#I'm trying to turn it on and when it turns on it freezes on the screen and nothing happens

[vanteguccir]

OKAY BUT IMAGINE the very time you ever mention kids around either Matt or Chris. like the relationship is getting serious yknow, and you just casually mention ‘our kids are gonna be so cute’ or ‘do you think they’ll have your eyes or mine?’ like they would absolutely LOSE IT. they would get all gushy and instantly be like ‘we can make one right now’ or ‘we can practice for the future’

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤOUR KIDS ARE GONNA BE CUTE * MATT STURNIOLO * BLURB

SUMMARY　::　where Y/N mentions her thoughts about their future children to Matt for the first time, and he absolutely lose it.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader

WARNINGS　::　Mentions of becoming parents.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

The air smelled like warm vanilla from Y/N's candle burning on the coffee table, and the only sounds were the faint hum of a playlist Matt had thrown on shuffle and the occasional rustling of a blanket being adjusted.

Y/N and Matt were on the floor of the living room, a mess of art supplies spread out between them.

It had started as a joke when Matt pointed at his last drawing glued to the fridge, making some comment about never being able to color inside the lines as a kid, and Y/N had promptly pulled out one of those oversized coloring books meant for children, the ones with thick, black-outlined cartoons and pages that smelled like paper from an elementary school classroom.

So now, here they were, stomach-down on the living room floor, legs bent at the knees and swinging absentmindedly while Y/N concentrated on shading in a cartoonish giraffe. Matt was beside her, hunched over a page with his tongue slightly poking out in concentration as he attempted to color a macaw in different shades of blue.

"This is always so relaxing." Matt muttered, switching to a green crayon to shade the macaw wing. "Think' m'brain just shut off in the best way."

Y/N hummed in agreement, watching the way his fingers moved, slightly calloused from years of gripping drumsticks and gaming controllers, now delicately holding a crayon as if it were something precious.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Y/N sighed contently and let her head drop against her arm, admiring the half-colored giraffe in front of her.

"Our kids are gonna be so cute coloring together. Imagine them coming to us with a new drawing every day."

It was such a casual, passing comment, said with the same energy as commenting on the weather. But the moment the words left her lips, the entire room seemed to freeze.

Actually, no. Matt froze.

Like, completely.

His fingers went slack. The tiny crayon rolled off and disappeared somewhere into the carpet, but he didn’t even register it.

Our kids.

His heart did a backflip. Then another. Then it practically shot into orbit.

Y/N, still focused on her giraffe, didn’t notice the way that his posture went rigid, or how he turned his head to look at her as fast as humanly possible, blue eyes wide and blinking like she had just uttered the most beautiful words in the English language.

Our kids.

She said our kids.

Matt inhaled sharply, trying to calm the way his chest was suddenly tight with love.

"What?" His voice came out slightly choked.

Y/N glanced up at him, eyebrows raising slightly at his reaction.

"What?" She echoed, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Did I- was that weird?"

Matt shook his head rapidly, his mouth opening and closing like he was trying to form a sentence, but his brain had just blue-screened.

"No! No, no, no, it’s not weird, it’s just-" He exhaled sharply, then, out of nowhere, let out an actual whine, burying his face in his hands.

Y/N blinked.

"Matt?"

"I’m gonna lose my mind." He groaned dramatically, peeking at her through his fingers.

His milky skin was now flushed in a deep shade of pink, and his big eyes were so ridiculously, stupidly soft that it made Y/N’s heart stutter.

"You can’t just say that out of nowhere, baby. I was not prepared. I was having a normal, peaceful time, and then you just drop that on me?"

Y/N’s lips twitched in amusement.

"Drop what? That our kids are gonna be cute?"

Matt let out a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a strangled gasp, as if he physically could not handle the sheer concept of it. He shot up onto his knees, ignoring the slight pain coming from his ankle with the moviments and placing both hands on Y/N’s cheeks with sudden urgency.

"Say it again."

Y/N giggled, tilting her head.

"What, that our kids-"

"Angel, I swear to God, you’re gonna put me in an early grave." He looked like he was having a full existential crisis, running a hand through his hair before gripping the back of his neck as if trying to steady himself. "Can we make one right now? I'm fully prepared to be a dad, just realized it-"

Y/N burst out laughing, shoving his shoulder lightly.

"Matthew!"

"I’m being so serious." He insisted, grabbing Y/N’s hands and squeezing them like a man possessed. "You don’t understand, baby. I love kids. I’ve always loved kids. And then you’re here, coloring next to me, saying words like ‘our kids,’ and now I can't stop thinking of a mini mix of me and you coloring in our living room."

Y/N swore she felt her heart physically swell, tilting her head and observing his gentle expression.

"... Do you think they’ll have your eyes or mine? Because, personally, I think they’d look adorable with your eyes."

"Matt." She whispered, a little overwhelmed by how utterly, devastatingly in love with him she was in that moment.

His face softened even more, which Y/N hadn’t even thought was possible.

"I’m serious." He murmured, thumb brushing over her knuckles. "You see a future with me like that? Do you really?"

Y/N nodded without hesitation.

"Of course, I do. The prettiest and most perfect future."

His expression melted into something so tender that it made Y/N’s chest ache. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers, his breath tickling her upper lip.

"Good." He whispered. "Because I think about that all the time. And now I’m never gonna stop thinking about it."

Y/N smiled, nudging her nose against his.

"So, we’re in agreement?"

Matt grinned, eyes twinkling.

"Our kids are gonna be very cute."

© vanteguccir

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Cindereddie

Written for the @steddiebingo

Prompts: Slipper on the main card | Argyle on the Get Lucky bonus card

Rated: T

Tags: Post-Vecna; Steve Harrington has a crush on Eddie Munson; Recreational drug use; Jealous Steve; Idiots in love

“I lost my shoe,” Eddie declares, overjoyed and giddy. 

Sure enough, a look at his feet reveals one worn combat boot with the laces undone and one muddied sock with a toe poking out from a hole at the tip. There’s cartoon figures printed all over it. The sock, not the toe. Garfield, probaby, though it’s hard to tell with all the mud. 

“Huh?” says Steve. It’s pitch dark and raining, and he had just fallen asleep when the doorbell rang, and now Eddie is here - sopping wet, dragging a trail of muddy footsteps all over the front porch and aiming that wide, toothy grin at him that always makes Steve’s heart skip a beat. 

He feels like he missed something. 

Eddie’s smile, impossibly, goes wider. “I lost my-” 

“Yeah,” Steve interrupts him. “I see that, just- …What are you even doing here? I thought you were gonna hang with Argyle tonight?” 

He tries his best to keep the sneer out of his voice, to ignore the ugly twist that his stomach gives at the thought. Argyle is a decent guy, and there’s absolutely no need to feel jealous of this newly formed friendship between Eddie and him. Because that’s all they are. Just friends. Exactly like Eddie and Steve are just friends, so Steve has absolutely no right to get all moody and possessive like that. 

“Oh, I did,” Eddie nods, wet curls bobbing. “We sampled his new strain. Fairy Godmother. The Cali stuff has the wackiest names, but the way it hits? Metal as fuck, man.” 

Which … okay, that actually explains a lot. Like the way Eddie quite evidently can’t stop grinning. Or the way his eyes are even darker than usual, pupils almost entirely swallowing the browns and caramels of his irises. Or the southern drawl that has crept into his voice - barely there but just noticeable enough around some of the vowels. 

“Okay?” Steve says, valiantly attempting to keep his mouth from twitching, but what can he say? Eddie’s smile is contagious. “So you're high as balls. That still doesn't explain why you're here.” 

Eddie shrugs. “Wanted to see you. Don't you wanna see me?” 

His bottom lip juts out and his eyes go huge. Steve rolls his eyes. 

“I'm always happy to see you, idiot. Just… you couldn't have waited until tomorrow? You absolutely had to walk all the way here in the rain and the mud?” 

“Would've taken the van,” Eddie mutters around a fistful of hair. “Except I thought that was too risky.” 

Steve crosses his arms at him. “Well, I'm glad we agree on one thing at-”

“It might turn back any second.” 

Steve stares. “Pardon?” 

“Into a pumpkin,” Eddie says, like it makes sense. “It's almost midnight, right?” 

A look at his watch tells Steve that this is true. What it doesn't tell him is what the hell Eddie is on about. Steve pinches his nose. 

“What the fuck? Why would your van turn into a-” 

And then it clicks. 

“Oh God,” he groans. “Don't tell me you mean the fucking Fairy Godmother?” 

“I'm Cinderella!” Eddie beams. Then, his brow creases. “Cindereddie? Look, I even lost my-” 

“Your shoe,” Steve snorts, wrapping an arm around his shoulders to usher him inside. “I know. Pretty sure Cinderella wore glass slippers though, not combat boots.” 

Eddie scoffs and waves him off, but he does allow himself to be pulled into the entrance hall and maneuvered onto the little bench there. 

“Shit, you're freezing,” Steve mutters. “Hold on, I'll get you something to dry off.”

By the time he returns with a stack of clean towels and dry clothes, Eddie has already peeled out of his flannel and jacket and is sitting there in all his wet, bare-chested glory, humming to himself and idly kicking his muddy feet. 

“Jesus,” Steve mutters, throwing a clean sweater at his face. “I don’t believe you. What are you trying to do, get pneumonia?”

He doesn’t wait for Eddie’s reply, just drops to his knees on the marble tiles and pulls off the muddy sock. It makes a wet squelching sound as he tosses it aside. He has just finished towelling off the naked foot and moved on to removing the boot from the other when Eddie speaks again.

“Will you help me find it?” 

He is speaking from inside the sweater, so his voice comes out a bit muffled. Steve frowns up at him. 

“Find wha- … your boot?”, he asks. Eddie pops his head out of the sweater, all disheveled hair and adorable puppy dog eyes. “What? Argyle can’t help you with that?”

“I’m sure he would,” Eddie shrugs, wiggling his naked toes happily. “But he isn’t my Prince Charming, so …” 

Steve feels himself flush. Suddenly, he’s acutely aware of the picture they’re making - himself kneeling by Eddie’s feet and taking off his boot, like some weird reenactment of the prince putting the lost glass slipper on Cinderella. 

“Let’s get you to bed,” he blurts, yanking the boot off a little too roughly and shooting to his feet to pull Eddie up and towards the staircase. “We can find your stupid shoe tomorrow when it’s light. Right now, you need to sleep that high off.”

Eddie leans into him as they wobble up the stairs, hair tickling Steve’s neck. 

“Will my prince give me a kiss goodnight?”

“Shut up,” Steve grouses. 

And if he does bend down to sweep the damp curls from Eddie’s sleeping face, once he has tucked him into bed in one of the guest rooms? And if he does press his lips to his forehead?

Nobody but him needs to know. 

If he’s lucky, maybe Eddie’s lost boot won’t be the only thing he finds tomorrow. Maybe he’ll actually muster up the courage to tell him how he feels. 

More Steddie Bingo

[lilscandybowl]

                             ˖⁺‧₊˚ ˚₊‧⁺˖✮-------------------✮˖⁺‧₊˚ ˚₊‧⁺˖ 

Mark would be a hamster dad. He would want to see them every night. He would call their name as soon as he sees them. Feeding them way too many treats of freeze-dried chicken or mealworms. He once did try to feed them an unhealth treat and you ended up sitting him down and went over hamster care. The right hamster care. 

After that, He was right away coming home with flowers, not for you but for the hamster to be able to forage through. The hamster would sit on his lap while he was on a game and when he comes home from a fight. You would often find him holding the hamster in a way to calm down. 

He can’t stand it when the hamster pouches food in her cheek but he loves watching her roll in the sand. Yeah, he would pick her up, show her around, and introduce her to any other animal you own.

                             ˖⁺‧₊˚ ˚₊‧⁺˖✮-------------------✮˖⁺‧₊˚ ˚₊‧⁺˖ 

“What is that?” Mark asked from behind you as you let him into your room. 

“i told you, i have a hamster” you turn back to give him a weird look. You know Mark for a few months now and was pretty much happy with him. He was everything you liked in a guy, total golden retriever. You watch as he moves closer to the cage looking confused. 

“i just didn’t know you could get cages that big "Mark stated as he look at you. “i mean I'm pretty sure the cage i use to have for mine was like” He made a size with his arms. “With lots of tubes” He was describing your nightmare cage. 

“Well, Minx deserves a big cage.” You comment as you move towards him. “You want to see her?” Mark just stares at you looking excited. You lift up the lid to the cage. “She likes to hide in her bedding. So, give me a second” You just start scooping parts up slowly as Mark watch you. You felt her in the palm of your hand and you pick her up. It was worth waking up her up just to see Mark’s face light up. 

“She is so small” Mark explains looking a bit closer. “She just a baby” You laughed at his little coos at her.  

“She is over a year, babe. Put your hands out” you said and watch Mark look nervous. He started to play with his own hands. 

“I just don't want to hurt her” He muttered out. You look at him. You were pretty sure this man couldn’t even hurt a fly even with his powers.  

