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theealbatross · 26 days

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never not been mine (s.s)

Plot | Everyone wonders if you and Sebastian are together. Sebastian wonders when will everyone mind their own business.

Tags | fluff, cheesy pining, we're not together or are we, cranky!seb, slytherin!reader, curses, threats, prejudice, seeker!seb for the plot, established relationship (kinda), when you love her so much it drives you insane, seb and reader are shit seniors is my headcannon

[Disclaimer | I borrowed a scene from "no hard feelings" because it was trending on tiktok lol. Also a portion of this is heavily inspired by 'The Alchemy' by Taylor Swift'. Photos not mine.]

“Just one drink – butterbeers on me!”

You couldn’t help but smile at the eager nameless hopeful in front of you.

The wince from his two friends at the other edge of the common room was apparent at your periphery. You had to give it to him, he’s lasted longer than the others. Usually, most would be walking away with their egos bruised when greeted with your disinterest.

“Not like you have any … pending appointments, don’t you?” He tried to maintain his bravado, even taking a step closer to the loveseat you were sitting on by the fire.

Call it an instinct, a bond only kindred spirits that have tethered in-between life and death together would have, but you could almost feel him – not needing to see him to recognize the heavy steps on the stone stairs, the deep sigh as he impatiently scours the common room in search of you, and the inevitable crinkle that forms in-between his eyebrows when he sees someone else in your vicinity.

You smile.

“I have one,” you muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

His smirk faltered, eyebrows meeting, “A boyfriend?”

You shook your head.

“Pending appointments,” you grin.

His body comically cloaked the significantly shorter boy from behind.

“There you are.”

Sebastian barely glanced at the 6th year in front of you even when their shoulders bumped, making the student stumble. On instinct, you moved your legs to the side so Sebastian could curl up on the floor, his head finding comfort on the meat of your covered thigh, callused hands curling on your calf as he slumped into your lap.

His hair was still dripping sweat, the quidditch uniform he had on covered with muck and dirt and a spattering of blood, and yet here he was, shamelessly sharing his mess with your clothes. You can almost hear Ominis’ disapproving voice, ‘He's a spoiled dog!’.

Ah, but how could you not when he seemed to be cursed at being so good at everything and yet so miserable doing anything else but spending his time with you. Even you can’t be that heartless.

You ran your hands on his damp hair, making sure to press your fingers on his scalp, unable to stop the soft coos from coming out of your mouth. Sebastian had always needed extra attention after his drills with Imelda, the latter determined to tun him into her very own secret weapon of destruction for this upcoming Quidditch season.

This, in turn, had cut his time with you to his utter despair.

“Can we help you?” You were too busy tending to him that you hadn’t realized you still had an audience. Your pet wasn’t the friendliest, especially with strangers of the opposite sex that stares at you.

“N-No, I was just – we were having a conversa –”

Sebastian frowned, the boy took a step back, you place a halting hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll,” you’re sure even this silly one knows of your Sebastian’s temperament. He wasn’t necessarily the type to be awarded as The Friendliest Senior of the Year.

(“You were nice to me the first time we met.” “Maybe I’m only nice to pretty witches.”)

“I’ll just talk to you later when you’re free.”

“Or not,” Sebastian deadpanned, his grip on your calf tightening, eyebrows meeting.

“Surely it couldn’t hurt–”

“Could hurt.”

“Sebastian.”

It was a pitiful sight but you’ve spared the boy a fate worse than a bruised pride as he muttered a clanky goodbye before turning his back the two of you. Sebastian still glowering at his fleeing back.

“Do you have to be so mean?” you half-heartedly admonished him, patting his freckled cheeks. He really is so handsome, easily the most eligible bachelor in your batch, biased opinion aside.

“Maybe I haven’t been mean enough if they still approach you,” he muttered, clearly still annoyed. His eyes shift from one boy to another accusatorially like if he stared long enough, he’ll catch them in the act of being interested after you and deliver the right sentence as an example.

After the events with Ranrok, high society quickly set its eyes on you. He thought he had nipped it in the bud, sending scathing letters back to prideful pureblood boys for their gall to direct formal letters of engagement to you, audaciously sticking by your side at all times, and severely punishing anyone who dared to even think of courting you. (One even tried to challenge him to a duel. It was barely entertaining, almost downright cruel. Sebastian hopes that the boy is enjoying Ilvermorny.)

Truly, he has his work cut out for him.

Your giggle pulled him out of his unpleasant thoughts, “You should go shower, it’s about to be dinner time.”

He hummed, “Can I use The Room? Hate the boy’s lavatory, ‘s a mess.”

You ignore the quick turning of heads of the students nearest you, trying not to laugh at their scandalized faces, aware of how bad it sounded. Instead, you let him stand and take your hand as he bitterly shared his hypothesis that Imelda was a dark wizard planted to torment him while he led you to the familiar steps toward the Room of Requirement.

On the other side of the room, the rejected boy glared at his sniggering friends.

“You told me they weren’t courting!” he accused.

“In my defense,” his friend shrugged, giggling at the spectacular explosion in front of her very eyes. Who would’ve thought Sebastian Sallow would catch the idiot in the act. “They aren’t but everyone knows they’re ... exclusive.”

“Exclusive?”

“We warned you! I warned you!” Their other friend, the more level-headed one was exasperated. “I’m so bloody terrified of Sallow I don’t even dare to look in her direction! Do you know there are rumors of him mastering forbidden spells? It’s why he had practically spent the entire half of 6th year serving a mysterious detention service for Professor Hecate.”

His other two friend looked at him in doubt. “I thought that was because he bombarda-ed the pants out of that Ravenclaw after he was challenged to a duel –”

“Regardless! He’s dangerous!”

“But are they dating or not?”

“No one knows, okay? That’s like in the Hogwarts top 3 mysteries.” The girl snipped.

“I may know someone who might know.”

Two heads swiveled to the boy who was already staring at a regal silhouette, sitting peacefully on the couch nearest the windows and furthest from any other person in the large common room – simultaneously seeming peaceful and brooding at the same time. As if feeling their gaze on him his unseeing eyes suddenly snapped in their direction, the boys physically flinched, the girl even covering her mouth to hide a gasp as they quickly vacated their spot before they truly tested their luck with the 7th-year Head Boy.

Ominis Gaunt.

The three sighed, resigned to leave that stone unturned.

“Guess we’ll never know.”

Sebastian flustered at the pretty boxes wrapped in silk, laces, and ribbons being shoved to his face, hand rubbing the back of his neck in a mix of embarrassment and honor.

He’s mostly gotten used to the numerous attention he receives but the abrupt surge of volume between his 6th and 7th year sometimes still gives him whiplash. It’s amazing what a growth spurt can do in your social standing.

“Thank you, ladies. I really appreciate it.” He flashed them a polite smile, genuinely flattered and touched at the thoughtful presents even if they are a bit overeager.

Swoons and giggles erupted from the small crowd, so dramatic yet so entertaining.

“Excuse me, Sebastian?”

From the middle of the crowd, Blaine Marune a fellow 7th year pushed herself to the front. She was a popular girl, sought after by many of his teammates. He cocked a brow at her Slytherin shirt when she was a Gryffindor, the team Sebastian was playing against. Was she dating someone on his team?

“Can you sign my shirt?”

Gasps scattered on the ground at her bold request, especially since she stretched out her shirt so the space by her chest was extended. He had to give it to these Gryffindors, they sure do live up to their name.

“Your girlfriend wouldn’t mind, would she?”

He frowned at the implication, suddenly hating the inquisitive eyes snapping between them, clearly curious as to his status. “That’s –”

“She’s here! Look!” A voice from behind the crowd gasped.

Sebastian swiftly turned his head, barely catching your eyes just as you slipped inside the tower that held the stairs to the bleachers up above. Mindlessly, he forgot all about the little scene that was unfolding between him and the Gryffindor and turned away from his gaggle of admirers to walk to the edge of the field, jumping on his broom to fly in front of you when you seemed to take a wrong turn to the other side of the bleachers.

“Wrong direction, darling. I saved you your seat,” he grinned even as you ignored him, walking a leisure pace as he floated beside you.

“I’m not sitting next to your admirers,” She quipped, still refusing to look at him, marching with a purpose. “Darling.”

She’s jealous. Sebastian beamed, flying closer so he could reach out an arm to stop her steps.

“Don’t be like that,” his words were soft yet the grin in his face couldn’t be tamed even if he did try. “You know I like it when I can see you at all times.”

Giggles and whispers were murmured from the seated crowd behind you.

“She’s here!” “The Felix Felicis is here!” “There’s no way those Gryffindor bastards will beat us now.”

The burn in your face doubled in intensity as you tried your hardest to ignore such embarrassing remarks.

It started with a silly coincidence.

In one of Sebastian’s first games last year, you had been running late, roped in a last-minute hunt for a large Ancient Magic hotspot that had abruptly appeared on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. When you entered the Quidditch Pitch the game was in full swing. However, your entrance had caught Sebastian’s attention which coincidentally also happened to be the moment the Snitch flew straight towards you. It was one of the shortest games in Hogwart’s centuries-long history as he had gotten a hold of it inches away from your face. The team included you in their celebration by throwing the two of you in the air.

From then on, it was duly noted that Sebastian’s performance remarkably improved every time you were in attendance. It didn’t help that the one time you didn’t attend one of his inter-school practice matches they had lost by a couple of points to Durmstrang.

Imelda had damn near made you swear on an Unbreakable Vow that you would watch every single one of their games from then on.

Hence, being Sebastian Sallow’s Felix Felicis became your position and moniker throughout the entirety of Quidditch Season, and as embarrassing as it was, it would seem your usually level-headed friend had either gotten roped in the ridiculous suspicion or was enjoying your obvious mortification a bit too much as he had taken every opportunity to snatch the same damn seat that practically showcased you to the rest of the crowd and in turn ensured he would be able to see you at all times.

“Sallow! We’re about to gather!” Imelda screamed in the middle of the field.

“Give me a second!” He turned to you. “Please, pet?”

Damn him and those brown eyes.

Harshly, you grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling him till he was forced to maneuver his broom sideways, face an inch from yours.

“You better not embarrass me,” you threatened, pressing a quick kiss on his cheek before turning on the opposite direction, straight to the seat that had been unofficially yours. Lucky charms get special privileges after all. “I want a photo with that trophy, Sallow.”

Sebastian hovered in the air frozen, hand on his burning skin, until a ball hit him square in the back. “Today, lover boy.”

He gave Imelda an apologetic look before calling over an underclassman.

“You there, 5th year!” The boy was quick to jump out of his seat, heart hammering in his chest at the Seeker’s sudden attention. “Call over Head Boy Gaunt and tell him to make sure no one unpleasant sits in my section.”

The boy nodded, understanding. Everyone knows Sallow’s unofficial section where all his friends from different houses sit – every single one of them as intimidating as him. If he had gotten a galleon for every time a professor mentioned one of them either in praise or in warning on what not to do, he’d rival Ominis Gaunt in wealth.

Most importantly, she would be there. The lucky charm and Sallow’s dearest companion – though jury is still out whether they had been courting all this time or not.

From what he’d seen he’d bet on them getting married by graduation even with the lack of formal courting. They didn’t seem to be the type to care for convention. He had even heard suggestive rumors that they basically sleep in the same room every night, though that has yet to be proven.

“Yes, of course, Sallow!”

Sebastian watched the boy scamper down the stairs, no doubt to relay his message to his dear friend who won’t be too pleased of his misuse of Ominis’ position.

Oh well, all’s well that ends well.

He blows you one last provocative kiss as he departs the stands before he flies up to where the rest of his teammates are positioned, ready for the game to start, pleased with the fact you would be fuming from the attention his grand performance would bring.

A jealous darling would be bad luck after all.

And he had a trophy to win.

“And the Triwizard Champion is Sebastian Sallow from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, House Slytherin!”

Green confetti and fireworks exploded all over the stadium overwhelming Sebastian as he tried to catch his breath and not let his knees buckle under his weight when all the adrenaline left his body. He belatedly realized that the cold, golden trophy had been shoved in his hands not until he was lifted by fellow schoolmates up above their arms in celebration and was staring at his own gobsmacked reflection in the shiny hardware.

More familiar faces and deafening cheers accosted him as he was brought into the section where all Hogwarts students were gathered. Only when he was put back in the ground to be showered with pats, congratulations, and splashing of fizzing butterbeer did his brain finally catch up with the rest of his body.

Immediately, his head started swiveling, looking for the face he needed to see the most, his instincts screaming at him that she was near. She has to be. She promised.

From the back of the crowds – there she was. Her beaming face, humbly waving from behind as if she wasn’t the reason he had fought so hard for this victory – that it really should be in her name and it shall, for he will lay this victory on her feet, first of his many devotion for the rest of their lives.

In haste, he shoved the trophy to the nearest body, uncaring of who was able to grab it as he pushed and shoved anyone on his way to you. The rest of the world blurred. He cared not for the gasps, shrieks, or protests – not when he saw the beam in your smile as you jumped into his arms – the golden ring that was hanging off a simple chain on your neck clanged with the similar one hanging off his own when you jumped into his arms.

The wedding rings he had prepared, ready for the day the two of you turned into adults in the eyes of the law and were permitted to be married. It would be for mere formality, his heart after all had been tied to yours the moment your eyes met.

“I’m so proud of you.”

He’s never felt satisfaction as fulfilling as this moment.

Finally, he has earned it – has earned the right to say it.

“I love you.”

This love was finally his.

The papers were printed in a few days. Bold letters with a bolder headline:

Triwizard Champion and Hero of Hogwarts Secretly Betrothed!?

Right below such an accusatory headline was the photo of the two of you framed almost too perfectly in a café’s window, Sebastian pressing a kiss in the unmistakable diamond ring he had bought with his winnings while you beamed at him.

It has not been a kept secret that many noble families have vied and proposed for the heavy hand of the Hero but all were rebuffed. All but one. Sebastian Sallow, a promising orphan from a fallen house seemed to have Championed the heart of the lady just as he had conquered the challenges of the Triwizard Trials. As remarkable as it is, his distinct lack of proper lineage, colorful history of delinquency, and the whispers of his preference for obscure magic would truly prove to be a challenge he might not be able to slay quite as easily, especially for a bride as coveted as –

“I am going to fucking kill that wench!”

You slammed the newspaper on the table, making Grace choke on her tea just as Ominis winced at your colorful choice of words, quickly conjuring up a silencing charm around your table lest you make it harder for his lawyers if you actually do deliver the threat.

“I know you’re upset –”

You glare at Grace. Upset barely covers it.

Finding that you have not insulted it enough you crumble the bundle of paper in your hand, even going as far as to grab two that a couple of fourth years were reading before throwing them to the fire in a huff, screaming an Incendio on the fireplace just for the satisfaction of seeing it all turn into soot in a blink.

Ominis quickly sends an owl.

She should still be in Hogsmeade, your mind runs. You’ve heard that the unpleasant reporter had made a home in one of the apartments in Hogsmeade once the Tournament started.

It should be easy, you try to suppress your maniacal grin as you turn, marching straight into the stairs that should lead you to the nearest floo, ignoring how quickly the other students parted for you as your head ran all types of scenarios on how you can absolutely gut that waste of space. She had unfairly targeted Sebastian from the start of the games, pointing out flaws on his runs even when he had won the stage, cruelly bringing up his 'upbringing' in Feldcroft, and even bringing up how he wouldn't be able to give it his all while still grieving his twin sister and should be replaced.

That fucking wench.

You’ve had enough practice breaking and entering through the many locks in Hogsmeade to be able to sneak into her abode. A simple hex would be child’s play, maybe you should curse her to lose one finger every time she writes a bad word against your beloved or maybe a limb or you should just do the wizarding world another favor and make her illiterate.

Once you were on the grounds you summoned your broom.

The punishment should fit the crime.

“Levioso.”

Before you could fly you found yourself already levitating up the air, from below Sebastian was way too pleased at your shrieks and foul mood.

“Let me down, Sebastian!” you kicked.

“I would but I would rather we not spend our lives running away from the ministry if you kill that journalist, my love.”

So, he has read it. The fact that he was able to see those vile words made your blood boil harder. Sensing your temper and the fact that you were about to break out of his spell he plays dirty.

“Accio.”

You shriek at the speed but the comfort of his arms was almost enough to quell the itch in your hands to curse that bloody witch into a pulp.

Almost.

He tightens his hug, playfully pulling you off the ground with a grunt and swaying the two of you gently. “Still upset?”

You push your blunt nails on his back and he chuckles. “It doesn’t bother me, you know.”

“It should!” you snap, a blast of your ancient magic smashing a statue to pieces that he quickly fixes with a ‘repairo’ without so much as a glance at the shrieking fifth years that had nearly gotten blasted with it. “It bothers me.”

That they think so lowly of him – him! A man worth ten – if not hundreds – of those pompous pricks from noble houses who offers nothing but their ‘pure’ blood and rotting riches like it was enough, like it could buy your heart and pride.

If they knew –

If they knew it was him who cleaned your blood and licked the jagged wounds in your spirit in the quiet of your lowest nights, that it was this boy who pulled out the rubble of a girl after the war – carefully piecing it together until you felt like a person and not a hollow husk filled only by nightmares, that it was this lowly orphan they sneer at who had become your chain to your sanity – your family.

Would they still look down at him if they knew it was only his kindness, and his love, and him who stopped you from giving up on them? That if someone as beautiful as him could exist in the wizarding world then it was a world worth saving.

Sebastian frowns at your upset. Ominis had grossly underestimated how the article had affected you, he would be touched if he wasn't so angry.

“It shouldn’t,” he gently carries you like a bride – his bride – under the largest tree by the Beasts Class classroom, away from the prying eyes of a crowd, overlooking the lake. The songs of the breeze and birds were the perfect soothing balm along with his soft coos. “They can write about me all they want at the end of the day it is me who is coming home with you.”

He’s sure you’re aware that his overly sweet words are all to calm you down but you fall for it anyway, smiling on the skin of his neck. “I should have her tongue.”

He shushes you, pressing his fingers on your waist till it tickled, he smiles on your hair when you slap his shoulder. “Don’t you think you’ve terrified the freshmen enough with that mouth of yours.”

It doesn’t escape you that the other students have transferred their fear of Sebastian’s murky past to your present wicker-short temper. You are aware that it is only because of your impeccable grades, immeasurable talent and a sprinkle of Fig’s legacy that the headmaster has not suspended or expelled you for your insolence.

His palms run a soothing patten on your spine, letting you continue to bury your head on the crook of his neck to lull you into a calm.

You suddenly pull yourself away, looking straight at him. “Are you sure you don’t care? I promise I won’t get caught.”

He chuckles at that, pressing a kiss on the crown of your head before leaning back on the trunk of the tree, pulling you closer to him.

