#the good changes feel like they ripple out from him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jamminvroomvroom · 3 months

Note

🎀 anon

congrats on 5k

hey bb ! i’ve been brainrotting on insatiable lando and his gf for weeks now omg

for a cute lil fic i was thinking of reader being max f’s sister and lando and her being secretly together. they’re all on vacation together and lando and reader are super insanely insatiable and the story on how they act on vacay 😈😈

anywhere she wants.

ln x fem fewtrell!reader

in which no one approves of your relationship, so lando shows them just how good he is to you…

oh my sweet 🎀 anon, i’m sorry this took so long! slowly getting back into the groove of writing, starting with this little piece! i went a bit off script but the vibes are hopefully similar to the request! huge thanks to angel bby @fairene for helping me out!enjoy! lemme know what you think!! big hugs and lots of love 💖

songs to set the mood: my love mine all mine by mitski, i know places by taylor swift, she will be loved by maroon 5, summertime sadness by lana del rey

warnings: 18+!! minors dni!! smut, fluff, angst, a bit of exhibitionism kinda, oral (fem receiving), fingering, p in v, established relationship, max being a dick, angry/feral!lando, girlboss!reader, hints of ownership kink? for like. a second, lando being wise (not canon lmao), swearing

4.2k words

fairy lights drench the pool with light, a glow dancing over the still surface in ripples. you smile, hum with content as the warm evening air washes over your skin, leaning over the balcony to take in the sight of where you’ll be staying.

footsteps sound from behind you, the master bedroom, and you quickly feel two warm arms wrap around your waist, tan and thick. you lean into his touch, chest warming from the kisses peppered over your jugular.

“you like it?” lando breathes, nosing over your earlobe.

“it’s beautiful.” you whisper, turning your head to nuzzle against him. he seizes the opportunity to seal his lips over yours, kissing you soft and deep. you spin in his arms, clutching at his shirt to hold him close, the kiss intensifying, changing pace. just as he licks into your mouth, a sigh, so loud that it breaks the sound barrier, tears you both apart.

“so is that all you two do now, suck each others faces?” max rolls his eyes, his disapproval of your relationship one of the worlds worst kept secrets.

“yes, max. that’s all we do.” you mock, biting back at your older brother.

because of course you’re dating your brothers best friend. of course you are. life is funny like that.

lando stays silent, but you feel his hand on your waist tightening. max swallows hard.

“we ordered pizza, if you guys wanna come down.” max bulldozes through the awkwardness, offering an olive branch, and leaves.

“he is such a knob.” you mutter, shaking your head. lando strokes tentatively over your cheek, soothing you.

“he’s your big brother, baby. he’ll get over this.” lando coos reassuringly, and you choose the easy path of believing him.

you and max occupy opposite ends of the excessively large dining table when you join the rest of your friends.

the tension has been palpable between you and max since he caught you sneaking out of lando’s london flat one morning, the reason for your visit quite clear. you’d stood with your ear to the door when he’d stormed past you and entered the apartment, making you more than aware that your presence was unwanted when he quickly slammed the door behind him.

you’d endured the one-sided screaming match that followed, the accusations that lando must be playing with your feelings, that it would never work out, that it wasn’t fair at how exposed you’d be to the cruelty of his fan base, that he couldn’t believe how low lando would stoop to date his little fucking sister.

you wanted to understand, and really, you tried!but max hadn’t made it easy, constantly pushing your buttons and making needless digs at the both of you. lando convinced you that this holiday during the summer break would be healing; max would get to see how much lando cared for you, and everyone got much needed time to relax. so, with your friend group in tow, the three of you jetted off to the tiny spanish island.

surely, everything would be fine.

everything was not, in fact, fine.

you can smell it in the air, the tension building thick and heavy. everyone thought they were slick, waiting for lando to leave so they could corner you, and corner you, they did.

lando had kissed you sweetly by the sliding doors to the garden, popping his airpods in and shouting a quick: going on a run! to the rest of your holiday party. you’d sauntered carelessly to a lounger, bikini clad, sprawling out across the chair to tan and watch the who can do the best canon ball into the pool competition that has become a long running championship. but you can feel stares, feel the walls closing in, and you push your sunglasses up to rest over your hairline.

max and pietra are locked in on you, as are the rest of your friends.

“what?” you feel hot, embarrassed all of the sudden for no reason at all.

“so, it’s going well, then… with lando?” one of your girlfriends starts, but it sounds extra high pitched, awkward. your stomach sinks as you realise the pathetically choreographed dance about to take place.

“for fuck sake.” you mutter.

“she’s just asking!” max shoots back, as if he’s offended, as if you can’t see right through him.

“it’s going great.” you state, blunt as ever whenever your relationship is questioned.

“we just wanna make sure that this is right for you.” pietra says sympathetically, her eyes soft. you’ve known her long enough to know that even though her dickhead boyfriend is being callous, she genuinely cares.

“lando is right for me, you are all so full of shit! i don’t get what it is that you’re seeing.” you try and keep your voice level, even as your blood pressure begins to rise menacingly.

“it’s not so much what we see between you, it’s more about what he was like before.” tom jumps in.

ah, yes. the infamous hoe phase.

“because no one here ever fucked around.” you glare pointedly at your brother. he lowers his gaze.

“are we sure this isn’t just a… a fling?” pietra tries again, staying soft. her words still sting.

“yeah, i know him better than you do, and i-“ max’s voice cuts you like a thousand shards of glass and you body ignites with rage.

he knows him better? what does he know?

does he know that lando can’t sleep without telling you that he loves you? does he know that lando cried into you arms after his miami win? does he know that lando feels itchy if he doesn’t tell you that you’re beautiful at least eleven times an hour? does he know that you’re so crazy about his gorgeous, loving, infuriating best friend that you’re prepared to tell your brother where to go and to never come back?

“shut the fuck up, max. you know nothing! nothing about our relationship because you never gave us a chance. you don’t see how much i love him because every time you see us together, you’re hellbent on destroying our happiness.” you point angrily, standing from your chair. before you turn to the house, you leave them all with a parting message.

“and all of you will do very well to remember who paid to bring your bitter arses here. remember whose fucking house you’re in.” you lecture, watching as they all turn sheepish as they realise how ungrateful they sound.

“i don’t think i have anything to add.” you hear from behind you.

you jump, turning to see lando leaning against the door.

“shit, baby.” you breathe, rushing towards him, your skin crawling as you wonder how much he’s heard.

“forgot my phone.” he shrugs, smiling warmly at you. only at you. “now unless anyone has anything to add, i’m gonna take my very, very serious girlfriend upstairs.” he grins smugly.

the silence is so deafening that you couldn’t of even heard a pin drop if you’d tried.

you hold up your middle finger as he leads you away.

your bedroom door slams so hard that they must hear it outside. he’s tense, enraged at the disrespect that you’d endured, but he’s soft with you, pulling you into his rigid body. he relaxes into you, walking you further into the room.

“how much did you hear?” you whisper, clinging to him.

“oh, you know, just all of it.” he laughs bitterly, fingers sinking into your hips.

“they’re assholes.” you growl, threading your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck, just the way he likes it.

“there is one good thing about it though.” lando hums, still guiding you deeper into the room. your back thuds softly against the sliding glass door, the one that leads to your balcony.

“what?” you breathe, suddenly extremely aware of his lower body.

“you’re so fucking sexy when you’re mad.” he smirks.

turns out, he didn’t steal you away to mope.

his lips crash against yours fiercely, teeth and tongue getting in on the action as he moves his mouth feverishly against your own. your neck tilts back, allowing him to swallow you whole, like his life depends on the feeling of you pressed against him. he trails kisses over your cheek, across your jaw, down your neck, two fingers grazing your ribcage. he snaps the tie of your bikini against your skin, stone cold aware of the lack of clothing adorning your body and he hums low from the back of his throat.

“they need to learn that you’re mine, that you’re always gonna be mine.” lando grunts, pulling away to slide the door open. he pushes you out onto the balcony, the one that overlooks the very pool that your friends and your brother are licking their wounds around.

“lando…” you gasp, weary of his overly adventurous attitude.

“maybe this will make them realise just how crazy you make me.” lando looks possessed, moving towards you like a wild animal engulfing its prey.

he cages you in against the wall, pulling one leg over his hip to spread you open, his fingers travelling to the flimsy tie of your bikini bottoms. you’re already soaked, embarrassingly so, really, but there’s just something about those gorgeous, haunted eyes. lando let’s the bottoms fall to the floor, kicking them away impatiently as he quickly finds home between your legs.

“think anyone else can get you this wet?” lando asks, eyes rolling back as he finds your slick folds. your jaw drops, already boneless at the feel of him. “answer me, baby. nice ‘n loud for me.” he demands.

“no, lan.” you whine, bucking your hips into his hand. he’s teasing, stroking lightly over your folds and your sensitive bud.

“and can anyone else make you feel this good? i mean, baby, i’ve barely touched you and you’re shaking.” lando’s teeth catch his bottom lip, his eyes glazing over as he watches you.

“lando, please.” you mutter, grinding down on his hand. you need more of him. he grins, flashing his teeth with pride as he renders you desperate.

“my pretty girl fucking my hand, god, you’re so perfect.” lando praises, earning a moan from your kiss-swollen lips. “bet they can hear how soaked you are, baby.”

you flush red, shame and embarrassment blurring the pleasure and you press a tense hand to your mouth, trying to silence the waterfall of whines.

“don’t you fucking dare.” he warns, sliding his fingers deep into your pussy. he gives you no time to adjust, curling them upwards and rocking his whole hand against you. his palm bumps against your clit and you writhe against the wall.

there’s no point covering your mouth, there is no hiding what’s happening. you let him have you how he wants you, a consolation for him having to hear his friends badmouth him, and he takes every liberty, mouthing at your covered tits, lapping over your peaked nipples. you cry out, weak as he manipulates your body closer to an orgasm, your wetness trickling down his wrist.

“so good to me, baby, only you, lando.” you choke, your voice echoing between the stone walls.

“that’s it, honey, make a mess for me. let ‘em hear you pretty girl.” he encourages, talking you straight into your first orgasm.

you tremble, gushing all over his hand as you cum, droplets splattering all over the paved floor. lando’s eyes turn black, mouth hanging open as he watches you fall apart, riding you through it.

lando let’s you cool down, propping you carefully against the wall, and leaning over the balcony. funnily enough, max is long gone, but the rest of them sit in stunned silence. he can’t help himself, driven mad by your quivering body and their cruel jabs, choosing whatever the opposite of the high road is. he reaches into his pocket, finding his credit card.

“get out of the villa that i paid for so i can fuck my girlfriend anywhere she wants.” he shouts, watching the way their necks snap up to look at him, revelling in their reddened faces that are not just flushed from the sun. “take this. have dinner. just fuck off.” he frisbees his card at tom, - rather carelessly really, considering just how much there was to lose on that little black square - and he revels in the way it lands square against his forehead.

they all stand up and scurry away, as few faint sorry’s! carrying through the air towards the couple on the balcony, but lando has more important business to attend to.

he scoops you up into his arms, grinning at your coy smile and your drooping eyes. he carries you to bed, planting you in the middle of the mattress.

“not done with you yet, baby, open those eyes for me.” lando coos, crawling over you, his shirt and workout shorts flung to the other side of the room. he feels delicious against you, caging you in beneath him.

“want you, lan.” you plead, a desperate smile on your face as you keen, stretching against the mattress like a cat.

“you’ll have me, baby. always gonna have me.” he smiles, eyes finding yours. “i love you.”

“love you so much.” you whisper, pulling him flush against you. “no matter what.” you affirm. he needed to hear that, it seems, his eyes sparkling with something else, other than the sheen of lust.

he kisses you, firm and wanting, his fingertips sliding up over your arms, leaving prickles of lightning and goosebumps in their wake. one of his hands interlocks with yours, twining together above your head, his body stretching languidly over yours. you can feel him, hard and throbbing between your legs, teetering on the knife edge of self control.

“take me, lando. have me how you want me. ‘m yours.” you croon, disguising a helpless whine as you arch your body into his. you’re squirming for it, to feel him sink deep and claim you his.

that seems to usher him along, and he drags his cock through your folds with a slow roll of his hips, the head catching your sodden entrance. you hiss, the intrusion not even nearly enough, but the sensation overwhelming you nonetheless. he slides into you carefully, stilling when his hips hit flush against yours. you do not want careful.

“fuck me.” you groan wetly, hot breath fanning his face as your mouth instinctively fills with saliva. you’re close to drooling for him.

“beg.” he snaps, jaw tight as he battles his natural instinct to utterly ravage you. “beg me to show you that i own you.”

your legs quiver, pussy clenching around him and he cannot help but buck his hips and suppress a whine. he styles it out, tantalisingly slow as he rolls his hips, grinding against your pleasure point, your slick walls. blood rushes in your ears, your body feral with need. you can’t even tease, disobey him for the fun of it, not when he’s wound you up so delectably. your body keens for him, hums with the sparks, a live wire.

“don’t wanna be able to walk when you’re done,” you slur, beginning to ramble. “want to feel you so deep that i’m ruined. ‘m yours, lando. have me.” you plead.

pleasure shoots through him, then, rapid and unwavering. he’s unforgiving as he rails into you, immediately stoking the fire in your belly. all of his body weight is on you, sweaty skin sticking and slapping as his hipbones bruise into yours.

“is that how you want it, huh, baby?” he manages to growl, scooping up your wrists in one big paw, his other hand working down the planes and curves of your body. he finds the triangles of your bikini top, hastily tearing them down just enough so that your tits spill out. all for him. all his. “look at this perfect fucking body,” his breathe hitches, awestruck. “is it all mine?”

you cry out, nodding shamelessly as he ghosts his fingers around the swell of your nipple, switching to the other when he’s satisfied with the peak. he alternates between them, twisting and tugging, barely there and all too hard. you can only plead his name and tighten around his cock.

once he’s overstimulated your chest, he works his fingers further down your body, stopping now and then to dig into your flesh, appreciating the soft feeling of your skin under his calloused hands.

“and this hot, little cunt… is this mine, too?” lando breathes, right against the shell of your ear. his thumb presses hard against your thrumming clit, smearing your slick over the bud. “to play with? is it baby?”

“god, yes.” you manage to bellow, the strained words tearing over your vocal chords.

“yes, what?” lando snaps, slapping lightly over the bundle of nerves.

“it’s yours!” you sob, choking on your own voice.

“to…?” lando coaxes, a smirk tugging at his swollen lips as he looks at you expectantly.

“to play with.” you stutter, cheeks tinged hot with embarrassment that seeps down your neck and between your sweat-dampened bodies.

“that’s my good girl. my pretty, pretty girl.” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

“‘m so close.” you breathe, writhing up the mattress, his body atop your inescapable. he toys with your clit, pinching the electrified nerves, watching how you buck your hips and leak onto the mattress. he’s covered in you, his belly glistening in the sunlight that washes over you, sealing you forever in this golden, sparkling moment.

“want me to cum all over your tummy, baby? mark you mine?” lando gasps, driving into you with one goal in mind. he has to get you there, wants to be painted in the remnants of your pleasure and hung up in every art museum in the world. if only he wasn’t so selfish, yearning to keep this stunning sight to himself for the rest of his life.

“n-no,” you pause, your jaw going slack for a moment as he circles your clit just right, grinds his hips so deep. “inside me.” you beg.

“fill me up.”

his vision blurs.

lando just about folds you in half, carnal desire surging through his veins. the hand keeping yours suspended over your head falls away, finding your navel where he applied a brutal, sweet pressure that leaves you blind and wailing. his other fingers busy themselves sinking into the meat of your thigh, dragging you backwards and forwards on his throbbing length.

your body goes limp, tears of pleasure trailing wetly down your face as your orgasm hits you, and lando can’t help but bury himself as deep as he can go. the rutting of his hips and the messy rub of his whole hand against your clit leaves you awestruck, sobbing into the air of the room. you’re covering him in waves, shivering as you grow overstimulated but you can’t help but chase the high. your violent quivers and dripping cunt make him whine, high pitched and divine, and he drops onto you, filling you up. he can’t seem to stop, painting you white from the inside out, watching the way it drips out of you, coating the base of his cock.

this can’t be over yet, he decides. he needs to hear you scream.

“lemme help you with that.” he mumbles, slinking down your body, eyes fixed solely on where you were joined together.

you don’t even get a chance to mourn the loss of him buried inside of you, no. you’re too busy pushing at his curls, pleading that he lets up, but he can’t. it’s not that he won’t, it’s that he quite simply can’t.

his tongue runs up the seam of your pussy, lapping over the mixture you’ve made and you can’t do anything but cry and thrash, white hot with pleasure and pain. its so good that it hurts, and you give in, knowing that he isn’t going to stop unless you say the magic words. lord knows, you won’t. lando knows you won’t.

it’s torturous, really, the way he sucks your clit into his mouth, drags his tongue over his mess and slips it right into your entrance. he swirls and sucks and nips and tugs. it’s like he’s turned a faucet on, watching hazily as you drip and drip, more of you and him seeping onto his tongue. he’s insatiable as he licks you clean, unable to resist luring you into a third orgasm.

and when it hits, god, does it hit.

the scream he pulls from your body is deafening, makes him shake with the intensity of it, the vibrations rippling through your body and ricocheting off of his. you relax limply into the mattress, urgently needing a break. you watch through hooded eyes as he slurps anything left of you from his reddened lips, your thighs clenching unconsciously. he just chuckles, flopping down beside you.

“tired, baby?” lando teases, stroking over your rapidly rising and falling ribs.

“just a tad.” you deadpan, unable to hold back the giggles as serotonin soothes you.

“oh, sweetheart. i’m not even nearly done with you yet.” lando grins toothily, deviously.

something he said about fucking you ‘anywhere’ you wanted dawns on you and your eyes widen.

anywhere really did mean anywhere.

he’d had to carry you to the shower when you were finally done, holding you close under the spray. you were lost to the memory of him pushing you into the sideboard in the hallway, laying you flat across the kitchen counter, eating you like dessert on the very same sun lounger that you’d been perched on when this whole marathon commenced.

you’re utterly spent, eyelids sagging when he finally sets you down on the sofa, playing on his phone while you fall asleep watching the office.

you’re curled up in lando’s lap, legs hanging over the end of the sofa when max finds you. hair still wet from the much needed shower and fast asleep in his best friends arms. he actively chooses to quell the disgusted curl of his lips. you look so peaceful, safe. his plans to throttle lando for his earlier stint subside.

“call me a wankstain on society later, if you want, but please don’t wake her up.” lando speaks with a hushed tone, not even gracing max with eye contact, his eyes remaining on the candies he’d been crushing before the other fewtrell turned up.

“i- no, i wasn’t gonna call you that. i did, however, consider driving that very nice, very vintage lambo you hired off a cliff.” max mutters. lando scoffs a laugh.

“you would have paid for it.” he still doesn’t look up from the phone. max eyes the way lando strokes your side, in time with the crests and falls of your breath. it’s tender, intimate.

max considers that there’s a strong possibility he was wrong.

“mate, listen-“

“nope. she’s your baby sister, i get it. i get it. you can hate me for it, but you crossed a line going after her like that.” lando finally looks up at max, glowering sternly.

“i’m gonna talk to her.” max bows his head, as if he’s ashamed of himself and lando softens slightly.

“you should, mate. she wants your support, your approval means everything.” lando says. “look, i love her. i really do. and while you were accusing me of trying to ruin her life, you were crushing her.” lando sighs, his voice wavering with a hint of pain. max meets his gaze.

“for the record, i don’t think anyone will ever be good enough for my little sister, but you come pretty fucking close.” max relents, pushing his pride aside, finally. lando smiles, small and knowing.

“i just wanna make her happy.” he shrugs, a look of hopeless romance, utter devotion and pure happiness radiating off of him in waves as he gazes down at your frame. something in max’s belly snaps, the apprehension dissolving to mush. he had gotten this all wrong.

“you do.” he hums, watching how you curl further into lando as you stir in your sleep, the drivers fingers delicately combing your hair away from your face. “but,” max quips.

lando grimaces, bracing himself.

“if you ever, ever, pull something like that again,” max shivers with disgust at the insinuation. “i will remove your bollocks and make you watch me crash the miura.” max swears, pointing a finger of warning.

“seems like everyone’s come to their senses, no more… pranks from me.” lando holds his free hand up in mock surrender.

“have you two kissed and made up yet?” you murmur, stretching out in lando’s arms. you rub sleep from your eyes, sitting up and leaning into your boyfriends solid frame, resting against him as your eyes flit to your brother.

“we’re good. ‘m, uh, sorry.” max nods, attempting to be heartfelt. lando chokes on a laugh as it falls flat.

“you’re “uh, sorry”?” you deadpan, crossing your arms over your chest.

“i’m really sorry.” max tries again, and you grin cheekily at your brother, watching as his shoulders release the tension they’ve been carrying all afternoon. he turns to leave, halfway to the door when you call out to him.

“hey, max?”

“yeah, lovely?” your chest warms at the sweet nickname. you’d forgotten the last time he’d called you that.

“wash your sheets.” your eyes blaze with amusement and you hear lando’s sharp inhale of breath, shocked that you’d gone there.

“you didn’t- my god, you did not-“ max splutters, his face almost green with nausea.

“you’ll never know for sure.” you grin. you think he’s going to faint.

serves the bastard right.

hehe

lemme know what u think!! <33

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3K notes · View notes

hoshigray · 6 months

Note

Just want to start and say hiiiii I love the work you put out and I can't get over how amazing they are. Since you said your inbox is open I was thinking about Life Guard Choso and a little lips to lips action by the pool side at night. Include anything else you see fit I don't mind☺️.

𝐚. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: omg tyyyy !! and yippee, a choso request :DD haven't written for him in a long while

⊹ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: lifeguard! Choso x fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - kissing; making out - sexual acts in a public place; hotel pool room - breast fondling + sucking - fingering (f! receiving) - oral (m! + f! receiving) - praising - implied v + p insertion (ends with cowgirl) - implied unprotected sex (psa: don't be silly; wrap the willy) - cameo: Nobara (best friend) - Choso having a lil crush on reader, and lowkey being horny on the job, lawl - reader lowkey being flirty and taking the lead role.

⊹ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.7k

“—Khhh, ohooo, ohhhmyGod, Chosoooo, your tongue feels so good!”

“Hoooohh, Ch’soooo, right there! Keep scraping me right there…!”

As lifeguarding night shifts go, last night’s had to be the most bewildering Choso has ever endured.

He sits on the lifeguard chair, observing the indoor pool area inside the hotel where he’s working during spring break. Luckily, there weren’t many customers coming to use the pool during his shifts — especially the night ones. So, all Choso had to do was watch the hours go by, go to his lunch break, and occasionally come back if he was called in for the night shift.

What sounds like a manageable task turns out to be otherwise because someone is sitting at the edge of the pool and captures Choso’s observant brown eyes from time to time. It’s you, sitting at the edge with your feet submerged in the water as you converse with your friend — he picks up their name is Nobara – about the joys of your spring break adventures for the past few days.