“You won't” You move one of your hands to meet his and get him to stop. “i promise” His eyes met yours as he mutters ok. You place your hand against his and let her walk onto him. 

In that moment, you saw his heart melt. You knew that you most likely wasn’t his number one anymore and you didn’t mind that. 

                             ˖⁺‧₊˚ ˚₊‧⁺˖✮-------------------✮˖⁺‧₊˚ ˚₊‧⁺˖ 

The hamster is a standard Russian hamster based on my old girl. She was the best. My boyfriend and I loved her to pieces. Please make sure you are following the right info for hamsters.

[cloudtransprncy]

Scrap: What's Mine

Get You: Teaser #2 Mina X Male Reader | 1800 words Non-Smut scene. (Full Piece will contain smut)

My first Scrap! These are gonna be deleted scenes and cut content from my full pieces that I couldn't just trash. This one's from my upcoming Get You trilogy, but I had to cut it cuz it didn't fit the overall vibe and themes. Reworked it to stand alone cuz I liked it too much to let go. No smut this time, just a restaurant scene I'm kinda obsessed with. So treating like a teaser :) Hope y'all like it.

P.S I LOVE MINA.

"Don't move."

Mina freezes, suspended in place right in front of you. One eyebrow arches upward—that perfect, devastating arch that does something catastrophic to your internal organs. The restaurant's string lights catch in her silky black hair, leaving a light shine.

"What?" Her voice carries the practiced dryness of someone who's perfected the art of sounding bored. But her eyes—God, her eyes betray her. There's that millisecond of softness, the kind she reserves exclusively for moments when she finds your absurdity secretly charming.

"You look so good right now. Just—" You swallow, suddenly aware of how the request sounds. "Stay still for a second."

You fumble for your phone with the grace of someone trying to catch a fish barehanded. Almost send your water glass toppling.

Perfect. Very smooth. Extremely cool.

She doesn't pose. Mina would rather walk naked through traffic than pose for a photo. Instead, she glances sideways as if mentally calculating the distance to every exit (a habit you find worrying on Tuesdays and endearing on Fridays). The almost imperceptible downturn of her chin. The way her hair falls in a perfect curtain against her jaw. That impossibly delicate flower pendant resting against her collarbones like it's found its home.

Click.

"Did you get what you needed?" she asks, turning back to you.

What you needed. Not what you wanted. The distinction feels important, like all Mina's careful word choices. She slices through pretense with surgical precision. Like she's been secretly training as a verbal assassin all this time instead of just perfecting the world's most symmetrical winged eyeliner.

"Perfect," you say, stealing another glance at the image before tucking your phone away. "You're perfect."

Her eyes roll skyward, but there it is—that micro-smile. Just the right corner of her mouth lifting approximately half a millimeter. To the untrained observer: nothing. To you: fireworks, symphonies, religious experiences.

She reaches across the table, adjusts your collar with the measured precision of someone diffusing a bomb. Her fingertips brush against your neck, and your pulse immediately surrenders all your secrets. A year into this thing between you, and still your body can't play it cool.

"You look tired," she says, withdrawing her hand but somehow leaving warmth behind, like a ghost print.

You suddenly realize the fatigue that's been hanging on you like wet clothing. You hadn't mentioned the late studio session—wouldn't have mentioned it—but of course she noticed. Mina notices everything. If the world ended tomorrow, she'd be the one reminding everyone to pack sunscreen and charge their phones.

"You push yourself too hard." Not an accusation. A statement of fact, delivered with the calm certainty of someone reading from a teleprompter.

But before you can mount a defense, the first course arrives—sashimi arranged so artfully it belongs behind velvet ropes, not about to be devoured by your unworthy mouth.

Mina studies the spread with the concentration of an art restorer (another career she could excel at without trying). Then, instead of serving herself, she selects a piece of toro with marbling so perfect it should have its own Instagram—the fish equivalent of winning a cosmic lottery—and places it on your plate.

"Eat."

Just one word. But somehow it sounds like a poem.

You obey because your body responds to her directives before your brain can form an argument. And also because you're starving. The toro melts against your tongue, and you make a sound that would embarrass you if you weren't too busy having a religious experience with fish.

"Good?"

She already knows the answer—can read it in your face—but she asks anyway, watching you with that focused attention usually reserved for neurosurgery and videos of baby animals falling asleep.

"It's like eating butter made from ocean dreams," you say, which makes absolutely no sense, but your brain short-circuits when exposed simultaneously to incredible food and Mina's undivided attention.

Amusement flickers across her face. "Eloquent as always."

"You know words aren't my strong suit."

"That's not true at all." Her voice shifts, suddenly serious. "The words in your music speak volumes."

The compliment lands directly in your chest cavity. People praise your lyrics all the time, but when Mina does it—when she's actually listened and found something worthy—it's different. Like praise from God, if God were a five-foot-four Japanese-American woman with impeccable taste in outerwear.

You stare at your plate, suddenly shy.

"Different parts of the brain," you mumble, having absolutely no idea if that's true.

She doesn't press the point, just nudges your tea closer with one perfect fingertip. "Drink. It's the perfect temperature now."

You sip. And of course, she's right. Not scalding, not tepid—exactly right, as if she's been monitoring it with scientific precision while you talked. Knowing Mina, she probably has been.

This is how she says "I love you"—not with actual words (God forbid), but with perfectly timed tea and carefully selected fish. With slight adjustments to your hair and reminders to hydrate. A barrage of tiny caretaking gestures that accumulate into something overwhelming.

You watch her take a small bite of her own food. The careful way she chews. The slight dip of her lashes. Being allowed to witness Mina like this—her drawbridge lowered just enough to grant you a glimpse inside the fortress—is sacred.

"You're staring again," she murmurs without looking up.

"Can't help it."

Now she does look up, dark eyes meeting yours. "Why?"

It's not a trick question. Mina doesn't do tricks. She asks because she wants answers—not the bullshit kind you give everyone else. With Mina, it feels like she's collecting the scattered pieces of you that don't make sense, turning them over in her hands, trying to see how they fit together.

"Because you're..." You search for the right words, something that won't make her retreat behind her walls. "You're just... you. And I still can't believe you're mine."

Something cracks open in her face for half a second—a flash of something raw before she locks it down again. There, then gone so fast you might have imagined it. She reaches for her teacup, and you recognize the move for what it is—a reset button, a moment to compose herself.

"Drink your water," she says instead of acknowledging your words. "You're always dehydrated after recording."

You smile but do as instructed, because you've learned that this is Mina-speak for "that meant something to me, and I don't know how to process it out loud."

The restaurant moves around you—waiters gliding between tables, the sushi chef behind the counter performing his elegant knife work. Outside, the Vancouver summer evening puts on a show—cotton candy skies fading into indigo. But here, in this bubble between you, time feels suspended.

She pushes another piece of fish toward you. "This one next. The flavors will build properly."

You take it, letting her orchestrate your meal like she orchestrates so many things in your life. "You're not eating much."

"I'm enjoying watching you enjoy it," she says with a rare simplicity that catches you off guard.

When the main course arrives—a rainbow array of nigiri and rolls—she rearranges your plate with quick, confident movements. "Start here," she instructs, pointing to a simple piece of salmon. "Then work your way clockwise. Trust me on this."

You follow her culinary roadmap without question. Each piece builds on the last until your taste buds are having what can only be described as a spiritual awakening.

"Good?" she asks, watching your face with that singular focus.

"You should be a food critic," you say between bites. "Or maybe a general. You've got the strategic mind for both."

The tiniest smile appears on her face. "Eat your vegetables," she says, pointing to the sliced cucumber.

While you eat, she reaches across the table. Brushes imaginary lint from your shoulder. Straightens your necklace where it's twisted slightly.

"You don't have to keep fixing me," you say, though secretly you live for these adjustments.

"I'm not fixing you," she replies, voice matter-of-fact. "I'm taking care of what's mine."

Your heart performs a complicated gymnastics routine that should win Olympic medals. Coming from Mina, who weighs each word like it costs her something physical, it's everything.

You notice she's still barely touched her food, too busy ensuring your experience is perfect. Without overthinking it, you pick up a piece of salmon nigiri and hold it out to her.

She blinks. Genuinely surprised. "What are you doing?"

"Your turn," you say simply. "You've been so busy mothering me, you've barely eaten."

For a second, you think you've crossed some invisible line. Mina gives care like breathing, but accepting it? That's complicated territory.

But then.

She hesitates. Takes a breath that's slightly too deep.

Then leans forward and takes the bite from between your fingers.

Her lips brush your skin. The contact lasts maybe half a second.

Your nerve endings don't care about the timeframe.

You feel it everywhere.

She chews with the focus of someone solving a complex equation. Her eyes stay on yours, unblinking, like she's waiting for your reaction to her reaction.

A single grain of rice sticks to the corner of her mouth after she swallows.

Your thumb moves before your brain catches up. Reaching across. Brushing it away.

Instead of flinching back (which would be the expected Mina response to unexpected contact), she does the unthinkable—turns her face toward your hand. Like she's seeking more. A muscle-memory movement so tiny you'd doubt it happened if you weren't paying such obsessive attention to every micro-adjustment of her body language.

"Thank you," she murmurs.

Two words. Not about the rice.

The overhead lights catch something in her eyes that makes your ribcage feel too small suddenly. She never looks at you like this in public. Almost never looks at you like this, period.

Hurts to see it. Hurts worse to think about how rarely you do. These unguarded moments are so rare—Mina letting you actually see her, not the version she presents to everyone else.

Her hand finds yours across the table, fingers intertwining like they were designed as matching pieces.

"You take such good care of me," you say, voice embarrassingly thick.

"Someone should." Simple words that somehow contain worlds.

Your fingers squeeze hers while your brain does the math it's been doing for a year. The calculation never makes sense—how someone who approaches the world with such precise skepticism decided you were an acceptable risk.

She watches you from across the table. Reading whatever's written all over your face.

The smile happens in stages. First the eyes—softening at the corners. Then the slight movement at her lips, fighting it for a moment before surrendering. When Mina actually smiles—really smiles—it's like watching someone become an entirely different person. The cool, composed woman who terrifies your producer transforms into someone whose whole face comes alive.

"Good boy," she says, voice pitched low enough that only you can hear.

That's it. You're a gone.

[spr1ngtweaks]

Ok the 'William trying to get you to forgive him' fic gave me a silly little idea. Both because it's funny and it's probably something I'd do.

Imagine that you start giving all the affection and love to the plushie instead of William when you're mad at him. Just to further rub it in. It's so mean but it would be so funny that he couldn't actually logically be jealous of a plushie, especially when that plushie is supposed to represent *him* . But it still irks him that he isn't the one being showered in your love and affection as usual, and what's worse is that he's still being ignored by you at the same time.

Just small things like giving the plushie a lil kiss on the cheek or head, bringing it in close for a hug, or even ranting to it. Maybe even indirectly talk to William by talking to the plushie. "Oh my! Little Springbonnie, did you hear something just now? Because I certainly didn't. Hmm I suppose it was just the wind." Fuck it, maybe even make it respond in the same (perhaps even a little mocking) little high pitched cheery voice and have it respond to you in "conversations".

I feel so bad for poor William, but at the same time I'm giggling at the thought.

🐰 The Ultimate Payback: Loving the Plush More Than Him

William Afton has made a grave mistake.

And for days, you’ve made sure he knows it—by ignoring him completely. But instead of begging for forgiveness like a normal person, he tried to play the fool, using a damn Springbonnie plush as a peace offering.

So you decide— Two can play this game.

The moment William tries to win you back with that stupid plush, you don’t react how he expects.

You don’t roll your eyes. You don’t push it away. You don’t even break into laughter.

Instead— You fully embrace the plush.

"Oh, Springbonnie! You’re such a sweetheart, aren’t you? At least you don’t upset me like some people do."

And then, right in front of William, you kiss the plush on its little cheek.

William freezes.

His hands are still holding the plush up, but his grip slightly loosens. His brows furrow. His eye twitches.

Oh, he was not expecting this.

You keep going, deliberately ignoring him as you hug the plush tight.

"Springbonnie, you're so soft and kind. You always listen to me, unlike that other guy."

And then, you turn the plush towards him—and in your own high-pitched voice, you make it respond:

"Oh, bun, that’s just awful! Tell me everything—what did the mean ol’ Willy do this time?"

You don’t miss how William’s entire soul leaves his body.

His own tactic has been used against him. Worse— You’re giving a damn plush more affection than you’re giving him.

Oh, he can’t stand it.

"Oh my! Little Springbonnie, did you hear something just now? Because I certainly didn't. Hmm, I suppose it was just the wind!"

William stares at you like you just kicked his pride down a flight of stairs.

"Oh, for Christ’s sake—!"

But you ignore him again. Instead, you keep talking to the plush.

"You know, Springbonnie, I just adore you so much. I should take you everywhere with me! You’re much better company than some annoying rabbit I know."

That’s it.

William suddenly rips the plush away from your hands.

"Alright, that’s enough, bun. Game’s over. No more—no more damn plush."

He holds it hostage, glaring at it like it personally betrayed him. He looks at you. Then at the plush. Then at you again.