“Don’t worry,” he smiled. “As long as you still plan on marrying me nothing will ever bother me at all.”

“I reckon she's calmed down?”

Sebastian doesn’t bother to mask his stormy expression now that you have fallen into a nap, sparing Ominis a glance as he sits on one of the empty wooden crates.

“I was sure I’d catch the two of you digging up a shallow grave by now.”

Sebastian glances down at you, shaking his head. “Haven't you heard? I’m a changed man.”

Ominis chuckles at that. “Well, their vile words shouldn’t matter anyhow,” Ominis sighs, grateful at least that this betrothal had managed to calm at least one of his dearest friends down. “She’s yours now.”

The boy’s words made Sebastian think.

Think back to the first time he met you: the curiosity, the anticipation, the instant tug on his soul the first time your voice had pulled him out of his own head and you stood in front of him while the growing foreboding feeling that meeting in that room, in front of the fire was meant to be, bloomed in his chest.

He was young enough not to recognize love for what it was but not stupid enough to not act upon it. Monopolizing you and your attention, wrapping his being around you until people could no longer separate the two of you as individuals, guarding his precious hoard ferociously from wolves and thieves until he grew into the man who could claim it.

She’s yours now.

When he really, really, thinks about it, it almost makes him laugh. He always thought he'd lead a simple life. Get a decent job, marry a modest girl, and settle down into a humble life. Grand delusions weren't for him, that was more Anne's forte and he wasn't destined for a greater purpose, that was for Ominis.

And he was satisfied with that, honestly and truly thankful for it. He thrived in the shadows, after all.

But he met you and damned himself by falling in love with the one person he shouldn't have -- the one person he could never deserve even if he lived the rest of his life as a saint.

He loved a grand adventure personified and in a lickety-split threw away all of his dreams of a quiet life -- jumping straight into a den of goblins and trolls and certain death. Hit the ground running in a race between bachelors to get to you, to earn the honor of deserving your love. And even mercilessly overwhelmed any contender to your hand until it was uncontested that it was only him who could stand beside you.

It was only he who earned it.

She’s yours now.

In quiet moments he sometimes couldn't quite believe just what happened to his life in two years.

Because he never thought he'd fall in love with a brilliant witch vied by the world or that, out of all hands stretched out to her, she would hold his, that she would love him back.

She’s yours now.

Sebastian would beg to disagree.

It was fate. (He made it so.)

It was written. (He rewrote it.)

She’s always been mine.

#sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow headcannons #hogwarts legacy sebastian

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woso-dreamzzz · 3 months

Text

Outburst III

Leah Williamson x Jordan Nobbs x Toddler!Reader

Summary: Stranger danger

You are very little when it happens.

Very little.

You've learnt how to walk now, though Mummy calls it a toddle, so you're free to wander around the pitch.

It's after a Chelsea match that it happens.

You are young and small but Leah has already instilled the love of Arsenal into you and a hatred of Chelsea. She tells you that they're not as bad as Spurs but they're very close.

Mum is very smart so you believe her.

She's talking to some of the England girls who play for Chelsea and Jordan is over with the physios getting a bruise checked out.

You are left to toddle.

It's a late match so you're a little tired but only a little. You've not yet been changed into your pjs but you have your blankie and that's enough for you.

The fans are at the barrier and sometimes Leah brings you over to say hello to them but she's busy and you can walk by yourself now.

So, you toddle over.

That's when it happens.

You're not actually sure what happens and why it's bad but Jordan's the first person to see.

She's noticed your absence, turning to check that you've made it to Leah but you're not there. Her head whips around until she sees the fan leaning over the barrier, reaching to lift you up.

The world happens in slow motion then and she pushes the physios away from her, getting to her feet and sprinting over.

She passes Leah, whose eyes track her before settling on where she's heading.

You're in that person's arms now and Leah starts sprinting too.

Jordan gets there first, pulling you out of the arms quickly and turning away with you. Leah comes up on the rear, sliding into Jordan's place and fisting the shirt of the person.

A crowd forms quickly, a mix of the coaching staff, Arsenal players and the Chelsea team. Millie's the one that's trying to pull Leah back, who looks two seconds away from breaking someone's nose.

Jordan bounces you.

You don't understand what's going on and why it's suddenly so loud and you jolt as vicious words fly over your head and echo across the pitch.

"My blankie!" You say, bursting into uncontrollable tired tears as blankie drops to the ground with a little flutter.

"It's okay," Jordan says as she bounces you, pressing your face into the crook of her neck," It's okay, bug. Mummy's here. Mummy's here. You're safe. It's okay."

"M-My blankie!" You sob, reaching out to where blankie is growing saturated with mud and muck. "Blankie, no!"

"You piece of shit!" Jordan can hear Leah yell," You don't pick up someone's fucking kid! You don't touch fucking touch her!"

"Leah." That's Millie now. "Come on. Let go. The FA will give you a ban."

Leah's still yelling and Jordan knows that one look at you will have her coming straight over. Yet some horrible part of her wants Leah to continue to put the fear of god into the person that tried to take you.

But you're sobbing and whining and your blankie is getting dirty.

You need both your mums.

"Leah!" She calls and Leah falls silent," Bug needs us."

It's all it takes for Leah to join her, weaving through the assembled crowd to pull Jordan and you closer to her.

"Is she okay?" Leah asks, voice trembling.

"Her blanket," Jordan says plainly and Leah ducks down to grab it," She's tired. I don't think she understands what happened."

You reach out for your blankie but it's dirty so Leah doesn't let you take it.

"Let's get her inside. It's nearly bedtime."

The locker room is silent with everyone else still out on the field and it's with great efficiency that Jordan changes you out of your kit into your pjs and Leah gets the worst of the muck off your blanket.

"Hey," One of the female physios pops her head through the door," Do you want me to check her out?"

Worry courses through Leah as she nods. Images of bruises and cuts flash in her mind even though you have none. It would have been easy, she thinks, for that person to have just kidnapped you like that. It would have been so simple and so easy.

You're still little and you're almost too sociable. You think everyone is a friend, no matter what.

You're no idea what could have happened and that terrifies Leah.

"You look good, bug," The physio says to you and it's like a weight has been lifted off both Leah and Jordan's chests," She's fine. Nothing wrong."

You yawn, the excitement of the day finally catching up to you.

You fall asleep curled up in Jordan's arms and both of your mothers just sit there staring at you.

"That person's been banned," Katie says in greeting as she comes in," And I think they're mentally scarred."

"Good," Leah mutters.

"How's Bug?" Kim asks.

"Sleeping," Jordan answers," She's fine. Good. No bruises. No cuts. No broken bones."

"And you both?"

Neither of them answer and that's answer enough.

"It'll be okay. Go home," Kim says," Buy something greasy tonight. Put your feet up. Go and sleep with your kid."

Leah gives Kim a watery smile. "We will."

#woso x reader #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson #jordan nobbs x reader #jordan nobbs #woso community #woso imagine #woso fanfics #woso

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victoria-grimesss · 1 year

Text

locked on target

masterlist

->Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem!Reader

->Words: 4.7k

->Warning: MDNI! unprotected sex, rough sex, fingering, mask stays partially on, dirty talk.

->Summary: Working alongside the 141 for a year now, you’ve grown closer to the infamous ghost. Confiding in Soap about your crush, confession is the only way to rid yourself of the gnawing infatuation.

->A/N: Despite all my writing being about König, ghost is my all time favorite baby girl, writing for him always intimidated me but I’ll give it my best shot, hope he’s not too OOC.

It’s been a full year on the 141 and you couldn't be happier, well not happy at the moment since you’re ankle deep in sludge. This mission is going as well as any other despite the evac being miles away through humid weather and wet ground.

“Good thing I packed extra socks.” You muttered, readjusting your gun and pack and unsticking your boot from a deep pocket of mud.

“Oh come on lass it could be worse right? We could be treading through anaconda infested waters huh? Lighten up.” Soap is next to you. He's having an easier time removing his boots from the muck.

Price is in the front with Gaz next to him talking about the evac and rations, you admire their relationship. Price has slowly morphed into some kind of a father figure to you as you assume he did for Gaz too or at least a mentor. Gaz and Soap are like brothers to you, you bicker like such. You pick on Soap when he gets too drunk to form correct sentences and starts singing songs from his childhood, and you get Gaz too when he laughs so hard you have to remind him to breathe. Like a dynamic triangle the three of you.

Then there’s Ghost.

He stands at the back of the group behind you and Soap, no evident trouble for him when it comes to the mud. He’s sturdy and observant, keeping a close eye on the treeline and behind the group. He's a great soldier and you admire his skills… and him. Ever since you met him you’ve had your eyes trained.

I mean who wouldn’t.

From his expressive eyes which sometimes you feel look through you, to his broad shoulders where he holds the world on top of them, his strong arms that deal with enemies swifty, to…his… lower extremities that you certainly have only thought of once or twice. Maybe more.

You should be ashamed of your feelings, and you lock them down deep the only time they have slipped past your lips is when too much alcohol loosens them.

—

You confessed one night to soap, the rest were asleep and your insomnia was kicking your ass so you went to the parking lot where soap was nursing a bottle on the hood of his car, and you sat down and shared it.

“Something on your mind bonnie?” He hands the bottle to you, concern brewing in him.

“I don’t know, it’s just, Ghost.”

He laughs.

“Yea, I know about him, but what about him?”

You take a couple large gulps of the amber liquid, it burns its way down and soothes your aching wanting heart, burying the hopeless romantic in you. Tears brew in your eyes and you always forget you either become a laughing drunk or a sappy drunk, seems the latter had won tonight.

“Aye- lass, what's wrong.” His hand is placed on your shoulder offering a comforting touch.

You sob and laugh at the same time, looking up at Soap.

“I think I’m in love with him.” You say quietly through a stream of tears that make their way into your mouth, making a weird cocktail of salty liquor.

“Oh bonnie…” Soap rubs your back, his voice is soft.

“I just, everything about him Johnny! I can’t get him out of my head, and he probably doesn't even look at me that way, he could get any girl he wanted!” You sob.

“Woah there calm down, gonna throw yourself into a spell talking like this. Look. LT cares about ya, truly. He thinks you’re a valued member of the team and I’ve caught him starin’ a few times so don’t be daft now ya hear. You’re a pretty girl and LT would be lucky to have ya.”

You sniff, wiping the tears and snot with a sleeve.

“Really? You think so?”

“Cross my heart and hope ta die. You’ll be alright.”

—

“It’s in my shoes.” You deadpan.

You hear Gaz laugh and Price looks back, checking on the team.

“Don’t worry Y/N, just imagine it’s a mud bath! Your skin will be smooth and shiny before you know it!” Soap laughs at Gaz’s antics, it’s nice when you can all joke around and relax. The hard part is over and now it’s simple evac.

“Right… how soothing.” Your eyes roll and you look back to check on Ghost, your eyes meet and a flash of electric lightning shoots to your heart, it feels good.

He gives a quick nod and you return to your trudging. You wait till after the mission to pass any other signals, he’s too focused to register any flirting right now. Or that's the advice Soap gave you after that night.

“Right. Keep close by, chopper is land down in 5, need to evac quickly to avoid any unwanted looks.” Price alerts to the rest of the team once you’ve covered ground and are nearing sweet release. Your back and knees ache just at the thought of sitting. You nurse the last of your water and keep walking, you tip your bottle back along with your head to get the remaining drops and you trip over a protruding root.

Other foot trying to catch yourself a hand catches on your upper arm, righting you up.

“Alright there?” Ghost’s dark eyes are steady on you, maybe a bit amused, or maybe his eye paint is creasing.

“Yea, sorry just tryna finish off the bottle, didn't see that there.”

“Careful next time yea?” He releases your arm and waits for you to start walking again to pick up behind you.

“Yea, for sure LT.”

You feel his hand on your arm even after he released you and you want to untie the knot that Ghost has tied there and you know you’re royally fucked.

You’re all on the chopper and your legs just about give out, you always love the euphoric feeling of sitting down after a mission like this, the lactic acid in your muscles making them burn like no other. You sit across from Ghost and he visibly relaxes once the chopped takes off, the breeze from the open doors cooling everyone immensely.

“Good work everyone, I know evac was shit but you all hustled and we got the intel we needed. I think we all deserve a good ol drink when we get back right?”

Price brings a smile to everyone's face, as tired as the lot of us are. You glance over at Ghost and his eyes look away from you, looking over his gear.

Your heart pains for some kind of acknowledgment that he feels the same, it’s like trying to hold the same fistful of sand no matter how hard you try it seeps through your fingers, you want him so badly you’d tape your fist shut if that meant keeping the sand in.

—

Back to base, ‘same day different shit’ you heard Ghost say one time. You often hold on to everything he says, hoarding each little piece he feeds you and storing it away somewhere special. Like you’re hoarding food for the winter, as if the winter is him falling in love with a woman that isn't you, when that happens you’ll open your little box of his sayings and advice and eat them slowly, savor them until all that’s left to drink is the tears you drown yourself in as consolation.

A pity party is what you throw yourself that night, showering and getting a once over by the medic then making your way back to your room, Price wants to get everyone together tomorrow night for a drink, wouldn't hurt you think. You sit on the edge of your bed, the silence is deafening after a mission, tinnitus ringing your ears. The bed is cold, you want someone to warm it, you want Ghost to warm it.

The nightmares come to you quickly that night, visions of your team, your friends being ripped apart by bullets as you try to fire back into mist. You hold Ghost’s hand as he fades and you wake up coated in cold sweat and adrenaline.

3:18 a.m.

You toss and turn for a minute before huffing and leaving the bed, you need air. Adorned in sweatpants and a shirt you got on recruitment day you leave your room the sound of your door is loud and you wince as it closes. You go to the parking lot once more, maybe there will be more stars out tonight.

The air is crisp and cool, you round the corner of the building where a bench sits, a lone figure is sitting and smoking there, you can tell it’s him by his silhouette. He’s broad and his legs spread wide as he sits alone.

“This seat taken?” You ask, scared if you talk too loud he’ll leave.

“All yours” No inflection is evident in his tone.

Silence sits between you two and you take a harsh breath to break it. It makes you uncomfortable.

“Trouble sleeping?” His voice is deep and low.

“The usual, nightmares again. You?”

“Not tired, too soon after the mission to sleep.”

“I understand.”

You watch him carefully as he brings the cigarette to his lips and inhales, you inhale with him. You imagine him inhaling your perfume as his lips touch your neck. You stare, unabashedly, like you’re not scared if he catches you.

He adjusts where he sits, hips rolling to get more comfortable.

“Bloody bench feels like it’s made of spikes.” He mutters, quietly.

You breathe out a laugh as he exhales the smoke.

His eyes look to the side at you and then forward again.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want something from me.”

“What if I do?”

Your heart is racing now, faster than it had on any given mission.

He stands, throwing the cigarette to the ground and crushing it with his boot, he slips his mask down again and his eyes are locked on you.

“I’d say you’d better fuckin’ find it elsewhere, we both know I can’t give you what you want.”

“What do I want Simon?”

His lips grow sealed when you say his name.

“Things I’m incapable of providing, best leave it at that. Night sergeant.”

His tone meant business, you know better than to chase after him. You sit on the bench, staring at the cigarette on the ground. It’s beaten and crushed like you feel right now.

You wonder if you can still taste his lips on it.

The walk of shame back to your room is humiliating, you pass some others that can’t sleep, nightmares aren't anything special around here and you wish you could pluck the worries from their heads.

Sleep is easy after that, maybe your body wants to make you forget the encounter with him but even so you dream of him. He’s an inescapable phantom.

—

“Aye there she is!!” Soap hollers from across the pub, it’s a quaint place, quiet enough to not be annoying but lively enough to not feel desolate.

A large corner booth is what they occupy and you wave as you make your way over, A few empty glasses scatter the table already you arrived ‘fashionably late’.

“Hey bonnie I gotta take a leak you can have my seat yea?” He nudges Ghost so he can be let out of the booth, Ghost stands towering over you. Soap shuffles over to the bathroom and Ghost lets you slide into the booth before he follows, trapped between the wall and him. You’d rather be under him…

You greet them all and Gaz slides you a tall glass of something mind numbing, Ghost has his mask down but he’s nearly finished with his glass same with the rest of them.

“You got some catching up to do, miss fashionably late.” Gaz shoots a smile and you clink your glasses together.

Soap meanders back and pulls a chair to sit at the end of the table, you all squabble over what a better drink is and down rounds after rounds. The conversation somehow gravitates to relationships at some point and Soap is going on and on about this woman he met at the pub down the street.

“Oh she’s a real sweetheart, thinking about asking her out later this week when I get the balls to do it.”

You smile at the way Soap talks about her, you’d love to be admired like that, treasured.

“I think you should go for it Johnny! You're a nice guy, I can go in there and talk you up if you want, say you fought off ten men to save my life.”

He laughs, nearly tipping off his chair,

“You’re a real wingman Y/N, if you can secure a date by all means.”

You smile and the air is joyous, little is heard from Ghost but you know he likes seeing the team happy, he sips his drink and observes, smiles hidden by his mask.

“Have you had any luck on the dating scene Y/N?”

Gaz questions, eyebrows rising.

“Yea bonnie, never hear a peep out of you when we talk about lovey dovey shit.”

You shrug, taking strong sips of your drink.

“I went on a date a while back, he got me flowers, a real nice guy. Found out he was sleeping with my friend behind my back around the fourth date. Don’t really want to try anymore, end of story.”

You can feel Ghost’s eyes burning into you as you finish the sentence. His gaze is addicting and you feel sweaty locked in his stare.

“Well he’s a proper twat for messing it up with you then yea?”

Price offers a tip of his head, sympathy in his eyes.

“Ah it’s alright, I’ll just wait for my prince charming to come sweep me off my feet.” You bat your lashes dramatically and fake a swoon, soothing the old memory with jokes. It turns the tide of the table ambiance to a lighter one.

“I need to piss.” Ghost says quickly, you scoot out of the seat and Ghost hurries off to where Johnny has gone to earlier.

“What’s up his arse?” Gaz says confused.

Price downs the last of his drink and slams it back onto the table.

“What do you all say to a game of pool?”

“I’ll watch, cheer ya’ll on.” You still nurse your drink and you start to buzz, worries slipping away like papers, but one it left, weighted down with a large paperweight.

“I’ll be right there, gonna finish this drink off.” Soap says, sloshing the leftover liquid that's in his glass.

“Very well, see you momentarily.”

Soap watched the two walk off, leaving the two of you left alone.

He turns back quickly, you get secondhand whiplash.

“Ghost has had his eyes on you the whole night please tell me you told him and he confesses his secret love for you!” Soaps eyes are huge and he’s pleading for the right answer.

“Not exactly.” He delfates.

