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envy-of-the-apple · 6 months

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Monsoon

Dark!Gojo Satoru x reader

10.1k wc

Synopsis: Four years after Toji Fushiguro died, Satoru decided to give his widow a visit

(Warnings: age difference (nothing underaged), dark content, AFAB reader, pregnancy kink, non con, overstimulation, piv sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, rough sex)

It was raining when Gojo Satoru entered your flat.

Not particularly harshly, but more than enough for a scare. You weren't in the mood for visitors; the rain made you drowsy, and it was coincidentally your one day off. You wanted to lean against the window and watch the droplets fall against the pavement with a warm blanket. You did not want to exchange pleasantries with some kid.

The only reason you didn't slam the door in his face was because he said your husband's name.

It was why you were bringing tea to someone who clearly couldn't care less about it as he lounged on the sofa. You sat on the other end, staring at the scuffed coffee table. Out of anxiety, you play with the ring wrapped around your finger.

"...He's dead?"

It's a question, but you already know the answer. Gojo doesn't even bother to reply, humming, taking a sip of the lukewarm liquid. You still stare at the coffee table. It's slightly crooked. One of the legs was broken. Toji promised he'd fix it.

That was four years ago. You hadn't seen him since.

You should have expected this. You knew the kind of man Toji was even before he stuck that flimsy ring on your finger. The kinds of people he hung out with. The suspicious amounts of money he would shower you with. There would have never been a happy end for the two of you.

You can still feel your throat close up, bile rise from your belly. You can't do anything but watch the old table you never threw out because he promised he'd come back and fix it.

The only reason you close your eyes, sucked in a tight breath, was because you still had a guest over. One that clearly wouldn't care about your crocodile tears.

You've never seen someone his age so apathetic before. That temperament was associated with the people of your generation. The people who've already been in the workforce, who carried stress on their backs and hips. You can't see his eyes, but the slouch in his posture is indicative enough. Maybe all kids his age were like this. Uncaring, indifferent, subtly disrespectful.

Because he was a kid. It didn't matter how tall he was, how much bigger than you he was. A single look was all you needed to know that this boy was at least a decade younger than you. Unkept white hair, sunglasses despite the weather, a cocky smile, a voice oozing with misplaced confidence.

You don't acknowledge it; it's clear he didn't come here just to tell you your husband is dead.

"How old's your kid? Eight?" Gojo tilts his head. "You gotta' know what that means, right?"

You do. Even if you weren't steeped into the world your husband willfully left, you know enough. You know how important your son is.

It's why you stop Gojo before he can make his offer. You've already heard this before, a week ago when men with Zenin as their last names knocked on your door.

"Thank you for your concern," you tell him as calmly and respectfully as you can. For the first time, the man straightens up, as if your answer wasn't what he expected. You can sense he isn't used to being told no.

You keep your smile neutral, pleasant, final.

"But we're fine as we are."

Moments later, when he's about to leave, you offer an umbrella, insistent on him taking it. It was raining after all. He takes it with him without any protest.

You don't notice that, despite the downpour, he was perfectly dry when he stepped into your home.

☔︎︎

Megumi was always special.

Every mother thinks that for their child. You're no exception. As soon as he was born, tiny in your arms, swaddled in blankets, something shifted within you. You'd always wanted children, but the concrete feeling of your child in your arms when he's so vulnerable. You'd never felt anything more right.

To you, Megumi was always special. But when Megumi turned 5, he became special to the entire world.

Toji was never tight-lipped about the world he came from. Shamans, sorcerers, shikigami, curses. You weren't an expert, but you certainly knew more than the average person. He'd often tell you things, when he was drunk, pulling you against his bare chest, underneath cheap blankets. You always heard the bitterness in his voice. That world had rejected him. It would reject anyone who wasn't special enough. Special people were rare.

It's why you were convinced Megumi would never have to deal with any of that. His father wasn't a sorcerer, neither were you. He'd live a normal life and would only be special to you.

"It's on your other shoulder."

You switched hands, reaching over to tug on your sleeve. Like always, you couldn't feel anything. There was no weight on your skin, nothing tangible that you could grab and toss. There was just this small feeling of dread. A small ache in your bones.

He waves a tiny hand. Instantly, the feeling of dread is gone. The ache lifts and you roll your shoulders.

"Thank you," you tell him with a strained, but grateful smile. He nods, turning back to his food.

"You're getting more, now," he simply says.

"Haha, sorry," you reply instinctively because even though he's eight, you feel like you've burdened him.

"It's okay," he mutters, quiet as always. His gaze flicks back up at you, before glancing back down. He takes a second to gnaw on his lip.

"Are...are you okay?"

You're being so obvious even your own son could see it.

Your smile feels more forced as you placate him with the usual lie of 'Mommy's just tired, long day at work'. He doesn't buy it, but he doesn't say anything back. He's so much like his father in these moments. Truthfully, you didn't think Megumi got a single thing from you. His black hair is Toji's, his blue eyes are Toji's, his pale skin is Toji's, and even his forever-present scowl is your late husband's. You supposed that should have been the first sign: Megumi would be anything but normal.

You hadn't told him about the visits. You're his parent, you had justified to yourself. He's a child. He doesn't need to know about the visits. Especially, considering you decided for him. Megumi would be raised out of the jujutsu world, away from curses, and sorcerers.

You can't have your son taken away from you like his father was.

('Special Grade', Gojo had told you. A powerful cursed spirit. You hadn't gotten closure until you let him in. No body was ever recovered.)

You can't let your son end up like that.

But was this the right life for him? You watch as Megumi's gaze trails up, like he's tracing the movement of a fly or something bigger that you would never see.

You can't relate to Megumi. You don't have cursed energy. You can't see the things he can. As much as you loved him, you'd never be able to understand what he is. None of his classmates can. None of his teachers. It sounds lonely. Isolating.

Only a handful of people that could ever give Megumi that connection exist. And they're willing to accept him with open arms.

He had been an older man, flanked by another. They eyed your home with relative disgust; you, with mild derision. It'd been their words that echo in your head today. How much happier Megumi would be surrounded by his own kind. How the clan would welcome him and teach him to hone his technique.

They were words that would sate the parent of a lonely boy, but you couldn't help but remember the disregard in his voice. Their words made Megumi sound like a tool, instead of a child.

The offer of payment for your son was enough to turn them away.

Was Gojo Satoru any better? From your brief encounter, you couldn't tell. There was always a smile on his lips whenever he talked about Megumi's future and Jujutsu Tech. The lilt of his voice felt fake, artificial. But at least he didn't ask to outright buy your son.

When Megumi's tucked into bed, you pace around the living room. You glance at the slip of paper he'd left behind. The scrawl of numbers in neat handwriting. The thing he slipped into your unsuspecting hand. You've had a glass of wine before, maybe that's why your hands are a little more steady when you punch in the numbers.

He picks up after the second ring. It oddly feels like he was waiting for your call.

"Can jujutsu sorcerers live normal lives?"

There's a laugh on the other end. Light. Amused.

"No," his response is cold, even when his tone isn't, "Even if they leave the jujutsu world, they will never have normal lives."

The answer you were afraid of, but you weren't surprised. Special people rarely live normal lives. You knew what this meant: trying to protect Megumi from his father's fate would be pointless. No matter how far you run, no matter how far you take him, it will never be enough.

"Does it really matter, then?" you ask, "who Megumi goes with."

"In that sense, no, not really," his voice crackles back, "But I think you've already made your decision."

You had days ago. You were just wasting time, picking up the phone only to drop it just as quickly. As much as you'd wanted to keep your son away from the jujutsu world, you knew, even before they knocked on your door, it was a failed endeavor. Megumi was special. Megumi was too special for you to hide. He shone too brightly.

The Zenin clan would extinguish that. You knew it. Toji knew it too. It's why he took on your name.

It's silent again. You bite your lip. You've been doing that a lot lately.

"Gojo, may I ask a favor?" He gives a hum.

"Please, don't tell him about Toji."

There's a beat of silence. The line clicks.

Two days later, Megumi meets the strongest sorcerer of the modern era.

☔︎

There was always something clinical about Megumi's and Gojo's relationship.

You wouldn't call them father-son, let alone brotherly. It was strictly student and teacher. From the start, it was clear Megumi wasn't impressed with the sorcerer. His scowl would somehow get deeper whenever the young man was around.

Gojo didn't seem all that impressed either. He wasn't as blatant, but you could sense that it was a chore for him, rather than anything else. You don't think you can blame him. He's barely twenty. He should be doing other things. Living his youth, and continuing his education.

Gojo grew up too fast. You can see it in his face. He's never not smiling, but it's never truly sincere. It's not clinical either. It looks exhausted. You wonder-if he wasn't wearing those glasses all the time-if you'd see dark circles.

He's too young to be running around this much. He's too young to carry the entire world of jujutsu sorcery on his back. He's too young to be an educator. A mentor.

Yet he is. Yet he does. All with a smile on his face.

You're less intense nowadays to him. When Megumi comes home, clearly a bit more roughed up than when he left, you criticize Gojo less harshly. When you make lunch for Megumi, you ask if he'd like anything as well. Gojo has a bigger sweet tooth than your eight-year-old son does. You never nag him for it.

The change doesn't fully happen until that fateful conversation. It's an offhanded remark he makes about him not being there to train Megumi for a few weeks because of a mission.

"A curse?" you ask, as if they aren't all around you.

Gojo grins because you've discovered he likes talking. "Reports are coming down from Sendai. The running bet currently is special grade."

You frown. "Oh. Well, be careful."

He freezes at that. You think he's staring at you, but you're not too sure. His glasses give away nothing. Your fingers dance with nerves. Had you said something wrong?

"What?"

You tilt your head. "Oh! Uh, 'be careful'. Stay safe." You end your sentence awkwardly.

Eventually, Gojo recovers. "Yeah. Well, obviously." He smiles.

You watch him leave, keeping your eye on him until he disappears into the sleek black car.

It doesn't occur to you until much later that Gojo probably hasn't had someone worry about him before.

☔︎︎

Whenever Megumi's training continues much later in the evenings, you go to the Gojo estate to pick him up yourself.

It's a grand house. Practically a mansion. You've never felt so embarrassed about your humble apartment until you saw the lavishness Satoru lived in. A part of you is now even more impressed by Megumi's stubbornness. Children are the first to fall for the affluent.

It's big, but you've never quite gotten over how empty it looks. Every time you visit, there's always just Satoru. You haven't seen his mom, his dad, any siblings. It looks like a family home, but he's the only one who's ever there.

He's never mentioned any family. You wonder what happened to them. Where they are now.

Somedays, you arrive a bit earlier than needed. During that time, you tend to stroll through the gardens. They're so beautiful. Large and expansive. They're empty, however, just like that grand house. No flowers. Not even weeds. It's just a bunch of dirt and stones, plainly stacked on top of each other. It disappoints you a bit. The grounds had so much potential.

"Whatcha' got for me this time?" You jump, whirling around. Satoru is right behind you, a teasing grin on his face.

You give him a disapproving look, though it lacks any real heat. "I told you to stop doing that."

"Doing what?" Though he may be twenty, he acts like he's younger than your son. Speaking of your child:

"Where's Megumi?" You prod, glancing behind Satoru, as though your grumpy child would pop up behind him. No such thing happens. Satoru's incriminating smile grows wider.

"Homework," he cryptically replies, "also, he didn't want to disturb us adults having our grown-up conversations."

"Of course he did," is all you say, but you acquiesce regardless, digging through your bag.

You've always been taught to bring something when visiting another person's home. You found it rude not to, despite how casual Satoru acts around you. You discovered he liked sweets the most, so you have tried your best to satisfy his sweet tooth. He seems happy with whatever you give him. One thing you like about Satoru is how he cherishes all the gifts he's received from you without any complaint. You spotted the umbrella you'd given him all those weeks ago, sitting right by the door. He'd never given it back. You'd never asked for it.

You try to ignore the feeling that the only reason he gets excited about your gifts is that it's rare for him to receive anything at all. Satoru doesn't need to be pitied.

It's nothing too big, just a bag of saltwater taffy from an Americanized store. He's already ripping the package open, pulling one out of the wrapper to stick it in his mouth.

You blink when he extends his hand, another piece of candy between his fingers.

"Say 'ah'!"

"Oh no, I'm fine. They're for you—" Satoru interrupts you by popping the piece right in your mouth. Your lips instinctively close.

"Oh." You say after you taste the sweet. "Peppermint."

He laughs, taking another one out for himself. You follow him through the abandoned gardens.

"So, how's Megumi's-"

"Nuh-uh," Satoru immediately stops you, "enough about work. Let's talk about something else!"

You roll your eyes, but your smile is too affectionate. You ask him about his latest trip overseas. He tells you about the country he visited, the curse he exorcised, practically giddy from excitement. Conversation starts there before moving onto other things, small talk, your job.

"It's a shame the gardens are so empty," you say when the conversation reaches a lull.

He stares at the bare patches of dirt with you. "When I was younger, the gardeners would take care of 'em for us. Flowers would bloom every spring."

You feel him recoil. Satoru does that sometimes. Say something too intimate, hissing when it's too late to take them back. For his sake, you don't comment on it.

"It must have looked beautiful." Is all you respond. Understanding, but closed enough to give him relief.

You stand there in silence for a couple of seconds. In the dirt, you can see a tiny ant carrying a grain of sand.

"Roleplay time!" Satoru suddenly exclaims. You whirl your head to look at him. "Imagine you become the great Gojo Satoru." You stifle a laugh at that. His grin only gets wider. "What kind of flowers would you choose?"

Toji always thought bouquets were stupid. 'There's no point' he'd always say 'the weeds will just die anyway, why you somethin' like that?'. But sometimes, he'd bring home these tiny, golden flowers. Simple. Pretty. He'd tuck it behind your ear, grinning at his work. You'd kiss him in return.

"Marigolds," you say at last.