"…You’re tellin’ me. That I just lost my lover's affection… to a bloody stuffed rabbit?"

You shrug, smug.

"Maybe. He’s been treating me better than you lately."

William groans into his hands.

"I’m never usin’ a plush again."

Alternative version:

You snuggle the plush closer, gently stroking its little ears. "At least you understand me, Little Springbonnie. Unlike some people."

"‘Some people’—?? Oh, piss off." William scoffs, shifting closer, trying to reclaim your attention. "Darlin’, you’re jokin’, yeah? No bloody way yer actually replacin’ me with—"

You kiss the plush’s forehead.

William short-circuits.

"Pardon??" He gapes at you, pointing at the plush with pure, genuine betrayal. "Did you—?? Just now—?? Love, tell me you did not just kiss that stuffed—!"

You don’t answer. Instead, you lift the plush in front of you and wiggle it slightly—before speaking in an obnoxiously cheerful voice:

"O-oh, it’s alright, Big Willy! Y'know, some of us are just cuddlier than others! It’s not our fault we're cuter, nya~!"

The moment the "nya~" leaves your lips, William visibly recoils.

"—NO. No, I will not stand for this."

He lunges forward, snatching the plush away from you. You let out a gasp, dramatically reaching for it, but he holds it out of your reach.

"This? This is a bloody disgrace." He gestures at the plush with pure disgust. "What in God’s name have you done to my persona?? The ‘nya’—??? I can’t—??"

You pout. "Give him back."

"No." He squints at you. Then at the plush. Back at you. Then back at the plush.

And then, as if just to spite you—

He smooches the plush’s forehead. Right in front of you. Mocking.

"Oh-ho, what’s wrong, love? Feelin’ a bit jealous now?" He winks.

You scream.

Notes: Okay this is too cursed rn-

[vicolette]

if you're writing for Marc Bernal, please write something where reader is having a hard time explaining her feeling and he asks her because he's confused "suddenly you act like.. you want me and then you pull away". and maybe she just stays silent after a quiet apologize and he just sits next to her and the reader breaks, crying from the overwhelmed thoughts and emotions and he soothes her? sorry if its difficult to understand! x

Lover's Observations !

– A/N : I understand this very well dw (i hope) !! Also js a head ups I write for every Barca player, idk about other team's players tho…

– Warnings : English isn’t my first language, mentions of y/n & pet names, angst, mentions of insecurities, not proofread, title doesn’t suit to the story…

"Y/n, can we talk?"

The school's cafeteria was obnoxiously loud as always, but you couldn't hear anything as you stood up from your seat and bid goodbye to your friends. Maybe it was just something small, like Marc needing help with some homework or wanting to get something at the vending machines.

It was a painful sight to see you tense up once you've heard his voice, yet Marc waited and watched as your friends turned their heads to look at him – everyone, except you.

As you followed him out, still avoiding his gaze, he was pissed. Ever since he had told Lamine about you and he had told him that he 'talks, as if he was in love with you', he tried his absolute best to make you somehow fall for him. Sure, it would take him a while and Marc understood it, but he didn't understand you.

You, who would give him a smile that could lighten up the room, yet still step out of his way and freeze in place whenever his name was mentioned.

When your friends waved you goodbye as you decided to just go alone with it and get over this, Marc sensed how you seemed more stiff than usual. The usually confident Y/n that he fell in live with, was nowhere to be found.

However, he gave it no thought as you both walked out of the cafeteria into a secured quiet spot, standing in the middle of the hallway where normally no kids were to be seen. His back was turned to you, yet it only made him more intimidating.

"I noticed that you seemed… off these days." Once he said that, Marc turned around to face you and directly communicate with you, but once he had seen you, he narrowed his eyes.

You looked weird – not in a bad way, obviously, but you were suspiciously tense. Sure, his words might have been a bit harsh (if you'd look at it in that way), but you were going to understand.

The only question was, if he could understand you.

"It’s nothing."

"C'mon, Y/n. We’re together." As he took a few steps closer, his footsteps quiet yet clear, he wrapped an arm around your waist and sighed softly, trying to convince you that it indeed wasn’t 'nothing'. "I know better than that."

You placed a hand on his shoulder, avoiding his gaze. Whether you wanted to push him away or pull him into a hug, you didn’t know, but you knew that you weren’t ready to say anything regarding the issue at hand.

"Talk to me, baby." Marc mentally cringed at the pet name, silently praying for such a situation to never happen again in order to not need to call you that. The name Y/n was already pretty enough.

All of a sudden, the tears spilled out of your eyes as you hid your face on his shoulder. Marc froze at the feeling, not moving an inch as he waited for you to explain whatever was going on.

Truth be told, you yourself didn’t even know how to say it, how you were so unsure about your relationship. It made you cry at night out of shame, yet you now understood that it was better to talk it out.

"Sorry, sorry…" He was slightly shocked at first, but nonetheless was quick to soothe you in hopes of calming you down.

"I just… I'm overwhelmed by this, by the relationship, y'know?" It sounded wrong, so wrong, yet it was the truth. You didn’t know what to do. Your friends didn’t know about your hidden shared secret, he was always busy, and there were thousands of other women who he could have chosen.

Silence overtook the room as he blinked in confusion, trying yet failing to find a solution to this. You were still crying, although not as much as before, so he had to be careful with his words.

Breaking up was not an option.

"Everyone has thoughts like these, Y/n. Don’t feel guilty." His hand cupped your face as he wiped your tears away, kissing you on your forehead to calm you down. It was like a magical spell, the way you seemingly felt lighter than just previously. "It’s normal. Even so, you know that I love you, and that’ll never change."

"But-" He shushed you with a finger on your lips and a smile, shaking his head at how you still didn’t understand him.

"Ah-ah-ah. You’re an angel, Y/n. Nobody does it like you." Your heart melted at his words, finally showing your face to him as he beamed with joy, pressing another kiss on your cheek.

"You sounded so cheesy." He raised an eyebrow in sarcasm, looking at you up and down before rolling his eyes. You were back to the usual Y/n – the relentlessly teasing and funny one.

"I was comforting you, idiot."

"I know."

– A/N : why did I never write for this fine shyt? also so so so sorry for taking so long I had a math exam to study for!! It was surprisingly easy tho

[luvseraphh]

You gathered plants from the forest, placing them into your homemade basket as you walked along the trees, pausing every time you heard the snap of twigs under an animal's hoof.

The crickets chirped, fireflies glowing, and owls hooting in the otherwise dark and silent night, a couple minutes away from the tent you had set up. Your tattered and dirty clothes brushed against the forest floor as you continued to identify and gather mushrooms and plants, needing food for the next few days.

After you finished filling up the basket, you grasped it in your hands before making your way back to the tent you called home. As you neared it, you heard footsteps that sounded almost... human. It didn't sound like any animal you had heard before.

You slowed down, trying not to breathe too loudly or step on any leaves, not wanting to alert the intruder. From the light of the lantern inside you could see a muscular figure, seemingly a man, with spiky hair. You could hear his gruff voice as he occasionally murmured.

Eventually he came out of the tent, not noticing you as he made his way towards the nearby village. You hid behind a thick nearby tree, not wanting to start problems after you had already been exiled. As you try to take another step away from the man, your heel snaps a twig under it, causing you to freeze. He stops in his path, turning to look for the source of the noise. He searches for the source with his lantern, expecting to find a deer, when he saw a person, around his age, covered in tattered and dirty clothes, hair messy and tangled.

"...I didn't know anyone lived out here," he hesitantly says, eyes tracing your figure.

"You should leave. It's not a good idea spending time with me," you warn him, wanting nothing more than to talk. It had been so long since you've had company.

"Why not?" he asks, a grin gracing his already beautiful face.

"I'm exiled. You could get in trouble," you tell him, eyes wandering away from his indigo ones.

"I won't tell them if you don't," he comments, reaching out to grab your hand. "You look hungry. I brought some food, let's eat together," he offers, not wanting you to be alone.

"...alright," you finally give in, looking him in the eyes.

taglist - @justmylvr @lwcedribbons @im0nsaturn @tapwatermelon @n3r0-5352 @dvartefox @failurewater @f0reverfaded @hyssoplampflickers

ⓒ luvseraph

[illumity33]

Beeping Monitors and Broken Bones

Hospital au, kunikuzushi x gn!reader, they're both kids here (9-10 y/o) AN: first post! I hope it's not too bad </3 I'm not a native speaker so writing this long was a little hard for me + I'm posting on my laptop so it's harder to navigate tumblr since i'm not used to it

The first thing Kunikuzushi felt when he woke up was pain.

The second was anger.

His legs were encased in heavy casts, his entire lower half immobilized by thick bandages and an obnoxiously tight hospital blanket. The sterile smell of antiseptic filled his nose, and the steady beeping of medical equipment rang in his ears. The bright overhead light burned his eyes, and the room felt uncomfortably cold. He hated it.

He hated all of it.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to be outside, running, jumping, living. Instead, he was here, stuck in some stupid hospital ward, unable to move, unable to leave. It was unfair.

He scowled and turned his head, only to freeze when he realized he wasn’t alone.

There was another kid in the hospital bed next to his. They looked about his age—maybe a little smaller, their frame fragile and thin beneath their oversized hospital gown. They had a nasal cannula hooked around their ears, the tubing trailing down to an oxygen tank beside the bed. Unlike him, though, they didn’t seem upset about being here. They just sat there, legs swinging idly over the side of the bed, watching him with an expression that was half curious, half amused.

Then they grinned.

“Whoa,” they said, pointing at his cast. “What did you do to break both your legs?”

Kunikuzushi’s glare deepened. “What does it matter?”

The kid shrugged. “I mean, it’s kinda impressive.”

He wasn’t sure if they were mocking him or not, but it didn’t really matter. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation. He turned away, fixing his eyes on the ceiling, hoping they’d get the message and leave him alone.

They didn’t.

“You don’t look like you wanna be here,” they commented.

“No duh,” he snapped, finally looking at them again. “Why would I? Normal kids don’t belong in hospitals.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. He realized his mistake immediately when the kid’s expression shifted—just a little, just enough for him to notice. Their smile dimmed, and something flickered in their eyes. It wasn’t sadness. Not anger, either. Just… understanding.

A quiet sort of acceptance, like they’d heard those words before.

“I guess that makes me not normal, huh?” they said lightly, their voice lacking any real bitterness.

Kunikuzushi’s jaw clenched. He didn’t know why, but their response made him feel worse.

He expected them to be mad. To argue. To tell him how unfair he was being. But instead, they just laid back against their pillow, gazing up at the ceiling like they’d done this a thousand times before.

“…You live here or something?” he muttered after a moment, unable to stop himself from asking.

They let out a small, breathy laugh. “Feels like it. I’ve been here for… a while.”

Something about the way they said that sent an uncomfortable chill down his spine.

“How long?”

They tilted their head, thinking. “Since I was five.”

Kunikuzushi blinked. Five. That was years. He tried to imagine it—spending every single day stuck in this place, never going outside, never running around with other kids, never knowing if you’d ever get to leave.

He couldn’t.

“…That sucks.” The words felt weak, but they were all he could come up with.

The kid didn’t disagree. They just smiled again, but this time it didn’t quite reach their eyes. “Yeah.”

Silence stretched between them, only broken by the quiet beeping of monitors. Kunikuzushi shifted uncomfortably in his bed, trying to ignore the strange, guilty feeling creeping up his throat.

“…I was riding my bike,” he said abruptly.

The kid blinked. “Huh?”

“That’s how I broke my legs,” he muttered, staring down at his hands. “I was trying to drift. Thought I’d be cool.” He scoffed. “Didn’t really work out.”

The kid let out a small giggle. “Yeah, no kidding.”

He rolled his eyes, but the sound of their laughter—real laughter, not the tired, forced kind—made him feel… lighter.

“I didn’t think you were the reckless type,” they teased.

“I’m not,” he huffed. “It was just—” He hesitated, then grumbled, “I don’t know. I just wanted to feel… free, I guess.”

Their expression softened. “I get that.”

He glanced at them. “Yeah?”

They nodded. “Yeah.”

Kunikuzushi didn’t know why, but that made him feel a little better.

Just a little.

—

Days passed. Then weeks.

Despite his best efforts, Kunikuzushi couldn’t shake off the kid next to him. They were always there, watching him with that same amused expression, making conversation even when he clearly wasn’t in the mood. But instead of annoying him, like he expected, it started to become… normal.

Comforting, even.

He learned their name. Their favorite snacks (even though they weren’t allowed to eat a lot of them). The stories they made up in their head to pass the time.

In return, he told them about his home. About the outside world. About all the places he’d go once he got out of this stupid hospital.

And each time, they’d listen with a wistful sort of expression, their fingers lightly gripping the blanket over their lap, like they were trying to hold onto something they knew they could never have.

One night, after the nurses had turned off the lights and the halls had gone quiet, Kunikuzushi lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The rhythmic beeping of machines, the faint murmur of nurses in the distance, the sterile scent of disinfectant—it was all so familiar now, almost normal. He hated that.

