#I’m determined to get something else done tonight | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

milawritess · 4 months ago

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Wherever you go, that's where I'll follow — Gojo Satoru

pairing: Gojo Satoru x fem!reader

synopsis: crushed by the pressure of his work, Satoru and the reader's relationship begins to spiral. You do everything you can to make him happy, but you fear it's not enough. Maybe it never was. After a miscalculation that could have resulted in innocent lives being lost, the situation takes a turn for the worse.

Word count: 17k+ (I'm sorry in advance)

genre: heavy angst with happy ending

warnings: heavy angst, swearing, reader is a motherly figure to Megumi but their relationship is a bit strained, mentions of depression and self-doubt, reader is a sorcerer, fighting, insecurity, arguments, and breakups (?), descriptions of gore, mentions of sexual intercourse (mdni), depictions of a complicated and untraditional relationship, reader gets hurt, hardly edited/proofread (oops), gojo is fed up and mean :(

a/n: this is the first and longest thing I've ever posted on here lol. I felt like there was a lack of sorcerer!reader, so I played around with that concept a little bit. other than potentially shitty writing (sorry for any typos or grammatical errors), I truly hope you enjoy <3

sequel & blurbs

“Get out.”

The hash sentiment lingers, hanging heavily in the air.

“Well, hello to you too.”

He hears your feet shuffle across the floor as you stumble to take your shoes and coat off. “I just came to check on you.”

“And I’m fine,” he responds without moving, one arm up, draping over his aching eyes. He lies on the living room couch, one lanky leg propped up at an angle.

“You’re clearly not fine,” you respond, seeming unphased. “Have you eaten anything?” You ask, waiting for a response that never comes. “Okay, I’ll make your favorite ramen.”

He feels the side of the couch dip, your hand settling on his chest. Your fingers were greedy like you couldn’t stop yourself from playing with the fabric or caressing his taut muscles. Your voice is gentler when you speak this time. “Do you want an ice pack? Some tea?”

You two have done this dance before. You come home to find him exhausted, overworked with a migraine that could tranquilize an elephant. And just like always, you carefully slip his shoes off and unbutton the sleek black jacket to his uniform. It’s hard for him to stay mad about anything when you’re this kind, this caring.

“Satoru, please say something.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

Your voice was so gentle. So sweet, saccharine, and so fucking patient. A voice you only ever reserved for him and for his ears only. A gentle whisper carried in a gentle breeze. It was his favorite sound.

But not tonight.

So you try something else. Sweet kisses along the corner of his lips. You’re even bold enough to move his arm, the arm he was using to desperately block out any light or simulation. You kiss his eyelids, his forehead, and cheeks—feather-light. Your hand slides up his chest before reaching his face. You caress your thumb under his closed eyes, and your other hand finds his hair, gently massaging his temple. He has all of you. Every bit.

“Let me take care of you.” If it were any other night, your breath fanning his neck would have shattered him; goosebumps would have wrecked his body, he’d shiver, and everything in him would ease, and all of his stress would slip away into nothingness. He never had to be the strongest with you. You would render him down to nothing but a simple man with just a few words. “You don’t look too good, honey. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.” For a woman so strong in your own right, a woman of unyielding dignity and poise and unwavering determination to succeed, this is his favorite side of you.

But not tonight.

When his hand clasps your wrist, he feels your whole body freeze against his. Maybe you were surprised. Maybe you predicted this and were preparing yourself but-

The tongue-lashing dies in his throat when he opens his eyes. Just a peak to your face makes him falter. You were pouting. Worried. “I’m fine.” it’s harsher than you deserve but kinder than the thoughts swirling through his head a second ago.

He’s agitated. Stuck in the same old system that continues to fuck him over—his students over.

And yet, you just looked too beautiful.

You pull away, finally taking the hint. Then, you stand, fully removing yourself from him and stepping away. Your body heat quickly disappears from where you once sat, and he quivers. The room was quiet once again.

The room remained quiet even as you placed a hot bowl of ramen on the table beside him, a glass of water, and two pills.

You slept alone that night.

You remember when you first met Megumi.

“Who the hell are you?”

You never would have expected that to be the the words from a child you had just met. You raised a brow. “Well, aren’t you a fucking, brat?”

You were different back then—colder, angrier. You were similar in that sense.

Oddly enough, maybe that’s what gravitated him to you.

You’re not sure when it happened, but gradually, the harsh edges of you began to… change. Not entirely softened, as thorns remained, but you bloomed, red petals and all. You grew softer, kinder, more patient—and finally—your heart had made space for others. The fear of loss remained, but you had never cared for someone so fragile. No one had ever cried for you, reached for you with small chubby fingers, or depended on you as he once had. You never had someone in your life that needed to be nurtured, protected, and guided.