Satoru only hums in response. A few seconds later, he's leading you out of the garden, rambling about how expensive sushi was overseas.

A few days later, you see men with barrels of soil, combing through the garden.

A week after, tiny golden flowers start poking through the dirt. Simple. Pretty.

☔︎︎

You had that same dream again. The day Toji left.

It's rare to have these dreams. They wouldn't leave you alone the first year he'd disappeared. Back when you thought he'd gotten bored of you and your son, like he'd finally decided he was sick of the family life.

They come back sporadically, nowadays. You can't sleep after you have them, so you often find yourself curled up in the living room, looking at the window. It was raining. Heavy droplets thud on the glass. The violence seems desperate somehow. Like the weather is begging to be let in, to snuggle underneath the warm blankets too.

On nights like this, it's a habit to stare at the tiny golden band on your finger. You slip it off, holding it in your palm. It's nothing extravagant—tiny with a simple design—but it's the last thing you have of him. Toji was never that sentimental.

It's not really a dream. Dreams are more whimsical, cloudy. You can remember everything, down to the outfit he'd been wearing, the fly that had been buzzing around your door. It was like you were there all over again, begging him not to go.

"You promised you'd stop."

"This is different," Toji said and you flinched when he tucks away his gun. You thought he'd gotten rid of it.

"The money?" You're pressing, "we have enough money, you-"

"This isn't about fuckin' cash," his voice cuts through you, sharper than any blade he carried.

"It's somethin' else. Somethin' you wouldn't understand. It goes beyond money."

Your gaze lowers, curling your fists on the table. You can't understand, not when he refuses to tell you. Not when he barely explains why he's going back to his old ways in the first place.

Sensing he's upset you, Toji sighs. You can hear him place something down on the dining table, metallic and clanky. Calloused, rough fingers brush your cheek, your jaw, coaxing you to look at him. You don't, forcing him to lean forward, giving a chaste kiss on your cheek. His lips are rough, cracked, but overwhelmingly gentle on your skin.

"I love you," Toji mutters into your skin.

You don't respond. You wish you had, you wish you'd gotten over your pride and told him because maybe then he'd still be here with you. He's giving another sigh, tucking your hair into place before he's leaving. He closes the door behind him.

That day, you told yourself you wouldn't forgive him. Whenever he came back, you'd tell him you were done. You'd take Megumi and you'd leave.

Now, you think you would have forgiven him. Eventually. It would have taken a while, a lot more than measly flowers and apologies. But, if he had come back, you would have let him back into your heart.

"Couldn't sleep?" you ask.

Megumi blinks his eyes. It's past his bedtime, but you aren't going to nag him for it. You place the cup of steaming tea down on the coffee table, clicking your tongue when it wobbles. Right, four years later and you still hadn't fixed it,

"The rain was too loud." He gives.

Wordlessly, you invite him into the cocoon you'd nestled yourself into. The sofa sinks under his weight as he settles next to you, leaning against your side. You tuck the warm blanket around his tiny body. He's still small enough to fully wrap your arm around him, bringing him even closer. You take advantage of it. You don't know how much time you have until he's too big to cuddle with anymore.

His breaths are even and slow. He's a boy of few words, but even you think he's asleep until he's mumbling something into your ear.

"I hate him."

You give a confused hum, leaning down, resting your head on top of his. The coffee table looks even more uneven at this angle. It burns to even look at, these days.

"He makes you cry, even when he's not around anymore."

You laugh at that. It's a quiet huff. When you glance down, you think you spot a faint smile on the boy's lips. He’s so much like his fathers, in the little things. You don’t think you will ever tell Megumi that. You don’t think he’ll take that observation well.

"I wasn't crying.” You tell him. “I was just thinking.”

He doesn't give a response after that. A few minutes later when you look down again, his eyes are closed, and he's drooling against your shoulder. You laugh again before gently gathering your son in your arms and settling him down to bed.

The next day, you notice the monstrous amount of duct tape wrapped around the leg of the coffee table. When you ask Megumi about it, he just shrugs, his ears twinging a bright red.

You throw the coffee table away. It's replaced by a new one the following week.

☔︎︎

Satoru didn't like talking about Toji.

You only tried prying once or twice. He was tight-lipped about it. Not quite cold, but he'd shut the conversation down quickly, more than eager to talk about something else. You missed it the first few times, but it became clear that Satoru disdained even the mention of your late husband. You can't tell if it's whether Satoru admired Toji enough that the mere mention of his name sends him into grief, or if it's something a lot more complicated.

Now that you think of it, you barely even knew the relationship Gojo had with Toji. Had they been close? Was he just an acquaintance? Satoru had always been so cryptic about it.

Toji hadn't.

"He's called the strongest man?" you ask, amusement twinged in your voice, "I thought he was 12."

"They don't care about age when giving titles," Toji replied.

You were leaning onto his shoulder, watching your son sleep in his crib. Only three months old and he had this permanent frown on his face, as if he was already sick of the world. 'He already acts like you' you once told your husband. He'd scoffed, but he didn't disagree.

"That's a little funny," you find yourself saying. "What, can he lift a car? Does he benchpress 200?"

Toji doesn't find the image of a child casually lifting 150lb weights as funny. He only grunts, drawing you closer.

"I met him once," he says after a beat of silence, "back when he was barely older than a toddler."

"Hm?" you prodded, still mesmerized by a sleeping Megumi, "what'd you think?"

"Power," Toji responds, "more power than I'd ever have."

You tear your gaze away from your son, glancing at your husband. Toji's eyes were looking somewhere, farther than you could see. It's the envy in his voice that you can't help but keep. A mere child already has everything Toji could ever want. Strength, a name, honor.

You should have realized then that Toji would never belong to you. Not truly. His heart, whether or not he swore up and down otherwise, would always belong to the Jujujtsu world. It's a tragedy. Someplace that he always longed for acceptance, will never truly see him. Even when he died for it.

Satoru will probably never answer your questions about Toji, but perhaps you could get close.

"Why did you do it?"

It was after dinner. Satoru had dropped your son off, and you had practically dragged the white-haired man inside with you, sitting him down on the dining table. He'd complained, but you know he secretly liked being coddled. He didn't deny the second helpings, nor the thirds. Sometimes you wondered if he was a man or a black hole.

Megumi had already gone to bed, and you supposed he had enough of Satoru for one day. It left you and him in the kitchen, putting away the dishes. Rather, you put away the dishes, and Satoru watched. Not that you minded. It was nice to have company.

"Hm?" He was typing away at his phone, blearily turning back to look at you. You couldn't get why he didn't just go home if he was so uninterested.

"Why did you interfere when the Zenin came?" You repeat your question, putting the last of the plates in the dishwasher.

Looking back, things could have gone much differently for you. For your son. You didn't realize how much power the Zenin clan had back then. Had Satoru not stepped in, had you kept rejecting them, you honestly wonder what sorts of drastic measures men like them would take for the sake of power.

"Are you upset?" He asks, tilting his head.

"Of course not." You smile. You were grateful for Satoru, you always have been. He's helped your family out in more ways than you could imagine. After all he's helped Megumi with, there was nothing Satoru could do to get you mad at him, hate him, not truly.

"I was just wondering. It's not like you had an obligation to."

You close the dishwasher with a soft click. The machine starts with a soft hum. He doesn't reply, not for a long while, when you look up, you see him staring back at you. His sunglasses were off, folded, tucked under his collar.

"Clans are bullshit." You're surprised by the venom in his voice. There's a cinch in his jaw. You wonder how many years his hatred has been festering like this.

"The entire Jujujstu world is, honestly. But clans are the worst of all. The hierarchy. Traditions. All dogshit. They'd gobble the kid and spit him back out. I-I didn't want him-" He stops with a hiss, like he'd said too much.

This time, you don't let him run away.

"...you didn't want him to end up like you." You finish.

It clicks, fits together like a jigsaw piece. The Gojo name had ruined Satoru, turned him into something he was too young to be. The name forced him to grow up faster, stronger. The name forced him to be isolated, lonely.

That conversation with Toji curls up inside of you. Back then, you'd only empathized with Toji's pain, but what about Satoru's pain? What about the amount of expectations that had been piled on top of a 12-year-old boy? What about the responsibilities he's forced to carry, each weight growing heavier and heavier but he can't break because he is Gojo?

Satoru stands before you, but you can easily picture him as Megumi. Tiny, small Megumi who didn't speak much but whose heart was bigger than anyone you knew. He could end up like Satoru. Standing at the top of the mountain. All powerful. All alone.

You don't want Megumi to be alone.

You don't want Satoru to be alone.

"Satoru." You step forward. "Could...could I give you a hug?"

He doesn't respond. You step closer. No barrier.

When you wrap your arms around him, you think you can feel him tremble. It takes a moment for him to catch up, for his arms to drape across your back. You clutch onto him tighter, silently promising not to let go until he does.

He doesn't, not for a long while.

☔︎︎

Satoru had a mission on his twenty-second birthday. So, you celebrate five days after he turns twenty-two.

"Again," you say for the nth time, "If-if you have other plans, or anything else, I don't have to stay-"

"Will you stop it, already," Satoru interrupts, "You're gonna make me depressed. I already told you, I got no other plans."

"Well," you frown, "if you change your mind, and you'd rather spend time with your friends..."

"What other friends? You're the only one I got."

You frown at that. He smiles, barely lingering on his loneliness. He does that a lot lately, brush it off. Perhaps it's become easier to. Perhaps it's because you're here now.

The sun had already set on the Gojo estate. The stars were already out. Typically, you would have been antsy staying too late over, especially when Megumi was still home, but your son was a few cities over. He was training with another sorcerer, his new mentor stating that your son wouldn't be back for a couple more days.

Wait, now that you think of it.

"Satoru," you say, your voice heavy with disapproval, "Did you send Megumi off purely because it was your birthday?”

He grins wider, showing off his pearly whites. "No idea what you’re talking about."

You frown harder. He clicks his tongue in distaste.

"It's not like the kid would wanna come celebrate anyway, and now you can focus on me! Two birds one stone." He flops on the couch.

"Satoru."

"Cake! Cake! Cake! Cake!" Satoru chants, as if that'll distract you.

Unfortunately, it does. You roll your eyes, but you lean down, pulling out the pastry out of the bag. It's nothing special, and you do not consider yourself an expert in baking. It certainly isn't fancy, but you were still a little proud. Simple, a small chocolate cake, perfect for two.

Satoru stares.

"I know it isn't much-"

"I love it," he says and you can't tell if he's joking or not, "I'm gonna make it a family heirloom."

You laugh at that. It shakes your shoulders.

"I don't think cakes are built to last that long. How about you just eat it, instead."

"Much better plan," Satoru responds, grabbing a fork, eager to dig in.

He yelps when you slap his hand away as you give him a stern look. You touched his skin. You try not to linger at that, at the fact that he let you touch him.

"Not now," you say, but you still smile, "you need to blow out the candles first."

He huffs but doesn't protest when you stick two candles into the soft frosting. It takes a while to work the old lighter; you have to shoo him away when he tries to snatch it from you. You force Satoru to sit there for at least a minute as you sing the dreadful happy birthday song. He doesn't seem to mind, a mean grin growing on his face, letting you finish up the lyrics.

Toji was mortified every time you managed to stick a birthday hat onto him, dragging him to the living room for his cake. He'd hold his infant son in his arms, his frown even less amused. Even then, he never interrupted the stupid tradition you put him through. He'd sit through the entire ceremony, Megumi asleep on his chest. A scowl would twitch on his lips whenever you managed to smear a dab of frosting on his nose.

You clap when Satoru blows out the candles.

"What did you wish for?" You ask minutes later, swallowing down a bite of frosting. He was already on his third piece. You know you should tell him to slow down but you don't think it will do much.

"If I tell you, it won't come true," Satoru responds, his tone light.

"That's a myth," you point out, "but keep your secrets if you must."

You set your plate down when Satoru speaks the next time.

"I wished for us to do this again."

His voice is shallow, echoing throughout the empty house. You look at him, his white hair, his pink lips, his blue eyes. Everything that encompasses Gojo Satoru is focused entirely on you.

"That next year, we'll celebrate the exact same way."

He sounded so small, as though he were younger than 22. Perhaps, a part of him was. A gentle smile spreads on your face.

"Of course we will," you assure, before your voice gets teasing, "the next year, the year after that, and the next year until you get sick of me." You laugh. He doesn't laugh back. It's silent again, the kind of quiet that's full and meaningful. Distantly, you hear a clock ticking somewhere. It's a nice night. Peaceful. God, you were so tired from all the stressing you did for the cake. Satoru wanted to watch a movie after the cake cutting, but you wonder if he'll forgive you if you fell asleep during the film. You were exhausted.

That's why it takes you a second to register his lips are on yours.

The kiss is soft, and patient. His mouth moves slowly against yours. You can taste the chocolate. It takes a second to understand what Satoru was doing that he wasn't Toji before your hands are moving, reaching up to his shoulders, keeping him there as you shy away, breaking the kiss. You two stay like that for a few more moments, still touching. You can hear your breath, feel your heartbeat. A little while later, he moves closer, intent on following your mouth, before your brain kicks in and you're shutting him down, standing up.

Satoru blinks up at you, the realization of rejection sinking into his eyes before you stumble over yourself to apologize because, dear god, you should have seen this coming.

"I'm so sorry, Satoru," your voice is coming out in clumps, "I never meant to... I always thought...I'm a decade older than you."

The ocean eyes crystalize, turning into cold tanzanite. You're too muddled with guilt and self-hatred to notice. Of course, Satoru would take things the wrong way. Of course, he'd misunderstand. You always thought he was wise for his age, but he's still in his early twenties. You should have been better and made your boundaries known. God, you were so stupid.

"So?" he asks, but his voice lacks the usual snark. "Who cares how old you are?"

