being right. Megumi’s mimicking him, when he was younger, acting out to get someone to look at him. The two of you tried your best with him, he was always a little more closed off, but you were doing everything you could.

No. No. Satoru Gojo was not his father. You had to be wrong. You had to be wrong because if you were right, he was no better than his father.

“Whatever problem he has, I’ll deal with it. Remember, he’s my kid, not yours. My responsibility. So I’ll figure out what’s best for him moving forward.”

He comes to realize that this was his first mistake, one he’ll come to regret in a few hours.

He can feel the words hanging in the air, waiting for your anger filled response. But it doesn’t come. You compare him to his father and then have nothing to say?

“All quiet now, Y/N? Have nothing to say to me?”

“No, I don’t.”

“And why’s that? You sure had a lot to say a few minutes ago.”

“Because. He’s your kid. Not mine. It’s not really my business what he does, is it?”

He feels his heart sink in his chest, his cheeks burning with regret already. Why did he say that? You didn’t mean it like that. There’s no way you would ever compare him to his dad, in earnest. He curls his fingers around your wrist, pulling you closer to him. Kiss it better, Satoru.

“Hey, hey. Wait a minute.”

You shrug him off, swiping the keys off the counter and running out the door. This is his second mistake - letting you run out that door - and surely the one he’ll regret even more.

He stands there in shock, your absence chilling him. What the hell is he doing? The table is half set, your sweet strawberry smell absent, your glimmering smile gone from the kitchen.

You left. You actually got up and left. It’s his fault. He hit it where he knew where it hurt. He can feel his heart sinking in his chest, the stinging vertebrates through his bones. Why did he say that to you? He loves you. He reaches around for his phone after a few seconds, his fingers shaking as he texts you.

i’m sorry love

you know i didn’t mean it

just come back. you know he’s our kid.

i know you’re right. he shouldn’t be punching people every time he disagrees with them. i just have trouble being too hard on him, i don’t want to be like my parents

not an excuse. i know i’m in the wrong. we can have the talk with him, just like you wanted. just come back y/n.

Satoru nearly drops his phone into the sink, at the sight of Megumi pushing into his legs. He presses his arms around Satoru’s legs, hiding his face against in the fabric.

“Hey Megs. You okay?”

“Did Y/N leave?”

He leans down, intending to talk Megumi down. You were always better at it, but there’s no harm in trying.

He looks over, really observing the bruise on Megumi’s eye for the first time. His eye is swollen, coloring into a dark purple. There’s a tiny bit of pink in the whites of his eyes and he doesn’t miss Megumi keeping his eyes closed, squinting whenever he makes contact with the light.

He reaches down, pressing the green peas you were pushing into Megumi’s face, back to the spot. He didn’t realize Megumi was hurt this bad.

“Yeah. We just had a little argument. She’ll come back.”

He feels Megumi clench his fist, his hand crumpling the fabric of his slacks.

“Do you think she hates me?”

“Megumi. Y/N loves you. She’s mad at me for being stupid, not at you for fighting.”

He feels another set of tiny hands, this time resting on his arms. Tsumiki’s tear filled face is at his side. He’s messed up.

It’s in this moment, Megumi’s stressed out expression and Tsumiki’s tear stained face, that he realizes how small they really are. He’d been teaching Megumi how to master his cursed technique and he was always impressed with how self-sufficient Tsumiki was, but he never realized how wrong it was until now.

They were kids. They’re small, tiny little kids acting like adults. He leans down, pressing the two of them against his chest. He won’t let them burden it - that’s what you and him were for. You, when you were still here anyways.

He reaches for his phone again, shooting you another text.

kids are getting real upset with you gone, they miss you already

“Satoru.”

“Yes, Miss Miki?”

“Why did she leave?”

He sighs. Because he’s an idiot. Because he can’t control his tongue, because he can’t accept his faults, because he’s in over his head.

“We had an argument. I got upset with her and said something that wasn’t very nice to her.”

“Does she still love us?”

“You’re her entire world. She loves you both, so much. That’s partially why she’s so mad at you Megumi. She doesn’t like to see you hurt and gets upset when you willingly put yourself in situations like this.”

He feels his phone buzzing on the floor, basically collapsing trying to pick it up fast enough. He presses the phone to his ear, without even checking the caller ID.

“Y/N?”

“Am I speaking with Mister Satoru Gojo?”

“Yes, this is him.”

“This is Tokyo Medical Hospital. I’m calling regarding a Miss Y/N L/N. She was in a car accident around thirty minutes ago, near the central line highway. She’s just been transported to our Emergency Department where we are responding to her now. It would be best if you could arrive as soon as possible. Do you know her blood type? We need to attempt a transfusion.”

He feels his voice strain in his neck, fighting to get the word out. Blood type. They need your blood type. You were in a car accident. Blood transfusion.

“O negative. Her blood type is O negative.”

Shoko and Nanami meets him at the front of the hospital and he nearly breaks down right there. He was a mess without you. You had to be okay. You had to stay alive.

“I’ll watch the kids.”

Nanami walks off, his hands holding their tiny ones as he takes them on a walk around the block.

“Am I going to lose her, Shoko? Is she okay?”

“She’s really hurt, the glass shattered on impact. Just go through the doors, Satoru. She was asking for you.”

Glass. He nearly runs through the double doors and is met directly with the sight of you.

The air is gone from his lungs and the room is on fire. No. You’re lying on the gurney, the two nurses balancing shining, silver surgical tools in their hands. They’re digging shards of glass out of your soft, soft skin - from your arms, your chest, and the sides of your face.

He can see the tears streaming down your face, your eyes pinching in pain every time they pull a piece out. The worst part, he can hear you murmuring his name and asking for him every time they do. He walks up aimlessly, interlocking his hand with your free, uninjured side. He can feel his hands shaking in yours, his blood burning in his skin.

“Satoru?”

He reaches forward, patting down your hair.

“I’m here, i’m here.”

“It hurts, Satoru.”

He feels his resolve break at the sound of your voice. He’s crying, full on crying at the sight of you like this. In pain, sitting alone for the past hour. He lifts your uninjured hand, pressing a kiss to the top of your knuckles before resting your fingers against his eyes.

“It’s best if you can distract her while we do this. The silence makes it easier to focus on the pain.”

He nods, turning his face away from the nurse and towards you.

“Hi love.”

“Hi Satoru.”

“Don’t…don’t die on me, okay? I still have a lot of things I want to do with you.”

“Like what?

You hiss in pain, squeezing his hand as they keep going deeper into your skin.

“Eat breakfast with you tomorrow. Make you those strawberry pancakes you love so much. Watch you yell as me as I squish whipped cream into Megumi’s hair.”

He watches you laugh, the pain still pressed on your face as you try to respond.

“Don’t respond. It’s okay, love. Just listen to me, yeah?”

You nod, squeezing your hand in his own.

“I…I love you.” he can feel his voice breaking, trying to stop his tears from returning. He clears his throat, his heart screaming in his chest.

“I love you so much, Y/N. You’re everything to me. You and me, we’re going to be okay. I- I…there’s just so much we have to do still. I didn’t even get to marry you yet. Or put my own kid in you.”

“Gross.”

“Out of all that, that’s what you chose to respond to?”

He sees you smile, your eyes all watery at the sight of him. He loves you. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

You wake up a few hours later, to a very pink eyed Satoru sitting on the chair next to you. He looks horrible.

You make the slightest bit of movement, attempting to reach out for him, and he jumps up from his chair. He presses his hands to your face, shaking his head profusely at you as you put your hands down.

“No, no love. No moving, okay?”

You nod and he gives you a soft smile, before locking his fingers with your own. You can see the tears building in his eyes, his smile being replaced with tears streaming down his eyes.

“Can you put on a little nurses uniform? We’re about to live out my wildest dreams.”

He laughs at your joke, his teary smile returning.

“Shut up. Stop copying my fantasies.”

His hands don’t leave your face, his entire body shaking at the sight of you. He’s scared, scared shitless and you don’t know how to fix it. You’re okay. You’re both going to be okay. You try to sit up, Satoru’s hands helping you most of the way. He has his arm secured around your waist, holding you steady.

“Satoru. I’m okay.”

“You’re not allowed to do that. You can’t just pick up and leave every time you get mad at me. I thought I lost you. I almost did lose you. Do you think I could live if I actually did?”

“I know, Toru. I’m sorry.”

He presses himself against your shoulder, crying into your arms. He’s ran his hands over your arms multiple time’s now, his fingers resting against your beating pulse at your wrist. You can feel the guilt twisting in your chest, for leaving, driving so recklessly, upsetting him in the first place. Any normal person would get up and run right about now.

“You are the only family I have. Please don’t leave me, Satoru.”

You feel your heart clench in your chest at the sight of his defeated resolve and can’t even remember why you were mad, why you drove off in the first place. You squeeze his hand twice, rubbing small circles into the back of his hand.

“You’re the one who left me. I would never leave you. It’s you and me, in life and in death, Y/N. Preferably not the death part from you, if that’s possible please. That’s against the rules.”

“In life and in death? Those are wedding vows, Satoru, we aren’t even married. And we don’t have rules.” you deadpan.

“You didn’t get the memo? We’re married in my head, sweet thing.”

The two of you laugh, the giggles filling up the little medic bay you were sitting in. You feel him lean over, his face still wet and pink from his tears, and press a soft kiss to your forehead before pressing one to your lips.

“Did you eat chocolate from the vending machine?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie. I can taste it on your lips, idiot. Your supposed wife is maybe possibly dying and you’re eating candy?”

“You’re so vulgar. Talking about my lips like that in public. And I was eating for both of us. In your honor. I knew it’s what you would have wanted.”

You roll your eyes at him, giving him a smile, before leaning your head against his shoulder.

“Where are Megumi and Tsumiki?”

“With Nanami, outside. I’ll go grab them now that you’re all bandaged up.”

As he sprints out the door, you readjust in the bed, sitting up. You watch the two of them run in, their little faces swollen from crying. You feel the tears well in your own eyes at the sight of it. You open up your arms (which hurts like a bitch), signaling at the two of them to climb up. They press their bodies against you, their distinct smells pressed against your nose (vanilla for Tsumiki, clean laundry for Megumi).

You can feel them sobbing against you and press kisses to both of their heads as they shake in your arms. You can feel your skin burning at them pressing against your bandages, but you don’t want to let them go.

“Okay, kids. Off. We can hug her as hard as we want when she feels better, okay?”

Satoru Gojo, mind reader. They climb off, the three of them facing you at the side of your bed. They all have their hands pressed against you - Satoru’s resting in your hair, Tsumiki’s in your hand, and Megumi’s at your shoulder. Satoru speaks first.

“I was thinking.”

“You can do that?”

“You wound me, Fushiguro Megumi.”

The three of you snicker at the sound of his whiny voice, the smiles reaching all the way to Tsumiki and Megumi’s cheeks.

“I’ve always had mental rules you should be following in my head, as I am our benevolent, perfect, spectacular leader. But we should establish real ones, for each other. We are a family after all.”

“You’re not our leader.” deadpans Megumi, rolling his eyes at Satoru before eyeing you exasperatedly.

“I like it, Satoru.” you whisper.

“Me first, then. My first rule is for Miss Miki. You have to do anything and everything I say.”

The three of you stare him down, pinching your eyes in annoyance.

“I’m kidding. You guys are such a tough crowd. My first real rule is for Megumi. You’re not going to fight anymore. No punching people when you get angry.”

He nods, whispering a promise to you, more than Satoru, that he won’t fight again. You squeeze his fingers that are interlocked with yours, nodding at the promise.

“The next one is for you, missy. No running away, Y/N. Ever. We can argue all night for all I care. You don’t get to leave.”

You nod, promising all of them that you won’t leave them again. You don’t miss the way their tensed shoulders relax at your promise, shocked that they were even worried about you leaving again in the first place. You would never leave them again. Tsumikis’ quiet voice fills the room next.

“Third rule, no fighting if we can avoid it. We’re all on the same team here so we can just try to work it out.”

You reach forward, pressing your hand into Tsumiki’s hair, you and Satoru promising her you won’t fight, at least if you can’t help it, again. The three of you nod, smiling at each other at your new rules.

“I have one.”

You reach over, running your hands through Megumi’s hair as you smile at him, encouraging to speak up.

“No one leaves the house without saying goodbye. You especially, Mom.”

Mom. Mom. Fushiguro Megumi, in the six months he has been staying with you, has never called you Mom. You can feel the tears welling in your eyes, wanting to crush him in a hug for a better part of the next hour or the rest of his life. You’re his Mom.

Before you can reach forward to do so, Satoru’s whiny voice stops you.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s not even fair.”

“Toru, shut up.”

“Megs. If I break my neck, will you call me dad?”

You roll your eyes. Way to ruin a moment.

“How about I break it right now and we test the theory?”

Megumi and Tsumiki break out into giggles and you and Satoru can’t help but join them at the sound of their laughter. The three of them press themselves against you, wrapping your arms around as you all laugh.

“Hey, one more rule, okay?”

You all nod, turning to face Satoru.