Your frequent giggles and sweet voice are difficult for him to ignore, sneaking glances under his cap to see you, shooting himself internally for taking advantage to look at you in your cute one-piece swimsuit that hugged your curves nicely. And then the warmth of his blood swiftly changes to freezing temperature when your eyes land on him, averting his gaze back into the water before him.

The ripples of the water have him thinking back on the night shift last night, his cheeks reddening as he recollects the memories…

It was a lonely shift as Choso was the only person in the indoor pool area. It wasn’t until the hour touched two hours behind midnight when the door opened and came you. As someone who’s been lowkey crushing on you for the past few days, this immediately became the worst-case scenario for the young lifeguard, forced to gawk and examine your graceful swimming and two-piece figure.

He’s been doing that for a solid fifteen minutes, suffering in silence while his eyes scan the curves of your thighs and legs and follow the droplets of water trickle down to your cleavage. Eyeing you with such indecency, what an inappropriate thing as a lifeguard.

And it comes back to bite him on the ass when you walk out of the pool and approach him to his chair, startling the pecan brown-haired hotel worker. “Hey there,” you say so charmingly, practically inviting him with just the greeting. “I can’t help but think you’re lonely here just watching me swim…Would you humor me and accompany me? Would feel bad I’m the reason you’re here doing your job at such a late hour…”

Choso knew he should shoot down the offer as he was still on duty. However, judging by how it was nearly an hour and a half from closing the pool and that most of the other hotel workers were gone, a tiny part of him was pinching him to accept the proposal of his mini-crush. It’s just a swim, in the water and out, right…?

That’s what he kept telling himself as he was following and talking with you in the pool; although every time you referred to him by his name, swam circles around his rigid body, or tittered at his words, that statement was demonstrated worthless. The lights from inside the water illuminated your frame lured Choso in with every minute, your eyes sparkling like the broken surface tension of the water.

“Hey, Choso,” God, he couldn’t believe you were calling him by his name; it sounded too dreamlike to be reality. “Have you ever given someone CPR?”

“Uhh, yeah, like once or twice,” he replied while averting his eyes to the other side of the room as if that would help his pinkish blush not be seen by you.

“Really?” You probed, bringing your frame for the water to reach your chin. “You must know the procedure pretty well, then…Hey, let me test you then!”

Huh? “What now?”

“Okay, I’m gonna pretend to drown, and you do whatever lifeguard procedure you do to get me out of the water.” You said it with such a beaming attitude that Choso couldn’t tell if you were serious. They can’t be serious…And then, you took a giant breath before allowing your body to be completely submerged in the water, sinking to the pool floor.

Choso looked to where you were for about five seconds; you two were at around the 4th or 5th feet of the pool — there’s no way you had to be serious. But five seconds turned to ten, and you didn’t exhibit any signs of wanting to breach. It caused his jaw to drop; no shot, they’re actually serious!

With haste, Choso waddles down to your spot and drives himself into the water, taken aback in perplexity when you greeted him with a wave. He then brings a hand under your legs and one to your shoulder, breaching with you in bridal style. He voices his bafflement, “Wh–What was that idea?”

“Hahaha, took you long enough; you’re a pretty terrible lifeguard for taking your sweet time rescuing me!” You jest to him, the comment poking right through Choso’s stature and dignity.

“I didn’t know you were serious or not…”

“Drowning is always a serious issue,” you bat your eyes at him before poking the mark across his face. It wasn’t until then that Choso realized how close he had you, your face two inches away from his, and the top of your two-piece now in his line of sight for your cleavage to capture his dangerous curiosity. He turns his head to show some modesty he has left, but it’s too late; you saw him. A twinge of your lip forms a pleasant grin, “Well, you know what happens next, right?”

He blinks and brings his face back in your direction. Surely you didn’t mean that, asking the following to make sure, “Wh…What?”

“Mouth-to-mouth, of course!” Oh, this was going way too far, the poor lifeguard holding you frozen still at your goal. “Why, you don’t want to put your lips on me? Or were you sneaking glances at me these past few days for nothing?” Another arrow that shot him down; you knew!? “You’re not quite subtle, you know. Hehe, but I find that kinda cute.”

Choso tried to explain himself, but what only came out was stammers and squeaks. Your gaze had him internally nervous and exposed, so you had to poke him even more, “So? Are you gonna leave your drowning rescuee’s lips alone or save me?”

He gulped at the phrasing, struggling to find the words to give to you. Not you were giving him a chance because your face was moving closer to his every second he didn’t answer. And when your eyelids come down, Choso hesitantly does as well and brings his lips onto your soft ones.

The first peck was long, yet sweetly introduced you two together. You snaked your hand up his pecs to his neck, inviting him to kiss you a second time. His restraint dissolved with every sedation of your lips on his, and it vanished wholly when his ears picked up a moan. He becomes more adventurous and chews on your bottom lip, and the whimper you let out ignites something that he’s been dying to contain for this long.

A hot and steamy kiss that was built up to happen here and now, and Choso relishes having you like this like it’s a dream. You break the kiss with a gasp for air, panting alongside him with a smile. “Well then, do I have to tell you what should happen next, too?”

When Choso silently leads you out of the pool with him, you are pleased that you don’t have to.

“—Khhh, ohooo, ohhhmyGod, Chosoooo, your tongue feels so good!”

Choso moved you to one of the cushioned chaise lounge chairs to lie as he ripped you off your bottoms and greeted your lower half with attention. Being between your legs was far from what he ever imagined; however, with how you tase on his tongue and the wails you’re letting out for him, he can’t find it in himself to stop now.

He licks your clit with a circle, and you squeak at the motion. “Mmmm…feeling’ good there, Y/n?”

“Ohhh, yesss, oh yessss,” you respond with a hazed expression, letting your euphoric sounds fill the quiet indoor pool room occupied by you two. “Fuuuck, lick me more, please…”

Even your requests to him were dear to his ears, obliging your folds with feverish laps and swirls. Your cries become louder, legs jolting with ever every lave and suck of your leaking fluids. But Choso holds you by the thighs, massage them to relax your body. Damn, you felt so soft to his fingers, wanting to have his hands on you for as long as he can.

You bite your lip when your hand grabs tuffs of his down brunette hair, egging him to give your clitoris more kisses and hurried licks that almost have you choke on your spit. “Oh, myGod—Mmmph! You’re so good at this, Choso…Ahhhh, oh fuck, feels too gooood…!”

Choso lifts his head to lock his chocolate eyes with yours, examining your reaction when he switches his tongue with a forefinger bullying inside your vagina. The insertion has your bold jerk upwards, squirming at the finger that’s scraping the velvety texture of your vaginal walls. He then kisses from your thigh up to your abdomen, sucking on your skin to tease. Once he comes up to your top piece, he uses his free hand to bring it up and finally releases your breasts for his eyes to survey. His mouth doesn’t waste time having a nipple inside, licking on the bud as he gropes the other breast.

“Ahhnn! Hahhh, hehe, you look so hot doing that,” you comment, making the young man sneak a glance at you before he sucks and nibbles on the nipple. His finger inside your cunt goes faster, having you whine when his thumb comes to your clit. Swipes to the delicate button erupt howls from your agape mouth, “Ohhhh, Hoooohh, Ch’soooo, right there! Keep scraping me right there…pleaseee, don’t stop…!”

He withdrew from your nipple with a soft “pop” from his lips, bringing his face inches close to yours. “Gonna cum on my fingers, yeah?” He asks to distract you from the sneaking middle finger that invades between your folds. The two digits work together to reach places you couldn’t, rubbing and scratching your inner walls with tips.

“Yesss, yesss, I’m gonna cum…! More, more—Oh, Ohooo!” Choso kisses you again, and you happily mewl into his lips as your orgasm climbs up with the pace of his fingers and his thumb pressing and swiping on your clit. Your chasm clamps onto his digits, bringing your hands to his face to keep the kiss going as your climax hits you.

Shocks from your body prompt you to tremble under him, the walls of your slit contract around his fingers, and your hips involuntarily sway to ride out the phases of your clarity. You suck on Choso’s tongue; his groans are music to your ears while your hand travels down to his swim trunks and feels the tent of his groin.

He moans, breaking the kiss to look where your hand is. You chuckle, “It’s time to return the favor. Come on, let’s switch.”

He follows your lead and takes the position you had previously, watching you situate yourself between his legs as you bring his trunks down to have his erection spring out. He panics a little when you gasp aloud while marveling at his limb, “My, what a long thing you were hiding from me…”

Your compliment has the blush on his ears scorch him with unbearable heat, and you keep eye contact while your plump lips place kisses on the sensitive pink tip of his cock. He hitches his breath at the contact, especially at your hand, grasping his length and beginning stroking motions.

Your tongue dances around his glans and presses on the frenulum, nibbling on the rough skin while your free hand goes to his testicles, softly kneading them to provoke moans to leave his lips. “Such cute sounds from such a cute guy; keep making more for me, okay?” He places a hand on your head, a sign that you take initiative to pop his dick into your mouth.

Bobbing your head up and down, you take in Choso’s shaft inch by inch, the warmth of your mouth doing wonders to his senses. A hand grips the cushion of the tongue chair he’s lying on, and shivers crawl up his spine when you mumble after taking it to the hilt as your voice travels through his body.

“Mmmm…Nngohh, fuck,” he curses with furrowed brows, biting his lip when sensing your tongue lick the underside of his cock. Fuck, your mouth felt so damn good — it took everything for Choso not to rut into your mouth voluntarily. Your tight throat didn’t make it any better, and the walls enveloping his entire girth had him drooling.

Puffed cheeks suck on him leisurely, your lips coated from the saliva covering him, the noises so erotic and out of this world. You continue to massage his balls while your mouth occupies him, alternating with your hands to go down and suck on his balls roughly.

Here is where Choso finds it hard to contain himself with every second, his thighs jerking with every sign of pleasure, throwing his head back when his dick is back inside your gummy throat. Hips subtly propel to your mouth to create more friction, and he whimpers as you happily accept him with mumbled wails and restlessly jerk him off.

“—Kahhnn, nnmgh, shit, Yn,” your name sounds like a dazed slur, the hand purchased on your head eggs you to go faster. He almost bites his tongue when yours teases his urethra for more of his precum, “Fuck, I’m gonna cum, I’m cumming…shiiit, ohh…!”

And you give him aid, sucking on his cock harder and bobbing frantically while you use both your hands to pleasure him more. The commotion of his lower half corrupts all of his senses, hanging by a thread to hang on and howl your name out. One last lap and harsh suck on his glans induces a choked groan, and Choso finally ejaculates into your mouth.

With the thirst pump, you instantly take him back inside your throat, drinking every bit of his load exuding from his throbbing member. He thrusts as you suck him, his orgasm shaking his being with every rut and sob. He heaves and pants, your name said in helpless prayers while you suck his soul out. And, God, does he fucking love it so.

You give him mercy and release his shaft, placing more tiny kisses on it while watching Choso’s quaking frame calm down. And when he does, you bring your body off from between his legs. “Thank you for saving me, Choso.” You crawl to place a gentle kiss on his lips with a hum, and then you relish the cute sounds he makes as your wet cunt meets his length.

“Let me reward you by pampering you more...”

“….—op, don’t stare at him so hard!”

“Is that him?”

Choso snaps back to the present when he hears familiar voices speak — it is you and Nobara he finds that are looking at you from across the poolside. Nobara being the one staring dead at him; your best friend’s eyes feel like daggers piercing Choso’s pale skin. It made him gulp with nervousness.

Then, she cocks her head and leans to speak. “Doesn’t look so bad; don’t know about that mark on his face, though…How long was it, again?”

“Shhh, be quiet!” You slap her arm to silence her, making the mistake of looking at Choso. You two look into each other’s gazes for a few seconds, the warmth of your cheeks creeping up and having you two sever your faces elsewhere.

Nobara saw the exchange, lifting a brow before asking you, “So, do you want me to give him your number, or would you like to fuck him again before that—Oww!!“ Another slap to her bare shoulder, she winces this time.

“Jesus Christ, shut up!”

@screampied 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

requests/thirsts are open hehe~ 🧸

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fic-over-cannon · 1 month

Text

Sweetheart

inspired by @sanguineterrain’s hc about virgin! jason which truly has not left my mind since i read it.

rated explicit (mdni) | wc: 2.6k

tags: kissing, masturbation, loss of virginity, vaginal sex, creampie, overstimulation

Jason Todd’s just so goddamn sensitive, nerves set on a hair trigger, all the time. Call it a side effect of death or a fun little bonus from resurrection. Wherever it came from, it’s just part of his life now. And, see, normally it’s not a problem. In fact, it probably makes him better at this whole crime lord business. The slightest change in the airflow of a room tipping him off to an unseen assailant, the tremors traveling up the balls of his feet signalling an approaching vehicle, palm wrapped around a throat able to read a lie from a racing pulse. He’s adaptable like that, turning something that might have overwhelmed him into a weapon. It’s really not a problem.

Just like it’s not a problem that he’s never really been in love before. Between dying, then not dying, and an abrupt and burgeoning career in crime, well, dating hasn’t been very high on his list of priorities. It’s fine! So maybe he fucks his fist after a long night of patrol and wishes it were someone he was coming home to. He’s got more pressing things to worry about, important things. Red Hood things. His half-hidden fantasies and dog-eared classic romances can stay hidden under his bed forever, for all he cares.

He cares. Did he say he didn’t care? Well obviously that was a big fat lie. Jason nearly mows you down running across the park and the minute his hands close around your arms to steady you, he’s a goner. Heart eyes and tweety birds, the whole nine yards. Being in love with you’s the easiest thing Jason’s ever done. Maybe his hands shake a little more than they should the first time you ask him to dinner. Maybe he blurs the line between creepy and sweet by showing up at your doorstep with flowers less than 12 hours after your first date. He’s just new at this, that’s all. First time jitters.

There’s a lot of firsts, when it comes to you. The first time you hold his hand, he feels the the tips of his ears go hot. You kiss him on the cheek and he could swear NASA can see the colour of his cheeks from space. The very first time he kisses you – goodnight at your doorstep, meant to be chaste and brief – he’s half-hard in his pants the second he feels your breath on his skin. It’s a miracle, a sheer testament to all his will and training, that he doesn’t come in his pants on your doorstep at the taste of you.

Okay, so there’s some kinks he has to work out. He’s told you that he’s inexperienced. Well, more than inexperienced. A virgin, if you want to get all technical about it. You had smiled and told him the two of you could take it slow if he wanted. Which he didn’t. Want it slow, that is. That leads him to a new and persistent obsession with making it good for you, despite his current track record. Before you, the goal of getting off was efficiency. Hand slick and a few harsh tugs enough to have him spilling into a tissue. But that was before. He’s got a goal and a plan and Jason’s always been good with an objective.

He settles in and makes a mental note to get more lube. Gets his hand firm around his shaft because he knows, just knows, that the minute he starts teasing the head of his cock it’ll be over. Gives himself a few looser strokes just to get used to the sensation, gun callous catching on his foreskin and sending a frisson of pleasure up his spine. He watches his stomach muscles ripple and clench in retaliation. Begins to work his hand a little faster, adding a rough twist to each stroke that has him panting for breath. Pre starts beading at the tip of his cock and he swipes an errant thumb at it. He bucks and nearly moans at the sensation, the rough heated pad of his thumb setting his nerves on fire. Throws his head back eyes closed as his he increases the pace, lost to the burning heat building in his belly. He pictures your face smiling up at him on a particularly tight swipe over the head of his cock and comes harder than he ever has before, hot spurts decorating his stomach. His stopwatch reads 0:1:37. With a grunt, he reaches for his cock again.

By the time morning comes, far too soon and far too bright, Jason’s managed to increase his time. Not by much, but hey, that’s still progress in his book. He’s also discovered two new things about himself: 1) with just the right pressure he can stay hard between orgasms (hooray for illegal and mystical stimulant baths!), and 2) the image of you is more than enough to shove him over the edge, every single time. Fact number two may be a problem. ‘Cause if just the thought of you has him creaming in his pants like a pimply teen in a stiff breeze, having you under him in the flesh might actually kill him. It’s okay though, he’ll have more time to practice before you two get anywhere close to that. Or not.

The two of you are lying on your bed kissing, the kind of slow, lazy make-out that wouldn’t really be going anywhere only Jason’s got your thigh rubbing up in between his legs and that same hair trigger sensitivity. He swears he can almost feel the soft heat of your skin through the rough drag of denim. Your plush lips open wider and he surges forward, eager to notch himself closer. He’s clumsy like this, limbs too big and uncoordinated with you under him. His hips start undulating of their own accord at the extra friction, and you slip a hand into the back pocket of his jeans to urge him on. It’s good, so good, God why did he never realize it could be this good? The sensation of you below him, warm and solid, and the rough-pressure-heat on his cock is all it takes. You swallow his moan as he comes in his pants, wet splotch blooming darkly. His hands tighten around you. Jason pants and moans into your throat, hips weakly grinding his cock against you through it. Red-faced, it takes him longer than it should to realize that you’re cooing at him.

“–good, sweetheart? You were so good for me, taking what you needed.”

Shame and embarrassment light him up, battling with the litany of sweetheart, sweetheart, she called me sweetheart currently striking him dumb. He buries his face into your neck, can feel the temperature difference between his flaming cheeks and your skin.

“’M sorry,” he says meekly, “I didn’t mean to come so fast. Swear it. I’ll do better next time.” Worry curls in his stomach, faint echoes of embarrassment about leaving you unsatisfied. Can’t bear to look you in the eye, feeling stripped back and vulnerable as he is. His hips are still working against yours, grinding the sensitive head of his cock into his damp boxers. You laugh.

“What’re you talking about, Jay? You were perfect, so perfect for me sweetheart.” And Jason wants to crawl out of his skin because ‘perfect’ is not a word that gets applied to him often. Not one that he thought applied now, coming in his pants so quickly, before he’s even made you feel good. Ignoring the stubborn prickling at the backs of his eyes and the warmth quickly spreading down his chest, he kisses the sweet column of your throat.

“Wanna return the favour,” he whines, licking up the salt of your skin. Your grip tightens in his hair.

“Yeah? You gonna be good for me again?” you tease, breathless. One of your hands grips his own, glides it down to the elasticized waistband of your underwear.

Jason’s pretty sure he’s been electrified when he feels just how wet you are. He’s also pretty sure this is the closest he’s ever gotten to a pretty girl’s underwear too. Thick fingers glide easily between your folds. You’re hotter than he expected, slick collecting in his palm. His index finger catches on your entrance, thumb hunting for your clit. He knows he’s found it when you sigh into his ear, and he grins. Maybe he’s not so bad at this whole sex thing after all. Slowly, he starts to spear you open on one thick finger and chokes. Jason’s never felt anything so fucking tight. He groans into your collarbone. Your walls tighten up around him at the vibration and it goes straight to his cock. If he hadn’t just come, he’d be making a mess in his pants right now. Again. The thought of how good your slick, wet, heat would feel squeezing around his cock vice-like has him lightheaded.

“Can I– please can I?” he begs, delirious with how badly he wants this.

“Gotta use your words, sweetheart,” you say breathlessly, voice hitching as he fucks his finger back into you. “Need to ask for what you want.”

“Please, please, can I fuck you? Want it. Want it so bad,” Jason whines. He can taste the want, sparks dancing on his tongue, blood rushing in his ears. His whole body aches with it.

“S’all you had to say, sweetheart.” A hand grips him through his damp jeans and he bucks into the touch, a writhing mass of nerves and need. “You gonna take care of me? Huh?” The zipper inches down and he almost sobs. “Gonna be good to me, sweetheart?” All the air rips out of his lungs at the burning brand of a palm finally touching his spent cock.

Jason doesn’t recognize his own voice, high and reedy, babbling “I promise, I promise, I promise.” He’s gasping, greedy, mouth open and searching blindly for yours.

He whimpers – the Red Hood honest to god whimpers – when you pull away. His brain starts to come back online when you start tugging at the hem of his shirt and he almost face plants into the mattress in his eagerness to get his pants and shirt off at the same time. You laugh as your bra hits the floor somewhere to the side of the bed and pull him down for another kiss, a soft nip at the swell of his bottom lip that has him trailing after you. Your legs open to cradle his hips and Jason figures this must be the next best thing to paradise. He shudders at the pressure of his cock trapped between your bellies.

“Now you’re gonna give me all–” you give a slow roll of your hips that has Jason’s vision going blurry at the feeling of every inch of him trapped between you, “– of that. You’re gonna be this–” another slow, filthy roll that has him cotton-mouthed, “–deep in me, sweetheart, and you’re gonna keep fucking me until I tell you to stop.” Your hand at the nape of his neck pulls his hair back until he’s looking right in the eye. It’s a hungry, dark stare that greets him and Jason thinks that if this is what it’s like to be eaten alive, he’ll die a happy man (if you’ll let him).

He gets so distracted by the wicked grin on your face that he barely notices the hand guiding his cock to your entrance until the head is pushing into your burning heat. His mouth snaps shut and his jaw clenches, desperate to keep it together. Your legs lock around him, urging him forward. Inch by inch he slowly thrusts his way into you, sanity hanging on by a thread as he fights the urge to just fuck into your tight cunt. Finally, finally, his hips meet yours, cock fully sheathed inside of another person for the first time. He pants open mouthed into the side of your neck, trying so hard to be good for you.

“Not a virgin now, are you sweetheart?” you whisper, hand stroking through his sweaty curls. “Now move.”

Like a shot from one of his beloved .45s, Jason starts pistoning into you, pulling his cock out until it’s almost slipping out and hammering right back in to the hilt. You’re tight, so fucking tight that he doesn’t know how he’s ever gonna go back to his fist after this. His rhythm’s sloppy, cunt drunk and chasing his next high but he can’t make himself stop. Sweat beads on his chest and tears dot his lashes. He howls as you cant your hips up and drag a hand across his chest, nails catching on a nipple. The slippery clutch of your cunt burns away all his good intentions, just a mewling, writhing creature desperate to feel good. The burning heat in his gut is building, his arms trembling from exertion. Its too soon, too soon for him to be ready to come again but the high in his veins and the tenseness in his belly are screaming otherwise.

It’s not fair, he’s– he’s trying so hard and it’s not fair because you haven’t even come once and here he is being greedy and about to come again. It’s not fair. There’s real tears of frustration beading up in his eyes now, face and body flushed red, sticky sweet.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’msorryI’msorryM’sorry,” he keens, high and hysterical as he comes, hot pulsing spurts deep inside you. He’s not– it’s not stopping God why is it not stopping? He’s never come for this long but it just won’t stop and he can’t move, not with your ankles locked so tight around his hips. Jason’s face burns with the shame, eyes screwed up tight and trying not to tear the sheets fisted in his hands. A hand cups his face, runs a thumb lovingly over a cheekbone until he screws up the courage to crack open his eyes a smidge.