His legs still ached, though not as badly as before. He could move them a little now, just enough to remind him that one day, he’d be able to walk out of this place. One day, this hospital would be nothing more than a bad memory.

But this kid—they weren't like him.

He turned his head, watching their in the dim light of the monitors. They were awake, staring at the ceiling just like he was. The glow of the screen cast soft shadows on her face, making them look almost ghostly, like they weren't really there. Like they could disappear at any moment.

The thought unsettled him.

“…You ever gonna get out of here?” he asked quietly.

They blinked, then slowly turned to face him.

For a moment, they didn’t answer. They just looked at him, their expression unreadable. Kunikuzushi almost regretted asking—almost wished he could take the question back.

Then, finally, they smiled.

That same soft, knowing smile. The one that never quite reached their eyes.

He felt his chest tighten.

“Dunno,” they said lightly, like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t a big deal.

Like they hadn’t already thought about it a thousand times before.

Kunikuzushi clenched his jaw. He hated that answer.

Because it wasn’t really an answer at all.

Because it meant they didn’t know if she’d ever get better.

Because it meant they might not.

His fingers curled into his blanket, frustration bubbling in his chest, but there was nothing he could say. Nothing he could do.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

“…That’s stupid,” he muttered.

They chuckled softly. “Yeah.”

They didn’t argue. Didn’t try to comfort him.

They just accepted it.

Kunikuzushi turned his head away, glaring at the wall. His throat felt tight, and he didn’t know why.

He didn’t want to think about it anymore.

[artisticmedley]

Hey mate, i genuinely want you to think about this:

You are 18. You have so, so much time left to experience these things, to learn how to manage your anxiety, to figure out how to navigate the world more independently.

I didn't have major issues with anxiety myself (honestly if anything i'm a little worse now), but i have sensory processing disorder that lead to what i call "something vaguely dissociative" (that was diagnosed as autism at age 20 and adhd-pi age 24 - turns out it wasn't either; now that my sensory system is well-regulated i no longer have those difficulties that had been attributed to autism & adhd.) I only began recognising i maybe had sensory issues at age 18, but i didn't recognise the key issue - light sensitivity - until i was 23 and i discovered it by complete accident.

I had so little capacity for doing anything at 18-25 that i was severely burned out after 14 months in the easiest labouring job ever (just doing what i'm told re: weeding, cutting back plants, etc) age 18/19, simply due to the unmanaged sensory & consequent difficulties Doing Stuff, burned out to the point i had these mini catatonia-like freezes and had episodes where i was physically only able to move So Slowly.

i began tertiary study (college) at age 23 after dropping out of highschool at age 16. My first year was online, a bridging programme, and then i started the bachelor's degree which i did part time the first couple of years (well, four years in practice) because i simply did not have the capacity for more. I still struggled!

And i just did my final year full-time, and it was a challenge - but i did it! A feat which was utterly unthinkable to me two years earlier.

And sure, one set of assignments i needed extensions on, i had to re-do a fieldwork placement after dropping out from stress, but i have now finished this literally 7 days ago. We've just got another week of bureaucracy and i will be fully qualified & registered in my dream career!

It honestly feels a minor miracle how my capacity to do stuff has improved - i worked so hard for so many years, and eventually gave up (age 26/27) accepted that this was it. "I'm better than was, but i have tried Everything available to me and I fully don't think i will improve any further, so I'm just going to have to accept that this is the capacity i have to live my life and work within it."

And then i improved further, somehow. And yeah, there are absolutely plenty of people around more functional than i am. But i'm ok, now. I'm quite content with where i'm at evun as i see room for improvement.

I say all this not to boast, but to try to illustrate: you are 18. This is the age when people really begin to learn about themselves, when people really begin to start to navigate the world more independently. And yeah, you're clearly not on the same path as many others - you don't have to be! A lot of people aren't, but it really is super hard to really see & understand that a lot of people you meet have been on different or 'delayed' paths like you are on. It sounds really trite, i think, and this probably sounds like emptyords to you. But you don't talk with this example person deeply enough to learn that they are struggling like you, or you don't talk with that example person who was on a similar path as you, they're just older and so have walked further.

I promise, things do get better. You have to work for it, and you simultaneously have to relax and allow things to get better. You can anly take things one day at a time and each day it feels like there's no improvement, no improvement oh this day was suprisingly good but oh no, i backslid super hard, what is eve(the point why am i trying-

You fall down, and you get back up.

And it sounds cliché as hell but one day you look back and you go, "holy shit. I am doing so much better than i was.

You don't have to go to college at 18. You can give yourself year or two or four+ to get to know yourself, to try new things, to learn how to manage things on your own, before you go. Hell, maybe in yoer future you have some good opportunities that don't need college! You never know.

You just gotta take life one day at a time, and one day you'll see that it really does get better.

I promise.

Really dumb ask, but I've been thinking about the life gets better response you had to an ask, and I'm not saying I have some horrible terrible life, but the way you kinda described it is "just stay on the track, you can fall down plenty of times, but when you get up, it'll eventually get better." (I'm so sorry if I read your answer wrong), but what if your life has gone off the rails. I started homeschooling because I had panic attacks for like a month that lasted like 10 minutes to an hour a few times, but because of stuff, I don't think I'll be able to graduate with any sort of degree and be able to go to college. I am almost 18 and has never gone out without my family or during some school trip, I have difficulties with speaking to people (both in an anxiety way and communicating my thoughts effectively way), and I cried once because I was overwhelmed in a grocery store. I used to feel safe, because I did okay in school, but now I just feel lost. Writing this down, I realize again how stupid this ask is. I apologize, but not enough to not make your ask box a confessional. Also I think that strange goth stuff you're doing is very cool. Good day

yeah that's not something I have experience enough beyond "that's probably not good", but odds are that someone else who'll read this will know better, so you could check the notes on this post later in case someone does?

[sskk-manifesto]

\\

[followerofmercy]

I didn't realize how spoiled I was having artistic friends. I was teaching the new hire something and I was getting frustrated trying to figure out how to make math Relatable, so I asked him "Okay, what kind of stuff do you make? What creative hobbies do you have?"

And he said "...I don't."

I was so floored that I was just like "Uh, um. Not. Not even made a table with your dad?" (he talks about his dad nonstop. This was a reasonable thing to ask)

"Nuh-uh"

I literally don't think I've ever been aware of someone just not having a creative hobby.

[rhea-ripley]

I think my notebook died (or almost), and if that really happened I'm screwed 😭 because I use it for everything, from making Gifs/edits to college/studying things 🫠

I was going to start making Rhea Gifs. AHHH what sh*t 😞

[osterby]

How I've always seen it is that the text description should convey the meaning of the image in context. When Mary posts a selfie showing off her new diploma, what she is conveying is "I got my diploma! yay!" and what I see is "woman happy about her diploma". Her fashion sense and the framing and quality of the photo is not what the image means.

For an extreme example, when you post The Dress, the alt text should describe the optical illusion itself, and not go on about how it's a low quality photo of a dress with sequins hanging on a doorknob in a messy room etc. etc.. Someone who can't see the image won't experience the illusion, but a short description of the illusion is the context you need to understand the text portion of the post where everyone is arguing over what colour the dress is.

Also, ideal alt text for the same image is going to be different in different contexts. "a cute frog teacup" and "mid-century tablewear which likely contains lead" could both be alt text on the same photo in very different posts.

And when it's a screenshot of a tweet (or other text), just say it's a screenshot of a tweet! I don't need the font or the colour scheme or two paragraphs about the OP's avatar! Just tell me what the screenshot says!

"In recent years, there has been a rush on the internet to supply image descriptions and to call out those who don’t. This may be an example of community accountability at work, but it’s striking to observe that those doing the most fierce calling out or correcting are sighted people. Such efforts are largely self-defeating. I cannot count the times I’ve stopped reading a video transcript because it started with a dense word picture. Even if a description is short and well done, I often wish there were no description at all. Get to the point, already! How ironic that striving after access can actually create a barrier. When I pointed this out during one of my seminars, a participant made us all laugh by doing a parody: “Mary is wearing a green, blue, and red striped shirt; every fourth stripe also has a purple dot the size of a pea in it, and there are forty-seven stripes—”

“You’re killing me,” I said. “I can’t take any more of that!”

Now serious, she said it was clear to her that none of that stuff about Mary’s clothes mattered, at least if her clothes weren’t the point. What mattered most about the image was that Mary was holding her diploma and smiling. “But,” she wondered, “do I say, Mary has a huge smile on her face as she shows her diploma or Mary has an exuberant smile or showing her teeth in a smile and her eyes are crinkled at the edges?”

It’s simple. Mary has a huge smile on her face is the best one. It’s the don’t-second-guess-yourself option."

--Against Access, by John Lee Clark, a DeafBlind educator

[g-k444]

health ed class where im the shy girl at the back who blushes, embarrassed when the teacher announces we're doing sex ed in class today.

the first thing he asks for is a volunteer

i normally get picked on for these sorts of things - y'know - given im the one at the back of the class that always tucks her head into her book whenever she's noticed... i do my usual interested-in-book act and hope to go unnoticed.

it fails once again.

against my volunteering-want, i pick myself up - cheeks darkening as I feel the class' attention turn to me as my chair scrapes the floor, my heels dragging as i stand at the front and look across the classroom - seeing how many judgemental pairs of eyes stare at me - today's subject.

"Now that we have someone who has kindly volunteered - will you hop up onto the desk-"

I leaned back and let myself pull my bodyweight up so that I sat with my legs extending from the teacher's desk on the front

"-And pull your skirt up."

the words took a second to resonate before my eyebrows flew up in shock. "S-sorry?"

"Show the class your pussy," he said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "we're in a health class and you volunteering yourself - your body - so go on, show the class your pussy."

My throat dries and closes, face draining of colour and yet heating up simultaneously, legs crossing over each other defensively whilst my body seemingly freezes at the overwhelmingness of it all.

I can't talk - my throat hoarse from the shock of it all - and instead the best i can do is shake my head erratically, not willing to oblige. was he joking? was this some example of how if you don't wanna show your body to everyone you shouldn't send pictures?

what sick thing what going on?!

it wasn't a joke though - and seemingly bad was turning to worse at the teacher frowned. "well, you've already volunteered yourself, and if you don't comply with what i tell you to do then there will be consequences, miss."

my body remained frozen in place from the shock of it all. and looking across the classroom, all the other students seemed perfectly okay with what was going on - as if there were some universe where this was normal! And if not neutral to it - some of the body even seemed to have their interests piqued by the idea, leant forwards in their desks as though trying to get closer to the action.

the teacher noticed my lack of movement and took matters into his own hands.

"Jones! Up!"

I looked across the room as my bully - the one that antagonized me for all things stupid and trivial - stood up and came to the front of the class.

"I'm going to lift her skirt up and hold her body to keep her still - i want you to hold her thighs open and pull her panties off."

this time the words clicked faster, and I pushed myself off of my arms to get off of the table and not let myself get undressed in front of the whole class - yet my teacher was faster. his arm wrapped around my body and pulled my back into his chest, his other forearm grasping at the hem of my skirt before yanking it upwards and revealing the upper skin of my thighs and the baby pink panties i'd chosen this morning - things that I hadn't expected nor wanted the class to see

"get-off- mE!" i wriggled under the teacher's hold and yet couldn't escape his grasp - and looking across the class with teary eyes, noone cared to make eye contact with me or help - instead they all made eye contact with the baby pink between my legs, uncaring for the yelps that left my mouth

the only one that looked me in the eyes was Jones. My bully, who hadn't shown kindness since I'd first joined. please, Jones... I'd whispered with a wavering tone to him - holding eye contact as he leaned down, his hands falling on either of my thighs... before he gripped them - hard - and prised them open to give everyone a better view of the pair of panties. and with both his hands occupied, his head fell between my legs as a scream left my mouth, his teeth clenching around the material to pull it away from my pussy and expose the raw flesh that evoked some scattered gasps and wows across the classroom.

"Terry, take my place holding her - everyone gather round-"

My body was grasped by a different set of arms, blubbers falling from my lips as the teacher came to my side and the class left their seats to come closer to my bare pussy - eyes fixated on the exposed mound

"This is what a real pussy looks like - this up here-"

he touched my clit and made my whole body jerk, a cry mixing ang mingling with a moan and making something of a wailing noise that seemed to make someone's trousers tighter

"that is the clitoris. the place that had the most nerves and it a pleasure point on the female anatomy. This set of lips is the labia majora - the other lips - and these inner ones are the labia minora"

i felt utterly degraded feeling him pinch either set of lips, shaking them with his words to emphasise what he said using my body - a trail of dampness following his fingers as he pulled away from my pussy

"and most importantly - this here is the vagina - the hole from which women have periods and babies from - but most importantly - the place which you put cocks, fingers and toys into to pleasure a woman."

"everyone, you may now touch and feel the demonstration."

my whole body jerked as various prods and motions were conceded on my pussy - Jones' hold firm around my thighs and stopping my from squirming or wriggling myself away from all the touch that made tears leak from my eyes

"can i finger her, sir?"

