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whtpluto · 3 months

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He’s Just Not That Into You

pairing: jordan li x reader

summary: a hopeless romantic, you keep looking for love in all the wrong places, with all the wrong guys. that is, until you meet jordan li, who takes pity on you and tries to help you learn when a guy just isn’t into you.

gif credit: artemidosgifs

“You good?”

"Huh?" Dazed and drifting, you look up from your incredibly important task of peeling off the label for the worst tasting artisanal beer ever created.

You quickly remember why you focused on the task in the first place. The lighting at this party sucks. It's mostly dim, to try and hide all the unsavory things happening in every corner of the house. The brightest bits of it are all flashing. Neon blue. Neon red. Neon green. As if anyone has ever looked good in neon green lighting. That plus the never-ending movement of people dancing is enough to make you sick.

"Are you good or are you starting to tweak?" Your eyes adjust enough to see who's talking and you sit up straighter. Jordan Li. Number #2.

She's wearing her ever present scowl that makes you study extra hard in Brink's class. You don't ever want to be in the position to have to ask for clarification on an assignment or further guidance. Brink's so busy being renowned that he's a pretty absent teacher, if you're not one of his favorites. Everything menial falls to Jordan.

"I'm good! Totally good. Just vibing, y'know."

Jordan stares down at you, looks back out onto the sea of partygoers, "What vibe do you think you're matching?"

“Excuse me?”

"You've been sitting here for almost twenty minutes. You've barely moved. Did you take something?"

"No! I.... I didn't take anything. I'm just enjoying the atmosphere."

Jordan rolls her eyes, takes the beer bottle from your hand, and then takes your hand itself. She pulls you to your feet, easy, despite the way you go limp at the last second to try and stay seated. Without a word she begins to pull you through the crowd. Bewildered, you follow.

She doesn't stop till you're outside on the porch. Surprisingly, no one else is lingering. But the air has a chill that's pretty biting for an early day in fall. You take a deep breath. You hadn't realized how loud the music really was. How overwhelming every smell. The itch that crawled across your skin with each jostle of a body coming too near.

"Yeah, you look like you were really enjoying the atmosphere." Jordan drawls, leaned up against the railing, observing you.

Your first instinct was to say 'fuck you' to that, obviously. But at the last second you remember she is your TA and is probably doing all the actual grading for every assignment you turn in.

You force a smile, "Thank you. Guess I was feeling pretty anxious."

"What are you even doing here?"

"Should... I mean, I was... invited? If that's what you're asking. Although I think crashing parties is pretty typical college stuff, even if I wasn't-"

“Not what I meant.” Jordan interrupts, “I mean you don’t usually go to parties. I never see you at any of them.”

“Maybe we just run in different circles.”

“Not really. You’re in the top ten now. What did you jump to, number 6?”

“Seven, actually.”

“Really? Well, won’t be long. Number 6 is a dick. He’ll be easy to knock out with the type of stats you’re pulling this year.”

Somehow, this compliment bewilders you more than anything. Jordan must see it on your face, because she rolls her eyes again.

“I keep an eye on the competition. Even if you are just a sophomore.”

“Okay, Junior.” You narrow your eyes at her. She narrows hers back, which feels like overkill, because she was already glaring.

“So, what are you doing here?”

“Did they hire you to be the bouncer for this party?”

“Jesus, ‘m just making conversation. You looked like you were gonna hurl in there. What? Did your friends drag you here then ditch you?”

“My friends would never do that. That violates the party safety rule. Arrive together, leave together.”

“Oh of course.” She says, nodding in a way that feels sarcastic.

“I actually came without my friends.” You say, standing up straighter. Proud of yourself for stepping out of your shell even if it ended on a sour note.

“You did?” Jordan raises an eyebrow. You deflate a little at the shocked tone. Even your TA thinks you’re lame.

“Well…. I was supposed to meet someone here. But they… I dunno, I must’ve missed them. Or whatever.”

“Who were you supposed to meet?”

You hesitate for a second, but they impatiently gesture for you to go on. So, begrudgingly you admit to, “Uuuuh… Andre?”

“Andre?” In the blink of an eye they shift, and take a step closer. As if he wants you to see the disbelief on his face as clearly as possible. “How do you know Andre?”

“What happened to we run in the same circle?” You snap back. “Andre’s top ten.”

“Andre’s a fucking nepo baby.” Jordan scoffs

“Aren’t you friends?” You frown.

“Andre barely shows up to class, he knows why he’s top ten, trust me.” Jordan says. “Andre invited you?”

“Yes, Andre invited me. We were at the club last week and you know…talked.”

“You were at the club? You’re changing it up like crazy this year, huh L/N?”

“Lot of good it’s doing me.” You sigh. You twist the sleeve of your top, wrinkling the fabric. You’d spent hours picking out the perfect outfit that looked like you weren’t trying too hard, but brought out all your best features.

Jordan’s face twists, you’d almost mistake it for sympathy, “Did you see Andre at all tonight?”

“Did he come here with you?”

“Would you like me to lie or tell you the truth?”

You sigh, moving to sit down on the porch steps, emotionally and socially exhausted. “It’s okay, I already know the answer.”

A moment of silence before Jordan moves to sit beside you. He offers back up the beer he took from you earlier, “You look like you could use a drink.”

“Eh, you have it. If you’re not a germaphobe. Thanks for rescuing me.”

Jordan shrugs, takes a sip and almost spits it right back out, “God it tastes like fucking piss.”

“You weren’t very nice to me during the rescue, so you didn’t deserve a warning.”

“Well fuck me, I guess.” He laughs, staring at you. He let’s out a sigh of his own, “So which line did he use?”

“Huh?”

“What did Andre say to you?”

“He didn’t use a line.” You protest.

“Andre doesn’t know how to do anything but use a line. Wait! Lemme guess,” Jordan looks you up and down before glancing at a few rings on your hand. “Were you wearing those?”

You stare back at him.

“Well?”

“Yes, I was, why?”

“Did he come up to you with one of them and ask if you dropped it?”

“.....Maybe. I repeat, why?” You ask, stomach twisting.

“Cause he slipped it off your finger with his powers so he’d have an opening. It’s his go to for girls that look shy. Seen it a million times.”

“Oh, well, that’s lovely, actually. Fuck me!” You groan, laying back against the steps and throwing your hands over your face. “You’re really good at comforting people, did you know that?”

“I’ve been told to work on it.”

“Clearly not enough.”

“Just didn’t want you to fall for the bullshit any more than you already have.”

You scrub your face harshly, trying to ignore the tightness in your throat. “Sorry. Do you like apples? I can put a nice shiny one on your desk Monday morning as a thank you for the solid.”

“Are you about to cry?” Jordan asks, bewildered.

“No.”

“Over Andre Anderson?”

“No!” You sit up, glaring at him. He glares back. “Not exactly. It’s just… I don’t put myself out there a lot. So it sucks. That I tried… and all I got was a guy who fed me a line he’s used a million different times on a million different girls, who then ditched me at a party he invited me to. I should’ve just fucking stayed home.”

You sniffle and then remember who you’re actually talking to and how awkward it’s going to be to see their face Monday morning for class if you keep spilling your guts. You stand up abruptly, already planning on apologizing for whatever you said while you were “drunk” tonight. You’re opening your mouth to make your excuses, already taking steps away from the stairs when Jordan reaches out, grabbing you gently by the wrist.

“Wait! I’m… sorry, I mean-”

“Why are you sorry?” You sniff, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I could’ve… I could’ve been nicer. About telling you. About Andre.” Jordan pulls you to sitting back down beside him, slowly, so you can pull away if you really wanted to.

“It’s okay. I should’ve known better.” You say quietly.

“Hey, no. I made it sound like he’s super obvious about it but he’s honestly pretty smooth. His only hobbies are picking up girls and cocaine. He could make… fucking, I dunno, Ellen Ripley blush if he had the prep time! It’s really not your fault.” The comment surprises a wet laugh out of you and Jordan smiles, bumping your shoulders together.

“Thanks, but he probably was obvious. I just… don’t see stuff like that coming very well.” You laugh bitterly.

“What do you mean?”

“I apparently just can’t tell for shit when a guy is actually into me! Or just… entertaining himself.” You sigh.

You and Jordan sit in silence for a second. You have no clue what’s going on in his head. You see him tapping his finger on the beer bottle, the sound of his rings the only noise for a moment.

“I could help you.”

“Help me what?”

“I could teach you how to spot when a guy is just being an asshole or when he’s serious about you. So this doesn’t happen again.” Jordan shrugs, taking another swallow of the beer, flinching again at the taste.

“Piss kink or short term memory loss?”

“Offer retracted.” Jordan laughs.

“Why are you offering in the first place?”

Jordan shrugs, looking out in the distance, “You’re… cool, y’know. Think of it as a welcome to the top ten gift. You’re only gonna get more and more attention now that you’re there. You’ll need to be able to sniff out bullshit or you’ll get eaten alive. No offense.”

“I’ve been in the top ten for the last six months.” You scowl.

“Mazel tov.”

“Dick.” You scoff, fighting back another laugh. You and Jordan make eye contact and both lose the battle, laughing together.

You take a deep breath once the fit passes, “This isn’t a top ten humiliation ritual of initiation thing, right?”

“I’m way too busy to waste my time doing stupid shit like that.” Jordan says, familiar glare falling back onto his face.

“Sorry, rough night, had to ask.” You say sheepishly. “Offer still open?” You smile, extending your hand out for a handshake.

“Yeah, offers still open, L/N.” Jordan rolls his eyes, but he does shake your hand.

“So, number’s one pretty obvious but we have to establish the basics because you told me you were hopeless.” Jordan sips her chocolate milkshake.

“Didn’t use the word hopeless, but sure.” You mutter, tossing a fry into your mouth and frowning at the lack of flavor. “Hit me.”

“If he calls off plans with you all the time he’s not interested. If he doesn’t give you as much heads up as humanly possible before he has to cancel a plan or bail then he might actually hate you.”

“You’re exaggerating.” You scoff, shaking extra salt onto your fries.

Jordan reaches over, stealing one of your now delicious fries to dip it into her milkshake. “It’s a type of power play. Too many reasons to name why a guy might feel the need to pull something like that but we don’t wanna get too complicated. All you need to do is memorize the red flags and run when you see them.”

“Okay…. follow up question, what would you consider to be ‘all the time’?”

“If you just started seeing each other and he cancels two dates in a row without desperately trying to make it up to you he doesn’t give a shit.” Jordan steals and dips another of your fries.

“What about emergencies? Like… I dunno, a funeral? What if his Aunt died? So he cancels that one date. Then the next one he tries to plan his car breaks down or something, you know?”

“He should call an uber and get to the fucking location of the date come hell or high water. That’s what a guy who likes you is gonna do. Don’t over complicate, L/N.”