“There’s my sweetheart. Doing so well for me.” A finger brushes away the tear threatening to fall from the corner of his eye. “Felt so good you just couldn’t stop yourself from coming again, hmm?” you clench down on his cock and the punched out sound that leaves him has Jason shying away in embarrassment. “None of that now. Not when you’re being so good.” You bite down on the tendon in his neck, grinning around your teeth as his whole body shudders, before laving a broad tongue over it. “You’ve still gotta job to do, don’t you? Gotta fuck all of your cum into me, gotta keep it where it belongs.”

Jelly limbed, its easy to push Jason onto his back. His cock never even leaves your cunt. Gravity does all the work as you spear yourself open on him. He moans, high punched out little things, cock bullying even deeper into you. Jason’s so sensitive now, riding the edge of pleasure-pain like a knife. He feels flayed open, nerves raw, as you grind and clench yourself up and down his shaft. You pull one of his palms to your breast, teach him how to squeeze it, the way you like having your nipples pinched and rolled. You ride him and every time you pull off of him Jason holds his breath until you’re fucked back down onto him. He’s so overstimulated it hurts, teeth grinding as you continue to fuck him for your pleasure, like he’s just the guy that happens to be attached to a fat dick.

“I didn’t say to stop, did I?”

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd smut #jason todd fanfiction #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood x y/n #red hood smut #jason todd fic #nsft #sunnie writes 🌻

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magicdustsworld · 2 months

Text

𝐀 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 (3)

Ryomen Sukuna x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: A guide on how to properly date your tattooed, big, bad boyfriend.

𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒: Established relationship, slice of life

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: fluff, some profanity, reckless drunk driving(I do not condone), grave scratches(non sexual), mentions of smoking, usage of nicknames, no mentions of y/n.

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟑: 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒

A/N: I feel like I can make an updating schedule for this, Wednesday every week (at least, its Wednesday for me)? How does that sound? wc around 2.3k (got longer than intended)

Divider credits: @cafekitsune

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟐

“What’s the time?”

“Hmm?” Tossing his half burnt cigarette into the trashcan, Sukuna answers, “Quarter past eleven?”

“Right.”

Said so, you have hung up the call.

Sukuna knows he is reckless.

Often times has he found himself in situations due to this attribute of his. Although he manages to spare a laugh or two while recounting these situations, sometimes having you join in as well. That impulsivity is brought out by his need of chaos and to prove time and time again to everyone else that he isn’t someone they should mess with. Whereas this impulsivity—where he is driving down the expressway with his foot pressed on the accelerator, barely staying below the speed limit—is brought upon by you.

He zooms past all the cars on the road, the wind from the open window serves to tousle the fringes of his hair from one side to another. A mild headache ripples through him a second later, the effects of alcohol finally showing its fangs. The fog of inebriation doesn’t necessarily cloud his eyes as he navigates the car past the pedestrians and vehicles; courtesy to his high alcohol tolerance.

His lips are twisted into a constant frown while adrenaline surges through his veins. And he will blame the entirety on you. What’s with you in the first place? Sure, he might have been out a little later than usual. Maybe he missed a few calls from you but that doesn’t mean you will return the same treatment. He has his reasons—good reasons. Unlike you who is just holding a grudge on him.

He clicks his tongue, rotating the steering wheel as he changes gears and just as he is about to pick up speed, the car comes to a screeching halt.

“What the fuck?!”

He curses out loud, eyes trained on the stray object lounging right in the middle of the street. Quite literally, right in the middle of the street as its eyes glow with the impertinent illumination of the headlights. The object in question is commonly called a cat.

“Not this shit,” He rolls his eyes, smacking his palm on the horn – disrupting the rather quietude of the neighbourhood and trying to get the feline to run off; It doesn’t. Instead, it lets out a yawn, nestling its head between its forelimbs and completely ignoring the driver.

Sukuna’s eye twitches. He smacks the horn again.

It doesn’t move.

Again.

It can only flutter its eyelids shut and pretend to be asleep.

At last, Sukuna has to take matters into his own hands. He steps out of the car, groggily walking up to the disturbance and looks down on it. His stare only passes the single message – Get the fuck out of here.

The cat has a bemused glare plastered on his features, probably to show that it doesn’t care.

Sukuna crouches down, extending his hand to grab hold of its collar when- “Agh- Fucking shit!”

He swears out loud as soon as the feline scratches him. He grasps his injured hand, staring at the pierced area with widening eyes and a twist of insanity causes his lip to curl up. The claws have made its marks over the scraped skin as a tad amount of blood oozes from the cuts.

“Oh, you did not just do that,” He mutters and in a second he has the cat in his grasp. Holding it via its nape, he dangles it before his eyes while the latter lets itself be held on air, without any protest; save for the unwavering glare it is shooting at him. “What? Got something to say?”

The cat merely lets out a high-pitched meow from its end.

Sukuna huffs, rotating on his heels and ready to toss the cat aside. “Fall back in your beauty sleep somewhere else.”

Slightly does he loosen his grip on the cat did it let out strangled sound; shaking its head vigorously.

Huh? He blinks, swaying the cat from one side to another which only incites displeased purrs from it. At last, he pivots his wrist and brings it closer to his face. The previous glare is still etched on its mien but the intensity has significantly lowered.

He scoffs, returning a scowl with a same fervour. “Listen here you piece of shit, my girl is already raging like a volcano and if I am anymore late then I will intrude your den and-” He pauses, “That’s a promise.”

The cat blinks like it understands anything, answering him in its language which comes out as a choked affirmation. Sukuna is about to drop it again and the same pattern as previous follows.

“Alright, what the hell is up with you?’

Irritation is flaring in his bones as the cat refuses to be let off. He takes a moment for himself, noting the physical attributes of the feline. Thick black far rustles under his palm, sharp yellow eyes and it’s staring at him with an expression which only evokes mischief.

Just a regular black cat and from his least bit of knowledge about the societal norms, he knows they are considered to be the bearer of bad omens.

For the next five seconds, he contemplates on all of his choices.

He finds himself making the worst one.

You are seething when he returns home.

No, you aren’t blowing up or throwing any temper tantrum as Sukuna expected. Rather you aren’t regarding him with anything at all.

When he steps inside through the doorway, purposely slamming the door with a bit more pressure than necessary to make you aware of his arrival; you don’t come to greet him let alone grace him with an answer.

As Sukuna strolls through the corridor and finally into the living room, he finds you perched on the couch and clicking through some channels on the TV before halting in one.

He clears his throat and you crane your neck to glance at him before shifting your attention back on the program.

For obvious reasons that causes an irk mark to form on his brows. He saunters to the couch and sits beside you, calling your name; you don’t answer.

Alright, you’re mad. He squares his shoulder, “How long will you keep up that attitude?”

You pass him a look which extends a second too long and for some reason, Sukuna finds something drop to the pit of his stomach. “What’s the time?”

There’s that question again.

“I know, it’s pretty late–"

“I am asking you the time not records of your unpunctuality.”

“Christ,” He rolls his eyes. “It’s only a one-time thing.”

You raise an eyebrow, “One-time thing, really?”

“Fine,” An exhausting sigh leaves his lips. “Maybe not a one-time thing but I am back now.”

You merely roll your eyes, turning away from him. Sukuna is about to speak again but something just has to intervene.

“Meow!”

Instantly, you perk up, twisting your body from the direction of a feline’s voice. “What was that?” Before your boyfriend can answer any of your queries, said feline is striding inside the living room with a graceful yet suspicious poise which causes disbelief to cloud your visage. “Where did that come from?”

The black cat tethers a corner before halting just near your feet. It looks up at you and Sukuna has to suppress the flurry of retorts filling his mouth as the cat gazes at you with sheer innocence.

What the hell was up with that attitude earlier?

It nuzzles its head over your ankles, letting out a tender purr while doing so. Just like that, you find yourself falling under its charming spell.

“Aww come here, cutie,” Cooing, you pick up the feline, cradling it into your arms as if it were an infant.

As for the cat, when it finds refuge in your arms, it doesn’t hold back from nestling into a better position.

“Where did you find it?”

“On the middle of the road,” He replies, leaning back as his eyelids narrow. “Quite literally.”

You take your moment to run your hand on its fur, sighing out of content. “So you brought it home? That’s so sweet.”

“I tried to toss it away more times than I can count but this fucker won’t budge.”

“Hey,” You protest, shooting his a playful glare. “It’s so cute and wait-” Shifting, you reach the conclusion. “It’s a boy.”

“Wow…”

Ignoring the sarcastic remark, you pat his head, “Aren’t you such a good boy?”

Physically, Sukuna has to stop himself from cringing at the attention you’re pouring over the filthy feline. However, before he can descend into that spiral, a wave of nausea overrides him. Sooner than he can comprehend, he is rushing to the bathroom and throwing up in the toilet. The expunged contents is flushed down as he takes a moment of rest.

He hears footsteps and a second later, you’re kneeling beside him. Greeted by your mien which evokes concern, your hand is placed over his shoulder.

“Hey,” You call softly. “You okay?” He nods, refraining himself from giving you a verbal answer as the sense of nausea still lingers. You rub circles over his back, trying to soothe his momentary queasiness. It does work as the tension starts to wear off. “I will bring you some water. Stay here, ‘k?”

Before he can affirm, you’re out of the bathroom. The next seconds are a blur and Sukuna refuses to let the silence mess with his head. You return soon after as you push the glass to his lips. He gulps it down in one go.

“Better?”

He nods.

“Should I get you some medicine or will you be fine?” He shakes his head negatively but he should’ve known you are stubborn. “I will get you one just in case.”

You are about to leave again but Sukuna is quick. He grips your wrist, tugging on it as he beckons you to sit with him.

Tilting your head, you ask, “Hmm what?”

As for Sukuna, he has his eyes lowered to his lap while he chews on his bottom lip. Surely, he’s got something to say to you but to get the words out is a task on his own. “I- I’m uh… fuck, this isn’t supposed to be this hard.”

In response, you can only stare at him with confusion flickering in your irises. “What happened?”

“I’m… uh, I’m sorry.”

You blink, “Sorry?”

“Sorry,” He repeats, raising his eyes to meet yours. “Sorry for… uhm not caring about the- the time and making you… you worry.”

It’s almost like he is mumbling the words to you and he doesn’t even know if you’re able to register half of it. A silence stretches and he finds himself in a position where he might’ve to repeat himself. Until he doesn’t.

A soft chuckle escapes your lips and you shake your head. “Aww, ‘kuna,” An amused smile curves up your mien and for reasons unknown a heat swells in his chest. “You’re so adorable.”

That heat now permeates to his face and he arrives to the conclusion that he is only burning with a fever. “No.”

“Aww, but you are.”

“Stop right there.”

“But baby…” You jut out lower lip, leaning forward as you hold his face in your hands. Sukuna is on the verge where he feels he might pass out any second. “I am just telling the truth, you’re so adorable. My adorable baby.”

He arches his knee, ready to leave after prying you off but you don’t relent.

“Alright, alright sorry,” You laugh, wiping a stray tear from your eye. “I accept your apology, ‘k?”

He hums, again refusing to meet your eyes before he adds, “Don’t get used to it.”

“Ay, ay captain,” You raise your hand, holding it on your forehead as a salute.

This time, Sukuna doesn’t refrain from letting that taunting grin slip into his lips. However, just when he thought both of you were having a moment until you aren’t. The new addition of life in your abode comes loitering inside the bathroom and you are swift to nestle up the cat in your arms.

“Were you lonely? I didn’t mean to leave you alone though,” You speak to the feline again, apologetically. One which is returned with an affirmative tone from the latter’s whimper.

You continue the tender conversation with the cat and Sukuna takes the moment to just watch the two. “He likes you.” He comments after a second, garnering your attention.

“I like him too,” A wide smile has curled in your lips as you scratch behind his ear earning a soft sigh from him. “A lot. Kinda reminds me of you, don’t you think?”

“Please,” He scoffs, a frown forming on his face as if the comparison hurts. “I am far better than this annoying pest.”

“Don’t call him that,” You rebuke tersely which he returns with a roll of eyes. “Give him a name.”

“I am not going to do anything like that.”

“Sukuna…”

The warning in your voice doesn’t elude him but he isn’t giving in either. “This thing doesn’t even like me.”

“This thing is ours so you better give him a name now.” Sukuna looks like he’d rather watch paint dry, inciting a low sigh from you. You bring the feline near his face. “C’mon, you brought him home. You should name it.”

If he acquiesces to your command, you might let this charade drop. Well… The cat is black so… “Kuro.”

“Kuro?”

He nods, “Kuro.”

“Kuro, it is then.” Your eyes gleam with excitement as you rock the cat in your arms. “Do you like your name, Kuro?”

“Meow!” He replies and you take the high pitch squeal as his likeness to the new name.

Sukuna lets out a sigh, leaning back as his head rests against the basin cabinet. Maybe he can get used to a cat.

The said cat passes him such a mischievous smirk from your arms that he has to rethink his choice.

He grumbles under his breath, “Fucker Kuro…”

“Meow!”

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟒

A/N: ik the title is misleading but y'all as someone who doesn't want kids ever this is self indulgent wish + I can never see Sukuna as a genuine father so you have that lol.

Taglist: @comeonatmebruh @o-ikawaii

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ervotica · 10 months

Note

could I please get a Cato x soft/quiet gf reader she’s really good at hiding and when he’s training or even talking with friends she sneaks a kiss when he’s not looking and disappears until one day he finally catches her and gives her a real kiss💓

pairing: cato hadley x fem!reader

summary: you hide from cato when he wants a kiss. he always finds you in the end...

hunger games masterlist

Cato has always thought you're charming in a sort of elusive way; you're not a particularly social creature, quick on your feet and opting to hide and duck out of people's line of sight before they've even spotted you. It's endearing, truly, but it tends to frustrate him when all he wants is a kiss from you.

Cato's practicing his knife throwing in an empty field lined with dummies. He brings his elbow up and over his head before letting the blades cut through the air and thwack as they lodge themselves in the targets every time. You watch, entranced - perched just out of his line of sight - as his muscles ripple and flex with his movements; you imagine how they feel under your touch, his warm skin under your hands.

He's just thrown the last one when your cold fingertips graze his waist; his t-shirt has ridden up to expose a pale sliver of skin: ridged abs and a line of blonde hair that disappears beneath his low hung shorts.

He reaches out but you're too quick, ducking under his armpit and snaking up his front for a chaste peck before you're off again.

"Hey!" he yells as you disappear up a nearby tree. "Come back!"

He crosses his arms and plants himself at the roots of the tree, glaring up as you keep climbing. You giggle, traversing the length of a particularly thick branch and wrapping your legs around the width of it in order to hang upside down. Your hair forms what can only be described as a halo as you swing from side to side and grin.

"Cato," you hum, sing-song voice taunting him. He creeps closer and tries his luck in catching you. You're faster, snapping back up to lay horizontally on the branch, too high for even your hulking boyfriend to reach.

"Come here!" he huffs, brow knit as he stares up at you. You only scrunch your nose and raise an eyebrow and his tone changes like the flick of a switch. "Baby, please. C'mere."

You only shake your head and wiggle your fingers at the blonde boy and he seizes the opportunity, locking his fingers with your own as they reach for him enticingly. Your eyes widen and you shriek as he tugs and you come toppling down rather unceremoniously.

Of course he wouldn't let you fall and you land in a heap in his arms, hair static and frazzled as he sets you down.

“Cato!” You scold. “That’s not funny!”

He presses his chest close, his face burying in the juncture of your neck as he kisses and nips at the soft skin there.

“Wasn’t supposed to be,” he murmurs, big hands squeezing the fat of your hips. “You kept hiding from me.”

You pout and push lightly at his chest, forcing him to take a step back.

“Awh,” he coos, pressing a thumb to the plush flesh of your lip before he’s leaning in for a kiss. No chaste pecks or soft, fleeting moments- he’s determined to get a real kiss from you, all tongues and teeth and heaving chests as he steals your breath.

The only sounds to be heard are the whistling of wind and the soft smack of your mouths as he kisses you with fervour. Your hand comes up to his neck, fisting the short hairs at the nape to pull him closer. You feel his smile against your mouth.

“This is all I wanted from you,” he snarks, sarcasm dripping from his tongue as you chase his lips to keep him quiet.

“Shh,” you whisper, eyes fluttering as he bites into your bottom lip and soothes the pain away with his tongue.

He pulls away heavy lidded and breathing hard.

“Caught you.”

#writer #writers on tumblr #writing #writing for fun #the hunger games #the hunger games fic #cato hadley x reader #cato hadley fanfic #cato hadley #cato x reader #thg cato #cato hadley x you #cato hadley fic #thg x reader #the hunger games x y/n #the hunger games x you #the hunger games x reader #the hunger games fanfiction #writing for myself

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daycourtofficial · 3 months

Text

I got cursed like Eve got bitten

Pairing: Azriel x Rhysand’s sister!reader | WC: 1.2k | warnings: none

Summary: reports of a rare powered fae popping up in Illyria send Azriel and Rhysand on a journey through the past, unraveling a truth they thought long buried

Next part | Masterlist

Velaris was beautiful tonight. Like most nights, the stars shone over the small city, their incandescent light bouncing off the Sidra, making the surface of the water sparkle as the current rippled. The frigid water looked so dark beneath that light, its depths unknown to those who walk across the bridge.

Rhyasnd watched the stars from his balcony, the violet in his eyes catching a glint under their shine, glass of whiskey in his hand. Feyre and Nyx were spending the evening at an art class across town, a class for children to “paint the stars” as Feyre had said. They would be spending the evening with a dozen or so other small children, his mate and their child on a blanket gazing up at the stars and trying to recreate what they saw onto a tiny canvas, no doubt splattering paint everywhere in the process. He had debated going - he loved the night sky, a fondness he’d had since childhood that carried well into his adult life. He would spend the night telling Nyx about the various constellations, what they mean, and how their planet spins in orbit around a star.

He had, instead, decided to spend his evening in his office, a note on his desk urging him to spend the evening alone until the one person who would understand arrived. He stood on the balcony waiting, his skin growing colder as the night settled in. His eyes traced the patterns of the constellations - the patterns of stars he spent many decades devoting himself to in private. The same stars he prayed to most nights, the changing of the constellations doing little to deter his devotion.

Tonight he needed their guidance, needed their all-seeing gaze once more. He felt his stomach churn as his thoughts whirled, wanting to hurl abuses at the stars above him. He knew they had all the answers, but unwilling or unable to answer his questions, he wasn’t sure which.

His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and memories, too preoccupied to notice the soft flap of wings nearby or Azriel’s soft descent on the balcony next to him.

Azriel took in his brother’s appearance as Rhys failed to notice him - the High Lord seemed off in some way. Rhys was the harder of his two brothers to pinpoint. Cassian wore his heart on his sleeve, Azriel hardly had to look into Cassian’s big, puppy dog eyes before he knew exactly what troubled him. Rhys was harder - the youngest of all three of them, carrying the weight of everyone’s pleas for help and guidance, one that has led Rhysand to shoulder more than his fair share of burdens. His shoulders sagged as he leant over the balcony, as if he wanted to curl in on himself-

“Stop.”

Azriel blinked once. Twice.

“Stop what?”

Rhys rolled his eyes, “stupid was never a good look for you.”

Azriel’s hummed as a soft breeze blew by, ruffling the skin of his wings. He moved his eyes away from Rhys, looking toward the Sidra instead. He could hear it from here - the water moving downstream, soft splashes as the current met the bank. He spent most of his nights gazing out over the river, hoping to see anything within its icy depths.

“Rivers keep going, and we keep going.”

That soft voice echoed in his mind, the memory feeling all at once like several lifetimes ago and only a handful of moments prior.

“Az.”

Rhys’s voice pulled him from a life so far away, it felt like he traveled galaxies to come back to the present. Rhys’s voice was soft as his violet eyes took in his brother. “There’s a report on my desk.”

Rhys paused, the shadowsinger unable to figure out what could be in this report that had his High Lord so rattled that he had asked him to come as quickly as possible. His shadows moved toward the desk, the black wisps moved across the page before Azriel had even moved, reading the contents of it for themselves but not moving back to Azriel.

That put Azriel on edge.

Rhys nodded his head towards the desk, prompting Azriel to move towards the large oak furniture. Scarred fingers picked up the parchment, reading the report from an Illyrian outpost. All the details from the report went hazy in his mind as his eyes kept moving toward the same word over and over again.

Empath.

The room felt like it had tilted beneath Azriel, something caught in his throat unable to let him get the words out. His eyes scanned the page again, but now the document looked like it only said ‘empath’ over and over again. His shadows were frantically moving about the room, bouncing off the walls, desperate to escape their enclosure of the office. His tight grip on the paper caused some of them to come towards him, affectionately weaving through his fingers as if they were perfectly fitted gloves.

“Rhys, that’s not possible. There hasn’t been a known empath since-“

“I know.”

Rhys’s voice was sharp and clipped, the unspoken words hanging in the air. He took a sip of his whiskey, finishing off the glass before meeting with Azriel behind his desk, putting the glass down where the paper had lain. The paper in Azriel’s hands was shaking now as Rhys lifted one of his own to push the paper down back onto the desk.

“I know.”

His voice was much softer this time, the words coming out not much more than a whisper.

The next morning the two of them left for the village mentioned in the intel, the sun barely peeking over the horizon as they took off from the balcony, neither male looking rested. The flight was silent as they passed over the terrain of the Night Court, the long flight offering the both of them ample time to think.

They landed sometime in the mid-afternoon after having stopped for food along the way, the meal one of silence and heavy atmosphere, not lingering for a second once they finished eating. Upon arriving, the two walked around the Illyrian village, having impromptu meetings with several of the males underneath Cassian’s command. When the sun began setting, their feet led them toward the only tavern in the village, a small, pathetic looking building that reeked of alcohol and vomit.

Rhys adjusted his jacket before he pushed open the door to the tavern, but he barely made it through the threshold before stopping. Azriel ran straight into Rhys’s back as the male in front of him stopped completely, blocking the entrance.

Rhys was frozen in place, his spine ramrod straight. Azriel immediately reached toward his belt, wanting a hand on Truth-Teller to offer some reassurance of whatever could make his High Lord still on sight. Azriel prepared himself and looked over Rhys’s shoulder at whatever caught his eye. His eyes immediately stopped where Rhys’ had - behind the worn down bar top, the wood old but sturdy, stood someone Azriel thought had died long ago.

You shined even brighter in person than you did in his memories, almost as if you casted a light glow over everyone around you, and Azriel’s grip on Truth-Teller faltered as your eyes met his across the room.

Author’s note: eeeek so excited!! Been working on this behind the scenes a bit!!! Dedicating this to my girl @milswrites the ultimate hype woman for this!!!