"absolutely, how else would you learn?"

a scream leaves my mouth as a pair of foreign fingers breaches my pussy, twisting and almost patting my inner walls curiously, before pulling away with a trail connecting his fingers to my pussy - fluid dripping between his fingers as the separated the two that had been inside my pussy

"okay, so, our first assignment will be to see how a pussy reacts when stimulated with pleasure"

everyone is given a chance to make me cum.

initially i scream and writhe on the desk whilst I'm instead pinned down, and have my pussy violated with fingers what scissor my walls and prod a sensitive spot until my juices spread over my shaky legs. then it's a tongue that breaches my hole with flicks and thrusts. they gain confidence though - and it's not long before a cock is inserted into my pussy and leaves stains of white over my pussy when he finishes.

my throat becomes so raw i cant speak - my mind a broken scramble and my pussy is so spent and broken that it doesn't even contract in horror anymore. it's completely passive as the orifice is breached over and over until...

"okay, that's good - now, as we still have a bit more time before class finishes... let's have some fun - everyone - find something in your bag or in the classroom to shove in her pussy to see how she reacts."

my mind is still scrambled - yet someone props a book beneath my head so that i can at least see all of the objects that are pushed into my hole - the pupils' cum acting as lubrication that allows the random objects to enter my pussy

a whiteboard pen, markers and other various stationary items enter first - testing the waters before someone tries to push a water bottle up there - then a chair leg that two people need to hold to effectively spear me with the metal rod

"good job today," the teacher bends to say into my ear as the students thank him and leave the classroom whilst im still starfished, energy dead on the desk. "clean yourself up and go the principal's office once you've done that. apparently he could hear all the racket in here and wanted a private meeting with you"

[nanamiskentos]

(JUST MEET ME AT THE) APT! — gojo satoru minors dni. art by chitrartum on twt.

welcome to the christmas tour ! take a seat in section (a) and let the show begin !

prologue. → your ex, that sleazy and no-good scumbag won't stop posting tacky mirror selfies on instagram, arm around his fellow cheater-in-crime. so, christmas eve finds you morose in a dodgy dive bar. why not tumble back into bed with that random, gorgeous stranger you just met?

want to try sitting somewhere else ? take a look at the ticket chart again !

pairing. gojo satoru x afab!reader

warnings+. never drive, no matter how little alcohol is in you folks!!! never!!! making out, creampiè, hooking up with a stranger, ovèrstimulation, mildly rough sèx, gojo won't tell you what his job is

word count. 9.4k! song inspiration. apt — rosé & bruno mars

a/n. reader lowkey a hater, i love vanilla vodka eggnog </3 i said i was gonna post on 02/12 and i kept my word, literally rushed to finished this before my clinical exams in the cardiac ward 😭😭😭😭😭😭 hope y'all stay healthy. your future surgeons are writing gojo smut on tumblr.com

mp3. don't you want me like i want you, baby? don't you need me like i need you now? sleep tomorrow, but tonight, go crazy. all you gotta do is meet me at the apartment (아파트) !

you think your friends would kill you if they knew this was how you were spending christmas eve. not at some glittering holiday party, nor tucked away in a snow-dusted cabin. but here, holed up in a dimly lit bar with an atmosphere so questionable it should come with a warning label alongside a health and safety audit.

the place had charm, if your definition of charm included scuffed floors, a jukebox stuck on 'last christmas' and a string of blinking lights that looked like they'd been thrown at the walls rather than hung. still, you'd swiped a couple of minty candy canes from a jar near the door, which felt like a win.

your phone sat resolutely off in your bag. self-preservation. no instagram, and no tacky mirror selfies from your scumbag ex with the same smirk he'd worn a month ago when you caught him cheating. with someone who had always been 'just a friend, babe!' you weren't keen to let that ruin the rest of the night, though if you were being honest, you had already let it ruin a good chunk of the month.

"another christmas vodka...sour, please," you squint at the messy chalkboard above the bar, where the christmas specials were scrawled in what would barely pass for handwriting.

the bartender gave a single, surly nod. he looked as though he'd rather be anywhere but here, preferably somewhere free of customers nursing post-breakup bitterness like a fine wine.

and so, you found yourself staring at the tall glass now sitting in front of you, studying the rosemary sprig that swayed lazily in the translucent red liquid. a few cranberries bobbed among the ice cubes like they were on some tiny festive raft.

"woah, that one's way too strong for me."

the voice interrupts your private session of wallowing. you turn your head, slowly, to take in the culprit. he-who-hath-disturbed-the-peace. a man sitting close enough to be annoying, but not close enough to invade your personal space.

it takes you a moment to process the stranger, mostly because of the brain freeze from your ill-timed gulp.

"i mean, it's not bad," you shrug, hoping to sound neutral enough that he leaves you be. but then because you just can't leave well enough alone, you gesture at the specials board, "better than...that, at least."

you jab a finger at the chalk-scrawled abomination: vanilla & peppermint vodka eggnog.

the man frowns, a sharp but somehow charming movement that's overshadowed by the dim lights, "hey, i ordered that one."

you blink like a startled bovine, before breaking into a laugh, "my bad. i'm sure it's really fuckin' delicious."

the stranger chuckles too, a soft and low sound that seems more genuine that it has any right to be, "i hope so. otherwise, this is gonna be a long night."

the man finally shifts, casting aside the dim shadows that lay over him, into the blinking string lights. broad shoulders framed by a dark, tailored jacket that hugs him like a second skin. his hair, startlingly white, was pushed back by — wait, was that a blindfold?

you stare longer than you should have, trying to piece the odd sight together. a cosplay? a k-pop idol wannabe, hoping to get recruited for the next bts tour? perhaps, he was blind, hard of sight? you start to open your mouth, wondering how to phrase the intrusive and awkward questions, but he beats you to it.

"i can see you just fine, y'know," he says, his tone laced with amusement.

your cheeks burn at the realisation that he's caught you gawking shamelessly. so you quickly turn back to your drink, suddenly very interested in the cranberries floating in the glass.

the bartender returns, sliding the stranger's drink onto the counter with an audible clink. it was the most obnoxious cocktail that you'd ever seen. a martini glass filled with frothy, pale liquid and crowned with a cinnamon stick that jutted out like the mast of some ridiculous holiday ship.

you watch, mildly horrified, as the man picks up the glass and downs half of it in one confident gulp. he sets it down a satisfied sigh, and a smack of his glossy lips, and you wrinkle your nose involuntarily at the sight.

"i swear it's good," he says with a laugh, catching your expression. his grin is wide, playful. and you find yourself smiling back despite your sour, gloomy mood.

he has a nice smile, you note. not forced nor smug, but genuine. framed by pale pink lips that curl up in an easy, natural way. it was strange though, to look at someone without seeing their eyes.

"i'm gojo, by the way," he offers, his voice smooth and lightly amused once more, as if he'd caught you studying him again.

your gaze drops to his hands, long and slender, tracing the rim of the martini glass. something about the way they move — elegant and deliberate, hold your attention a moment too long for propriety. you quickly snap your focus back to his face, "what brings you here, gojo?"

gojo shrugs, and you can almost imagine him rolling his eyes beneath the blindfold, though you doubt his ire is directed at you, "work, i guess. or maybe i just got bored of going to work."

"they're working you hard, yeah?" you ask, trying for sympathy. employers loved squeezing their workers dry during the holidays. your own boss was proof enough of that, running the office like a sweatshop for santa's unpaid elf labour.

"something like that," gojo says with a scoff, the corners of his mouth quirking up again, "what about you? what brings you here? it's christmas eve, isn't it?"

you sigh, the weight of gauche embarrassment suddenly pressing down as the words spill out before you can stop them, "my ex-boyfriend cheated on me."

gojo's lip curls, the kind of expression that balances perfectly between pity and disgust, "that sucks," he offers. profound and wise, you have to agree as he continues, "you jus' find out or something?"

the question makes you cheeks heat, and you fiddle with the edge of your drink, "no, i've known all month." you gesture vaguely towards your purse, where your phone sat like an unsealed pandora's box, "but he posted...on instagram. and stuff. i'm still, y'know, getting over it."

gojo makes a thoughtful clicking noise with his tongue, "ah, see, i don't do social media. but that sounds rough."

you let out a weak huff, "yeah, well...now i just feel like a loser. my friends told me to go out and have fun, and here i am..." you trail off, downing the rest of your cranberry vodka in a single, decisive gulp. the sting hits your throat, sharp and sour, and you grimace at the burn.

gojo frowns slightly, leaning in just enough that you can hear how his voice softens, "i don't think you're a loser." the sincerity in his tone catches you off guard, pulling your gaze back to him, "it's fair to wallow."

his words hang in the air, and you find yourself smiling, albeit thinly, "that's...really nice of you to say."

gojo hums thoughtfully, "i meant it, i promise. but i can't exactly say i've been there, never really dated anyone."

you blink, openly gaping at the man, "really? you're joking."

it was hard to wrap your head around that. even with the odd blindfold, everything about him screamed 'pounce-worthy'. the broad frame, the charming smile, the striking white hair that looked like it belonged in a kérastase commercial.

gojo laughs at your incredulous expression, "same old work and stuff," he explains with a casual shrug. then his grin fades, tone shifting just enough for you wonder why that feels as though the clouds have covered the light of the moon outside, "always got in the way."

"at least you never had to deal with a breakup," you offer, trying to find some weak, silver lining.

gojo frowns, his pale complexion now tinged with a faint red flush that even the dim bar lights couldn't disguise. was he really that much of a lightweight, or was the eggnog's amaretto content deceptively boozy?

he sighs dramatically, "a friend once left me outside a kfc in shinjuku. then he became a murderer and a cult leader. that felt like a breakup."

"huh," you murmur, staring at the man with a mixture of amusement and faint alarm, wondering if you'd seen any cult leaders on the evening news lately. no, nothing save for the occasional incorrect weather report, a friendly good-looking priest running some scam association, and news reports about an octopus that could predict the lottery, "that's - well, okay..."

you couldn't quite tell if he was joking or not, but gojo seems to shake himself free of the odd reverie. he's running his hand through his shock of white hair, and his grin has returned, slower and a touch softer, "still, your ex must've been crazy. letting go of a pretty girl like you?"

the words land with surprising weight, considering they come from a stranger in a sleazy bar, but it leaves you momentarily stunned. you can feel a blush rising to your cheeks, your heart doing an embarrassing little flip before you manage to get a grip on yourself.

"wow," you laugh, feigning composure as you sip the last remnants of your drink, "smooth."

gojo's smile is wider now, "hah, i call it like i see it," and his lips now curl upwards as he leans in, "and i'm serious. if i had someone like you..."

you laugh again, but this time it's far more unsteady. you wonder if the cranberry vodka is playing with your head, "big words for someone who's never dated. should i be impressed, gojo?"

gojo's chuckle is a deep sound that vibrates in his chest, "i know a good thing when i see it. you don' need to date to know what you want. and i think i want you."

your stomach does a little flip, and you feel all rationality being pounded out of you just from staring at his unfairly gorgeous hands rest on sturdy thighs, "you do flattery well, i'll give you that."

"oh, i don't know about that," gojo says, fiddling with the stem of his glass, "but what'dya say we get out of here? how about my place?"

you blink slowly, and you're aware that your heart (and...nether regions) have already composed an answer before your mind has, "what if you're a serial killer? you're not about to silent night, deadly night me, are you? you haven't killed someone have you?"

for a moment, the man stills but then gojo leans back, "smart girl. asking the right questions. but no, i can at least promise that i'm not a criminal."

you hesitate just for a beat, the words lingering on your tongue, before you let out a breath and shrug, "fine. where's your place?"

"azabu," gojo replies without missing a beat, his tone smooth, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

you gape once more, blinking as you try to process the information. azabu? as in tokyo's ritziest neighbourhood, where a one-bedroom apartment could cost you more than most people's yearly salary? the kind of place where the floors are made of marble, and everyone's shoes are more expensive than your entire wardrobe?

gojo, ridiculously handsome despite looking like a circus runaway, too charming for his own good, and not the type you'd expect to find in a cheap downtown dive bar. definitely not on a christmas eve, at least.

for a split second, you wonder how a man like him even ended up in a place like this. maybe it's some kind of self-imposed penance. or he likes to keep things low-key when he's pretending not to be rich? maybe he's looking to cosplay a succession character?

whatever it is, it's working. not only does gojo have a face carved from marble, now you've got a solid ticket into seeing what a neighbourhood for the top one percent really looks like beyond it's wealthy exterior. maybe, you'll bring back a souvenir.

you wonder whether there's a group of small emotions standing around inside your head, inside-out style. glaring at you as if you're incapable of making good and rational decisions.

well fuck that, you gather yourself and shrug off the small wave of nerves, and loop your purse strap around your finger, "alright," you say, "let's get out of here then."

you don't miss at how the adam apple of gojo's throat bobs for a second, before he downs the rest of his drink in one go, "let's get outta here then."

you follow him out into the cold, your breath fogging in front of you as you try to focus, but the man is tall, like ridiculously so. but when you reach the curb, he turns to face you again, a frown marring his face.