You resist the urge to say something accidentally condescending. 'You'll understand when you're older' stings in the back of your tongue, and you wonder if it's fair to say considering how you acted when you were younger than Satoru-- when Toji was an older man who found you amusing enough for dinner and a warm bed.

It's different now. You were older, wiser. Toji had been a mistake. A mistake you miss every day.

"Of course, you don't," you say, and despite it all, a laugh fumbles out your throat. Shaky, delirious. "Again, I'm so sorry. It's entirely my fault-I-I should have communicated things better."

"Why does any of that matter?." It's his turn to stand up, and it makes everything so much worse because Satoru's taller than you. "It doesn't, not to me. I lo-"

"Stop."

It's not a yell, but it's the harshest tone you've ever used on him. Still, it's enough for his breath to falter, to give you a moment of reprieve because the only other person who said that to you and meant it died six years ago. You touch the cold metal of your ring. You twist it around your finger. When Satoru's eyes gaze down, following your movements, you force yourself to stop self-soothing.

The ticking of the clock starts back up again. You want to smash it.

"I should go."

You already know it's a bad idea. You shouldn't leave Satoru alone. You should stay, sort things out, mend his heart, but you're human. You want to run, sort yourself out first. You want to take the cowards' way out. Satoru doesn't stop you. You can't bear to look at him, not when it's so much to even be here. Your mind is already being thrown into disarray and you're barely remembering to grab your purse.

Your hands rest on the door when you pause. You don't bother turning around. You know he's already looking at you.

"Happy birthday, Satoru."

For some reason, you cry the entire ride home.

☔︎︎

Surprisingly, it's Megumi who asks about it.

It'd been a week since you'd last spoken to Satoru. Communication stills, and stops completely. It goes both ways, he doesn't randomly pop by anymore, scaring the daylights out of you. You no longer buy strange-sounding sweets because you know you won't be seeing him later. One week ago, Satoru was there. The next, he wasn't.

"Has he said sorry yet?"

You jolt up, staring at your son. Megumi is still glowering at the vegetables you'd put on his plate. At this point, you know he doesn't hate the food. He just always looks like that.

"What?"

"He obviously did something to you." He mutters. "Did he at least say sorry?"

No matter how uninterested your son always portrayed himself as, he was very observant. Of course, he would. As much as you loved Megumi, you wish he'd be just 10 percent less attentive.

You force yourself to laugh anyway. "Satoru didn't do anything." You assure. "What makes you say that?"

"The idiot's been sulking all week," Megumi responds, "everyone's been wondering what's up with him."

You give him a disapproving look, but you doubt it did anything. Instead, you glance down, mindlessly poking at your plate.

"Don't call him that," you say softly.

Megumi only shrugs. Despite everything, you still have this strange urge to defend Satoru, if only to save your own dignity of fighting with someone 10 years younger than you.

"Nothing happened. It-it was a misunderstanding, that's all." You hope your smile doesn't look uncertain. He's only ten, but he's already so perceptive. You don't think it's enough to convince him. Your smile drops. You roll your shoulders.

Another thing you should have seen coming. Of course, Megumi would notice. Despite how annoyed Megumi acts around him, there's still a sort of bond between the two boys. A connection between two sorcerers, something you will never have with your son. You were wrong about your initial assessment about their relationship. They were much closer than you thought. Satoru cared about Megumi, as did Megumi about Satoru. Your souring relationship with Satoru might break that. .

Your actions have consequences. To everyone, not just yourself.

"I'll talk to him soon about it, I promise." As if to placate him further, you reach over, patting his hair. He frowns deeper but doesn't make a move to shove you off.

To your chagrin, soon comes later that evening. Satoru breaks the ice first with a single text.

you free tomorrow

It's nothing like him. No emoticons. No exclamation marks. You say yes, regardless. The next evening, you step out of the taxi, thanking the driver before stepping onto the Gojo property.

It was raining, barely a drizzle, not enough to make you want to bring an umbrella. Still, the air was chilly, just enough so that you clutched the coat covering your body tighter. You carefully avoid the puddles adorning the sidewalk.

You agreed to come here, but it's hard to keep that in mind as you climb the patio steps. You stand in front of the door for an entire minute, counting each second, before you knock.

"Finally! Took you long enough."

It's hard to look at him. Already, your gaze threatens to waver. You force yourself not to wrap your arms around your sides. For once, you're glad he wears those sunglasses of his.

Satoru, on the other hand, barely looks affected by the encounter. He's dressed well, in a white collared shirt and black pants. He smiles cheerily, widening the door so you can step inside. You thank him when he wordlessly mentions for your coat.

Your eyes catch the living room, along with the coffee table. There'd been a half-eaten birthday cake the last time you'd been here. Now the table is completely clean. You wonder what Satoru had done with it. You hoped he threw it away because the thought of him sitting there, alone, finishing the pastry filled you with so much guilt you could almost feel sick.

"Did you see the weather just an hour ago?" He asks offhandedly, "thought the rain would smash through my windows, from how loud it was."

"Oh?" You ask genuinely because you honestly hadn't noticed anything regarding the weather. You'd been stressing about the reunion, mind too preoccupied to care about the skies.

"'hope the violets survived. I just planted 'em yesterday." He glances out the window as though he could see through the sheets of rain. You hum, already feeling out of place. The silence is only accompanied by the rain lightly patting on the windows.

"You still love him." When you don't answer right away, Satoru turns back. "That Zenin guy. You love him."

It catches you so off guard that you can't help but tell the truth. You nod once.

He's still smiling, but the air feels off somehow. Like you're passing unmarked territory. It's a silly thought, and you brush it off immediately. Despite how strained your relationship is currently, Satoru isn't dangerous. He never will be.

"Yeah," he responds, "I just don't get why, y'know?"

You try to smile, but it's like pulling teeth. "I-I don't see how-"

"It just doesn't make sense. You and him, I mean. You two are so different."

You couldn't argue with that. Toji and you were on opposite ends. He was from a world that you would never be able to reach, let alone touch. You were a regular woman. He was a man who fought curses on a regular basis. A man who died from it.

Satoru's laughing; it takes you a moment to realize you might have said some of that out loud.

"Right. Fuck I keep forgetting that's what I told you." Satoru leans against the counter. "A special grade killed Zenin."

"I mean, technically, I didn't lie, right? A special grade did kill him. A special grade sorcerer."

Your brain stops. You can only stare. Satoru reaches up, taking off his glasses, folding them before neatly placing them on the counter. His eyes were always so breathtaking; now they look empty. Soulness.

You laugh. It sounds delirious. "But-but you said you were one of the only special grade sorcerers around."

"Yeah." Satoru nods along.

"Satoru...you're not making any sense..."

"Really?" Satoru tilts his head. "What part of 'I killed your husband' is confusing for you?"

He continues at your silence. "I mean, it wasn't like it wasn't for a good reason. The guy shot a junior high girl for cash. Knowing him, he's probably done worse. If you're asking me, I did a good thing by killing him--oh." Satoru pauses at your expression: horrified, broken.

He's smiling. You think that's the worst part. It's the same smile he's always worn. Playful and mischievous.

"C'mon, you seriously didn't know what he was up to. I can't tell whether you're that stupid or if he was that good at hiding it."

You should have denied it. You should have said Toji would never do the heinous act Satoru just accused him off, but can you? Could you honestly say that? You knew Toji was in bad shit. You'd always known that. He told you about the gambling, the drugs, the money. After he married you, he promised he walked away from that life, he was walking away with you. One last job, he'd said. Just one last job and he was done forever.

Something that goes beyond money, Toji had said, something you would never understand.

You can hardly breathe, sinking against the wall behind you as you collapse onto the floor. Your hands are pressed against your mouth, muffling your sobs as your eyes are filled with tears. Every interaction you've ever had with Toji is flitting through your mind. You can feel the bile in your stomach, threatening to leave your lips, splatter across the floor.

Your husband was a murderer.

Your husband was a monster.

His fingers are cold as he firmly pushes your hands away from your face. You glance up. Satoru stares right back. His smile is gone, replaced by a frown. He squats before you, idly tracing his pointer figure around your cheeks, catching your falling tears.

"He took everything from me, y'know," he says, quiet, low enough that the rain almost drowns his voice, "in just a day, my entire life changed. Someone died. A person I thought would be by my side my entire life disappeared."

"But, I gotta' thank him. Without his help, I wouldn't have become stronger, and I wouldn't have you."

You suck in a breath at that, but Satoru isn't paying attention. His hand traces down to your neck, feeling the skin.

"I like to think that he gave me you as an apology of sorts. It's nice to think of it that way, right?"

You look at him, absolutely horrified at how casual he was being.

Your husband was a monster.

And he’d left you with another one.

Immediately, you slap his hands away.

"Stop." You say, a weak hiss, "don't-don't touch me. Never ever touch me-"

"Yeah," he interrupts, ignoring your wavering voice, "I didn't think you would jump into my arms after what I said, either. But, hey, a guy can dream, right?"

What? And before you can think, he's pressing his lips against yours.

It's not like his first kiss. Before, when it was soft and sweet and he barely pushed, like he was savoring you. This kiss was harsh. Filled with teeth and lust and endless greed. You can taste the inexperience, and the thought that this might be the second time Satoru’s ever kissed someone fills your head. The fight is almost pathetic as you sink into his hold, helpless to do anything but wilt until he's had enough of his fill. You push against his chest, but he only leaves on his terms.

You're both panting, but you're more frazzled. His lips are blushing pink, and there's a string of saliva that stretches before snapping apart. You can feel the way his hands are positioned on your hips. Disgust and self-hatred wells up within you.

"I meant what I said that day: I love you." You squeeze your eyes at his confession. "I mean, what's there not to love? You're sweet; you're hot."

His hands play with the hem of your shirt. You stiffen as you try to claw them off of you, but it doesn't help. You don't want to look, but you just can't help yourself. It's morbid curiosity. Looking at a car crash. Your eyes open and you stare at Satoru.

"But I think the thing I love about you the most is that you'll never hate me."

Two glowing blue eyes stare back at you. He looks ethereal like this. Even when he's kneeling, he's still taller than you. He's always been above you. Not just in height, you're slowly starting to realize.

You always thought Satoru hated his last name. You always thought he blamed his lineage for his loneliness, his isolation. He grew up too fast, forced to become something for the sake of others. It's why you tried so hard to treat him like an equal, as though he were another human.

When he leans in to kiss you again, you finally understand that Gojo never wanted to part from his last name. Why would he? It was always a part of him. It was your fault for trying to humanize and connect with him. You fought for years to see him as an equal that you neglected to ask if he even wanted to be on the same plane as you.

Perhaps, once he did. Back when candlelight illuminated his face. When chocolate was the only thing you could taste.

"You can't hate me." He smiles against your lips. "You feel too sorry for me."

"No matter what I do to you, you'll never hate me."

You start crying again. Satoru hushes you, wiping away your tears in a way that suggests he's not used to being soft and delicate. Yet, he's trying to be. Soon, his gentleness fades, and his impatience seeps in again. It's all too easy for Satoru to haul you to your feet. He was the strongest, after all. You struggle anyway because you're human and your heart is filled with foolish hope. He laughs at your meager attempts to push him away, and you feel that this is all a game for him. Maybe it always was.

"Satoru-Satoru," you're begging as he pulls you through his empty house, "you don't have to do this. Please just-"

"See? You still aren't getting it." Satoru sighs, like he's disappointed before he's tossing you in a room. You flail against the bed, your chest pressed against the cushions before he's flipping you onto your back. It's worse when he's hovering over you, both hands on either side of your head, caging you in.

"I'm not doing anything I don't want to do. I never have."

You expect Satoru to kiss you again, that disgusting display where he rips you apart with his teeth, consuming you whole. Instead his pretty blue eyes flit to your clenched hand. He snatches up your wrist, easily unfurling your hand.

You react too late, only reaching up to stop him when he’s done pulling the ring off your finger. Satoru barely gives it an unimpressed look before he’s tossing it aside. You can only stare in the direction of it, watching as the last thing you had of him drops into the darkness. There’s two metallic clinks before it’s rolling to a stop. And then, you hear nothing.

He lets out a breath, like he’s relieved, dipping his head into the crook of your neck.

“I was so sick of looking at that.” He mumbles into your skin, giving it a playful nip. “Parading that thing around in front of another man like that. It’s kinda’ rude, y'know?”

You give another sob when his hands dig underneath your shirt. He presses on the softness of your belly, burying his face deeper into your neck, inhaling your scent.

“Fuck, you smell so good.” He groans into your neck. You can feel something press against your thigh.

You know what he was planning on doing, he made it clear ever since he dug himself into your skin with fangs. But the evidence. The hands twitching up your shirt, groping and feeling. The bulge grinding against your thigh

You can’t fight him, you stopped trying. Instead, you clench your fists again, letting the last of your tears drip down your face, praying and praying that what Satoru said wasn’t true.

Satoru isn’t nice to your clothes. You don’t know why you thought he ever would be. When he’s done with feeling and not looking, he pushes your shirt up, letting it catch just over the swell of your chest. He’s pushing your bra down, leaning down to trace your skin with his hot, wet tongue.

You jolt at the contact. It’d been so long since you’ve last been touched. He’s barely done anything and yet you’re already so sensitive. Something between a gasp and a moan is pulled out of your lips when Satoru swirls his tongue around your nipple, before he takes it fully in his mouth.

He’s tasting you, savoring you in a way you’d only seen him do for his cherished candy. He’s messy with it too, drool and spit spilling onto your skin, making you feel even colder than you already were.

Satoru has never stopped with just one candy, has he? He’s greedy, popping another and another in his mouth until the bag is all empty. It’s his natural essence to take until there’s nothing left. That’s why his hand trails down to your skirt, pushing it down before you can even decipher what he wants next from you.

You gasp when his hand presses against your panties, pushing them between your folds. The fabric lightly brushes against your clit, not enough for you to have any kind of relief. Still, a tingle jolts up your back.