He was just a boy.

Over time, you realized that if you remained unchanged, perhaps he would never grow into the man he needed to be. You’re not sure why he picked you, why he looked up to you of all people, but he did. He found comfort in you and followed you like a little duckling with a little waddle and permanent scowl.

There wasn't a rhyme or reason. He chose you, and you chose him.

Soon enough, you were waking him up for school, running your hands through his messy, dark locks. You were making him bento boxes, running to parent-teacher conferences, and having hard but meaningful conversations with him in his room about his troubling behavior.

Then you were hugging him as he cried, as he revealed the same dark thoughts you once had about yourself.

You wished this world wasn’t so cruel, so dark. You hope that in a different life, he would have grown into a normal kid, with hopes and dreams and a list of things he wanted to do and go out and experience. You didn’t want him to be shackled to a world that’s left you so scarred.

You fought for any sense of normality you could give him. If that meant confronting the higher-ups, so be it. At times, you even confronted Satoru.

He was just a boy.

Fire never harmed you; it never dared to scorch your skin. You commanded and held domination over nearly every flicker of heat. He was so small when you met him; you remember the first time you saw his small form shiver in the cold. It made you anxious. Despite buying him the heaviest winter coat you could find, you were beside yourself, always wondering—is he warm enough?

But, long were the days of you bundling him up in his jacket, tying his shoes, and tugging beanies over his dark hair and red ears. Long were the days of you clasping his little hands in yours to bring them warmth when the air grew too bitter. He grew older, smarter, wiser, and stronger. The boy that used to cling to your skirt after a hard day at school now stood inches taller than you.

You knew that one day he’d leave you, and you were okay with that. Seeing him so ready for the world made you happy. You worried—of course you still worried—but you were so proud. He was hesitant, unsure at times, and sometimes even looked back to you for assurance.

You were always there, smiling, ushering him along.

You can do it. I believe in you.

You grew up together, you think. Sometimes, you wondered if he ever paid for your shortcomings, or if he remembered your failures as a caregiver, but just like you did him, he’d assure you with a soft nudge and a gentle smile.

He knows you did the best you could with what you had.

He was just a boy.

Your boy.

He wasn’t yours, but you loved him like he was. Only as he grew did you realize the lines you had crossed.

He doesn’t remember his mother, but you’re sure he remembered her smile, perhaps her touch, or the sound of her laughter. You never meant to impose on her memory.

When it happened, he had just gotten into Tokyo Jujutsu High, and Satoru took him on his first official mission. You no longer had the means of pushing this off; you couldn’t beg Satoru or the higher-ups for another month, another week, another day. Megumi wasn’t a normal kid. He was a sorcerer and needed to start fulfilling his duties and mastering his technique.

“You can’t avoid the inevitable. You can’t protect him forever,” Satoru had once told you.

You knew he was right.

You stayed home that day, anxious and worried, but you knew Megumi would be alright. Satoru was with him. Even if the tall man was a bit harder on Megumi than you, you knew he’d keep him safe.

However, your worst fears came to fruition. Megumi wasn’t the same after that mission.

You remember. Satoru’s eyes were stern that night while Megumi's eyes never left the floor as he made his way to his room.

You remember thinking—what could I do to make my boys happy again?

After all, they were your everything, the reason you stood here now with a full heart. Things were newer for you and Satoru then, but he kissed you that night, warm, large hands gently holding your cheeks. He missed you a little bit extra that day. You were nervous, hesitant to fall into the sanctuary of his embrace, but it was only a matter of time until you were fully, devotedly his.

“Are you okay?” You had asked, only for him to nod his head.

“Yeah. Of course, I am, angel. Megumi is shaken up, but he’ll be alright too.”

You made Megumi’s favorite dinner that night—the same beefsteak he’s raved about since he was only six. Well, he never raved, but you perfectly remember the first time you made it, which happened to be the first time he tried it. He could barely get his chin over the table to scope his food into his mouth. He wasn’t good with chopsticks yet, so he used a little fork, which he held in his tiny fist. His little eyebrows raised before dipping down, creasing at the inner corners as he concentrated on the flavor. He murmured it’s good, and you remember being so proud of yourself. That was one of the first times you felt that you were doing something right by him. You made the same dish on occasion, and time only helped you perfect the recipe.

Megumi never came out of his room that night. The lights were off when you knocked. Even after hearing no response, you had cracked open the door, poking your head inside.

“Gumiii,” you stepped into his room. He was on his bed, groaning as you flicked the light on. He turned his back to you. “I made your favoriteee.”

You had sat on the edge of his bed, a hot plate of food in your hands. “C’mon, it’s the beefsteak you like. Nice and warm.”

“‘m not hungry,” he had grumbled.