“Everyone calls me daddy from now on.”

“Can you actually break his neck now? Please? I can help.”

822 notes · View notes

takami-takami · 1 year

Text

Accidents.

includes— hawks x reader. minors dni. suggestive.

warnings— daddy kink. predator/prey undertones. keigo being a meanie.

You wish the ground would just swallow you whole before his smug look does.

"Don't let it get to your head! Keigo—" You squeak, covering your own face with one hand and pushing his away with the other. Your palm does nothing to quell the mischievous laughing fit that your boyfriend doesn't seem to have the courtesy nor self control to keep to himself.

Don't let it get to his head? His head couldn't be any bigger in this moment.

He seizes the opening to situate himself on top of you with ease, keeping you caged beneath him so he can bear witness to the full extent of your misery. Your hands lie helpless, locked under his hold and pinned above your head to leave you wide open. He wants nothing obstructing his view of your dreadfully desperate squirms.

He considers locking your legs in place beneath his, too. It wouldn't be difficult at all to overpower you, but the butterfly kicks behind his back that ruffle the sheets beneath are just too delicious to watch.

Your bedroom has become a locked box of your whimpers and flails, and he loves it. What he wouldn't give to cage you here and throw away the key.

"Keigo...? Sorry, dunno who that is." His eyes roll in time with his shoulders, while that wicked grin never falters.

"Could've sworn you were just calling me something else," he sings above you. He purses his lips like he just can't catch his thought. Bastard. You'd be screaming into your hands if you had access to them. "What was it you said... What was it..." he hums a devilish, giddy tune, turning to catch your eye.

"Care to remind me?"

"You're an asshole!"

"No, that's not quite what you called me."

You huff in response, opting to stare at the ceiling behind him. Anywhere but that stupid, god-awful, pretty face of his. Maybe if you try to pull your wrists free, he'd take pity on you and— nope, still not giving an inch of leeway.

He notices your weak attempt. Poor thing, he thinks. You don't actually think there's anywhere to run, do you? Your halfhearted flailing underneath him is cute though, he'll give you that. So cute. Almost as cute as your little slip-up that got you into this fucking mess.

This is your mess, you know. You did start it, after all, and who is Keigo if not a man who finishes the job? It'd be criminal to not keep this game going for as long as it'll take to satisfy his instinct to torment you.

He's not a sadist, he swears.

He just knows prey when he sees it.

"Kei', I didn't— can you please just let this go?" You finally look at him with those puppy dog eyes. In another circumstance, they would get him to do whatever you want; but for once, he decides to be selfish. He's just having too much fun.

"Why should I? Don't tell me you're embarassed," he posits, as if you aren't the picture of shame incarnate beneath him. "Nothin' to be embarassed about, doll." He closes the gap between you, nose barely brushing the line of your jaw before he dares to have a taste. "Plenty of people would jump at the oppurtunity to call me da—"

"Hawks!"

"Oooh, yet another name and you still won't repeat the one from earlier. Gonna hurt my feelings, baby." Raptor eyes zero in on the juncture of your neck. When you strain to turn your head away from him, you leave your jugular completely exposed. He sighs. You're fucking helpless. He supposes that's why he's the pro hero, and you're just the little hare captured betwixt his talons.

With a finality settling in his gut, he latches on and sinks his canines into you. You go limp below with the hitch of a breath, kicks slowing to a halt.

"You know, I think I like this." When his hands release yours, he's sure your muscles won't even twitch. Frozen under his spell, you are the moth to his proverbial flame; the rabbit in his headlights.

"I think that name is already one of my favorites. You'll say it again for me, won't you? Tell me..."

"Who's your fucking daddy?"

#i hope yall like this one!!!#keigo being a meanie is my weakness #🖋 writing #🌶 spice #hawks x reader #keigo takami x reader #bnha imagines #bnha x reader #mha imagines #smut mention #hawks smut #mha x reader #hawks <3 <3 <3 <3

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cu7ie · 1 year

Text

big bro satoru ! ୨୧ — see: virgin killer, cherry popper — mdni!

( ˶ᵔᴗᵔ˶ ) — cw. perv!gojo, alcohol consumption (you're both drunk-ish). reader's a virgin. just some casual headcanons. pornography viewing! voyeuristic reader (sorta.) drabble at the end. vagina having reader.

imagine hanging around with your friend and they offhandedly mention they have an older brother. they don't talk about family much but he sounds just as cool as he actually is when you finally meet him.

you're out of highschool and you still don't have much experience with relationships. your friend on the other hand has had tons, and sometimes they're giving you lengthy talks about their past relationships or inadequate sex life and you just smile and nod through it luv.

on the inside you're burning up! they tell you the raunchiest shit with no filter or padding, your virgin baby brain has grown ten sizes bigger with knowledge you honestly have no business knowing.

leaves you all hot and bothered, grappling with these new feelings - maybe a desire to try it out for yourself? you shake your head. as of now, it’s not like you have many prospects.

you’re a stranger in college. nobody knows your name, and your bestie is only your bestie because they practically forced themselves into your socially inept arms.

so you put a pin in it, for the time being.

gojo only comes into the picture because your friend invited you to hang out with them both, and gojo didn't mind you in his house, so boom:

you guys are chatting. and siblings being siblings they have inside jokes and banter you can only laugh at!! then you're trying to contribute, but the conversation just takes the strangest turn .

your friend starts talking about their ain't shit ass boyfriend (again, they always do this) and gojo is a supportive sibling, so they take turns tearing the dude to shreds.

you can only quietly wonder why she’s still dating the guy, anyway.

you guys are passing drinks around at this point, and your friend , verrry tipsy, starts getting a little … provocative with the complaints. slurring their words, they look you in your eyes and just starts rambling.

"shrimp dick," , "can't fuck worth a damn", "shit head-giving ass"

gojo's mostly overhearing, but responds to everything she says. he’s just like: “can't relate. that’s soooo crazy. could never be me tho!”

irritated by his interruption, more than a little drunk, they start to bicker.

friend: "nobody cares about your dick satoru!"

gojo: "hey hey maybe your friend does!!! … been side-eyeing me all night."

!!!! the way your head snaps to look at him !!!!

because you did, but you didn't think he'd notice!

and plus it's not like that ?!! he's just very handsome man ,,

he is very pretty .....

but he really made you nervous !! you're all hot in the face and it's not cause of the alcohol and your friend is making a face at you now, a little dramatic disappointment curving their lip and it's just like,

bff: ew?? right in front of me????

you'd hide in your drink if you could.

you: uh n-no i wasn'- it’s not like that!

they don’t believe you, just roll their eyes and say:

bff: i know you don't get any but like?? calm down lol there's more fish in the sea, get out of your little pond, babes.

and you're embarrassed and can't come up with anything witty in response so you just lower your head and sip your drink while they just fall back into banter.

you guys end up watching a movie.

your friend drank too much and ended up falling asleep! you're a little tired but gojo's wide awake and maybe he's drunker than you thought because he's slurring a lil.

gojo: heyyyy, pst

he slides a little closer to you, beer bottle in hand. wraps his arm around your shoulder and the contact jolts you out of any sleep you could have been having.

you: wah?

gojo: i said -

you: i heard you ... what did u want ??

he leans into your ear and whispers in it.

"i got a movie for you. way better than this shit they put on .. check it"

and you expect him to pick up the remote but he just fishes out his phone and pulls up a video from his gallery , and it looks blurry at first, but the camera comes into focus and,

your breath hitches.

it's a video taken of gojo, nose deep in some pussy.

the video is taken by someone else clearly, his head in between their thighs just slurping up on that clit - it's so slick and wet and squishy and the audio isn't down so you are a few feet away from your friend on the couch , who's knocked

and you're just watching this, wide eyed and clutching onto this pillow for emotional support and gojo's hand on your shoulder feels heavier

you: hhhh satoru-san, i don't think i should be seeing this ... isn't it a little private ?

little is an understatement

gojo: well i don't mind showing if you don't mind watching ; )

you: ....okay

you whisper as you sink further into the chair.

he's showing you multiple videos.

there one where it's not his face - it's a girl's, about your age maybe - but he makes sure to point out that it is, in fact, his penis going into her mouth. it's so big she's tearing up. what you think is mascara follows tracks on her cheeks and you gasp at how sloppy the ordeal is. you wonder how she's even breathing.

then there's another one, where he's bouncing them on his cock so good they're crying,

"deeper, deeper! harder - fuck!"

and that’s when you put your hand up to the phone and your cheeks are so hot they're numb. you feel like a voyeur !!! and you don't know if you enjoy it or are just shocked but something's getting to you !

gojo just points to the video , looks at you and says

"i think you'd look good in these kinds of movies. i think you're real pretty ..... n' well.... i'd fuck you."

and he giggles and pats your head and you're gaping like ???!!!!!????? satoru-san why are you speaking to me like that!

you: "satoru - san. i .. i think you're handsome too but i don't ... i'm not ... "

gojo pulls your body closer to his, you're touching his torso with yours and

gojo: i really like the way you say my name. it's... kinda turning me on

and you don't pull away when he grabs your hands and one onto his crotch, wraps your fingers around him until you’re cupping his balls and your thumb is grazing his clothed cock.

he's so annoying actually 😭

like satoru is cute !! you've told him as much several times !!

but your hand slowly traveling up hard cock is too too too much!

you: satoru-san! i've never umm.. really done something like this before ? please. we shouldn't, n-not here anyway.

gojo: we head up to my room ?

you: satoru-san ..... that's not what i meant..

but he's already picking you up easily and carrying you down the hall despite the little squeak of protest you offer!

he mentions something about being glad to "pop your cherry"

gojo: she's always on and on about how you've never had a boyfriend,,, ssssweird but that probably means you've never been fucked either right ???

you sputter and flush, satoru’s grin nearly reaching his ears as you tremble but don’t struggle in his grasp.

you: that's none of your business!! seriously what is -

he pushes his door open and you're cut off by him tossing you onto his bed, fumbling with his lamp until he remembers how to turn it on.

your back hits his mattress and you sink into it immediately. satoru’s room is cool, but the situation at hand ensures that his decor is the last thing you’re interested in. the warm orange lamp light fades out the jewel tones of the night’s shadow, though gojo’s silhouette cuts into the brightness and for a moment his presence takes your breath away.

you feel like a mouse caught in cat’s teeth. “i know about your type.” the way he curves his words makes your ears perk up, your elbows propping your body up as you retort, “and what could you possibly know ‘bout m-me….?” your voice trails off as satoru clambers into bed beside you, overtaken by impossibly soft sheets, stare directed right at you.

“you wanna fuck. i know that look from a mile off. lucky for you, i can help you get off." he whispers in your ear, and you feel your pussy clench down on absolutely nothing. his hand brushes against your thigh and you quiver.

"hnn." you make a noise of indecision, the arousal pooling in your panties feels sticky and irritating, and satoru - the tease - stills his hand on your leg, and feels along your tummy instead.

"oooh."

"you like that baby?" he's disarmingly charming, coaxing you out of slumber into your grand sexual awakening. "um.. i.." satoru pauses.

he mutters. "go on… use your words, precious."

your resolve escapes you at satoru's teasing. he's already so experienced - his .. aptitude makes you confident that he'd treat you well, there's no reason why you shouldn't …

just be a little selfish.

"c-can we kiss?" gojo laughs a little softer than you're used to.

"what's so funny? i just want to-" satoru flips you onto him, gripping your hips and adjusting you so you comfortably lay atop his.

"s'not funny, really. you're just as cute as i thought you'd be, though. wet pussy and all and you still just 'wanna kiss'." his second laugh is heartier, but not loud.

"watchu waiting for then?" he grins cheekily and you body grows frustrated. it's too hot in here.

your hands are curled onto his chest, your head close enough to his that you can smell the alcohol on your breath - he could probably smell it on you, too - but you don't care.

he's hard beneath you. you feel his cock pressing into your ass and he uses his big hand to squish you against him.

your cheeks burn. "kiss me-"

your lips press to him with a fervent need. your inexperience is cute to him, so he lets you take the lead. you have spirit, the ambition of a slut - but no skill. you squeak and moan a little nervously as he deepens the kiss, his hands cupping your ass gently as he starts to play with it. he palms the fat in his hands and nips your lower lip before you pull back to catch your breath.

your body is hidden under your clothes and it makes gojo suck his teeth, trying to ascertain with his hands instead, those curves and planes of your body, starting at your hips and moving up. a whine gets caught in your throat as his hand creeps beneath your shirt and you realize just how cold he is.

"satoru!" you jolt, feel your nipples grow diamond tough in response.

"hush hush. they're still asleep, n' as far as they know, you were coming onto meee…" you look down at him, pupils blown and mouth parted and lips slick.

"you're a pervert, satoru-san. i-i'd tell them as much." satoru laughs louder and you can't be convinced he's not doing it on purpose, now. your positions shift again.

you yelp as he flips you over suddenly once more, your back hitting a velvet duvet and your head gracing the soft, cool top of his pillow, your breathing more labored that it had been before.

he whispers. "let me eat you out." he's already weaseled his way between your thighs, looking at your shorts like the idea of them offends him. "these shorts make ya ass look fat. but skirts are easier access. you ever wanna have a quickie again, take notes." he's already peeling them from your thighs, infernal heat pouring off you in waves. your panties follow in short order.