“Oh and you don’t think you’re over-complicating the process of eating my fries?” You smack at her hand as it reaches for your plate for the umpteenth time during this lunch. “You could have ordered fries. Why didn’t you order fries?”

“Didn’t want any until I saw yours.” She tries again but you see the movement coming and block her hand, again. You did not notice the second, slightly sneakier hand that does successfully carry out the theft.

“Did you just juke me over a fry?

“Yeah, and I won.”

You toss a fry at her and laugh when she manages to catch it with her mouth. Asshole.

You sit on the corner of Jordan’s desk, watching as he finishes up some last minute work that Brink asked him to do before heading out. You’d offered to meet back up later but he just shook his head and said it wouldn’t take long.

“What if he’s just a private person?” You ask, kicking your feet lightly.

Jordan looks up from his laptop and frowns at you, “Why are you trying to invent exceptions to the rules? The rules are there to help you. Can you say that for me, L/N? Can you say the rules are there to help me?”

“The rules are there to help me.” You repeat back, mocking their tone.

“Thank you.” Jordan smirks at you, “Like I said, if he’s hiding your relationship from the world then he’s not serious about you. He should be introducing you to people. You should be on his social media. People should not be shocked you exist when meeting you. All that bullshit.”

“And if they’re a private person?” You challenge.

Jordan pushes away his laptop, turning to face you. “Fuck me. The types of guys you’re gonna be around as a hero are all gonna be doing the same stuff as you. There’s gonna be a certain level of our life that’s always in the spotlight. Minimum of two posts a week if he’s constantly posting in general.”

“I don’t post very much.” You counter.

“You should be posting more. Especially as a top ten. There’s no reason you shouldn’t be number 6 right now. You need to be more active on socials.” Jordan gives you a look before going back to typing. Two weeks ago that look would have put you on the verge of tears. Now you roll your eyes.

“I’ll think about it.”

“It was an order as your TA, actually.”

“Oh god, an order? I’m shaking in my boots.” You tease, playfully kicking his chair.

“That just knocked your essay from a B- to a C, congratulations.” Jordan quips.

“You were gonna mark my essay a B-, you dick? You know damn well I don’t turn in B- work. Who do you think-”

The rest of the afternoon is lost to playful outrage. The papers get graded late. Yours comes back an A+. No one besides you has gotten a grade of + anything since Jordan became TA.

“Okay, so this is one with a grey area.” Jordan says.

“Oh no.”

“Shut up. If he never gets jealous that’s a red flag.”

“But-” You sit up from where you’re laid out on the blanket you threw on the ground to better soak in the last warm rays of September sun.

“I am not saying go out with some overly possessive fucking maniac.” Jordan cuts you off.

“Be specific, Jordan. You can’t give me rules with built in exceptions. I’ll fail. Is that what you want? You want me to fail, Jordan? That’s messed up-”

“Shut up-” Jordan laughs, shaking her head. “Listen to me, if a guy never gets jealous he just doesn’t care at all. The most namaste, enlightened dude on the planet will get jealous in the right situation. I’m not saying tolerate anything crazy. It’s just good if he like… responds, when you say you’re going to study alone with another dude at 9pm, in the guy’s dorm... while his roommate is gone.”

“Is studying alone with another dude, in his dorm while his roommate is gone, okay as long as it ends before 9pm?”

Jordan rips out grass from the ground and tries to sprinkle it onto your face. You put up a force-field and laugh when she sticks her tongue out.

“He’s gotta give you his full attention. When he’s with you, he’s with you. Everyone gets distracted. But if his head is always somewhere else, every time you see him, he just doesn’t like you.” Jordan swipes at your head, fast enough to be a challenge to dodge but not hard enough to hurt you had the hit connected.

You go in for a kick yourself and he practically twirls out of the way. You try twice more, managing to evade his own hits just barely.

Breathlessly, you gesture for a time out and Jordan sighs, “We gotta get you better at hand to hand.”

“That’s what my shields are for.”

“The way you use your shields is really good. You’ve gotten a lot more creative this year. It’s why you’ve been jumping ranks so fast. You’re powerful.”

The earnest tone he uses makes you lift up from the hunched over position of misery on your knees, “You think so?”

“Well…. yeah.” He clears his throat. “But you can’t get lazy. What if someone wears you out and you don’t have any energy left for them? No more shields. You need to be able to fight.”

“If I don’t have any energy left for my shields and my only option left is hand to hand combat, respectfully, it’s my time.”

Jordan rolls his eyes, “Break’s over. Back in position, stay on your toes more so it’s easier to move, okay?”

You’re about to get back into form when you hear calls of Jordan’s name from across the arena. You turn and see Luke and Cate coming over, wide grins on their faces. You give them a small wave and they both wave back, incredibly eager.

You’ve always been friendly with one another but the strength of enthusiasm is… strange. Enough to make you blink in surprise.

“Thought you said you were super booked up this week doing stuff for Brink? Absolutely no free time.” Cate asks, staring Jordan down.

“This isn’t free time. I can’t slack on hand to hand combat training. It’s important.” Jordan stares Cate down even harder.

“Why didn’t you ask me?” Luke asks casually.

“Jordan saw my form in a video I just posted and apparently it was ‘despicable’ and ‘the most insane way he’d ever seen anyone do that before’. He rushed over to show me what the ‘right way to do it is’. Control freak.” You fake a cough as you say the last part.

“You were gonna hurt your back!”

“Super healing.”

“Super herniated disc.” Jordan quips back and you scoff, shoving him.

He shoves you back with an eye roll, fighting back a smile.

“How ungentlemanly of you.” You gasp. A shift, and she shoves you again making you laugh, “and unladylike!”

“You shoved me first!”

“Children, please try and be civil we’re in public.” Luke cuts in and you almost jump at the sound of his voice.

It’s easy to get lost in your own world when you’re with Jordan. You turn to be politely facing your classmates and not just Jordan, wearing a sheepish smile.

“Stop teasing them. They’re cute.” Cate smiles.

“Anyways, you guys need something?” Jordan asks.

“We can’t just hang out? Are you trying to get rid of your best friends?” Luke asks.

“Yes.”

“Jordan!” You bump her with your elbow.

“Okay, okay. We’ll leave you alone. Wanna grab lunch with us after though?” Cate asks, looping her arm through Luke’s.

“You feeling up to lunch, L/N?” Jordan looks over at you.

With three unexpected pairs of eyes on you, you fluster. “If you go easy on me for the rest of training, yes.”

“Not a chance.” Jordan snorts. “We’ll be there though. Now scram. L/N needs a lot of help.”

“No, I fucking do not!” You protest.

The two of you don’t notice Luke and Cate walking away trading looks.

“When you don’t know really know anything about him, it’s not a good sign.” Jordan tilts the bowl of popcorn towards you.

“And what do you mean, specifically, by knowing anything about him?” You ask, taking some pieces and throwing them back.

“Has has ever shared his feelings? Talked about his personal life? If you don’t know anything besides the superficial stuff he doesn’t care about you.” Jordan states. “You also need to look out for him not knowing anything about you. Does he give you space to open up? Does he remember the shit you do tell him?”

“Got it, so just look out for the superficial surface level conversations if you never have any deeper moments.” You say.

“Exactly.” Jordan says before her eyes snap back to the screen suddenly. “Did they say they’re gonna try and make that house feel more ‘open concept’? What the fuck is their problem?”

“Huh?” You look back to Jordan’s TV, which is playing Property Brothers. “You got a problem against open concept?”

“I have a problem with every house being made to look the same, inside and out. It’s bad enough new houses don’t have unique floor plans. Now we’re taking houses that were unique and fucking them up till they’re boring! What ever happened to individuality? I bet they’ll paint the walls grey too. Fuck me.” She huffs, leaning back against the couch.

“Are you really into this show or just really into design patterns?” You ask, charmed at her passion for something completely random.

“A bit of both.” Jordan says. “I wanted to be an architect. Before I got my powers.”

“Shut up! No, you did not.”

“I did.” She laughs, “I used to draw up plans and torment my parents with them every hour of the day.”

You spend the rest of the afternoon talking about your hidden passions.

You even get the honor of seeing a few of the sketches Jordan made years ago. They were crinkled at the edges, pencil markings dull with age in some places. You smiled down at the folder Jordan keeps the drawings in. When you look up, finally, to compliment them you notice a strange look on Jordan’s face.

Thinking you’d made her self conscious with your long silence you wrapped an arm around her and told her she would have made a hell of an architect. And probably killed someone with the utter lack of load bearing beams in her structures.

You expected her to shove you off playfully but she only leaned into you and smiled, flipping to the next page of the folder.

When you get back to your own dorm room, moon high in the sky, you have to stifle a laugh. The latest post on Jordan’s Instagram is a picture of you standing with your hands on your hips in the middle of their room, looking baffled.

The caption: I handed her the remote and walked away for five minutes. We’ve been looking for almost an hour #jesus christ #banned from room 4ever.

You step out into the hallway and call Jordan up, demanding they take down their character assassination attempt because you two only looked for 26 minutes, actually.

They refuse.

You’re so incensed by the exaggeration that you wind up back outside Jordan’s dorm room not ten minutes later. When she opens the door, and sees you standing there, she bursts into laughter. She drags you inside, and when you ask her when the ban got lifted she just throws you on the bed. You spend the rest of the night arguing semantics.

You and Jordan were sitting in the ground floor of the school’s library where you were allowed to talk quietly. You were teaching them how to fold paper to make little stars while they were teaching you how to make the perfect paper airplane.

“Are you filled with barely suppressed rage? Why is it so damn wrinkled?” You laugh at their mangled star.

Jordan grabs another piece of paper with a huff, pushing her bob back behind her ears. “You are shit at giving instructions. This is impossible. Do the steps slower again.”

“I’m sorry, I’m actually not capable of slowing myself down times 3 like a Youtube video.” You tease.

“Fuck you.” Jordan kicks you under the table with her foot. “Again. Show me.”

“You start with this corner here, then you twist it over here, next you wanna-”

“Hey! Hey! What’s up people!” You and Jordan turn in perfect sync to hiss at the person to be quiet only to find that person to be Andre Anderson.

You turn back towards the table, Jordan moves an arm to curl around the back of your chair.

“Hey.” Jordan says flatly. You make some noise that you hope passes for a greeting.

“Sorry, too loud. So this is where the party is, huh? What’re you two doing?” Andre grabs a chair on the opposite side of the table and you frown, focusing intensely on the paper before you.

“Don’t you have a class right now?” Jordan asks sharply.

“Blowing it off.” Andre grins back.

Jordan scoffs. You only notice your shoulders are practically up to your ears when Jordan puts her hand there and rubs. You relax, letting out a quiet breath you were holding. Jordan gives you a squeeze.