“What the fuck do you mean ‘not exactly’?”

“I told him that I kinda wanted him and he said he wouldn't be able to give me what I want.”

“That's bollocks and you know it! He’s always watching you, never seen him doing that for any other lass. Now is the time, he’s all alone. Go on and chat him up, I’ll tell the boys you’ve gone home sick alright.”

Soap winks and leaves before you can utter another word. You even your breathing and gulp down the rest of the liquid courage before strolling over to the bathroom hallway. It does not take guys that long to pee weird he's not around.

You walk outside, feeling deja vu from last night the breeze hits the same way.

“You should go inside, it’s cold out.” Ghost is standing leaned up against the brick wall next to the door.

“I was looking for you actually.”

He stands up straighter, shoulders held further.

“Lads looking? Not really in the mood to lose another game. Last time was enough.”

You laugh, the alcohol making it easier to relax around him. You're tipsy enough to have fake confidence for the time being but sober enough to make deductions wisely.

“No Simon, I’m looking. For you.”

“And I told you to stop, you don’t know what you’re thinking. You’re a nice girl yea? Find a nice young guy that can take you on dates and buy you flowers-

“I don’t want anyone else Simon. I want you because I’m in love with you!”

It seems like the whole world went silent after you said that. You’re steaming and don’t move your eyes away from him.

“Y/N.”

“I’m tired of pretending. I just had to tell you I couldn't hold it in any longer it was making me sick. I don’t care about fancy stuff, you should know that by now. I just want to be next to you.”

He approaches you, your neck craning to maintain contact.

“Y/N, I’m proper fucked up you know that? You’re too kind, too perfect to be ruined by a man like me.”

You sniff, the cold getting to you.

“I think you’re wonderful Simon really. You look out for everyone and make sure everyone is alright before looking after yourself. Let me please show you you’re worth loving in return.”

Your heart spills to him, spewing it’s contents violently.

“I’m not joking, I'm not ‘prince charming’ like you referenced earlier.”

“Even better.” You smile.

“Fuck it.”

Before you know it, he lifted the small portion of his mask to kiss you and you erupt, wrapping your arms securely around his neck as though you’ll fall if you don’t. His hands hover over your waist and you grab them and push them down onto your body and he pulls you close. He kisses you like it’s the last time, he makes up for all the times he should have, all the time he desperately wanted to.

He’s watched from afar for so long, your laugh creates sparks in his heart, seeing you make it back from another mission safely spurs him on. He would lay down his life for you and you don’t even know it.

He pulled back, mouth in the crook of your neck.

“Your place is nearby right?” You ask, rubbing his neck and down his back.

“Yea, yea it is.”

He leads you back, back to his den where he’ll draw you in with those eyes and that voice, calloused hands exposed from his gloves that will trace over your skin. The walk is in silence but you both are buzzing, the team won’t miss you, probably happy this chasing game is over with so peace can be established once more. He takes your hand as he leads you up the steps to his apartment, you grope his arm and he shoots you a sultry side-eye.

“Have I ever told you I love your arms?”

“You did just now love.”

Love, love, love. You want him to keep saying it.

He leads you in you’re caged in by his arms on the inside of the door. He looks you over head to toe.

“You look fuckin lovely tonight you know that? All I’ve been thinking about is tearing this top off of you and stripping you down.”

You shiver and bring your hands to run carefully from his abdomen up to his chest.

“You think of ripping my clothes off frequently?”

“Very.”

Stunned by his words and your head swimming he places his hands on your waist and lowers his head to your ear.

“Now if you’d allow me, I’d like to fuck you now.”

Hypnotized you speak.

“Yes please.”

His home is lowly lit and sparsely decorated, you assume he’s not here often or for long.

The bedroom is simple, a bed, two side tables, two lamps, and a dresser. An adjacent bathroom you can’t see.

“You have a nice place.”

“Well now I know you’re lying.”

You stand at the edge of the bed and he stands before you and his hands are on you again pushing you onto the bed you are surrounded by the smell of him, the deep umber and woodsy scent.

“You know how many times I’ve pictured you in my bed?”

He’s inching your pants down your hips agonizingly slow as he speaks.

“How many times I fucked myself picturing you instead?”

“Ghost.”

“Nah none of that here, you’re gonna say my real name from now on and you’re gonna scream it alright?”

“Fuck Simon.”

“Yea. Just. Like. That.” Your pants are off and his hands move from your ankles up to your knees and caress to your inner thighs. His fingers skate your pantyline and your eyes are locked on his hand and he doesn't stop. His hands move over your hips and grip your waist before moving right below your breasts, he checks you with his eyes and you plead silently.

He cups you fully with both hands and you roll your head savoring his feelings.

“So fucking good love fuck.”

He strips you of your shirt and bra and you’re left exposed on his bed. He stands back to stare down upon you and you feel like a spread of food sitting on a stark white table ready to be consumed and ogled. He strips himself of his leather jacket leaving his quite form fitting black tee on.

You adjust under his gaze, his mask hides any expression but his eyes say so much. Raking over your body heavily and his chest rising and falling fast as though he had run a marathon.

“Simon.”

“Yea?”

“Do something.”

“Like what?” His voice is lighter now.

“Anything Simon!”

He laughs and places a knee in between your legs, spreading them wide to accommodate his other leg and hips.

“There we go, fuck all spread out underneath me.”

His hand is placed on your breast and rolls your nipples in his fingers, it moves down never leaving your skin until he reaches your core it’s hot and wet and he collects it on his fingers and when he finally touches you it’s like you’ve reached Valhalla.

He slips a finger inside and it faces no resistance, you form around him and he slips in another starting a smooth rhythm.

“So tight, you think you’ll be able to take me huh love?”

He’s pumping in you and you can hear how wet he’s made you, his eyes darting from his fingers to your face, thrown into pleasure.

He brings you to your peak so quickly you’re stunned and you grip his arm as you clench around him, his name being pulled from you like a mantra.

You regain your mind and look at him as he slips from you and his fingers make their way under his mask, his eyes on your as he licks them clean tasting you on him.

“Sweetest fucking thing I ever tasted.”

He’s unbuckling his belt next, unzips his pants and pulls himself free. He's thick as all hell and a thick vein runs down the underside. It looks heavy and you pocket an idea for next time.

You're staring for a long time and his two fingers that just did unspeakable things to you tip your chin to look at him.

“Think you can handle it?”

“I can take it, just hurry up.”

“You’re always so impatient you know that.”

He places the tip at your entrance collecting your wetness to help with the initial push.

The stretch is delicious and you grip his arm and shoulder gasping at the feeling of being full of him.

“Fuck. Fuck you’re so fucking tight, squeezing me so fucking good.”

His one arm is braced at the side of your head, forearm spattered with tattoos burning your peripheral vision. The other holds himself, leading himself into you.

He’s seated fully inside and you feel split down the middle in the best way. Burning fire deep within you and you moan for him to move, creating the friction you need.

He starts moving and you both moan, he tips his head forward to watch where he enters you repeatedly.

“So good, fuck so big Simon.”

“You take it so well, love.”

His hand that once gripped himself holds your hip and moves himself like the ocean, fluid and rhythmic.

“Always dreamt about fucking you, you spread out of my bed while I fuck my cock deep into you.”

You throw your head back and he leans back, the warm air that was between you two leaving for the cold air of the room bringing your nipples to hard peaks which his eyes gravitate to.

“Alright c’mon love.”

He takes your ankles and your legs are on his shoulders. He thrusts that much deeper and hits the right spot to make you see spots.

“You like that, fuck I can see how deep I’m going in you.”

His hand finds your and puts it on your lower stomach and pushes down so you can feel the way he thrusts within you and how deep he reaches, you clench around him.

“Yea you like that.” He's cocky like this, dominant and all controlling. You’re putty in his hand.

“Simon I’m close don't stop please, fuck please.”

He lifts his mask up over his lips and kisses your ankle, biting your calf when he growls and that's all you need to be pushed over the edge.

“Fuck, yea cum on my cock good fucking girl.”

He fucks you through it and leans down to be face to face again. Your legs draped over his shoulders and he hits the right spot with each thrust now, he’s battering you into the mattress and his growling with each thrust muttering about how good you feel and how nicely you wrap about him.

You claw at his chest through his shirt sobbing and babbling and moaning.

“Can’t even form a proper sentence, so drunk on my cock yea? You gonna be a good girl and cum again for me?”

The graphic noises from where the two of you are joining echos through the room and you hope his neighbors aren't home.

“Yes, yes Simon please please please.”

The bed is an orchestra of noises and he shoots a hand up to the headboard, his knuckles gone white from gripping it so hard. Your abdomen is tight, so tight and your so fucking close you just want to cum at the same time as him.

“Fuck fuck fuck, so tight and wet where do you want me to cum, fucking tell me.”

“Inside me, inside me it’s safe.”

Not a beat after that leaves your mouth he’s seating himself so deep within you, you feel him throbbing deep within you and your vision goes blurry, ears gone fuzzy as you both are thrown into the abyss at the same time.

You hear a crack from above you but you pay no mind as your neck deep in pure white hot bliss.

“Fuckin hell love, really. Fuck.” He's panting, you’re panting.

You stroke his chest lovingly as he kisses your ankle as he slowly lowers your legs from his shoulders. He lowers his mask once more.

You glace up to where his hand still grips the headboard and a deep crack is ingrained in the wood.

You laugh.

“Jesus Simon, you fucked me so hard you broke your bed.”

He removes his hand observing the wood and shrugging.

“Well worth it I’d say, I’ll invest in a sturdier one.”

“Are you saying you’ll invite me to your place more often?”

“Your place works too.”

You both banter as you both clean up, you shower and he washes the sheets and hangs around the kitchen, letting you some time to refresh.

You come out of the bathroom smelling like him, drowned in one of his shirts and he's leaned up against his kitchen island gazing blindly at the random rugby channel he turned on.

He slides you a beer and you take it gratefully, bumping your glasses together.

“I mean it Y/N, I’m not the kind of man you might be thinking.”

“No Simon, you’re exactly the man I’m looking for, you’re stuck with me now.”

There's a beat of silence before Simon speaks up again.

“I should probably thank Johnny for tonight right?”

“Yea, he pretty much told me to quit my bitching and confront you.”

He sips his beer,

“Well, for once I can say thank fuck for Soap and his matchmaking skills.”

You laugh and stare at him in adoration, this is the start of something wonderful.

---

Tag list: @theredviolets

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themusingsofacurlyhairednerd · 3 months

Text

In Love and War

Summary: A warlord!Rhys x Tamlin's sister!Reader AU where Hybern won the War centuries ago, ravishing Prythian and leaving the splintered Courts as nothing more than pockets of travelling war bands. Based loosely on the vibes from War by Laura Thalassa.

Content Warnings: (Each chapter will be tagged accordingly for violence, drinking, and Eventual smut) Canon typical violence, Rhys leans heavily into morally gray, kidnapping.

Author's Note: Trying something new with a first person POV, let me know what you think :)

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“Don’t come back unless you’ve brought food.”

It’s been days since that order, the rumble of my stomach the only indicator of passing time. The changing forests, the dying grasslands, the marshes, it’s all been a disappointing blur. All my traps are empty and untouched, some frozen in place as winter approaches. My father used to tell me stories of the Courts, how they were ruled by High Lords with the power to keep perpetual seasons. That was before the War, before Hybern and his General Amarantha ruined everything with the Cauldron, all for some human slaves. Father had liked to talk about the “good ole days” every night around the fire; he could spin pretty tales for hours, but that’s all they are these days. Stories. And stories don’t keep your stomach full.

I trail the deer through a stinking muck of a bog, mud and slimy water seeping in through the holes in my boots. The sludge is bone chilling, my hands shaking around my bow; teeth chattering so loud I have to clamp my mouth shut to avoid making too much noise. I need this kill and I need it fast.

The deer stops to eat a bit of moss and I take a few more careful steps forward to get a better vantage point, cautious of where the ground sinks deeper beneath the murky water. Slipping and twisting an ankle in this mud would be dangerous, but it’s not an injury that makes my steps cautious. There are plenty of kelpie around these parts, I feel their beady little eyes watching me under the cover of a quickly approaching fog. All I need is one misstep and those spindly, webbed hands will drag me under for a quick meal.

Better a kelpie than the Highway Men I’d managed to dodge getting this far out of my brother’s territory, I suppose, but I’d rather avoid both of them if possible.

Once I’m sure of my footing, I notch an arrow to my bow. This is not the ideal place to kill it, but the rumbling of my stomach might just be too damn loud to give me another chance if I wait for it to pass out of the bog. How many days has it been since my last meal? Four? Five?

I pull the arrow back, the weathered feathers brushing my hollow cheek.

The deer’s head jerks up, ears turning to listen to something beyond the fog and I hold my breath. The ground beneath my boots begins to rumble and the deer bolts before I can take the shot, disappearing into the gloom. A loss to mourn later, because that rumbling can only mean one thing: Horses, and a lot of them, moving right in my direction.

I slide my bow over my shoulder and run back the way I’d come, mud sucking at my every step, slowing my progress as I try to get back to the treeline at the edge of the bog. The wet land is covered in dead and living trees alike, some as old as time, still reaching towards the sun like the ruined hands of a corpse, some fighting its inevitable demise. It’s too cold these days for the living to still have leaves, so even if I wanted to stop and climb one, I’d have no place to hide. I might as well stand there and wave my arms and alert every horseman to my location.

Still, the branches are helpful for leverage, and I grab onto the low ones and haul myself along, hoping to find shelter higher up the basin’s edge, where the water has not claimed as much. There’s plenty of underbrush there to shield me.

The first horse appears through the fog, dark as a shadow, it’s echoing whinny chilling in the previous silence. A hooded rider sits atop the giant animal, a giant sword sheathed between his massive shoulders.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I hiss to no one as I crouch the best I can in the open air.

There are many warbands in Prythian these days. Some are Hybern’s men. Some Amarantha’s. The rest are what remains of the Courts. Those of us with enough magic to prove useful have been known to swear fealty and garner protection from them, but that means you get the privilege of fighting and dying for those entitled pricks who think they are owed the land their ancestors once ruled. From this far, I can’t tell who’s colors they bear, but without the, usually oppressive presence, of my brother’s own men I’m not likely to have a safe encounter. Better to wait it out and let them pass.

The first rider doesn’t see me through the fog, a small blessing that I take full advantage of by inching forward. The treeline is so close. If I am lucky, if the Mother is still out there listening and looking out for me, I can hunker down and wait.

A second rider appears through the fog, faster than the first, racing along the bog’s edge until it makes it over the ledge of the basin and disappears. The cry of their horses sound like ghosts howling in the wind. A third and fourth rider follow. I can hear even more of them, the rumble of their caravan making the ground shake, but no more appear as the fog thickens.

A shiver runs down my spine, but still, I press forward. I’ve dodged plenty of males like this in the past, I can do the same now. I just need to be smart. And lucky.

Neither of which I am, apparently. As soon as my boots touch more solid ground, another horse appears, this time, from within the safety of the treeline I’d been so desperate to get to. The rider atop this one is as large as the first, face completely obscured by a black hood with three stars perfectly poised over his forehead, the bottom two falling where his eyes should be.

I freeze, mind reeling back to a time years ago, when those stars had come bursting through camp, only bloodshed and destruction behind them. My hands shake at my sides as I slide backwards into the muck, slipping, barely maintaining my balance as the midnight black horse rears, hooves pawing at the air. I’d heard that terrifying whiny before too, right before my father’s head rolled out of his tent.

My stomach rolls, bile rising in the back of my throat. This can’t be happening to me! They promised to stay away.

The rider gets his horse under control, large, gloved hands yanking hard on the reins, deep voice barking orders in the language I know belongs to the mountain men in Illyria, but had never been permitted to learn myself.

My heart hammers in my chest as I get back on my feet, head whipping back and forth trying to find a way out.

“What’s your business here?” The rider demands, voice deep, gruff, muffled by a scarf over the lower half of his face.

“My own,” I snarl, reaching for the hunting knife at my hip. This is no one’s claimed territory, save for maybe the kelpie I hear skimming the surface at my back, I have every right to hunt here as anyone. “Now let me pass and I’ll be on my way.”

The rider swings out of the saddle and the ground shakes as his boots touch the ground. A dark mist leaks from his shoulders, shadows swirling around the sword hilt peeking out from between his shoulders and… I’d been mistaken about his size, it wasn’t just his shoulders, it was a pair of wings. Wings that had been tucked tight while he was riding but now stretch out behind him, the leathery membrane pitted and scarred from years of battle. If I’d had doubts about who this was before, I don't now. Though I’d only seen him in glimpses that night, Tamlin had talked enough about the rival warlord over the years for me to be able to put two and two together.

A lump forms in my throat. Rhysand is even taller up close, the top of my head barely coming up to his chin. “I have nothing of value.” I’m not wearing our colors, I’m not sure if they would have helped or hindered me here, but my best bet is to just play dumb.

From the incline of his head it looks like he’s eyeing my knife, but I can’t be certain. There is some kind of enchantment over his hood, obscuring his face from view. “What’s your name?”

“No business of yours,” I retort, tightening my grip on the knife.

“So hostile,” he purrs. “I mean no harm.”

“Says the male with the sword.”

“If I wanted to hurt you, I would have.”

“I’m flattered,” I drawl. “How kind of you to deem me worth a modicum of decency as you block my exit.”

He takes a step forward and I take a step back, right to the edge of the water, where that damn creature hisses out a chuckle, knife poised and ready between us. He’s not wearing armor, a well placed blow could still kill him, I want him to think twice before moving any closer. Though, I suppose I must not look that imposing, considering our size difference and the sheer amount of muscle underneath that dark cloak.

He sizes me up silently for a moment, hooded head intently fixed on the hand gripping the knife. Then, with speed enhanced even for High Fae, he’s reaching forward and grabbing my wrist as I stumble back and slam right into a tree.

It’s instinct: The punch I throw with my free hand, hitting him square in the throat, even as my heel comes down on the top of his foot. He grunts like it hurts, but doesn’t move, doesn’t let up on the grip he keeps on my wrist.

“Where’d you get this scar?” He drags a finger over the top of my hand, where I’ve got a scar shaped like an eight point star.

“Get off me!” I shout as I try to wrench my hand free of his grip.

If his men hear, they don’t come running. There is no one here to save me--not that there has been anyone to save me in a long time anyway.

He’s wearing gloves, but with the hand not maintaining a vice on my wrist, he pushes the leather back enough to reveal a matching scar on the back of his own hand.

All thought eddies from my mind.

This can’t be real.

He takes the knife from my hand as if it was being held by a toddler, but much to my surprise, he slides it right back into its sheath at my hip. The move lets him lean in, large body hovering over mine. I still can’t see a glimpse of his face beneath the hood.