Permanent taglist: @vanilla-seabass @cyrygher @lees-chaotic-brain @topaz125 @chessebookgirl @fides25 @lady-of-tearshed @ashbatz @fxckmiup @lilah-asteria @justvibbinghere @daughterofthemoons-stuff @mybestfriendmademe @heartless-tate @tsunami-of-tears @idrkwhatthisisimsorry @olive-main @azrielsmate3 @pit-and-the-pen @durgenyx @dee-writes-smut @chairofchaos @thelov3lybookworm @berryzxx @throneofsmut @kennedy-brooke @prythianpages @itsswritten @acotarxreader @milswrites

Azriel taglist: @brieflyclassymortal @thisiskaylin @magicstrengthandcourage

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel #azriel x you #azriel fanfic #acotar writing #azriel x y/n #i got cursed like eve got bitten

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shotmrmiller · 9 months

Text

You don't need anyone else but us.

TW: implied dub-con, drug usage.

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley & Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Reader

WC: 1.1K

A/N: Im biting my knuckles at the idea of you going on a date with this guy at some restaurant, and the bum slips some aphrodisiac into your drink :)

It started small, with symptoms so faint they were barely discernible. Fanning yourself with your hand, you hoped to keep the beads of sweat forming at the nape of your neck from ruining your perfectly coiffed hair.

“Is it just me or is it hot in here?” you asked your date with a flustered, timid smile.

“No, I feel fine, but you do look a bit rosy. You alright?” As you give him a reassuring nod, a striking hum passes through your body, like a raindrop rippling still water, and every wave shoots arousal straight to your core.

He reached across the table to grasp at your wrist, bringing you closer to him so he could press a cool hand to your burning forehead. “You’re burning up, sweets. Maybe it’s time we take you home, hm?” You try to stammer out a response, but fire is pooling in your belly, making it hard to think. He quickly raises his hand, and gestures for the tab, then changes seats to be right next to you. “I’ve got you.” The fabric of his long sleeve grazes your uncovered back as he pulls you flush against him with his arm, and every shift of it scrapes at your nerve endings.

The pants that escape your mouth sound deafening in your ears, every twitch of your muscles amplified. It hurts, and even then, the edges of that pain are blurring, twisting into scalding pleasure. Your cheek feels the vibrations of his voice as your head rests in the hollow of his throat, and with the last of your lucidity, you catch the tail end of the conversation between your date and the server.

“— she’s had too much to drink, I’m afraid,” and through fogging vision, you observe as he hands the server the two wine glasses, remnants of red liquid at the bottom— but he had finished his wine and the rest of yours. “Have a good evening.”

He moves to get up, scooping you in his arms, and you’re powerless in your vulnerable state, body listless against his, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Before you know it, you’re being practically carried out the door, frosty air nipping at your feverish skin. Your date bends his legs to hook his arm under your knees, and with a grunt, picks you up in a cradle carry. Head lulling on his chest, a pathetic whimper slips past your lips at the smell of him and his cologne that you had formally thought was overpowering.

“I know, sweets. We’re going to my flat, and I’ll take good care of you there.” But as he approaches his car, you’re abruptly wrenched from his arms, an unmistakable voice speaks up, tone harsh, severe.

“She’s not goin’ anywhere with you.” Simon?

Simon gently lowers you onto your wobbly legs, allowing you to steady yourself against the car. The freezing surface of it stings, a raw sensation surges through your body, and a sibilant hiss escapes your mouth.

Simon steps away, and Johnny takes his place, cupping your face. You let out a soft moan at the contrast of his chilly hands on your burning skin. “Hey,” he softly says, “you a’right?” Your peripheral vision catches a flurry of quick movements, making you instinctively turn your head, but Johnny’s hands exert a gentle force, keeping your head locked in position, fixated on him.

“Eyes on me, bonnie.” Johnny’s hands lower, trailing down to your neck, cool fingers enveloping your throat, and this time, you mewl. Loudly. “Och, I ken, i ken. We’ll be home in no time, hm? Simon’s just takin’ out the trash.”

Johnny’s thumb traces soothing circles against your fluttering pulse, and you whine when you imagine those circles being drawn on your throbbing clit, how euphoric it would feel. Maybe it would assuage the liquid fire in your veins— satiate the need to be filled, stretched.

“A’right hen, we’re takin’ ye to my house, gotta keep an eye on ye.” Johnny lifts you into a side carry, effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing. “It’ll be over soon.” God, you hoped so.

Placing you on his bed, Johnny takes off your heels and sits by your side, holding your hand in his. “How ye doin’?” Blinking, you thickly swallow and realize that your mind is clearer than it was at the restaurant. “Better, I think.”

Johnny hums, and turns to Simon. “Can ye get her a glass o’ water?” Simon looks at you, then flicks his gaze to Johnny, and slowly dips his head, before pivoting to leave. “Just rest, hen, I think that dunderheid spiked yer drink. I told ye he was nae good, but nae, the lass is grown, she can make her own decisions, hm?” Johnny reaches out to caress your sweaty forehead and drags his roughened knuckles across your cheekbone.

With a gentle touch, you reach up and firmly press his hand against your cheek, nuzzling it, and holding his gaze. “I’m too dependent on you,” and Simon walks in, a glass of water in hand, and your eyes shift towards him, “the both of you. One day, you’ll both move on, and,” your voice trembles, choked with emotion, as tears gather in your eyes, “I’ll be left behind and—” Simon’s deep timbre voice cuts off your outburst with a stern tone.

“Enough.” Johnny gives Simon a reprimanding look, and takes the glass, handing it to you.

“What Simon means t’say, is that yer haverin’, hen. Go on, drink yer water. All of it, gotta rehydrate, a’right?” As you knocked back the cup, you remained oblivious to them sharing a meaningful look, and Simon giving an imperceivable nod, one that Johnny reciprocated.

Carefully setting down the glass on the nightstand, you get cozy under the covers, breathing in his comforting scent, eyes sliding shut. Johnny pats your leg once and whispers, “Get some rest, hen. We’ll be outside, call if ye need anythin’.” A sluggish tip of your head is his only response, and without a sound, the two men exit the room.

Johnny casually rests his weight on the kitchen island, absentmindedly scratching his arm. “How’d ye get that bawbag to use the drug?” Simon shrugs nonchalantly, and says, “A little persuasion.” Johnny hums low, and after a pause, questions, “And how long will it take fer the drug in the water to take effect?”

“I gave her room temperature water,” Simon chuckles, “I say 5 minutes, give o’ take.”

In a matter of moments, the distinct sound of your high-pitched keens and mewls reached their ears, causing them to exchange a knowing look.“Heads er tails?” Johnny asks, his eyes gleaming mischievously. Simon removes his mask, running his fingers through his tousled hair, and states, “Tails and the winner gets to come in her first.”

They shake on it.

A/N: i was told to make a pt.II by my moot @rookiesbookies so I GUESS I WILL. set under the cbf! johnny x ghost au.

#call of duty #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #johnny soap mctavish x reader #ghoap x reader #cod #john soap mactavish #cod mwii #cod mw2

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tojisun · 9 months

Note

i would loveeee to see what was like the first time simon and reader were like.. together uhum fucked…. like after they went out of the bar that they met at, yk what i mean??? my english is shit im so sorry but i loveeee how you write simon, soft and full of love 😫💞

HI ANON OMG ITS BEEN YEARS SINCE THIS ASK!! im so sorry for how late im replying :(( and no omg ur english is good, pls dont apologize for it ^v^ and thank u so so much ahhhhh <33

prev (context of the ask) // biker!simon mlist

!! smut - minors dni; praises (might be a kink but its def just simon being in luv); purity kink n dumbification but only if u squint hard; unrealistic sex (cervix penetration); female reader

simon parks the car – johnny’s old dodge; fixed it up using scraps from the shop – in front of his place, silent as he listens to you breathe. you’ve been shivering since the entire ride, quiet puffs of your breath only breaking through when simon’s playlist lapses into silence.

he’s been eyeing you from the corners of his eyes ever since you two left the bar, watching as you played with the loose thread on your sweater, eyes darting between him and the expansive road. he licks the back of his teeth, unclenching his jaw to speak, only, you beat him to it.

“wanna kiss you,” you say, so soft that it almost gets drowned by the rising crescendo of the guitar rift rumbling from the speakers.

simon’s breath hitches, the grip he has on the steering wheel tightening, and he turns as you do, your shy gaze trailing from his fists to his eyes. there’s a spark somewhere there, an instant shift that has simon changing his gait, body rippling and before he knows it, he’s reaching out towards you.

you meet him halfway, body getting jostled until you freeze when the seatbelt snaps. simon takes over, reassuring as he brushes your hair away from your face, sure fingers trailing to click at the holster so that he can finally tug you close.

you clamber to his lap with his help, trembling legs going over the cup holders before settling on top of him, mindful of the horn. simon catches you anyway, big hands spanning your back, ghosting touches along your spine.

he feels your back quiver as you breathe in, memorizing the way you feel in his touch, on his lap, emitting warmth that tickles his skin. he stares at you for a moment, letting his heartbeat settle. then, he presses forward to catch your lips.

you gasp his name, a soft little thing that makes his lungs constrict. he holds you close, steadies you on top of him, slotting his lips easily against your own. your fingers fist his shirt, bundling the fabric tight, and simon groans when you melt on top of him, a pleasured sigh filtering through, splintering into the air, before being devoured by simon’s greed.

he nips at your lips, his tongue slick as it slide against yours, and it’s all too warm, too feverish, too good. and all parts not enough.

the clack of teeth echo in his ears, ringing so loudly, ripping him into needy shreds. you two separate with a whimper. simon blinks his eyes open, catching the way you chase his lips, your own throbbing and wet and plump.

“shit, baby,” he whispers and dives into you again, unable to stop himself.

smaller hands rove over his body, rubbing from his elbows to grip his shoulders, and settling atop his head to fist the strands of his hair. he growls at the first pull and it leaves you putty in his arms, swaying your hips like molten caramel – languid and tantalizing.

he needs more. desperately.

he breaks the kiss again, nuzzling his nose on yours in apology when you whined, and murmurs, “wanna take this inside?”

simon hears the ragged drag of your breath and feels the jostling of your head as you nod.

he hums. “use y’r words, sweetheart.”

“please,” you reply instantly. “i want to. take this inside, i mean.”

simon presses a quick kiss on your lips as a reward. “of course,” he says, gentle as he tugs you closer to him. “let me take care of you, yeah?”

you hiccup at the first slide of his cock, gentle and tentative as it strokes past the fluttering lips of your dripping pussy, and presses in between your plush walls. you cry, burying your head on the pillows, feeling full even when simon’s cock isn’t even fully in yet.

the bulbed head breaches further, carving out space for his thickness, and you go taut, breathing raggedly, tongue dry and wet at the same time. distantly, you hear simon curse, lilted litanies of your name spilling from gritted teeth.

you feel your heart beat in staccato, pounding within the cages of your ribs at the realization that he’s feeling the same way – devoured by the intensity of your bodies matching up. you push your hips back to him, eating up more of his length, and simon’s hold on your waist gains strength, stopping you from moving any more.

it’s not like you can, not with the way your arms snap underneath the weight of your body and pleasure, and you tip into the sheets, a cry spilling from your lips. simon pauses, one of his hands leaving your waist to let his warm palm glide along your back. his touch tickles the ridges of your shoulder blades before he presses down on the valley along your spine.

he’s everywhere, it seems – deep in you, warm against your back. you don’t know what it is but it makes you sob, crashing desire razing from the base of your neck to the tips of your toes.

“shh, my love,” simon whispers, his voice ragged and thick with his own desire. “y’r doin’ so amazing for me. so beautiful. so delicate.”

you whimper, tilting your head to the side as you gasp in a breath. you try to reply but your tongue feels so heavy and your mind is blank. it is only filled with a deafening static and simon.

simonsimonsimon.

it’s all so much. it’s still not enough. it’s a miasma of carnality – ever so expanding now that you’ve got a taste of it.

simon kisses the back of your head. “can y’take all of it f’r me?”

all of it? all of him?

he’s not- he’s not fully in yet?

you garble a reply, a mix of yes and please and simon’s name. simon, in return, peppers kisses on your back and murmured words on the trembling rise of where your lungs are. he holds you again, his hands leaving your waist to wrap your fists with his warm touch instead, and it makes you swoon, unintelligible cooing noises tumbling from your lips and into the space between.

the moment simon sinks himself deep, his pelvis hitting the flesh of your ass, you keen, drawn out and long. tears trickle from your eyes and drool spill from the corner of your lips, staining his pillow. but it doesn’t matter because simon, big and filling simon, ruts his hips once, twice, three times, before he’s pulling out again.

“si-!” his name dies on your tongue when simon snaps his hips back, his cock sliding into your pussy and breaching your tight walls again. you scream, a broken cry of your pleasure ripping itself from your throat.

simon doesn’t let up, doesn’t stop – why would he? it feels so good!

sogoodsogoodsogood!

“so tight f’r me,” you hear him rumble, his lips close to your ear. he sounds so drunk in his pleasure. so drunk in you. “so good, lovie.”

“feel where i am hittin’?” he thrusts in harder, kissing somewhere deep, the thick head snug in your cunt. “feel me ‘ere?”

simon punches in his cock again, the weight of his balls slapping against your cunt, and you realize. god you realize what it is he’s hitting.

you squeal, slick gushing along the length of his cock, pooling along the wet lips of your pussy, slicking you two even more.

“yeah,” simon laughs, nipping along your neck. “s’your cervix, isn’t it, love?” he ruts his cock deep again when he says this, exchanging his fast thrusts for slow humping, making you feel every inch. every press.

you sob, nodding because yes, yes it is!

simon croons, nosing along your hair, breathing you in. “y’r takin’ me so well. takin’ me so greedily. y’r so precious, lovie. so perfect, so beautiful.”

his words slur together as he gets lost to his own pleasure, sinking into the euphoria engulfing him. you moan, choked squeals of his name lolling out of your babbling mouth. you feel untethered. floaty. you feel so full and so stuffed, your belly fluttering at every deep kiss of simon’s cock.

you feel so-

“simon! si- ah!- si! si!”

the spray of your squirt falls on your unhearing ears, a stuttering white buzz that fills your mind muffling everything that isn’t simon’s cock and your pleasure. simon curses from behind you, his face falling to the crook of your neck again, shaking as he fucks you harder and faster, sporadic thrusts turning into shallow pumps as he chases his own peaking pleasure.

and you take it. you take it like the good girl he told you that you are, limp and overstimulated, because simonsimonsimon.

from: soap (02:13)

> so i dropped off your bike :D

> may have heard you fucking your date.

> how are your neighbours not calling to complain?

to: soap (06:23)

remind me to block your number. <

WHEW!! not my best work :(( but i enjoyed writing this holy shit??

tagging: @babygirl-riley @teehee-47 @comeonatmebruh

#suns.f #biker!simon #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley smut #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley #anon #ask #suns #kicking my legs bc i love smut trope like this

1K notes · View notes

oddinarylani · 1 year

Text

'i wish you'd just care about me' arranged marriage skz.

pt 1: chan, lee know, changbin, and hyunjin.

w: blood, violence in changbin's

pt 2 is ⇀ here

𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓷.↴

it wasn’t the best of circumstances. no. the day you were bathed in white, promised to a man, and walked down the aisle by your father to be given to the hands of your husband was one you spent in mourning, swallowed by grief. “i bet you’re so excited, yeah?” the makeup artist asked, brushing a pearly shade of pinkish red onto your lips. she had a soft genuine smile as she asked, surfacing you into reality from the fogginess in your head. you nod, once, “yes, i am.” you lie in an attempt to make conversation easy. most of the guests that day knew of the arrangement, but other’s hadn’t a clue - which made appearances dire to keep up with. part of you was pleased to move onto a new chapter in your life if it meant moving on from life with your parents. but the other part reminded you that you were going into a new marriage completely blind to the man you’d call your husband. you met him one singular time before changing your last name, the entirety of it was spent with your parents talking to his own - glances you cast in his direction, if only to study the face of the man you hoped to love one day.

his jaw was set coldly, eyes focused on the conversation shared between your parents. he was handsome but just stone. was anything there? you would wonder. is there a man beneath that face? the bone beneath his skin rippled in tender structure, ears pierced, nose rounded, and a heart-like shape to his mouth. while there was no longer hope to hold out for, you scrounged up a bit more in the depths of your chest in desire to love him one day. truly love him. and to be loved in return.

two months into your marriage and you still feel the brick wall dividing you from your husband. it wasn’t exhausting all the time, no. you saw him smile; a few times actually. sometimes you think of it when going to sleep. you hadn’t heard him truly laugh, but you still maintained that same hope from the first time you ever saw him that one day you’d be the reason for him to. your new routine as husband and wife took a minute to settle into; with chan slowly rising to ranks of his family’s company and your own growth in the business of your own. your days were spent at home in your office working from home, a lot of calls into business meetings that you kept your mic muted for, and phone calls to overseas clientele for holiday season.

chan would wake in the morning and rise from your shared bed quick to get ready for work, leaving you to fix coffee and shrug on a robe in the cold of your home (winters weren’t kind in the mornings) when he’d leave, you’d have a cup ready for him, cream and a sugar cube. “thank you, have a good day.” he’d wish, already halfway out the door with a small tired smile on his face. “you’re welcome, you too,” you’d say, scrolling through your phone as the door would shut.

he’d take little notice to your attempts at growing your relationship, and you hadn’t had the time to bring it up to him yet that you wanted to try to have a wonderful marriage. you’d step into the living room wearing a new dress for a banquet for the company, smile a bit wider and brighter than usual - he’d look up from the couch, phone still in hand and would give you a thin lipped smile. “you look nice.” you’d rent a movie, one he’d said he’d wanted to watch soon, and welcome him home with drinks by the couch and he’d brush it off, “ah, sorry. i have a company thing tonight. tomorrow maybe?” of course, he’d forget the next day anyway so it would all be for nothing. when he’d come home extra late and you’d be in bed, buddled in pjs in the comforter with a book and the lamp on next to you, you’d muster your best smile and set your book down. “hey, how was work?” he’d sigh, pulling the tie from his neck. “nothing new really.”

and then you’d beg yourself, beg yourself, to just answer the question of why were you in love with him?

maybe it was for all the times you’d get to see him smile, the chuckles as you’d watch a movie, the thank you’s for cooking, and everything in between. maybe you loved him for the way he stumbled into the kitchen almost late for work, his hair a bit messy and his tie disoriented and you stopped him - “wait,” you put a hand up, walking up to him to fix his tie. it was the closest you’d ever been to him besides the day you’d gotten married, you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. “sorry, my hands are cold.” your voice still laced with sleep as you straightened his tie and flattened his hair. “i-it’s okay.” he assured, clearing his throat. “eat some on your way to work, coffee’s on the counter. have a good day, okay?” you push a few pieces of toast wrapped in a napkin into his hands, pointing to his coffee before turning back to the stove. “r-right. thank you, have a good day.”

that was pretty cute. you even for a moment thought there’d be hope for you, as his cheeks flushed pink when you started working on his tie. sitting at your desk in your office you’d smile at the thought before catching yourself and smacking your own cheeks.

but time was catching up with you, and the unbearable ache of loving him was almost too much for your heart to handle. you at least needed to know if he felt the same or if he ever could - but in the following days after your realization, you proved yourself right. there was no way. no way this could work out. a steady stream of emotion was constantly running through you; you couldn’t focus on work, you couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat - and you wondered if he even noticed. you were growing increasingly frustrated with chan, and every passing day of limited conversation, barely any eye contact, and virtually no response from chan was wearing you down. one second you were smitten, and the other you were pissed.

and it eventually all came to a halt.

the front door of your house shut loudly, louder than usual. and you had a sneaking suspicion chan hadn’t the best day at work. well. that was a shame - you were still pissed, and to think he had the audacity to come home angry from work when he could barely prove to be a communicative partner was enough to leave your blood boiling. you’d let him have it if given the chance.

“how was work.” it wasn’t so much a question as much as a routine statement. you sat on the couch, shuffling through your movies to find the one he’d been wanting to watch, which upon realization, you didn’t know why you did that when you were pissed at him.

“fine.” he stomps into your shared bedroom, yanking the tie from his throat as he did so. you roll your eyes and keep shuffling with a much heavier hand this time. when he re-emerges from the bedroom, he’s shed his tie but still has on his button-down and suit jacket on, you furrow your brows and sit up from the couch.

“what’s wrong? what happened?” you ask out of the goodness of your heart. he tosses open the fridge, sighing. “nothing. nothing happened.”

“you wanna watch that movie you said you wanted to see?” he runs his hands over his face, closing the fridge door. he looks for a moment as if he’s thinking, his hands on his hips as he swallows. “no. not tonight.” he finishes, beginning to walk out of the kitchen before you stand.

“i really really wish you just cared for me.”

it was quiet, quiet, when you said it. the words left your lips before you could realize that your vision was getting a bit glossy. he freezes in his tracks, whipping his vision towards you at the sound of your voice. there wasn’t venom to your words like you expected there would be, no. just defeat. chan hears it, he hears it in you and all of his frustration, his anger, his annoyance, just melts away. instead, his chest is swallowed with guilt.

“i try,, i try so hard to make this work, chris. i really do.” you wipe your face even though tears haven’t fallen yet, and he thinks it’s to stop them from ever doing so, at least in front of him, and his chest aches. he’s turned to face you now, just six feet away or so, and his brow softens at the sight of you.

“i cook for you and make you coffee every morning and try renting your favorite movie because you said you wanted to watch it and wear pretty things out to work events and when i go out with friends but,, you don’t,,,” you look at him when you speak, he sees that water building in your eyes and takes a step closer to you, almost wanting to reach out but stopping himself before he’s to do so. your head shakes, you sniff one more time.

“because that’s what married people do.” this time he does walk closer, you don’t move, but you don’t look him in the eye either - it seems much to hard to do when you’re on the brink of crying.

“i promised myself,,” you lift a clenched fist to his chest, tapping him once with it, your lips screwing together in frustration though your voice is still soft and tearful. “that as your wife i’d love you one day.” your hand drops from his chest, you wipe your eyes when a single tear spills over your waterline, ducking your head to do so out of his line of sight. “is it too much to ask the same from my husband.”

it’s quiet for a minute, in one way he knows everything to say. every sweet word to soothe over your aching heart, because that’s what he’s suppose to do as your husband, and there’s another part of him that has no clue what to say.

because what kind of husband is he to leave you feeling as empty as this.

“i told myself on our wedding day that,, i never wanted to be the one to make you cry.” his palms come to cup your cheeks, though his large hands end up swallowing some of your jawline and neck as well. your eyes widen a bit at the feeling, “look at me?” he asks, voice quiet. you do so with guidance from his own hands. “i’m sorry. i’m really sorry.” even he has some water building on his waterline, you notice. you frown, feeling his thumbs dry your under eyes.