"oh wow." satoru's excitement renews unbidden, getting up close and personal with the pretty petals between your thighs and licking his lips like it's his last meal on earth.

you feel your nerves prickle. an uncertainty that pervades your chest cavity makes an uncomfortable heat rise. you can feel his every breath. your pussy throbs like it's your heart and for a moment, your unsettled. "hey!"

you clasp your hands over your mouth and satoru's eyes slowly drift up. "s-sorry. didn't mean to-"

"yell? 's fine. you still want me to keep going?"

he looks unreal like this.

his hair sticks to his forehead a bit, swear dewing on his temple as he shudders and huffs, basking in this smell of you. is it sweet? his lip curls in hunger, and you know every instinct in him is primed to eat.

your hands find themselves tangled in his hair. you fold your fingers between the strands, flipping it up and out of his face. "yessss. please. i need this." you beg, and he gives in without ceremony.

the sensation is tantalizing. he curls his tongue in between your folds, gathering your slick on the tip of it. he groans, spreads your thighs wider so he can bury his whole face in your box.

first, it makes your spine twitch and your toes curl - the feeling so intense that your body wants to rip you away from it. your back arches; his lips wrap around your clit and you whine as he starts suckling on you. the sound of wet lips on wet pussy is obscene.

he slurps loudly, eagerly, not even paying mind to how quickly you've fallen apart in his arms.

any mess he makes, he cleans up with his tongue. he laves the muscle over your precious pussy, teasing you with how deep he can go into the fold.

you never noticed his tongue was so long.

you're soaked. there's something coming - and you,

yelp just then, feeling the barest sensation of teeth against your cunt. "s-satoru!" (he chuckles into your muff and the sensation makes you groan.)

even distracted, you can feel it. just stronger now. a coiled snake in the depths of you, beautiful and aching and eager to be free.

you've masturbated before - er, tried it. you're just a little awkward on your own, and it's never felt anywhere near this. incomparable in every sense of the word.

you didn't even realize you closed your eyes until you hear gojo say, "you squirt?"

the whole of your face burns. "i.." you're searching for breath you didn't notice you lost.

you shake your head. "i dunno-"

"well, let's see." his hand leaves your thigh, and the pad of his thumb presses onto your clit molasses slow. the way he pushes and tugs at the nub nearly makes you cum on the spot.

your moan is broken and cracks, and you're too far gone to be embarrassed to ask for more. "you … are we going to h-have-" sex, is what you were going to say, but satoru interrupts, tearing his eyes away from your slick cunny.

"just say fuck. 'are you gonna fuck me'?" he mimics the lilt of your voice faithfully. "say it." he goads, urges you even, massaging your cute clit with his thumb.

"a-are… are you gonna fuck me?" you mewl, and gojo's ministrations ease up. you don't know if you want to cry out in relief or desperation. your whole body feels like its throbbing. you need this so, so bad…

a mischievous glint in satoru's eye appears, sudden. you bite your lip.

"say my name." you don't hesitate.

"satoru-saaaan." gojo's breath catches. then he laughs at you. a question settles on your tongue - what's so funny - but you're shuddering and don't have a mouth to speak.

great thing that Satoru's observant.

"you're tryna be here all night, clearly."

#gojo satoru #gojo #satoru #gojo smut #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru imagine #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut #gojo imagine #satoru gojo #🌩️ L1GHTN1NG_STRIKE5.pdf

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rosyjn · 10 months

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Can I request Jake fucking the kids baby siter?

(Neytiri is like death because in this house we hate cheating)

alr alr 🙏

warnings: tsaheylu, creampie, legal age gap

Smut warning ⛔️!! MDNI

“C’mere,” Jake coos. Eclipse has passed already, you put the kids to sleep hours ago. You peek into their tent, watching all 4 of them sleep. A snore leaves Lo’ak’s mouth, but none of them budge. The sky is dark, the bioluminescence and moons of Pandora illuminate it dimly. The blue and purple lights cast nightly shadows across the village. Jake leans against a tree, watching you check on his children.

“Coming-“ You nod, scurrying over to him. The ground momentarily lights up with your footsteps.

“Y’know how much ya do for me?” he lowly chuckles, rubbing his head. “I dunno what I’d do without ya,” his leg moves a little, and the muscles in his thighs flex for a second.

“Oh, it’s- really no problem, sir,” you assure him, lowering your head in respect. The beads in your hair make little clinking noises as some strands swoop in front of your face.

“Walk with me,” he makes a gesture with his hand and turns towards the forest, his head still facing you. You quickly hasten to him, getting next to him as your steps align. He’s so much bigger, taller, and stronger than you. The jungle of Pandora is your favorite. At night, it’s even more beautiful. In fact, you don’t know how this little coincidence happened- being alone with the mighty Olo’eyktan in the most beautiful spot. “You’ve got no clue how much I owe ya,” he croons, looking at the ground as you two wander deeper into the forest, walking on a hunting path.

“I promise, it’s nothing-“ you laugh, momentarily stopping as Jake spots a fallen log in the distance. It’s wrapped in glowing, purple vines that connect to the rest of the vegetation. He grabs your hand and you jump for a second, and he leads you off the path. His grip on you is tight- almost hurting you.

“What are you doing?” you ask, eyes dilating and ears perking up. He almost melts at the way you look at him, it’s adorable. He jumps over to the log, sitting on it. His legs are spread wide and he still holds your hand. You stand in front of him, watching him gaze up at you.

“Sit,” he says. You move to the side, turning your body to place it on the log. Jake suddenly grabs your hips and manhandles them. “No, not there. On me,” he demands. The sudden change of demeanor scares you into submission. You immediately plop your ass down onto his thick thigh, your knees knocking together in the space between his legs.

“Gotta tell you..“ his voice grows soft again, after he sees how nervous you are. “..I think ‘bout ya all the time. The way you…” he pauses, losing himself in thought.

“Mr. Sully, I-“ your cheeks change color with embarrassment. “This isn’t appropriate, sir” you tell him, standing up off of his lap.

“Sit back down,” he immediately grabs you again, roughly adjusting your body to sit back in his lap, forcing you to straddle him. You gasp, feeling his warm, muscled body against yours. Somehow, the friction through your loincloth activates something. Maybe it was the way he grabbed you, or the way he looked at you. Whatever it was, your heat enters the picture. You feel like there are butterflies in your stomach- in the most arousing way possible. “Call me Jake,” he says.

“Yes, Jake,” you reply.

“What I was saying is, you’re so fuckin’ good at what ya do. Takin care of my kids,” his hand slides up and down your body, making you shudder. “You look good doin’ it too,” he remarks. “So responsible, so pretty, so smart..” he continues, moving a strand of hair out of your face. He has never been this close to you, and he’s watching your face and body closely, to absorb every little detail that he never got the opportunity to see.

“Jake..” you whisper, pressing your face against his. He warmly accepts it, surprised that you’re reciprocating.

“C’mon, you’re killin’ me,” he groans, blood rushing to his cock faster and faster. “Please, tell me I can do it,” his hand grabs your thigh, squeezing the soft flesh.

“Do what?,” your back arches at the feeling of him.

“You know what,” he holds your body close to his with one hand, reaching for his queue with the other. You pull your face away for a second. You remain straddled around him as the tendrils of his kuru eagerly wiggle. You nod, reaching for your braid and holding it up to him. “Ready?” he asks.

“Yes,” you’re stuck in the lust. But now, you’re mating with Toruk Makto, the legendary war hero. He desperately connects your queue to his, and the sensation makes you whimper a little. An electric feeling shoots through your body, and you grab onto his shoulders desperately. Jake lowers his head, his breath hitching with pleasure. You immediately reach down for his loincloth, overcome with arousal.

“That’s it,” he growls, watching you untie his loincloth and push it away. His cock springs out at you: hard and hot. His lips press against yours, his tongue roughly invading your mouth. You kiss him back hungrily. You continue making out with him, your wet cunt soaking through your garment. Jake pushes the fabric of your loincloth to the side, discreetly moving you. He tries to position you over his dick. You follow the way he guides you, positioning your wet entrance over his tip.

“Need you to help me,” you whisper.

“I gotcha,” he reaches for your hips, slowly pushing you down onto his length. The whole time, he’s paying attention to the way you react: how you clench, how your face moves, the arch in your back, and the way your muscles clamp around his girth.

“Mmph!” you yelp as his dick penetrates you further and further. He hisses, watching how your tight cunt takes him in. You arch your back, letting him hit that spongy spot. It provokes a moan from the both of you, his tip hitting a new angle.

“Fuck,” he groans. “So tight, relax for me,”

“Oh..” you try to catch your breath, breathing in through your nose. You try to make your inhales timely and consistent. Trying your best to relax.

“You got no idea how long I’ve been wanted to do this to you,” he says in your ear, pushing your hips all the way down until his cock bottoms out inside of you. Your folds brush against his pubic area as he tightly holds you down, feeling your pussy to the fullest. You bury your head into the crook of his neck, planting lazy kisses on it while you’re there. “Can you do something?” he asks, holding and controlling your hips. He bounces you slowly up and down his length.

“Anything,” you let him kiss your head briefly.

“Tell me you want me, that ya need me,” he talks in your ear, sending shivers through your body. Your queues remain tightly connected.

“I want you, I need you,” you submit immediately, picking your head up and closing your eyes in pleasure.

“Fuckkk..” he bucks his hips up into you, making a regular paced thrust as you hold onto him desperately. Your heat swallows him desperately. Your walls feel every single vein and throb. You two fuck like animals- your bodies are moving together and the forest fills with the noises of skin slapping, squelching, moaning, and the little chitters of the Pandoran creatures of night. Your stomach coils in pleasure. Jake’s abs grow shiny with a sheen of sweat as he thrusts into you from under.

“Close?” you whimper, already feeling yourself clamp and squeeze on his girth.

“Yeah, gonna milk me dry?” he teases.

“Yes!” you arch your back even further, immersed in pleasure. Jake chuckles.

His thrusts grow erratic and rough as he chases his orgasm. You wrap your arms around him and bury your head into his neck again. Your body bounces with every rut and you moan and blabber incoherent gibberish as your body reaches the height of its pleasure. When your climax finally washes over you, electric pleasure shoots through your body, running through your kuru and forcing Jake to spill his load. His hot, thick seed shoots into you. You’re surprised by the amount. He spurts his cum over and over again, little drops dripping out of your full pussy as he groans and throws his head back.

“Haven’t came like this before,” he remarks, pulling out of you with a squelching noise and watching his semen trickle out. You stay holding on to him, still recovering from the sex. The tendrils of your queue remain tightly fastened to Jake’s.

“What are we gonna tell them?” you pant, staring off into space.

“Tell who, sweetheart?” Jake coos, rubbing your back.

“The kids,” you look up into his eyes and he pushes the baby hairs out of your face.

“I’ll tell em you’re their mama,” he coos, kissing your forehead.

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lilmashae · 5 months

Text

first and last! — park sunghoon x female reader

wordcount: 3.4k | warnings: eventual smut, light angst, maybe some form of enemies to lovers, petnames, weird timestamps (skips) | summary: your unrequited love, park sunghoon realizes just how much he needs you: resulting in a rekindling of past love! | author's note: i think i lost the plot somewhere along the way... oops !

you wake up to a sunny morning, drawing back your curtains to let the light flood your room. it felt like a perfect day: your uniform fit just right, the sun beamed brilliantly, and the flowers outside painted a pretty picture. but nothing quite matched the charm of sunghoon, your neighbor, pacing in his room across the lawn, searching for something. you often stole glances at him through his window — studying, getting ready, or simply lost in thought. however, today he caught you staring, and after receiving a small wave from you, he simply huffed and closed his blinds.

despite being neighbors with a thin lawn being the only thing separating you, your worlds couldn't be more different. in yours, sunghoon was everything, while in his, you barely registered. yet, you weren't persistent, except when it mattered — like now, with your long term crush on him ever since you were younger and your parents would force you two to have playdates.

"hey park!" you'd call out from behind him as you two walked to school together in the eighth grade. "y/n..."

sure, he wasn't always the nicest, but it was his moments of kindness that stood out to you: like when he helped you up after watching you fall off your bike when you were younger, or standing up to your bullies in the tenth grade. he was always there for you when it truly mattered, wiping your tears and helping you up — even helping you pass every exam, calming your mind when you were frustrated. "fuck, i just can't do it!" you cursed with your head buried into your arms. "you're fine, y/n... you've got it all under control, okay?"

as you grew up, you also couldn't help but notice his sudden attractiveness too. he was everything you’d written about in your diary: dreamy and smart. meanwhile, he seemed indifferent, brushing off your affection without a second thought.

you crossed paths every day, attending the same high school and walking home together. "hey, sunghoon! wait up!" every time your eyes met, your heart skipped a beat—maybe there was he liked you in the slightest? but those hopes usually crashed against the reality of sunghoon's cold responses.