“Awww, you making little stars? Cute. Wanna show me how, F/N?” Andre has the nerve to sound flirtatious.

After ditching you without a word and radio silence to back it up. To really make sure there’s insult to match the injury. You clench your jaw. Keep moving your hands. Try to zone out.

The hand on your shoulder gets bigger and so does the thigh that brushes against yours under the table. “Could you fuck off for a bit? We’re trying to relax after our exams this morning.”

“Ouch. Didn’t know you couldn’t relax with me around, man.” Andre bites back. “F/N, you want me to stay, don’t you?”

You get up from the table abruptly. The sudden sting in your eyes doesn’t even allow you you to collect your things. Your chest feels tight. You have to just get out of here. You hope in a school of future superheroes no one will steal your stuff. You think you hear calls of your name from behind you. Some yelling. Your ears are ringing too much. You break into a sprint.

You can’t even make it to your dorm. You have to settle for tucking yourself into the first patch of trees behind a building you can find. You try to fight back the tears. One breathe. Two. Three. Try to focus on the birds chirping somewhere above you. But the memories are all flooding in at once and you start to cry. Heaving, chest burning sobs.

“F/N. F/N. F/N, hey look at me.” You zone back into the world to Jordan pushing your hair away from your face and you sob.

“Fuck me, I’ll kill him. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d get so upset. You seemed like you didn’t care after that night… I- I’ll fucking knock his teeth in.” Jordan hisses. You’d thought you’d seen them angry before. But their face has never looked like this.

“What’s… are you having a panic attack?” Jordan asks, still petting your hair gently. You manage to nod. “Is touching you okay? Is it making it worse?” You push yourself into his hands and without another word he pulls you into his lap, tucking you against him.

You notice absently he’s wearing his favorite jacket and try to shift, so that you’re not getting tears and snot onto the fabric. He pushes your head back against his shoulder, shushing you gently. You let yourself relax, letting out the rest of the tears. Letting the anxiety leave your body. You start your grounding techniques as your breathing evens. You can see the sharp cut of Jordan’s jaw. Hear his heartbeat. The birds chirping. Feel his hands as they rub soothing circles into your skin. Smell the cologne he wears. You tuck yourself closer, even though no more tears are coming.

“Andre is a fucking loser.” Jordan says, quietly but vehemently, “You shouldn’t waste a second fucking thinking about him. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. It’s not you. It’s just who he is.”

“It’s not just Andre… It’s… it’s not even mostly Andre.” You say quietly. “I mean he’s a dick but… it just brings up memories.”

“Memories?” Jordan echoes softly, and you know you don’t have to tell him anything but you want to.

“When I was younger… I was even more of a wall flower than I am now. Shocker, I know.” You try to joke, Jordan only hums to let you know he’s listening, pulling you closer. “Even though I had powers I wasn’t popular or anything. I had trouble controlling them. Not enough to be dangerous… just enough to be… well, a loser, honestly. Because of my anxiety, and how loud my head gets my force-fields would just pop out whenever. I couldn’t stop it. If I was scared. If I got nervous. If I was feeling stupid, or ugly. All the time. People called me bubble girl.”

“I learned to just keep to myself but I was such an easy, fun target. Sneak up on the mouse and watch them jump and make a bubble! Fun!” You laugh bitterly. You think you feel Jordan kiss the top of your head, but you’re still out of it. “It made even getting out of bed to go to school hard. Administration wouldn’t take it serious as bullying because I was a supe: if I wanted it to stop I should defend myself.”

“My parents felt the same way. Wouldn’t let me transfer. But I didn’t want to fight back. I didn’t want to turn myself into something I’m not just to be left alone! I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I thought eventually everyone would get bored, mature a little. But it just got worse and worse every fucking year. Senior year was�� bad, though. I was getting better at controlling my powers so what kids would do to make me react was worse. But I just ignored it. I started just… pulling into myself. Whenever anyone would pour paint on my favorite outfit. Or cut my hair. Or hit me, I’d make the bubble in my head instead, and go there. Eventually, towards the end I thought people finally got bored, they stopped fucking with me as much. I thought I’d be able to graduate in peace.”

“There was this one boy… he was popular. But he’d always been nice to me. He smiled at me in the hallways. Would help me up if people shoved me when he was around. He even gave me his sweater once, when someone cut up my shirt during gym. His friends were dicks but I thought he was different, I thought he was nice.”

“He suddenly started being even more nice to me. It felt… when he asked me to prom I just wanted to be normal for one second. I should have known. I probably did know. I just wanted to pretend, for five seconds, I wanted to pretend.” You trail off, lost in the memory.

“What happened?” Jordan asks, voice sounding hoarse. You try to pull back to see what’s wrong but he keeps you still. You realize he started rocking the both of you as you spoke. You didn’t realize how soothing it was.

“It was a joke, obviously. We went to go shopping together, so we’d match, he told me. When we got to the shop he insisted we go to all his friends were waiting for us. Recording, of course. They all laughed at me. I still remember what one girl said, ‘you’re more crazy than we thought if you honestly ever believed someone like him would go out with a loser like you’.”

“F/N, those people were fucking assholes. They… god what the fuck is wrong with people. That’s not true.” Jordan makes you look at him, suddenly. You’re shocked that his eyes are red. “You’re not a fucking loser.”

“It’s okay, Jordan. I know they were just assholes. I always knew. It just hurts still. I’ve… I’ve avoided dating ever since, obviously. My first kiss wasn’t even romantic. It was just with a good friend that I knew wouldn’t make fun of me. So I could get it out of the way.”

“I’m sorry.” Jordan looks helpless, like he wants to do something but doesn’t know what.

“You didn’t do anything, Jordan. No need to say sorry.”

“And then Andre went and fucking… fucking motherfucker I’ll kill him!” Jordan snaps, goes to stand up and then remembers he’s holding you halfway. He sits back down, grip a little tighter, but still gentle.

“It’s okay. It wasn’t even a joke, what Andre did. He’s just… inconsiderate. And I happen to have a nasty experience that makes me blow everything out of proportion. I’ll have to get used to that kind of thing if I want to actually start dating.”

Suddenly both of Jordan’s hands are on your face, holding you still so you have to look at him. “You’re not blowing anything out of proportion. And… and you don’t have to get used to shit, F/N. You’re fucking incredible. You don’t need to tolerate anything, from fucking anyone. You’re a fucking… you’re a fucking dream girl! You’re smart, and funny, and sweet, and strong, and beautiful. You’re the sweetest person I’ve ever met. You don’t have to settle for fucking anything. Okay?”

You stare up at him, shocked, he gives your head a gentle shake, “Okay?” You nod slowly.

He pulls you into another hug, the tightest one you’ve ever gotten. You don’t pull away until the sun dips so low you’re both draped in gold.

“Fucking rank number fucking 5!” Jordan screams, arm wrapped around you tightly. A chorus of cheers from the rest of the group and people nearby.

You cover your face, laughing helplessly. Jordan didn’t surprise you with this party, they knew that would only make you anxious, walking into a room full of people you weren’t expecting to see with (even if asked not to) cameras pointed at you.

Jordan had texted you: I am throwing you a surprise party on Friday night to celebrate your new ranking. Please practice your surprised face.

You had practiced. You’d done a very convincing gasp when you walked in.

“I’m so fucking proud of you.” Jordan says, for the umpteenth time, looking at you. You feel your cheeks go hot.

“Oh shut up. I’ll get a big head soon.”

“You deserve it more than anyone. You’re fucking awesome.” Jordan had started heaping more praise onto you than you knew what to do with, most days.

She claimed it was practically training. That you needed to get used to people complimenting you, with the level of fame you’re going to reach. That alone had made your stomach erupt into butterflies. Jordan believed in you. Really believed in you.

“You’re the one who’s awesome… you’re a good mentor, Jordan.” You reach up to hold the hand that’s been wrapped around your shoulder all evening.

“Are you saying that following my advice works?” Jordan pretends to gasp. You playfully dig your nails into her side and she jumps before grabbing the offending hand and holding onto it. She doesn’t let go.

Her advice had worked. You posted on your social media more, at her insistence. You started to become a beast at hand to hand, thanks to Jordan’s brutal training regimen. You were socializing more, because as long as Jordan was there you felt safe. But you were even feeling confident enough to do things on your own that high school you would be shocked didn’t instantly send you to the grave.

You’d done an interview, for God’s sake! All on your own. Although your eyes kept darting to Jordan right off camera, who smiled reassuringly the whole time.

“I will not. Because then you’ll get a big head.” You tease, giving both her hands a squeeze.

“Let’s get a drink.” Jordan says, tugging you towards the kitchen.

It’s quieter in the kitchen. The drink table in the living room is still overflowing so no one’s had to start looking for leftovers yet.

“How you feeling?” Jordan asks, helping you sit on the counter before going to the fridge. After a second he pulls out your favorite. He hid them in the far back, you can tell by how far he had to lean.

“Good.” You smile as he pops your drink open before handing it to you. He leans against one of your knees.

“Party isn’t too much, right?” He asks, for the third time tonight.

Laughing you push a strand of unruly hair back from his face. He freezes at the touch, before a smile creeps onto his lips.

“Party is perfect, Jordie. Thank you. For everything. For being so…”

“Don’t thank me for treating you the way you should always be treated.”

“You treat me like a princess! What if I get spoiled? You’ll have to deal with a monster.” You tease. “You won’t even be able to be mad at me, because you’ll be the reason.”

“You’ll terrorize the world.”

“Cause complete chaos.”

“Devastation, even.” As Jordan speaks you realize you’d gotten closer. A lot closer. Your chest seizes up with anxiety as you wonder how long you’d been leaning in like this. You almost pull back, ready to apologize. But you’re frozen stiff now and realize the two of you are still getting closer. With a jolt you realize you both leaned in.

Jordan has a hand on your thigh, you reach down, nervous, to hold his hand as reflex. It’s an every day comfort, lately. You give his hand a squeeze. He squeezes back. You don’t pull away as Jordan keeps leaning in.

“Jordan! Come stop Luke from doing a keg stand, please!” Cate’s voice, typically pleasant sounds incredibly annoying at the moment.

“Gimme a sec!” Jordan calls back, still looking you in the eye. You squeeze his hand tighter. He looks nervous. They’ve looked so nervous all night. Nervous you were having a good time. Nervous you were happy. Nervous… nervous to kiss you? Is he about to fucking kiss you?

“He has an interview tomorrow! Hustle please!” Cate calls back in a sing song tone.

“Fuck me!” Jordan throws his head back, shifting, frustrated. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

You nod, a little breathless from anxiety and excitement, and dread, and the full spectrum of human emotion. “Okay.”