“You’re soaked!” Satoru’s exclaiming. His voice comes out in the form of a laugh, light and innocent. It hurts to hear him sound like that. You have no more tears to cry again.

You want to tell him that it wasn’t you, that you don’t want him, that it’s just your body, but you doubt he cares about any of that. He pushes your panties down, letting them sit against your thighs before he’s pushing a finger deep into your wet pussy.

You can’t stop the noises this time. It’s more of a yelp than a moan, but Satoru takes it in stride as he continues to finger fuck you. When he digs a second finger into your hole, there’s a wet squelch of a sound. You have to turn away, but you can feel his smile against your skin. Victorious.

His other hands comes, pushing in between your breasts to keep you on the bed as he plants butterfly kisses down your ribs, your stomach, your hips, all the way down until he’s practically on his knees.

You were right to assume his inexperience. He’s sloppy, spreading his saliva and your wetness all over your pussy. There’s no rhythm, no clear pattern as he’s trying everything at once--swirling his tongue around your sensitive clit before licking his way into your hole.

And yet, it’s working. Your battered cunt responds to his enthusiasm, and your walls squeeze his fingers.

You can’t stop your noises. You don’t think he’s trying to stop his. His voice is muffled by your pussy, but he’s moaning and groaning so loudly. You think he’s saying something, but you can hear anything over the wet sounds of your cunt, the throbbing between your ears.

Your orgasm was inevitable, but you’re still surprised when it hits. Ramming into you like a train. Your back arches, and your thighs are involuntarily squeezing Satoru’s head. Keeping him there.

There’s a hum of satisfaction coming from him, but he doesn’t pull away. He folds your thighs, pushing them up into your chest so he can get more access to your pussy, sucking even harder on your clit. You were so far out of it that you can barely remember that this isn’t for you. It’s all for him. Satoru is greedy. It’s his natural essence to take and take until you’re nothing more than an empty bag, once filled with something sweet.

He doesn’t stop until you’ve come around his fingers and tongue a second time, when your cries are on the brink of overstimulation. When Satoru finally pulls away, the bottom half of his face is shiny. He keeps his eyes on you, messily wiping the remnants of you off his face before his leaning forward to kiss you, letting you taste yourself.

Unlike you, he doesn’t bother undressing himself. He’s unraveling his belt from his waist, pushing his pants down enough that he’s able to untuck his cock from his briefs. He’s already hard, giving his dick two cursory pumps before he’s settling his on either side of your body, keeping you there.

He’s big. Big enough that you worry he might actually succeed in breaking you. A semblance of rebellion, motivated by fear than anything else, stirs inside you. You push yourself up, elbows pressing against the mattress before he’s ending it.

There’s a grin, a flash of teeth, before he’s roughly pushing you down again.

“Satoru-“You start, you beg.

“Shut it,” he says, his smile too dangerous to be friendly, “if it isn’t begging me to fuck you, then I don’t wanna hear it.”

As though he’s taking the sight in himself, he hovers over you. The light from the window gently caresses his face in an angel kiss. His white hair is almost like halo, swathing him in an innocent shade of beauty.

When Satoru sinks his cock deep inside of you, you wonder if he’s defiling you or himself.

Just like before, he doesn’t bother letting you acclimate. He doesn’t wait, he doesn’t hold off. You can’t expect him too. Your pussy is squeezing him, edging him on. How could you expect him to not take it as a challenge and fuck you the way he’s dying to?

It’s exactly what he does as he bullies his cock deep inside your walls again and again. He whimpers, high and pitchy before he’s leaning down to bite and lick at your neck, your chest, leaving your skin with marks and bruises that will last for days.

Satoru loses his sharpness the more he’s inside of you. You cry when he leans down, circling his thumb across your clit.

“So good,” he’s mumbling into your sweaty skin, like a mantra, “so good so good. You’re so good. I love you I love you I love you-“

It’s torture to hear him say that over and over again and a part of you tries to force yourself to think of someone else to give you comfort. Scarred lips. Thick black hair.

You can’t.

Satoru has taken away everything, even your dreams.

There’s another gasp before he’s harshly gripping on your chin, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are blown open, wide and manic.

“Say my name,” he’s begging but his grip is too tight to be anything but an order, “I-I need you to-fuck-say my name.”

“Sa-Satoru.” He lurches at that, almost collapsing into your chest.

“Again.”

“Satoru,” and then you say it again and again and again because your brain’s too muddled to do anything but listen to him.

His thumb is moving faster and faster on you clit, his thrusts are getting sloppier.

“Gonna-gonna fill you up,” An alarm of panic ring as he’s blabbering, words stilted and strained, “I gotta’—I just gotta’, can’t think of ‘nothing else—fuck fuck.” He adjusts your legs, folding your body in half so he can push that much deeper inside of you.

He smiles again. Wild. Unhinged. The monsoon that is Gojo Satoru. If you won’t wash away with him, then he is more than happy to drown you in his rain.

“Fuck,” he curses again, his voice a mix of a laugh and a groan, “think the kid would like a younger sibling?”

You can barely process his words. You don’t think Satoru could process his either. His orgasm triggers your own, and you’re both tipping over the edge together. His cum fills your pulsing cunt, searing your insides with white heat.

Satoru collapses on top of you, pressing you into the mattress of expensive sheets. You two stay like that, just the sounds of your harsh breathing fills the room. Satoru gives a shaky kiss on your lips, just as sweet and chaste as the first time.

He stays there for another minute, before he’s pushing himself up again. You can’t understand what he’s doing until you realize he’s still hard inside of you.

“Satoru—” it’s a plea, your voice overwrought with exhaustion, “Don’t—"

“One more, ‘kay?” he slurs, pushing his cock as deep as it could get inside of you, “Just—Just one more.”

You wake up hours later. It's pitch-black, the lights are gone. Distantly, you can feel Satoru's hand curled around your waist. He'd fallen asleep with his head buried in your neck. You can feel his rhythmic breathing against your skin. Outside, the rain beats on the windows, and thunder rattles in the sky.

You wait for it—the anger, the hatred—for yourself to hate Gojo Satoru.

He was right. Nothing came.

#yandere jjk #yandere #yandere gojo satoru #dark content #dark jjk #dark gojo satoru #x reader #gojo satoru #afab reader #tw:noncon

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vagabond-umlaut · 1 year

Text

affaire de cœur

Plucking one's heart from their chest and devouring it is all 'affairs of the heart' meant to the King of Curses— until his Queen walked onto the stage of his life, that is.

▸ trueform!sukuna x wife!reader; comprises of elements inspired by the tale of 'hades and persephone'; gallons of domestic fluff between sukuna and reader; hints of spicy times; no warnings except sukuna is very much sukuna here but you too are there, so he's sort of a better sukuna... [not loads better, though]

▸ belongs to the series 'mine? yes, mine.' but you can treat this as a stand-alone fic if you wanna!

▸ i don't own the characters, the image or the divider used. please don't plagiarize or translate or repost this. enjoy reading! ❤️

"Repeat those words after me, my lord."

"No."

The pouty face you vault his way from the other end of the bathhouse makes Sukuna huff an annoyed sigh. Few monsoons back, you would never even see him in the eye, gaze trained on his feet – until he lifted your chin up; even then you would shyly avert your gaze — yet, now?

Now, you show the boldness to wear such a pathetic expression while making such an imbecilic request– nay, demand of him– locking your gaze with his the entirety of the time, no less.

Another sigh finds its route past his lips. Watching the way those sin-filled lips of yours twitch in a tiny smile before dipping into a pout, he groans.

"Alright. Fine," Sukuna grumbles, resting his two arms on the edge of the tub while the other two move to card through his damp hair, "Will you ever leave me for another, woman?"

Your eyebrows rise for a beat, the second the question you chomped his ears off earlier for, leaves his mouth. Your lover rolls his eyes, loud scoffs erupting from him at the utter inanity of the whole situation at hand — you, not beside by him, but beside those damned towels and bath soaps; him, not soaking in the warmth of your flesh but of these bath waters; the humid bathhouse not resonating with the sounds of your whines but with the remnants of a query, whose answer he does not care the least for, for no matter what you say or do, he will not—

"Yes, I will."

Your clear voice scatters his thoughts away, akin a strong wind and a handful of chaff. Sukuna freezes, every crimson eye of his fixed upon your approaching figure– your soft footfalls, your yellow yukata, your simple hairdo, your angelic smile...

Your husband takes a while too long before discovering his lost voice, eyes narrowed, throat tight and chest heavy as he asks you, "You will leave me, pet?"

"Uh-huh, I sure will," you hum in response, sitting on the stool next to the tub and moistening a towel. Sukuna moves to grasp your wrist in his palm but pauses when he catches you switch your attention from the towel to him, a terrifying emotion brimming in your tender gaze.

You draw in a tiny breath before speaking, voice now a mere whisper.

"Show me someone who is the most feared creature to ever exist, yet is a sulking mess if he isn't being cuddled in bed till noon every single day; someone who detests humans like I detest carrots, yet visits the monthly market in secret, to get gifts for his close one; someone who everyone's told me is the worst, yet goes on to prove, again and again and again, how he's the absolute best in this world—"

You stop suddenly.

Chest growing heavy from an entirely different reason now, your lover drinks in the manner your smile widens, your fragile fingers letting go of the cloth to trace those markings on his skin instead – you resume.

"Show me someone whose embraces feel the safest place in all the three realms, and I swear, my king, I'll leave you and run to his arms without thinking twice."

For the first time in his millennium of existence, the two-faced curse feels the same distress of being paralysed, as his mere mien induces in the muscles of his miserable victims— except, it isn't the fear of an end to his life which is causing this abhorrent weakness to him unlike those worthless mortals— no.

It is the fear of the unknown, of the uncharted, which is rendering his powerful self so, so powerless before your blinding brilliance. Sukuna thinks death might be an easier journey to undertake than these odd realisations your voice and touch elicit in him always.

These days, more so.

This moment, very much so.

The addicting timbre of your voice rouses him from his musings, the second time that night.

"Is every–"

"Is that supposed to be a love confession?" Your husband cuts you off before you can finish your question. You slowly blink at him once then twice, before leaning backwards and picking up the forgotten cloth, a visibly coy giggle bubbling out you as you return to washing his skin.

"Yes," you agree after a beat, gaze darting to his face before skittering away again, "That is supposed to be a love confession for my beloved king; though I wonder what my lord thinks of it. Was it heart-touching as I intended to make it? Or did it sound too tedious to him?"

The addressed being deliberately makes a big show of rolling each of his four eyes at your query. "Neither," he says, curling his lip in a show of vexation before they lift a little at the lower lip you jut out, "And you should count yourself to be lucky that you're my wife, not a worthless mortal, pet. For if you were not my wife–"

"– you would've sliced me into halves without a moment's hesitation," you finish the rest of the sentences for him with a fond shake of your head. "Trust me, my king, I know you. I do, I rea– Sukuna!!!"

The startled shriek of his name— not my lord or my king but Sukuna —parts the curse's lips in a smirk, which widens on noticing the warm water slowly seeping into your clothes, making them translucent; and you staring up at him with a disbelieving look etched onto your pretty face.

Sukuna allows his smirk to melt away into a genuine smile, for once.

Nestling your drenched form closer to himself, he closes his eyes to rest his forehead on your shoulder, palms holding you as if you were not a member of the race he lives for the sake of tormenting, but an invaluable blessing, beings he has never believed in, sent earthward for his damned self.

Which is true, the curse reckons. You indeed are a blessing he knows he doesn't deserve – yet will keep for and with himself for an eternity and some more.

Pressing you closer to himself, your husband lifts his head to plant a kiss to your forehead, followed by your warm cheeks — hoping you'll understand the meaning behind every reverent contact he's marking your form with now.

After all, you know him really well, don't you?

[You do— which is only why you reciprocate every brush of his sharp canine over your skin, with a brush of your soft palm over the wicked, handsome, wickedly handsome visage of the love of your life.]

▸ masterlist

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serpentandlily · 6 months

Text

Untouchable Part IX Teaser

Untouchable - Azriel x Rhysand'sSister!Reader

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

“I’m not waiting any longer,” Azriel growled at his High Lord. “I’m leaving. Now.”

Both Azriel and Rhysand looked worse for wear. Rhys’s face was littered with bruises and cuts and Azriel was sure he looked no better. But he didn’t care. All he cared about right now was that his mate was in the hands of that fucking sorcerer and he was going to rip that male apart limb by limb for ever thinking he could take her.

“We need to think this through, Az,” Feyre pleaded. “If you rush in, you’ll end up dead and be of no help to Y/n.”

Azriel’s hands tightened into fists. These past two days had been hell. Once Rhys had misted the Prince in the clearing, he had winnowed the three of them back to Velaris—to start planning their rescue mission.

He hadn’t even gotten two words out before Azriel pounced on him. He could barely remember those first few hours after she had been taken. All he knew was the anger he felt—the rage. The mating bond snapping into place. The bargain breaking. And her…his love being taken away from him, his heart and soul with her.

And Rhys, the fucking asshole, had been at the center of his anger. For making him agree to that bargain with him in the first place. For making him stay away from her—his mate.

It had taken Cassian, Mor and Feyre to pull them apart that day.

He had stopped starting fights with Rhys but his anger still pulsed under his skin, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

"We've had plenty of time to think,” Azriel snapped at his High Lady, causing Rhys’s head to shoot up with a warning glare.

“Watch your tone,” Rhys bit back at him.

“Fuck you, Rhys!” Azriel slammed his scarred hands down on the desk between them. “I’m going and I swear to the Gods if you try to stop me, I’ll rip your throat out!”

“No, fuck you, Azriel!” Rhys yelled, standing up to his full height. “Stop acting as if you’re the only one affected by this! She was my sister long before she was your mate! Maybe if you hadn’t gone behind my back—”

“Maybe if you hadn’t made us make that stupid bargain with you in the first place, we would’ve never had to! I could’ve had centuries with her. You stole all those years from us!”