"i don't want to be late," he'd say — his voice monotone yet strangely comforting to you. you'd try to engage him, but his indifference always kept you at arm's length.

one afternoon, when the school was empty, you mustered the courage to confess your feelings — only to be met with rejection, delivered with a cruelty that cut deeper than any blade could. it hurt more than you expected, realizing that your pursuit of him was absolutely fruitless.

he'd been your neighbor your whole life, yet he'd always been so distant — that sliver of lawn must've been a lot bigger than you remembered. even from childhood to adolescence and now adulthood, you were always the one chasing him, praying for a flourishing love that never bloomed in the slightest. and as he walked away, leaving you shattered, you finally grasped the depth of his indifference.

through tears, you faced the truth: you'd clung to false hope for years. despite trying to move on, sunghoon's memory lingered, haunting your every thought — and as you left for college, you looked back at his house one last time, reminiscing about your silly crush on park sunghoon, your neighbor who never really cared about you.

you spent most of your summer with your friends, going out to keep your mind off of sunghoon — and for the most part, it worked. you went on spontaneous trips with friends — even going to australia with your friend, jake — staying there for almost half of your break. you went to festivals and picked up new hobbies: meeting new people and laughing wherever you went. with each new experience, sunghoon’s memory faded, replaced by smiles and bonding, the haunting chills of your childish stupidity melting away as you embraced living in the moment, rediscovering your love.

the months flew by quickly, you ended up spending your last few weeks before college with your family at home, not once did you open your window and look out at his house — totally at peace with his rejection.

it was your first day and admittedly you were nervous — walking on a new campus full of strangers, except for one or two friends. you reminded yourself that everything'd be fine: you looked good adorned in your new clothes and hairstyle — your books were secure in your tote bag and your laptop was charged. you were more than ready, and the day'd be perfect.

you took a deep breath before entering your first class, finding a seat near the door — scrolling through your phone until the professor arrived with the syllabus review. "y/n!" you peered over your shoulder at the door, one of your friends waving at you with a huge smile plastered on her face. "hey, it's good to see you." she sat beside you, the two of you talking about your summers until the class began.

"how long've you been on campus?"

"hm... maybe a while, i moved into my dorm a couple of days ago." you replied as you finished packing. "oh, so have you been to the café down the street? there's this barista... he's so cute!" she nudged your shoulder as the two of you walked out. "i can't say i've been… i’m not busy later, we can go if you want?”

“great! i’ll see you then, okay?” you nodded, waving her off as you walked to your next class until you’d see her later that evening.

the cafe was cozy — warm and welcoming. as you and your friend queued up to order your drinks, you couldn't shake off the sense of anticipation. but what caught you off guard was the barista behind the counter, who looked oddly familiar. he flashed a warm smile, "hey there, what can i get for you?"

holy shit.

your heart skipped a beat as you looked up, stunned to see sunghoon standing behind the counter, wearing an apron in place of their old highschool uniform. you blinked in disbelief, trying to process the unexpected encounter. sunghoon, the same person you’d had spent years pining over, was the same one taking your coffee order. “are you ready to order?” you’d spaced out — lost in thought.

your friend nudged you, breaking you out of your daze. “y/n! what’d you want?” with a slightly shaky voice, you swallow your embarrassment: “uh, sorry.” an awkward laugh abruptly pushed past your lips. “americano… please.” you were trying to act casual despite the flutter of excitement in your chest. “a matcha, please!” your friend orders and he nods. as sunghoon prepares your drink, your eyes met briefly — you can’t help but feel a rush of adrenaline, wondering if he remembers you.

after receiving your drink, you thanked sunghoon with an uneasy smile, feeling a mix of disbelief and curiosity. “thanks.” you begin walking back to your table, but not before hearing that weirdly comforting monotone voice. “yeah, of course.” it seemed the roles were reversed, with you being the one walking away from him instead. It wasn’t until after you left that sunghoon’d realized how much he’d really liked you — he missed walking to school together and catching you glance at him through your perfectly aligned bedroom windows. and when he ran across that sliver of grass, knocking on your door, your mom answered, “she’s gone out of the country, sunghoon, i’m sorry.”

“do you know when she’ll be back?”

“some time before you kids start school, but i can’t be sure.”

sunghoon couldn’t dare let you get away again — not after sitting in his room all summer, coming to terms with the fact that you’d probably never want to see him again.

“hey, uhm y/n?”

it was an unexpected twist to your first day of college, but you didn’t want to deny the spark of intrigue that ignited within you when he called out. you leaned on your heel, turning around swiftly. “yeah… sunghoon, right?” he nodded, and suddenly, your mouth felt dry. "it's been a while!" you awkwardly smiled — this wasn't the ideal situation, but it's still your first day and you have to make it work. "mhm... how've you been?"

it was all so new to you, how he seemed to take interest in your life: when you two were younger, it felt like it was always you — starting a bland conversation, asking how he was, greeting him in hallways with a warm smile: putting in the effort. but this once with sunghoon smiling at you and asking how you were, you felt your heart swooning. " 'good, thanks." you looked down, swirling the liquid of your cup around in the cup. "what about..."

"y/n! hey, are you coming?" your friend's voice pierced through your own. it was hard to believe you were looking at your childhood crush who's now even more handsome than when you last saw him — more skilled and finally giving you the attention you once so desperately craved and part of you still does.

as the weeks passed by, you'd learn college was a lot easier than you thought it'd be. you'd made a small group of friends: supportive and comforting.

the few of you would occasionally get together to study at the cafe, allowing you time closer to sunghoon as you two'd indulge in small talk. you must say, highschool you would've been through the roof — not that you weren't already buzzing with excitement. luckily, none of your classes were overwhelmingly difficult. they'd all passed by pretty simply. however, that didn't mean you weren't overwhelmed yourself.

you sat down in the corner of the small campus cafe with your hands buried inside of your hands. the dim and cozy lighting was perfect for studying and taking notes — but it was also making your eyelids feel heavier, stressing you out. "i hate finals..." you groaned, waiting for your drink. "y/n!"

walking up to the counter, sunghoon'd noticed the look of distress on your face. "here's your drink... 'everything alright?" he offered a sympathetic smile while handing you the drink. "finals..." you mumbled, taking a sip of the coffee before sighing yet again. "it's not that i suck at studying... i'm great at it! i'm just nervous and all of these theories are making my head hurt." you really were the same — sunghoon laughed, "i can help you... only if you need it?" just like when you were younger... your eyes lit up, his offer gave you a rush of dopamine. "really? that'd be great... i... i can pay you, and..."

"y/n, relax. it's fine, it won't be the first time i've tutored you," he snorts. "i guess you're right, seriously thank you."

it was endearing, you two were closer than ever — for the first time it felt like he was actually with you. sunghoon worked his shifts in the bustling campus café, finding himself more and more drawn to your presence amidst the sea of students: you soft laughs and beaming smile whenever you felt confident in an answer — with a warm smile and a willingness to help, he offered his assistance whenever you came in to study.

day by day, your shared laughter and easy camaraderie polluted the air as you two grew closer through shared struggles and small victories. it felt as though you'd known each other for a lifetime — really known eachother, not just as neighbors or two different bodies. as you navigated the stress of finals week side by side, you each found solace in each other's company — meeting in the cafe and library, even occasionally your dorm.

you weren't having the best day — busy and slightly overwhelmed. but it was warm, the gentle spring wind prickling your skin as you entered the library. you felt at ease meeting the comforting scent of books and vanilla. but seeing sunghoon only made your heart race yet again — the dimly lit building perfectly illuminated sunghoon's face, stirring so many emotions within you. "hey..." he broke you out of your trance, waving you over with a supple smile — notes already adorning the small desk as e sorted through them. "sorry, i'm late." you replied, pulling out your computer, opening your notes. suddenly, you felt something next to your hand. "what's that?" you asked, eyes still glued to the page in front of you. "your order."

what was he talking about? you looked away and then at him, confused.

"you didn't come to the cafe, so i figured you got busy — brought it to you since i knew we'd be getting together." the drink sat before you, still cold. "oh... thanks, sunghoon." picking it up, you noticed the small note attached to the cups side. "it's okay if you get busy, i just hope you'll keep coming to see me :)" you took a sip, rereading the note in your head and smiling against the lid of the cup. "good?" he asked, "not bad, park." you nudged him, the two of you giggling before beginning work.

that wouldn't be the last time he'd make your heart pace, but little did you know, he felt the exact same.

you two sat at the desk in his dorm, he thought you looked absolutely gorgeous with your hair pulled back, glasses leaning off the tip of your nose. you were so adorable, working so hard with your lips pursed in concentration. "so, i think that..." you trailed off, turning your head to look at him. "sunghoon? is there something on my face?" your hands darted to your cheeks, frantically searching — which only made him chuckle at you antics. "hey," he grabbed your wrist, stopping your panicked motions, "there's noting on your face." you stared into his eyes, you're so pretty... "no?" sunghoon shook his head, "no. but..." his other free hand came reaching towards you, tucking a piece of hair somewhere behind you. "...thanks." you murmured, slightly under your breath not even noticing how close your faces were... sunghoon doesn't know what happened in that moment but it felt right, pecking a chaste kiss on your lips.

and maybe that's how you ended up underneath him? with your glasses far disregarded and your hair messily thrown, huffing as you two's lips met and molded together in yet another embrace. "fuck... y/n, i really like you." all your previous memories fade away into obscurity, one image remains vividly clear: sunghoon — not the person you once resented in your childhood, but the one you've come to love more than ever. the one who notices small things, makes you laughs, and picks you up when your down. "i like you too..."

you two found yourselves drawn to one another, your tongues intricately tying themselves into a knot. with trembling hands, sunghoon gently cupped your face, pulling you closer into him. his knee meeting your core sending a shiver down your spine as you leaned into his embrace with your arms wrapped around his neck.

your lips met in yet another a fervent kiss, a silent symphony of longing as you lost themselves in each other's kiss — time seemed to stand still as you explored each other with an unwavering hunger, moaning into each other’s mouths and pleading for more. your bodies moved in perfect harmony as they sought to get closer and feel every inch of each other's skin: you threw your shirt over your head and onto the floor. “ ‘so pretty, all the time… ‘wanted to kiss you for so long.” his hands pawing the side of your hips. “shit… ‘should’ve done it sooner, hoonie…” you sighed into the plush of his lips watching as he too removed his shirt.

you were eager, feeling his hardened length caressing your clothed clit. "is this what you want, pretty girl? y/n, please tell me what you want..." you nod, feeling his hands embrace your face yet again for another kiss. "use your words..." he huffed, nipping at your bottom lip, "please, sunghoon... i want this so bad."

his hands were sliding down your sides to reach your waistband, tugging your pants off and trailing kisses down your abdomen. his fingers lingered on the small of your skin — softly tracing imaginary inscriptions, leaving a trail of bruising kisses leading to the waist of your underwear:

pulling them aside he stared in awe at your bare cunt, your puffy clit and semislick folds, staring up at you once more, smirking — leaving another kiss above your cute little clit before licking a stripe up your whole cunt. "shit, you taste so sweet, y/n."

his tongue was hot, prodding at your sticky entrance. "f-fuck..." you huffed out, hands tangled in his hair. sunghoon's so soft and intimate — cherishing this moment as his lips graze and carefully suck your clit with his arms wrap around your thighs, nuzzling further into you heat before slipping two of his fingers inside of you. "such a sweet girl... 'sweet cunt too, 'can't ever let you go again..." you nodded you head, feeling the girth of sunghoon's fingers made you whine. "hoon..." you squirmed under him as he lapped your cunt eagerly, fingers pumping and curling in and out of your sopping cunt. "shit!" he was hungry — he's been waiting for this for what feels like an eternity. "so good, y/n... pussy's so good..." he hummed into your warmth, the vibrations sending chills across your whole body. "fuck, i might cum... sunghoon, please!" he was close too: about to cum practically untouched by rutting into the mattress — getting off on your sweet moans.

his tongue lapped your cunt eagerly — and right when you were about to cum, he suddenly stopped. "why'd... fuck, why'd you do that?" trying to catch your breath you look down at him, chin coated in slick and breathy heavy. he hushed you with yet another soft peck on the lips. "s'okay, 'wanted you to cum on my cock... 'sound good, baby?" he asked in a hushed voice. right now, sunghoon wanted nothing more than to give you the world.

you were so pretty with your fluttering cunt and fucked out face. "y-yeah..." you nodded, anticipating the feeling of his length stretching you out. you watched as he pulled down his sweatpants and breifs, his cock springing out. "s'pretty.." you spoke quietly to yourself, admiring his leaking pinky tip and the veins adorning his cock, slightly curved up and to the left. he tugged at it a couple of times before aligning it with your entrance, easily plunging in and kissing your cervix, bottoming out immediately. "shit! so fucking wet... pussy's so warm, y'know that? s'perfect, fuck!" he groaned, babbling to himself about what felt like nothing.

your tight gummy walls swallowed him so well, leaving him speechless. each thrust, he lost himself deeper and deeper inside of your cunt, hitting your g-spot several times, making you flinch. it turned him on so much, seeing that ring of cream around the base of his cock and watching you squirm and moan under him. "fuck, hoonie, feels so good..!"