“You’re my mate,” he says, voice a reverent whisper.

Mate. My heart hammers in my chest at the word, as if something beneath my skin is coming to life at the realization. The power that lies distant and untouched with me stirs, a large beast poking its head out of the den after a long hibernation. Having a mate is most women's dream--was my own, once upon a time, before the world went to hell--but not like this, not him. My world had gone to hell because of him.

The Mother truly hates my guts.

“I’m not your anything,” I snarl as I get a hand on his broad chest and push. He’s nothing but solid muscle beneath my palm. When pushing gets me nowhere, I make a fist and hit him a good couple times. “Now let go of me, you brute!”

He chuckles, low and rich, as if this is all very amusing. “No. It’s not safe out here. You’re coming with me.”

I’d rather be eaten by the kelpie. “The hell I am!” But before I can find a way to fight him, as useless as my attempts have been thus far, he wraps a strong arm around my waist and all but tosses me into the saddle.

I reach for my hunting knife again, but a gloved hand hovers over my own, even as his other arm snakes around me to grab the reins. “Easy, mate,” he purrs in my ear. “You don’t need to be afraid of me.”

Despite myself, that voice, so close to my ear, his body warm and solid behind me, a shiver runs down my spine. “You’re fucking kidnapping me, you bastard!” I snarl, because there’s no way I’m just going along with this. “And I’m not your mate! I don’t even believe in mates.”

“You will,” he assures as he kicks his horse into moving back into the fog.

________________

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#rhysand x reader #Rhys x reader #warlord!rhys #warlord!Rhys x reader #Rhys smut #morally gray!rhys #acotar fanfic #acotar smut #my writing #my fanfic #rhysand acotar #rhysand fanfic

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heartpascal · 2 years

Note

FATHER FIGURE JOEL, I’M LOVING IT. Can you make some comfort from father figure joel, pleaseeee???

so far from it

▹— joel miller x platonic!reader

▹— summary: you get into some trouble, luckily, you know who to call for help.

▹— a/n: aghhh i don’t like it!! but gotta give yall something while you wait for the part two’s! ALSO IM SORRY THIS ISNT AS MUCH COMFORT AS I MEANT FOR IT TO BE

▹— warnings: father figure joel, violence, blood, swearing, reader gets attacked, needles, stitches, a smidge of comfort at the end

masterlist

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

Ever since you had joined Tess and Joel’s operation, things had been going pretty smoothly. Though they had argued on multiple occasions over your age, having various disagreements over your capability in this job, you had proven yourself time and time again.

It didn’t faze you. Nothing did, really. You could shoot an Infected point blank in the head without batting an eye, could dig through dirt and muck to find supplies you needed, could travel for hours upon end and Joel and Tess wouldn’t hear a peep coming from you.

That was life in the apocalypse, you supposed, the complete lack of any remorse for what could’ve been had you just been born a few decades earlier. This was your life.

Sometimes, it was a life you didn’t particularly want, but you continued, especially after working with the adult duo for so long, it had become increasingly clear that they needed you. You could get into places they couldn’t, your small size allowing those tight squeezes, and the strength in your arms helped towards moving things away from blocked entrances.

In return for your services, Tess had formed an agreement with Joel, that you could stay at their apartment with them, sprawled over their couch, and they’d provide you the ration cards you needed to survive. A roof over your head and food was more than generous, and you had known even back then that you’d be an idiot not to take it.

Especially when considering the power that Tess wielded in the QZ, with a network of informants spreading all throughout it, and with Joel, you knew nobody would dare look to steal from you. Everybody who was anybody in the QZ knew what the two of them were capable of, and considering your affiliation with them, you were sure nobody would even attempt to come for you.

You had prided yourself on being smart for a very long time, smart enough to survive in this world, smart enough to escape FEDRA school despite having no parents, smart enough to team up with adults who held some sort of power. You had never considered that that pride would be a bad thing.

But today, whilst out with Joel and Tess, you had decided to head a little further away from them than you would usually go, determined to use your ration cards for something you wanted. It was stupid, really. You wanted a dumb book, and thought your smarts were enough to trade the dealer for it, thought you were smart enough to avoid any tricks or cheats.

You knew there was something very wrong when two men stood behind you, one leering over your shoulder as you looked down at the object of your desires, and you repressed the urge to turn your head towards him.

Instead, you kept your eyes to the table, and shoved your hands in your pockets, one going to grip on to your ration cards, the other holding the handle of the knife Tess had given you.

It was when the seller nodded at the two of them that you knew you were fucked.

Trying to pull the knife out backfired, and the blade ripped your coat as the man on your right grabbed your arm, twisting until you felt your grip involuntarily weaken, and then the seller snatched it from your hand. The man on your left grasped your other arm, squeezing so tight you felt the bruises forming beneath his hand already.

It didn’t take a genius to realise you were in some deep shit, especially after being disarmed so quickly, and so you did the first thing that came to your mind.

“Joel! Joel, help—” Your yells were cut off by the left man slapping his hand over your mouth, and you bit his fingers, spitting as he hissed and pulled his hand away. You struggled, opening your mouth once more, but you were stopped before you could even begin again, as the right man grabbed your head, slamming it into the rickety table below.

Your vision swam, and you could only just register being pulled away from the street, down an alley nearby. Your ears were ringing, like they did when you fired your gun, and you weakly tried to reach up and hold your head, stopped by the hands grasping onto your arms even now.

The duo dropped you to the floor, and you just about managed to put your arms out to stop a second blow to the head, that would most likely have ended in a concussion.

Hands digging into your pockets were the next thing you became aware of, and your attempts of pushing them away went pretty much unnoticed.

“Fuck you, man.” You spat out, your voice garbled as you realised your mouth was filled with blood, and you could feel it oozing out of your lip and cheek. The metallic taste was disgusting, and it made you feel sick.

The two men pulled you to sit up against the brick wall, and you spat at the one you recognised to be righty, a glob of bloody spit landing on his knee as he crouched beside you.

“This fucking bitch,” He began, but was cut off by lefty, who shook the man’s shoulder with a sense of urgency as he looked towards the end of the alley.

You drew your gaze in that direction with some effort, and felt a grin light up your face. “Oh, you’re so fucked.” You laughed, blood still dripping from your mouth, and even the dizziness that overcame you couldn’t wipe the smile off of your face as the two men realised they’d dragged you into a dead end, and their only way out was blocked.

The fighting was a blur, if you were honest, the adrenaline leaving you as your body recognised that you were safe, Joel was here. It was only when his face was looming in front of you that your awareness came back, blood still pooling under your tongue.

“Shit, c’mon, kid. Let’s get you home.” Joel murmured, hands placed on your cheeks as he looked at your head injury, a wince on his own expression. Your head lolled, about to fall towards your chest if Joel hadn’t been holding it up, the weight feeling impossible all of a sudden.

You tried to help them stand you up, Tess having arrived at some point during the commotion, but you were likely more of a hindrance than a help. With an arm over either of their shoulders, you stumbled your way out of the alley, the FEDRA guard across the way turning his head to look away from the three of you.

You couldn’t remember much of the journey back to the apartment, which was probably good for your pride, as you could imagine it wasn’t easy. You probably looked like an idiot, unable to keep your own head up half the time, but Joel and Tess got you back safely, which you had never doubted.

“Concussion?” Joel asked Tess, after the two of them had settled you down on the couch, your neck resting against the arm of it, holding the weight of your head up for you.

“Let’s hope not,” Tess replied, handing Joel the bottle of alcohol and the rag that was left on the counter for times just like these. “I’m going back out, gonna go find those pricks and see what the fuck they were doing.” She announced, shouldering her backpack once again and frowning at you, before she turned and made her way out.

You could almost see the anger rolling off of Joel, the one emotion he never bothered to shy away from, and even as he tried to be careful, you still cringed and pulled away from the rag he was attempting to disinfect your injuries with.

“Sorry, kid, it’s gotta be done.” He grumbled, sounding the slightest bit sorry, and pressed the rag against your forehead, wiping away the blood that was still weeping from there.

You sighed, the taste of your own blood still lingering in your throat, but the wounds in your mouth had stopped flowing now. You couldn’t recall spitting out the rest of the blood, but you figured it must’ve happened on the journey back.

“Got me pretty good, huh?” You asked, your words slurring even though you were thinking of them with no problem, and you blinked your eyes shut in annoyance.

“Could’ve been worse.” Joel muttered, his hands moving your face to check it over for any further injuries. You could feel your eye and eyebrow swelling up now, and frowned at the sensation.

You should have never gone to buy that stupid book. It wasn’t smart, and you were always smart, so you couldn’t quite understand what had happened. That was childish, you realised, the feeling dawning on you suddenly, the shame, the embarrassment.

That was one thing you had always made sure to deny yourself of, those childish feelings, the spontaneous decisions that came with naivety, those were things that you couldn’t risk in the apocalypse. You couldn’t afford to — clearly, you had gotten too comfortable here, the impending doom that came with living in a world like this had started to feel far away, with Tess and Joel at your side.

It was embarrassing, having shown such a weakness, and for a moment you were worried it was going to cost you everything, but Joel finally returned to your side, having been to put away the alcohol and rag he’d used to disinfect your injuries. He was quiet for a few moments, and then started pulling something out of his backpack, the crease between his eyebrows deep.

You looked over at him, your brows drawing together when you saw the book he’d pulled from his pack, the blade of your knife stuck between the pages like some kind of violent bookmark.

The two of them were far too observant, and you swallowed nervously, frown growing deeper as you looked away from the book you had wanted so badly. That part of you, the childish part, the one that got you into this mess in the first place, wanted to reach out and pull the book from his hands, but you pushed that desire away like you should’ve done to start with.

“What? This not what you were after?” Joel asked gruffly, something like confusion catching in his tone.

“It was stupid,” You said in response, feeling anger warm your chest the longer you thought about the whole thing. From here on out, you were never gonna give in to such childish wants. “I was stupid.”

Your admission seemed to surprise Joel, if the way his eyebrows raised told you anything. He remained in silence for a few moments more, before he put the book down on the table to the side, and turned back to you. “You weren’t stupid,” Joel denied, about to continue before you cut him off.

“I was!” You said loudly, the words the clearest of any you’d said since getting back to the apartment, and you blinked away tears, blaming the head injury for making you more emotional. “I didn’t think. I put myself in danger because— because of what? A damn book? How childish is that—”

“You are a child.” Joel said, stopping you before you could continue your rant, your words getting more intelligible as you went on. You stared at him, the tears filling your eyes once more, and he carried on at your expression, “That’s not a bad thing. You’re allowed to want things.”

“I want to stay with you.” You told him, voice shaking and watery, “I don’t wanna have to leave because I act like a kid.”

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere, kid.” He spoke firmly, and with a bit of a hesitation, he reached out, moving the hair on your head away from the cut that had started to bleed once again. “Swear it. We’re gonna sort those guys out, and nobody’s ever gonna come after you again.”

You nodded, feeling the slightest bit relieved at his words, though no less ashamed of yourself.

“Alright?” You nodded once again, “Good. I’m sorry for this, kid, but that’s gonna need stitches.”

Your face fell, and he sighed through his nose, understanding your pain. He held the suture kit in his hand, and you realised he must’ve gotten it when he put the alcohol away earlier on.

He grabbed your hand, squeezing slightly, and kept his grasp on you when he started stitching, letting you grip on to him tightly each time he pushed the needle through your skin. “I hate getting stitches.” You murmured, when he was finally done, letting him take his hand back to put the suture kit away.

“I know.” He acknowledged, and ruffled your hair as he stood up. “Sit up.”

You did as he told you, swinging your legs so you were sat only on one side of the couch, and you furrowed your brows as Joel got comfortable on the other side. You finally realised what he was doing when you watched him reach over to the rickety wooden table and grab the book he’d taken from the seller.

“C’mon, let’s see what this fuss is about.” Joel grumbled, pulling the knife out of the pages and handing it to you, making you smile lightly even despite the pounding of your head.

“Thanks, Joel.” You told him, eyes still watery.

“S’alright.” He responded, letting you settle at his side as he looked through the book that had caught your attention. “Puns, really?”

You laughed at his less than pleased reaction, setting your head against his arm as you looked at the jokes in the book, laughing to yourself over some of them.

He just shook his head, pushing down the smile that wanted to rise to his lips as he listened to you laughing.

#joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller one shot #joel miller imagine #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #tlou imagines #tlou one shot #tlou imagine #tlou angst #tlou fluff #joel miller father figure #joel miller fic #pedro pascal angst #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal imagines #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal one shot #joel miller x platonic!reader

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arminsumi · 1 year

Text

SHOW-OFF

↳ GETO すぐる + fem!reader

Love sick Suguru showing off during a basketball game to impress you, but it ends with him in the nurse's office with a bloody nose.

Note : my mind wanted to write requests but then my fingers wrote this instead... 😅

Summary : Suguru is a college heart throb that tries so very hard to grab your attention, but he finally earns it at the worst time — during an awry basketball game, when he's on the floor with a bloody nose.

Warnings : pining, fistfight, bloody nose, some angst, suggestive joke

Playme : play date

🍒 More from Jay : GETO works / JJK works / Oct. reqs open

Suguru Geto is, theoretically and practically, the guy that every girl in this college wants. He knows this. He's experienced this. He's got endless admirers. Eyes are always on him when he walks down the corridor.

So it baffles him when you don't pay attention to him. You're a challenge, and that ropes him right in.

"Haha, she walked right past you?" Satoru laughs. They're loitering in the corridor after classes.

"She walked right past me." Suguru nods, emphasizing dramatically until he turns it into a joke — but it isn't a joke, he's genuinely irked.

During class, he pouts like he's a teenage boy again, and scribbles into the margins of his notes;

私は彼女の心の片隅にもいません。 I'm not even in the back of her mind.

He's just as bad as his best friend when it comes to seeking and basking in the attention of doting girls — if not worse. Satoru is slowly weaning off the drug of popularity as he begins attending college, but Suguru is still stuck in the odd transitional stage.

There's a lighthearted basketball competition being held amongst the burly sporty boys one day, and sitting atop the bleachers Suguru spots your face. His eyes light up, he observes you from down on the court.

The squirming you do when you sit. The way your head tilts as you speak to your friend. The curling smile you make at their jokes.

I want to make you squirm when you sit next to me.

Why can't you look at me with the same adoration?

God, if you'd smile at me like that I'd fall to pieces.

Suguru's brows are furrowed so deeply that Satoru and Shoko ask if he's brooding about you again. And sure enough, he is.

"She's just sitting there." he emphasizes annoyedly.

Satoru places a comedic, sympathetic hand on Suguru's shoulder. "Don't worry, once you start bouncing balls all over the court she'll have to look your way."

"Yeah... she's gonna be completely star struck by me playing a stupid basketball game... " Suguru scoffs sarcastically. "Why the hell did you convince me to play again...?" he mutters under his breath.

Shoko hands back Satoru's glasses, "She might be into sporty guys. So give it your all, you pathetic loser." she jokes and heads off, trotting up the bleachers.

So Suguru determinedly gives it his all, never fumbling, never tripping, never mucking up his shots. He becomes a panting, sweaty mess, and in one quick moment as he's wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his forearm, he glances at you and you glance in his general direction, but not really at him.

Did she look at me, or am I imagining things?

His heart is already racing from the intensive exercise of running back and forth on a court, but the thought of you actually watching him as he plays makes his heart thump.

The sound of squeaking shoes ricochets off the walls and polished floors. Suguru loses focus for a moment, thinking hard about you as he stares at the bleachers, and then someone collides with him. He's caught so off-guard that he just topples over and his body meets with the hard floor.

"—What the fuck!"

"—Suguru? Why are you just standing around? The hell were you staring at just now?"

You and Suguru make brief eye contact and it sets him completely off balance, both physically and mentally.

Fuck fuck fuck, she's actually looking over. Why now?

Satoru helps Suguru to his feet, the whistle blows.

"Seriously, what the hell are you staring at? First Satoru doesn't pass the ball to me, now you fall over like a dainty princess—"

"Sukuna, keep speakin' to my boy like that and I'll cut your tongue out."

"Satoru, your boy is the reason we're losing; he's too busy being a fucking show-off for his crush on the bleachers." Sukuna has no shame and points in your general direction.

"This isn't a serious game, why the fuck are you getting so riled up!"

Suguru feels this sense of mortification stemming from the center of his chest as you finally, finally pay attention to him.

Oh my god. Look away. Look away. Look away.

"Sukuna, you're such a fucking cunt." Suguru spits slowly, unexpectedly.

Sukuna blinks at him incredulously. "... the fuck did you just call me?"

"I called you a cunt."

Poor boy Suguru, he's strong and capable of avoiding punches, but when he sees you coming down from the bleachers and approaching to the left at the same time as Sukuna's arm pulls back for a punch, he pays attention to you and that unfortunately results in a fist colliding with his pretty boy face.

The coach is quick to pry Satoru off of Sukuna, it's a chaotic moment.

Amidst the chaos, there's you. There's Suguru. The latter on the floor, splayed and softly groaning in pain, watching his best friend getting into a fistfight through. And the prior coming to kneel at his side, asking this half-conscious boy if he's okay.

Suguru squints at you, feels your hand reach out to wipe the blood dribbling over his lips, and falls in love in the midst of chaos.

I'm alive, but it feels like I'm in heaven staring at an angel.

You and him are deep in a moment, enclosed in a bubble that's separate from reality.

Satoru is pried off Sukuna by coach Fushiguro.

The bubble pops.

A panting, blue-eyed boy returns to his best friend, paying you a short glance of curiosity before bending down at Suguru's side like you are, "Suguru, you good?" he huffs.

"Yeah... need an ice pack..." Suguru mumbles. He sounds and looks dazed, and not just because he sustained a hit from a burly boy like Sukuna.

"Let's go to the nurse's office." you say, your voice carrying through Suguru's ears and finding a pathway into his soul.

Satoru nods, fangy teeth showing as he seethes and shakes his scuffed hand to alleviate the prickling pain across his knuckles. "Yeah, let's. C'mon, big boy, upsy-daisy."

You're make a cute attempt to help Satoru pull Suguru to his feet, even though he's a skyscraper to you.

In the nurse's office, he's just an uncomposed, love sick college boy. The complete opposite of his usual composed, nonchalant demeanor.

When he's alone with a girl, he usually knows exactly what to do with his words but with you they just fall haphazardly out of his stupid mouth, as if he's been rendered an uncouth loser in your company. In your company, up close, actually right here in your presence, in your air. Not distantly observing you in class, or as you're sat atop the bleachers, or as you walk down the corridors.

She's right here.

"Uh... so..." he begins, eager to talk to you at last.

"You sit next to me in professor Lin's class, right?" you interrupt.