The second the bond snapped between him and his mate, Azriel swore he lived a whole lifetime. A whole lifetime they hadn’t been afforded. It had all flashed right before his eyes. His mate…His beautiful mate. She deserved so much better than this and as soon as he got her back in his arms, he would give her the whole world. He'd tear the sun from the sky if it would make her happy.

“Guys, stop! This fighting between the two of you has only made things worse! Fight all you want once we get Y/n back, but you need to focus. Both of you. For her sake,” Feyre snapped.

Azriel ran a hand through his hair, letting out a noise of frustration. His shadows swarmed around him like a monsoon—screaming his mate’s name over and over again in agony. “You don’t understand, Feyre. Every single time I feel her…during those tiny moments she slips through to the bond…all I feel is her pain. He’s torturing her. How am I supposed to sit here while my mate is being tortured?”

He turned away from them, unable to look at Rhys any longer as a few tears slipped down his cheeks. He had completely and utterly failed his mate. Had let her get into the arms of an enemy. This was all his fault…all of it. She would’ve never even ran away from Velaris if he had never tried to move on with Elain last year. He put those thoughts in her head and there was nothing he regretted more in his life. He had never wanted Elain. He had never even wanted Mor. He had tried, when he thought Rhys’s sister was off limits, to move on. But he had never, ever stopped loving her. He had never felt anything for anyone other than her.

And she had been ripped away from him before they could even have a life together.

“That’s it,” Rhys whispered from behind him. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.”

“What?” Azriel snarled, whipping around.

“You said you can feel her sometimes—through the bond, right?”

Azriel nodded his head, crossing his arms.

Rhys stroked his jaw in thought. “He must be drugging her with faebane. But not consistently. There must be small moments when it wears off before he gives her another dose. That’s why you can feel her sometimes.”

“Where are you going with this?” Feyre asked.

“We can use the mating bond to tell us when to act,” Rhys explained. “When Azriel can feel her, we know her magic is regenerating. We should stop looking at this as battle and more like a stealth mission. We bait Koschei into coming to the water’s edge the moment Azriel feels my sister down the bond—act like we are declaring war. Keep him distracted long enough for her to get back most of her power. Meanwhile, Azriel can slip into the cabin, release her from whatever binds he has her in and get her out.”

“What about the wards around the cabin? No one can winnow in or out. Even Az’s shadows might set it off.”

“I’ll have to get inside without using any magic,” Azriel said. “I can do it. I can get to her. As long as you keep him distracted and buy me enough time.”

“Helion has given Y/n some lessons on setting and breaking wards,” Rhys added. “Once she sees you, once she realizes she’s being saved, she can start working on breaking them so she can winnow the two of you out.”

“And you trust that she’ll be able to do that?” Feyre asked.

Rhys let out a long sigh. Azriel knew how much it would pain him to have to force his sister to save herself. Rhys had always been the one doing the heavy lifting for their family, always keeping his sister as protected as he could, especially after she almost died. But he couldn’t save her this time.

He’d need to have faith in her.

“She can do it,” Azriel declared, full of confidence in his mate’s abilities. “She is not that little girl in the woods anymore, Rhys. You’ve trained her. I’ve trained her. She is more than capable of this.”

“I know she’s not,” Rhys whispered. “She hasn’t been. Not for a long time. And I’m sorry, Azriel, I truly am. You’re right. I should’ve never forced you to make that bargain.”

“Save your apology for when I get my mate back,” Azriel spat out.

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #azriel #acotar x reader #acotar x you #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel fanfic #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar

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angelkissiies · 2 years

Note

Hellooo if you don’t do requests totally ignore this rn, but if you doooo I have a request for hockey player!Abby Anderson and cheerleader reader 👀

So basically Abby is watching her practise and some other girl in the squad runs into her on the ice and reader gets injured, Abby then is the concerned gf ofc and takes care of r??

You could do it so the girl who ran into R did it on purpose for some reason to add spice but that’s not necessary, have a good day/night!! :)

playing dirty

abby anderson x reader

cw : descriptive injuries, angst, cheerleaders being horrible, abby is stressed tf OUTTT, blood, again skating injuries read at your own discretion. hockey!au. modern!au. abby lowkey is rich bc her dads a surgeon.

a/n : this got less fluffy more serious and im so sorry !! I got super carried away so I’m sorry if this isn’t how you wanted it! also its not proofread in the slightest.

wc : 2.2k

Abby had a habit of tagging along with you on long practice days, spending her time watching the team go over their routine or doing homework silently so as to not disturb anyone. It was a guilty pleasure, to be completely honest, as she loved to watch you do your thing on the ice- wondering how someone so usually reserved could shine so brightly under pressure. If she’d had the gall, she would've compared you to a diamond. That seemed to be less than fitting, seeing as there was no time in your life she could ever consider you rough or dull. To her, no matter what you were doing, it was showstopping.

It was no different today, she sat on the far side of the rink in silence as her airpod blared music into her ear. She’d gotten into the habit of using one instead of two in case she was needed, which was rare, but it did happen. At some point, the words of 'let it die' by the foo-fighters faded from her attention as she brought herself to peer through the plexiglass to scan the groups of girls for you. She usually had a knack for finding you almost instantly, but today you seemed to be tucked somewhere she couldn’t see as the music for the first routine began to blare over the speakers.

She couldn’t recognize the song as she watched the groups skim over the ice gracefully, performing stunts she was sure she’d never be able to do even with the amount of training she’d been through on the ice. It always put your dedication into perspective, long nights in the rink mixed with early morning workout sessions to keep you at your best- it took a lot to do what you did but you never complained. Not once had she ever seen you unhappy about what you do, with that, she made a mental note to herself to tell you more often how much she admired you.

You, on the other hand, were not feeling so graceful. With a face full of stray hairs from your impossibly loose bun and a uniform coated in tiny ice shards from the girl in front of you digging her skates into the ice- you’d almost had enough. It wasn’t often you had bad days at practice, but when it rained it poured. Seeing as a monsoon seemed to be occurring, you’d been pushing as hard as you could to just make it through this practice and take it back home in one piece. Though, it seemed to be increasingly difficult when the girl before you (yeah, ice shard girl) kept doing her spins a little too loosely and letting her blades come a little too close to your legs.

“Okay, listen, you guys are too far apart. I think we need to come in a little closer.” The coach called out, halting the music before it even got to the halfway mark. That was a clear sign that she hated what was happening, seeing as she at least gave it to the halfway mark to really come together. More stopping meant longer practice which meant Abby would have to carry you home in a bucket of your own tears by the time you were allowed to leave the ice.

You huffed slightly, pushing back the flyaways in a manner that did relatively nothing, before getting back to your original mark. By now, the girl in front of you was so close you could hear her snippy chatter with who you could assume was her friend on her left side.

“She’s totally blocking you from spinning.”

“No, because I was literally thinking the same thing, like, she needs to get it together.”

“For real, like first she shows up to practice looking like that, and now she’s being a total clutz on the ice.”

“Wouldn’t it be funny if you-”

The music beginning drew you from their not-so-private conversation, pushing your mind back to the task at hand before allowing yourself a small glance towards the benches. From your spot, you could see your girlfriend shuffling music on her phone before bringing her attention back to the ice- watching carefully.

Abby was a little bored, her usual girlfriend watching activities halted by the change in density- making it ten times harder for her to find you, so she bobbed back and forth between half-assing her chemistry homework and watching the routine play out. Not that she minded, either way, she’d be able to take you home tonight and admire you then- as she always did. Some might call her cheesy or overly affectionate but she knew you didn’t mind, even liking the way she’d always look for you in a crowd.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You hissed quietly, barely audible over the music as you just barely missed the girl in front of you’s skate. She’d released too early and you weren’t in place to be out of the way just yet, causing the blade to almost skim the sensitive skin of your ankle before you moved away and into your next mark. If you didn’t know any better, you’d be thinking that she was doing it on purpose- but that just wasn’t possible. Everyone on the team knew how dangerous blade cuts were, especially since you had to sit through an entire hour-long seminar on rink safety to even audition for the team.

Even the idea made you wince, urging you to fuck up choreo just to avoid her completely. It was definitely an option. Though, you didn’t get to think about it too long before you felt yourself hit the ice.

Abby watched the entire thing, mouth wide open as she saw the girl's leg fall too early during her move to slash a gash across your thigh. She couldn’t find the will to breathe as she jerked her lone airpod out and let her things fall to the ground before practically throwing herself onto the ice. She’d barely made it onto the ice before she heard a terrified scream fall from your mouth, probably from the sight of the blood that had begun to spill from your thigh and onto the ice. “Oh shit.”

You didn’t feel it until you saw it, eyes glazing over at the sight of the cut. It didn’t look deep enough to need stitches but it sure as hell was deep enough to cause a scene- drawing a scream from your lips unconsciously as the blood created a massive red spot on the previously pristine ice, the sight was enough to make you faint- but as you glanced around for help you saw the other girls staring horrified.

“Girls, get out of the way!” Your coach shouted, pushing past them with a first aid kit that seemed to manifest out of nowhere. You didn’t even see her leave the ice, she was so fast. She knelt down beside you, ignoring the blood as it seeped into her sweatpants.

You almost fainted, vision slightly blurry as you let your head fall back on the ice, only coming into focus when you saw a familiar silhouette pushing past your teammates who stood, continuing to stare, at the scene. “Abby, hey.” You murmured, watching as she audibly reacted to the depth of the cut.

“Did someone call a fucking ambulance?” She shouted, startling a couple of the girls who were close enough to be useful. Her face was two shades paler, making her look sickly as she tried to remain calm. As a hockey player, she’d seen far too many skate incidents, learning that the blades were more than enough to break the skin and even arteries if aimed correctly. That seemed to be her biggest fear now, as she watched the coach clean and dress the wound temporarily. Though, as the gauze met your wound it soaked with crimson, making her stomach churn slightly.

You bit back a morbid laugh, swallowing thickly as you spared a quick glance at your uniform that now sported random splotches of blood that you guessed splattered when the initial impact happened. It was comical considering how many times you’d chided Abby in the past couple of weeks about wearing her padding properly, worried about this exact result. For some reason, you never even considered that it would happen to you. Funny how things pan out.

The coach shed her jacket, dropping it onto the ice to soak up some of the blood before pressing down onto the cut to provide some pressure- much to your dismay. “Did she stutter? Go call an ambulance for Christ's sake.” She sighed, glancing up to see how you seemed to be doing- letting out a relieved breath to see that you were still conscious.

“Hey.” Abby hummed quietly, hearing the music cut off finally and the rink fall into silence only disturbed by quiet murmuring. She moved her hands to push the hair from your sweaty forehead, feeling in the same brush the chill that had entered your skin. “When I said ‘cut it up’ I didn't mean it so literally.” She attempted a joke, her laugh coming out uneasy as she referenced your conversation from earlier.

You laughed quietly, giving a small shrug as you began to regain some color to your face. “What can I say? I follow instructions to a T.” The patch-up job your coach did seemed to be working as you felt your body will with warmth again, attempting to fight off the icy chill of the ice below you (not to mention your sudden lack of blood).

She shook her head, biting the inside of her lip roughly before glancing around at the girls. The girl responsible looked like she was going to be ill, her bloody skate discarded on the floor by the exit as she regained her composure. “Hey, how did this happen?” She spoke again, leaning down slightly to cover some of her words. Though, yes, she did see the girl drop her leg too early- something seemed off to her. The entire situation having been weird from the start.

“Too close, that girl kept getting mad that I was fucking up her spins or something.” You whispered, glancing over to where they sat now- facing away from the ice. “They were talking shit about me before we restarted the routine.” You told her, leaving out all of the mostly unimportant details.

Abby clicked her tongue against her teeth, nodding slightly as she looked back down at you, giving you a soft smile. “No need to worry about that, pretty.” She hummed, hearing the sound of sirens getting closer to the rink. Someone she didn’t notice must've finally called, thank god. “You took that like a champ though, I've seen grown men pass out from cuts smaller than that.” She praised, watching as the blush color rose back into your cheeks- making her let out a small sigh of relief.

“Will you call my parents and let them know what happened? They were supposed to come see me perform at the game this weekend but I don't think that's gonna happen.” You asked, attempting to sit up but failing as it sent a sharp pain through your leg. You made a mental note to sue that girl, especially if this caused your exit from cheering. “I don’t want them to worry though.”

She nodded, tearing her eyes from yours as she watched the paramedics enter and hustle down the walkway to the rink. “Of course, pretty girl. You focus on them, okay? I’ll follow behind them in the car so I can take you home afterward.” She explained, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before getting to her feet to move out of their way.

Abby let you fade from her sight as she focused her attention on the girls who sat unmoving in the team lot. She didn't know them personally but she sure as hell was about to as she shuffled over to the exit door- taking them by surprise momentarily.

“The fuck do you want?” One of them, the less bright one she assumed, spoke- causing the other girl to shush her almost instantly.

She sat nervously on the bench, one skate still laced and firmly on her foot whilst the other one leaked blood onto the ice right outside the door. If Abby didn’t know any better, she would've thought it was an accident. Based on the reaction from the girl now and the sight of it all, though her friends reaction solidified her original assumptions. “Allison, just shut up.” She stated firmly, voice trembling as she wrung her hands. “We’re so sorry, It was just supposed to be-”

“Shut up and listen,” Abby growled, leaning down to their level as she prepared to spell out what was going to happen to them. “You are going to go to coach and tell her exactly what happened, I’ll know if you lie because I fucking watched it. Then, you’re going to go home and wait for my fucking lawyers to call. Think you could do that?”

Was it maybe overkill, yes. Did she care, absolutely not.

The girls nodded, faces warped into a mortified look as they scampered back onto the ice- the main girl almost tripping on her discarded skate.

Abby drew her phone from her pocket, shooting her dad a quick SOS text before dialing up your parents, listening to the dull tone ring before your mother finally picked up.