Jordan stomps out of the kitchen, probably going to rip Luke a new asshole from the sound of her boots on the floor. She sounds like her own stampede. You giggle, pressing your hands, still warm from holding Jordan’s into your face. You may be bad at signals but…

You sit under the hideous fluorescent kitchen lighting feeling like something inside you is glowing. You kick your feet, nervous, waiting for Jordan to get back. Wondering what they’ll do. What they’ll say. If you’re delusional. You have to be delusional. You have to be.

“Guard dog taking a walk?” In the doorway stands Andre, looking a little rougher than usual. His right eye is dark, like a black eye that’s started healing. There’s a small bandage over his nose.

“What happened to you?” You gasp.

“Your guard dog.” Andre says, reaching into the fridge to pull out a bottle of spicy vodka. “Jordan’s number #2 for a reason. Congrats on making #5 by the way.”

“Thanks.” You say. “When did Jordan do that?”

“A week ago. Would have probably gotten it earlier but apparently Cate talked them into waiting to see me until they were less pissed off. For which I’m eternally grateful.” He says, taking a sip straight from the bottle without chaser.

You don’t really know what to say so you sit in silence. Legs still kicking, more from anxiety now, less from giddiness.

“He gave me a busted lip too, but that healed pretty quickly. I also think he might have kicked a rib loose, been a little sore on the left side.” Andre says, he doesn’t seem to be angry but you don’t know why else he’d talk to you.

“I didn’t ask Jordan to do that. If you’re wondering.” You say, slowly.

“No! No! You’re way too sweet for that. This was just my shitty way of getting around to an apology. I’m sorry. I should’ve said sorry before Jordan kicked my ass but I promise Jordan kicking my ass isn’t why I’m saying sorry. The original plan was to ask you out again, make it up to you with dinner. Jordan just kicked my ass first.”

“I hope to god you’re not working your way around to asking me on a pity date.” You narrow your eyes at him.

“So Jordan could put me in a full body cast?” Andre laughs loudly, shocking you. “No offense, you’re really cute, but nothing’s worth that fucking beat down.”

“Well, I guess I accept your-”

“You don’t have to forgive me. Jordan was pretty clear that I tore up some old wounds. I didn’t mean to, but I’m sorry. I can just be… a dick, sometimes. Often. All the time.” Andre jokes.

“What did Jordan say exactly?” You ask nervously.

“Nothing specific! I could barely pick out anything at all, really. The sound of her fist breaking my nose was pretty loud.”

You laugh then try to cover it up by taking a sip. Andre grins and you relax, knowing it was his way of breaking the tension.

“Can I ask you something?” Andre asks suddenly.

“You can ask, doesn’t mean I’ll answer.” You shrug.

“Fair enough.” Andre says, toying with the bottle. “Do you like Jordan?”

“What?”

“Because Jordan sure likes you.” Andre states.

“No, they don't.” It’s a reflex to deny the possibility of someone having feelings for you but the words feel wrong once you say them. Weren’t you just about to kiss? Wasn’t his hand just burning into your thigh like a brand? “Do they?”

“Jordan would never do a fraction of the shit they’ve been doing for you if they didn’t care about you.” Andre takes another sip, then moves to saunter from the kitchen. He stops, a glance over the shoulder. “However you feel, tell Jordan. And soon. They’re looking a little desperate.”

Then it’s just you and the sound of the party, and the cool marble you’re sitting on. And a lot to think about.

“Your incessant leg jiggling is distracting me from how and why they intend to turn this beautiful victorian home into another soulless open concept millennial nightmare.” Jordan says, glancing from the TV to your leg which, yes, has been jiggling for awhile.

“I’ve got a question.”

“Obviously.”

“How can you tell if a girl isn’t into you?”

Jordan turns to face you, eyebrows furrowed, “what?”

You feel heat flood your cheeks, but keep your eyes firmly glued to the screen. “Are the rules the same? Or different?”

“You like girls?” Jordan blurts out.

“What?” The question is enough to make you look at her. And now you're trapped by societal standards of politeness to maintain the most anxiety inducing eye contact you've ever shared.

“You've never talked about… you've never said anything about liking girls.”

“You only offered up the help for the one gender. Didn't wanna get greedy.” You force a laugh.

“How long have you…. have you always liked girls?” Jordan asks and you hope to God you're not hallucinating that quick glance at your lips.

“You follow me on Instagram!”

“What's that have to do with anything?”

“I literally have the pride flag in my bio?”

“I thought you were-”

“-Jordan Li, if you're about to tell me you thought I was an ally I'll beat you to death, and then jump off a cliff.”

Jordan laughs, ducking her head, hair falling into her face slightly. You dig your fingers into your thigh to stop yourself from reaching out and tucking it behind her ear.

“Is there a reason why you're asking… about how to tell when a girl isn't into you, all of a sudden?” Jordan looks up at you and the world narrows down to her brown eyes, and her nose, and her mouth. And the look in her eyes you hope you're not reading wrong.

You blink in confusion when amusement crosses over her face and for one awful second you think Jordan is laughing at you and you could throw up. But you realize you're suddenly looking at her from behind a force-field of light purple and feel queasy out of a different sense of embarrassment.

You can hear a smile in Jordan’s voice, but you refuse to unbury your face from your hands, “Never seen you not be able to control your powers before.”

“Please kill me.”

“Can't. Your forcefield is still up, princess.” She teases, tapping at the bubble.

With a groan of humiliation you drop your field and peek up at her through your fingers.

“First the forcefield, now the hands. Still haven't answered my question though.” You almost snip at her that she should take a wild guess at your answer but there's something about Jordan’s expression. It's teetering between playful, guarded, and… something else. And you have to bank on whatever that something else is.

You take a deep breath in and move in closer, “You're not so awful a teacher that the lessons for a guy didn't stick, but considering you're a girl too who knows what incredibly important lesson you didn't know you had to teach me. The lesson… the girl lesson, that would have stopped me from misinterpreting what's been happening here. If I’m misinterpreting. All I know is… all I can really be sure of, is how I feel. And I, well-” You bite your lip, taking a shaky breath, and Jordan moves in closer, “I'm about halfway to being in love with you.”

The words are barely out of your mouth before her lips are on yours. Her hand curls at the base of your neck, pulling you in closer. A brush of her tongue against your bottom lip before you let her in with a breathless sigh. She moans against your lips, other hand moving to your waist to tug you into her lap.

You lose your balance a little, fall into her in a way that is not at all seductive. You laugh, embarrassed and she chases the sound, using both hands to put you in her lap, holds you there firm and secure.

“You-” She kisses you, interrupting your sentence. “Haven’t-” Another kiss. “Told me-” She holds you tight this time, tilting her head to the side, sweeping her tongue against yours and gasping at your taste. You pull back with shaky hands, keeping her at a distance with a grip on her shoulders.

“Could we use our big girl words?” You ask, breathless and a little dizzy.

“I’ve fucking only been in love with you for two years, thanks for fucking noticing.” She huffs, exasperated and smiling.

“How on Earth was I supposed to interpret your seething stare of hate for being in love with me?” You’re already melting against her as she pulls you back in with the guiding grip on your hair.

“Shoulda looked harder, baby.” She coos, and doesn’t let you up again anytime soon.

A/N: my magnum opus of pining! if you enjoyed this fic consider reblogging, leaving a reply, or an anon! a writers fuel is engagement. xoxoxo

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whtpluto · 4 months

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oh my god i’m literally going insane holy fuck this is so good- mwah- 4+4=8

★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ, 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 9.8k

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ NSFW! college!au, minor illness/sickness (heatstroke), semi-established relationship (poly), hurt-comfort, feelings of inadequacy, pet names (baby, baby girl, honey), fingering, oral (m & f!receiving), safe word (not used, just mentioned)

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ It’s kinda crazy that Gojo, Geto, and Shoko ended up in the same class because how did jujutsu tech manage to find two special grade sorcerers and a reversed curse technique user all at once. Being in their class would’ve been like Destiny’s Child except everyone but you is Beyoncé.

✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮

A bird swoops lazily overhead. A black dot silhouetted against the white flame of the sun burning overhead. Sheets of heat shimmer off the pavement, tracing out rippling waves in the humid air that wane only in the shade of the trees. Still, spears of sunlight pierce through the leaves, each wavering beam feeling hot as cigarette burns even in the small halo of shadows cast by the outstretched branches. A breeze meanders through the courtyard, doing little to stave off the midsummer heat. Like tossing a single cup of water on a blazing inferno, the reprieve from the heat is only momentary.

If the oppressive heat bothers Shoko, she doesn’t show it. Her face is veiled in a grayish haze as she takes a drag of her cigarette, sinuous threads of smoke curling through the sweltering air. Another breeze limps past with a bit more force, enough to knock the smoldering ash from the end of Shoko’s butt. It lands in her lap, eating a black hole through the cloth of her skirt before she can dust the mess away. A dot of pale skin beams through the deep blue fabric, too big to be salvaged. Shoko gives you an unamused glower when she catches the edge of your stifled laughter, tossing away the remnants of her cigarette to look closely at the damage. She brushes away the last bits of ash before clicking her tongue, sulking over the destruction of a recent purchase.

“Maybe if you hadn’t been smoking on campus…” you hum with just enough amusement to earn you another side-eyed glare. Despite the heat you lean in closer, until your shoulders are touching, so you can whisper in her ear. “Do you want me to buy you a new skirt, honey?”

Shoko matches your sardonic tone, eyes curved into half moons as she mockingly hums. “Fuck off.”

She smells like cigarettes and melon shampoo as another gust of muggy air wafts past, stirring up sparkling particles of pollen that cling to the sheen of sweat shining on your skin. Everything is sticky and overwhelming, but the world shrinks to something more manageable as you tilt your head back, eyes closed to the pinholes of sunlight twinkling through the treetops. Bursts of red play behind your eyelids, vision going bright and hazy when your eyes finally open.

“I’m assuming you’re done for the day?” Shoko asks, nodding to your abandoned weapon as she fishes in her pocket for another cigarette. Yaga-sensei had recently granted you stewardship over a cursed tool from Jujutsu Tech’s extensive armory with explicit instructions to practice before taking the bow on any field missions. Gaudy and ornamental as it is–clearly a show of some past sorcerer’s craftsmanship–the bow carries the ability to hit any target the wielder can imagine. It’s why Yaga-sensei entrusted the weapon to you to begin with. Your infallible memory makes you the perfect user of such a cursed tool. Given enough practice.

It’s been a strenuous task and the courtyard is littered with the fruits of your labor, arrows imbued with trace amounts of cursed energy strewn across the ground.