He completely malfunctions. "I— y— yyyeah, I think so— I mean I do. Yeah, I do."

"Bangs guy?" you ask.

He groans and nods. You laugh.

"Yeah... bangs guy. Fucking hell, why has that become my identity in this damn school..." he rubs his eyes, then looks down at his knees.

"I mean, because you are the bangs guy." you say.

He's about to smile, then you add; "The hot bangs guy that sits next to me in class — sounds like the title of a romcom, doesn't it?" you joke.

Suguru widens his eyes, and desperately tries to seem unphased after you just flippantly called him hot.

"Yeah... haha..." he nods, voice daring to crack.

You continue your joke, "There could be a spinoff: "The hot bangs guy that stole my heart on the bloody basketball court" or something."

"These titles are getting longer..." he chuckles, avoiding eye contact.

His heart pumps harder.

Holy shit, is she flirting with me? Like, actually? That's so fucked. I'm so lucky. Oh Sukuna, thank you for making this possible, you fucking cunt.

"The hot bangs guy that banged m— no okay, I'll stop before this gets inappropriate, haha."

"Oh, I don't mind. Please, continue." he laughs properly now.

The smoothness is such an act, and you can tell; his dorkiness shines through. He's in love like a loser.

"The hhh—haha—the hot bangs guy that— that banged me." you say through giggles.

Satoru walks into the nurse's office with vending machine snacks.

"What's goin' on here?" he smirks at the two of you and flashes his eyes at Suguru.

"Just stupidity." you respond.

"Yeah..." Suguru smiles.

"Suguru... you have blood all over your lips. It's so hot." Satoru murmurs sarcastically.

"Oh, thanks babe. I'm going for the "just got beat up" look."

"Uhh... more like the "Sukuna's punching bag" look, you mean?" you joke.

"Wow! We just met and you're already humiliating me like this?"

You smile at him.

Satoru flits his eyes between you two, feeling the flirty tension in the atmosphere between you and Suguru. He decides to be the catalyst, because god knows Suguru is too hopeless right now to ask you out himself.

"So... when are you two going on a date?" he asks, wiggling his brows.

"Haha, what?" you give him a look.

Suguru laughs awkwardly and gives Satoru a look, too. A murderous one. "Yeah... what?"

"C'mon, the chemistry between you two is off the charts. I already feel like a third wheel. No, but seriously — you two are such losers for each other, you should go on a da—"

"— Satoru is a jokester, sorry. Ignore him." Suguru interrupts, feeling a flaming embarrassment in his chest.

"Ahah... it's okay." you nod awkwardly.

Satoru's eyes flicker upwards in annoyance, "Hopeless losers..." he mutters under his breath. "Can't say I didn't try."

You excuse yourself to take a sudden call, smiling at Suguru as you leave and so that's all he can see in his mind; the image of your smile.

He groans when you finally leave, and falls back dramatically on the cot. He drapes an arm over his eyes.

Satoru breaks the silence with a pitying whistle, "Dude, she's sooo not into you."

"Thanks, Satoru."

"I tried playing cupid, I really thought it would work." Satoru clicks his tongue.

"Well, sorry but you're shit at your job, Cupid. Anyways... I thought she was flirting with me for a second there... but I think it was all jokes..."

"Aw..."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I like her so fucking bad.

The poor boy replays all the scenes of your interactions with him thus far, and pauses on the moments where he thinks he was awkward. He files the best parts; you kneeling at his side, you wiping his blood off his nose, you joking suggestively with him, you "flirting" with him, you smiling at him.

"Suguru? You gonna spend your life in the nurse's office, or are we gonna go cheer your sorry ass up in Shibuya?" Satoru asks, stretching as he spoke. The afternoon light streams in through the shuttered windows.

"... yeah."

Satoru switches to a serious tone, watching Suguru move lethargically from his resting position on the cot. "I know you like her a lot, but don't get too bummed out... maybe this is just the beginning of something good."

Suguru pauses, contemplates, then rises to his feet. They open the door and leave the nurse's office.

"... or maybe it's just another thing in my life that's not meant to be..."

He looks so glum, and then suddenly his features light up when he hears your familiar voice calling his name. You're standing in the corridor, coming up to him.

"... hey, are you free on Saturday?"

His mind blanks.

"Free for... what?"

"A date?"

"Oh..."

"...?" you look at him, expecting an answer.

"Y—yeah, Saturday's cool."

You smile genuinely at him, and he snapshots it in his mind's eye.

"M'kay, I'll text you the time and place. See you tomorrow."

And then you say your goodbyes, Suguru stutters and chokes up a bit. He gives Satoru an open-mouthed look.

"No fucking wayyy..."

"Damn. You should go thank Sukuna. His magical fist made all this possible, after all." Satoru jokes.

Suguru nods, "Yeah, him and his magical fist. Hey... can you pinch me?"

"You're not dreaming, Suguru."

"I don't trust it. Pinch me."

Satoru pinches Suguru's cheek.

"See? Not dreaming."

"Wow... shit alright... oh my god... yo... I got a date on Saturday. I... OH MY FUCKING GOD." He smiles a big ass smile and does a half-spin, "I HAVE A FUCKING DATE WITH HER ON SATURDAY."

"Fucking dork." Satoru chuckles.

"A fucking dork with a date." Suguru rasps excitedly.

He wraps an arm around Satoru's shoulders as they head down the corridor, "Thanks for convincing me to play basketball, Satoru."

Do not plagiarize / repost / translate / copy layouts / etc.

Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.

#fluff #geto #geto suguru #suguru #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #geto x reader #suguru x reader #jjk suguru #getou suguru x reader #geto x you #geto x y/n #jujutsu geto #geto fluff #suguru fluff #suguru geto #geto suguru x you #getou x reader

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muzaktomyears · 6 months

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In 1980 Peter Brown, a former assistant to Brian Epstein who later ran Apple Corps, managed the Beatles and was best man at John Lennon and Yoko Ono’s wedding, started work on the definitive account of the Beatles. With the American author Steven Gaines, he spoke to the three surviving band members alongside wives, girlfriends, managers, friends, hangers-on and everyone else in the Fabs’ universe. The book promised to be the last word in Beatles history. Then in 1983 The Love You Make was published, and all hell broke loose.

“They were furious,” recalls Gaines, 78, still sounding pained at the memory. “Paul and Linda tore the book apart and burned it in the fireplace, page by page. There was an omerta, a code of silence around the Beatles, and they didn’t think anyone would come forward to tell the truth. But Queenie, Brian Epstein’s mother, told us above all else to be honest.”

“Even she didn’t think we would be quite so honest,” adds Brown, 87, his upper-crust English tones still in place after five decades in New York.

Why did The Love You Make, retitled by Beatles fans as The Muck You Rake, incite such strong feelings? The suggestion of an affair between Lennon and Epstein on a holiday to Barcelona in April 1963, only three weeks after the birth of Lennon’s son Julian, had something to do with it, but more significantly it was taken as a betrayal by a trusted insider. Brown and Gaines locked the recordings in a bank vault and never looked at them again — until now.

“Very good question,” Brown says, when I ask why he and Gaines have decided to publish All You Need Is Love, an oral history made up of the interview transcripts from which The Love You Make was drawn. He is speaking from the Manhattan apartment on Central Park West where he has lived since 1971. “When [Peter Jackson’s documentary] Get Back came out, a journalist from The New York Times wanted me to talk. I told him I hadn’t talked about the Beatles since the book was published and suggested he go to someone else. He said, ‘There isn’t anyone else. Paul, Ringo and you are the only ones left.’ And I thought, do I have a responsibility to clear it all up, once and for all?”

After the death of Epstein in 1967, Brown assumed the day-to-day responsibilities of managing the Beatles and Apple Corps. He had on his desk a red telephone whose number was known only to the four Beatles. Unsurprisingly, given his insider status, the interviews make for fascinating reading. Paul McCartney, yet to be asked the same questions about the Beatles thousands of times over, is remarkably unguarded. Asked by Gaines if the other Beatles were anti-Linda, he replies: “I should think so. Like we were anti-Yoko.” On the image the Fabs had for being good boys on tour, he says, “You are kidding,” before going on to reference a notorious incident involving members of Led Zeppelin, a groupie and a mud shark, concluding: “No, not in the least bit celibate. We just didn’t do it with fish.”

Ono, speaking in the spring of 1981, not long after Lennon was killed in December 1980, reveals that she didn’t sleep with Lennon for the first two years of their relationship — “John didn’t know how to make a move” — and claims that she was blamed by the Beatles camp, George Harrison in particular, for getting Lennon onto heroin in 1969. “Everything we did in those days, anything that was wrong, was my responsibility,” she tells Gaines. But everyone, from the Beatles’ notorious late-period manager Allen Klein to the Greek electronics wizard/hustler “Magic” Alex Mardas — “the Mordred of the Beatles’ Camelot” according to Brown — has their own version of events.

Going through the transcripts reminded Gaines of the long shadow cast by Lennon. “I didn’t realise how sensitive the other Beatles were to John’s opinion,” he says, speaking from his home in the Hamptons, Long Island. “Paul worried about what John would say [in the event Lennon died before being interviewed] and was still longing for his friendship. George said that John didn’t read his autobiography because it was called I, Me, Mine. Those interviews were done before John’s death and Paul’s heart was broken, even then. It wasn’t just the break-up of the Beatles. It was more personal than that.”

From around 1968, the transcripts reveal how the key Beatles duo started to come apart. McCartney’s enthusiasm was only getting stronger. But Lennon grew increasingly bored and disillusioned. “You have to remember that John wasn’t in love with his wife Cynthia,” Gaines says by way of explanation. “He wanted to get away from the life he was leading and that’s why he started to experiment with drugs, all the way up to heroin.”

Brown says Ono was, and probably still is, a distant, mysterious character, exactly the kind of person Lennon was looking for, having done the right thing and married the sensible, quiet Cynthia after she discovered she was pregnant with Julian in 1963. “John told me about meeting this woman, and how frustrated he was that he couldn’t get to know her better; he couldn’t take her to lunch because it would cause gossip. I gave him the key to my apartment so he and Yoko could be together in private and thought, naturally, they were going there to f***. When I went home that evening, the apartment was untouched. They did nothing more than sit on the sofa and talk. That’s what they wanted: to know each other.”

Regarding the long-held, unfair suggestion that Ono broke up the Beatles, Gaines says: “Yoko came along at the right moment to light the fuse, but the dynamite was already packed. They resented her, she was difficult to understand and had a deep effect on John, but they were getting more and more unhappy with each other and needed to have their own lives. As people in the interviews say again and again, [the split] was bound to happen.”

It was Brown who in May 1968 introduced McCartney to Linda Eastman, an ambitious young American photographer whom he knew from his business trips to New York, when she came to London on an assignment to shoot the Rolling Stones. “I was having dinner with Paul at the Bag O’ Nails [a club in Soho] when she turned up, so I introduced them and he was obviously taken with her,” Brown recalls. “The following Friday, May 19, we were holding a party for 12 top photographers at Brian Epstein’s house in London when she walked in. Paul says I didn’t introduce him to his wife … but I did.”

If the book has a villain it is Klein, the New York accountant who took over management of the Beatles and sacked everyone around them, much to McCartney’s horror. As Brown puts it: “He was a hideous person. He even looked like a crook: sloppy and fat, always wearing sneakers and sweatshirts. Everything he didn’t like was ‘for shit’.”

You wonder why Lennon fell for him. “The interviews suggest it is because Allen Klein offered Yoko a million dollars for her movie project,” Gaines says. “She was enticed and John would do anything Yoko said.”

“I asked Mick Jagger to come over and explain to the four Beatles who this Allen Klein was,” Brown remembers. “And John, in his wonderful way, had Klein turn up to the same meeting, which was deeply embarrassing. It made Mick very uncomfortable too.”

Epstein, the man who saw the Beatles’ potential in the first place, is a central figure in All You Need Is Love. It includes a transcript of a recording of him from 1966, not used for the original book. It was in the possession of Epstein’s attorney Nat Weiss, and seemingly made by Epstein to mark the end of the Beatles’ final tour. He claims not only that Lennon felt remorse for the infamous comment on the Beatles being bigger than Jesus — “What upset John more than anything else was that hundreds of people were hurt by that” — but that the Beatles would tour once more. “There’s no reason why they shouldn’t appear in public again,” Epstein claims. They never did, unless you count that rooftop performance on January 30, 1969.

“Brian was driving them around the north of England in his car for a year,” Brown remembers of the early days. “This Jewish guy from Liverpool, who was gay, was with these guys who had been hanging around in Hamburg, so both had interesting backgrounds. They understood each other.”

For Gaines, a self-described “gay Jewish boy from Brooklyn”, Epstein is at the heart of the story. “Brian never felt the love of a real relationship. Then he found the Beatles. Everyone thought it would be just another of his phases, but he had tremendous feelings for John, both sexual and intellectual, and that’s what really pushed him. If there was one thing that started the whole thing off, it was Brian’s love for John Lennon.”

That love affair was the contentious issue of the original book. In his interview, McCartney says of Lennon going to Spain with Epstein: “What was John doing, manipulating this manager of ours? Sucking up to him, going on holiday, becoming his special friend.” It wasn’t the suggestion of a homosexual relationship that was troubling McCartney, but the balance of power tilting in Lennon’s direction.

“Paul wanted to be in charge, and he deserved to be because he was the motor, the driving force,” Gaines says. “Paul felt that John would steal away the power. He felt threatened by John’s relationship with Brian.”

“Paul always wanted to be active,” Brown adds. “After Brian’s death the world had to be carried on. Who was going to do that? It wasn’t going to be John, George or Ringo. Brian was my best friend and I was very upset [at his death]. I had to go to the court to convince the magistrate that it wasn’t a suicide, and the following day Paul set up a meeting so we could discuss what we would do next. I said we’d do it next week, and he said, ‘No, it has to be now.’ He was right.”

How did Brown and Gaines feel about the horrified reaction to the book, not just from fans but the Beatles themselves? “The world has changed,” Gaines says, by way of answer. “Now, after all these years, hopefully people can see it as a truthful, loving and gentle book.” It has been decades since Brown spoke to the surviving Beatles and he has not contacted them about this new publication.

What the interviews really capture in eye-opening detail is the story of four young men who became a phenomenon, then had to deal with the fallout as the dream ended. On December 31, 1970, the day McCartney sued the other three to dissolve the partnership, Brown handed in his resignation as the Beatles’ day-to-day manager and officer of Apple Corps. Ringo Starr said to him: “You didn’t want to be a nursemaid any more, and half the time the babies wouldn’t listen to you anyway.” Brown moved to New York and became chief executive officer of the Robert Stigwood Organisation. But the Beatles never fully left him, and in the wake of Get Back — and the news that Sam Mendes is to direct four biopics, one on each Beatle — he decided he had one last job.

“We have finished our responsibilities,” Brown says with quiet authority. “It is the end of the story.”

EXTRACTS

‘It’s like bloody Julius Caesar, and I’m being stabbed in the back!’

Paul McCartney on the Beatles signing Allen Klein as manager against his wishes

[John Lennon] said, “I’m going with [Allen] Klein, what do you want to do about it?” and I kind of said, “I don’t think I will, that’s my roll.” Then George and Ringo said, “Yeah, we’ll go with John.” Which was their roll. But that was pretty much how it always ended up, the three of them wanted to do stuff, and I was always the fly in the ointment, I was always the one dragging his heels. John used to accuse me of stalling. In fact, there was one classic little meeting when we were recording Abbey Road. It was a Friday evening session, and I was sitting there, and I’d heard a rumour from Neil [Aspinall, road manager] or someone that there was something funny going around. So we got to the session, and Klein came in. To me, he was like a sort of demon that would always haunt my dreams. He got to me. Really, it was like I’d been dreaming of him as a dentist. Anyway, so at this meeting, everyone said, “You’re going to stall for ever now, we know you, you don’t even want to do it on Monday.” And I said, “Well, so what? It’s not a big deal, it’s our prerogative and it could wait a few more days.” They said, “Oh no, typical of you, all that stalling and what. Got to do it now.” I said, “Well, I’m not going to. I demand at least the weekend. I’ll look at it, and on Monday. This is supposed to be a recording session, after all.” I dug me heels in, and they said, “Right, well, we’re going to vote it.” I said, “No, you’ll never get Ringo to.” I looked at Ringo, and he kind of gave me this sick look like, yeah, I’m going with them. Then I said, “Well, this is like bloody Julius Caesar, and I’m being stabbed in the back!”

‘You don’t like to see a chick in the middle of the team’

Paul McCartney on Yoko Ono

Give Yoko a lot . . . that was basically what John and Yoko wanted, recognition for Yoko. We found her sitting on our amps, and like a football team, an all-male thing, you really don’t like to see a chick in the middle of the team. It’s a disturbing thing, they think it throws them off the game or whatever it was, and these were the reasons that I thought, well, this is crazy, we’re gonna have Yoko in the group next. Looking at it now, I feel a bit sorry for her because, if only I had been able to understand what the situation was and think, wait a minute, here’s a girl who’s not had enough attention. I can now not make this into a major crisis and just sort of say, “Sure, what harm is she doing on the amps?” I know they would have really loved me. You know, we didn’t like Yoko at first, and people did call her ugly and stuff, and that must be hard for someone who loves someone and is so passionately in love with them, but I still can’t — I’m still trying to see his point of view. What was the point of all that? They’re very suspicious people [Lennon and Ono], and one of the things that hurt me out of the whole affair, was that we’d come all that way together, and out of either a fault in my character, or out of lack of understanding in their character, I’d still never managed to impress upon them that I wasn’t trying to screw them. I don’t think that I have to this day.

How Cynthia Lennon was driven to drink — at an ashram

Alexis ‘Magic Alex’ Mardas on Ono’s love letters to Lennon

Alexis Mardas was also known as Magic Alex, a name John bestowed on him because he was so taken with Alex’s inventions. Alex was handsome, charming, and a charlatan. (He sued The [New York] Times in Britain for calling him a charlatan and settled out of court. He’s dead now.)

[The Maharishi] was fooling around with several American girls. The Maharishi was making all of us eat vegetarian food, very poorly cooked, but he was eating chicken. No alcohol was allowed in the camp. I had to smuggle alcohol in because Cynthia wanted to drink. Cynthia was very depressed. John was receiving letters from Yoko Ono. Yoko was planning to win John. She was writing very poetic and very romantic letters. I remember those letters because John was coming to me with the letters, and Yoko was saying to John that “I’m a cloud in the sky, and, when you read this letter, turn your head and look in the sky, and if you see a small cloud, this is Yoko. Away from you but watching you.” Poor Cynthia was prepared to do absolutely everything to win John. She was not even allowed to visit the house where John was staying. She was longing for a drink. Now, drinks, they were strictly prohibited in the ashram, but when it was discovered that Maharishi had a drink, I said, “Just a second, at least equal.”