“i never wanted to make you feel uncared for or unheard. i appreciate everything you do for me. and i’m sorry i’ve made you question if i care for you.” he wipes his thumbs under your eyes once more before his hands lower a bit. “you’re my wife. i care about you so much. and i’ll show you that, i promise.”

you talk for a little longer, but disregard the movie for the night, instead, you settle on curling up beside chris who wraps an arm around you, his cheeks a bit pink as you adjust yourself in his hold. he feels the burn of your own cheeks against his arm. “is this okay?” he asks, his opposite hand settling on your hip. you smile, “of course. i’m your wife, you can touch me. can i touch you?” he hums, scooting closer, giving you the okay to lay your arm across his midsection. you close your eyes for a moment, if only to enjoy the feeling of holding your husband for the first time. the warmth that always seems to naturally radiate off of him, the closeness of his breath, the feeling of being the only woman who gets to see him like this.

“i didn’t know you were so cuddly, mr. bang.” you smile to yourself, his hand stroking soft over your hip. “only when given the chance, mrs. bang.” he replies. “ooh,, too smooth.” you admire.

when silence encircles the both of you, and you feel sleepiness begin to creep up on you, he speaks again, “did you mean it when you said you’d learn to love me one day?” his voice is quiet, so tender - it licks at the wounds of your heart and seals them shut. your heart pounds behind your ribcage and you breathe deep to settle the rage of affection steadily brewing in you. “of course.” you reply, your face beginning to bury in his neck.

“well, that’s a shame.” you furrow your brows, opening your eyes to look up at him. before you can reply he speaks again. “because i love you now.”

𝓵𝓮𝓮 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀.↴

“the summer berries on the bushels in the forest are getting ripe now, i brought you some.” you lift your basket, both hands wrapped around it’s weak woven handle, showcasing your proud supply of freshly picked goods. you set the basket down a moment later, your husband batting a quick eye to the basket before he looks back to his spread of books a second later. “mm.” is his only reply.

lee minho was the protector and guide of the largest castle in the northern part of your land. he was a renowned alchemist and practitioner of magic, known for being aid to a handful of people in the village you were raised in, and most notably - a fierce god of night. a vampire.

it was true the stories of bloodlust and killings that tainted centuries of vampire lore; but lee minho set out to do something different. he hadn’t a care of the human experience, which he shared with that of his ancestors, but he had no need to kill them either. animal blood tasted just as delicious as a human’s. and when befriending a human, their loyalty was like no other. so he didn’t kill them, no, he made pacts and promises, and if anything used them more like pawns but they’d die soon before he did.

and then there was you. his wife. promised to his hand by your family - a pact of sorts, one of which you both hadn’t necessarily agreed to if it wasn’t for both of your families stepping in to further push along the marriage. in a quiet candlelight scenery you were married to your now husband, and your seal of a kiss was shared. which, honestly, you didn’t regret. he was very handsome - and kissing handsome men was always a joyous occasion (well, mostly anyway)

he was rageful. not at you, maybe more to existence itself. he was never angry towards you, he never showed it, but you could see deep within the brown wash of his eyes that he was indeed an angry man. he had a hate you’d only seen a few times, and every time you looked a little too hard you felt yourself look away - to anywhere else in the room. afraid of what it meant, afraid of his own distaste.

“you’re wearing the dress.” he notes. his vision still wondering over the pages in his book. your slightly fallen expression gleams a little at his comment. “yes, of course. you bought it for me.” your hands smooth over your torso, he still doesn’t look up. your lips twist at the sight of your husband’s disinterest, but you turn to wash the berries and leave the room.

most of your marriage to minho felt like a huge disinterest on his side. he’d lived many years, this much was true. but in your short time to live, you longed for a husband who loved you; and part of you thought minho was largely incapable of this. he never showed it. he never showed anything for that matter; he was always so far away. life not only was nonexistent to him as a man, but in his very eyes. he showed not a shred of emotion, and even in your good memories with him, he showed very little. part of you blamed it on his years of living, but yet the other part of you reminded you it was all the more reason to care. every day felt like a slow drag, you weren’t really living, not really. survival maybe. but being bound to this castle with a man who rarely payed you mind left an ache worse than death. were you not to his standards? maybe that was it.

you’d shed too many tears over the situation, now every time you cry you try to pull yourself together in the face of your grief. upon talking to your family, a few members reminded you that your voice was powerful, and you should very much share your opinions to him on the matter if your marriage was to work - but that was the thing. a few months in with the man you were to learn to love, and you felt even now it was helpless. it was a sting that brought you to your knees, god how you wanted to just tell him. tell him you loved him - and hear it from his own mouth.

upon your ravage of feelings and your family’s request, you resorted to writing a letter to your husband. you surely wouldn’t have the guts to face this powerful man in person, not like this. so you took to beginning your note in scribbles in the isolated space of your bedroom.

your lips twitch in thought as you think over the contents of your letter, your hand stilling still quipped with a quill. you’re swallowed with silence in the stillness of your bedroom, word after word is brought to the front of your brain. there’s a number of things you could say, but not enough words in the world to describe how you felt.

“lee minho, i’m unhappy.” you speak aloud as you write, taking a moment to look back at your writing, quickly scribbling the line out before starting again.

“dear husband, i have a few things to bring to your attention.” you nod along as you write, happier with this line.

“i believe if we’re to work as husband and wife, we should talk more.”

“i try time and time again to gain your attention, to bring you happiness in a way i know how.”

“but,, it seems to never be enough.”

“if you don’t want me,” you pause, your fingers fumble with the quill in your hand as your palms begin to warm against the hardwood. your lips twitch again.

against all things in your brain reminding you a married couple should speak of their issues and this was a must in your relationship if either of you wish to continue - an overwhelming feeling of pure grief washes over you and your hand as you still to keep from writing.

every bright moment in your relationship flashes before your eyes like matches starting a fire. it’s so overwhelming that your voice dies, and a tight tug at the back of your throat halts you to a shred of reality you hadn’t dwelled on. you sit further back in your chair, eyes glossing over into thought - lost entirely to the contents of your brain. realization has hit you like a truck in the face of your confrontation.

because what about all of the wonderful times you’ve spent together.

what about the dancing of your wedding day, the golden burn of his watchful gaze, the presents, the meals shared, the wishes of good morning or good night? what about all of the times that kept you so closely tethered to him? what about the times that kept you in love with the man who barely spoke to you.

you take a breath - and as quiet as it would be, it’s blaringly loud in the silence of your bedroom.

“i want to love you. i do. and,, i think i do.” clarity has left your quill, and instead, you write from your heart. what you truly feel.

“i hate that you don’t notice when i try to do kind things for you.”

“i want to work in matrimony of us.”

“i know our marriage is against our wishes, but i want to make it work.”

“i just.. i just wish you cared about me.”

a hand sharply grabs your chin, pulling your gaze to meet that of your husband's golden gaze.

“not care?” he asks, his face screwed into a sort of confused expression. “not care?” he asks again as his expression contorts again, further - until his hand is tender.

you’re so sharply pulled from your own head that you’re left with whiplash. he’s heard you? where was he? did you leave the door open? your eyes are blown wide as you face him in the realization he’s heard everything.

your mouth dries as you look at him, his gaze cuts into your very being and you feel utterly frozen. “no-! i didn’t mean it-” “you do though. i’ve made you feel this way.” his gentle grip on your chin leaves you, and he shuffles away, sitting firmly on your bed. his gaze seems lost, as if he couldn’t keep up with the words you’d admitted.

“minho..” “i do care.” he cuts in. you swallow, your brows melding together as you do so. “i don’t… want you to feel this way. and i’m sorry for doing so.”

in the face of confrontation he seems genuinely distressed, not that any part of you doubted it - but it was comforting to hear the words leaving his mouth.

“if we’re to be married, i want you happy. comfortable. i don’t want you to feel bad because of me.” he explains.

“i just,, i want to work this out. i want us to talk more; tell me what makes you happy and what hurts you.” you reassure, holding onto the back of your chair as minho’s head hangs low. “i’m your wife, i want to hear all of that.” a small smile stretches across your mouth; it’s lopsided and a bit sad, but it’s there nonetheless, and the sound of your voice lets minho’s head rise as he meets your gaze once more.

he sees in you the beauty he sees across the room even as you just sit a few feet away from him. it’s overwhelming, suffocating; and part of him hates it a little bit for suffocating his heart in one swift swallow. you’re all encompassing and human - he’s learned self-control few could achieve, and yet even a few months into a marriage he didn’t agree to and he’s smitten. he wants to reach deep inside his chest and pull his heart out by it’s tethers, and apart of him wants to feel your love to the highest degree he could if just to be surrounded in heaven once more.

“were you lying then?” he pauses, hands wrung together. “when you said you loved me?” a small quirk in the corner of his mouth leaves your face and chest hot.

“i wasn’t lying.”

minho’s made home on your bed, lulled to his side as his pretty eyes wash over your face. you aren’t connected, in fact, you’re a little afraid to touch him - regardless of this fact, your wrist lifts to reach nimble fingers to his face, but you pause, your soft fingers retracting into your palm.

“touch me.” he needs. his hand cupping your own to bring to his face tenderly.

your face is flushed with a dusty pink, the feeling of his face beneath your touch lights the nerve endings in your palm alight. your brow quirks in thought, but not for a moment do you part with his sun-washed eyes.

“how did you become a vampire?” you ask quietly, your thumb strokes the soft skin beneath his eye, his hand stroking the back of your own.

“i was born into it. my family comes from a long blood-line of vampires.” you hum in response, taking a moment to study the wash of sun-like gold that overtakes your husband’s eyes. fractals of evening sun beam through the curtains in your bedroom, creating a soft sleepy haze in your room. dust is seen floating in the room in the portions of sun that reach into the room.

“you’re beautiful.” he beats you to it, realizing he too has been looking at you the entire time. you retract your hand nervously, a smile stretching across your face in sweet embarrassment. “thank you.”

“do you want to be one one day? or do you value your life?” he’s half joking, a floppy smirk on his lips as he sighs a laugh. you hum once more, looking to his mouth to see the slight glimpse of fangs visible to you.

“maybe. if it meant i got to spend more time with you, than yes.”

minho’s smirk widens, his eyes washing from your face to the curve of your jaw, to the drop of your neck. his mouth parts, his hand coming to the curve of your ribcage over your waist, his warm hand freezes you in place. he lowers his lips to the column of your neck, a lowly drunken gaze filtering over his face. “that could be arranged.” his breath meets the tender flesh of your neck before he presses your waist closer to your body, his soft lips meeting your neck in a single kiss.

𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓫𝓲𝓷.↴

“be careful on the job today.” you crane your neck out of the doorway of the kitchen to look at your husband as he tightens a holster around his thigh. he looks up for a moment, face momentarily stricken with something similar to surprise at your well wishes. he looks down a moment later, checks the clip of his pistol, and then shoves it into the holster. “i will. i’ll be back tonight.” the door closes sharply behind him and you’re left in the silence of your home yet again.

there’s a pool of melted ice on top of your coffee, you take a sip anyway, the palm of your hand now wet from the sweat off the glass. in truth, you were trying. very sternly trying to make your marriage work. but with circumstances of said marriage coupled with the dangerous reality of your lifestyles, it felt like your assumed fate was dwindling before your eyes - a thin bow ready to snap under pressure.

being born into crime wasn’t all good fellas or the godfather all the time - no. it was nasty business, some of which you came to regret but again this was the only life either of you knew, leaving the business would be impossible without a gun to your head. you persevered in the face of guilt anyway, not knowing fully how your husband felt about the situation. the sound of your phone ringing brings you out of your head for a moment, leaving you rolling your eyes at the sight of your mother’s name across the vibrating screen.

“yes?’’ your coffee tastes bitter now, too much water - you pour the contents into the sink as she begins talking.

“hey hun, there’s a job tomorrow that’s opened up. one of the boys got canned, we’ll pay his bail through an anonymous source but we have to wait a few days so the cops don’t catch on. you in?” your fingers tug a coffee filter out of it’s wooden box, stuffing it into the machine as you press a button on your grinder.

“mom,” your hand comes to your eyes, rubbing them tiredly. “i told you i was out of the dirty work. i’m doing that shit anymore. and i’m severely out of practice of doing anything hefty.” you explain, the grinder stops, you pour the grounds into the coffee machine. she sighs on the other end, her voice coming through more heated now - pressure started weighing on your shoulders. she says your name with a deadly tone, it leaves you feeling as though there’s a cold metal rod stiff in your back.

“why don’t you ever look out for this family? you think you can just leave and do the bare minimum when your father and i have slaved over making a good childhood for you?” and then you’d argue back and forth until you felt like ripping your hair out and you’d finally cave and you mom would end the call sharply and once again leave you in the silence of your home that was beginning to feel more like a prison.

when you heard the beep that ended the call, you tossed your phone to the couch and let your mind wander yet again - what else was there to do in your seemingly failing marriage and rocky relationship with your parents? you hadn’t many friends unless they were in the business, and that only counted for a few really close ones. you track around your kitchen with your fingers pushed into your hairline, and your mind wanders back to something she’d said on the phone a few weeks ago.

“we found you your husband, is that not good enough for you?”

you hadn’t even the energy to put up with audacity of that claim. so you ended the call and showered, but it still ate at you greatly - because no. no it wasn’t enough. changbin, as dedicated to the lifestyle as he was, and you respected him for his commitment, was terrible at showing you what he truly felt. most conversations were barely that, mostly exchanges if anything - and the few good times you’ve had together were truly the only thing keeping you around if it wasn’t for the godforsaken hope you managed to hold onto.

you saw the good in him - the good he was capable of, and every time you’d suffocate yourself in thought about being three months in and still not working together as a married couple should, you reminded yourself of this fact. it’s what kept you in, what drew you closer to him. because what could you both be? it’s already bad enough you have feelings for the guy and he clearly didn’t feel the same way.

“fuck,, what am i gonna do.” to clear your head you showered again, tying back your wet hair and slumming around the house until changbin arrived back home when you’d be drifting off to sleep. at least you had an opportunity to clean; and when the house was clean, you felt a bit better. you were correct about changbin returning late - you heard a long sigh as he entered your bedroom, the plop of a duffel bag could be heard. when you look at the time on your phone you see it’s just past three in the morning.

“how’d it go?” you ask tiredly from the bed, the bathroom light flickers on and he raises his head a bit. “oh i’m sorry i didn’t mean to wake you.”

“it’s okay. you okay?”

“yeah. yeah, everything went fine. what’d you do today?” you see the rings of exhaustion circling his eyes as he strips off his shirt and hides the smallest of winces.

you sigh heavily, rubbing your eyes as the sink begins to run. “i talked to my mom on the phone. doing a job tomorrow night. cleaned the house though.”

“what kind of job?” he asks as he starts the shower. you talk a bit louder so he can hear you over the sound of the spray. oh he wasn’t going to like the sound of this - these kinds of jobs were everyone’s least favorite in the business.

“there’s a warehouse on fifth, when you’re leaving the downtown area. apparently some guys are trafficking there. gotta take them out.”

“shit.. be careful. small time guys have been trying to make names of themselves.”

“i know, i will be.”

careful you were, but careful was not enough. those guys holed up in that warehouse with every corner covered, not only that, but with automatic weapons with full mags, dressed in black to blend with the shadows. the job was done, the victims released into promised care and with you aid in the following days, be returned to their families or brought to homes, but not without some wounds of your own. the guys dropped you off at the back of your house, granted it was past midnight but you couldn’t be too careful. your home was secluded - but what the law knew was unbeknownst to the organization in regards to this mission in particular.

you left your weapons in the van with the promise of getting them back the next day. “c-clean the blood off it for me, would you?” you grinned, shuffling from the van with your arm slung over your partner. you lean nearly fully into his weight as he aids you in finding your back door. you bang on the big sliding window before unlocking it, letting changbin know you were home.

“we gotta get the fuck outta here. you be careful yeah? call me tomorrow morning.” the driver calls before peeling away from your home. you nod, using the wall to stumble inside your house as the living room is suddenly flooded with light, and your husband walks out of your bedroom with his phone in hand and his brows furrowed.

“changbin,,” you push the door closed, leaving bloody handprints everywhere you touched.

“fuck- okay, okay, okay- it’s alright. come here.” his outstretched hands come to wrap your arm around his shoulders and stabilize on your waist as he helps you walk to your bathroom.

hot spots of pain blossom on your waist, ribs, and leg. it’s throbbing, all encompassing, and leaves your eyes watering when changbin’s palm presses a little harshly into your side. throughout the house your gasps and groans of pain are heard, changbin is working as diligently and carefully as he can to help you to the bathroom, only imagining how much you must be hurting.

“okay, okay- i’m gonna lay you on the floor okay?” he helps you rest along the floor after he’s put some towels down, and kneels by your side before grabbing the extensive first aid kit you kept in your bathroom. you nod, closing your eyes to focus on breathing, but every breath in hurts, and every exhale throbs your wounds.

“where are you hit?” he asks, you now notice his hands are tainted with your blood in just a few splotches. he rummages through the kit, reaching for the hem of your shirt as he cuts through your gear and clothing. “m-my sides, and,, one in my left leg.”

“alright. it’s gonna be okay - let’s get you sewn up. what happened?” he asks as a way of distracting you from how bad this was about to hurt. he pours some alcohol in his hands before barring your torso to his eyes, now seeing the festering wounds.

“t-they-” you laugh because it’s hurting so bad and your eyes are getting glossy as adrenaline leaves your body. “they had automatics… every one of them was geared the fuck up. and not only that but there must’ve been twenty,, twenty five of them and five of us.”

changbin’s head slowly shakes in disappointment that you were set up that badly for failure, his haw is tight - but he remains focused on the task at hand, cleaning you up. he lifts you up with one arm and helps you shred your arms of your sleeves completely, focusing now on the wound near your ribs. “why’d they send you in with only five people? did they want you to die? fuck.”

“seems like it.” you chuckle, his hand stabilizes before he reaches into your wound with medical pliers to grab the bullet still embedded in you. your grip tightens on the towels beneath you, eyes now swimming with tears as you groan at the feeling of the tug of the pliers.

“i know, i know. you’re doing good though, talk about something. tell me about the job or- your favorite music or something.” his hands dip into a bowl of water, returning to your wound to clean you from blood and put some pressure on the wound.

“the job was shit, but,, the guys are gone. all the victims are safe and i’ll work on paper work to get them home tomorrow.” he hums, nodding. he puts a bit of topical numbing around the wound before grabbing sutures to close the open wound. “as far as music,” you laugh to yourself again, your gaze focused on the ceiling. “you trying to get to know me? didn’t think you cared so much for that.”

his hands pause. then lower. he looks at you with a kind of genuinity you didn’t expect from the man you called your husband. “of course i care. you’re my wife.”

“you’re always so focused on the work, on your job. you’re gone a lot. i can tell you care about the organization i just,, i don’t know. i always hoped you’d care for us too.”

he frowns a bit, his gaze is focused back to his hands as he threads the string more diligently through the needle. he’s paused, he has a focused expression and you can tell when you look at him he’s thinking - part of you hopes you haven’t stumped him, or made him uncomfortable - maybe you did hold out too much hope.

“i do care about us. about you. i always figured since we were arranged to be married that you wouldn’t want much to do with me.” when he returns to working on your wound you wince, eyes closing tight. he apologizes quietly, but it’s over quicker than you expected.

“i want everything to do with you, silly. you’re my husband. i want this to work between us if we’re going to be married.” your eyes are still watery and the throbbing hasn’t subsided - you wonder if part of this is delusion since your filter has seemingly disappeared in the face of pain.

he smiles, softly. “i’m sorry that i’ve made you feel that way, and hey-” his hand reaches for yours, the one that bears the ring he gifted you on the day you were married. your eyes meet his as your head lulls to the side, you grasp onto his hand as if he’d stabilize you - and he does. “i do care about you. genuinely.”

you squeeze his hand, the wash of tears that drowned your eyes from pain spill finally. “i care about you too.”

“don’t cry, silly. i’m almost done, let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

after changbin coaches you through treating your wounds, he runs you a quick bath and helps you wash the dirt and sweat from your hair. it felt strange to say you felt an overwhelming trust to him - but maybe that was just the energy he exuded. he helps you to bed, and quickly showers off himself before laying next to you.

his arm wraps around you, and the pain in your side has dulled from the medicine he made you take after closing up your wounds and cleaning them. your head rests on his chest comfortably. “you never answered my question about music.” he says suddenly.

“i’ll play you all my faves tomorrow morning when you cook me breakfast because i got shot.” you grin cheekily against him.

“deal.”

𝓱𝔂𝓾𝓷𝓳𝓲𝓷.↴

“i am to be his wife.” there was no expression in the gaze you cast your parents, hands folded neatly in front of you, ever obedient in the face of nobility. before your eyes, in the face of your youth your life of freedom ever awaiting your embrace is taken from you and shackled. your life is to be given to a man you didn’t know, and when shoved his own in your hands you feel the pulse of forgotten life in your palms. there was more to say other than you didn’t want this, there was more words you could sputter in anger at your parents, other screams and cries for this to not happen, yet you swallow, let your eyes gloss over, and prepare a wedding in the following year to a man you’d meet only once before promising forever to him.

across from you at the altar he stood jaw tight, eyes glassy yet lifeless. when the wedding guests settled and your father handed you off to the prince’s hands, you breathed deep in an attempt to conceal the building tears that sparkled in your eyes. officiant you didn’t know, in the sea of people commending your marriage you knew few faces, and he spoke vows because of remembrance not because of promise. when he lifted the veil from your eyes to look at you, he for a moment faltered and his lips flattened.

you kissed him because you had to. and you slept beside him that night because you had to.

in marriage, you always imagined that life would blossom with a spark of light. as a seal to two people’s testament of their love it would grow into something truly beautiful - it would drink in the sun, bathe in the rain, paint its colors on pages and tell its story on lips through decades. as a young girl, the idea of one day marrying someone that loved you was thrilling to say the least. it was pure; and good. and every notion, every dream, every promise to your life you’d made, was stripped from you in a single evening.

you’d rise from bed when the maids would wake you to dress. you’d be dressed beside your husband, wearing the rings that testified your union, and would watch over the kingdom that would be given to your hands one day.

there was no use in trying, not even from the start.

but you wanted to love him. oh you terribly wanted to love him.

beside him you’d sleep - watching the curvature of his heart shaped lips, the breathing his body exuded - existence. how you were his without him even knowing. only in this state could you see him, really see him. the sprawl of his hair on the pillow before it was to be tied back that morning upon your wake. beautiful he was. when his eyes fluttered open, he wet his lips and you heard him speak - for the first time it felt as though it was to you.

“i’m sorry.”

for the entire rest of the day you spent in a haze in your own head.

two months have gone by, and you were achingly in love with him. but you couldn’t say the same for him; his headspace was unknown. you shared a great castle together, a smaller one just outside the village as your parents lived inside the city walls in the palace, but home felt like a restraint on you. nothing was sacred.

when you spoke, it was matters of business and a shred of the time was talk of personal matters. the only truth you spoke to hyunjin was in the hours before he’d wake when sleep would leave you too early. you tuck your folded hands together under your pillow, your eyes washing over his face as he slept. upon your movement, he turned to his side, his broad shoulders creating lines of his body beneath his sleep shirt. part of you wanted to reach out, to wrap your arms around him and tell him you believed in the both of you, but your thoughts still to silence.