"shit... i love when you call me hoonie, y/n! s'tight, ah, shit! say it again: my name, call me hoonie, baby."

"hoonie, please... 'think i'm 'gonna cum!" his thrusts grew sloppier — more desperate as he grew closer to spraying your walls a sticky white. "feel me?" his hand applied pressure to your abdomen, his cock bulging out of your tummy. "oh, fuck..."

"yeah, babygirl... 'hoonie's right... here." his hips relentlessly snapped into yours as he firmly held you down. "mpf! sunghoon, i'm 'gonna cum!"

"go ahead, y/n." another kiss, right on the lips. "cum f'me, yeah?" as you felt the knot in your stomach quickly unraveling, you could feel yourself clenching around the girth of sunghoon's cock. you wished you could stay this way forever, bodies firmly pressed against one another in a warm embrace, lips perfectly bonded as you stared into each other's eyes.

the next time you saw sunghoon, was a week after. you'd run into his arms for a tight hug. "hoonie! i passed, i passed my finals!" he picked you up, peppering your face generously with kisses, "i'm so proud of you," and as you looked up into his eyes, you'd remembered everything — good and bad: rejection and fear and a strange curiosity that led to this: everything you'd always wanted. but most importantly you saw him, park sunghoon: the love of your life.

guidelines and disclaimers | took me way too long to write ! i have no fucking idea where this went but hopefully someone likes it a lot 😭

#lil-ma-shae #fem!reader #fanfiction #enhypen hard hours #enha smut #enha hard hours #enhypen smut #enhypen #enha #enhypen x reader #enha x reader #park sunghoon #sunghoon smut #sunghoon x reader #enha hyung line #park sunghoon smut #black!reader #poc!reader

315 notes · View notes

katsukichu · 3 months

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𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥 - 𝐑𝐮𝐦𝐢 𝐔𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐲𝐚𝐦𝐚 (𝐌𝐢𝐫𝐤𝐨) 𝐱 𝐜𝐡𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐟𝐞𝐦 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Re-upload of an old piece I did for two collabs (chubby chasers collab by @/kyovtani & stay soft collab by @/touyaspeach). [NSFW-18+]. Minors and ageless blogs dni (I will block you)

Mirko sends you a picture of her at the gym & you get a bit self conscious. She reminds you that you'll always be her petty girl. [AO3]

The gym is eerily silent this morning. The usual buzz of people working out is replaced by the clattering of keyboard keys as the receptionist, Akira oversees the administration. She’s grateful for the silence but can't help but wonder why she's having such a slow start today. She stares at the empty studio,furrowing her brows she quickly dismisses her thoughts as she sifts through her emails.

Her tranquillity is soon interrupted by beeping from the revolving doors - indicating someone's just checked in. Akira looks up from her computer to see Japan's 5th hero - Mirko.

"Good morning, Mirko!" she greets excitedly.

"Sorry for the confusion but I thought you'd be in for your regular 3 o'clock session? “ Akira apologises checking her profile on the system.

"Hi hun sorry it must've slipped my mind I meant to call yesterday and reschedule.I have to attend that stupid hero gala today.” Mirko sighs as she tucks her membership card in her bag.

Oh, the hero gala! that explains why anyone isn't here. They’re getting ready, Akira thinks.

"No problem at all, I hope you enjoy the gala!"

"Thank you hun, but it's a big waste of time. I’d rather spend my time working and getting stronger. I mean who wants to be interviewed by people who just want to get under your skin?"

Akira acknowledges Rumi by nodding.

"Sorry you have to deal with the press being so rude. Just know us civilians appreciate you - thank you for your service"

Rumi smiles in response and slips into the studio - she appreciates the comment but truly doesn't care about what the public thinks of her.

Mirko is tough and fierce, especially to the public eye. She has a brash demeanour and laughs in the face of danger. She’s a hero, it’s her job to save people not to impress them.

Rumi is fit, she follows a strict exercise routine every day with no expectations - even a stupid hero gala. Although she enjoys carrots, she tries to have a balanced diet - unlike the cliche she doesn't "eat like a rabbit"

Mirko starts doing some warmup exercises - she switches between the treadmill and spin bike for a while before moving on to the calf and leg machines - these ensure she doesn't get any cramps.

Her favourite and most vigorous part of her routine included bench presses and hip thrusts. She’d even put some men to shame with how easily she does it.

It may look like she isn't breaking a sweat, but her heart is racing. It makes her veins feel like they're on fire and leaves her a little breathless. The only other time she feels like this is with you, her sweet y/n.

Mirko swears she doesn't have a type. Looks are not important to her but she can't help but gravitate towards chubby people. She thinks they're all so unique - just like the stretch marks that adorn their soft skin.

Society is cruel but your weight doesn’t define how "attractive" or how "healthy" you are. Just like the saying: "The bigger the figure, the more I can love.” Rumi thinks knows being chubby just means there's more of you to love.

There's nothing more that Mirko loves than to pick you up, as if you weigh nothing, and look into your eyes. She's constantly teasing you - yet also reassuring you - that she can handle your weight. Her bench presses, hip thrusts and lifts are double or sometimes triple what you weigh. If only you could see yourself from her perspective. Maybe then you'd understand how stunning you are.

Rumi is only satisfied with her workout when she's drenched in sweat and her muscles ache. Before showering she snaps a picture to send to you. Her left hand is up showing off her muscles and her abs are on full display. The sweat is still trickling down her toned body and her gym outfit - that she designed - hugs her in all the right places.

She sends you the picture saying "See something you like, baby bun? 😏😉"

The sunlight streams through your slightly parted curtain and illuminates your shared bedroomp. Rolling over to Rumi's side of the bed you sigh at the empty space. You move the pillows and blankets aside to locate your phone. Ignoring all your other notifications you smile seeing a message from Rumi.

Opening it you try typing a reply but can't form coherent sentences. You wake up, sit at the edge of the bed and stare at the picture of your gorgeous girlfriend and simply reply with a string of emojis 😍😍😍🥵🥵🥵

The longer you stare at the picture you realise it makes you feel a bit anxious and insecure. Rumi has an athletic body and a lot of muscle. You know you shouldn't compare your body type because all bodies are good bodies but you start to feel ashamed about your physique.

You don't have toned abs - instead, you have a plump tummy. Your thighs stick together and are covered in stretch marks and cellulite. Your arms aren't muscular at all; they're a bit flabby. You have back rolls and love handles. You don't have a perfect figure with big boobs or a fat ass - you don't fit the ideal description of being "curvy.” You have body hair, which is something natural, yet society is disgusted by it.

Dating Rumi feels magical and surreal. The only difficult things were dealing with the public and your own insecure thoughts. You try not to let the comments get to you, but some are so harsh.

Things like:

"Oh, so you're a hero huh? I thought the Commission was strict about training?"

"What makes you think you're cut out to be a hero, especially with Mirko? Can you even keep up with her? Didn’t think she'd be into someone bigger than her”

“ I'm pretty sure she said she doesn't need a sidekick especially not someone as useless as you"

"You're not exactly that 'graceful' why don't you pursue something else. Something more suitable for someone of your form?"

People have always doubted you. They’ve always questioned if you were cut out to be a hero. People have made you feel so different and alienated all because of your weight. You feel the hot tears stream down your cheeks. Using the back of your hand you try to wipe them away.

As if on cue Rumi comes home and due to her acute hearing from her quirk, she hears your sobs from the front door.

She drops her bag, slams the door and sprints towards your bedroom hoping you're not in danger. She's ready to pounce on the villain - fists clenched and teeth bared- but instead sees you. She takes a moment to gather herself before calmly making her way to your crying figure.

"Hey baby bun everything is alright" she assures.

She can be so soft and caring - a real 360 from what she was moments ago. Grabbing the tissues and water bottle from the bedside table she hops on the bed and sits next to you

"N-N-No it's not" you stutter, shaking and trying to hold back tears.

Rumi shushes you as she wipes your tears away. She holds the water bottle and helps you drink as well as take deep breaths in sync with hers until you're able to calm down. She holds you against her chest - you can hear her heart racing.

"Who made my baby bun upset?" Rumi asks as her ears and voice drop in pure concern.

"Me... I made myself upset" you admit.

"It's just…" you trail off avoiding eye contact

"Why do you love me? I'm not fit like you, I'm just me I'm fat -"

"HEY that's enough! “Rumi cuts you off.

"I didn't mean to startle you but you're fucking perfect! “ she exclaims

She feels her heart break into a million pieces. How long have you been keeping all this inside? Why haven't you told her - if someone was bothering you, they'd be dead because no one's hurting what's precious to Mirko.

Rumi has an idea, and her ears shoot up.

"Wait a minute I can show you! Come here bun" Rumi gestures for you to sit at the edge of the bed.

You don't know what she's up to but follow her regardless. She opens the closet door and you're met with the full body mirror inside.Immediately you look away and try to hide your dishevelled appearance.

"Come on my pretty girl, don’t hide from me, wanna see your cute face" Rumi says, making you look in the mirror.

"You know what I see when I look into the mirror? The most gorgeous girl in the world. You’re a cutie - a soft and cuddly one too. Being chubby doesn't mean you're greedy, ugly, or out of shape bunny. I love you just the way you are, and I'll always love you for you. I’ll do anything to make you realise that you are perfect just the way you are." Rumi says.

"You really think so" you sniffle looking up at her with teary eyes.

"Of course, baby. I mean every word! But you know what they say, actions speak louder than words. Let me show you what I love about you.“

Rumi tilts your chin up so you're looking at her.

"First off all I love all of you. Every single inch of you. Let's start from up her" Rumi kisses your forehead.

"You are so smart, talented,creative and so strong. I know your brain can be a meanie sometimes but I'm going to Lunar kick all those negative thoughts away" - the two of you giggle.

Rumi cups your face in her hands - her rough palms contrast your soft face.

"You are stunning - mesmerising actually. Your eyes - even though they're a little red now- remind me of the prettiest gemstones. Your lips are soft,sweet and so kissable" Rumi says, placing her chapped lips against yours.

"And of course, who can forget these adorable cheeks" she says while teasingly pinching and squishing them.

There are no bad intentions behind her touches or words purely love and admiration.

"Rumi I -"

"Sweetheart I'm not done yet. I want to praise all of you from head to toe." Rumi cuts you off.

"Your arms are perfect. When you hug me or cuddle me-it makes me feel like I'm at home." Rumi says hugging you.

"You know it'd be better if you're naked." Rumi mumbles pulling away from the hug.

"RUMI DON'T BE SO BLUNT!" you squeal. You feel the blood warm up your cheeks and both of you giggle again.

You hesitated at first but then realised it's just Rumi - the only person you'd leave yourself so open. The only one you will allow you to see you so bare - not only your body but your soul.

She tugs at the hem of your - her- shirt and asks if she can remove it. She does the same to your bottoms. You agreed but only if she takes hers off as well. She does and it makes you clench your thighs together.

Positioning herself on the bed and in front of the mirror she gestures for you to straddle her toned thigh.

"I can't sit there ill -"

"You'll what? Hurt me or something? Think I can't handle it? “She chuckles.

"Come sit. Now. “she instructs.

You know better than to keep her waiting, so you try and hover over her thigh. Only for her to grip the curve of your hips and pull you onto her.

"I said sit not hover bun. I hope you don't try to do that if I ask you to sit on my face.“ Her tone is dangerously low and makes your tummy pool with heat.

"Look how good we look together," Rumi says. You can't focus - not when your soft body is pressed against her strong one. You’re already soaked, and she hasn't even touched you yet. You can't bring yourself to look at the mirror, so you nuzzle your head into her neck.

"You're even cuter when you're squirming. Didn't know that was possible ”she teases.

As you wiggle your hips your clit catches on her muscular thigh, and you stifle back a moan. She flexes her thigh in response.

“Not yet bun”

She holds you in place and turns you so face the mirror once again.

"Your body is perfect.Look at your boobs so what if they're not perky or even? Mine aren't either" Picking your hand up she places it on her boobs.

"And this tummy… where do I even begin. It's not disgusting -it helps keep you nourished. It’s got stretch marks on it and so does mine “she moves your hand down from her chest, along her abs and across her stretch marks.

"Rumi, you're stunning “you whisper. She stretches her fingers over yours and pulls your hand closer so she can hold it.

"So are you, baby. I wanna take care of you.Bun there's so much I have to say. I could go on for hours talking about the reasons I love you - not only your body but your mind ,your soul but right now… I just want to worship your body a little ”

Slipping away from you she kneels on the cool tiled floor and settles between your thighs. You’re flustered by her comments, but your eyes follow the way she moves.

When her fluffy ears tickle you, your sweet laughter fills your shared bedroom. Rumi finally lets go of your hand with a kiss as she massages your thighs.