‘He’s become so nasty’

George Harrison on reaching out to John Lennon

What’s wrong with John, he’s become so nasty. It sounds like he hasn’t moved an inch from where he was five or six years ago. I sent Ringo, John, and Paul all a copy of my book. I got a call from Paul. He called me up just to say how much he liked it. I shouldn’t have called it I Me Mine, because that title was a bit much. I sent a copy to John. I’m wondering if he’s actually received it, if he’s received it, he probably doesn’t like it or something offends him about it.

‘I told John that ... it was just a nice feeling’

Yoko Ono advising John Lennon how to take heroin

George said I put John on H, and it wasn’t true at all. I mean, John wouldn’t take anything unless he wanted to do it. When I went to Paris [before I met John], I just had a sniff of it and it was a beautiful feeling. Because the amount was small, I didn’t even get sick. It was just a nice feeling. So I told John that. When you take it properly — properly is not the right word — but when you really snort it, then you get sick right away if you’re not used to it. So I think maybe because I said it wasn’t a bad experience, maybe that had something to do with it, I don’t know. But I mean so, he kept saying, “Tell me how it was?” Why was he asking? That was sort of a preliminary because he wanted to take it, that’s why he was asking. And that’s how we did it. We never injected. Never.

‘It was time’

Ringo Starr on the end of the Beatles

Ringo Starr: Well, I’m pleased it happened because in so many ways, I’m glad it’s not going now. It was time. Things last only so long. Steven Gaines: The Rolling Stones are [still] going. Ringo Starr: Yeah, but they’re old men.

(source)

#the beatles #here we go

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raz-writes-the-thing · 6 months

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Your Time (TWD One-Shot)

Negan Smith x GN!Reader / requests are open / 18+

Summary: You reminisce over your relationship with Negan and look towards the day to come. Based on the prompt "memory."

Fic type: reflective smut lite, violent in nature, extremely deranged relationship, these hoes do not be healthy in the head

EVERYTHING: @winchxters (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

TWD: @nervoussystemss (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"Aw, come on, babydoll, don't play coy with me," Negan's lips spread into a smirk, his eyes boring holes that felt as though they were digging right down into your soul. "I know you love it when I play the big bad wolf."

He was right, of course. Negan was always right. Before the sky fell and the world turned entirely to shit, you'd considered yourself a decent person. Maybe even a good person. But that was before and this was now.

Negan had found you a year or two into the shit. He'd found you curled up, covered in grime and ready to take out the Achilles of the next person who looked at you wrong. Negan had seen past that, as he usually did. He saw past the right now and into the what-can-be of a person. It was one of his many talents.

He'd seen you for what you were. A bloodthirsty killer with a thing for reassurance and praise. Negan knew he could use that. Sure, you'd tried to fit in for a while. Be the goody-two-shoes who baked for the soldiers and wore cute cardigans (not that cardigans had anything to do with being sweet. You could certainly still kill a person in a pastel cardi if you pleased).

Eventually, though, you grew bored with your own charade. You'd spent a good long while out in the muck, killing and maiming and stealing from other survivors. Your fingers began to itch for an outlet and once Negan was made aware of this little urge resurfacing, he was sure to provide you that sweet escape.

Traitors, thieves, enemies. He let you at them all. You were his best investigator, and yes, while you were severely fucked in the head, you were his. He was yours, too. Negan loved your ferocity, your drive. He loved that you were unapologetically violent and cruel, and you made a pretty match for his Saviours leader personality.

Now that wasn't to say you were always itching to rip someone a new one (and sometimes literally). Like Negan, you needed a break here and there. You could be sweet, caring, and more than affectionate when you were in the mood. Just like Negan. It was one of the reasons you both got along so well, from what you could tell.

The couple who decompress with cuddles together after ripping a prisoner's fingernails off stays together, after all.

"Maybe," you ventured, walking your fingers over his bare chest as you both looked up into the stars. God, he was so... firm. So strong. He was perfect for you. You didn't need him to protect you, and you both knew it, but it felt nice that he could if you wanted him to. "I had fun tonight."

"Me fuckin' too, darlin'," Negan replied, a rumble of affection emanating from his chest. Fun could mean a lot of things, but tonight, fun meant having fucked each others' brains out while the latest batch of fuckwits cried over the loss of their friend about eight feet away from you both. Morbid, yes, but also, very hot.

You pinched at Negan's nipple teasingly, giggling at the way he swatted your hand with a hiss.

"Don't be mean, doll." He pulled you closer by the hips and planted a hot, wet, open-mouthed kiss on your lips. He forced himself to pull away for a moment. "We got work to do tomorrow. You ready for that?"

You nodded, rolling your hips over his groin. Negan sucked his lower lip into his mouth, eyes glinting with heat. "Play the damsel," you relayed, grinding down on him again in harsh circles. "Get inside, scope the place out and sneak out after dark."

Negan's fingers flexed on your hips, his hips rolling up against yours now as well.

"Uh-uh," he tutted. "I think there's something missing from that plan of yours."

You pouted, bringing your hips to a halt. "Don't kill anyone."

"That's right, baby. Don't kill anyone. Your time will fucking come, sweetness, don't you worry about that."

If nothing else, you knew Negan to be a man of his word. If he said there'd be time for your hobbies, you sure as fuck believed him.

#one shot #the walking dead #negan #negan smut #negan smith #negan x reader #negan smith x reader #negans thirst squad #the walking dead fanfiction #jeffrey dean morgan #negan x you #negan x y/n #the walking dead fic

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milkywaydrabbles · 1 year

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I'm the same fluff anon that I didn't know you could cook, now you think you can do something with the indication "I know you had a bad day, so I made you cookies", we have to continue loving and caring for that great Dhampir, please?

A/N: Ahh this one is short, I couldn't think much for it but I'm always a sucker for fluff and I love Alucard sm so here you go. I hope you enjoy it anyways! Mwuah!

"I know you had a bad day, so I made you cookies." x Alucard

Ugh.

Alucard couldn’t think of a single good thing to say about the day. It turned out to be longer and more difficult than he ever intended it to be. Finally trudging back home, the day simply had to shit on him even more before his boot got stuck in mud, nearly sucking the whole thing into the ground. Honestly, Alucard had half a mind of just leaving it there. He didn’t really need the boot anyways. Decided against it, he pulled it out and uncomfortably placed it back on his foot, squishing within the halls of his castle. He didn’t even call out to you, as he normally would, instead sneaking up the steps and going straight to bathing -- he’d clean up the boot marks later. His sweat and all the muck from the outside made his skin crawl, peeling off layers of clothing onto the bathroom floor to bathe. The water felt incredible, immediately soothing his aching muscles as he dipped in, relishing in the warmth. He’d be quick, just needed to scrub away today’s troubles...

Alucard in fact, was not quick.

He’d actually fallen asleep in the bath. Eyes shot open, scanning the room with a fright. How the hell did he fall asleep? It was difficult enough to sleep, let alone with you, and yet he’d completely dozed off. He wasn’t sure for how long, but there was still some sunlight when he got home and now it was terribly dark. Shit. He wondered if you even knew where he was, if you were scared for him, if you were waiting--

“Adrian, honey, are you awake now?”

...Wait, huh?

He must have said that out loud, because he heard you giggle and walk over, kissing his forehead. “I saw you in here earlier, but you dozed off and I didn’t want to wake you...I checked up on you a few times, make sure you didn’t slip under.” You teased, combing his hair with your fingers. “Come on, pretty boy--you’re gonna get pruny.” As if he wasn’t already.

He really was still in a daze, not entirely sure what was going on--you just let him sleep? He must have been really out of it if he didn’t wake up to you walking in.. The dhampir sleepily dressed himself, and when he found you again immediately wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling his nose into your hair. “Darling, you should have gotten me up, I could have helped with dinner.” He stifled a yawn, inhaling deep after--whatever you had made smelled delicious. And there was something...sweet, in the air.

“Did you make dessert?”

You nodded, turning around in his arms and kissing his jaw, the closest bit to you. “I know you had a bad day, so I made you cookies.” There was no way he could have been out for that long, that you could have made everything from scratch...right? “How did you--” “Just call it a woman’s intuition, you walked out of here this morning so grumpy...I made the batter earlier for tonight.”

It’s like you could read his mind.

He chuckled anyways, tightening his hold on you and swaying back and forth. “How you read me like a book, I’ll never understand my love. But I am very grateful for you, all the same.” You hummed, nuzzling into his chest and wrapping your arms around him. “It’s my job to know you like the back of my hand. I’m your wife.” You teased, hands trailing up to caress his jaw, bringing him down to your level and pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “I love you dearly, never forget that.” You reminded him over and over again each day, and he silently thanked every god in the sky for bringing you to him.

“Now let’s have dinner, hm? Then we’ll have the cookies later.”

#milk writes #adrian tepes #castlevania #alucard #alucard x reader #adrian tepes x reader #alucard tepes x reader #castlevania (2017)#castlevania alucard #castlevania nocturne #milk flufftober

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azqope · 2 years

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quality time!

step brother!sukuna x reader

word count: 3.2k

warnings! female reader, dark content, pseudo incest (step sibling incest), noncon, dubcon, groping, dry humping, forced orgasm, unprotected sex, creampie, blackmail & threats, rough sex, degradation, obsessive sukuna, edging, throat fucking, mild exhibitionism

part two.

one thing that sukuna loves about you is how accessible you are. things are so simple when your little fucktoy is in the room right next to yours.

but as of late, you’ve been stripping him of this accessibility, bit by bit.

he notices it all, the way you stick close to your friends, being too eager to go shopping or muck around with them after class and attending parties that you’d in all honesty, rather not go to. it’s alright though, he understands. you’re just being a little coy, unsure. he admits, he’s not the nicest of guys to be around.

but what he won’t allow is you going off and hooking up with someone else. when he catches you at uni, chatting it up with some no-name behind the scenes, a little fire opens up inside of sukuna. once he’s able to capture a hold of your gaze, he shoots you a look that means to beckon you in.

getting nervous, you have to excuse yourself from the person you were conversing with, to walk up to him before he did something that would upset you. sukuna then drags you off to some secluded and empty lecture hall.

he’s quick to have you lay across a desk, making you drop your bag in surprise.

“you’ve been avoiding me, haven’t you? i thought i said i wanted to get along,” sukuna says, holding your legs in place as you squirm around.

“i… i still get home by evening,” you say, making a clumsy excuse.

“so you’re not even denying that you’re avoiding me,” he continues, frowning deeper.

“night only isn’t enough, sweetie. you’re making your big brother lonely,” sukuna emphasises, pushing his hips up against your ass with a mocking face of hurt. it sets off a panic inside your mind, as you hastily look around for any possible onlookers.

“why? afraid someone’ll see us like this?” he asks with a sly voice, his hand creeping up under your shirt, fingers pinching at your perky nipples.

“look at how they’re standing... maybe you want people to witness you.”

“no, stop, please,” you quietly beg, grabbing onto his wrist to stop him from groping your chest so lewdly.

sukuna ponders for a moment, deciding on what he wants to do with you.

“as long as you start comin’ home early…i’d have no reason to do all this here.”

you seem to be feeling unsure about it, so he continues his speech.

“you think your friends are gonna stick around if they find out how much of a slut you are?” he delivers a sharp squeeze to your areola, making you cry out.

“i’ll go home,” you relent, tearfully.

your pathetic tears send a delicious shock of arousal down his spine.

“ladies first,” sukuna offers sarcastically, opening up the car door for you. ignoring his smile, you sit yourself in the passenger seat. when he comes around and finally grabs ahold of the steering wheel beside you, you can’t help but notice the tent in his jeans.

he starts the engine, and gets to driving. and the way he makes his turns gets you holding onto the seat belt for dear life.

“my room,” he orders, once the two of you get home.

you follow close behind him as he saunters up the stairs with a hand in his pocket.

you start looking around once you get inside, maybe a little intrigued by the multitude of band posters he has on his wall. you’re not very sure what you were expecting.

“i know you’re curious about my stuff, but you can take your time with that later,” he intervenes, turning around to face you.

“for now…” he says, cupping your chin, “get on your knees.”

you hesitate a bit, but eventually, you slowly sink down. the way you look up at him from this angle, gets him aroused all over again.

“unbuckle me yourself. and i want you to use your teeth with the zipper,” sukuna instructs, running a hand over your head rather affectionately.

you do as he says, unbuckling him using your hands, but using your teeth to zip him down. there’s the enticing feeling of having the tightness of his jeans removed, but it doesn’t compare to the feeling he gets when your hands automatically fly up to his thighs while your face brushes up against his twitching cock.

you lower his briefs, to reveal his fully erect dick that greets you with a strong pulse.

"have you done this before? be honest."

“...yes,” you tell him quietly, feeling anxious.

“shame i couldn’t be your first,” he mutters under his breath, “well then, you know what to do next, don’t you?”

you give his throbbing erection a nervous glance. you’d done this before, but not with one so big. your hand wraps itself around his shaft, and you bring your lips to his leaking tip, using the tip of your tongue to swirl around him. he patiently watches you with his palm still resting against your head.

you know that he’s expecting you to push it further down your throat. so, after giving a few sucks onto his cockhead - you attempt to bring him in deeper. you go excruciatingly slow, making sukuna’s patience run down to a dangerous level. and then at the half-way point, you seem to be unable to go any more.

seeing you struggle makes a malicious smile appear on his face, blowing away the small, remaining patience that he had. his hand creeps down to the back of your head.

“need some help?”

before you could protest, he pushes it in completely, without allowing you a moment to brace yourself. you gag around him as he bucks his hips in, the tip of his dick going past the back of your throat. he merely hums in satisfaction, appreciating the warmth of your esophagus, and how it squeezes him.

“looks like you still need some more training after all,” sukuna chuckles darkly.

when you gaze up at him while blinking your tears away, mouth stuffed full, you feel the twitch in his cock inside you.

now, both of his hands clasp against your ears as he moves himself up and down, disregarding the way you tug at his jeans for mercy.

“fuck… even your throat pussy feels good,” he groans, holding himself back from releasing yet.

after a few more thrusts, he has the decency to pull out and let you breathe for a bit.

your eyes widen with shock and he abruptly rams his dick inside, your nose hitting his pubic bone. eyes accumulating even more tears, it seems that there was no point in wiping those previous ones away, as he continues to face fuck you earnestly, his heavy balls hitting your chin.

“you’re okay,” he coos, collecting your strayed tears using his thumbs, “just a little more.”

you open your mouth again, and he slaps his cock against your laid out tongue.

“i’m gonna get a little rough. do your best to withstand it.”

this isn’t supposed to feel good… you should be pushing his hips away, digging your fingers into his flesh even, but… what’s this feeling in your panties? this feeling that suggests your arousal? you try to relax yourself the best you can, but you can’t help the gagging that occurs every time he reaches so far back.

“you’re doing well…” he mumbles, getting lost in the pleasures of your throat.

“nearly there…” he tells you, no longer smiling, but showing his focus on getting to his orgasm.

his pacing falters soon enough, and he’s hissing from pleasure as he bottoms out deep inside.

what surprises him however, is how you cling to him so tightly, like you wanted every last bit down your throat without him having to demand it. he sees you closing your eyes as you swallow around him, and it creates a delirious, open-mouthed grin on his face.

“fuck…fuck…” he whispers as he watches you gulp him down, the overstimulation from your clenching throat getting him to shudder. he throws his head back when you even start swiping your tongue against the underside of his throbbing cock.

when he finally slides out of you, strings of your own saliva follow, still attached to his tip. you come up to lick it off, and then open your mouth wide for him, letting him see how not a drop of his cum was wasted.

“you deserve some praise for that,” he says with a breathy voice.

“such a good little slut. so perfect, i just have to make you mine.”

he gets you up off your knees, and captures your lips into a searing kiss as he pulls you in by the waist, not minding your messy mouth. he pushes you down against his soft bed, and strips you naked.

“on all fours, sweetie. ass up,” he orders with haste, his dick stiff and heavy, once again.

sukuna wastes no time in taking his shirt off and throwing it away to the side. licking his lips, his thick fingers tease your clit, and then slot themselves into your sopping wet cunt.

“sheesh, you naughty girl. getting off of giving me a blowjob?” he taunts, enjoying the sight of you jolting from his touch.

“that’s not…i’m not…” you deny meekly, whining from the way his fingers feel around inside you.

“yes you are,” he insists, pulling his digits back out, replacing them with his fat cock.

he rams himself in in one go, pushing the air out of your lungs. he’s gotten your pussy shaped perfectly around his dick, like his personal cocksleeve. placing his hand against your lower back, he admires the view from here, observing your trembling body. but then, he remembers the lesson that he is yet to teach.

“i despise the thought of you seeing someone other than me,” he speaks with a low voice, gripping onto the flesh of your ass even harder. you whimper pitifully, because that’s really all you can do in this moment.

“you know, i’d never cared whether my side chicks fucked other guys or not…but you’re different.”

grabs your hips and gives you a single harsh thrust that makes you cry out.

“and i won’t need any of my side pieces anymore, either. why would i?"

his cock rubs up against your g-spot, making your body tremble.

"when i have a good slut of a little sister here, all to myself.”

a devilish grin appears on his face, as he proceeds to fuck you in earnest, making you scream with your hands tightly clenching the sheets. your flesh almost stings from the speed and strength of his powerful thrusts as his tip knocks at your cervix ruthlessly, the pain causing you to scream against the bed in order to muffle yourself.

he thinks back to the nights where he pathetically abused his fleshlight, pretending that it was you. all that cum wasted on a single toy. he’ll make it up to you and fill you up twice- no, ten times as much.

“t-too deep…!” you plead, gasping for air.

“yeah? step brother’s cock too much for you?” he asks with a crude voice, smacking his hand against your asscheek. when you yelp, your hole tightens around him and he groans hoarsely.

“good grief… ’s like you’re tryna suck me dry,” sukuna speaks with his head thrown back, while he continues to pummel you.

when he grinds up against your g-spot again, you’re forcefully met with your orgasm, hips quivering and voice ringing out in his room as you moan uncontrollably - pussy spasming against sukuna’s hard cock. he grits his teeth at the sensation as it throws him over the edge, making him paint your insides white with his seed.

he pushes himself in the farthest he can while he cums, like he’s trying to breed you, and you feel the warmth of him filling your womb up with spurt after spurt of his sperm, with an iron grip on your hips.

once he finishes emptying himself into you, he pulls out with a look of satisfaction on his face. when his cum starts leaking out, he uses his fingers to push it back in, and then shoves those same fingers into your mouth, making you lick them clean.

“i’ll.. i’ll get pregnant,” you mumble, making a weak attempt to push him away.