“It’s better to start small,” is all the advice Yaga-sensei had to give on the matter. Practice, as per his instructions, has been little more than standing in one spot while Shoko went around campus naming off landmarks and collecting the arrows as they hit their target. The torii gate near the dorms, the old well behind the cafeteria, the broken statue near the track field. Your phone battery is nearly depleted from how long she’s been going around the school grounds, giving you new targets through the speaker. The soreness in your arm had been expected given that the bow was sized to someone larger than you, making the draw strength something difficult to contend with on the first few shots. It’s simmered to something tolerable but that still leaves the mental strain it takes to perfectly visualize each location. It’s taxing on the mind, and the beginnings of a headache that could be attributed to heat exhaustion is starting to drum up behind your eyes.

When you don’t offer an answer Shoko brushes her fingers across your forehead, outwardly it seems like she might be brushing the stray hair from your forehead but you recognize the trained calculation behind the simple touch. She wipes your sweat on her ruined skirt and purses her lips. No verbal admonishment comes, but you can tell by her expression exactly what she’s thinking. Estimations of your temperature as it correlates to your current state surely running through her head, but she’s never been one to nag you into submission. Shoko is nothing if not a watchful entity. Simply standing idly while people make decisions, only giving input when asked. Which you haven’t because you can expect a barrage of “I told you so’s” for straining yourself to this point of exhaustion over simple practice. Not a mission, not even a precursor to an aptitude test. Just practice for the sake of honing your skills.

It’s that gnawing sense of perfectionism that has you standing despite Shoko’s skeptical glare. She won’t say it but the medical training in her is clearly showing on her face, frowning as she watches you collect your arrows. They’re still imbued with trace levels of your cursed energy but without the bow they’re only going as far as a normal arrow. The sun beats down on your back, singeing your skin even through the fabric of your shirt every time you stoop over to pick up another arrow. Shoko sighs, muttering something about “always so damn stubborn.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to take a break.” She says. More directly this time. Combat has never been Shoko’s strong suit. Her reversed cursed technique being far more suited to the walls of an infirmary than any active battle. Practice for her is suturing and sterilizing. Nothing like the grueling physical feats you’re expected to endure for the sake of honing your craft. But even still she’s one of the few marvels attending Jujutsu Tech because no one seems to have a stronger aptitude for reversed curse techniques than Shoko. It’s truly unfair that of your four-student class, you’re the least remarkable. It makes you want to work harder, twice as hard as anyone else, to prove you deserve your place here. So instead of slowing down and taking that recommended break, you roll your shoulders and force yourself to focus.

“I took a break.” You did. Because why else would you have been sitting around underneath a tree if not to take a break from the boiling heat that’s melting you down to a paste with the way you’re sweating. Your skin and brain feel like they’re about to liquify and evaporate. But you can’t relax. Even when you sat beside Shoko the feeling of peace was only momentary. The silence brought on by exhaustion only lasted until you gained a second wind strong enough to get you back on your feet, bow in hand despite the way your shooting arm is really starting to ache from the heavy draw weight. You had some experience with using a bow and arrow but it didn’t mean the strength needed to shoot such a massive weapon wasn’t laborious. Still, the dull throb in your arm gives you something to think about that isn’t them. The other two members of Yaga-sensei’s second year class.

Flashes of white and black cross your mind. Abstract, undefined. Not enough to draw your mind away from your next target: the dead tree in the far corner of the courtyard. Should you shoot facing away or try aiming upwards, towards the sky? An ordinary arrow would fly straight up, perhaps get snatched off course by the wind, but no matter the direction you shoot, an arrow shot from this bow will always hit its mark. You feel the cursed energy singing through your hand as you nock your arrow.

“That wasn’t a break. You sat down for two seconds.” Shoko rolls her eyes as she watches you draw the bow. “I know you said you’re fine, but–”

“I am!” You say too quickly. Shoko frowns at your insistence. “I just…” You struggle to come up with an explanation for your erratic behavior that doesn’t start and end with the anxiety burning like acid in your stomach. Stinging and simmering as it spreads through your nerves, leaving you with nothing to say in your defense. You hazard a shrug, hoping your indecision will mollify Shoko. It doesn’t and she levels you with an expectant tilt of her head.

“It’s stupid.” And it is. Because how can you explain that you feel like an imposter in a school with such a rigorous entrance exam? They wouldn’t have let you in if you weren’t worth the trouble of teaching and you know that, yet you still can’t shake the feelings of inadequacy. Not when you’re learning in the shadow of the two most promising sorcerers of the modern era. And it doesn’t help that in your bid to be more like them, you’ve gone and gotten yourself far too involved. What started out as you probably being a bit of a nuisance–always close, underfoot like a puppy–turned into them seeking out your company once you realized the desperation could be dialed back a bit. In trying to seem uninteresting after following them for so long, you made yourself easy to miss. Because, of course, they’d notice if the person always standing in their shadow up and disappeared.

Now, you’re tangled in a web of their making. A fly struggling beneath the watchful eyes of those spiders keeping you close. It feels suffocating, like chains tightening around you every moment you let yourself slip deeper into the oddity that is your relationship with the Special Grade sorcerers. Gojo Satoru. Geto Suguru. Even thinking of their names has started to spike your pulse with anxiety. And “relationship” is too charitable a word for the arrangement you have with them, seeing as you’re little more than an accessory, something to be added and removed at a whim. A cage of your own making. It’s what you get for always trailing after them like their talents would pass through their air and cling to you, make you worth more than you are. Now you’re here. Always at an arm’s length. Never closer and never further, held firmly in a place they can always reach you regardless of your own conflicting feelings.

It had been fun at first, to know they wanted you in their lives, in their bed. Although, the newness of the physical arrangement wore off quickly. Now it feels like the tenuous bond has degraded beyond what it had been even when you were nothing more than a tenacious classmate. Before you’d been acquaintances, maybe even friends, but now it feels like you’re something less than even that. A person to pass in the halls and accompany on missions. It stings at your pride to know you only lasted a year. Chewed up and spit out now that your second year classes have reached the halfway mark, a break between semesters fast approaching.

“Can’t be that stupid if it’s bothering you,” Shoko says patiently, lighting up another cigarette. She takes a deep drag as she waits for you to shuffle through your thoughts, landing on the least offensive truth you can offer.

“I want to break up with Gojo and Geto.” It’s hard to break something that was built on shaky foundations to begin with, but it’s the best you can come up with without explaining the winding ins and outs of your strange situationship with the men in question. Because Shoko–hell, everyone–thinks the three of you are dating. Like a proper relationship. A happy crowd of three. Shoko blinks through the haze of smoke streaming from between her lips before nodding pensively.

“You can try.”

It’s something ominous, though Shoko looks a bit miffed about having to be the one to tell you. Like you should know better than to even consider something like that. The words settle like cold stones in your chest. Heavy and shivering despite the heat still bearing down through the clouds. She goes to sit back in the shade, pulling out her phone to text someone. You ignore the tap-tap-tapping of her keyboard in favor of pulling back your bow string again, aiming at a cloud passing overhead. The arrow shoots up, before winking out of sight with a faint glittering burst, like a flash of light off the edge of a blade. It lands in the trunk of the dead tree with a dull thud. And because you can and it’s something to cut through the cluttered thoughts, you keep shooting. Landing arrows around the courtyard because you’re too tired to go through the ordeal of hunting up every arrow if you go back to shooting them around campus.

“I think that’s enough for today.” A new voice rings through the courtyard, distinct enough to distract you. A face cropping up unbidden in your mind’s eye, thoughts of the people you’ve been spending your afternoon avoiding springing up like weeds in a garden. Blue eyes and dark bangs invade your thoughts and you lower the bow before you can send an arrow into someone’s head. If you lacked discipline, were more easily startled, you might’ve shot before your reflexes caught the mistake in your mental visualization. Gojo would be fine with his infinity but Geto has no such barriers protecting him from unforeseen projectiles. Red covers white and black as you imagine the arrow piercing through his skull.

“I’m fine.” It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself. Now that Geto is standing in front of you, your mind has turned to tangles once more. Your usually calm and collected thoughts knotting up on themselves. He and Gojo scramble your brain in a way no one should be able to, like a radio losing signal and turning to static. It makes you want to give up on the endeavor of loosening the mess with slow, careful consideration. Quicker to cut out the tangles and be done with it. White threads. Black threads. Snip them all and watch the tension unravel.

“You shouldn’t be practicing outside like this when it’s so hot. When’s the last time you took a break?”

“I took a break!” Shoko doesn’t offer support when you look to her to corroborate the half-truth. Instead the fledgling doctor shoves her phone in her bag and you realize the betrayal. It must’ve been Geto she was texting. Shoko isn’t the type to share anything she’s told in confidence, so there’s no worry that she mentioned anything you said to him, but she must’ve said something to raise a flag in his mind if he showed up so quickly. Shoko dusts the dirt from the back of her skirt before drifting past the two of you, murmuring about going home as she leaves you alone with your not-boyfriend.

For all her nonchalance, Shoko is quite perceptive. A trail of smoke follows after her as she retreats, effectively extracting herself from the equation before she becomes a factor in a fight. Because that’s all you and the boys seem to do anymore. Over nonsense. About you training too hard and them treating you like something that needs protection. Or perhaps it’s just you fighting. Spitting and clawing like a caged animal because that’s how they make you feel. Small and weak and trapped.

Even from a distance, Geto is overwhelming and it has your hackles raising before he says anything more.

“I took a break.” You bite out, hoping your attitude will ward him off. “Now let me practice.” Unfortunately, Geto won’t give you the satisfaction of being done with the conversation just because you’re feeling a bit angry.

“You’re going to hurt yourself.” There’s that edge of concern you’ve come to know so well. That softness in his voice that sounds almost patronizing, like you’re not aware of your own body’s limits. It makes you sink deeper into your irritation.

“Yeah,” you scoff, “because I’m some weak Grade One sorcerer.”

“I didn’t say that. Stop putting words in my mouth.” Quieter, to himself, he mutters about how you and Satoru are just alike, “so fucking stubborn.”

“If you overwork yourself you’ll get hurt. I’m just worried about you.” And there it is. He’s worried. Thinking about you in a way you’ve never had to think about them. As something weak and needing a watchful eye to keep them safe. Gojo and Geto are literally the strongest sorcerers of the new generation. No one has ever had to worry about them. And if they have–you have, though you’ll never admit it–it’s a wasted effort. They return from every mission almost completely unscathed. Only as ruffled as a few hairs out of place because Geto is lethal without having to manifest his collection of curses, and nothing can touch Gojo without his permission. The memories of him letting you go beyond that barrier of infinity crop up unbidden in your mind and it makes you fit another arrow on your bowstring. Burns are starting to form where the bow chafes at your fingers but you pull back the string again, deciding to shoot another arrow dead ahead with no other target in mind.