"So soft, pillowy, absolutely stunning" She traces her fingertips along your stretch marks. She runs her hands along the soft chub of your hips and all the way down to your calves finally settling her hands back on your thighs.You shiver at her soft touches - it makes your body feel electrified.

"Mind if I mark 'em up a little?"

"Mmh" is all you can respond with

"I need words baby. Are you in the mood for this & want me to continue?"

"Y-yes it's okay"

"Good because the only time I want to see you crying again is when it's on my strap. Got it Princess?"

(a/n-the best line I've ever wrote in my whole writing career)

Before you can respond she starts softly kissing along your inner thighs.You place your hands in her hair making sure not to grip too tight or near the base of her ears - which are extra sensitive. Rumi sucks on your soft skin and smirks when the bruises blossom on your skin.

You grind against the edge of the bed and your grip tightens on her hair. Looking down you feel a sense of pride and belonging which fades into concern.

Fuck how am I going to cover them up before the gala? you pondered.

"Eyes on the mirror pretty. Want you to watch how you fall apart for me" Rumi requested.

She smirks, spreading your plush thighs apart. You prop yourself up on a pillow and on your elbows trying to follow Rumi's order to look in the mirror.

You feel overwhelmed - mind hazy with lust and embarrassment. You don't know where to look.

"C-can I look at you instead?"

Rumi gives you a hazy smile before running her fingers along your pretty pussy. She swears she loves all of you equally, but your pussy was something else. She loves the way she has to use all her fingers to spread your folds and mound just so she can see your clit.

She adores the way you flutter and clench around nothing - you're so cute and eager. She doesn't mind whether you shave but secretly finds it hot when you let it grow. She's not letting a little hair stop her from pleasing you.

Rumi knows how to pleasure a woman - she alternates kissing along your thighs and pussy. The anticipation makes you dizzy. As she teases you, you gasp and buck your hips towards her.

She uses the tip of her tongue to swirl around your throbbing clit. She feels it pulsing on her tongue and stops to edge you for a bit before flattening it and running it along your eager slit.

She feels so good it almost hurts - you feel a dull pain almost desperate to feel something. Rumi always makes sure you're dripping before easing a finger into you. She curls her fingers upwards, and it hits your sweet spot every time and uses her other hand to spread you open so she can lap at your clit

Even though your plush thighs are muffling her ears she can still hear you.Your shared bedroom that was recently filled with sobs and giggles is now filled with lewd moans and erratic breathing

"No cumming until you tell me what I want to hear," Mirko says, slowing her movements

"Please… Please Please" you beg feeling a flurry of butterflies in your tummy.

"No not that… I want you to say you're pretty"

"m pretty" you try to say but instead it comes out in a high pitched squeal

"Say it like you mean it or you're not going to cum" Rumi demands, completely stopping her actions.

"Fuck. Mmh sorry. I’m pretty. I’m pretty Mmh so pretty. Mmh Mirko's pretty girl" you blabber, unsure of what you're saying all you can think about is cumming.Arching your back and trying to hump Rumi’s fingers you cry out of desperation.

"That's a good girl. You are my pretty girl, don’t forget that. You can cum for me sweetheart" Rumi praises, lapping at your clit, pumping, and curling her fingers again

You feel your tummy tighten before cumming all over Rumi's fingers. Your eyes are shut, and the most angelic moans leaves your lips.

Your chest heaves and Rumi looms above you cooing about how proud she is of you. She takes a moment to appreciate your stunning body again as she licks her fingers.

"You think you can give one more pretty? “ Rumi asks, massaging your legs

Still trying to catch your breath you nod frantically - wanting to please your girlfriend.

Rumi's pussy is throbbing and drenched in her own arousal. All she can think about is pushing your thick thighs up so she can grind on your pretty pussy.

She holds your legs to your chest - digging her hand into the soft flesh. Feeling her pussy on yours makes both of you whimper. The two of you are so wet and desperate and you know you're not going to last long.

She may be smaller than you but thanks to her training she pins you down easily and humps you like a bunny in heat. Slipping her hand between the two of you and spreading your pussy open so you grind clit to clit with each other.

“Just like that bun.... there’s my good, pretty girl” she grits.

With each harsh thrust of her hips, it makes your tummy rolls and boobs jiggle. Rumi is truly mesmerised by your beauty. She keeps glancing up and down. Your eyes are shut in pure ecstasy and your tongue is lolled out of your mouth.

"S'pretty like this - all for me right Princess?"

"Mmh. M f'you Rumi. I'm y-your pretty girl."

"That's what I wanted to hear"

You continue rocking your bodies back and forth at an even more frantic pace.

"Faster pretty. Fuck just like that. ahh" Rumi curses.

The two of you cum hard and Rumi almost collapses on you. Catching herself she allows herself to gently lie on top of you. Bodies pressed together and drenched in sweat and with racing hearts, the two of you lay like this for a while.

You can't think straight at all - the room feels like it's spinning. You struggle to keep your eyes open and even out you’re breathing.

“One more alright. Just relax, I got it".

Rumi is full of energy - it’s her quirk or being a hero but she's got excellent stamina. Sex always ended up being multiple rounds with the sweetest aftercare.

Rumi goes to the bedside table and grabs her strap on and a bottle of lube - not that she needed it.

"Are you okay with this? “She asks while lubing up her strap.

Still basking in your afterglow and trying to come back to reality you reply with a meek "yes.” You can't see Rumi but hear the jingle of the buckles as she secures the strap on.

"Absolutely sure? Cause I really wanna fuck you against the mirror so you can see how pretty you are taking me "

Taglist [click here to join <3]

@buzzyboi79 @0lissa0 @nishikina @bakugosgorl @bakugosbratx @aomi04 @dabis0bitch @bakubabeyy @keisurou @hannas16 @namjoonswifeyy @neko-loogi @stormcloudsbrewing @nymphoheretic @gently-folded-paper-cranes @shoutascoffeepot @slutfor-fictionalmen @dreamcastgirl99

#✎.kai writes #mha x reader #mha smut #chubby chaser #stay soft #chubby reader #writing collab #wlw #mirko #miruko #rumi usagiyama #rumi usagiyama x reader #mirko x reader #mha x chubby reader #mha x female reader #mha mirko #plus size reader #mha x plus size reader

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tkwrites · 5 months

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Private Lessons - Quinn Hughes x Sarah (ofc)

Photo from Pinterest

Title: Private Lessons

Author: Tory / @tkwrites

Relationship: Quinn Hughes x Sarah (OFC)

Warnings: None? If I should add any, please let me know.

Summary: As requested by @eyesthatroll, Quinn teaches Sarah to skate.

Word Count: 3,300

Comments: After taking a bit of a breather, I’m back with a requested fic. 2 months after you requested it, your wish is my command, Mari. I hope you enjoy it!

This was an interesting exercise for me to write something requested by someone else that wasn’t necessarily my own idea. I wrestled with it and got in my head a lot about it, but ultimately, I like the result I finally came to.

Thanks for your patience and support. Please let me know if there’s anything else you’d like to see in their universe! I can’t guarantee I’ll write it, but I love the inspiration and challenge these requests bring!

eyesthatroll asked: tory!! i absolutely adore your writing 🥹 maybe if it’s in your wheelhouse, you could write quinn teaching sarah to skate (or them going skating together) for the first time. i think that would be very adorable 😭 it’s totally fine if that’s not in the cards for the series though, don’t feel pressured! love ya! 🫶🏽

Private Lessons

A Quinn & Sarah Snapshot

At the end of every season we have a family skate. It's on the 15th. I'd like to bring you if you can come.

Sarah knew this was a bigger deal than his crafted to be casual text was letting on. If it really was casual, he would have mentioned it before he left for the three game road trip.

She also knew dating a hockey player meant she would have to face her fear and past failure eventually. Even if a team event wasn't involved, it was such a big part of Quinns life. She wouldn't be able to avoid it forever.

Does everyone skate?

Usually yeah. Not all of the partners do, but most.

I've never skated before.

Really?

Desert flower, remember? she sent with a picture of a blooming cactus.

He laughed. There are lots of different skill levels there. People bring their kids and stuff.

Meaning what? That I'll be the only adult with training wheels?

No wheels ;)

She sent a gif of someone rolling their eyes. I'd love to go with you, but I really don't want to be the only one who doesn't know what they're doing. Could I persuade you to give me some private lessons?

I guess that depends on what you’re willing to give me. ;)

I mean, there’s not much I wouldn’t give you. What do you want?

A long pause passed in their conversation. When she finally read his response on her way home, her cheeks pinked so much, she had to put her phone in her bag for fear of giving herself away on the train.

That’s how they ended up at a mostly empty training rink the Wednesday night after he got home.

She found him waiting for her in the lobby, surrounded by a swarm of kids all jockeying for his attention. It looked like a whole little league team was getting out of practice or a game right as he arrived. They were so excited, acting as if he came in just to see them.

Sarah waited off to the side, watching him sign autographs and give advice, and talk to each of them. She was tired and hungry, but seeing Quinn in this element gave her a new side of him to admire. He was patient and kind, and invested. She remembered him telling her how he always liked to talk to kids because he remembered how much it meant to him when his favorite players were willing to stop and talk. Seeing that quite literally come full circle was a gift she hadn’t expected to see.

When he finally looked up and met her gaze, he flashed her a grin and mouthed, thank you.

Smiling in return, she nodded to an empty room off to the side before settling in with her laptop to work on her publication.

A big sigh announced his presence a while later, as Quinn slid down the wall to sit next to her on the floor. “Sorry about that,” he said, wrapping his arms around her and pressing a kiss to her temple.

“It’s fine. I always have stuff to work on, and seeing you with the kids is sweet.”

“Winning me some brownie points?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows.

“Like you even need them.”

Sarah closed her laptop and turned her head so they could finally say hello properly.

He pulled her close to deepen the kiss. Even though he'd gotten back in town after midnight the night before, they hadn’t seen each other until now. He'd debated going to the aquarium after practice, but remembered they wouldn't let him back without a pass the last time he’d tried. Besides, he didn’t want to interrupt her work so close to finals.

The urge to climb into his lap was so strong, Sarah had to pull back from the kiss before she made a public spectacle of herself.

“I missed you,” he said, trailing a finger from her cheekbone to her jaw. It felt like the road trip was finally over now that she was back in his arms.

“I missed you, too.”

“I have to confess something,” Sarah blurted, nerves eating her from the inside out as he showed her how to tie her skates.

Quinn looked up from pulling her laces tight.

“I’ve been skating before.”

One of his eyebrows cocked up, “you have, have you?”

“It was terrible. It was on a first date with this guy when I was a freshman, and I’m pretty certain the only reason he suggested it was so he could get his hands on me.”

Quinn wrapped his hand around her calf and joked, “I guess it’s a good thing I’ve already had my hands on you, then.”

“You’re not mad?” she said, surprised.

“About what? That I’m not popping your ice skating cherry?”

Laughter barked out of her mouth before she explained, “no, that I lied. I mean, I didn’t really lie. We went on ice, on skates, but no real skating was involved.”

“Now I feel like you’re lying,” his voice was teasing.

“After half a wobbly, too touchy lap, I fell and broke my wrist.”

The bemused smile dropped off his lips, “oh my god, Sarah, why didn’t you tell me before?”

Her bottom jaw moved as she worried the inside of her lower lip. “I didn't know when it would come up.” she said. “I mean, if anyone can teach me to skate, you can. But that's why I wanted it to be just us first.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve broken lots of bones skating,” he said, stroking her leg.

She smiled tightly. “I bet none of those were from you falling down.”

“I don’t know, maybe? You’d have to ask my mom, but I fell plenty when I was learning, that’s really normal.”

“It just feels like one of those things that I'll never live down, you know?”

“Well, you and I are the only ones that know now.”

“Yeah and Josh Jackson and all those people at the Reno rec rink.”

“You keep in touch with everyone who was there that night?” he joked, hoping she would see how ridiculous her worry was.

A hand flew up to cover her face as she blushed. “I guess it just lives in my head every time I think about ice skating.”

“I know the feeling, but it was one time seven years ago, right? And you’ve got a better teacher, now.”

She dropped her hands so she could meet his gaze, giving him a hopeful smile.

He changed the subject. “Are these too tight? Can you move your toes?”

“Yeah. I mean, no they're not too tight.”

He smiled, stood and held out a hand, “come on. I can't promise you won't fall, but I'll do my best.”

As they walked through the tunnel to the rink, she said, “This is the weirdest feeling.”

“It can't be worse than wearing heels.”

“Have you ever worn heels?”

“Well, no,” he admitted.

“Then you can't say a damn thing about it. At least in heels, the ball of your foot is on the ground. With this, it's like my feet are suddenly half an inch wide.”

“You're thinking too much.”

“What am I supposed to do, not think?”

“Don't think so much,” he said, stopping at the boards and turning around. “Okay, I'm going to get on and help you on, okay?”

She nodded.

He bit back his smile at the determination on her face. “It's slippery, so be prepared.”

“Gee, thanks, Hughes,” she said, flatly. “I had no idea ice is slippery.”