“Hey! Not to worry you but..”

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munchcorner · 2 months

Text

Bakugou hates the rain. Everyone is well aware of it, but no one knows what transpires between Bakugou and Midoriya when it rains.

Dark clouds cover the sky, and rumbling can be heard. Midoriya pulls the curtains as he listens to the forecast about the upcoming typhoon.

“It looks like there’s a heavy monsoon coming soon,” Midoriya whispers as he heats the water. He takes out two All Might cups from their cupboard and puts a chamomile teabag in one and a lemon teabag in the other.

“Waffles,” Midoriya says as he puts on an apron, muttering Bakugou’s waffle recipe as he makes the batter. After finishing up, he puts the batter into the waffle maker and turns off the kettle.

Midoriya finishes making the waffles before filling their cups with hot water. He puts everything in a tray before searching for Bakugou’s favorite caramel syrup.

“Kacchan,” Midoriya calls out as he gently knocks on the door. When Bakugou doesn’t respond, he gently opens the door to their room and smiles when he sees Bakugou wrapped in a blanket.

Midoriya sets the tray on their bedside table and gently shakes Bakugou awake. A grumble escapes Bakugou’s lips, and Midoriya only giggles when he sees a grumpy face emerge from the covers. He turns on the television to mask the sound of the rain pattering against their window.

“What do you want to watch, Kacchan?” Midoriya asks as he skims through shows, his other hand running through Bakugou’s bedroom hair.

“Whatever is fine,” Bakugou whispers, his voice hoarse. He takes Midoriya’s hand to his lips and kisses it before sitting up to lean on the headboard.

Midoriya plays Bakugou’s latest interview, making Bakugou frown. "Aren’t you tired of seeing my face?” he asks, reaching for the chamomile tea.

Midoriya shakes his head, handing Bakugou his plate of waffles, “Never.”

A smile is plastered on Midoriya’s lips as he listens to Bakugou answer the questions. Bakugou rolls his eyes and kisses Midoriya’s lips, catching him by surprise, “thank you for preparing this.”

Heat rises to Midoriya’s cheeks. He covers his face with his hands to hide the obvious blush on his face, but Bakugou can still see how red his ears are. A cocky smile graces his lips as a proud feeling rises in his chest. No matter how long they’ve been dating, he can still make Midoriya blush. It doesn’t matter if it’s from a simple kiss or a quick brush of their skin.

“Kacchan!” Midoriya can’t help but yell when he feels Bakugou’s ears on his chest, listening quietly to his heartbeat.

“Shh.” Bakugou hushes him.

Midoriya can feel his heart beating faster, he raises his hand and presses Bakugou’s head closer to his chest.

“My God, Kacchan,” Midoriya whispers, letting Bakugou listen to his heartbeat. Minutes pass and Bakugou sits upright, sipping on his tea, “Oh, it’s cold,”

“Is it?” Midoriya asks, sipping on his tea and staring at his waffles, “it’s because you kept listening to my heart beating,”

Midoriya pouts.

“Quit pouting,” Bakugou says, standing from the bed and taking their cups to refill with hot water. Midoriya follows him and wraps his arms around Bakugou’s, kissing his nape before pressing his ears against Bakugou’s back. He can hear the slow beating of his heart and he can’t help but be reminded of the time it exploded.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Midoriya whispers, tightening his arms around Bakugou’s waist. He sniffles a bit.

“What are you crying about this time?!” Bakugou yells without turning around. He knows the reason but wants to hear it from Midoriya himself.

“I just…” Midoriya buries his face into Bakugou’s back, his tears dampening Bakugou’s tank top, “It was raining that day too, and I can’t help but remember that sight.”

Midoriya’s voice trembles as he speaks, “I never cared about the rain, but that day made me hate it. Because when it pours, I can’t help but be reminded of your…”

The words were stuck in Midoriya’s throat, making him unable to continue.

Bakugou sighs, “That was years ago, stop thinking about it.”

“I can’t,” Midoriya confesses. Bakugou turns around, squeezing Midoriya’s face between his hands, “Look, that shit happened years ago. I’m here now. So, all you have to do is focus on the present, and if you still can’t fucking stop thinking of it, just shove you’re goddamn ears on my chest and it’ll tell you I’m alive, right here, right now.”

Bakugou presses Midoriya’s ears against his chest, saying, “Here that, Izuku? This exploded for you and is currently beating for you. So stop worrying about the past already. Besides, we’re inseparable. I’ve cheated death once, I’ll do it again if it means going back to you,”

Midoriya clasps Bakugou’s tank top, sobbing into his chest, “Okay, but please don’t die again. I don’t think I’ll be able to come back like you did if I had a heart attack,”

Bakugou scoffs, “Alright then. Let’s eat the waffles and drink the tea. I’m fucking starving.”

Midoriya nods and wipes away his tears before following Bakugou back into their bedroom to enjoy the rest of the day in each other’s arms.

#bkdk #bakudeku #dekubak #dkbk #bakugou x deku #bakugou x izuku #bakugou x midoriya #midoriya x kacchan #midoriya x katsuki #midoriya x bakugou #kacchan x izuku #izuku x kacchan #kacchan x midoriya #deku x kacchan #decchan #man I missed writing them

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simpxxstan · 1 year

Text

perfect complements (ch. 2)

pairing: professor!seungcheol x professor!f.reader

genre: fluff, enemies to lovers, angst, smut

series summary: four and a half years of working together breeds familiarity, resentment, and everything in between. it's almost like living together.

chapter word count: 2.4k

warnings: bickering.

a/n: i have never been to a therapist/counsellor, so i apologise if there are factual inaccuracies in how the process of counselling goes. the italicized portion is an excerpt from the past, and that's how it'll be indicated in the rest of the story!

thank you so much for reading! your reblogs, likes and comments make my day!

series masterlist

GIF by coupsnim

The walls of the counsellor’s office are painted blue and green- quite contrary to what you had thought would be clinically white and even more depressing. There’s no sign of Seungcheol though, as you sit in the small waiting space outside the office, reading a magazine off the coffee table, your legs shaking nervously.

The man you’re waiting for storms in through the door, his shirt unbuttoned at the top, and his slightly longer hair all fluffy and messy. “Sorry I’m late,” he says to no one, especially not you since he’s averted his glance from you as soon as he entered, and there’s no one else in the space. “Dr. Lee is waiting for us.” You speak softly, trying to level your tone. He takes a minute to brace himself before looking at you, fixing his hair, fixing his crumpled shirt, and breathing in.

In the past sixteen hours, you’ve thought about this moment a million times at least. It’s been a long time coming, and you know Seungcheol knows it as well as you. Wonwoo has spoken to the two of you multiple times, and yet- things never seem to improve.

It’s not like you purposely piss him off, well, most of the time. He is a dickhead, but it’s not like you have a lot of free time just to educate him on being a better human in the world. It’s mostly a slip here and there, and the spark blasts.

It started on a rainy day, in the middle of August. You really didn’t like the rain, to make it worse you’d got your period that morning. You wanted to go home as soon as possible, but all public transport had suddenly disappeared, leaving you stranded in the monsoon on a busy street where no one cared about you, no matter how desperately you called for a taxi. It was just not your day-

But all that had a hope of reversing when you noticed a familiar smile and a wave through a car window, which was right next to you now. “Seungcheol-ssi?” you asked. “Can I give you a ride, Prof Y/L/N?” You started refusing him, hands moving animatedly, but then he gave you a look- oh- and you couldn’t refuse him anymore. “Please. You’ve been standing here for the past twenty minutes,” he said, as you shuffled into his car, trying to not wet the seats but in vain. “You’ve been watching me?” “Uh-” he was nervous now, “no I was just…” “Hey, I really appreciate your offer. I was really having a difficult time. Thank you so much, Seungcheol-ssi.” Three months into his new job, and you both had developed a good relationship, being of nearly the same age. The three other professors in your department were all above fifty, two even due to retire that year, leaving you two as the youngest of the department, and it was a good partnership. You enjoyed talking about the subjects that you had chosen as the first loves of your lives over a cup of coffee, sometimes you would smile at him for a second too long when he would speak of his pet dog Kkuma, sometimes he would return the smile when you spoke fondly about your favourite students.

The car ride was also just as smooth as the rest of Choi Seungcheol. As much as he was an eye candy, you had decided you were certainly not interested in him, having noticed how well he got along with every female (and most male) faculty members of the university, and his smiles were just not reserved for you. Within weeks, he had students fawning over him, and soon he was becoming the most popular professor in the university, not just among students but also among your colleagues. While you had no fancies for these titles, it felt a little weird losing the good rapport you had worked hard in building, being the only female professor in the department. Or maybe it was just you being too competitive.

Anyhow, when Seungcheol played the music of your favourite idol group, you couldn’t complain. The depressive mood from the rains had already mellowed out. You raised your eyebrows at him in query, he replied, “What? I’ve seen their photocard behind your phone.” He smiled again, and you smiled back. So attentive.

Just then, there was a crazy sound from his car. Alarmed, he instantly got out of the car to check- soon there was smoke coming up from the front of the car. You felt guilty sitting in the dry shade of the rain while he lifted the front hood of the car, drenched in the rain, trying to figure out the issue, so you stepped out. “I’m sorry- I really-” “No, hey, why are you apologising to me?” “I don’t know what’s wrong. I think I’ll have to call a mechanic.” You looked around, it was a shockingly deserted area, maybe the rain had washed away all people into their homes. As evening began to descend, your cramps got worse, not improving as the wetness of the rain began settling into your bones.

“Should we wait inside the car? I’ve called for the mechanic, but they’ll definitely take some time.”

“Sure. I mean, we don’t have an option, do we?” You chuckled, trying to reduce the tension. “I’m sorry I got you stuck in this.” “Nah, it’s okay.” “You can try looking for a cab-” “Do you see a cab out there, Choi Seungcheol?” you snapped out a bit too harshly, recoiling instantly. He was taken aback too, wincing. “Sorry, I just…” Then he grew quiet, and so did you.

Seconds became minutes.

Minutes to hours.

Precisely, two and a quarter hours, before the mechanic arrived.

Your water bottle was empty, your lunch long finished, the cramps growing worse in the confined space and the anxiety, and Seungcheol wasn’t a close friend who you could become casual around. So you kept your legs down, your heels on, even if your ankles hurt. You kept your hair tied, even if the hair tie began to hurt your scalp, because your hair was too unruly to let down. You couldn’t even take off your jacket, because your body was too cold to let go of even one piece of clothing.

This was really not your day.

There was no conversation, mainly because you were afraid of snapping again. He stepped out to help the mechanic, and you closed your eyes tight in the car, trying to hold back the pain. Wordlessly, the mechanic left after the issue was fixed, the rain still pouring relentlessly, and Seungcheol came back into the car.

Thankfully, this time when he tried to start the car, it roared to life. After travelling slowly for fifteen minutes, Seungcheol spoke up, “It’s almost seven- do you want to get some ramyeon before heading home?” You weren’t even looking at him, but you could sense the expectation in his voice. “My treat, to make up for the-”

“I want to go home, Seungcheol.” Your voice was bitterer than you had thought. Seungcheol extended his hand to your arm, and you flinched. “Can you please drive me to my neighbourhood? I don’t want to stay here a minute more.” He took back his hand in a second, and amped up the speed of the car. In less than twenty minutes you were in the front of your home, the address you had input into the Google Maps of the car dashboard earlier.

Without a word, you stepped out of the car, into the rain that had fizzled down to a drizzle now. Seungcheol was looking at you, and you had no way to avoid his eyes now. “I’m sorry for making your day so bad. Really, if I could make it-” “Bye, Choi Seungcheol-ssi. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And you had turned your back on the man who had drove you home that evening, the hopeful glint in his eyes burning in your head but other feelings like exhaustion, pain and desperation overwhelming you.

“Has anger always been an issue for you?”

Ouch, that was harsh. You had thought counsellors were soft with their words- but then, you’d never been to one’s office before. Seungcheol seemed calmer than before now, honestly that irked you more. Was he actually okay with sitting here? Being reprimanded for how you couldn’t help but behave around each other, at the age of thirty-three?

“I don’t know… I guess I’ve always had a slightly sharp tongue. Quick to lose my temper.”

Seungcheol sighed next to you. You can feel his eyes poring into your face, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him.

“And you, Prof. Choi?”

“I don’t think so. I think Prof. Y/L/N brings out the worst in me.”

Now you’re looking straight at him, and you know he’s facing you while saying the words. “Excuse me?”

“Prof. Y/L/N-”

“I’ve never faced issues with my temper before, you know. Yes, some may call me an alpha but-”

A laugh escaped from your lips before you could help it.

“Prof. Y/L/N, please refrain from scoffing here. Remember the common goal.” Dr. Lee reminded you.

“I can’t help it, Dr. Lee. It’s blatantly obnoxious for Prof. Choi to think of himself as an alpha. Why, the man’s scared of ghosts! As if ghosts even exist.”

“Prof. Y/L/N-”

“Might I inform you, Dr. Lee, than Prof. Y/L/N has a phobia of thunderstorms. She can’t stand seeing lightning, absoltely shivers like-”

“Professors!”

Again the dreadful feeling of being reprimanded.

“Laughing at each other’s phobias are petty and not acceptable. This is a safe space. We are all respectful of each other’s fears, irrespective of how they appear to us. We have a common goal of resolution, please be mindful.” Your eyes were cast downward, fingers fiddling with the hem of your dress. “I’m sorry, Dr. Lee.”

There was a sharp intake of air from Choi Seungcheol.

“But I don’t think this can ever reach resolution,” you complete, nearly standing up from your chair. Seungcheol openly scoffs at you now, laughing at your surrender. Exactly what he was pushing you for.

“There, there! No need to rush, Professor. How about, we move on to the first activity I’ve planned for you both?”

You pause, sitting back in your chair.