“aht, don’t ruin this for me,” he says, grabbing your wrist and remaining still, dick continuing to throb inside you.

“it’s my favourite part.”

***

the tv is on in the living room, but nobody pays any attention to it. you’d been quietly watching something by yourself when all of a sudden sukuna squeezed in behind you.

and now, here you are, getting your pussy played with, legs spread apart. he watches with amusement, while his fingertips give teasing touches to your clit, making you jolt and grip onto his shirt tighter. however, he won’t give you the satisfaction of letting you reach your orgasm.

a little bit after, he begins his touching again. caressing your sensitive bead carefully as he puts hickeys onto your skin, listening to your moans while his dick leaks more precum in his pants.

“i’ll stop it right here again,” he says, smirking sadistically at your cries of frustration. he pulls his hands away right as you’re about to cum, leaving your clit swollen and aching.

“no…no more…” you whine, wanting to close your legs to rub your thighs together.

“oh, i love the pitiful sounds you make,” sukuna groans, kissing down your neck.

“you wanna cum?” he asks you in a cooing voice, inserting his thick fingers into your dripping wet cunt, going faster as if he means to actually let you this time.

“yes please,” you plead, panting and hips jolting.

he gets faster, one hand fucking your clenching hole and the other rubbing itself against your clit. you throw your head back and focus on getting ready to climax.

but yet again, he stops right before you can. gritting your teeth, you start tearing up, getting desperate to be touched until satisfaction… you have nothing to say to him, only giving frustrated moans and incomprehensive noises of begging.

“sounding so pathetic,” he taunts, all the while his dick gets harder.

“maybe i’ll give you what you want if you promise to be a good girl.”

hands going to work immediately, you draw in a breath sharply as he starts building you up again, your cunt making loud squelching noises from how much slick you’re producing. sukuna knows how to drive you crazy, knows where to touch in order to send you to heaven.

“i promise…i promise to be good,” you say hastily, desperate for relief. your hole gives an eager twitch.

“who’s good girl?” he continues.

“your– sukuna’s good girl,” you whimper, growing impatient.

he hums in response, happy with your answer.

“look at the mess you’re making. dirty slut. coating my fingers like this,” he drawls into your ear, thoroughly enjoying watching you crumble down in his very arms.

“yes, yes,” you gasp, moaning and rolling your hips the best you can against his fingers.

“so close…please!”

“don’t worry, sweetie. i’m feeling generous right now,” sukuna speaks with a grin, and you can hear it in his voice.

when you finally orgasm, it’s like something completely shatters in your mind in a pleasurable way, you squeal, thighs shaking and hips trembling, a trail of drool running down the corner of your mouth. you look like a whore, exactly as sukuna had called you.

gripping onto him tightly, your chest heaves as you catch your breath. he licks his lips, feeling your pussy pulse against his fingertips. he slaps your clit and you give a weak yelp.

“felt good?” he asks.

“y-yes…”

sukuna adjusts his position to push you down, so that you’re laying on the sofa.

“alright. it’s my turn now,” he states, freeing his cock from his pants. it’s angry red tip glistens from his precum. pumping it a few times with his hand, he groans.

“wait! i just came so-”

“so you’re more sensitive? that’s the idea.” he cuts you off, before pushing himself into you without warning. you gasp at the sudden intrusion and shocking pleasure.

“god… fuck… you’re still throbbing. and tighter than usual.”

his guttural moans as he slowly thrusts in and out of you stirs you up. his dick makes a little bulge on your tummy, really showing off his girth and length. the sofa creases as he speeds up, and with every thrust comes a little creaking noise from it. your breathing already unsteady, sukuna comes down to suckle on your nipples, grasping your flesh tightly, enamoured by your tits.

he’d always had an obsession with them, using any chance throughout the day to grope you under your shirt. his warm tongue rolls over you, lips pressed against your skin. you hate how it makes you moan uncontrollably, when he touches you the way he wants.

“why’re you so fuckin’ cute? can’t leave you the fuck alone…” sukuna pants, finally detaching himself away from your tits. his hips start bucking out of rhythm, which means that he’s about to cum soon.

“stop, i can’t,” you quaver, but your hand flies to the back of his head, contradicting your words.

he continues fucking you as he pleases, leaving bite marks all over your slutty breasts, cockhead rubbing up against your cervix. tears protruding your eyes, you whine helplessly, your pussy leaking more juices that run down the shaft of his cock and his balls.

“i-i can’t…” you repeat, eyes glossing over as you orgasm again while your voice cries out.

“shit… fuck yeah, squeeze me just like that,” he grunts, your cunt fluttering around him. your body quivers, but he holds you down in place before he pulls out last minute and cums outside, onto you. he strokes himself quickly as his seed comes out in long spurts, coating your stomach and chest.

“such a waste to cum anywhere but inside you,” he relents, finishing himself up, cock twitching weakly in his hand, “but i’ve always wanted to see you covered with me.”

you don’t even seem to be listening to him, eyes spacing out as you quietly heave, mind numb from the overstimulation you just went through. he looks at the mess he’s made of you with pride, and goes down again to kiss you on the lips.

“since you were so obedient, i’ll help clean you up today,” sukuna tells you, humming as he lifts you up into his arms.

***

…from then onwards, it seems that he’s gotten rather fond of giving you aftercare.

he’ll kiss and cradle you in his arms afterwards for a little longer. follow you around the house, touching your body from behind. on the rare occasion that he cooks, he wants you to eat with him. drags you to his room at night, or barges into yours, claiming that he just feels like sleeping with you today. and when you share a bed with him, he pulls you into his arms and holds you tight.

much like…

much like a boyfriend does.

the birds chirp outside your window, while you sit up in bed and look down at the large man who still remains in his slumber. that makes no sense. you don’t love this man. and he’s your step brother, for fuck’s sake. this can’t be happening.

you’re so afraid.

his peaceful, sleeping face instills fear within you.

are you falling for him? someone like sukuna?

part one

masterlist.

#sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #sukuna #tw noncon #tw dark content

2K notes · View notes

seravphs · 1 year

Text

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — IDOL! GOJO x ROCKSTAR! FEM READER

Gojo loves the untouchable. You’re an off limits rockstar who thinks he’s an idiot. The only thing he can do is take that as a challenge, right?

wc — 6.8k

tags — non detailed mention of idol industry EDs, pride and prejudice type energy tbh, reader is a little superior about being in a rock band and not “selling out”, Gojo has an annoying habit of pointing out their hypocrisy, sneaking around because you’re public figures, nsfw jokes, minor nongraphic blood

Gojo’s not your usual type. He’s too pretty for that, with those long lashes like a doll’s. They’re stark against his pale skin when he flirts with you, peering alluringly at you through half closed eyes like the cheap tricks that get his fangirls to scream will work on you.

He’s too easy to break for your taste, but from what you hear on Twitter, that’s why people like him. There’s something charming about the gap in his image that draws people in. People are dying for a taste of vulnerability because he's so cocky, but it's easy to make him beg.

There’s a million clips all over the internet of the moments he’s caught off guard, carefully hoarded instances in his career where a genuine embarrassed flush comes over his cheekbones, made into gifs and Tik Toks and YouTube videos.

That’s not your thing.

You like people with tough hearts and tougher reputations. People who could take the beating of public opinion without a flinch, not some soft spoken idol who needs his management to hold his hand through an apology. You like your fans, but they know their limit with you.

It’s not love, not like with an idol. It would never be, you made sure of it. You’d quit before you ever issued an apology for dating someone.

You hate to be a stereotype almost as much as you hate the idea of becoming a pushover, but you’ve dated a string of bad boy exes who were all exactly what you would expect for the lead singer of a rock band. A little rough around the edges, dark and smoldering. Men who would wear your red lipstick marks like a badge of honor. People who had never even heard of something like an idol image.

Maybe that’s why no one saw it coming. You were safe, established. Gojo was out of your usual pitch.

It’s too bad for the fans that you’ve always been a bit of a daredevil. Trying new things has never scared you. You’ve always been willing to test your limits to find the gold in the muck. That’s how you grow.

That’s how you ended up here, sitting thigh to thigh with the boy wonder of the idol industry.

“Aren’t you playing a dangerous game here?” You ask as he nudges even closer to you, far beyond what you’re sure his fans will permit. You’ve heard horror stories about the lengths people will go to if they see their idols even look at someone of the opposite gender.

“Why, you scared?”

“You wish. You’re the idol here. It’s your reputation on the line.”

He smiles at you, saccharine sweet. “I don’t like letting other people control me.”

That earns your begrudging respect, even if his bony knee is knocking into yours. He’s so lanky it makes you a touch concerned. Shoko’s girlfriend is an idol, and she’s constantly sneaking her food under her manager’s notice.

That’s another reason why you could never be an idol. Letting someone else dictate your life like that sounds like hell. It was hard enough to convince you to be here in the first place.

Your band doesn’t do promotion, least of all you. It’s all homegrown talent and homegrown fans, but you’re in stasis. Your growth has plateaued. Like all artists, you’re beholden to bills to pay to keep the music going. You’re big enough to know when you have to make sacrifices.

It’s nothing personal. That’s just the industry, from pop stars to idols to bands like you. If nothing else, you all share the solidarity of giving anything for the music. You just think you have a harder limit for anything than idols do.

The host kicks off the segment before you have time to do further analysis.

“Welcome back to Hot or Not, the variety show where we pit your favorite internet heartthrobs against each other! Please welcome today’s guests - they may not be the duo you expect!”

The camera pans to you and Gojo. His smile is instant, soft and natural, as real as if he were genuinely overjoyed to be here. You have to give him props for that, at least. He’s good at his job.

As soon as the camera pans to you, his expression flickers and returns to bored disinterest. He yawns, his teeth pearly white. Veneers, maybe. His tongue flicks around the sharp tip of one canine, his smirk nearly fanged. There’s the feature he’s so famous for, the one that has him edited into cat reaction memes all across the internet. Kitty Gojo and his kitten fangs.

He’s a grown man. You think you’d jump off a building before you let your teenage girl fans put cat ears on you and coo at you.

To each their own, you guess. Gojo didn’t seem that perturbed by it. To be fair, he didn’t seem perturbed by anything.

“Let’s start with Gojo! Remember, if you don’t feel like answering a question, we’ll put you in a surprise challenge with your partner.”

“Sure,” he says easily. “I’m an open book.”

“Let’s start easy. What’s your favorite song off your new album, Blue Spring?”

Gojo makes a face. “Pass.”

“Sorry, maybe you didn’t understand the question-“

“No, I got it. That’s boring,” he says. “Give me the challenge.”

You’re amused despite yourself, and fighting not to let it show. There’s the troublesome personality you’ve heard so much about. He wouldn’t be half so popular if he wasn’t so pretty, but that attitude and that face made for a dangerous combination.

The host is trying to salvage the situation with an easygoing laugh. Backstage, you hear someone mutter, “Gojo is gojo-ing again.”

It’s all so funny until you realize he’s dragging you into his mess as they set up the challenge.

Your host explains the rules too quickly for you to catch in their entirety, but it’s something along the lines of a staring contest. You’re supposed to do everything in your power to make the other lose a straight face, with words or actions.

“Are you allowed to do this?” You joke as they start strapping the electrodes on you to measure your heart rate.

“What do you mean?” Gojo’s mussing his hair up so he looks more artistically roguish.

“You know, just being an idol and all. I figured you wouldn’t be able to do things like this without your fangirls jumping on you.”

“Ah,” he says, scooting his chair closer to you. You’re knee to knee as they finish the last details of fiddling with machine. “You’re one of those types?”

“And that means?”

“You think I’m an idiot because I’m an idol.”

“I didn’t say that,” you protest, watching the monitor to make sure your heart rate isn’t jumping with your words. It’s just a game, but you’re competitive.

“No, but you’re thinking it. What else? Maybe you think idols are also soulless grifters?”

You wince. It’s not that you think so terribly of idols, per se, you just understand and recognize their need to please their company. They’re products before they’re people.

“I got it right, huh?” He’s pleased with himself.

“Am I wrong?” You retort. “You’re really going to tell me you love singing your overproduced pop music for the tween girls who will buy anything you put out as long as you’re pretty enough?”

“Aren’t you here too? Lot of talk for someone who’s sitting right next to the sellout. You know what they say about birds of a feather…”

It’s all in a whisper, so no one else hears - or sees your startled reaction to find out the pampered show dog has a little bite in him. You could retaliate, but if you’re being honest?

This makes you respect him more.

He’s right, anyway. You did sell out by being on this show.

The machine beeps. He smiles, slow and sweet - or at least it would be if you didn’t already know there was an edge to it. “I win.”

“Wow!” You’ve never found the host more annoying. “That got heated at the end, didn’t it, folks? Do you mind sharing what Gojo said?”

You smile at the camera in a way that feels more like you’re beating your teeth. “It’s a secret.”

You’re not mad at him. If anything, you’re impressed. The person you’re really disappointed with is yourself.

So he’s not what he thought you were. So he challenged your biased preconceptions on idols. So what?

It doesn’t mean anything, but you can’t get him out of your head.

The rest of the show is an easy and welcome distraction from your inner turmoil over the possibility of maybe potentially tolerating an idol. Throwing out witty answers and being neck to neck with Gojo in winning mini games is much preferable to having to experience emotions. It’s only when it’s over that the problems start.

You watch as he gets up, biting your lip and debating to yourself. It’s only when he’s halfway out the door that you make your decision. You’ve always been a do or die kind of girl.

“Hey. Want to get dinner?”

You just want to make sure he’s eating. No other reason.

His manager frowns behind him.

“We’re in a weird spot,” he says. “The only thing around are convenience stores.”

“That’s fine,” you say. “We can get instant ramen.”

“I’ve never had instant noodles,” Gojo says.

“Seriously?”

“No, not seriously,” he scoffs. “Just what kind of lives do you think we lead?”

“Deprived ones,” you toss over your shoulder as you lead him towards your monster of a customized car.

“Oh, no,” his manager is beginning, but Gojo is already sliding comfortably into the passenger seat. His poor manager looks nervously at you as you turn the keys. “Are you sure that thing is safe?”

“Don’t worry,” you tell him. “If this thing crashes, I’m in here too.”

You don’t think that reassures him, but your own manager will handle it. You pull out of the parking space and head for the road.

Gojo’s impatient. He tries the handle almost before you’re done parking. You’re like that too - always ready to move. This time, you’re one step ahead. You lock the door before he can leave. He gives you a startled look and glances outside again, clearly weighing his options.

“Relax,” you say. “I’m not a crazed fan. Put these on before we attract an actual stalker of yours.”

You toss him a hat, sunglasses, and a mask. You’ve started keeping them in your car ever since you’ve been hanging out with Shoko and her girlfriend, who was famous enough to get recognized in the street for her autograph. He wrinkles his nose but obediently puts them on.

It doesn’t do much to hide his overall air of Gojo-ness. He steps into the store like he owns it, which he very well could.

The steam rises from your bowls and coats Gojo’s sunglasses. You’re surprised he can see inside, but he has no trouble navigating. He tells you he has 20/20 vision.

One thing leads to another and suddenly he’s bragging about his perfect grades when he attended school. He’s a natural genius, which isn’t really a surprise.

“I thought you were supposed to be a bad boy,” you tease. His glasses are slipping down his nose. You reach out to push them back up before anyone notices. His eyes are rather remarkable, after all. Anyone would be able to tell who he was at a glance.

“Me?” He gives a choked laugh. It sounds nice. You’ve haven’t heard it before, not during the show. He was more polished then. The ways in which he rebels against being an idol show up unexpectedly. “Nah. That’s all Getou. He’s the one with a hidden face. You wouldn’t believe what he’s like when the cameras are off.”

“Somehow I don’t believe you,” you joke.

“I’m serious,” he whines. “I’m pretty sheltered. Grew up rich, you know?”

Who doesn’t know? The Gojo name is pretty famous. One of the biggest conglomerates in the entire world, it broke major news outlets when the heir chose to be an idol instead of the next president.

He’s always been in the public eye, but kept separate like art at a museum. You have a nasty tendency of wanting to ruin things that you’ve been purposefully warned away from. It’s sort of a thing of yours, a bad habit you haven’t put too much effort into breaking. The more impermissible something is, the more likely you are to try, like a cat knocking a glass of water off a table.

Corruptible isn’t the exact right word, but it’s what comes to mind. You want to mess him up a little. Put your grubby rockstar hands on him and leave smears behind so his fangirls see his tainted reputation. You don’t, of course. It’s just a passing thought that you wouldn’t risk actually jeopardizing his career for.

It would just be nice to see him live a little more freely.

The temptation clears with the last of your noodles disappearing into your mouth. There are things that are off limits for both of you. Those are just the sacrifices you’ve made for your dreams. That’s all there is to it.

It’s so good you sigh at the loss of it, mourning your empty bowl. Gojo’s almost done himself. The minute he finished his noodles, he lets out a breath to mirror yours, then laughs once he catches himself.

“Come on,” you say. “Let’s get you home.”

You think that’s the end of it. There’s no reason to go any further. You met an idol and he obliterated your previously held prejudices. You’ll never meet again.

That’s not quite how it works out.

When your manager offers you another chance to see Gojo, it’s nonchalant. “Remember that idol you were partnered with on that variety show? I know you don’t like those types, but you seemed to tolerate him well enough. There’s another-“

A yes flies out of your mouth so quickly it’s embarrassing.

Your manager pauses. His eyes narrow. “Didn’t expect you to be so eager, but okay.”

Your face burns with embarrassment. This isn’t like you at all. Even with your exes, you had been cool and level headed. Always the prize, never the one to give chase.

He’s interesting, you try to rationalize it to yourself. You like interesting. Life was mind numbing without a kick, and he was the latest thrill. It didn’t mean anything more.

It’s another variety show. Apparently the two of you had been so popular as a pair that they wanted more.

Gojo’s in the makeup chair when you arrive. The artist is scolding him for blinking while she applies his mascara. He’s whining about his dry eyes.

“Don’t be a baby,” you say, dropping into the chair next to him.

“But that’s what I’m best at!”

“You’re so weird,” you laugh.

The makeup artist groans. “Please don’t encourage him.”

Only Gojo would take that as encouragement. He rolls his eyes and receives a light swat across the shoulder for his troubles. You play around on your phone while you wait for her to be free, but soon grow bored. Instead, you watch her swipe powder across Gojo’s face and dab cream onto the apples of his cheeks.

“Stop staring,” he says.

“How do you know I’m staring? Your eyes are closed.”

“I can feel it.”

“Well, you’re wrong.”

“You’re such a bad liar,” he says, and you know he’s just messing around at this point because you’re an incredible liar. It’s your best quality.