"so, i have a small confession."

i changed my mind and i find you repulsive.

i was paid by your ex to do this, and now i've done enough to get my money.

i'm a serial killer.

you don't know which possibility is worse, "huh, a confession? what is it now?"

gojo chuckles, lifting a hand to the back of his neck, as though he's about to spill a dark secret into the night air, "i don't have a car."

"you've got to me kidding me. how'd you even get down here?"

gojo shrugs, a casual and almost lazy movement. and you feel your gaze lingering on his shoulders. broad, impossibly wide, the dark jacket hugging him in all the right places, like it was tailor-made to showcase just how much he filled it out.

"someone dropped me off. ages ago," like it was the most normal and rational explanation in the world.

your own laugh is short, a little disbelieving, but you pull your silver keys from your purse, "well, i guess i'll have to drive then. but what would you have done if i hadn't been here to save the day?"

gojo steps to the side, opening your own car door for you with a small flourish and exaggerated bow that makes your heart jolt again, "probably teleport back home. maybe fly, since the skies look clear."

what a weird guy. hot, but weird. he seems like the type to dress up with a fake beard and show up as gandalf at the next lord of the rings fan convention.

in the driver's seat beside him, you catch yourself staring too long. your gaze slipping over a model's jawline, the white of his hair being held up by the blindfold. even his vaguely expensive scent is disorienting, pleasant like pine and blackcurrant. but it's also hard not to be amused when he's furrowing teeth into plush pink lips out of concentration, pressing an address into your cracked gps screen.

well, merry christmas to you.

gojo's place is well...how do you say this? gorgeous doesn't quite begin to cover it. he leads you into the building with the ease of someone who knows every inch of it, tossing a casual smile over his shoulder as he swipes a key card to unlock the private elevator, "i tend to move around a bit. or stay in different places. keeps life exciting, don't you think?"

you step into the elevator alongside him, the polished mirrors reflecting the soft glow of gold accents and sleek, modern lines. his hand hovers over the control panel before he presses the button for the top floor. of course, it's the penthouse.

"you move around a lot?" you ask, arching an eyebrow, "what, like a restless billionaire or something?"

gojo smiles, leaning casually against the steel as the elevator begins its smooth ascent, "now you're exaggerating."

the elevator finally dings, and gojo steps aside, offering an exaggerated bow as he gestures for you to exit, "after you, my fair maiden."

you almost scoff at the ridiculousness of it, but there's something so endearing and charming about how he pulls it off, especially when paired with the unfair symmetry of his face.

floor to ceiling windows dominate the far wall, revealing a jaw dropping panorama of tokyo's skyline. the city stretches out in a glittering sea of lights, with the tokyo tower glowing a golden exclamation point against the velvet night sky. the interior is just as impressive, with polished wood floors that gleam in the warm light and a glass dining table that sits beneath a sculptural chandelier. that same faint scent of blackberry and pine lingers in the air, heady almost.

behind you, gojo strolls with an easy and languid grace, tossing his jacket onto an artisan leather armchair. beneath it, his sky blue dress shirt clings just right and rolled up to reveal forearms faintly dusted with pale hair. you think you've momentarily forgotten how words work, and you avert your gaze quickly. though not before catching the faint smile on his lips.

"not bad, huh?" gojo says, heading to the open kitchen as though he's unaware of the effect he's having on a rational and sensible mind such as yourself, "it's no dive bar, but i'll do."

you shake your head, bewildered. trying to process how someone you met in a dingy bar could live somewhere that looks like it belongs in architectural digest. even down to the odd, ancient looking pieces that scatter the wide living room. weird looking artifacts of some sort. maybe he's also a collector? go figure.

"not bad?" you repeat, incredulous, "gojo, this place is incredible."

the man laughs, opening a sleek fridge to grab a bottle of water, "i have good taste," he says with mock modesty, his tone teasing as long fingers twist off the cap, "and a thing for gorgeous views. though, between you and me, i'm not great with heights. ironic, i suppose. paying a fortune for a view i'd rather not get too close to."

he waves a hand vaguely towards the windows, the blindfold still firmly in place.

"so, what's the deal? did you win the lottery, or inherit a fortune. or are you some kinda secret agent who moonlights as a barfly?"

gojo lifts the bottle in mock toast, "let's just say i'm very good at what i do."

you arch a brow, crossing your arms and ignoring the warm flush creeping up your neck, "and what exactly is that?"

"oh, you know. standard stuff. international intrigue, thwarting evil creatures. i even saved a kitten from a tree the other day."

"right, because nothing screams the next member of the avengers like eggnog in a seedy bar."

gojo leans casually against the counter, "even the avengers need a holiday drink now and then. don't knock it." but then he gestures towards the sleek couch, "wait, you can make yourself comfortable, y'know. i'd hate for my guest to think i'm a terrible host."

"terrible host? no, but a mystery man —"

before you can finish, your foot catches on something hard, and you stumble forward with an undignified yelp. gojo reacts instantly, how does he move that fast, and his arm is shooting out to steady you. but glorious gravity and magnificent momentum has other plans.

both of you crash onto the couch, and you find yourself sprawled unceremoniously across his lap. gojo's laugh rumbles low in his chest, and you can feel the warmth of it underneath your palms as you steady yourself, "well, that's one way to get comfortable," he murmurs, voice teasing as his large hand lingers lightly on the curve of your waist.

you prop yourself up slightly, cheeks burning, and glance back at the offending object. your brows knit together when you spot what looks suspiciously like a katana gleaming under the soft light.

"did i just trip on a — hey, what the hell is that?"

gojo interrupts, smoothly extending a long leg to nudge that suspicious object under the nearby coffee table before you can finish, "nothing important," he says breezily, the motion so quick you almost think you imagined it.

his focus shifts back to you, almost guilty, but his fingers are pressing divots into the fabric of your top, "now, where were we? hi."

you blink, caught off guard by how strange it is to feel the searing heat of someone's gaze underneath a blindfold, impossibly intent, "hi yourself," you manage.

for a moment, neither you nor the gorgeous man under you move, and the world feels strangely airless.

but your fingers twitch against the fine linen of his shirt. and before you can second-guess yourself, you reach your hand up to the edge of the silk fabric over his face and you ask, "can i take this off?"

gojo tilts his head, like it's a genuine consideration and you catch the faintest flicker of hesitation. it's fleeting, replaced by a crooked smile as he nods, "go ahead, sweetheart."

your hand rests lightly on the silk, hesitant for only a second before tracing its way to the back of his head. your fingers brush through impossibly soft strands of white hair, and his breath hitches when you find the knot tied neatly to the base of his skull.

you wonder what manner of man gojo is, letting himself be stitched undone by a stranger. but with care, you undo the knot, working deftly and clutching the fabric as you pull the blindfold away.

the blindfold slips free, and for a moment, you're certain you've forgotten how to breathe. bright, piercing blue eyes. framed by thick white lashes blink up at you. the intensity of such an unearthly gaze is softened by something more vulnerable, almost shy. nervous even.

"wow," you murmur without thinking, the word spilling out as gojo's expression shifts, an unguarded openness replacing the playful smirk that you've seen all evening.

your earlier assessment echoes in your mind: k-pop reject wannabe. the recent memory now feels like quite the injustice, a careless slight against a face that defies easy description. each detail of his face is striking, as if some divine hand had taken special care to sculpt him from the fabric of time and space itself.

gojo seems to sense your analysis, and you're sure that he's parted his lips to speak, but whatever he was about to say falters. that faint flush, pale-red like vermillion watercolour bleeding across a canvas, blooms across his cheeks. gojo's hazy gaze flickers for a second, and it sends a thrill through you. he's affected by this, by you.

it's hard to resist the slow smile that curves your lips, light and playful if only to mask the way your own heart is racing, "are you seriously shy now, gojo?"

gojo's expression shifts again almost immediately, as if that subtle invulnerability has been replaced by something sharper, almost indignant. he sits up a little straighter, the movement making you acutely aware of how the hard planes of his body feel beneath you.

"shy? no," gojo says, his voice steady but edged with some need to defend his honour, "i just...don't usually do this. that's all."

there's a sincerity in his words, an almost begrudging honesty that takes you by surprise. you tilt your head, as your murmur, "i don't either."

before you can second-guess yourself, you tilt your head down. pressing your lips to gojo's in a featherlight kiss. his taste is intoxicating, honey and sweet grapes mingling with a hint of that ridiculous vanilla drink from earlier. you pull back almost as quickly as you leaned in, testing the waters.

but your breath catches when you see that the blue of his eyes has deepened, darkened. and his lips, pink-blush and slightly parted, form a quiet and stunned oh!

"cool," gojo manages, his voice rougher than you expected, and you bite back a laugh as you watch him swallow hard.

"huh, cool?" you echo, your amusement bubbling over, "that's it? that's all you've got?"

gojo's grip on your waist tightens, and his hands are now splayed over your spine. anchoring you to him, as his mouth curves into something sly, though his flushed cheeks betray his composure, "compliments to the chef?"

you shift slightly, pressing more of your weight firmly into his lap. though not yet close enough to situate yourself over his groin, delighting in the way gojo's blush spreads down his neck, staining his skin a shade reminiscent of ripe berries swirling in cream.

you can feel gojo's attention as much as you can see it, how his own gaze lingers, deliberate and unhurried. taking you like a masterpiece that deserves more than a cursory glance. the hand that had been steady on your back shifts, his fingers threading through your hair. he watches as the strands slip and fall beneath his touch.

"thought you said you wanted me, gojo," you tease, though you're certain your voice is betraying the way your pulse is doing its best impression of the macarena in your jugular, "are y'gonna do something or not?"

gojo's gaze snaps back to you, a flicker of something far more intense passing through those impossibly blue eyes. full of hunger, need even. the hand in your hair slides away, only to settle at your jaw. it's warm and steady, his thumb brushing slightly over the plush of your bottom lip.

"i do want you," gojo says, his voice low and steady and maddeningly genuine, "want you to kiss me again. and again. as many times as you want until i forget my own name."

"gojo —"

"satoru," he interrupts, his voice cracking slightly, stripped of any previous swagger. it's unsteady and raw, affected in a way that excites you. sends a dark heat curling low between your thighs, "you can call me that."

"satoru," you repeat softly, letting the syllables fall from your lips, unfurling in the most hazy way.

something within the man shifts. his hand tightens on your waist, dragging you closer in a way that punches the air from your lungs. right over -

oh. the thick, curve of his erection straining against slacks that probably cost more than your monthly salary. it's deliberate, almost desparate at how the invisible thread snapped inside him. unravelled the careful composure he's been clinging to until now.

"go on," gojo murmurs, his voice dark with need, "kiss me again, please."

you lean closer, eyes flickering to his lips, and your pulse roaring in your ears, "who would i be to deny you any wish, satoru?" the words come out more reverent that you'd expected, as if your entire world has been tilted off its axis.

and then you kiss him, hard. desparate. as if his lips are your birthright, a homeland to claim. and gojo's kissing you back, carrying a sweetness that seems both foreign and familiar. in an instant, the weight of another man, a dreary haze in your past, vanishes. gojo is suddenly everything you didn't know you needed, vibrant and electrifying.

"let me know if it's too much," gojo breathes against your lips, his voice shaky as if he's trying to tether himself to the earth. but your kiss deepens, frantic and unrestrained. his mouth moves against yours with a hunger that sends sparks down your spine, and you suddenly realise you quite like the taste of vanilla when it's dripping from his open kisses.

you pull away, for every human needs air. but the sight before you has you clenching your thighs desperately around the bulge where you sit atop. gojo's gaze is heavy, full of that desparate longing that makes your chest ache. his lips are swollen, a soft cherry hue from your kisses. and strands of white hair fall over his blue eyes.

"look what you've done to me, fuck. miss you already," gojo murmurs, and before you can respond, he surges forward, hands pressing against your face with the intensity of a storm. one hand reaches to find the nape of your neck, letting you surrender to the heat of this touch.

you crave more, so much more from gojo, who's taking you in like you're his last breath, his final indulgance. it's as if he's found a new devotion in you, ready to worship you at the alter of your false godhood. but before you can part your mouth to tell him exactly what you and where, gojo's hands are already sneaking under your top, brushing against the trembling skin of your torso.

his teeth are biting down on your lip, leaving you dizzy. and gasping, and so damp in your panties as the fabric of your top is peeled away, and you're left shivering, fighting against the cold of the december air. you find yourself pressing harder into the warmth of his chest, letting the swell of your chest press flat against him.

"shoulda' turned the heat on before we came in," gojo murmurs, breathless as his lips hover a mere centimetre away from yours, "got nothin' to worry about, sweetheart. i'll keep you warm."

"didn't t-think i'd spend christmas eve like this," you gasp, your head lolling to the side as gojo presses open-mouthed kisses to the soft arc of your neck, sensitive even to the cool air.