“i wish you cared for me, in the way i care for you.” you mumble quietly.

“but i cannot say it yet. you’re a shadow; yet you’re sorry. i’m so confused in my love for you.”

that’s when he turned over, his eyes open. the maids walk in a second later and your wide eyes glance to them. they pause in their steps, looking between the both of you. had he heard you? surely not. you push yourself onto your elbows as he speaks to the maids, his own hands planted firmly in the mattress.

“i can dress her.”

they quickly excuse themselves after, mumbling as they leave the room hurriedly. the room stills, you’re left in the wake of his words with confusion bubbling through your head and your face suddenly flushed. he stands without another word as they’ve left the room, moving to the closet to fetch your under clothes, corset, and gown for the day.

“hyunjin,” you speak softly.

“i care greatly for you. i do, but-”

you swallow, still sitting on the bed with your legs curled beneath the covers. “you cannot dress me.” you hold a hand to pause him in his movements as he approaches with your day clothes in hand. he swallows, “you’re my wife. i can dress you. if you’d let me.”

hwang hyunjin was one of the most beautiful men you’d ever seen, and this he knew as well - yet the cool confidence he usually carried on his shoulders, in his handshakes, and in his voice, had dissipated. he looked at you with darting eyes that searched your own for the answers he needed, his hands gripped your dress tight.

his hand stretches out to you, offerance of aid. you look to his palm, the gentle length of his fingers, and find his exuding energy welcoming - so you take his hand. it’s warm as your skin washes over his own, his hands were smooth and embracing, and you stand before him with a sharp intake of breath.

“i’ve made you feel this way,” he begins, beginning to untie the laces that hang from the neck of your night dress. there’s a great deal of nerve vibrating through your body at the prospect of him dressing you, but regardless you let him in the wake of his tenderness. and if it meant a moment you could share closer to him - you’d take it.

“you only speak your feelings to me when you think i’m asleep.” at that your breath stills, panic settles in quietly to your bones.

“i-i’m sorry i-” “you have no need to apologize, it’s me. i’ve made you feel this way. and i’m sorry.” when your dress is removed, he kneels at your feet to gather it before letting you step into your under dress. you rest your hand on his shoulder for balance to do so.

“in truth, i can’t tell you why i love you.” he says, his hands working to tie your second layer skirt around your waist, once it’s firm and not uncomfortable, you turn your head to look at him with glossy eyes. “you cannot say such things to me and not mean it. you can’t.”

“i know i haven’t shown it, but it’s true, that i promise you.” with that, he gently guides your arms through the holes of your corset, and begins lacing it, leaving your eyes drowning in tears as your lips tremble.

“you-you haven’t shown it. how am i to know you love me or that i love you when we hardly have a relationship. you’re my husband, i want to love you as one.” you gasp as he pulls the strings to tighten it, his palm laying flat on your back as he tugs once more.

“it’s a promise i make now, to show you i do indeed love you. i want you to tell me when you’re hurting, i want to help, i want to grow with you.” his hands lay along your waist as your corset is tightened. when he rounds you, seeing your eyes fogged over, his heart pangs with guilt.

“i’m sorry, truly. that i have made you feel this way. but please, know my promise is true.” his hands come to gather yours in his grip.

you nod, wiping your face for a moment as you lift your gaze to look at him. “then i’ll tell you. i’ll tell you whatever you want to hear. i want to work to make this kingdom a happy place for our people, we must work together in that regard.”

hyunjin listens, strokes his thumbs across the backs of your hands and you speak for a while longer on your marriage, how you’re both willing to work to make your love make sense, how you wish to be a unit in making the kingdom a place of happiness for your people. he prepares for the day, wearing an outfit the same shade of off-white as your own with his long dark hair tied back into a bun.

he offers his arm to you before you both leave your bedroom, smiling softly. “thank you for talking to me.” he says, opening the door for you. “thank you for listening and talking as well. it feels nice to have this weight lifted.”

“i agree.”

sorry if hyunjin's is written weird i was listening to cornfield chase by hans zimmer and got lost in the sauce.

3K notes · View notes

heeliopheelia · 4 months

Note

hoon and backshots?

im on it 🫡 NSFW CONTENT BELOW ! ! !

omg i dont know if i already said that but hoon is such an ass guy - change my mind no u won’t

so, naturally, backshots just fit him so well (｡>\\<)

i always pin him as the type to always have control in the bedroom

he loves how easy everything is to just grab onto from this position, his hands are all over you, gripping and slapping any chance he gets

also the way your ass ripples against his pelvis makes him go crazyy

and let me get that straight, if he ain't cumming in you, he's doing it on your ass

“Yeah, that’s it. S’ good for me.”

Your face burns as the force of his thrusts shoves you further and further onto the bed that soon you’re burying your face in your soft sheets, moaning and whining, completely surrendered to all that he is.

With your warm pussy engulfing him so nicely, Sunghoon throws his head back a little as sweat starts trickling down his neck. His hand comes down to strike your ass once, then squeezes the reddening skin for good measure, basking in the sound of your mewls.

“Get back here, baby,” he pants, biting back a smirk as he takes in your sprawled out self for a moment longer. Then, leaning forward and wrapping his arm under your waist, he hoists you back up on your knees until your back is pressed flush to his chest.

His hips piston fast into you, smacking against your behind with lewd claps and making your head spin. Sunghoon doesn’t let any of the sounds from your pretty pink lips go past his attention, big hands gripping your hips firmer and tugging you into him even further.

He nudges your cheek with his nose and you can feel his heavy breathing on your skin. “You’re so pretty like that,” he murmurs before nibbling at the tip of your ear. “Gonna make you even prettier.”

#carly's gossip center (✿˵╹∀╹˵)(╹∀╹˵❁)#nonnies 🗝₊˚⊹♡#enhypen #enhypen x reader #enhypen hard hours #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon smut #park sunghoon hard hours #sunghoon hard hours #sunghoon hard thoughts #sunghoon headcanons #enhypen headcanons

739 notes · View notes

seiwas · 10 months

Text

₊˚⊹。these traces of love, they outline you | gojo satoru

wc: 12.9k

summary: the 5 times gojo’s sure you’ve changed his life + the 1 time he hopes to change yours.

contains: f!reader, pronoun she, 18+ nsfw (not super explicit but the act is there), symptoms similar to synesthesia, reader’s cursed technique, sparring, drunk call, pet names (cutie, silly, pretty, baby, loml), nervous feelings, tummy ache, food descriptions, surprise appearance of one character, emotional tears!!, internal thoughts and insecurities.

a/n: primarily in gojo's pov! & best read if you’ve gone through the other parts in the series! (lots of callbacks and references + better context!), lots of songs as inspo (would gladly share if you’re curious!), will add descriptions for the food in the a/n at the bottom!, from conceptualisation to actual writing this piece is my baby!!

collection masterlist: conversations on love +04b (extra). if you're ready (let me) <- you are here

MINORS PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT.

Gojo thinks he might pass out.

There’s a feeling of unease sitting deep in his gut, nervous and gurgling. His hands have always been restless and fidgety but never this sweaty, and his head feels like it’s floating—even more than that first time he attempted a 24-hour stint on keeping up Infinity.

It’s eerily quiet in his office as he waits for your meeting to end, the white colon on his digital clock taunting him as it flicks on and off—16:27. 3 more minutes until you finish.

He paces around the room.

Attempts at any distraction are thwarted when everywhere he looks, he’s reminded of you. There’s a photo hanging by the door, the mix-and-match of couch cushions in varying hues—all souvenirs you’ve given him from places you’ve been to. The coffee table books hold your touch too, and as he runs his hand over his face. he’s hit with that signature scent, clean and subtle from the hand cream you use.

Waiting in his office today has been absolute torture, but what’s made it more excruciating is the fact that he knows you’re aware of absolutely nothing.

To you, this is just like every other Friday.

You’d done your usual morning routine, kissed him on the nose with the promise to meet him in his office after work, as you always do. And it feels like a big joke when he thinks about it now, because while he’s been on edge this entire day about it, you really have no clue what’s coming.

To him, this could change everything with you.

He’s been feeling it for a while now, the ripple effect of loving and being loved by you—how he can recall every time a single drop of you has shifted something deep within him, marked and colored you.

There’s not a lot that Gojo wants now that he feels like he truly has it all, but when he thinks about all the times he’s sure you’ve changed his life, he hopes that with this one thing, he can change yours.

1 — UNDER YOUR TOUCH, WHEN IT GETS TOO MUCH

The weather today is good—sunlight peeking behind cloud pillows and the occasional gust of wind passing through the space you’ve put between you and Gojo. It’s neither too humid nor too dry and though Gojo does get the occasional sniffle from his pollen allergies around this time, he woke up earlier completely fine.

So, the weather today is good, perfect even, for a brush-up on sparring practice.

You’ve kept a sizable distance away from him since it started, and every attempt he’s made to draw nearer, you’ve only moved away farther—a push-and-pull, an old dynamic that shows itself in the ways you engage in battle.

Gojo’s hands stay tucked in his pockets, his stance one you know perfectly well as relaxed but still guarded. He’s gotten a lot bulkier than the days you used to spar often, the past few years having filled in all the areas of what used to be slim, lean muscle. He doesn’t move because he knows the style you fight with, how you stay on defense until your opponent charges, utilizing their own strength against them.

It’s the only way you’ve managed to win against someone as deadly as Gojo, equal-parts lethal in speed and strength.

So when a cluster of clouds pass by and the sun glares directly into your eyes, Gojo smirks, then bends his knees as he lunges for an attack.

Your senses are sharp and reflexes quick; in the split second that a white-and-black blur appears before you, you attempt a high kick, only for it to be blocked with his forearm. He uses his other hand to twist around your ankle, trying to flip you over, but you see right through his motives. You huff, furrowing your brows as you narrowly escape, slipping your ankle out before he can fully grab a hold of it.

Most of this practice has felt like a stalemate, with the both of you waiting on the other for the most part of the hour. Gojo can see how it’s wearing you down, this entire thing being dragged out, and if he’s being honest—this is exactly what he wants.

Sparring out here with you today, while still meant for actual training, is also just an excuse to do this for old time’s sake—the way you huff and frown, jaw clenched as your fists ball up tightly like you’re doing right now.

He kind of misses seeing you like this, impatient and frustrated, so unlike the tenderness you always regard him with.

A smile threatens to form on his lips, and he bites it back down.

You only ever get like this sparring against him.

The tension breaks when you decidedly throw a punch; it’s a desperate attempt to get the fight moving but he ducks, arm securing itself around your waist as he locks your hip with his. Before you can even comprehend, your body is lifted across his back and lowered down to the grass below—the only thing in sight being two blue skies, beaming at you.

Somewhere during the commotion, he managed to remove his blindfold, hair let loose, fluffy and white almost like the clouds above you. Gojo isn’t taking this seriously at all; he’s way too soft, having cushioned your fall by carrying most of your weight instead of throwing you down like anyone seriously sparring is supposed to.

He doesn’t care though. All he really wanted this afternoon was to reminisce with you.

You’re kept underneath him, one of his arms remains wrapped around your waist while the other cradles the back of your head—and it’s there, that frown on your face, that pout he’s witnessed for years evolve into what it is now. Beads of sweat collect at the crease between your brows, your temples tensing as you breathe out.

Gojo at 17 would have teased you relentlessly for this, but he feels different now, warmth settling in his chest as he stares; he can’t help it, the words coming out of his mouth—

“You’re so—”

But he doesn’t even get to finish.

Everything around him blurs, green and blue blending in motion before he finds himself on his back, completely flipped over. He’s met with the sight of you, smug smile pulled wide with your hands resting on his chest. And his heart—

Can you feel it under your fingertips? How it’s beating a mile a minute?

A shiver runs down his spine, the pinpricks of grass tickling the nape of his neck. The shock is tingling, his eyes fully open as he processes what just occurred.

In the lapse of time he’d been a little too preoccupied staring at you, you managed to inch your leg to wrap around his, locking it at the last minute to flip him over—it lands you where you are now, on his lap, straddling his hips.

“Sneaky.” he gazes fondly, grin teasing.

You catch your breath, “Do I win?”

“Only because I let you get too close this time.”

Which is a lie, he knows, because having you near him like this, with some form of touching—you could never be close enough.

You roll your eyes, his fingers grabbing hold of your thighs. The grass pricks at your knees through the fabric of your leggings, and Gojo knows that if you stay like this any longer, it’s going to start to itch.

“Did I hurt you anywhere?” you ask, already assessing him for any point of injury. Your eyes go over his face before trailing down his arms, rarely exposed today in his black compression shirt.

“Yeah,” he pouts, pointing to his lips, all pink and puckered out, “kiss it better?”

Asking for this is against his better judgment, he’s aware; with the way you’re situated on his lap, this could escalate into something else entirely. You shake your head, swatting at his chest. His grip on your thighs loosens as you get off him, but the curl of your lips is extremely telling.

As you stand up to dust your knees, Gojo gazes at you fondly. The sun hides behind you from where you tower over him, but the halo effect around your head is just as blinding.

“Lie down with me,” he pats the space beside him. You quirk your brow but follow anyway.

He requests, not asks, because the weather today is good, and it’s making him a little bit sentimental, remembering earlier days with you.

You lie down, positioning your head to align with his. And for a few moments, Gojo doesn’t speak, just looks at you once and smiles before turning to face the sky, hand placed behind his head as he sighs.

You do the same for a while, this shared silence warm and just right.

“So rude,” he jokingly tuts, “interrupting me while I was talking earlier…”

“You shouldn’t have been so distracted then,” you tease back, sneaking a glance only to lock eyes with two skies.

He wonders if you can tell—how he’s always looking at you in the stolen seconds before you notice him.

“Well, you shouldn't have been so distracting then,” he holds your gaze.

It’s incredibly cheesy but a part of you still feels like melting—he sounds so sincere; no lilt, no tease, no Gojo-typical flirting laced into it.

You scrunch your nose, shifting on your side to face him, the arm used to support your head now resting against your cheek. He follows, taking one last look around him before turning to you. His other hand rests on your hip, fingers splayed out while his thumb draws hearts on fabric.

You reach for him.

The gesture is small, just your finger running across his cheek, but it nudges something in him—a memory of you and how you’ve always touched him like this: softly, kindly.

“Remember when you used to do this?” he takes your hand, long and lithe fingers wrapping around yours as he guides them over his ear.

Your eyes widen in recognition and he blinks, taking you in as he stares, “Wanna do it now?”

Concern reveals itself in the furrow of your brows, “Is it hurt—”

“No,” he chuckles, already knowing what you’re about to say.

The last time you did this for him, he didn’t even have to ask. One look and you knew—it’d been the night of his final conversation with Suguru. His skull-splitting migraine ensued after bickering with Shoko on what to do with the body. You were there; you heard everything, and when she gave up arguing and left, there was only one thing you could do.

With his head on your lap by his office couch, you tuned out the sounds.

He doesn’t prefer you using your cursed technique this way; it takes a considerable amount of your cursed energy to focus its effects solely on another body—and frankly, it’s a waste of time for you to spend all of that on him, at least in his opinion, personally.

You’d struggled a lot with your technique back in high school, having to learn how to fully manipulate different sonic hues: white noise, brown noise, any and all of it in the entire spectrum. Being able to amplify, distort, reduce, and isolate them into their respective hues covers only the bare minimum when it comes to understanding your technique.

It’s tedious work, and when one of your senses holds so much more power over the others, the information that flows through it can be overwhelming, overloaded even. Sorting through all that noise—he gets it, gets you, and how it must hurt too.

And yet you, at 17, still figuring out how to grasp it all, came knocking on his door when you noticed he hadn’t come for dinner. Quietly, you placed your hands over his ears and selflessly offered your discomfort for his relief.

The first time you did this for him, you’d only heard of his migraines from Shoko. You witnessed it yourself when he opened his door and looked so unlike himself: blindfold secured tightly but haphazardly, strands of hair sticking out oddly; his room seemed to be blacked out completely.

Gojo Satoru is no stranger to sensations beyond what any human should be subjected to, but when you laid your hands on him that day, cursed energy tickling his ears as it flowed through your fingertips—he’d never felt more normal, more human to be able to hear things without conjuring a visual of it.

It’s almost like you silenced his mind—enough to hear himself, and you, and the buzz of the white noise you’d amplified to flow through him in his blacked out room.

You’ve gotten a lot better at controlling it now, the task in itself barely causing you any ache or struggle at all.

“Just like old times,” he nudges you.

So you keep your hand where he’s left it, covering his ear with your palm as your fingers rest on his temples. Cursed energy flows from your touch, all sounds drowning out.

He keeps his eyes on yours, watching as your expression shifts with every sonic hue you focus on—an upgrade to your abilities the more you’d gotten the hang of it.

You concentrate hard for white noise, creating your own mix to emulate radio static, transitioning out to green noise the moment you highlight the sound of birds chirping. Then, you ease it to brown noise, intensifying the soft whistles of the wind to mimic it.

It’s weird how sentimental he’s been feeling lately—without any trigger or anything, but the more he leans into your palm, the more it gets him thinking.

Touch had begun as extremely foreign to him—a god revered and valued but never really truly loved, untouchable with infinity, and the pedestal he’s always stood on.

It was never supposed to be important to him.

Until you.

From your kindness that first day, and the many more that followed: of fingers brushing and hand-holding to breaths mingling and bodies moulding, moving—you’ve always touched him in ways no one else has, in places no one’s been able to reach.

And if it wasn’t important then, completely foreign, it’s important now, so much that he looks for it everywhere, all the time, even. The way you scratch the short bristles of his undercut, fingers dragging down to the nape of his neck; the way you tap his collarbone thrice, run your fingers across his lip, and intertwine your fingers with his at random.

When Gojo thinks about your touch, he thinks about how gentle it is, with intent and purpose. How it’s always been careful for him but never of him, and that’s made the biggest difference.

He blinks, and you follow two times, focusing on him.

All he hears is a heartbeat now, a little too fast to be at rest, but still steady and grounding—

The way he feels when he’s with you.

Whether it’s his or yours, from your cursed technique or just the blood rushing in his ears, he knows this is pink noise, the one you’d so excitedly shown him when you first mastered it.

The pink noise that resounded all throughout his twenty-somethings, when he first realized that you meant more to him than what you were.

2 — WHEN YOU CALL MY NAME

The bed feels cold tonight.

Gojo’s been staring at the lights on his ceiling for the past 30 minutes, and though his pillow is cool and blanket soft, he’s wide awake—nowhere near falling asleep any time soon.

He shifts to the side, the space beside him taunting, empty.

He misses you.

For the past week, you’ve been off to a much-needed girls trip with Shoko and Utahime. He’d even offered to pay for the entire accommodation—to which you and Utahime declined, while Shoko shrugged, crossing her arms as she snorted, “If he really wants. At least he’s being useful.”

You’d compromised and agreed that he could pay for an evening out in some nightclub.

Now, he regrets it. A little bit. Maybe.

Gojo’s bed is big, a king-size that fits the height of him and all his long limbs, and while it’s comfortable and spacious–supposed good things–he feels anything but comfortable in how spacious and vacant it now feels.

He turns to the other side, facing his sidetable instead.

The digital clock reads 01:17 and he sighs; you still have a few days left.

The next time you bring up being away for this long, he’s going with you. Even if he has to spend the entire day on his own, he’ll do it—as long as he gets to end it next to you.

If he’s really thinking about it, nothing’s stopping him from teleporting there right now. He could hop in quick, give you a hug, hopefully a kiss, and maybe even get lucky if you allow him to steal you for the night. He’ll teleport you right back in the morning and it’ll be like you never left, even.

He could do it. You can never resist him when he gives you his googly eyes.

If you’re already back from—

Bzz bzz. His phone vibrates.

He reaches for it over his night stand, instantly sitting up once he reads that it’s from you—the nickname he just recently changed your contact to.

(It was always just your name, simple and straightforward, easy to find; when you return, he’s probably going to change it back because you prefer it that way—for safety purposes and everything.

But while he still can, he’s going to keep it like this: a petname with an obnoxious string of emojis that he associates with you).

1:20 a.m.

cutie 💞🥺☁️🌸✨

> satoourur are u awaeke??

The corner of his lips curl up, endeared at the image of you hunched over your phone, fingers slipping as you clumsily press the wrong letters. So cute.

1:21 a.m.

< yes cutie? ( ˘ ³˘) 💕

1:21 a.m.

cutie 💞🥺☁️🌸✨

> casll?

He stares at it for a good minute or two, trying to decipher this rare, drunken code from you. But before he gets the chance to respond, your face appears on his screen, a photo of you he’d taken months ago, mid-chew special Daifuku.

You’re calling.

He grins, biting his lower lip. His feet slip inside the house slippers by the side of his bed as he gets up, swiping his phone to answer before holding it against his ear.

“Miss me already?” he teases, padding out of his bedroom.

“Satoruuu,” you drawl. Definitely drunk, if not tipsy.

Even like this though, Gojo aches when he hears you speak; there’s a twinge that pokes at his ribcage, making him wish he was right next to you.

The music around you sounds muffled, almost as if you’d stepped out just to make this call—another thought that makes him ache.

He walks down the hall towards his kitchen and stops, realizing: if you stepped out of the club, does this mean you’re alone? He trusts you can take care of yourself, but if you’re this inebriated…

“Are you with Shoko and Utahime?” he asks casually, attempting to mask his worry. His hand digs deeper into his pocket, shifting his weight to his other foot.

“‘Nside.” you slur.

You don’t actually sound that drunk, more sleepy if anything, really, but his heart still picks up pace. Maybe he should just go to you already.

“You should go to them,” he urges, continuing his walk to the kitchen.

“M’be later,” you sigh, and he hears a bit of rustling on your end—a soft curse and a small thud, “w’na talk t’you.”

Another ache.

He can picture it: you, in some sidestreet, phone clutched to your ear as you tuck your hair back before sighing, legs buckling as you clumsily drop down to sit.

“Oh?” he lilts, eyebrow lifting. A smirk forms on his lips, head tilting as he wedges his phone between his neck and shoulder. He reaches for his refrigerator, “Got something to tell me, pretty?”

He doesn’t really know what he’s expecting you to say, maybe a recount of your day, or something funny that he’s bound to laugh at, whatever it is.

“Just miss you.”

He wasn’t expecting you to say this—

—in an exhale, with a slight tremble, like it’s been waiting to be let out. Vulnerable.

There’s another ache, and he nearly drops the water bottle.

He should really just go to you.

His phone nearly slips from his neck, the thump of his heartbeat on rampage as he readjusts it.

He swallows, “I miss you too.”

And it’s odd, how it sounds when he says it, a bit shaky too. A stillness settles in the room and it echoes off every kitchen equipment and countertop. He can’t even get himself to tease you for this one.

“I can go there now, if you want.” he offers, almost a whisper, before attempting a chuckle. It comes out flat, tinted a little sad, “Blink twice and I’ll be there when you open your eyes.”