He laughed. She’d never called him by his last name. Of course it would come out when she was nervous.

“I'll have you the whole time. I won't let you go until you tell me to,” he promised, reaching to help her through.

She stepped on and immediately over corrected, jerking back.

He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her against him to keep them upright. “Calm down,” he said, trying to sound soothing. “I know it's a weird feeling.”

In all actuality, he didn't know. He'd been skating so long it sometimes felt easier than walking.

“Just hold on and let me pull you.”

Skating backwards, he took her on a lap. Her fingers were hooked around his elbows, so he was forced to awkwardly hold the backs of her arms.

“Can you relax? I’ve got you.”

She glanced down and felt her legs wobble. Visions of the ice rushing up to kiss her on the temple made her dizzy.

“Look at me,” he said in a voice that couldn’t be ignored.

Sarah met his eyes. The dim lights over the rink made them a sort of muddy green she’d never seen before.

“If you keep looking down, you’re going to fall,” he said. “You go toward what you look at.”

“I just want to make sure my feet are right.”

“Do you have to watch your feet when you’re walking?”

“Well, no, but this is new.”

“Sure, but once you get over the fact that you’re on the ice and used to your skates, it’ll start to feel more natural.”

“Yeah, I’ll just get over that.”

He shook his head, and moved on. “Okay, start picking your feet up like you’re walking.”

“Like I’m walking?” she repeated. “That seems really counterintuitive.”

“It’s not that different from walking, you're just gliding instead.”

She leveled him with a deadpan, sarcastic look.

She was about to ask him how she was supposed to walk when she couldn’t lift her heel or push off with the ball of her foot, when she realized arguing his syntax wasn't going to get her anywhere. This was a case where she had to swallow her pride and ask for what she needed.

“Can you break it down, like the physics of it, for me?” she asked. “It helps me to see all the steps before I do something.”

As he talked her through the mechanics of skating forward, she held onto his arm. She had so many questions he’d never considered, like how he used his edges to push off.

Skating was so automatic on his part, he didn’t even have to think about it. He’d never had to break down what he was doing like this.

Seeing how his legs worked up close and in slower motion helped her envision doing the same things herself.

“Okay, come back here.”

He moved in front of her again.

“You make that look so easy,” she said, a bit of a whine in her voice.

“Sarah,” he said, swallowing the bite in his tone, “I've been doing this for twenty years. I do this for a living. I'd hope I make It look easy. I couldn't take over writing one of your papers, or come into the aquarium and start taking care of Walter.”

“Yeah,” she said, resigned.

“I know it's frustrating that you can't pick this up right away, but no one can. You can’t read your way into skating well.”

That touched a nerve and she glared at him.

He let go of one of her hands so he could hold his up in surrender. “All I mean is that you just have to physically get used to it. How long did it take you to perfect your golf swing?”

“That’s different.”

“How is that different?”

“I started that as a kid.”

“So? You can learn things now. You learn new things all the time.”

“Yeah. It just feels so daunting. I really don’t want to look like an idiot in front of all your teammates.”

“No one will care. They’re just excited to meet you. We can come back every night I’m in town if you want. Or you can just not skate.”

That caused distress to fly over her face. “No. I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” He glanced behind him out of habit, even though there was no one else on the ice. It was a clean sheet too, freshly zambonied after the pee-wee hockey game that ended right before they arrived. Perfect learning conditions.

Sarah recentered herself by pulling a breath down her spine, “this is such a big part of your life. I want to be able to participate.”

“Yeah?” he asked, a half smile lifting the right side of his mouth.

“Yeah, and like you said, I have a better teacher now.”

“Tell me about your day,” he said.

“Okay,” she answered, dubious of his intentions.

“It’ll help you to stop thinking about what your body’s doing. I think you’ll find it will sort itself out if you let it.”

He could tell she didn’t really believe him, but went ahead anyway, telling him about the little boy at the aquarium that afternoon who had insisted he’d caught an octopus as big as Walter and thrown it back the last time he and his mom had gone fishing.

“I mean, maybe he did,” she said, shrugging. “But his teacher gave me this look like, ‘don’t believe a single word he says’. I felt bad, She just looked so tired of him.”

Quinn laughed and decided not to point out that she was skating perfectly naturally now that she was out of her head about it. “What happened in class?”

“Well, even if I get a C on my comparative physiology final, I’ll still pass the class.”

“That’s huge, Sarah,” he said.

“Yeah, it's such a relief, but then, Paul dropped that he's adding a test on top of our publication. Thankfully it’s not a huge part of my grade, but still, more on the pile. He’s calling it a review, but that just means it’ll cover everything we’ve studied this term.”

“That doesn’t seem fair for him to add that at the last second.”

“Well, he can do what he wants, so,” she shrugged. “He said he thinks we need it. I think he's just being a controlling jackass.”

“Can't you report him or something?”

“For what?”

“For changing the syllabus so late.”

“Well, he's the head of the program, so I can't complain to him, plus if I went to the dean, I'm pretty certain she'd tell me ‘this is graduate school, and you should grow up.’”

Quinn winced.

“Yeah. He's just a dick because he can be. He’s the lord over this little kingdom and he wants us all to know it.”

She shook her head, “I’m sorry, we can be done talking about him.”

“You can keep complaining if you want.”

“No, it's okay. It just makes me more mad, which makes me not want to study, which only shoots me in the foot.”

“Okay,” Quinn said, “I think you’re ready for me to be next to you.”

“What?”

“Yeah, you’ve been skating fine for the last five minutes.”

She looked down as if to confirm, “I have?”

“It’s not like you were standing still.”

“But you’ve been pulling me.”

“I was, but I’ve mostly just been holding your hand, keeping distance. You've been moving yourself forward.”

“Really?” Shaking her head, Sarah laughed a little to herself, “you really are a better teacher.”

He gave her a wink and spun to stand next to her.

“Keep talking,” he encouraged.

“About what?”

She didn’t know what to look at now. There were empty stands, and scratched glass, and the whole smooth sheet of ice, lines etching a curving lacey pattern around the perimeter.

“Whatever you want.”

“I don't -” glancing down, she remembered his advice and jerked up. The sudden movement caused her to promptly fall on her rear with a frustrated grunt.

Her hands fell to her sides in a gesture that said, why is this so hard for me?

“You're doing great.”

“I just fell down.”

“So? I fall all the time. You just need to learn to get back up.”

He did fall, and she was always so impressed with his ability to just pop back up and continue playing as if nothing happened.

He coached her back onto her feet, and they continued around the rink as he told her about the road trip he’d just come home from. Only five days away, but the comeback overtime loss and two wins made it a huge confidence builder.

He admitted that though some of the strain was lessened for the next month with their guaranteed spot in the finals, he still felt so much pressure to perform.

“There was this moment on Friday, though, where we were just gelling, you know, and it felt like ‘we deserve this now.’”

“Of course you deserve it. You work your ass off for that team, Quinn.”

Throwing her a thankful smile, he said, “I mean we all do it together.”

“And you’re a big reason everyone is buying in.”

“Look at you, learning hockey talk.”

“That is something I can read my way into.” she joked. “Plus your mom explained a bunch of the idioms to me.”

He laughed.

She fell twice more, but got up each time. The last time, she even managed to do it without his help.

“You’re doing great,” he praised, moving in front of her again, “you’ll be a natural in no time.”

Pulling herself to him with their clasped hands she winked, “it's because I have the best teacher.”

She was close enough now that he would just have to lean in to kiss her. He did, because he could. They were apart so much, it only made sense to take advantage when they were together.

Whenever people kissed on ice rinks in movies, Sarah was always struck with what a dumb idea it was. It seemed incredibly stupid to not pay attention to what you were doing on such a volatile surface.

In reality, when Quinn kissed her, she melted. It felt so romantic. Cold, but cozy with his warm body pressed against hers, and the confidence in knowing he wouldn’t let her fall. The only sound was the pleasant scrape of their skates on the ice.

Suddenly, everything she’d stopped herself from saying over the past few weeks came bubbling up into her mouth.

Just the night before, she’d felt on the cusp of saying something other than “I miss you,” at the end of their goodnight phone call. She had bit it back, not wanting that first time to happen over the phone. She felt like the moment had to be perfect.

Fuck that, she thought, now. She didn’t want to hold it in anymore. Plus, wasn’t this moment perfect enough?

Pulling away, she waited for him to open his eyes.

After a moment or two, Quinn realized she wasn’t teasing, and met her gaze, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothings wrong.”

Suddenly, it felt too formal. They weren’t in the Elizabethan era where one declared their feelings in some kind of a grand speech, but she couldn’t not say it. It felt too disingenuous to keep holding it in.

“I just…” she brushed her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck as she ran over a few possibilities in her mind rapid fire, dismissing them all for being too much. Honesty, it seemed, was proving to be the best policy. “I just really love you.”

Quinn could feel his eyes crinkling closed as his face melted into a goofy smile, one reserved only for family and people close to him.

It felt like something broke open in his chest, finally set free. “I love you too.”

Sarah giggled and it came out a little watery. She never expected to cry when she told him, but her body always did like to cry over big emotions.

Quinn wiped her tears away with his thumbs before tilting her face up to his.

This kiss was softer, not as hurried. Desire giving way to something deeper – less fickle, and more settled.

As they walked back to the locker room, Quinn realized, suddenly, that he'd left something unsaid. He tugged on her hand, and she turned.

“I’m really proud of you,” he said. “I know you were really nervous.”

She leaned up to kiss him. “Thank you for being a very patient teacher.”

Want more Quinn & Sarah? Check out the Snapshots Masterlist

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#quinn & sarah snapshots #quinn hughes #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes x oc #quinn hughes fan fic #nhl fanfiction #nhl imagine #nhl writing #nhl fic #quinn hughes fanfiction #hockey fanfiction #hockey fic

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ilguna · 5 months

Note

Expired Medicine Pls! Bucky & #5?

☼ left behind but never forgotten (Bucky Barnes) ☼

warnings; swearing, death, death mention, gun use, grenade use, fighting, injuries.

wc; 3.5k

prompt; 5. "I'll come back for you, I promise."

notes; spoilers for captain america the winter soldier.

The halls of the hospital are busy, swarming with doctors and nurses. They flip through pages of documents, some of them dodging in and out of rooms. If there’s any bad time to be on a mission, it’s now. In a place that’s supposed to be secure and safe from danger.

You told Steve that you’d come inside by yourself to retrieve the flash drive, but he didn’t trust you, wanting to make sure that he got it, himself. So, you follow behind him, letting him lead the way. He has his navy blue hood pulled up to block the view of his blonde hair and to shadow some of his more notable features. You know that he wants to avoid drawing attention, but you think it makes him look more suspicious than not.

His pace comes to a slow pace as he stops in front of the vending machine. On the way, he told you that he put the flash drive behind three sticks of bubblegum while the employee was stocking it. He wanted it here for safe keeping because he’d gone back with some of the SHIELD members. And with Fury’s warning, he didn’t want to take any chances.

You come up beside him, looking over his shoulder. Your eyes search the entire machine, looking for the aforementioned bubblegum. You even take a step back to get a bigger picture, but you come up with nothing.

You glance at Steve. “This is a problem.”

“I know.”

The sound of popping behind you makes you turn to see where it’s coming from. It’s Natasha, loudly chewing the pink gum, eyes switching between you and Steve. He lets out an annoyed sigh before he steps at her, placing a firm hand in the middle of her chest to push her into the empty room across the hall.

The door opens with a slam as the blinds rattle against the glass.

“So much for not drawing attention.” You mutter, reaching to close the door behind you.

Steve pushes Natasha against the nearest wall, trapping her with one hand as he pulls off his hood with the other. “Where is it?”

“Safe.” She says.

“Do better.”

“Where did you get it?” She counters.

“Why would I tell you?”

You glance out the window, watching another medical staff member pass by, completely oblivious of the three of you.

“Fury gave it to you. Why?” Her eyebrows are drawn in.

“What’s on it?”

“I don’t know.” She shakes her head.

“Stop lying.” Steve tells her.

“I only act like I know everything, Rogers.” She says, as if it’s obvious.

Steve looks over his shoulder at you, maybe for assurance. Or to make sure that you’re standing nearby. When he looks back at Natasha, you step in closer. “I bet you knew Fury hired the pirates, didn’t you?”

Natasha’s mouth opens, no words coming out for a second while she thinks of a response. “Well, it makes sense. The ship was dirty, Fury needed a way in, so do you.”

Steve grabs her shirt. “I’m not gonna ask you again.”

“I know who killed Fury.” She finally says, Steve’s grip loosens. “Most of the intelligence community doesn’t believe he exists. The ones that do call him the Winter Soldier. He’s credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last fifty years.”

“So he’s a ghost story.” You say, shaking your head.

“Five years ago, I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran. Somebody shot out my tires near Odessa. We lost control, went straight over a cliff. I pulled us out. But the Winter Soldier was there. I was covering my engineer so he shot him straight through me.” She pulls up the bottom of her shirt, revealing a scar on her left side, a few inches away from her bellybutton. “Soviet slug. No rifling. Bye-bye, bikinis.”