"no?" gojo's reply is breathy, almost frantic as if he's fumbling in the heat of the moment and has little grasp over the words tumbling out of his mouth, "neither did i. but this? b-better than any fuckin' mission they could've sent me on."

you cock your head, feeling the heat of his clothed cock underneath your thighs, "m-mission, huh? what are you talking about - mmph!" but the rest of the question never escapes your lips for it's swallowed up by another one of gojo's candied kisses.

his rough hands work deftly, finding the clasp of your bra with ease. a pretty crimson thing, almost sheer as it caught the light. and in the centre, a tiny satin bow sat like the final touch on a perfectly wrapped gift. you had only worn it half-heartedly earlier in the morning, some forced christmas cheer for your dreary day ahead.

the look on gojo's face was anything but composed, staring at your cupped tits like you'd knocked the air out of him and his chest rose and fall as though he were remembering how to breathe. in a single fluid motion, your bra is unhooked. the faint metallic click barely audible over the pounding in your chest and he's tossing it aside with a casual flick, his focus entirely on you.

you find yourself mesmerised by his eyes, those swirling pools of blue that seem to have stolen fragments of the sky itself, clouds brushed into cerulean depths with strokes of syrupy smoothness. they're breathtaking, but the thought shatters as gojo's canines graze the flesh of your breasts, a sharp and teasing nip that pulls a gasp from your lips. leaves you rocking sharply against his erection, making him throw his head back, ragged.

the playful string blooms into a flush of heat, and gojo's at it again, his mouth working to leave faint red marks in its wake. you squeal, half in surprise and half in helpless laughter (and entirely in a lusty haze) but gojo only pulls back enough to murmur, "what? can't help myself."

but then he peers at you abruptly, his lips parted as he catches his breath, "wait. do you wanna —?" and gojo tilts his snowy hair towards the shadowy doorway that leads out of the living room, the implication clear even through his panting.

you nod, breathless, "yeah, jus' help me up."

without hesitation, a strong arm slides around your waist, and before you know it, you're being swept into a semi-bridal carry, and your head is resting against the fabric of his dress shirt. not a bad feeling, one you could get used to.

at the doorway, gojo lets out a low 'shit!', nudging the door open with his foot. the faint sound of clattering follows as he kicks something out of the way. you glance down from your entirely too comfortable vantage point, spotting a smattering of cheap tinsel, all glittering in metallic silver and gold, tangled with round baubles that glisten faintly under the dim light.

some have little smears of glue, and uneven glitter patches, as if crafted by unsteady hands, but with earnest effort.

"you big on christmas or something?" you tease, delighting in how the tips of his ears light up like nose of a famous reindeer.

gojo freezes for a moment, almost sheepish as he clears a path, clearly trying to look as macho as possible as he gingerly pushes aside a string of green lights, "made those for my students," he mutters, "thought they'd like them in the classroom tomorrow."

your laugh grows louder, and gojo's brows furrow, his tone growing defensive, "it's a nice surprise for the classroom!"

"i'm not making fun of you!" you insist, leaning up to press a gentle, soothing kiss to the hollow of his collarbone, "it's sweet. i think it's really nice, actually. wait, you're a teacher?"

gojo's mouth quirks up in a faint smile, "something like that," he says cryptically, finally clearing a decent and hazard-free path into a sleek, and clean bedroom. it's all modern space, all clean lines in shades of cream and white, and navy.

gojo sets you down gently, and the plush fabric cradles you as your back lands on fresh linen. and for a quiet, tender moment, you're both caught in the stillness. gojo kneels at the edge of the bed, his hands resting lightly on each of your thighs as if he's anchoring himself there.

his gaze is steady, content, maybe even adoring in a way that feels too intimate for someone who you barely know. there's a warmth in his expression, like he's savouring the sight of you, searching for something — and he's found exactly what he's hoped for.

almost without thinking, you lift a hand, cupping the sides of his face. his skin is warm beneath your palm, soft with the faintest hint of pale stubble that seems to fade into his skin. the moment your hands makes contact, gojo leans into your touch instinctively, his white lashes fluttering closed.

"hey, 'toru," you murmur softly, "y'still with me?"

gojo's eyes snap open at the sound of that, sharp and bright, as if the nickname itself has sparked a challenge in him. a low and almost frustrated sound escapes from the back of his throat, and he presses a feather-light kiss to the inside of your knee.

you don't miss at how his teeth sink into his bottom lip again, worrying and working the plush flesh like he's trying to steady himself. spreading your weeping thighs aside, as his gaze is fixed on something. intense, unwavering. the sheer focus of it making heat creep up your neck.

at how he must be staring hungrily at damp, sheer red fabric that clings to the outline of your cunt. at how it must shimmer almost translucently now, the sticky slick of your arousal enhancing the gloss, making your panties glisten under the light.

you're feeling an unfamiliar kind of shy under the weight of his attention, at how he must see how the fabric clings closely to your puffy, swollen folds — the delicate weave exposing the shape of your taut pussy, practically weeping for his touch.

you needn't have asked, for gojo was already diving into deliver.

he's gliding his index finger over your dripping pussy, letting the tangy syrup sink onto his fingers, leaning in to press a sweet, almost innocent kiss to your clothed cunt, "she seems desperate for me, don'tcha think, heh?"

the sound of the fabric ripping is sharp and wet, a squelching and almost fleshy tone, a sound that's both soft and sharp to the blood rushing between your ears. a strained tear of your beautiful panties, leaving cool air to gently leave a kiss of its own upon your cunt.

you gape at him, a bit too stunned to find coherent words, "hey, what the f-fuck! those were like super expensive!"

gojo rolls his eyes, the kind of look that has a bit too much attitude for someone who's practically begging on his knees for a taste of you, "don't get all huffy on me, sweetheart. 'm gonna buy you more, is tha' alright?"

"i'll r-remember that, satoru," you murmur, giving a sharp tug at his white strands, "you gon' have to give me your number now."

gojo shudders, the muscles in his back rippling underneath his tight shirt, "was already gonna," and he's back to pressing soft, kitten licks to your now exposed folds, small circles over your throbbing clit.

you buck your canting hips closer to the heat of his mouth, to where the pink tip of his teasing tongue peeks out of a pretty mouth, "satoru, c'mon. can't you just, fuck—"

you sharply cry out as he presses his mouth forward, a sudden surge of heat jolting through you. burying himself deep, his nose brushing against the sweet, syrup that coats your pussy, and the rhythmic, wet movements of his tongue send shivers through your entire being.

"mhm, jus' as sweet as you look, baby," gojo gasps, swirling and flicking his tongue, teasing you with every deliberate patter of the muscle near your winking entrance. so messy, slick and you're not sure where he ends and you begin as it all glides together carnally.

gojo seems languidly tipsy, just from munching through the gloss of your cunt, far more intoxicated from your taste than any cheap christmas liquor. he alternates between pushing his tongue past the ring of your tight walls, and then wrapping his lips around the searing pulse of your clit, leaving your hips shaking and dragging over his mouth, smearing yourself over his chin.

you're fisting delicate white locks with fierce urgency, and he hisses and then chuckles into your pussy, "tch! ease up there for me, yeah? jus' move your hips like you were doin' before," and you comply, angling yourself better so he can flatten his tongue against your folds, jaw grinding deeper into you "hah, yeah, just like that."

"taking good care of you though, aren't i? wait, say it. say that 'm making you feel good," and he's bullying a long finger into your gummy walls, clingy and sopping, "say 'm making you feel better than a-anyone ever has," and you just mewl as your arousal must surely be dripping down his forearms, staining the cuffed sleeve of his shirt as he takes your sweet juices down his throat.

there's stars beginning to twinkle at the edge of your vision, and you know you must be close, for your heart is practically dancing a heavy beat against your ribcage, and you suddenly push his mouth away, watching as a clear strand of spit or your slick forms a taut bridge between his mouth and your folds.

"w-wait, satoru, s-stop."

gojo's head lifts, eyes blinking as if coming out of a faze. but then, like a switch, something sharp flickers behind his gaze and concern floods in. his thin brows furrow slightly, glossy lips parting as he reaches out, as if to steady your hips, "you okay, sweetheart? what's wrong?"

your heart stutters, pounding so loudly you're sure he can hear it. you try to steady your breathing, but the tremour in your fingertips betray you as they gently slide through your hair, the silky strands tangling around your hand.

"nothin' wrong, 'toru. but i was gonna cum," and gojo's face, still flushed and soft with arousal, splits into a shy, amused grin.

"hah, i know. that's what i wanted," he's close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath hitting your aching cunt, but you shake your head again.

"feels unfair, wanna see you too. wan' you to cum in me,"

you watch, almost in awe, as a low and guttural sound escapes gojo satoru, raw and unfiltered. gojo runs his tongue over his lips, his eyes dark with something dangerously close to hunger.

"you sure?" and his voice is hoarse, unsure despite his roaming gaze. you nod, your hands digging into his shoulder, tugging at the crisp fabric of his dress shirt, desparate to feel the warmth of his skin underneath.

his shaky laugh of disbelief only makes you more aroused, whining for him to hurry up, and before you know it, he's standing up, towering over your boneless form on the sheets.

"how could i deny you anything?" he murmurs, echoing your earlier words. gojo's hands reach for the hem, the fabric shifting as he pulls it over his head, revealing a milky expanse of toned skin, smooth and taut over a set of abs that should easily land him on a gq list.

his waist is slender, defined in all the right places, and the soft taper of muscles make your breath catch. but the soft white trail of hair that reaches under his waistband makes your cunt clench.

"y'seem happy with the view, don'tcha?" gojo's voice is teasing, the cocky smirk tugging at his lips, but you can hear the impatience threading his tone now too. he's not as in control as he lets on, his hands now making quick work of his belt, leaving your mouth dry when he finally pushes his black boxers down.

you should have known that his cock would be as pretty and unfairly gorgeous as the rest of him. he's circling the strawberry-red tip, glowering and throbbing, right over your gathered slick, coating it and smacking the mushroom head in a thwack! over your poor clit, leaving you jolting as he laughs and leans down to kiss you sweetly once more.

"jus' look at me, yeah?" his drawl is slow, lazy and so ruined. at the first inch of his throbbing cock that slips through your walls, he looks utterly undone. a mess of sharp edges softened by something far more primal and raw.

gojo's head tips back, exposing the elegant line of his neck as the moonlight cascades over you, "hey, sweetheart, 's not too much, yeah?"

hazy blue eyes bore into you, and for a brief moment, in the time it takes for the lightning to strike the earth, you swear that his eyes glow. almost radiant and jewel-like, with cerulean fractals shimmering as if they're emitting life of their own. perhaps its simply the electrifying stretch of inches that's rendering you to hallucinate, whining as your nails find purchase in milky skin and rippling shoulders.

"i-it's big, 'toru," you pant, feeling him almost shudder at the clipped name again, as he grips the base of his cock to bully the final inch in, sighing in contentment as he finally bottoms out, with a wet pop!

gojo looks feral like this, heaving a breath through his mouth as though the air is being taken from him from every second he spends stretching you out on his fat shaft, "hah, 'm glad, i'm so glad i met you tonight, sweetheart. fuck, fuck, y'feel i-incredible."

he's pushing your thighs further back, running his hands over the plush skin, leaving bruising red prints that won't disappear tomorrow as you moan, wanton into his open mouth, letting gojo run his lips down your jaw and into the curve of your neck.

you're practically now folded in half under the bulk of his weight, feeling stars collide in absolutely astrophysical ways, impaled further on the long and thick length of his cock, "in so deep, s-satoru."

seems that gojo is a man of little mercy, for he seems only all the more invigorated by your squeals, drawing his torso back to watch the hypnotic smack of skin on skin, of your slick and creamy froth creating fresh rings over his pistoning cock.

he's entirely out of control, as you feel your body go limp from the pleasure shooting through every nerve and pore.

depraved.

you don't realise you might have let that slip out loud, so dizzy in your cockdrunk haze because gojo's suddenly ramming himself roughly in you, as though he was desperate to have his cock kiss your cervix, to feel for every divot and nook of your cunt's walls.

"d-depraved, hah. people call me, fuck, p-people call me a lotta things, sweetheart," and gojo's so good with it, letting your pussy have not even one moment to take reprieve, having you feel each vein and bulge of his cock, "but depraved is n-new."

the hand that was dancing over your thighs flies to your swollen, aching clit. practically glistening for his attention, and his attention you did receive, "right, t-there! 'toru, mmph!" you're trying to splay your legs wider, giving his quick hand more room to swirl tight circles where you needed him most.

your double-vision gaze lingers on the ripple of his muscles, the way his arms flex and shift as he seems intent on angling you just right for him to drill his cock over and over, at some freakish and feverish pace, "y'so good, gojo," you purr, and your nails curl against his arms, pressing just enough to leave tiny crescents in his skin, the faint dampness of his exertion clinging to him, "s-so strong!"

something shifts. the glow is back, electric blue flooding his eyes like crackling storm clouds. it's almost unnerving, this unearthly brightness, as if he's some ancient god wrapped up in human skin, and you've just stumbled into a divine revelation.

gojo stills for the briefest moment, the thick head of his cock snagging on your puffy folds as he draws himself almost entirely out. the absence of motion makes you whine, an airy and impatient sound escaping your throat. that hesitation feels like a tease, like a string that's been pulled so taut, before he finally dives forward, capturing your mouth in a messy, heated kiss. sloppy in its disregard.