You giggle on the other end, and it fills him in this moment.

When he looks around his apartment now, steel finish and walls accented black, the backsplash of his kitchen a grayish hue of iron—it reminds him of luxury fit for a bachelor, sleek in its utility.

He’s lived here since his mid-twenties, and he likes how it’s designed, the colors and feel of it right up his alley. The furniture remains simple, modern and minimalist, filling the spaces of his open floor plan down to the two bedrooms and office space.

But right now, it feels so empty.

“Silly,” you chuckle, he can hear your grin forming, affection dripping, “my silly baby.”

Now his heart really aches.

The subtle static makes you sound unreal, strung together by radio waves; it’s rare enough for you to call him ‘baby’, and for you to say it when he can’t even see or hold you while you do it—it’s cruel; a test of his restraint.

He rests his back against the kitchen counter, arm coming across his chest to rest under his elbow, supporting the one holding his phone–you–by his ear. His teasing is softer tonight, tinged by yearning, so he hums, “Your silly baby, huh? Any chance it could be your silly ‘Toru instead?”

The way he says ‘‘Toru’ is a pitch lower, slower, and exaggeratingly more seductive in his banter; it’s what you call him in bed, or by accident, and in the moments you find yourself needing him in ways he can only satisfy by being your lover.

If you say it, he’s definitely going to teleport himself over.

You giggle again.

“S’that your fav’rite one?” you mumble, words blending together. He can imagine your cheek smushed against your knee, arms curled around your legs as you sit on concrete, “‘‘Toru?’”

When he thinks about it, you aren’t too big on his nicknames—at least, not as much as he is with you. You only call him three things: baby (which truthfully, he had to convince you to), ‘Toru (first whispered in the moment, heat fueling it), and Satoru (since you were 16, weighted and grounding throughout all the years you’ve known him).

Is ‘‘Toru’ his favorite?

For obvious reasons, maybe.

But—

“I like everything you call me,” he smirks, shifting his weight.

“Sweet-talker.”

He closes his eyes, head tilting back as he leans further—and he swears, he can see you, the image of you rolling your eyes and scrunching your nose seared into his eyelids.

God damn, he really misses you.

“You love it,” he murmurs.

A beat. He hears the faint honk of a car before you drown it out, sighing.

“I do,” you whisper, admittance ringing in his ears, “I love you, Satoru.”

He hears this all the time, but tonight it just aches; the way you say things so sincerely, so honestly even in an inebriated state—how you call him Satoru and it’s still weighted, still grounding, like who he is resides right there, in the softness of your lips.

Gojo’s always been relevant but when you call him Satoru, he feels more than just the name.

If you’re asking about his favorite, he thinks this might be it—in every handwritten note you leave, his name scrawled in your hybrid of semi-print-semi-cursive letters; in every call you pick up, opening always with a ‘Satoru?’, end pitched higher, sweet and curious.

“C’n I tell you somethin’?” you ask (even when you don’t need to, even when he’s already listening).

“Let me guess, Utahime has a travel ick and Shoko—”

“Satoru.” you scold, rolling your eyes, but there’s no bite. The next bit you say under your breath, a little fragile, “‘M serious.”

The nervousness sits in his stomach; this conversation feels significant.

He takes a seat on his barstool.

“Listening.”

For a while, it’s only your breathing; knowing you, you’re probably thinking, crafting what to say carefully.

You sigh again, and—

“I worry sometimes,” you admit.

He furrows his brows, “About?”

“That maybe bein’ with me’s a lil’ boring?”

And this… this aches in a different way.

How can you even think that?

You chuckle anxiously; he can bet you’re biting your lips, a habit you’ve picked up from him.

He rests an elbow on his kitchen island, leaning onto it as he tilts his phone closer to his ear.

“Apologize right now,” he commands, sternness making him feel a little guilty, “that’s the person I love you’re slandering.”

But you only laugh, real and more relaxed, nervousness dissipating.

“My bad, my bad,” you play along before mumbling, “‘m just sayin’, there’re lotsa others who are more everythin’ y’know?”

He wonders what’s got you thinking like this, if it’s triggered by seeing people at the club, perhaps younger and far livelier—how you spent those years of your life exorcizing curses and making a home for two kids.

“So what? They’re still not you.”

And he means it, genuinely.

Your breath hitches and he grins, swinging around on the bar stool.

Those years of youth were still fun, he thinks, and it’s precisely because of you—how you’d made the apartment the four of you stayed in as fun and homely as a teen barely pushing twenty could.

You had your fair share of mishaps and adventures—rushed breakfasts and Megumi’s ‘my dog ate my homework’s. Tsumiki had to miss a day of school once because you accidentally booked her a birthday gift trip to Disneyland on a weekday.

(And he got scolded a lot, ‘Satoru’ exhaled with a look. But it would only last a few moments; you can never stay mad at him, no matter how hard you try).

There was no way you and Gojo had the maturity and responsibility of actual parents (maybe more like inexperienced guardians, really), but you tried your hardest to give Megumi and Tsumiki a home.

Home, what he’s beginning to realize reminds him of you.

He looks around him now, at the details of his interior, and begins to think of yours—your apartment, a little more wooden and lived-in; there’s a lot more wear but also a lot more love, never empty like his feels right now.

“If being with you was so boring, I wouldn’t be itching to go to you right now.” he confesses, fiddling with the string of his sweatpants.

You laugh again before it falls into comfortable silence.

Muffled conversations and the occasional beep sound in your background. There’s a couple giggling around you and he thinks that could be the two of you—if only he were with you.

“Satoru,” you call him softly.

He hums, letting it sink in—the way you say his name, distinct in how you stress his consonants despite the softness around his vowels.

When you say ‘Satoru’, it always feels targeted, speaking straight to who he is.

“‘M so happy it’s you,” you whisper shyly, but it’s bright—unmistakably smiling, the visual of your eyes crinkling.

He doesn’t know what’s gotten into you tonight, drunken affection and vulnerable confessions, but there’s that ache again, and all he wants to do is go to you, hold you. Be with you.

For a while, Gojo’s been resigned to the fact that there are some things he can’t give you: how you’ll never know true peace because he’ll always be linked to jujutsu society; how choosing him means choosing the tumultuous, the unpredictable.

And while you’ve already told him that you prefer this life with him better, for you to say you’re happy, that it’s him—

He’s thankful it’s you, too.

Tears collect at his lash line, pools of gratitude, “I love you.”

“Hmm? you’re coverin’ the mic w’your double-chin,” you joke, just to hear him say it again, he knows.

(There’s no way he has a double-chin from how you complain about his jawline being too sharp all the time).

“I love you.” he repeats, louder, steadier, pressing it into his phone’s microphone.

He’ll repeat it again as many times as you want him to.

You giggle and he echoes it—like that couple from earlier, your own version.

The clock reads 02:47, and he normally doesn’t like being up this late, barely getting enough sleep as is. But if you’re the reason why, he doesn’t mind staying awake.

3 — TUCKED IN BED, WHEN I LIE CORRECTED

“Satoru, you can’t keep eating sweets on an empty stomach.”

He turns beside you, the dull rumbling of the Shinkansen hardly masking how loudly he asks, “Why not?”

An old man seated across the aisle looks your way, grumpy by the folds between his brows—as if he’d been woken up by Gojo’s whining. You bow your head slightly in apology.

It’s been an early day so far, with you and Gojo catching the first train out from Kyoto to Tokyo. Departing at 06:14 doesn’t exactly leave room for food stops, so all you have are the two water bottles handed out from yesterday’s meeting and a pack of (now) half-eaten Hi-Chew that Gojo picked up from the convenience store last night.

“You’ll get a stomach ache.” you whisper, with emphasis.

He fiddles with the stick of Hi-Chew, tossing it between his fingers before popping one piece out.

The seats in the Shinkansen are spacious enough for Gojo to stretch his long, gangly legs, but despite all the free room in your row, he’s chosen to encroach on your space, sticking to you shoulder-to-shoulder.

“Nonsense,” he tilts his face, sunglasses sliding a few centimeters down the bridge of his nose, “I do this all the time.”

And his eye, clear and bright blue amidst the morning haze zipping past the windows of the train, winks at you.

Heat warms your cheeks; it’s too early for this.

The moment you look away, hiding your smile, he knows he’s got you.

Or not.

Because you seem to have gotten him—

—tucked in bed, nursing this stomach ache that could have been avoided if he just listened.

To be fair, he does do it all the time: a few candies, sometimes gummies first thing in the morning, last thing at night. So he’s right, it’s nonsense; he probably got this from something else.

(Even when you’d both eaten the same meals—how you always order to share because you like tasting a little bit of everything).

Which is why, you insist it’s from the sweets, his beloved Hi-Chew to be specific. And though he wants to, he can’t argue much when he’s curled into a fetal position, clutching his stomach while writhing in bed.

“I made you tea,” you stand by your bedside, holding out your mug—small cereals patterned all over it.

He opens an eye, hair mussed up from all his squirming. The pain in his stomach is radiating, a knot that tightens in waves; this is different from the twist-y pop-y sparks of jealousy, and is nothing compared to the sting of multiple slashes.

Still, it’s a pain he doesn’t understand: a mixture of feeling gassy and bloated, like he needs to run to the toilet only for it to turn out futile. What makes it worse is that when he catches a glimpse of you, a lock of hair perfectly out of place, the sensation in his stomach intensifies—like butterflies flapping (or maybe just another wave of radiating pain).

“S’hot,” he grumbles, half of his face mushed into the pillow.

The mug in your hand is piping hot, steam lifting from it, and Gojo doesn’t like drinking hot things; he’s burnt his tongue enough times on hot chocolate that he swears any hot liquid is out to get him.

But you don’t know that about him—he’s never told you, he thinks.

You take a seat on the edge of the bed.

“That’s kind of the point, baby.” you chuckle, tone doting with a hint of pity, “It has to be.”

Your hand rests on his thigh, attempting to soothe him. He catches your eye and whines.

“If I blow on it, will you drink?” you plead, “Please?”

At this point, he doesn’t know what hurts more: this stupid stomach ache or how nice you’re being.

You could have said ‘I told you so’ the moment his stomach started gurgling when you both arrived in Tokyo—but you didn’t. Instead, you asked him what exactly he was feeling and had him change into his pajamas as you nursed him to bed. Then, you cooked him real food, a bowl of Okayu for his stomach to digest something plain and non-irritable.

You haven’t stopped moving since you both got back from Kyoto, unpacking both your things while simultaneously darting in and out your bedroom, checking in.

How you speak to him is so gentle, caring, doting—even when you have every right to hold it against him.

He pushes himself up, leaning back on the headrest. You smile, lovely, and beautiful, and every bit healing that it eases the pain a little, somehow. Your mouth forms an ‘o’ as you blow on his tea, scooting closer.

A gurgling sound comes from his stomach again, but it’s manageable, and he bears it as he takes you in—how you’ve barely had the time to change out of your clothes since this morning. You’re tired, he’s sure, but you don’t mention it as you take care of him.

The bed dips as you draw nearer, bringing the mug to his lips—he’s a grown man and he can definitely do this on his own, but you always take such good care of him.

Who is he to say no?

Sips of peppermint coat his tongue, warm as it eases down his throat. He wraps his fingers around yours, drinking a third of the mug before urging you to set it down.

“I’ll heat up a hot compress,” you motion to get up, placing the mug by your bedside.

He stops you, grip loose on your wrist.

“Have you eaten?”

You stare at him, a little surprised, but you nod.

“Just stay with me, then. Don’t need that thing.”

Your brows furrow, pouting, “But it’ll help,”

“Hug me instead,” his fingers play with yours, intertwining, “or I’ll hug you. Either.”

You shoot him a look, disbelieving, but he musters up a wink, for you, despite the new wave of pain arising.

“Okay,” you sigh, knowing you can’t exactly argue. As you get up, you land a kiss on top of his head, rubbing his knuckles as you get ready for bed.

When you come back, dressed in your pajamas, he’s turned to his side, lifting the comforter to welcome you in. You lie face-to-face with him, his arm reaching out to rest on your lower back, pushing you closer.

“You sure this is enough?” you whisper, breath tickling his chin.

“Mm, yeah,” he hums, hugging you tighter as he grins, “you’re hot.”

You hit his arm lightly, and he chuckles.

It turns quiet, then he shifts, resting his forehead against yours. White strands, as pale as your pillowcases tickle your eyes.

He nuzzles your nose, hiking your leg up to rest on his hip while slotting his leg between your thighs—like a pretzel, twisted into each other tight.

“You’re too good to me.”

He’s said this before, and no matter how much you say it isn’t true—he’ll always think it, believe it.

You frown, gripping his waist, “I don’t like seeing you in pain, you know.”

And he thinks you’ve always been like this: hands outstretched farther than his, offering yourself to help carry whatever pain, struggle, or burden you can. You cry for the sadness others feel, share the hurt of anyone who needs it. You’re the pillar, the support for everyone around you—from Yuuji, Megumi, and Tsumiki all the way back to Utahime, Suguru, and Nanami.

You’ve always been this way, ever since he met you.

“Does it still hurt?” you mutter, concerned, fingers grazing his stomach.

It does and it doesn’t—the pain is unfamiliar but he can take it, having gone through far worse. If he’s being really honest, a part of him just likes being babied by you.

“Better,” he inches back a little, lips curling into mischief, “would definitely go away with some Hi-Chew.”

You shoot him a look, then pout.

“Satoru.”

He figures there are still a few things you don’t know about him: how he really dislikes hot drinks, how discomfort turns him into a whiney, needy baby, and how he remains incredibly stubborn, maintaining what he stands for (but maybe you know this already).

“Hey, you should be thanking my Hi-Chew’s. It helps with energy when we fu—”

You swat at his chest in hopes of shutting him up.

He clears his throat, correcting himself instead, “—make love.”

This is hardly the time or situation to be talking about the other things you do on your bed, given that he’s been out of commission, curled in on himself the entire day on it. But you sigh, resting your palm on his cheek.

He turns to peck your wrist, hand coming up to cover yours.

“Just because you were fine doing it before, doesn’t mean you always will be.” you whisper, rubbing your thumb across his cheekbone.

And Gojo thinks he’s right most of the time, if not all the time, but—

“We’re not old, but we aren’t as young as we used to be, you know? Have to take better care of ourselves now…” you continue.

—when you talk to him like this, you humble him. Immensely.

He’s always known that if he were to give in to anyone, it’d be to you.

Things are different now, he knows; his considerations have changed too—like how to lay the foundations of a new, ideal jujutsu society, with all the political and diplomatic gymnastics he knows is necessary; what to do with all this downtime, with all this life and no more death looming overhead; there’s also you, where this relationship is headed, what he plans to do.

“What will I tell everyone when the love of my life, Gojo Satoru, the strongest, gets knocked out by sweets?”

Then you joke around like this so casually, kissing his nose and calling him the love of your life like it doesn’t bear commitment that spans your–his–entire lifetime—it shakes him a little.

He holds his breath, eyes staring at yours. You seem completely unfazed—a slip of the tongue maybe, so he lets it go.

“Okay, okay,” he pinches your nose as you scrunch it, “I’ll try, but no promises.”

You kiss his wrist in return—the softness of your lips always turning him a little delirious when he feels it. He pulls you closer to his chest, palm pressed to the back of your head as his other arm wraps around you, squeezing you tighter.

“But don’t complain if I only last one rou—”

He gets kicked in the thigh.

4 — WHEN IT'S YOUR WAY OR DOWN THE DRAIN

There’s the right way, then there’s the Gojo way.

Sometimes there’s an overlap, but most times he’s just unorthodox. Gojo’s always had his own way of doing things, but now, he’s throwing all that down the drain in lieu of doing things your way (which in this case, he’s decided is the right way).

Between the two of you, you’re definitely better at cooking.

He isn’t inept at it per se; all these years, he’s managed to get by. It’s just that, he’s only ever made quick, simple things—barely having the time or need to make things on his own when you seem to have an extra plate on standby.

Long cooks like this, for real, big meals aren’t his forte at all.

This is the fullest his kitchen has ever been, a trip to the grocery store producing bags overflowing with the ingredients he needs. He tightens his apron (yours, actually) by his waist, pale pink a stark contrast to his black shirt and gray lounge pants. It’s tiny on him, barely fitting, but it covers enough to (hopefully) save him from any mishaps.

With all the ingredients lined up on his kitchen counter, he stares, hands on hips as he contemplates where to begin.

You’ve mentioned before how his kitchen is every cook’s dream: complete equipment, all high-grade with steel surfaces for easy wipe downs and more than enough real estate to move around. It’s a shame he’s barely used it over the years, either too busy out on missions or lately, too often staying at yours.

The unease makes him fidgety.

There’s an air of confidence that normally surrounds Gojo in everything he does, but it wavers just a bit with this one.

He has to get this right.

It’s your anniversary—the third (officially), but the number doesn’t matter as much when the years have always blurred the lines of what you are to each other.

The past two celebrations were cute and fun, adventurous in how you’d spent the first one on a trail date up north, and the second one fruit picking in a farm, just west of Tokyo—things you’d both done for the first time, together. Now, there’s added pressure because this is your thing; everything on the menu for tonight’s home cooked dinner is based on your recipes.

You know all of this by heart. And though he’s aware he doesn’t have to impress you, he wants to.

He glances at the clock: 15:05 in white, 4 hours until you arrive. The table hasn’t been set up yet and he’s barely dressed, an array of ingredients on the table waiting to be transformed into four of your recipes he plans to attempt.

Gojo is no quitter, but it’d be stupid of him to underestimate how fast time flies.

He pulls out his phone, scrolling through his contact list—then he shoots a text, pocketing the device as soon as he hits send.

In the amount of time between asking for help and said help standing outside his door, ringing the doorbell, Gojo’s managed to do most of the prepwork: slice all the vegetables, set the rice cooker, and mix together all the sauces and glazes so he can set them aside for later.

“Just type it!” he shouts from the kitchen.

Four beeps sound from the door, a soft woosh following as it opens. Help enters in the form of spiky hair and a deadpan gaze, putting on house slippers by the genkan as he drags his feet to the kitchen counter.

“Megumi!”

The younger boy sighs, tucking his hands into the pockets of his joggers, long sleeves wrinkling higher. “Why did you call me?”

“Oh!” Gojo claps his hands together, “I need your help.”

Megumi looks him over, eyes zeroing in on the pink apron, then the bowls of sauces and chopped vegetables in front of him. The rice cooker is steaming beside the sink while empty pots and pans line the burners of the stove.

“With cooking?” Megumi shifts his attention back to Gojo as the older male nods. He mumbles, “You made it sound like an emergency.”

(“Come here now.” in proper punctuation, lacking any of his usual emoticons—only ever being used in the most dire situations).

Gojo furrows his brows, “It is!”

Megumi stares.

“Anniversaries are emergencies.” Gojo stares back, holding the silence for a few seconds before he continues, demeanor turned serious, “Think of it as doing this for your Sensei, not me.”

There’s a crack in Megumi’s resolve that Gojo knows only appears when it comes to you; a soft spot that exists because you’ve always been closer, warmer—an accumulation of all the times you were adamant on being present because the kids deserved someone there, especially when he couldn’t be.

Megumi sighs, resigned, as he pushes up his sleeves, trudging over to the sink. He turns on the tap, soaping his hands until it suds, “You should have asked Itadori.”

“Yuuji wouldn’t know how it’s supposed to taste though.”

“Sensei’s recipes?”

Gojo nods, fanning out pieces of paper from the recipe folder you keep in your kitchen drawer, “Your favorites.”

Megumi scrunches his nose, embarrassed as pink tints the tips of his ears.

His relationship with Megumi has always been a bit weird, a not-quite-parent-maybe-kind-of-distant-guardian-and-good-but-annoying-mentor-slash-benefactor kind of weird. And he’s sure that the boy isn’t too fond of the idea that he knows small, seemingly trivial things about him like his favorite food, but if there’s anything they can settle on, it’s definitely love for you.

“Do you have another one?” Megumi turns to Gojo, pointing to the hair band pushing back his hair.

There’s a different kind of care in cooking that he’s now realizing, coming face-to-face with the pot of dashi he’s just started boiling—a patience that comes with waiting and an efficiency meant for multi-tasking.

During the 30 minutes of soaking the kombu, they split tasks: Gojo takes duty rolling the Temaki on his own, while Megumi seasons the Wagyu and prepares the Sunomono. It’s not long before Megumi is directed to setting up the table as Gojo focuses on the Miso Soup.

There’s a reference photo, some picture he pulled online. The gray plates and silverware on his dining table match the iron-hued backsplash and steel surfaces of his kitchen, sleek but softened by the vase of red and white camellias from the florist you frequent.

Megumi doesn’t say anything, frankly because he’s gotten used to walking in on Gojo searching up these things: a youtube video of trail dates and articles of ‘the top 10 best farms for fruit picking’. There was also that time he found Gojo’s browser open on a catalog of lingerie.

(Megumi’s been trying really hard to forget that).

These aren’t things Gojo’s done before, much less thought of—romance and all.

But he admits, it’s hard work, wiping off the sweat on his brow caused by the heat from the stove.

“Why,” Megumi sighs, “Why are you cooking anyway?” He mumbles, adjusting the silverware on the table, “Couldn’t you just reserve some place?”

Most of the cook has been silent, with Gojo too focused and Megumi barely saying a word. So while adding the katsuobushi after the kombu boils, the older male answers.

“I would have, but she said she wanted to stay home,” he turns away from the pot, leaving the katsuobushi to soak as he shrugs.

Megumi snorts, straightening out the black tablecloth, “Don’t you have anywhere you want to go?”

It’s a simple question. Innocent.

But it hits him then, how what you say follows; how ‘anywhere he wants to go’ is wherever you are, how he’s choosing to cook this meal for you instead of just ordering in—-how he’s now considering you, in everything.

This isn’t his strong suit, far from it, really, but because he’s thinking of what you want—suddenly he’s domesticated, cooking for you in hopes of romancing you (even though he already has you).

You come first now, and he finds that he doesn’t mind.

He turns back to the stove, straining the soup through a fine-mesh sieve before adding miso paste, dissolving it into the dashi.

“I guess not.”

The thought stays with him, even as he drops in the tofu, dried wakame seaweed, and green onion. Even as he waits for it to finish cooking, moving the pot atop a different burner while grabbing a spoon to dip in it.

“Megumi, come taste,” he calls behind him.

And when the boy sidles up next to him, he feels nervous, fingers trembling as he hands over the spoonful of Miso Soup. He stares at Megumi, eyes wide open, anticipating.

The boy arches an eyebrow as he takes the spoon, blowing on it gently. He takes a small sip.

“I added less salt because—” Gojo speaks up, a bit panicked, fingers scratching at his nail beds.

“She’ll like anything you make, even if it tastes bad.”

Gojo’s brows furrow, “Are you saying it’s bad?”

“Or bland.” Megumi adds, smacking his lips.

“So it’s bland?”