Falling into banter with Gojo is as easy as breathing. It’s no trouble at all to replicate it on the show. From the shadow, your manager gives you a double thumbs up. Dork.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember that you’re doing this to drum up popularity for your tour. You’re not the only one having trouble. Gojo pulls you aside after filming wraps up to give you his personal number on the phone he’s not supposed to have.

At night, you get an alert that you’ve received something from Gojo. It’s not a message. It’s a notification that you can save three tickets to your digital wallet.

A speech bubble pops up.

Come to my concert, he says. I got you VIP seats.

Gojo’s impressed you, but you still don’t know about the rest of his band. You’re not sure you want to watch pretty men lip sync and grind on the stage for two hours, but when you tell Shoko, she offers to bring Utahime. That’s conveniently three, so you might as well.

VIP seats don’t include backstage, so you’re surprised when security comes to retrieve you. There’s no backstage pass for this concert, actually, confusing you all the more.

Shoko flaps her hand dismissively at you, encouraging you on. By her side, Utahime is trying to feed her snacks. Satisfied that they’re comfortable, you follow the guard to Gojo’s dressing room. He leaves you there without a word.

After five minutes of waiting for something to happen, you knock. Instantly, Gojo’s voice invites you in.

He’s sitting in front of the dresser, fiddling with his earrings. You’ve noticed seven piercings in total - three on his right lobe, two on his left, and one conch on either side. Before you knew him, you would’ve been surprised an idol would be allowed to get so many. Now you know he bends the rules whenever he’s able.

“Pass me that?” You hand him the disinfectant. “Thanks. I didn’t think you were coming.”

“Then why’d you send me tickets?”

“Thought my roguish good looks and natural charm would win you over,” he says with a smile that says he’s only half joking.

“You’re insufferable,” you say as you bat his hands away from his ear. “Let me do that.”

His hair is soft as cygnet down as you brush it behind his ear. There’s something innocent about his expression like this, watching him from above. His eyes are closed, breaths soft and even as he waits for you.

The silver pools in your hand as you thread it through his ear, a waterfall released when it hooks on. He wears a lot of silver, you’ve noticed. His stylists favor colors that should wash him out but only make him look more angelic. Pale blue silk trims his form, encrusted with embellishments to make him look prince-like. There are sparkles in the inner corner of his eye, soft blush on his cheekbones to make him look sweet.

He’s anything but when his eyelids flutter open and he notices you watching. A smile almost cruel tugs at his lips. His hand reaches for you as if-

There’s a knock on his door for the last curtain call.

“That’s me.” He stands up, brushing his lap off without a trace of anything other than professionalism. He’ll leave you wondering what he was going to do. It’s terrible how good he is at this, though you suppose it’s his job to leave people wanting more. “Keep an eye out for me on stage, will you?”

It’s hard not to. Your eyes are polarized to him. Even when something else catches your attention, like fireworks or confetti, he pulls it back. Greedy, that one.

You’re not the only one. The crowd lives for him. There’s something electric about him on stage. He naturally draws attention with that height and attitude and face, but what happens when he’s performing is inexplicable. You’d call it a religious experience if you believed in a god.

Fate has never factored into your life, but now you’re starting to consider worship. Gojo performs like he was born to be an idol.

Keep an eye out for me, he says, as if you’d have any trouble. You’ll dream about him tonight. The way his mouth fits so sensuously over the words of a love song snags your thoughts like a fishhook. Sick desires run through your blood, each more depraved than the last.

You want to watch him shed his beautiful silk skin for you, become nothing more than man again. You must retract your prior confession. There’s no longing for the altar in you, only a love of sacrilege.

Gojo asks for coffee easily, as if you’re two normal people and not celebrities with a lot to lose if you were caught together. You can’t let him outdo you, so you agree. These are the reasons why your manager curses your recklessness. Shoko calls it bravery, when she’s feeling sweet on you.

The second message comes a second later.

Gojo Satoru 11:25 I only said it to see if you’d agree Here’s my address lol can’t believe you said yes Attachment

You think he gives his address out too freely for a man worth 30 million. The feeling only intensifies as you get out of your car and thank your driver. His gates are pearly instead of the standard matte black, a stark declaration of wealth. He’s practically asking for an incident to happen.

Security buzzes you in. Someone in a white dress - an honest to god maid - leads you to a mini kitchen where Gojo’s waiting. His hair is wet and dripping down his back where his powder blue shirt is darkened to a navy. You thought you had gotten used to overblown displays of money after your first three years in the music industry. Clearly, you were mistaken.

He looks up as you enter, reading a trashy tabloid as he stirs whipped cream into a tall glass of something that looks more like a sugary heart attack than coffee.

You’ve never seen his bare face, you realize. Even that moment when you had walked in on him and the makeup artist, he had been nearly done. He looks practically the same without makeup. People with genetic good looks like him only need to enhance their appearance the tiniest amount.

What really strikes you is how earnest he looks, soft and open-hearted, though that might be because you’ve caught him in his home. This is what you wanted - him without his skin on, naked and without pretense. He’s wearing cotton pajamas and white slippers.

“I thought you’d come later,” he says. “Sorry I got started without you. I was feeling something sweet.”

“I’m early, though?”

“I’m always late,” he says with a one shouldered shrug. “Thought you might be too. Guess you’re not my perfect girl after all, huh?”

You shove his arm off the armrest of his chair to perch on it, ignoring the perfectly good chair across from him. This is better, anyway, easier to talk to him. “Don’t be absurd. I’m everyone’s dream girl.”

Gojo chuckles. “I like confident women.”

There’s been a question on your mind for a while. You knew his group was popular, but all this? Maybe you should’ve become an idol after all.

“Where’s the rest of your band? I thought idols shared rooms.”

“Some do,” he says. “Not so much when you make it big. But this is my family home, so none of that applies.”

Gojo Satoru of the Gojo conglomerate. How had you forgotten? It shouldn’t be so easy to ignore something like that.

Gojo shifts the conversation easily, but you notice. So he doesn’t like the connection, then. “How was the concert?”

“Don’t fish for compliments,” you say, stealing a sip of his drink before it reaches his mouth. It’s too sweet for anyone’s standards. You spit it back into the cup. He takes it from you, eyes it consideringly, and takes a sip anyways.

Your mouth drops. “You’re so gross.”

“Only for you, baby,” he moans, humor like a teenage boy. “Call me names again.”

You roll your eyes at him.

“It’s fine, it’s just saliva. Now tell me the truth. You couldn’t take your eyes off me, could you?”

They’d probably sooner pop out of your head and roll away than leave the sight of him, but you can’t tell him that after all you’ve said about idols. Instead, you push off your seat to go rummage through his cabinets. He has a fully stocked coffee cart in this room and the very latest espresso machine, all to choose his diabetic monstrosity instead.

“You don’t need to respond,” he says cheerfully. “Your silence tells me everything I need to know.”

“Do you think you know me that well?” You shoot back. His fridge is so big you think you could fit into it. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’ve registered that he’s moved from his seat as well, and now stands just behind you.

“Of course I know you,” he says. “I understood you the moment we met.”

“You’re very confident,” you note.

You have a weakness for confident men.

“So you liked my concert. Can I come to yours?”

You imagine Gojo in a mosh pit for a second. It sends you into a laughing fit while he stands there, bemused. You can’t shake the incongruous picture of him, with his face like a carefully crafted porcelain doll, getting rowdy and wild with your fans. Ridiculous. Never in a million years.

“We don’t have VIP seats,” you warn him.

“So?”

“So it can get dangerous.”

“Aw, you do care about me.”

“I care about the fat lawsuit your company’s going to send me when their moneymaker breaks his leg at my concert. It’s not happening.”

“You scared?”

“No, but maybe you should be.”

“Come on,” he says. When had he gotten so close? It’s distracting. “I know you’ll take care of me.”

Gojo had invited you to his concert. It’s only right to return the favor. An idea starts forming in your head, though you’re not sure it’s a good one. You tell him anyway.

Usually when soundcheck is over, you have a little bit of downtime to relax backstage. You’re expecting someone tonight, however.

A rough knock on the door announces Satoru Gojo, spoken in your security guard’s rough voice. Well, he really introduces him as pretty boy idol, but you can guess who it is.

He looks discomfited, a rare occurrence, as he closes the door behind him.

“What’s with you?”

“You’ve got groupies,” he says, looking rattled.

You fight a smile.

“Don’t laugh,” he pouts. “They’re insane. One of them tried to chase me here.”

You can’t help yourself. A giggle bursts out of you. When he tries to leave, you pin his hand to the handle and coo reassurances at him so he won’t.

When you head out the door, he surprises you by grabbing your hand. It’s as nonchalant as anything he does, so you rise to the challenge he sets by refusing to react to it. You only separate once you reach the stairs; him to the spot you’ve made for him behind the barricade, you to the stage.

This is one of your favorite venues, moody and atmospheric. The lights are dimmed to your preferred setting, but your eyes adjust quickly. Your crowd is restless tonight, shifting on their feet as whispers follow raucous laughter through the crowd. Noise on noise, the way you like it.

The wood of the floor is a little sticky beneath your boots as you walk. That’s history gumming the soles of your shoes, generations of artists before you. You’re starting to feel it now, the electric thrum of pure joy in your blood.

Shoko is strumming light tunes on her guitar to warm up, her eyes closed. You hope she doesn’t take it too hard that Utahime couldn’t make it tonight, though you know if she’s upset, she’ll channel into her music.

The crowd settles as the hour draws closer. Shoko’s fingers are liquid now, running through chords effortlessly. You wrap the cord of the microphone around your hands, letting the tension build mindlessly. A stage is like home to you. The crowd plays in the palm of your hand, energy ebbing and flowing as you will it.

It starts with a guitar solo from Shoko. By then, the crowd is already burning with excitement. The first burst of sound from the speakers has them roaring, cheering even though there’s no lyrics to it. The smallest smile touches her lips as she plays to the crowd, showing off exactly why she’s lead guitar for the greatest band in the world right now.

You step in on her heels, your voice rising over the music. Back before you knew how this felt, you almost quit singing, annoyed by the sound you were forced into. This is more your tempo. The almost guttural curl to the ends of your words, the rasp of your hoarse voice - this is beautiful to you.

The crowd is yours. Anything that goes on is within your jurisdiction, higher than any judge or god. You notice everything in your realm.

People are starting to move now, their bodies falling victim to the music. Their mouthes form the vowels and consonants of the lyrics as their bodies shudder and jerk, chained to the rhythm. Bodies ricochet off each other, love taps of respect for your aggressive voice, soaring above it all.

In the corner, there’s a violent eye of a storm. You think it’s a particularly enthusiastic dancer - perhaps a circle is about to form - before you realize what’s actually going on.

A fight is breaking out. You catch a glimpse of snow white hair, realize it’s near the barricade, and your stomach drops.

It’s Gojo and another man, ignoring the security guard trying to separate them. You try to stay professional and play through it, but then you see red.

Gojo’s hand flies to his face, his nose dripping with crimson. He doesn’t look any more injured than that, but you’re angry enough to step in now. Shoko stops as soon as you hold your hand out, the music veering into a screeching crash.

“You, in the black tee!” You realize you should’ve been more specific when what looks like the entire crowd looks down at their equally black shirts. “No, the one that just punched Gojo Satoru. Yeah, you, asshole! No fighting at my gigs! Especially not my guests!”

He had the audacity to yell back. “I was just showing him a warm welcome!”

You climb off the stage. Gojo didn’t show any fear while he got hit, but there’s concern in his eyes now as you drop to the ground by him.

“Wait,” he says, “wait, wait. I don’t think you should-“

“Shut the fuck up,” you snap, pushing him behind you until his back hits the stage. “Let me handle this.”

You get in the man’s face. His eyes are bloodshot - drunk, probably. “Who do you think you are, starting shit at my shows?”

“You’ve sold out,” he slurs. Definitely drunk. “He doesn’t belong here.”

“You don’t get to tell me who can or can’t come to my goddamn show,” you snarl, vicious and low. “Get out.”

“You can’t-“

“Get out before I make them drag you out.”

When he doesn’t move, you motion security over. “Does anyone else have any complaints?”

The crowd is eerily silent for something that was moving like a beast with one mouth before, singing in unison. You clamber back on stage, turning around to grab Gojo’s hand.

“What?” He says.

“Up. Now.” Your tone brooks no argument. You haul him up with you. He stands awkwardly as you drag him towards your mic stand, your arm slung around his shoulder. There’s still blood on his face.

“Gojo Satoru is a very dear friend of mine,” you announce into the mic. You see the confused looks in the crowd. Even Shoko seems wary. This wasn’t on the schedule. “If you're a real rock fan, you'd know that music is more than genre. I get it! I didn’t think idols were anything more than corporate shills either-“

“Harsh,” he whispers under his breath, unable to control himself even now.

“But he proved me wrong. He’s a real performer, just like I am, and I expect the same respect for him that you give to me.”

This is your crowd. They listen. Someone whistles.

You sit Gojo down, right by your feet. He gives you a bemused smile as the concert starts again, you moving around him like one of your props. He spends most of the concert lounging back, watching you through half lidded eyes.

It might’ve been enough excitement for one night, but you’ve always been the type to push your boundaries. When the idea springs into your head, you act on impulse, not giving yourself too much time to think about it as you pull Gojo to his feet.

You’re really manhandling him tonight, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s only a little startled as you pull the mic away from your face to get into his space.

You misjudged the distance. Your forehead knocks into his, just enough to sting, but not really hurt. “Do you want to try something?” Your voice is a whisper to not get picked up by the mic.

“Give it to me,” he says, and his smile is a bloody thing.

When you angle the mic towards him, you’re careful about not hitting him this time.

His voice works surprisingly well for rock. You weren’t sure he could pull off such a sound change, but he surprises you every time, matching you best for beat.

When he pulls back, your hand snakes into his hair and yanks him towards you and the mic again. He sings wholly at your command, being jerked around by your desires. It’s an inferno on stage, sweat pouring down both your faces. Behind you, the crowd is screaming so loudly it nearly deafens you.

Not a bad encore, you think as you towel off in your dressing room. Shoko left for a cool down with a bottle of ice water right before you, her post concert ritual, but the look she shot you says that you need to talk. You’ll deal with the consequences later.

For now, it’s enough to have Gojo shaking with leftover adrenaline against you as you sit him down in your chair. You press a bottle of ice against his face, watching him shiver. He’s still pretty with all the blood. Prettier, somehow, like some teenage wet dream of a vampire from a young adult novel.

You want to lick the sweat out of the hollow of his collar bones. Instead, you talk to him to rid yourself of your insane thoughts. It’s always a little crazy in your head after a good stage.

“Well?” You demand. “How was it?”

He tilts his head, considering. It makes you nervous. Now that you know how good of a performer he is, it almost feels like a test to receive his judgment.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he says, slowly.

“That good, huh?” You smile, trying to ignore the aching pressure behind your ribcage. You shouldn’t care so much what he thinks. Why does it matter?

“Yeah,” he says. “When are you free? I gotta plan our date.”

“Huh?”

“That was so sexy,” he says. “I was thinking about taking it slow, but I’m not going to last if I wait. I want to date you. I want to marry you.”

He’s starting to worry you. “Did you have a heat stroke or something? That’s really fast. Really, really fast, Gojo.”

“I’ve never been more clearheaded in my life,” he says. You only believe him when the medic clears him of any injuries, even the nose.

“We can talk about marriage later,” you say. “Why don’t you tell me about the date for now?”

Two weeks later, you’re Gojo’s plus one to his first movie premiere. It’s his debut as an actor, and it couldn’t be a better one. He escaped most of the negative pushback that usually comes with transitioning between those two industries, being naturally good at everything. Still, he had worked hard, and you’re proud of him.

It feels like you’re the only one, because the man himself doesn’t even care about his accomplishment. He’s too busy being delighted about hiding in plain sight. The cameras flash at you as you walk across the red carpet, arm in arm with Gojo. Your stylist had coordinated with his. It could almost pass for a couple’s outfits.

“You know,” he says conspiratorially. “When you defended me at the concert, I got hard.”

“I didn’t need to know that.”

“It was really hot.”

“You know there are people who can read lips, right?”

“I wish they would figure out what I’m saying.”

“Alright,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Let’s get inside.”

Dating Gojo is nothing like what you’d expected and everything like you’d expected. He keeps surprising you, doing wild things to get your attention that you never thought an idol would be willing to get their hands dirty with. He might be even more of a daredevil than you are, constantly pushing the boundaries of what you both can get away with before you’re found out.

In a way, it’s almost like you’re asking for it. You’re both straining at the bit to claim each other. It doesn’t come as a surprise when it does happen, then.

“Huh,” Gojo says over ramen. “We got papped.”

Utahime, understandably, freaks. “What? That’s not funny.”

“Oh yeah?” You say. “Are the pictures good at least?”

“You know we always look good. Could’ve gotten a better angle, but whatever.”

Utahime’s working herself into a minor tizzy in the corner. “Guys, I need you to be more serious about this. This is bad! This is so bad!”

Shoko looks up from her phone and chips on the couch, lying flat on her stomach. “Hate to agree, but she’s right. What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” you shrug. “What’s the point? There’s nothing we can do about it. They have the evidence.”

It had been a good run. Two blissful months of peace and quiet. Sneaking around had been fun, giving you that thrill you loved every time someone failed to recognize you and Gojo behind your stupid sunglasses. Still, it was bound to fail at some point. You’re honestly surprised it lasted for as long as it had. You can’t be mad. Two months is more than you could’ve asked for.

“Well,” Gojo says. “Wee-llll.”

“Spit it out,” Utahime gripes at him.

You take another bite of ramen, content to let them argue without you.

“There is something we could do,” Gojo hedges.

“You’re so annoying,” Shoko says.

“No one thinks you’re funny,” Utahime chimes in.

“Hey! She thinks I’m funny!” Gojo frowns. “Tell them you think I’m funny.”

“Sorry, babe. I never lie to my girls.”

“Whatever,” Gojo sighs. “Guess you don’t want to hear my genius idea then.”

“Don’t be a brat,” you tease, knuckling his head. He loves it when you roughhouse with him.

“What if…” The hesitation is real this time. You can tell the difference between when he’s faking it or not. He’s a good showman, but you know him. You place an encouraging hand on his knee.

“What if we went public first?” He says it all in one breath.

You take a moment, turning the idea over in your head. It would wrest back control of the narrative to your team. Even if you might get backlash, it wouldn’t be at someone else’s hands, beholden to their mercy. You like it.

“Sure,” you say.

Gojo gapes at you. ‘That easy?’ His thoughts are written all over his face.

“Why not?” You offer him one of your easy smiles. “I’ve always wanted to say you were mine, anyway.”

#sera writes #gojo satoru x reader #gojou satoru x reader #jjk x reader

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