“Don’t worry about me.” The words sound empty even to your own ears. Because as much as you crave your own type of recognition, want to prove that you’re not the weakest–most useless–second year student, you like knowing that you have their attention. Something like if you can’t beat them, join them. You’ll never surpass Gojo or Geto’s abilities but you’ve still earned their approval in a way no one else has. Even if it’s all balanced on a precarious edge. So close but so far. They have each other, and then you. They could take it all away in a second and sometimes you wish they would. It would save you the ordeal of being seen as the bad guy for cutting ties with them when everyone knows how attached the three of you are. If you aren’t with Shoko you’re with them and seeing any of you alone is a rare occurrence. It’s something you’ll have to get used to because losing them might mean losing everyone. Shoko doesn’t seem to think it’s possible but what if you prove her wrong?

Another shot hits its target. What if you’re wrong?

Geto sighs, real loud like he has a right to be upset. Like his mind is anywhere near as hoarded yet empty as yours. The thought of leaving makes you feel light with released anxiety and heavy with the guilt of betrayal. All at once. Too many knots. Too many thoughts. The bow falls to the wayside as you press your hands to your head, trying to will away the pain stabbing behind your eyes. Headache–maybe heatstroke–made worse by all the stress Geto’s caused just by existing near you. You lean down, hands grabbing vaguely at the ground, smacking blindly across the pavement until you find your bow.

The sun is bleaching everything bright white and it’s hard to see even with your eyes squinted against the throbbing pain and stabbing light. The arrows are abandoned, far too many strewn about to be of concern at the moment. Right now, all you want to do is get away from Geto. Go somewhere where he isn’t and recollect your thoughts. Somewhere inside, with water and air conditioning. Your footsteps are staggered, legs feeling more like melting wax than anything solid beneath you.

Move, you try to say, go away. It’s a slurred groan but you shoulder past Geto anyway. Or, at least, you try to. Instead you bounce off of the solid planes of his body. It sends you stumbling in another direction, so quick that your vision begins to dip and swirl like looking through water. There’s the vague sound of something warped and panicked but mostly it sounds like you’re underwater. Everything is shimmering black and blue for a moment before even that fades to nothing.

It’s cold. Not a bitter kind of cold but something chilled and pleasant, made less frigid by a vague sort of warmth wrapped around you to stave off the biting edge of the water. Everything is tepid and dim as goosebumps prickle up your arms. The budding shivers are chased away by gentle hands soothing over your damp skin. It’s enough to shock you to full attention after lingering in the soft ether between sleep and wakefulness. Water sloshes around you, splashing over the side of the tub as you bolt upright, hands gripping the edge of the porcelain as you struggle to make sense of your surroundings. The last memories you have are steeped in searing heat and blinding light, pinched with pain as the sun leached away at you. The sun is gone now, replaced with the milky white light of the moon. It spills through the open window, highlighting the sharp edges of marble and chrome; the expensive appliances of a luxury apartment.

Hands tease at your waist, pulling softly to coax you back to where you’d been laying against their chest. You know Gojo just by touch. It’s a privilege few are afforded now that he’s developed a mastery of his infinity, yet here he is wrapping his arms over your stomach to keep you close to his chest. His heart beats steadily against your spine, a consistent metronome that clashes with the anxious skipping of your own pulse. The headache that had been pounding away at your skull like a hammer and chisel is gone, replaced with the sound of your blood rushing in your ear as each subtle touch of Gojo’s fingers tracing against your skin sends you reeling.

Lips find the tip of your ear, then the edge of your jaw before settling against your pulse fluttering in your throat. His silence is nearly as deafening as your racing heart. It’s so strange to find Gojo so quiet as he presses feather-light kisses into your skin. A damp hand presses into your forehead. There’s a faint hum and then a sigh before his slender fingers drift over your eyes. His lips are at your ear again, the feeling of his breath rushing over your skin making you shiver in his arms.

“Stop thinking.” His voice is unexpectedly harsh, like he’s angry with you, and it only makes you think harder. It’s obvious you’re in his apartment but the spaces in between point A and point B are blurred, a staccato rush of images flickering in and out of focus. You were at school and then suddenly you weren’t. Last you remember, you were with Geto. Near Geto. Trying to get away from him. And now you’re naked in a tub with Gojo, and he’s upset with you. He says it again, “Stop. Thinking.”

Because you value your sanity, or what little shred of it you have left, you really do try to calm your racing thoughts but it’s so hard with him so close. And he won’t let you go. His hand stays over your eyes, pinning your focus on him and him alone. His voice. His skin. His anger. Because no matter how much Gojo tries to mask his emotions with a veneer of humor it’s always painfully clear when he’s upset. At least to you. His voice gets lower and his smiles get tighter. Every word that comes off his tongue now is graveled with restraint and it only works to further scramble your mind. Makes you anxious at the unknown. The feeling of being caught in a web springs to life again as his fingertips dance over your stomach, slender fingers feeling like the legs of a spider tying you up in its web. It gets your breaths quickening until you can’t fill your lungs fast enough, heaving and gasping as you grab at the edge of the tub, trying to pull yourself away from him again.

Let go. Let go. Let. Go!

It’s a mantra marching through your head until he lets you free at last, so quickly that you go spilling over the side of the bathtub. The tiles are cold and unsympathetic and you yelp as your knees land hard against the marble. Gojo watches you, blue eyes almost glowing in the dimness of the moonlight. You scramble gracelessly to your feet, snatching up the first towel your hand touches as you rush to be away from him. Today was meant to be spent in seclusion. Away from Gojo. Away from Geto. Yet you’ve been pushed towards both of them like a compass leading you north because Geto is just beyond the bathroom door, on Gojo’s bed.

It’s brighter in the bedroom, lit by the bedside lamp as Geto looks up from his book. It’s set aside quickly in favor of moving towards you. With each step he takes you find yourself drifting towards the door. Your clothes are nowhere in sight and the towel you grabbed hardly offers enough coverage for you to flee back to your dorm in, but the alternative of staying here, with them, is wholly unappealing. Just the thought of spending another moment with them ties knots in your stomach.

Nervous. They make you so nervous. So anxious about every facet of your existence. They won’t say it but you can see it in the way they treat you like something left over. Something to dote on when they’re done focusing on each other. It was nice at the start because you could pretend you weren’t bothered, but now it’s all you see. A divided front. You. And them. With such an obvious split, it’s only fair that you should have the choice to break free completely. Screw what Shoko said. Of course, they’d let you go. They hardly have you to begin with. But all that bravery evaporates the second your back hits the wall, cornered under Geto’s watchful eyes.

“Back up,” you breathe, not daring to look him in the eyes. His hair is loose, sweeping over his shoulders to curtain your face as he leans his head against yours. All he says is, “no.”

“Please, back up, Geto.” He’s always preferred manners and you try to sound docile even as your voice starts to shake. You feel him shake his head. No, again.

“S’not my name.” His hands trace up your shoulders, thumbs brushing against your neck before hooking under your jaw to make you look at him. Slowly he asks, “What’s my name?”

“Suguru.” It’s something weak and scratchy as your throat tries to close around each syllable but he hums like it’s the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. The meager croak is echoed as Gojo emerges from the bathroom with Geto’s name on his tongue. There’s a dozen unspoken thoughts in that single word, all of which Geto seems to recognize in an instant.

“She’s fine, I got her. Always.” Geto says like you’re a dog that tried to bolt the moment the front door was left open. And despite how insistent you’d been earlier, and how easily Geto said it now, you’re not fine. Truly, you’re the farthest thing from it, and their hovering is making it worse. They usher you towards the bed and you’re perched on the edge as they crowd in around you.

There’s too much skin involved. With your clothes missing you’re left in a towel, clutching it to your chest to lessen even a modicum of the vulnerability you feel with both men staring down at you. Geto reaches to brush a strand of hair away from your face and you shrink back. His hand falls away but it only leaves space for Gojo to come closer.

“Stop touching me.” Gojo hums like he didn’t hear you even as his lips find the furrowed space between your brows, lined taut with tension beneath the softness of his mouth.

“Stop touching me!” Your voice is cracked and edged with hysteria but it works well enough to get them to give you even just a moment to think. Steadying breaths rattle in your chest as you try to pluck up the courage to look at them. Geto catches your eye first because he’s the easiest to look at. His face has always been more guarded, more neutral, than the telegraphing billboard that is Gojo and his big blue eyes. Your thoughts are already so scattered and looking at him will only make it worse. Geto tilts his head as if he’s weighing each thought in his mind.

“What’s wrong?” His tone is cold. Stripped of that usual affection drawl, Geto’s voice sounds almost angry. Somehow it’s everything and nothing that you wanted to hear. Anger will make this easier. If they’re frustrated and bitter it will be easier to cut ties. Still, hearing how detached he sounds makes something inside you crack.

“Let’s break up.” In all your imaginings there was anger. Shouting and fighting, though never begging. You couldn’t imagine you’d be worth the loss of even a shred of dignity to them. Why would they lower themselves to beg you to stay? But instead of anger, your words are met with laughter.

Quiet at first and then louder as Gojo nearly doubles over with how hard he’s laughing. As if you weren’t even worth the effort to get upset. He couldn’t even muster a single harsh word. Instead he’s laughing and the familiar sound is like salt over soil, withering your resolve. The heat of your desperation simmers to something cold and shriveled in the wake of his poorly stifled amusement.

“Stop it!” It’s small and petulant but he quiets down almost instantly, as if he hadn’t been giggling just a moment before. All the mirth drains from his face and turns to something blank and menacing, blue eyes flashing in the low light. You say his name hesitantly, suddenly unsure of yourself, and his eyes narrow.

“Try again.” He’s as insistent as Geto that you call him by his given name. You’re far too close to be playing at calling them by their surnames, as if they’re just passing acquaintances and not your supposed partners.

Softly, you say his name, “Satoru.”

“That’s right, baby. You know my name. Tell me again. Say my name.” He’s getting in close again, face so close to yours that you can’t see anything but him. Pure white hair, clear blue eyes. He’s smiling again. Something coy and teasing as he waits for you to say what he wants to hear. He hears it once then says, “Again.” And again and again as he leans in closer with each murmur of his name until his lips are sealed over yours and his name is only a breath shared between shallow kisses.

“You know my name, baby,”–he spares another kiss–“so call me by it. I’m not some random guy for you to be calling Gojo. Never have been. Never will be.” The latter declaration sounds almost threatening, and it reminds you that you just tried to sever this bond of familiarity between the three of you. Yet here he is telling you it will never be that easy. Why can’t it be? How entrenched are you in their lives that you can’t walk out just as quickly as you came? Time spent with them is sparing between missions. Today has been a seldom quiet moment to yourself between field work and neither of them had come to see you until Shoko went and planted that seed of doubt with Geto.

“We’re not together now,” you try to insist upon your previous request. “It would be strange to call you by your name. We hardly see each other. Wouldn’t people think it’s weird if I addressed you so casually?”