The horror on Gojo’s face is laughable, but Megumi continues, deadpan.

“No, it’s okay.”

Gojo sighs in relief, then pouts, “Don’t mess with me like that.”

“I don’t.” Megumi sets the spoon down, walking back to the dining table to finish setting up.

The 18:03 on his digital clock flickers, and the rest of the cook continues: he heats up the skillet for the Wagyu—Matsusaka Beef, grade A-5, heavily marbled, meant to be tender and sweet. Some oil is drizzled onto the pan before cloves of chopped garlic are thrown in, followed by the beef, cut into bite-sized pieces. He adds a bit of soy sauce and red wine, to draw out the sweetness (or so he’s read), then finishes it up by plating it.

And, there really is a different kind of care in cooking, he’s now realizing; how, when he stares at what he’s cooked in the past hour, he’s thought of you through it all—your preferences, the way you make things. How big meals aren’t his forte, but for you, he tries anyway.

“Do you need me to do anything else?” Megumi asks, adjusting the camellias in the vase one last time. He takes off his hair band and ruffles his hair, hands tucking inside his pockets immediately after.

Gojo looks up from the spread of food on the kitchen counter, motioning for the boy to come closer, “Taste test everything with me.”

Lined up are a plate of Temaki, a wooden board of Wagyu, a plate of Sunomono, and a bowl of Miso Soup. For every bite he takes, Megumi follows. And honestly? He thinks everything tastes… okay.

The Temaki bursts with the sweet umaminess of buttery salmon dotted with ikura, the yellow daikon pickles adding a tart balance that complements the salmon well by simultaneously being sweet and salty. The avocado adds extra creaminess, while the cucumber and corn provide a freshness that lifts everything else. For some added decoration, he uses radish sprouts to mimic leaves on the filler plants of bouquets—the main reason he chose to make this: it looks like the bundles of flower arrangements you keep on your desk. What ties everything together though, is the crunchy, crispy texture of the nori, giving contrast to the creaminess it holds inside.

There’s a reason why Wagyu is so expensive, and it’s being told in the way it melts into his mouth right now, sweet and tender. He paid a pretty penny for this, but it’s worth it because he can’t wait for your reaction.

The Sunomono is meant to be a palate cleanser—with sesame seeds sprinkled on it, mild and sweet, while wakame seaweed and cucumbers serve as the base ingredients. The sauce is meant to be light, just a mixture of rice vinegar and soy sauce, seasoned to taste—and maybe his is a little lackluster compared to yours, but he swears you have some form of magic when it comes to cooking.

After each bite, Gojo looks at Megumi for his reaction—but the boy gives nothing away, face blank and devoid of any emotion. None of them are as good as yours, definitely, but for his first shot at this, they aren’t too bad. He’d pat himself on the back for it.

“They don’t go together.” Megumi regards the entire spread with his chopsticks.

All his hard work? Shattered.

Gojo is dumbfounded.

It’s too late to change everything now.

Should he just scrap everything and order takeout?

“But they’re not bad.” Megumi continues, washing his chopsticks by the sink before heading for the bathroom to change out of the house clothes he’d borrowed in lieu of an apron.

When he emerges, long sleeves and joggers, he asks one last time if that’s all he needs to do, taking Gojo’s nods as a sign to take his leave. The older male remains rooted behind his kitchen counter, frozen from the crisis he’s facing.

You arrive a little later (thankfully), giving Gojo enough time to figure out this whole debacle. He’s ultimately decided to feel around for how the night goes, then he’ll act accordingly—if you show any sign that you aren’t happy, he has the delivery app ready.

He dresses in simple slacks and a white button down, fiddling with how he’s rolled it up; the thought of you finally seeing everything he’s prepared for tonight makes him nervous—the table set-up, the ambiance, the food.

(He’s even cleaned up his bedroom).

Then he senses it, faint traces of your cursed energy by the door, and he holds his breath. The beeps on his lock count down the seconds to your entrance; and when he sees you come in, surprised and so amazed at the entire thing, the tightness in his chest eases up immensely.

All he told you was to wear something nice.

And, by god you did.

You walk up to him, pretty and smiling in the simple dress you’d opted for tonight—a midi slip-on with a cardigan thrown on top. Black has always looked good on you, uniform or not, ever since up to now.

But in white, you’re radiant. Glowing.

He reaches for you.

The grin on his face is lovesick as he grabs a hold of your waist. You instantly tiptoe up to kiss him, hands on his shoulders as you land a soft peck that transfers a light sheen of lip gloss onto his lips. The view behind him shows the table set-up, a pop of white and red amidst all the food he’s prepared for tonight.

Your eyes widen, gasping, “Did you make all of that?”

He nods, pulling away from you as he grins cockingly, “Call me chef.”

But he immediately bites his lips, restless as he shifts his weight. He hopes you don’t notice how nervous he is—if you weren’t able to tell from his heartbeat, pressed against his chest.

“You didn’t have to,” you pout at him, eyes watery as you swipe your thumb across his lips, wiping off the residue of your lipgloss.

“Guess I’ll just undo everything then.” he chuckles, hands sliding to rest on your lower back, fingers tapping against silk.

You roll your eyes, and before his hands get the chance to grab you lower, you’re whisking him away, holding his hand as you lead him to the dining table.

He pulls out your chair and you sit, the rare gesture making you giggle. As he settles in the seat across you, there’s a disconnect between the expression on his face and his body language—eyebrows wiggling and lips smirking, meant to be lighthearted and teasing, but he won’t stop fidgeting, shifting as he readjusts his seating.

As you reach for the Temaki, he sucks in a breath, entirely hyper aware of every move you’re making. When you bite into it, he’s waiting. Anticipating.

Your eyes fall shut as you chew, humming, then you grin. But when you open them and they catch his, it’s like you can tell—what he’s feeling. The furrow on your brows deepens as you look at him, concerned, “Hey, what’re you thinking?”

How he hopes he hasn’t fucked this up, this dinner. What if the Miso Soup is too bland? Isn’t at all to your liking? What if the Wagyu’s dried out? Isn’t cooked properly?

If he can’t get this right, this seemingly simple thing, how can he do everything else? Consider you the same way you’ve always considered him?

He’s so sure of you his heart could burst at it, but what if he can’t ever come to terms with himself? With what he’s able to—

Then he feels it, your hand on his as you reach for him across the table, rubbing the back of it, soothing.

He doesn’t even realize how much he’s worrying.

“Megumi said it doesn’t go together,” he stares into your eyes, breathing slowly, grounding. It’s been a while since he’s given you a non-answer, but you accept it, patiently.

“Megumi was here?” you ask gently, brow arched curiously.

He nods, “Asked him to help a bit.”

You hum, looking back at the food on the table before taking his other hand, soothing, “Well, that’s Megumi’s preference. Mine will be different.”

The smile you give him is warm, like the Miso Soup you’re reaching for right now. He watches you take a sip.

“S’good, better than mine.” You hum and he knows you’re lying but it’s still comforting, the fact that you’d do this for him.

So if this is your effort for him, he isn’t going to waste it.

The rest of the dinner has you making the most exaggerated sounds, your ‘mmm’s and ‘ooo’s emphasizing how good the food is if he still doesn’t believe it. Your reactions are over-the-top and definitely overplayed, but it makes him laugh—has him grinning in his seat the more he relaxes.

You help clean up, even though he insists that you shouldn’t.

“It’s our anniversary, Satoru.” you bump his hip, shooing him away from the table as you stack up the dirty plates.

When he finishes washing the dishes and turns to find you, sitting atop his kitchen counter, nibbling on a piece of strawberry from the special Daifuku he put out for dessert, he approaches you.

“Don’t be greedy now,” he rests his hand on your knee, coming to stand in between your legs. You hike your dress up a little bit, just to give him some space.

You chuckle, cupping your hand under his chin as you feed him; he eats the entire thing, half-bitten by you already. And as the tips of your fingers touch his lips, sticky and syrupy from the strawberry coating, he takes them in his mouth, sucking lightly.

He holds your gaze.

“Thanks for doing all this,” you blink twice as he releases your fingers, interlacing them with his, “s’not everyday you have an entire dinner cooked by the love of your life.”

You say it again—how you call him that so casually.

What do you mean it’s not everyday you have an entire dinner cooked by the love of your life?

You do it for him all the time.

He hums, moving closer. His other hand rises higher, kneading the flesh of your thighs through the smooth silk of your midi dress.

“Thought you were going to spit it out for a second there,” he swallows his nerves.

“Stop,” you frown, grabbing him by his belt loops before pressing your lips against his forehead, landing a loud ‘smack’, “go away silly thoughts.”

He chuckles when you blow a raspberry on it, laughter easing up as you drag your lips down to the center of his brows, tense from all the worrying earlier.

You always seem to get it right, he thinks, this whole relationship thing—always knowing what to say.

He tilts his head up, leaning closer to kiss you on the lips, fully. The breath he lets out mingles with yours, sweet with hints of strawberry, and when he catches your bottom lip you lean back, hands coming to rest on his cheeks.

You nip on his upper lip, playful but lightly, and he groans, hand reaching up to slot itself by your neck.

It’s there, underneath his fingertips, the pounding of your heartbeat.

As you squirm on the kitchen counter, you pull away for a moment, restless from the growing heat. The action is subtle but dangerous as your cardigan slips off your shoulder, revealing the strap and lace of your lingerie.

Blue eyes land on familiar pink, one he’s certain he’s caught you in before, but seeing it now, under white, it does something to his brain—blood rushing, ears ringing.

He leans closer, grabbing you by the waist as he runs his lips against along your neck, nipping on sensitive skin.

“‘Toru,” you gasp, breathy as you grip his shirt.

“Tell me what else you want,” he murmurs against your skin, muffled. He sneaks one glance at you, pupils blown, before hovering over your temple, lips barely touching, tickling as he whispers, “anything.”

Your fingers trail lower, pinching at his shirt before you tug, untucking it from his slacks. You turn to him, finding his lips, sliding them over his as you match his rhythm. It’s careful and slow, the way you unbutton his shirt, but it’s like he said—

This is your way; he’ll follow anything you say.

5 — WHEN ALL I SEE IS ME AND YOU

Gojo never thought he’d make this decision all because of your joint streaming subscription.

It’s a normal weekend, regular in every way possible—just a night in for the both of you. He usually stays over at the end of the week, but it’s been bleeding into the weekdays too, lately.

The sound of splashing water against tile echoes along the hallway; you normally play songs when you shower, but he guesses today isn’t that kind of day.

He plops on the couch, pointing the remote to the TV as he selects the streaming app. Normal weekends consist of movie nights, half actually paying attention to the screen, and half paying attention to other things—either way, it ends in falling asleep.

When the homepage lights up on the screen, he spots two accounts: yours and his. And it’s joint, under one household—your home.

And he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s been thinking about this more lately: how the past months have been a slow realization coming to terms with himself, and where he sees this relationship going, but the visual in front of him sparks an influx of things he’s been noticing.

The pajama pants he’s wearing now exist as a pair to a matching set he has with you, but tonight, he’s opted for a white t-shirt because his pajama top is tucked somewhere in the drawers of your bedroom.

(You keep it with you because you like how it fits more, you say, but he thinks it’s because it smells like him, and you sleep with it when he’s away).

There’s another pair of chopsticks you always wash now, too, plain bamboo with a ring around the handle, light blue. You’d bought it from a market down the street a year ago, and told him it reminded you of him—how it’s his from now on, in the container of utensils by your kitchen sink.

He’s always known how intertwined your lives are, a decade and more of learning one another is bound to entangle you somehow. But the past few years have caused knots, impossible to unravel—a thought that doesn’t scare him as much as it used to; a thought he now thinks doesn’t sound so bad as long as it’s with you.

As long as it’s with you.

The creaking of the bathroom door snaps him back, the soft pads of your footsteps growing louder as it reaches the living room.

“Oh, you haven’t picked a movie yet?” you ask, ruffling your hair with your towel.

He puts on a smile, facing you as he hands over the remote, “You pick tonight.”

You barely pay attention to the movie, snuggled up against his chest, constantly looking up to kiss his neck. He’s the same, distracted, but not for the same reasons you are.

It’s a lot to resist, the way your hands creep under his shirt, warm against his stomach, but the sinking feeling in his gut makes it impossible to focus anywhere else.

“Not the time?” you tap his cheek, and he tilts his chin down, acknowledging you. The look on your face is anything but disappointed, and it tugs at him, makes him feel guilty that he’s making you worry. That he can’t give you what you’re looking for right now.

“Maybe later,” he takes your hand, lips grazing your fingertips, “I’ll get ready for bed.”

You nod, sitting up as he taps your hip. He knows you can tell something’s bothering him—it’s impossible to hide anything from you at this point, but this realization feels like a long time coming, like it’s been brewing, now spilling.

He gets up, kissing the top of your head before walking to the bathroom.

When he steps in, it still smells like you—the shampoo and bodywash you use. (Technically, it smells like him too—he’s started using yours because it feels like keeping you with him, everywhere he goes).

As he finishes brushing his teeth, reaching for his towel hooked beside yours, he remembers how none of this existed when it was just you. You only ever had one hook for one towel, how he used to share it with you only to realize that it would never dry in time for the next use.

Then he found it, some time last year, when he walked in to take a shower and saw a hook installed right beside yours, presumably his.

The lights are adjusted for him too; fluorescent white too bright, a pain for his Six Eyes. You noticed when you caught him washing his face in the dark, so you changed the bulbs to soft white, tinged a bit yellow, warm.

And the thing is, he never asked you to do any of this.

You just… did.

Because that’s you.

And it’s making him realize even more how he wants to keep it this way, how he wouldn’t mind if this was the rest of his life, everyday.

The mood shifts when you both get in bed, and if you notice it, you don’t tell him. Whatever was bothering him before has settled, his head clear, more focused to reciprocate your earlier advances.

He’s gentle when he touches you, taking the time to love you. Your clothes come off one by one with no haste at all, slowly, almost painfully.

But he kisses you all over, leaves marks on places only he can see—by your hip, at the center of your chest, and another one, visible, on your neck below your ear. This is more than what he usually does, but he feels determined tonight.

“Off,” you whisper, as you tug at his shirt, pulling it off before throwing it to the side of your bed.

He holds his breath when your fingers land on his chest, dragging across his collarbones before you tap thrice. This is a spot you’ve loved so intently, he’s become sensitive to it every time you come close. You leave kisses along it, some wet, others dry pecks, but it makes him shudder all the same, every time.

As he hovers above you, arm bent by your head, his fingers trace your lower lip, tugging only to let it bounce back; he kisses you, noses bumping, softly at first before it turns hungry—lips overlapping, biting. His tongue runs over your lips, smooth and warm.

There are more touches, more gazes; lips brushing and breaths mixing. The heat between you is shared, intermingling, and when he’s in you—

—it’s too much, how he feels looking at you right now, like you’re everything, the only thing seared into his memory.

There’s a life he wants to give you, and though he knows there are others who might be more able to—he can’t let go of you, refuses to. He can’t bear the thought of anyone else being this close, doesn’t even want to think about someone else waking up next to you—the bed hair he always looks forward to, the lazy smile against squished cheeks, the hands that always reach for him, first thing.

These traces of you have made him want the whole of you, and if this is him being selfish, then so be it.

His arms wrap around your back, hoisting you up as your legs wrap around him, and you’re both moving, timing in sync, and he’s crying.

He tucks his face into your neck, and he’s sure you feel everything—wet tears, shuddery breaths, but you don’t say anything. You hold him tighter, fingers scratching his undercut as he gets closer and closer.

Gojo Satoru is a man of impossibilities.

And this life he thinks you deserve—he wants to be the one to give that to you.

+1 — WITH MY KNEES ON THE FLOOR, WHEN I ASK FOR MORE

He shouldn’t even be feeling this way, because what’s the worst thing you can say?

It’s just you.

It’s just you—

And… maybe it’s because it’s you, that the .01% possibility of you even saying no—

—it makes him feel sick.

He looks back at the clock: 16:30. The walk from the conference room to his office will take an extra 3? 5? minutes.

The room feels tighter, smaller, floorboards practically worn down from how much he’s paced around it.

He’s rehearsed what he wants to say, how he’ll grab your hand and look you straight in the eyes as he does it. Fear and excitement churn in his belly, how he’s imagining the look on your face.

If you were here, you’d tell him to breathe—to follow you with every inhale and exhale.

If you were here, you’d smile at him, lips curled up softly, gently, the one he loves.

If you were here—

—the door opens, and you step into the room.

Now that you’re here, he doesn’t know what to say.

You stand before him in your uniform, smiling, just as he imagined you’d be. Your eyes crinkle at the corners, sparkling, the way he’s noticed they have since you were 17.

He must be doing a terrible job hiding how he feels because your demeanor instantly shifts, face contorting into worry, brows furrowed and frown forming. You drop your bag as you walk to him, hands reaching to cup his face.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice hushed and delicate, “Did something happen?”

Your fingers are warm on his cheeks (or is he too cold?), tilting his head lower so you can look him in the eyes. He can’t breathe, can’t hear you properly; you’re drowned out by the thumping of his heartbeat.

“Need to tell you something,” he manages to mutter.

Your eyes widen before you nod, lowering your hands as you speak slowly, “Okay, do you want to sit first? I have water—”

He shakes his head, hand reaching for your wrist, “I think… you should sit.”

The pause alarms you, your body turning rigid. He has no idea what’s going through your mind, and you give nothing away as you mumble an ‘okay’ while walking to the couch.

He stays beside you, not too far but still placing a bigger distance than he normally would—for the 0.01% probability that this isn’t what you want, that he isn’t too close, forcing you into an answer you might not want to say.

The words float in his mind, but none of them string together to form the sentences he wants to tell you. Does he take it from the start? How this whole thing has always terrified him? How he never thought this was meant for him, but here he is, still learning but loving every second of it?

There are things he’s never had to consider before that he cares so much more about now—all because of you, how it’s for you, how he wants to do better by you.

You call him the love of your life and he hasn’t told you, but you’re that and more for him, too.

He practiced this, damn it.

Why can’t he remember a single thing?

The silence between you is tense, tainted by overthinking on both ends. You look like you’re waiting for bad news, and Gojo’s too stuck in his head, turning over the right words to say instead of reassuring you.

“I’ve been thinking lately,” he starts, fiddling with his fingers. His feet won’t stop bouncing, knee fidgeting. He’s biting his lips, a tell-tale sign that there’s a lot he isn’t saying.

You place your hand on his knee to calm him down, and he stops bouncing it, looking at you as you muster up a small smile—far from being genuine, but it’s the fact that you’ve mustered it, as if to say: ‘it’s okay, you can tell me; i’ll always want to hear all of it.’

He swallows, “This arrangement isn’t working.”

Your face drops, brows furrowing, “What arrangement?”

His heart is pounding.

“I stay over at yours too much.”

Too much, that mine doesn’t feel like I belong there anymore, he fails to add.

“I think we need more space.”

Your hand slides off his knee as you tuck it between your thighs. There’s a frown on your face he can’t seem to figure out, and the fact that you’re giving nothing away, whatever you’re thinking—he’s turning even more nervous right now.

“Okay,” you finally say, tone flat, “when do you want me to return all your things?”

He tilts his head at you, confused, “What—”

“Actually, can I…” you shift around, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ears before clearing your throat, “can I ask if it’s something I did?”

And his heart drops, straight into his stomach.

It’s not like that at all.

He’s hit with déjà vu; this conversation feels so familiar, so similar to one he’s had with you before—on the sofa chair across this couch, laying himself bare the same way he is now.

The couch dips as he scoots closer to you, reaching for your hands.

“It’s not—”

You scoff sadly, “Please don’t give me the ‘it’s not you it’s me’ thing,” then your tone drops, blinking away your tears, “if you’re going to break up with me, Satoru, just tell me why. Honestly.”

He blinks.

There’s a secret Gojo keeps, one he once told himself he’ll never tell you.

But now seems like it’s fitting—the right time to say it.

“You remember when I was unsealed?” he moves to the floor, getting down on his knees in front of you. You nod as he rubs circles over your knuckles, “When I first saw you, it was pretty scary.”

He brings one hand to your cheek, catching a tear with his thumb. You pout, the crease between your brows growing deeper.

“You ran yourself dry because of me.”

When he thinks about it now, he still feels guilty.

He believes that people are accountable for their own actions, and he still believes that with you, definitely—but he knows your reasons, why you acted that way, desperate for hope everyday. And for that, he takes responsibility.

“I didn’t want that for you, still don’t.”

Your frown deepens, tears welling up even more.

Do you still think he wants to do this without you?

He can’t take this, seeing you cry; he promised himself he wouldn’t be the reason behind this anymore.

“I’m not breaking up with you.” he tells you firmly, surely.

You blink.

Then your shoulders drop as you breathe out—what he hopes is relief. When your eyes meet, a little less sad, he sees the stars in them, glinting like they do when you look at him.

This should be his answer already, how much you brighten at the thought of staying with him. But—

“I still think you deserve more,” he brings your hands to his lips, brushing them against it, and as you’re about to interject, he chuckles, “but I’m also too selfish to leave that up to someone else, you know?”

“Soooo,” his hand reaches for his pocket, fishing around until he feels for what he’s looking for. He takes out his phone, swiping and scrolling until he finally stops, placing it on your lap for the both of you to see, “I’ve been thinking lately…”

He looks up at you, the two skies you’ve always been drawn to, waiting. The unease in his stomach returns, churning.

It’s a compilation of properties: houses, apartments, plots of land—all scattered around Tokyo, some central and some further on the outskirts.

Your eyes widen, tilting your head to the side as you attempt to read what’s on his screen. You turn to him immediately, eyes still watery; the expression on your face is unreadable, a mixture of surprise and confusion, like you don’t exactly know what he means.

“We don’t have to choose from these, it’s just a few brokers I talked to recently. We can look for others if you want, in quieter areas too—”

Then you smile, beaming, tears falling from your eyes, “Satoru,” and you breathe out his name but it sounds like I love you.

There’s a quiet life he can’t give you, but he likes this one with you much better too. He takes your hands, placing one on his chest, over his heart, and the other on his cheek. Then, he leans into it, kissing the insides of your wrist before staring back at you sincerely.

His heart is beating wildly, he’s sure, but if he can continue to make you this happy—

“Make a home with me?”

a/n: food descriptions—temaki is easy hand-rolled sushi, sunomono is japanese cucumber salad.

thank you notes: @stellamancer the actual birthday gift for u :') + @em1e for listening to me talk abt the entire plot and even reading the first few scenes!! + @mididoodles @kissxcore @itadorey @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat for always being so supportive when am sharing my progress posts ilu + @crysugu @soumies @augustinewrites @ufo-ikawa no reason other than i just love u ᰔ i reply so slow when am writing smth...

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#gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #satoru x reader #jjk x reader #gojo fluff #satoru gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk #satoru #gojo x you #gojo x yn #gojo x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x yn #jjk x y/n #rated #shotorus.writes #col

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