“Activity?” Seungcheol asks, running fingers through his hair.

“Yes! It’s part of my toolkit for couples’ therapy-”

“This isn’t couple’s therapy,” you both chime together. It’s getting annoying how often people think of you as a couple.

Dr. Lee only chuckles, as if they had laid the bait out for you to hold on to, and you both had caught on to it like fishes. You gasp, realising this session may be more complicated than you thought.

“Of course! Now, have either of you done colouring before? Ever heard of art therapy?”

Seungcheol shakes his head, while you nod. “I colour on my phone sometimes- numbered colouring. Stress relieving, it is for me.” Dr. Lee smiles. “Yes! Except, we’ll not be doing numbered colouring.” They pull out a sheet of paper from underneath their desk, and lay it right in front of you both.

It’s a beautiful picture of a scene from nature- trees, foliage, flowers, even a river through the grass. But in black and white outline, and more spaces marked in between indicating where to fill in colours.

Then Dr. Lee brings out a pack of colour pencils, and keeps it beside the sheet of paper.

“Can I trust you both to fill this in?”

Seungcheol’s jaw actually drops. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him more surprised.

“You want us to fill this with colours? Colour pencils?”

“Yes! It’s really quite simple, and really would be great for healing you through all the stress of work during the day.” Dr. Lee’s smile is genial, but you don’t feel it catching on to you. The thought of colouring this- with Seungcheol- does nothing but add up to your stress.

“Alright.” Seungcheol is doing it again- pushing you to surrender. He even picks up the sheet and colour pencils and stands up, looking at you expectantly.

But you’re not going to give up so easily.

It’s a matter of your pride after all.

“We’ll bring this to you, all complete and pretty, at our next session!” You’re staring into Seungcheol’s soul, seeing the panic flash momentarily before he dons his standard pretty smile, gums threatening to show.

“Yes, Dr. Lee!” And for a second, you wonder if this was how he used to suck up to his teachers in school, all cute and excited- but, you forget the thought quickly, as Dr. Lee stands up, a very knowing smile in their eyes, waiting to bid you goodbye. As you both shuffle out of the room, you face Seungcheol outside the office. “Our next session is day after tomorrow. What were you thinking when you promised to complete this, like a little good girl, so eager to please?” he snaps, standing inches away from you.

“Seungcheol, spare me your nonsense. I’ll take it home today and complete the top half, and you can take it home tomorrow and complete the bottom half.”

“Impossible. I have at least two dozens of projects to go through. I’ll not be coming to work tomorrow. No time for this” he points at the sheet in his hand.

“Then I’ll just come over tomorrow evening, after your project corrections are done. We can complete it together. Makes the process quicker.” You know you’re stepping into extremely risky territory, but hell, even you didn’t want to go home and colour on a lovely day like this. Wine and jazz sounded much better.

He seems to ponder over the offer for a second. Then he takes out his right hand from his pocket, and holds it out to you. “Deal,” he says, and you almost scoff at his childish behaviour. Then you shake your right hand with his, and take a step back.

“See you tomorrow, then.”

“Yeah, my place, at 8?”

“Hmm.”

“I’ll text you the address-”

“I have it already, Prof. Choi.” you say quietly, before turning your back on him and walking away slowly, ignoring his eyes on your back.

#choi seungcheol #s.coups #s.coups x reader #seventeen x reader #seventeen fanfiction #seventeen fluff #seventeen series #s.coups series #s.coups fluff #s.coups fanfiction #seungcheol fanfiction #seungcheol x y/n #seungcheol series #seungcheol fanfic #seungcheol x reader #seventeen fanfic #perfect complements series #simpxxstan

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piratefishmama · 1 year

Note

14!

Writing Prompts | No longer accepting new prompts

“Excuse me?” Steve, who’d been quietly minding his own business in the corner with his frankly pathetic little lunch, was absolutely certain he’d misheard the boy.

“I said, I know you’re the president of the Anti-Social Club, but why don’t you join me?” Nope, definitely didn’t mishear him.

“I’m not the president of the antisocial club, what the hell dude?”

“Could’a fooled me, man! All on your lonesome over here… I know camp ain’t exactly the best place in the world if all your friends are off on… I dunno, ski trips in the Alps or some shit while you’re stuck here, but… you don’t have to be on your own, y’know?” Steve regarded the other boy with narrowed eyes.

He knew this boy.

Year above him at Hawkins Middle, hadn’t been there for very long, maybe a year or so, the buzzcut he’d had that first year was starting to grow out into little dark curls. Still looked like he could do with a proper meal though. Munford? No. Monsoon? Pfft what? That’d be too cool a name, Minsun? Nooo… Munson!! “I don’t need your pity, Munson, m’fine…” Munson raised his brows in surprise, not at the idea that he was fine, probably that he knew his last name. “So what if my friends aren’t here, I’m still fine…” His parents were spending the first few weeks of the school summer holidays in California, back-to-back business meetings for some big merger his fathers firm was going through, his mother working alongside his father as one of the key lawyers on the project. “M’not anti-social”

No holiday for Steve, at least not yet. He’d have a few weeks of summer camp at some random little dump in the middle of the woods, and then they’d be back to pick him up for a real holiday, he was sure they’d be back. He only had to suffer another couple of weeks on his own. No big deal.

“Uh-huh… see, I’d believe you, I really would, cause normally you’re surrounded by your little hoard of groupies, but… you’ve been here for like, a week now? And not one friend made! Even Robin tried to talk to you, you blew her off! That was super rude, man, she’s great.” Bit young, bit hyperactive, but she kicked ass on the trumpet.

“…Who’s Robin?”

“Sweet cheesus on toast, okay. Uh… see that girl over there, long brown-ish hair? Band-aid on her knee? That’s Robin. She tried to ask you what your favourite bug was the other day, and you just ignored her.”

He honestly hadn’t heard her, his hearing had never been the best but… what kind of question was that? “Who has a favourite bug?”

“Robin does, it’s a ladybeetle.” Robin had once followed up with the seemingly automatic follow-on comment ‘cause ladies are great’ before realising she’d said too much and froze. She’d only relaxed when nobody had questioned it. Only relaxed when Eddie had swiftly moved the conversation on to what everyone’s favourite leaf shape was.

His was a maple leaf. Cause how did leaves just do shapes like that? Most were rounded with only one main ‘point’, and then you have a big ol maple leaf just HI THERE I LOOK LIKE I BELONG ON A DRUID’S STAFF AND NOWHERE ELSE. Like it could be the base of a coat of arms for a great forest dwelling elven family, or the shape of a forest dragons footprint.

That inevitably went on to the kids designing cool forest dragons and everything was right with the world.

“I think you mean ladybug.”

“Do I?” Munson smiled at him, as if he knew something Steve didn’t, it irritated him a little, how easily this kid seemed to talk down to him. Nobody talked down to him besides the adults, and they were adults so… he had to take that.

“Shut up, go away. I don’t care about dumb bugs” The smile dropped, replaced with something that else that Steve didn’t think he liked, a flash of sadness, no… no, that expression didn’t look right on Munson’s face and Steve didn’t know why.

The dimpled smile suited him more.

“Okay well… if you do feel like abdicating your position of president of the antisocial club, then… y’know… we’re all over there, plotting out our attack on the end of camp scavenger hunt. You’d be welcome to join us.” Scavenger hunt? Steve figured his face probably gave away some kind of interest, because Munson lingered just a little longer, instead of retreating back to his little gaggle of nerds “You… you’ve never been here before, so uhm… I suppose you probably wouldn’t know, every year, at the end of summer camp, the counsellors put on this massive scavenger hunt, it spans the whole camp grounds and a little ways into the forest too, but the prize is different every year, and you get a cool trophy if your team wins… you could be on our team, if you wanted?”

“…I won’t be here for long enough, parents are picking me up before the end of camp.” Why did that sound fun though? Why did his voice sound disappointed? He wanted out of that stupid camp! Everything was dirty, and smelly, and he didn’t know anyone, it was boring but the one cool thing he’d heard about, he wouldn’t even be there to join.

“Oh… well… you could still help us plan right? We can do a run of the areas, find any potential hiding spots, it could be fun! Way more fun than hiding out here picking at grass!”

He could. He could have, could have gotten up from his spot and joined the little gaggle of nerds for their nerd games, he’d have been the weird one in a group for once, but… they probably wouldn’t have held it against him, he could have played with them but… what was the point?

“No, I’m okay. I’ll pass.” Munson hesitated again, chewing his bottom lip in thought, before nodding and taking a step backwards.

“Okay, well… if you change your mind, man… being president of one is kinda like a president of none, an you could be my co-president in Team ‘Scoob’ which… y’know… it’s a huge honour! But if you’re sure…” Scoob? Probably Scooby Doo, Steve’s brain supplied.

“…Co-president?”

“Yepperoo, you’re welcome to coooomeee~ You can be the Fred to my Daphne!” Steve raised a brow in curiosity “y’know, cause… I’m growing my hair out and you’re—y’know” Eddie motioned to all of him, he didn’t know.

But it made him feel a little warm to think about it.

He really could go with him… Munson wasn’t just giving up on him, wasn’t just letting him be by himself, was giving him an opportunity to make friends and well… even if he wasn’t going to be there until the end… he could do with some friends to make the time pass quicker. “…Ugh, fine. But if it’s boring then I’m ditching you! Help me up.”

“Haha! Fine, fine, Mr President! Nothing but fun times to be had!! C’mon I’ll introduce you to everyone! My names Eddie by the way, not Munson.” Eddies hand was warm as it wrapped around his, his pull gentle but enough to get Steve onto his feet.

“Steve… not president.”

‘Eddie’ snorted a laugh, following with “I know Stevie” Stevie… he liked Stevie “you’re like, famous in school” as he walked him back to the group. Not having let go of his hand.

So at least when his parents sent word two weeks later that actually, they’d be staying in California due to some mix-up with the merger that was taking far longer than anticipated, at least when he’d been told he’d be staying for the entirety of camp, he had… friends.

He had people.

He had Robin, who rambled about bugs, and stars and—and anything really, the girl honestly couldn’t stop herself from rambling sometimes, it was cute, even if a little annoying sometimes.

He had Eddie who hugged him when he’d caught him silently shedding tears in the camp cabin because he’d known they wouldn’t be there he just hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself, then promptly revealed a ferret called Samwise that he’d been hiding god only knows where for a whole three weeks.

Eddie, who didn’t give up on befriending him, who held his hand more often than not, who partnered with him on little arts and crafts group projects and silly team exercises, who made him feel all weird inside in a way Steve didn’t understand but he liked enough to feel excitement over what it could be. He'd always have the little kiss on the cheek Eddie had nervously given him behind their cabin the night before their last day after mumbling a soft little prayer to some unknown god called 'Ozzy' that he was reading the signs right. He was.

Steve would always have that summer and everything that came with it.

And, of course, he'd always have shared custody of their little winners trophy, because in what universe could anyone beat Team Scoob in a scavenger hunt?

#PirateWrites #Dont ask me what universe this is set in #i just wanted to write them at camp #shhh #Steddie

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kiwiviv22 · 7 months

Text

"You who swallowed a falling star, oh heartless man. Your heart shall soon belong to me."

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ‧₊˚*Witch! Reader X Howl!Yuta ☆ * ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩ * ੈ✩‧₊Fluff ☆ one shot ☆ AFAB reader * ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩

The Ember Island sunsets were one of the most beautiful sunsets you had ever seen. Every evening, the sky would be splashed with different colors, today the sky was bleeding a soft orange melting into a dark sapphire in places, little lilac clouds scattered about, it all made your fingers etch for water paints. But after about 18 sunsets and 12 paintings, you had begun feeling that a sunset was rather boring if not shared with someone.

When Yuta had dropped in at your mansion announcing a beach vacation, you had thought he would be there too. Unfortunately, Mr. Pendragon had been called away by some random emperor again the moment ya'll had set foot on the island. Apparently, the stupid witch of the waste was brewing trouble... Again. You knew that the whole vacation extravaganza was a lame excuse to keep you at the moving castle so that Howl could keep you near him until all your powers were back. But he was just too much of a hopeless romantic to admit to that, and he knew you'd only get angry if he tried to patronize you directly. Although you would hardly admit it, you could really do some time away from your routine, where without your powers, life had become an endless circle of cooking, cleaning, and reading. Your mastery over fire was something out of folktales. They had made legends over you, scared kids into sleeping early under your name. It was a kind of glory you didn't expect to stripped away that easily. So it just made you angrier.

You weren't exactly the kind old witch that made healing potions. you had the kind of power that scared people. Now when you accidentally burned down half a village and the temple of a local deity while chasing a murderer, the deity just might have cursed you to sit flame-less until next monsoon.

Okay... maybe you did need to learn a little self control, sign up for an anger management workshop while you were at it. You had encountered crappy situations all your life, but sitting powerless at a beach while the witch of the waste raged around was an all-time low.

Here at the castle, Calcifer took care of everything, so today you had decided to take a walk around the ember island. Only, Ember island was a very touristy place, so in every direction you looked, you saw couples on their honeymoons squished together, tongues down each other's throats. It had made you bitterly walk back to the castle fuming. It had been two weeks since Yuta had been called away and you were a thought away from visiting the king's palace yourself.

I apologize your highness, but my boyfriend and I are losing out on too much quality time for me to give a rat's ass about your royal problems.

Without magic, everything in your life had slowed down by a mile. You had never realized how dependant you were on magic until you had to live without it.

Yuta seemingly lived a human life, cooking and cleaning all by himself, you, on the other hand, realized you could no longer jinx your plate to clean itself and almost threw a fit. It was all too frustrating.

You were half jealous that Yuta could go around being his wizard self and half sad that he wasn't here with you. You felt a white bolt of anger in her stomach, you were bored, tired without magic, and if you must admit a little needy. Maybe you should go around burning down imperial courts once your powers were back.