“You know that’s not true.” Geto says, thumb pressed against his brow. A habit of his that spells out his frustration as clearly as any words could.

“Majority rules.” Gojo teases. “You’re not leaving us so you better quit bringing it up before we think you’re serious.”

“I am serious!” You feel Gojo laughing at you more than you hear it. The steady rumbling in his chest as he pulls you to lay beside him on the rumpled sheets. He kisses the tip of your nose and chuffs out an amused “nah,” as if his words are enough to void your own.

“What’s your safeword, baby?” Geto asks from the foot of the bed. The suddenness prompts you to answer quickly, an ingrained instinct drawing the word “cloudy” off your tongue. Geto hums and touches your ankle. His fingers aren’t as delicate as Gojo’s. There’s more weight behind even the lightest touch as his fingertips find the jut of your bone before drifting higher, raising goosebumps on your exposed legs. He climbs onto the bed, hand lingering on your skin as he looks down at you.

“What’s wrong, baby? The truth this time.”

“I want to break up. That’s all.” It feels like a lie when you’re confronted with Geto’s piercing gaze. Gojo scoffs from his place nuzzled against the column of your neck, lips pressing hot kisses against your fluttering pulse.

Geto presses further. “Why?”

Why? As if you had to justify your desire for distance when it’s all they’ve been treating you with. A constant reminder that you’re different, separate. They’re doing it even now, minimizing your words to nothing even as you try desperately to get them to understand that you’re serious. It’s like they’re keeping you on a leash and you’re tugging at your lead, begging to be set free.

“It’ll be easier for all of us.”

“Easier, how?” Gojo asks as he traces over the shape of your collarbones above the cover of your towel.

“No one will have to pretend anymore.”

“Who’s pretending? ’Cause it sure as hell ain’t me.” Gojo snaps, arms cinching tighter around your waist.

“You been lying to us, baby, is that it?” He doesn’t wait for you to answer. “Our girl’s been playing with our feelings, huh, Suguru?”

“That’s what I’m hearing.” Geto agrees.

That’s not true. If anyone’s been lying, it’s them. Treating you so sweet when it’s plain to see the only people that matter to them is each other. They’ve always been together until you stumbled along, weak and starry-eyed. Wholly intent on earning your place in a group of such skilled sorcerers. They doted on you, taught you, loved you, but how truthful can a love borne of pity be. You’re a kicked puppy limping along behind them and it’s taken you this long to realize how truly pathetic you’ve been. Training makes a sorcerer, not trailing behind in a race you’ll never win. Chasing the backs of two people you can never hope to reach. It’s cruel of them to pretend you were ever someone worthy of being beside them. It was never going to be you and it makes you wonder how long they planned to let you live in this delusion.

“I’m not the one lying.” It’s quiet, barely the wisp of a sound, but they hear it. Gojo sits up quickly, pulling you with him so that he and Geto can pin you between them once more.

“So it’s us?” Gojo bites, voice grated with anger. “You think we’re lying about our feelings. You think we don’t love you?” It’s better that you can’t see him as he kneels behind you, chin hooked over your shoulder, but there’s nothing shielding you from Geto’s endlessly dark glare. His head tilts, bangs sweeping over his eyes as he stares down at you with a harsh set to his lips.

“Who said that, baby? Who told you we didn’t love you?” When you shake your head, Geto scoffs.

“Don’t tell me you made up that lie yourself.” Gojo grunts. “You got lost in that pretty little head of yours and decided we don’t love you anymore, is that it?” His hand is over your eyes again, turning the world dark. It’s something he’s always done, covering your eyes like putting a blanket over a cage. It forces your mind to quiet, to focus on less. A habit you assume he developed as an extension of his own.

He dampens his Six Eyes with blindfolds and tinted glasses, so of course he’d know exactly how to quiet your mind when it starts to race out of control. Your hands lift towards your face, uncertain if you want to move his hand or hold it closer. Your fingertips rest against his skin, not pushing, not pulling, but without your arms against your sides the towel slowly comes loose to pool around your waist. Warm hands are quick to chase away the chill of the room as Geto’s fingers brush against your ribs, Gojo’s free hand settling lower on your waist. They both move in closer until you’re locked between their bodies. Gojo at your back and Geto against your chest. The latter lifts your hips, pushing the towel aside completely as he pulls you into his lap. You can’t see him through Gojo’s hand, but you’re sure Geto is staring at you, gaze likely steeped in disappointment.

It reminds you of what Shoko had said, “You can try.” And this is your reward for the effort. Trying suggests a margin of error for failure, and you’ve failed spectacularly. Undressed and caught between the two of them, feeling their hands against your naked body as they try to convince you to stay.

“You’re wrong, pretty girl,” Gojo hums, cheek pressed up against your ear as he leans over your shoulder. His voice comes from all around you. Humming through your spine and over your shoulders as the soft timbre comes up from his chest and settles as a low draw in his throat. You hear it nearly echoing in your ear as his mouth ghosts over your skin. He’s so close, hand still guarding your eyes from seeing anything beyond his skin. He’s got you surrounded and it’s only made more overwhelming as Geto moves in closer until you can feel his breath against your lips. His face is different from Gojo’s as he nuzzles against you. The white haired man is made up of straighter edges–a slim jaw and sharp nose–to match the deceptive softness he presents to the world, like a blade hidden in a sleeve. Geto is comparatively more broad, all brute strength and heavy hands as he presses his nose against yours.

They’re being gentle. You can feel it in the way their muscles move beneath their skin, tensing and curling with controlled strength. They’re so strong and you feel like a feather caught between two rocks as they press against you, woefully inferior and easily brushed aside. Still they don’t allow you to float away. Both of them press close to keep you exactly where they want you. Lips find your skin. Warmth blooms across the curve of your shoulders and up the column of your neck as soft pecks graze your parted lips. There’s nothing heady or frenzied about this moment. It’s less feverish than you’re used to, yet there’s no absence of emotion because being between them has always been fraught with passion. A hand trails across your chest, settling over the steadying thrum of your heartbeat, and you realize belatedly that they’re going slow for your sake. Just a moment ago you’d been overwrought with panic and each of their glancing touches works to bleed the tension out of your body.

“Still with us?” Geto asks. He and Gojo always seem to move in tandem. Geto’s hand has only just started to tip your head up to meet his gaze when Gojo’s hand finally slips away from your eyes. You must say something in the affirmative because Geto hums, thumb brushing over your lips before he looks over your shoulder at Gojo. Something unspoken passes between them in the briefest glance and then you’re moving, getting dragged into Gojo’s chest as he sits up against the headboard with you between his legs. His towel has been brushed aside as well, leaving only Geto clothed. He evens the odds a fraction by pulling his shirt off, ruffling his hair so it falls messily around his face. Pretty.

Geto scoff, “Now you have something nice to say, baby?” You hadn’t meant to say it out loud but they both seem amused if not a bit mollified by the slip of your tongue.

“Our boy is pretty, isn’t he?” Gojo asks, shifting his hips until you can feel the length of his approval pressed against the small of your back. Wet and hot, leaking and throbbing against the base of your spine as his hands press against your stomach to pull you impossibly closer.

“Gentle.” Geto reminds him, eyes fixed on the way Gojo’s fingers are making impressions in the softness of your skin. Any harder and he’d start to leave bruises but Gojo knows better. Geto wouldn’t let him hold you hard enough to break and Gojo himself is far too aware of his own strength to ever lose control like that.

“M’always gentle,” he says against the nape of your neck, the sentiment nearly lost as his teeth scrape across the sensitive skin. A shiver skitters down your spine, skin dotted with goosebumps as his tongue soothes the faint sting his teeth left behind.

“I know you are,” Geto agrees, reaching past your shoulder to touch Gojo. The man nearly purrs, a soft chuckling noise vibrating against your skin as his tongue tastes where your pulse is rushing in your throat.

“We’re always gentle with you, aren’t we, baby girl?” Geto’s eyes are on you now. The pitiful little “yeah,” you manage to squeeze out around the lump in your throat hardly qualifies as an answer. But they are, and isn’t that the worst part? They’re so gentle with you like they know you’re too weak to handle them unbridled, like you’re wrapped in caution tape and stamped with stickers marking you as fragile. Weak. It’s embarrassing that even in their most vulnerable state they’re more than you could ever hope to handle.

“Our girl.” Gojo sighs. The strongest sorcerer of the new generation and yet his touch is so gentle it seems almost hesitant as one hand moves away from your waist to dip between your legs. He echoes the whimpering sound you make as the pads of his fingers brush against your clit, seemingly reveling in the way your body tenses as he traces gentle shapes against the sensitive bud. His touches are fleeting, teasing, hardly enough as he pants against your shoulder. Geto’s hands smooth up the inside of your thighs, thumbing against the muscles as he spreads your legs wider for Gojo to touch. His second hand comes away from your waist to join the first, teasing at your fluttering heat before sinking a singular finger inside. He groans louder than you do, mumbling against your dampening skin about “so wet, baby,” as he works his finger inside you, adding another and another as he stretches you out with each curling thrust of his fingers.

Geto seems content to watch, thumbing soft circles against the shaking muscles of your thighs as Gojo takes his time loosening you around his fingers.

“You’re making a mess, baby girl.” Geto teases. You can feel it. Gojo is frustratingly good at everything he does and this is no exception. He’s winding you up tight as he hooks his fingers against that spot inside you that has you keening and arching away from his chest. There’s the faint sound of a protest, a groaning “no!” as Gojo’s body follows yours, not letting you put any distance between you.

“Be nice,” Geto laughs, pushing against your sternum until your back is against Gojo’s chest once more. Once you’re settled his hand trails to your nipple, brushing against the pert bud before the heat of his mouth swallows your breast. His tongue laves over your skin, leaving a glossy wet trail across your chest as he nips and licks at your breasts. It’s all overwhelming. The heat of two bodies against yours, reflecting the warmth of your own. Sweat gathers where Gojo is panting against your neck, lashes tickling your cheek as he looks down as where Geto is leaving faint marks against your skin. Your hips shift, trying to shy away from the mounting pleasure but Geto’s hold on your thigh is unflinching and only works to push you further into Gojo’s lap. You can feel the latter grinding against you, cock drooling against your skin as he grinds against your ass.

“Fuck, baby,” Gojo’s whining now, in that same breathy way he does whenever he’s at the edge of cumming. “You close, baby, gonna cum for me?” His fingers work faster inside you, rubbing real nice against your clit as he babbles a mantra of “cum, baby, please, please, cum,” in your ear. You do because they don’t give you much of a choice with the way they’re hitting all your weak spots at once. Just one of them is enough to override your senses, but together they all but melt your brain until your thighs are shaking and you’re staining the sheets with how hard you’re cumming. Gojo doesn’t let up on your clit but he pulls his fingers out of you with an embarrassingly slick sound to fumble for his cock. Geto helps, lifting you higher so Gojo can slot his cock against your pussy. He leans forward like he’s trying to wrap himself around you, rutting feverishly against your wet heat and whining when he doesn’t end up inside you. Geto seems to take pity on him, brushing Gojo’s hand aside to stroke his flushed cock soaked with a mix of both of you.