“Yeah, I bet you look terrible in them now.” Steve remarks.

She gives him a halfway smile before it drops. “Going after him is a dead end. I know, I’ve tried.” She pulls out the flash drive from her pocket, holding it up between them. “Like she said, he’s a ghost story.”

“Well, let’s find out what the ghost wants.” Steve backs off of her, moving so that you can see them both. “Are you still in?”

“‘Course I am.” You cross your arms over your chest. “This sounds like fun.”

—

If you’d known you’d end up in a car, squished between Natasha and a HYDRA agent, you think you might’ve told Steve that he could figure this out on his own. It probably wouldn’t have gone over well. He might’ve even begged you a little bit to change your mind, but with Sam here, there’s really no need for you to be.

“Natasha, why don’t we switch spots?” You ask, eyeing Sitwell for another moment before looking at her. “I don’t feel comfortable sitting next to him. I think this is more your specialty.”

She gives you an amused look. “I told you not to get in the car first.”

Sitwell blinks, drawing his attention from the cars passing you by on the freeway, to you. “Afraid all that training is going to fail you?”

Your eyes narrow, “No.”

He sighs. “HYDRA doesn’t like leaks.”

“Then why don’t you try sticking a cork in it?” Sam retorts, looking at him in the mirror.

Natasha leans over you to speak to Steve, who’s sitting in the passenger seat. This pushes you closer to Sitwell. “Insight’s launching in sixteen hours. We’re cutting it a little bit close here.”

“I know. We’ll use him to bypass the DNA scans and access the helicarriers directly.”

“What? Are you crazy?” Sitwell asks, eyes wide. “That is a terrible, terrible idea.”

A loud thud on the roof of the car makes it cave in a little. You only have enough time to glance up, before the window shatters next to Sitwell, sending glass flying all over the interior of the car. You shield your face, feeling the glass pelt your jacket and jeans, before landing on the now-empty leather seat.

Sitwell is gone, he screams briefly as he’s thrown into oncoming traffic on the other side of the concrete barrier, where he’s hit by a honking truck. You watch as a gun appears in front of the open window, the safety being turned off, before being pulled away.

Natasha leaps from the back seat to the front, landing in Steve’s lap as she pulls his head down. A bullet pierces the leather where she had just been, you slide there as another bullet slams in your seat. With two hands on the back of your head, you duck, listening as two more shots are fired.

When you raise your head, you catch Steve reaching forward to the emergency brake, yanking it back. The brakes screech against the asphalt, slamming the car to a hard stop. The man that had been on top of the car flies from the roof, somersaulting in the air so that he lands on a knee pad and a singular arm. A metal arm.

“What the fuck.” You breathe, watching as he dislodges his hands from the asphalt to rise to his feet.

For a few seconds, it’s a stand-off, as the cars around you weave in and out of the lanes to avoid hitting the car you’re in. Natasha tries to whip out her gun to shoot at him, but an armored truck hits you from behind, making you jerk forward, forcing the car in his direction.

He jumps, landing back on the roof. Sam slams on the brakes, trying to stop, but the truck is too strong. A metal arm comes flying through the windshield, fingers wrapping around the steering wheel, breaking it off.

“Shit!” Sam screams.

Natasha tries shooting at the roof, but the Winter Soldier jumps off, onto the truck behind you. You turn, wanting to keep your eyes on the threat, and find him on the hood of the armored vehicle.

“He’s accelerating!” You shout.

The trunk crumples further as you’re rammed again, this time throwing the car off course. It turns, wheel running up the side of the barrier, before forcing you back on the freeway. The car begins to wobble from side to side, growing more violent by the second.

Steve pulls up his shield, placing it on the passenger door. “Hang on!” He shouts, grabbing Natasha.

The car begins to twist, you reach for the window that Sitwell had been forced out of, grabbing the edges and pulling up as you go airborne. Steve, Natasha and Sam must escape together out of the door, because when you look down to launch yourself out, they’re gone.

And so are you.

You cross your arms over your chest with fists, holding on tightly to the body of your jacket while you’re thrown into the air. You gain several more feet, and in that time, you duck your head, ankles locked together, until you come crashing down to Earth.

With the world being one giant dizzying blur, you have to guess how far away you are from the freeway. You hesitate, waiting for the best possible moment to land without hurting yourself. Unfortunately, it’s a second too long, because when you throw out your left foot to throw you into a roll, you land on it sideways.

The pain is immediate, but it takes up the back of your mind as you hit the concrete, rolling for several feet. When the momentum is gone, you sit upright, clutching at your ankle, eyes searching for your friends.

You find the overturned car, and then Natasha and Steve, who are still sitting on his Captain America shield. Beside you is Sam, who’s eyeing your ankle, worried. You’re more focused on the Hydra vehicle, and the fact that the Winter Soldier now holds a grenade launcher.

In one solid move, you grab the front of Sam’s shirt, throwing him down as a grenade is sent in your direction. Steve holds up his shield, intending to deflect the explosion, but he ends up triggering it instead. The blast sends him ricocheting off of a car behind him, and over the side of the overpass.

You jump to your feet while you can, ignoring the piercing pain in your ankle as you try to run to hide behind the van. Sam is right beside you, you can feel his hand on your lower back, but then it’s gone, as he goes to hide behind the silver car a few feet back.

Natasha glances at you, gun in her hand. “Got any tricks up your sleeve?”

“Not really.” You tell her.

She pops up, shooting back at the HYDRA agents that are slowly advancing in your direction. You look back at Sam, and watch as he makes a run for it down the freeway. You suck in a breath, springing up to hurl yourself over the side of the barrier. A car whizzes by, and Natasha lands next to you.

You swear the whole bridge shakes when another grenade explodes.

She grabs your hand, passing one of her guns over. “I’ll distract him, you shoot when you get the chance.”

“Just to be clear, this is the Winter Soldier, right?” You ask.

Natasha makes a grave face, nodding. When there’s a break in the gunfire, she crosses three lanes of traffic, rolls over a car, only to be thrown off the side of the bridge when he launches a bomb.

A car comes to a screeching halt a foot or so away from you, inadvertently shielding you from the enemy. You turn to the left, climbing on your hands and knees while you try to get a better spot to shoot. It’s eerily quiet for several seconds, you slowly creep up to look over the wall, finding him aiming below the bridge.

When you’re sure that the HYDRA agents aren’t watching, you stand up, popping the safety off. You hold up the gun, aiming for the back of the Winter Soldier’s head. And right as you go to pull the trigger, a shot is fired, his head whipping to the side. When he turns to drop down, you can see that Natasha got him in the goggles.

He pulls them off, fist tightening around the black material. Then, he gets back up, spraying bullets at Natasha in response, pissed. They get into a brief gunfight, where you wait for the better opportunity to shoot.

As soon as the other HYDRA agents get to their feet, you fire. They’re solid shots on all three of them. So solid and precise, that they’re dead as soon as the bullets hit their bodies. You let out a breathy laugh, surprised that you still have that in you, but the celebration is gone when the Winter Soldier begins to turn.

You hit the cement, but you must be the least of his worries, because he doesn’t come after you. When you’re sure of this, you get back to your feet and over the barrier to retrieve one of the HYDRA guns from the bodies. You find a hook embedded into the hood of a car, attached to a thick black wire that hangs over the side of the overpass.

First, you check to make sure that there’s not an agent attached at the bottom. Then, you attach the gun to your body with the strap to keep it on you. After you’ve pulled your jacket sleeves over your hands, you slide down the wire, joining Steve, Natasha and the Winter Soldier below.

Except, there is no one.

You stand in the middle of the street, eyes sweeping the area, but all you’re coming up with are civilians running away. You head toward the anger to start, keeping a sharp eye out for any of the HYDRA agents that might be lurking around nearby.

There’s a distant sound of gunfire, followed by an explosion. You pick up the pace, jogging down three blocks before you’re met with a busy intersection. You hoist the gun up, one eye peering through the scope before you pull the trigger.

The Winter Soldier moves, making you miss by barely an inch. Steve runs at him to keep him from shooting back at you, swinging the shield up in time to block his punch, causing the metal to sound like a gong. Steve gets kicked off of the car, landing on the road, where he covers himself with the shield.

The enemy rolls off the car, pulling out a machine gun to shoot at Steve. When the bullets run out, Steve swings himself over the top of the car, foot knocking the gun out of his hand. You reload the rifle, waiting for the right moment to shoot, while they engage in hand-to-hand combat.

He shoots, they go back and forth with the punches, and block. The gun is put away, Steve is twisted out of the shield, now in the Winter Soldier’s grasp. It’s placed between them to keep a distance, but eventually yanked from Steve’s rip as the HYDRA assassin uses it to his advantage.

When there’s a pause, you go to pull the trigger, until the shield comes flying in your direction.

You jerk to the side, watching as the shield lodges into the back door of a white van behind you. With wide eyes, you look back at Steve, only to find him fighting once more. You reach, yanking the shield free, and also retrieving your gun as you move closer.

Steve seems to have a knife now. He tries to take multiple stabs, but ultimately it’s taken from him, and he ends up dodging once more. The Winter Soldier makes the mistake of swinging over Steve twice, allowing him to counter with a hook and a kick. The soldier slams back into a car, Steve runs at him, slamming him into it further, causing the door to dent and the glass to break.

He goes in for a punch once again, but the Winter Soldier blocks it, backing Steve away as he tries to fight back. Steve flips him over, standing over him for just a second, before the Winter Soldier grabs Steve’s neck, squeezing.

You let the gun hang against your chest, fixing the shield in your hand. You swing back, and then launch it forward. Steve’s eyes dart to it, ticking off the Winter Soldier, so he throws Steve over the hood of a car, turning just in time to grab the shield before it hits him. By then, you’re firing bullets, watching as they bounce off of the metal.

The gun jams.

“Shit.” You pull it off of you, hurling it in his direction. He catches it in his metal hand, clenching his fist around the material, breaking it.

He turns his attention back to Steve, who’s on the other side of the car. They go back to fighting, you continue to advance, a little annoyed that he doesn’t see you as a threat enough. He pulls out a knife, going to stab Steve, but the metal pieces a grey van, slicing the paint vertically.

Steve grabs the Winter Soldier, throwing him back to get him off, and swiping the shield in the process. The enemy swings, hits metal. He swings again with the knife, hitting metal. The Winter Soldier punches Steve successfully, trying to kick but he’s met with the shield, so he swings again.

Steve slams the shield into the metal arm of the Winter Soldier, and then forces it up, hitting him in the face. Steve wraps his hand around the mask, flipping him over backward, but it's too much momentum, because the Winter Soldier somersaults.

You walk around the truck, going to join Steve, finding the black mask lying on the asphalt. The Winter Soldier rises, back to you at first, until he slowly turns his head, allowing you to see what he looks like.

The blood runs from your face, lips parting as your eyes lock on.

Bucky.

He looks… different, but not in the bad sense. His dark hair is messily long, just barely reaching his shoulders. When in the past he’s kept it shorter, cleaner. There’s a shadow of a beard forming on the lower half of his face. And there’s this emotionless void in his eyes, as if he’s looking right through you.

This can’t be him, though. The last time you saw him…

Steve stands up, panting through his teeth. “Bucky?”

“Who the hell is Bucky?” He asks, turning toward the two of you fully.

He pulls up his gun to shoot at either of you, but Sam kicks him over, sending him tumbling over the asphalt. That small move does basically nothing, as Bucky gets back to his feet, you take a step toward him, even when he goes to shoot again, but you’re interrupted by a grenade flying over Steve’s shoulder.

A red truck explodes. You look behind you to see Natasha, barely holding herself up against a car with the grenade launcher. Bucky is nowhere to be seen.

There’s sirens approaching, presumably the police, a firetruck, a couple of ambulances, but all you see are black SUV’s approaching. Your eyes catch a figure disappearing into an alleyway.

“I’m going after him.” You dig into your pants pocket, pulling out the singular smoke bomb that you’d brought with you.

Before Steve can stop you, you pull out the pin, tossing the bomb in the middle of the intersection. In the matter of seconds, the grey haze is taking over the street, concealing your escape. Either Steve is too shocked or knows better than to go after you, because he stays there with your other two friends, letting you run off.

Your ankle is slowing you down, but that doesn’t make you stop. You chase Bucky down several streets until he jumps out from behind a car, fist swinging at your face. You catch it, fingers wrapping around his hand, eyes boring into his.

The two of you stand like this for a very long second. If he knows who you are, he’s doing a very good job of hiding it, because you’re none the wiser. If you had to guess what happened to him, you’d say Zola experimented on him. And you think that Steve would even agree with you.

He tries to punch you with his metal arm, but you block it with your forearm, holding him there for a second longer. You can’t do this, not here. He’s not stable enough to have a conversation, especially since he was trying to kill you. He is trying to kill you.

“I’ll come back for you, I promise.” You tell him, despite knowing that this means nothing to him. “I’m not letting you go so easily, Bucky.”

this was part of my 3k celebration!!

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