"s-so strong, huh?" gojo's voice is rough, shaky, as though he's trying to centre himself but your tight pussy holds him in hypnotic sway, "y-you think so? think i'm the strongest?" his lips brush yours as he speaks, and there's something almost boyish and charming in the way that he seems to be fishing for a compliment, despite the low heat in his voice.

you pull back from his wet, spit-stringed lips. just enough to wrap your hands around his neck and push him closer, deeper into you as he gutturally groans, "if i s-say yes, are y'gonna keep showing off?"

gojo's laugh is short, breathless, "y-yeah, wanna see?"

he makes quick work of pushing himself back into you, pumping himself so far in that your slick must be painting and sopping the white hairs at the base of his cock almost translucent, "o-oh my god, 'toru, fuck, oh my god!" the stretch has your head spinning, as if the skies are parting above you, and you're melodramatically left to see the light of divinity as gojo bucks his hips harshly into you. as if he's too far gone, needs to prove himself to you with a good fuck.

"you h-have to say it," gojo stutters, his words tumbling out so quickly, like rough gravel, "say it, fuck, c'mon. say i'm — say i'm the s-strongest. you have to, hnghh, god. please, jus' agree, okay?" his voice is cracking, that cocky veneer entirely shattered under the weight of his rambling desperation as he practically rummages through your sopping insides, "y-you feel it right, i mean, you can feel me — i mean."

a high whine escapes your throat as his pace becomes almost olympian, and you wonder faintly how you haven't managed to sprain a muscle or break a bone yet, how he hasn't managed to shatter something with the sheer pace and force of how gojo satoru fucks, "hah, 'toru. i'm —"

"close? g-god, i hope so. 's what i want. nothing, like n-nothing feels better than this right?" his words are falling out of him in a messy, pussydrunk rush, his eyes flickering between your face and down to where your pussy lips are bulged around his shaft, "so good, right? the b-best thing you've ever —"

you truthfully don't even hear the rest of his words, blood absolutely roaring and rearing in your ears, your ribcage as you feel the tight coil snap, letting out short, slurred snaps of his name when you cum. as he doesn't quite let up on smacking his hips right against your ass, "s-satoru, 's getting s-sensitive, oh, fuck. fuck!"

he's suddenly whining, with pleading and erratic blue eyes chasing after you, sloppily pushing down so he can gasp and pant into your open mouth, before capturing you in a heart-stopping kiss as he finally gets milked dry by your pulsing and fluttering walls. in awe of how creamy white is practically leaking out of you, dripping a stringy trail over the flesh of your thighs.

you're agape at how utterly fucked he looks right now, though you're certain you do not look much better as fat tears prick at your eyes, streaming past your ears from the overstimulation, "s-still fillin' me up, 'toru. god, do ya always cum this much?"

at first, you don't even get a response from gojo who just sinks his teeth into the juncture of your neck, almost as if he's trying not to cry out, but then he's back to circling your clit with a rough hand, "makin' me sound like some kinda whore, s-sweetheart. 'n and i told you. don't do this m-much."

and now he's slowing down, pleasurably painful bucks of his hips keeping glossy, white seed in you. ensuring that it coats your entire entrance, "an' it's not my fault that she," and here, he gives your clit a small smack! grinning like a madman, "n-not my fault that she's so, hah, addictive."

each tight circle of his hand on your clit sends you hurtling into yet another orgasm, one that has you begging gojo for mercy, repreive, for more. an orgasm that has him whispering the sweetest nothings into your ear, "d-don't worry, gotcha like this. gonna let you rest n-now, jus' gotta relax for me."

by the time he's slipping his still somehow hard cock out of your creamed cunt, you can feel exhaustions heavy and caring hands caress you, rendering your body limp and boneless. your eyes heavy and hazy, but you can feel a soft ghost of gojo's kiss over the shell of your ear, "h-hope y'still here in the morning, sweetheart. don't leave, yeah?"

the morning sunlight filters through the blinds, and despite the ache in your limbs that cricks your bones, you drag yourself out of bed. christmas day, after all. you've thrown on gojo's dress shirt from last night, snug enough to flutter around your hips, but oversized enough around the shoulders to let you drown in it.

it's cozy though, and even the chilly air feels refreshing against the warmth clinging to you. gojo is still sound asleep, and you had smiled at how he took little puffs of air as he was passed flat out in bed. but you always like to be up early on christmas, and there's something about the holiday that makes you feel like you need to earn the right to nap later.

you wander around the bedroom for a bit, stretching your legs as your muscle protest in earnest. eventually, you decide to make your way to that kitchen. breakfast, right.

it seems like a good idea, especially considering the last thing in your stomach was a questionably sour vodka. so you pull open the fridge, expecting something befitting of this apartment. perhaps a slab of wagyu beef, a tin of caviar, a thick block of pistachio-cream dubai chocolate. you'd even settle for sushi.

instead, you're left staring back at a stack of candy canes, some strawberry yoghurt, a carton of milk and some fast food wrappers. despite your protesting stomach, a deep amusement washes over you. it doesn't surprise you that gojo would have a fridge stocked with food you'd find at a child's birthday party and a greasy diner.

still, breakfast is in order and because you can't help it, you pull out a candy cane and start unwrapping it. you're just about take a bite when you hear the unmistakable pad of footsteps. you turn, face to face with someone who would clearly not be out of place on a vogue covershoot.

gojo hasn't tossed on a shirt, and the sunlight filters over his chiselled physique before your sight is stolen by the loose sheet wrapped around his waist. delicious. you try to snap your gaze back to his face, but it's hard to not track your gaze down his torso, like a cat eyeing a particularly irresistible sunbeam.

"good morning to you too," gojo says, a grin curling his lips, "what are you doing?" his voice is still thick with interrupted sleep, laced with a morning rasp that forces you to ground yourself and stop falling prey to the god, eros and his machinations.

"breakfast, 'm starving."

"don't bother," gojo says, shaking his head, "we can go somewhere nice for breakfast. like real, actual food. don't think you want half-eaten yoghurt."

you nod enthusiastically, mind turning back to the peeling seal of the strawberry yoghurt with a spoon sticking out of it. but then, something else catches your mind's attention. a little curiosity piques, one that you cannot help but ask him.

"wait," you begin, snapping your teeth around the saccharine mint of the candy cane, "y'know what's crazy. like, i swear your eyes glowed last night. not even in a silly compliment way, but like electricity. i thought i was like, losing it.'

you expect gojo to brush it off with a wink, or maybe laugh it off like you're just teasing him. but instead, the man's face shifts, that cocky smile faltering for the briefest moment. it's gone so fast that you think you almost imagined it. but why does he look...almost guilty?

before you can process that, you realised you've leaned yourself over the counter, and in your absent-mindedness, your elbow presses a button on the answering machine. a small beep, and suddenly, a voice blares through the room,

"hey, gojo-sensei!" comes a high-pitched, distinctly teenage voice, an excited boy who sounds a little crackly over the speaker, "so, we found this grade one curse yesterday...and uh, we totally got rid of it. we were gon' call you, but you didn't pick up. but i almost got my arm torn off. wait, no! that sounds dramatic, i got shoko to look at it anyway. so what we're all wondering right is that we don't have to hand in any homework now right? as like reparations?"

the voice crackles off, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. you stand there, absolutely dumbstruck, staring at the answering machine like it's about to burst into flames or start singing christmas carols.

gojo, meanwhile, has the most awkward look on his face, clearly caught between embarrassment...and what? panic, amusement?

"satoru, what the fuck?"

he looks at you for a moment, but instead of speaking, he lets out a long and exasperated sigh before pulling out one of the counter chairs, "you're gonna want to sit down for this one, sweetheart."

[cheriecoke]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ LOOK, MOM! — nanami kento

yuuji accidentally calls you mom

contents: nanami x fem!reader, husband nanami hehe, this is very silly and random and stupid, fluff, nanami & reader are yuuji's adoptive parents fr, words: 1059

“nanamin!” yuuji waves at the figure approaching from behind you, a flashy grin appearing on his face as he glances at the blonde man over your shoulder. “i didn’t know you were coming by today!”

kento's hair sweeps over his forehead in the wind, a few strands coming free as he heads towards you. it's a brisk day, and he has two hot coffees in his hands that he'd picked up after his mission.

a bead of sweat drips down yuuji's temple, and he wipes it with his sleeve, still breathing heavily. you'd spent the last hour training together, pushing his physical capabilities. gojo had been busy recently, between all the missions and his conversations with the higher ups.

so, of course, you'd volunteered to teach the newest student when he couldn't. quickly, he became your favorite of the three first years.

“i’m in between assignments.” kento hands you the coffee, places a gentle hand on your lower back with a smile that is hardly there. “mind if i steal my wife away for a bit?”

yuuji shrugs, his face still bright as he glances between the two of you. ever since he’d found out two of his favorite sorcerers were together, he’d hardly shut up about it.

“no problem. i’m going to meet up with fushiguro anyway.” he brushes the dirt off his pants, waving to the two of you.

“good job today, yuuji!” grateful for something to warm you up in the chilly air, you take a sip of the coffee. it’s perfect, as always, just what you needed. “you’re improving a lot!”

he grins, proud of his accomplishments. “thanks, mom! see you later!”

there's an elongated moment of silence.

you choke on your coffee as kento stiffens beside you, watching while yuuji comes to a skittering halt.

all three of you freeze. you cough, clearing your throat, and kento's hand, steady on your back, has stilled. “yuuji—“

“oh,” the teenager says, his face turning bright red as he realizes what he’s called you. he glances between the two of you, embarrassment evident. “i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to—“

though, you don’t give yuuji enough time to protest. within seconds, you’ve gathered him up in your arms, squeezing the younger boy to your chest. “kento, we have a son!”

you feel yuuji tense, before he relaxes, and throws his arms around you in an even tighter hug. there’s some sort of thanks resting there. he laughs, carefree, a sound you never want to be taken away from the boy who manages to shine so brightly in such a dark world.

kento stares at you, folds his glasses up in his pocket, as if to show you both how unimpressed he is. “do we?” he asks, lips flat, though, you see through the facade to the amusement hidden in his irises. “i'm certain i would’ve remembered something like that.”

you make a face at him, covering yuuji’s ears dramatically. “oh, don’t listen to your dad, yuuji. he’s old, he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

kento blinks, and then sighs, wrinkling his nose. though, when he sees yuuji’s wide grin, his eager expression, he decides to play along.

“well, then... there must be a lapse in my memory." kento crosses his arms over his chest as he regards the two of your extensively, searching for something. "that would certainly explain the striking resemblance between us.” he says drily.

yuuji laughs, a loud snort. he looks nothing like either of you, but you’re not sure he’s ever gotten to witness kento's sarcastic sense of humor, the one that not everyone really gets.

“exactly!” yuuji quips back to kento’s blank expression. "everyone tells me i have the same smile as my dad!

kento’s trying hard not to let yuuji win that one, but you can see the slight wrinkle around his eye, the tiny quirk of his lips. beside the pink haired boy, you choke out a few giggles, covering your mouth.

“yes," kento nods, solemn. "i’ve heard that as well.”

"so you do know how to make jokes, nanamin!" yuuji shouts, nearly jumping in the air as he cheers. "i can't wait to tell fushiguro this."

kento rolls his eyes, but yuuji’s so pleased, and he releases you, his eyes soft and bright as he pulls away.

though he doesn’t say it, doesn't thank you for anything, you can tell he’s grateful. itadori yuuji may be happy with his life as it is now, may have found a home within the friends he’s made at the high school, but you know he misses his grandfather. sometimes, perhaps, he even longs for the conventional family he never really got to have.

you ruffle his hair, the pink strands catching between the cracks of your fingers. “tell him i said hello too.”

yuuji nods, stuffing his hands in his pocket as he steps away. “i will!” his cheerful gaze is pinned on your husband, a secretive smile making a home on his lips. “bye, dad.”

kento shakes his head, and sighs again, though you can tell, a part of him is touched to have won so much of yuuji's admiration. “have a good evening, itadori.”

you watch the young boy scurry away, hands in his pockets as he braces himself against the cold.

"you should be nicer to your son, kento."

kento snorts, throwing an arm over your shoulder as he brings you closer to him. "i am nice to him," he says, kissing your temple softly. "a little hard on him, maybe, but i just don't want anything bad to happen to him."

you soften, look up at him with warm eyes, and you squeeze the hand that is resting on your shoulder. "i know," you say, your heart clenching. you've thought about it before, thought of kento with a tiny child that looks just like him, cradled against his chest. thought of him with a little girl whose hair he can braid, a little boy he can raise to be a gentleman.

but you hadn't talked about it; you'd always thought your life was too busy, too dangerous for children.

"you'd make a good dad, ken," you say, your cheeks flushed as you grin at him.

kento's eyes flash. "really?" an array of emotions scurries across his features before he leans down, kissing you softly. "is this your way of telling me you want a baby, sweetheart?" his voice deepens as he whispers against your lips, smiling. "because i'm more than happy to give you one."