“I got you, baby.” Geto hums, leaning over to kiss Gojo. With the way they’re meeting in the middle, just over your shoulder, you can hear every sound they make with frustrating clarity. Every little groan Gojo makes as Geto kisses him. It’s loud and sloppy and you feel spit dappling your shoulder when they pull apart, joining the sweat already beading on your skin.

Geto murmurs, “You too, baby girl,” before enveloping you in a kiss of your own. His tongue finds yours easily, coaxing you into a deeper kiss as he groans against your mouth. He kisses you like he’s trying to swallow you whole, to consume every part of you. It’s startling and grounding all at once. A kiss like that can’t be fake. It eases a bit of tension from your body and Geto feels it, humming against your mouth as he pulls away, a faint smile on his lips. He kisses you again only briefly before moving lower, dappling your skin in warm kisses before he settles on his stomach with his head between your legs. He gives Gojo’s cock a few more teasing strokes before wrapping his lips around his swollen length. Behind you, Gojo keens, wrapping his arms tight around you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. Geto’s eyes are on you as he swallows Gojo’s dick.

“Fuck,” Gojo shivers against your back. “Wish I could see him. Tell me what he looks like, baby. What does our boy look like between our legs?” It’s an odd request if only because Gojo can see so much. Yet here he is relying on your vision to tell him what he can’t see.

“S’pretty,” you tell him, “so pretty.”

“Yeah,” Gojo agrees instantly. “Yeah, our boy is so pretty. Fuck, Suguru!”

“He’s taking you so well.” Geto hums at the praise and Gojo whines behind you, hips jerking up. Geto’s hands settle on your thighs once more, gripping like he needs something to focus on while he’s taking Gojo’s cock to the hilt. You lay a shaking hand on his head, fingers carding through his soft hair, pulling it away from his face as he blinks up at you.

“So pretty, Suguru.” He pops off of Gojo’s dick at the sound of his name on your tongue, shifting forward until his lips are wrapped around your clit. Your hand tightens in his hair, unsure if you want to pull him away or guide him closer as the simmering sting of overstimulation slowly bleeds through your body. He decides for you, pulling away far too soon and dragging you up with him. You fall against his chest as he nods for Gojo to move. You’re laid out in the space he leaves as Geto shoves his pants down his thighs.

There’s a wet spot on the fabric from where his cock has been leaking in its confines, precum beading on the flushed head. Gojo is quick to clean up the mess, kissing the tip of Geto’s cock and taking him halfway down his throat. Geto groans, tossing his head back in a wave of glossy black hair as he takes Gojo’s mouth with a few short thrusts before pulling the blue eyed man off of him. He keeps his hand in Gojo’s hair, guiding him up to his knees to kiss him again. There’s a peek of tongue between their mouths and it has your thighs pressing together just watching them kneeling over you.

“Want you,” Geto breathes against Gojo’s lips, hardly parted from their kiss. “I don’t care how, jus’ want you.” An approving hum follows as Gojo lays himself on top of you, hips slotted against your.

“Lift up,” he murmurs, sliding a pillow under your hips as he grinds his throbbing cock against you. “Feels so good, baby.” He whines. When he leans in to kiss you, there’s desperation sparkling in his eyes. He’s kissing you hard enough to push your head back into the mattress, nipping and licking like he’s trying to pour everything he can into the press of your mouths. His body is pressed against yours in every way he can manage. Fingers threaded with yours as your hearts beat in feverish tandem, hips pressed flush as Gojo grinds against you. There’s the vague sound of a cap popping then a pitiful whine against your mouth as Geto’s hand finds Gojo’s hip, holding him still as he presses a lubed finger inside Gojo. He melts in an instant, squirming and whining as Geto keeps him steady with a hand on the small of his back. He takes his time with Gojo, letting him relax into the feeling and stalling when he whines about it being too much. By the time Geto is satisfied with how prepared Gojo is, the latter is stumbling over his words, babbling about “please, I want it, please, please!” with his hips caught between you and Geto. He can’t seem to decide exactly what he wants but Geto does it for him, leaning against his back as he strokes his dick.

“You want it?” Geto teases, nosing at the hollow behind Gojo’s ear. The white hair man nods, face drawn in desperation as he ruts into Geto’s fist. “What do you want, baby boy?” Geto asks as he drags the head of Gojo’s throbbing cock through your wet folds.

“Inside!” Gojo’s voice cracks with the volume of his desperation. Geto chuckles and kisses his shoulder.

“Whatever you want, baby.” He hums, guiding Gojo inside you. His shaking stills in an instant as he melts against you.

“Fuck, baby,” he whines. “It’s so warm inside. Squeezing me so tight, fuck!” His babbling only devolves further as Geto presses inside him, nearly incoherent as he writhes between your bodies. The strongest sorcerer reduced to a whimpering mess before you, because of you. There’s something reassuring about it as you brush Gojo’s damp hair away from his eyes, tasting the salt of his sweat as you kiss his forehead. He can barely return the affection, nuzzling against your cheek as Geto pulls back to start fucking him in earnest. Gojo finds his rhythm pinned between the two of you, rutting into you whenever Geto pulls away. His fingers are back on your clit, making a mess between your prone bodies as he tries to rush you towards the edge. He’s already shaking and whining, teetering on the edge of pleasure from all of Geto’s attention.

“Gonna cum, baby?” Geto huffs. There’s a nod and a litany of words spilling from Gojo’s lips that sound like “m’close,” as his hand grabs Geto’s thigh to pull him closer. Gojo grinds against his cock, fingers not letting up on your clit as he makes himself cum on Geto’s dick.

“Good boy.” Geto coos, hands soothing against Gojo’s waist as he shivers. He’s close, you can tell by the way his hips are stuttering, balls tightening as they smack against your skin. He cums hard, body going rigid as he spills inside you. Still, even when he’s finished he doesn’t stop moving his hips. Bright blue eyes stay locked on the frothy mess seeping out around his cock until Geto gets him to pull away. His cock is soft and flushed between his legs, strings of your shared arousal staining his skin as Geto lays him down beside you. Gojo is quick to cling, slinging an arm across your waist as his head settles against your shoulder like he can’t bear to part from you for even a moment. His hand seeks out yours, twining your fingers as Geto fills the space Gojo left inside you. He chuckles at the wet sound it makes as he sinks inside you, hair curtaining your face as he leans down to kiss you.

“Feel so good, baby girl. So fucking good. Can’t believe you wanted to take this away from us.” He groans as he sinks into your heat. Gojo had gotten you to the edge, wound you up near to snapping, and Geto doesn’t seem keen on giving you a moment to relax. His hips grind against yours with startling intensity, like he’s fucking all his anger into you.

“Tryin’ to leave us like we don’t fucking adore you. You don’t even realize how much we need you, do you?” He grits out. They need you? It sounds inconceivable, and yet here you are. In Gojo’s bed, with Geto losing himself inside you. Who else has been allowed to see them like this?

“You’re good, baby.” Gojo whispers. “So strong and so kind. We gotta be gentle with you, can’t let you get tarnished and jaded the way we have. Gotta keep our girl protected and happy for as long as we can.” He kisses your ear.

“We’ve seen so much,” Geto pants. “Can’t let you end up like us.” Somewhere in his soft groans there’s a promise, a vow to keep you away from the things they’ve seen. It makes something come loose in your chest, a tension unraveling at last as tears prick at the edge of your vision. It’s a sorcerer’s job to protect and they were protecting you. All this distance and turmoil you’ve been suffering because they want to protect you. Not because you’re weak but because they’re strong. You’ve heard whispers of the things that happened while they were in high school, things you’d never wish on your worst enemy. Gojo had died somewhere in their second year. Of course they want to keep you behind them, a wall between you and the cruelness of their world as Special Grades. Your vision swims with tears as you pull Geto into a kiss, mumbling out sniffling apologies.

“M’sorry, m’sorry! I just wanted you to take me seriously. It always feels like I’m an afterthought when it comes to missions.”

“Baby, you’re the only thought.” Gojo sighs. “You’re our soft place to land and we’d like to keep it that way. We like you soft. You can be strong all you want but when you’re with us, you gotta let us treat you nice, yeah?” You think you nod, babbling back an affirmative, but it’s hard to know as the head of Geto’s cock grinds against your sweet spot, his fingers rubbing over your messy clit. Gojo thumbs at your nipple and it’s the last bit you need to send you over the edge with a cracked shout.

“That’s right, baby, shit.” Geto groans as you clench around him. He presses in close, forehead against yours as he works himself to the edge. Each panting breath is shared between you as you rest the hand Gojo isn’t holding against the nape of his neck, nails scratching lightly in his hair.

“Please, wanna feel you. Please cum, Suguru,” you whisper against his lips. He returns the coaxing with a soft “fuck,” pressing his weight against you as he cums with a graveled grunt of your name. You feel the mess leaking down your thighs, a mix of Gojo and Geto dripping out of your cunt as Geto pulls away with a few fluttering kisses.

“Thank you,” he says between each press of your lips. “Thank you for trusting us.” Belatedly, you realize you had trusted them. Implicitly. Geto had even gone as far as reminding you that you had an out, asking for your safe word even when you could tell he didn’t want you walking away from them. Even in your anger and panic you’d trusted them to treat you carefully, and they had. Gojo is still pressing soft kisses into your skin as he clings to you. His leg has found the space Geto left between yours, hooked over your thigh to keep you from squirming away from his sweaty embrace.

“Don’t get too comfortable.” Geto says as he runs his hand up Gojo’s thigh. “We all need a bath and I’ve gotta feed you two.”

“M’not hungry.” Gojo grouses, burying his face further in your neck.

“Don’t be a brat.” Geto groans. “And we definitely need to get some fluids in this one.” He says, wiping the sweat from your brow. “She was already dehydrated. We shouldn’t have tired her out like this.”

“I’m fine,” you tell him, really meaning it this time, but Geto brushes you off.

“You probably feel fine but you’ll be complaining about a headache in an hour tops, so up you go. Shower, then food. You can whine about how mean I’m being once you’ve gotten something to drink.” Gojo grumbles something that sounds faintly like “I’ll hold you to that,” as he gathers you into his arms and carries you to the bathroom. They argue about who gets to wash you and what food to order, falling into the familiar rhythm of push and pull between them with you as the mediator, gently guiding their petty arguments with a soft laugh. It’s a comfortable place to be, just one step behind them.

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