Your fingers dug tighter into the railing overlooking the sliver waters of embers island, you could feel your blood boil even without the usual hellfire within it. You were so far into her rage, that you didn't hear the quiet footsteps behind you.

You were going to yank that witch by her hair and burn her at a stake. Only when he actually wrapped his hands around you that you jumped. Your heart rate going from casual walk to 100-meter dash. But Yuta just held you tighter. He knew you found back hugs embarrassing but just loved seeing you flustered.

He nuzzled his face into your hair, and the white bolt of anger melted as quickly as it had appeared. You felt his full lips press against your neck as he murmured, "Sorry love, the traffic was crazy."

You felt goosebumps flood your body as his deep voice drummed into your ear. Chuckling, you turned around to face him. He always looked at you so adoringly, his eyes shining with just a glint of disbelief. As if he still couldn't believe he was holding you for real. You always found that rather flattering. The king and the witch suddenly became very small nuisances, fading as he laced his long sleeves around your waist pulling you against his chest.

With a content sigh, you ran your fingers through his long midnight bangs, tucking them behind his ear. Cupping his face you leaned into him, pressing your lips on his for only a fleeting moment, "Guess we'll have to make up for all the lost time then." you murmured against his mouth. You only caught a glimpse of his grin, before he pulled you in for a deeper kiss. One of his hands trailed down your lower back as the other glided into your hair, angling your head against his mouth. His kisses were always so diligent, passionate trembling lips, murmuring praises, small acts of worship. Your hands ran down his tone arms, you could feel the deep calling for him quell from your body like a rising tide.

Well, you thought before you lost yourself completely, this vacation isn't all that bad.

#nct127 x reader #yuta x reader #nct imagines #nakamoto yuta #howl pendragon #howl x reader #howl x you #yuta x you #yuta x y/n #yuta imagines #nct 127 #yuta nct 127 #yuta nakamoto

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puppyguppy · 9 months

Text

You’re coherent – for the moment.

At least, you think you are. Which, you suppose, confirms the suspicion. The theory. Since you’re thinking in general. Lucidly so, and about something other than – emptyheatdeepneedfilledtouchtouchtouch –

You’re still warm, you still ache, and your head and insides still throb with the same pulse of your heart. Your head feels heavy. You’re sweating, and shaking still, but it feels like the crash of a fever. Something you’re familiar with, at least, at last. Your fingers and toes hurt from flexing and curling so much, into the sheets and into themselves. And you’re still so - so wet. In places you shouldn’t be, at least not naturally; not that any of this is natural, technically. Just some fucked up side effects from a quirk. Despite how saliva pools thick and copious between your tongue and teeth, your throat feels dry. Parched. Unsatisfied. Denied, like a desert is sometimes denied the promise of a monsoon. Not that you’d been promised anything.

Nothing more than your safety and security, anyway.

Which was actually pretty amazing. More than what most people would end up with in the same situation as you. More than what you could’ve ever expected. After all, it’s not like you’re dying, even if you feel like you are. Like you will. Not like, right now, not in this sudden, blissful second of reprieve, but. Soon. Soon. Especially if you don’t get something more than some easily eaten food and fitful sleep and sponge baths. They’d told you that the quirk could wear off anywhere between three to seven days. That that was the average, though some sweat it out quicker than others. You’re not sure what day it is. Or if it’s even been a day. Of course, there was an ‘antidote’. A so-called ‘cure’ for the quirk. A ‘remedy’. A quick fix. But, not for you. Because you are single. Single, and currently under the constant, careful watch of a Pro-Hero that’d been dubbed as one with the strongest self-control. And damn-near nonexistent sex-drive. Which was, you know. Fine. Great, even. For him. And really none of your business under any other circumstances. But. You’d been hit by a quirk that more or less sends you spiralling into a horny, hazy heat like some stray street cat. Basically, you just really want some dick. Need some dick. And, supposedly, said dick would fix you right up – if you could just get it. Alas.

They considered you too dangerous to be left on your own. Since you’re single and all. They figured that if they just dropped your ass back at your apartment that you might do something you’d later regret. Which was fair. You couldn’t consent, not confidently, not completely. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, this stupid quirk also, apparently, changes your biology. So, no matter what bits someone may or may not be rockin’, they could still end up…pregnant. And you definitely didn’t want to get pregnant. Don’t. Don’t want to get pregnant. So, you are grateful. For now. For the food and the water (when you can get it down), and the sponge baths and safe place to sleep. Since that’d also been a worry, what with how hard the quirk hit you; they’d been worried you wouldn’t be able to take care of yourself while rolling through the waves. They’d been right. You’d probably be dead by now, were it not for them. Were it not for him. The Pro-Hero taking care of you. The one with unshakable self-restraint and a below zero libido. Supposedly. And long, dark, fluffy looking hair. Dark eyes, darker circles under those eyes, the shadow of stubble across his jaw…broad shoulders but lean muscles, more hair on his forearms and dusting down his knuckles, long thick fingers that only ever touch you through the filter of damp, cool fabric. Or, well, you think – maybe, maybe you remember him holding you up by the back of your head, or tilting your chin up, while you ate and drank, but it’s hard to say. You could’ve made that up. It could’ve been just one of many, many fantasies muddling your brain. Even now, they linger just on the outskirts of your thoughts, lapping at them like white noise but red. Like the Indian Ocean’s lowtide, just waiting for the right moment to swell again and drown you.

It’s crazy to think about, while you can. There are so many heroes, and yet, only one has been deemed safe enough to take care of you. As if any other wouldn’t, or couldn’t. As if it might be too much; the sight of you, the sound of you, the scent of you – whining and moaning, and writhing and crying, begging. Like they might take advantage of you, how much you think you want it, how much you think you need it, how you just might forget it. You don’t think you’re that irresistible, even under an influence such as this. Are heroes just that desperate? That greedy? Some of them, obviously. Yeah. Of course. But not this guy. Not Aizawa, who feeds you jelly pouches and bone broth, and wipes you down between fits and naps. Not Shouta, who stays an appropriate, responsible distance away from you unless absolutely necessary, and murmurs soothing nothings to you through the worst of your haze, your hunger.

The ceiling above you is some shade of grey. As are the walls, and the bedset you’ve almost melted your way through. None of them are the same shade of grey, but the lack of color is oddly relaxing. It reminds you of overcast, of rain. Of a thunder outside of your head. You crave the cold drizzle of raindrops down your spine, the chilly whisper of words along your neck, the prickle of gooseflesh beneath a blooming bruise sucked spit-soaked into your skin and left to cool. Your stomach muscles quiver, and your next inhale is a bit of a soft choke, airways slightly suffocated by spit. It’s your body warning you; you’ve waded too close to the riptide again, and you’ve got no other choice but to get dragged under. You know you won’t actually drown. You know you won’t die, even if you don’t get dicked down. And yet, something akin to fear still spikes through your chest. You’re alone, and you don’t want to be alone, you’re empty, and it hurts, you want, you need, please, please – “Please - !” “Hey,” you’re not alone. Fingers skim through the perspiration over your forehead, four of them, like sturdy logs that create a liferaft out of the back of a hand. You’re floating again, breathing again, even if all the hero’s done is prolong the inevitable. “How’re you feeling?” He asks, and while he pulls his hand away, you catch the glint of your sweat on his skin, like dewy branches in the morning. Fleetingly, filthily, you wonder what would make them snap. What would make him snap. If anything at all, could it possibly be something like you? Someone like you? How’re you feeling? “I thought heroes were supposed to help people.”

You’re pouting. You’re pissy, though that’d been unbeknownst to you until this very moment. You’d been – well. Better. Ish. Before Aizawa had started asking dumb questions. Like, how are you feeling? Like, how are you supposed to answer that?

Aizawa heaves a sigh from where he stands at the bedside, arms crossed and shoulders slouched. He looked tired. More tired than when you'd met him. He’s not always in the room with you, but is he sleeping when he's not?

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” He tries again, with the patience and forgiveness of a saint.

Yes? No? Maybe?

You're not sure.

So instead, you ask, “How long has it been?”

He blinks at you, as if startled by the question, and maybe that’s a reasonable reaction if this is the sanest you've sounded in –

“Four days, just about.”

Fuck.

So, this shit could wear off any time now. Hopefully sooner rather than later. Maybe it already is. Maybe that's why you can just barely keep up a decent conversation with the man. You hadn’t been lucky enough for three days, but maybe you won't have to make it through five. Hell, it’d probably be over now, if Aizawa just – your stomach clenches again, and this time, so do your fingers and toes. It's pleasure-pain, it's hot but hollow, and you have to force the sound from your throat into words through gritted teeth.

“I’m close,” you warn him, like you might warn a partner that you're close to cumming. But you're not. Instead, it's coming, coming towards you with all the heat and weight of a steam engine. The blare of the horn is loud between your ears, harmonising with the desperation of your own scream. You pant in time with the rhythm of wheels over the tracks; the same tracks you're tied to, squirming against iron and rope. Of course, the train isn't real, but you are tied up. Bound to the bed by something between a ribbon and a rope. It squeezes you tight, just on the wrong side of right, just like your insides could be squeezing –

“Enough.”

He growls loud and low, and it rumbles through to your core like the color of the ceiling had cracked, while white streaks across your vision, blinding like lightning. You try to look at him, but it's hard to focus through the growing storm. Through the confusion and desire howling through your head, opposing winds of hot and cold – you need to get under. Under something, someone, safe – you need the tornado chased out from inside of you, forced out, you need the eye of your storm calmed with cock – it's ridiculous, humiliating, and the last shred of your sanity rips away with the sound of tearing fabric.

Aizawa is no longer standing by the bed, but sitting on it. He’s looming over you, shoulders visibly rising and falling with the exertion of his breaths. Like it's suddenly hard for him to breathe, too. His hair obscures his eyes, the way it falls into his face, but his lips are parted. One hand is braced beside you, caving in the mattress, and the other is -

is wrapped around the handle of a knife.

The blade of that knife, however, is plunged deep into the layers of the mattress, sheets creased right up against the hilt. His grip is white-knucked, and you should be scared. You should wonder where that knife came from, worry about what it is doing here, but. The only thing you feel is jealousy; the bed getting filled instead of you. And you’d settle for that blade right about now, because it'd be better than nothing. Better than your own fingers, and you wouldn't even care where it goes. Your throat, your chest, your stomach – between your eyes, between your ribs, between your legs. Your blood is just as wet as the rest of you. If you can't sweat this damn quirk out, and he won't fuck it out, maybe at least you can bleed it out. The quirk made you horny like a cat. It didn't grant you the nine lives of one.

You tip your head back and moan like the neglected animal you are(n’t). Your eyes sting with the salt of sweat and tears. Wordlessly, you beg for that blade. Plead for him to plunge it inside of you, something surely much more satisfying than a mattress. When he starts to untie you, you think yes, yes, finally. His hands shake, his limbs like branches bending against the strength of your storm, and you realise –

He’s affected.

It shoots through you like a wildfire, and your heart stops, stomach drops, before you roll. Right onto your side, then your stomach, ass up. You're naked, have been since day one, but you haven't really considered that until now. And by considering it, you appreciate it, in pleased passing because it makes for easier access, and your brain purrs over the natural, animal state of it. In this position, fill me turns into breed me, and he’s…he’s off the bed and across the room again. You're alone again, all alone and empty, sharing the bed with a stupid knife. You’re crying, frustrated and damn near delirious, nuzzling your face into a pillow as if you can rub the quirk out that way. You can’t. And he won’t. But…you lift your head and peek at that blade through a bleary eye. Your body then moves on its own, guided by each silent syllable of thought in your brain, and before you're even fully aware of it, not that you're really aware of anything right now, you’re poised above that blade. Up on your knees, thighs spread and shaking, you’re dripping; and again, before you slowly sink yourself down onto the handle, you wonder if this will make him snap. It settles inside you lukewarm and stiff, but easy, and you clench around it like a cat’s teeth in a canary's neck. It's yours now. Your knife. And you have every intent to ride it for all it's worth, until you collapse and pass out, but before you get the chance, everything stills.

It leaves you reeling.

You almost topple over, but brace yourself with a hand against the bed. The abrupt silence within yourself leaves your ears ringing. You can't believe it – you don't believe it. That it's all over, just like that. You're still shaking, still panting. Still sore, and still seated on the handle of a knife, but you feel…fine? You blink, and then you sniffle a little, before finally looking around you, and –

“You with me?”

Aizawa's hair is standing up on end, and his eyes are glowing. Red, red, just like the color you've been feeling. It's like he's looking through you, inside of you, and it makes you shiver. You're not sure what's happening, or how his hair is doing that – moving, but you nod.

“Good. This is my quirk. I haven't used it on you yet because it only works as long as I don't blink, and I didn't want to tease you with it. I can't completely erase the quirk’s side effects, but I can momentarily ease them. Do you understand?”

You nod again, but your gut twists with a little bit of anger. You understand, but you wish he would've done this sooner. Like, maybe before you decided a knife made a decent enough dildo.

“Okay. I'm going to have to blink soon, but before I do – would you like to ride something better than my knife?”

Your eyes widen as, for the first time in days, you finally feel shame again. A blush burns all the way down to your toes.

“With the quirk’s effects currently paused, I’ll consider whatever answer you give me to be coherent. And consensual, depending.”

You should just say yes. You don't need to say yes, you know you don't. But, you want to say yes, even now, with a mostly clear head. But, you don’t say yes.

You say, “Do you want me to ride something better than your knife?”

His voice doesn't crack, it snaps. Like a twig beneath a hunter’s boot, eyes glued to his prey. His hair flutters back down around his face, leaves returning to a tree.

You hold still, hold your breath.

And wait to be shot.

“Please.”

#aizawa shouta #aizawa x reader #aizawa x y/n #gender neutral reader #aizawa #regrettably based on yet another tiktok #quirk accident #sex quirk #dubcon #dubious consent #inappropriate use of a knife #kinda went crazy with the purple prose here

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