You sighed. “The mission must have been unpleasant.” He remained still. “I’m sorry, Gumi. Satoru said you did well! I’m proud of you—” he flinched from your touch, snapping his arm away from your reach. You froze, having felt the coldness of his rejection. “If you don’t want to talk about the mission, how was your first day at your new school?” You asked. “Do you have any classmates you like?”

“Just quit it already…” he had murmured. “I’m not in the mood.”

Your shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. I just want to make sure you’re okay. My first mission was tough too, and you already know I wasn’t great at making friends either–” you winced, biting your tongue. This was coming out all wrong. “… are you okay, Megumi?”

“I’m fine!” He clipped, pushing himself upright in bed. “Just leave me alone and stop acting like you’re my mom already!”

You remembered—and just the memory of that night shambled your heart. You could never forget the hurt those words caused and how you couldn’t show it.

You had smiled wearily. Then, you placed his dinner on his desk. “…you’re right,” you echoed. “I’m not her, never could be. I’m sorry if I imposed. I never meant to.”

You never spoke of the incident, but you remembered that things were tense between Satoru and Megumi for a short while after that. You told Satoru to drop it, but you had a feeling the poor boy received a tongue-lashing from Satoru. You were never sure, though, and you could never prove it.

You just remembered feeling cracks in the foundation of the home you never knew you had so carefully crafted, brick by brick. Some of the warmth was gone—a warmth you never knew was quite there until it wasn’t.

Little by little, you pulled back. Megumi moved into the student dorms shortly after, and he needed you less and less. You no longer made him bento boxes or his favorite beefsteak. You bit your tongue with the lectures: Megumi, that’s not nice, or Megumi, you need to have more faith in yourself. You can do it.

Though the bitter bite of cold never entirely touched you, heated by an unquenchable fame, you pulled back your hand when you reached for him. He left you seared—burned.

You still worried. You never knew if you were giving him too much or not enough. So, you left most of the mentoring to Satoru now. It’s been a few months since the incident, and now you only ever speak to him if he approached you first.

That's why you were happy when you spotted him in town. You offered him a small, shy wave. He unexpectedly approached you and asked how you were and what you’d been up to. However, the most unexpected part was when he asked if you were busy. You shook your head, and it was impossible to hide you beam when he offered to get you hot chocolate from the same coffee shop you used to take him to after school in the colder months.

However, it seemed you weren’t the only one confused by Satoru’s recent behavior.

“Huh?”

“Gojo didn’t want me going on my mission,” Megumi reiterated.

You blink a few times, tapping your fingers against the styrofoam cup in your hands. “Huh. He’s never done that before.”

“He doesn’t think I’m ready. He took the mission himself.”

“He said that? That he doesn’t think you’re ready?”

“Well… not exactly.” He scowls slightly, looking down at the cup of hot chocolate. “But he damn well implied it.”

“Gumi,” you frown at the boy. He doesn’t make eye contact with you; he looks forward now, gazing out the window and watching the fresh snow coat the ground.

He was upset.

“He could’ve at least taken me with him.”

For a moment, you see that same little boy you met over ten years ago and that same dejected look on his face after being let down one too many times. It breaks your heart.

“If Satoru took the mission and went alone, I’m sure it’s for a good reason.”

He wants to say more but opts for something quick and sweet. “Yeah. Maybe.”

You have to do something. Quick. Anything to make him a bit happier. “I have a mission later in Osaka. I’ll be catching the 2 pm train. Wanna come? I could use the extra help.”

He’s quiet for a moment, thinking, you presume, but he nods. “Yeah, sure. I don’t have anything else to do.”

“Great! And just so you know, we’ll probably be dealing with a grade one or two.”

He pauses momentarily before calmly asking, “And you need help with that?”

“Uh, yeah. Any help is much appreciated. Plus, I haven’t seen you much recently.” You smile brightly, and he turns his head, eyes finding the ground, looking a little bashful.

“About that…”

“Don’t worry about it,” you wave him off. “You’ve been busy with school, and I know that.”

“But that’s not–”

“It’s okay, Megumi,” you smile again, resisting the urge to reach across the table and gently squeeze his hand. “I get it.”

He gives you a look, a small disgruntled scowl. He wanted to say more.

“Alrighty then.” You stand, stretching from sitting in the chair. “I’ll buy you another hot chocolate for the road. We should probably start getting ready to leave.”

The mission goes well. An abandoned warehouse in Osaka conjured up a nasty looking grade three, but Megumi held his own just fine—like you expected. He’s grown much stronger and more sure of himself. You’re proud. Seeing how far he’s come certainly puts a smile on your face. He’s not a little boy anymore, you realized. He’s growing into a fine young man.

Urg. Stop getting emotional.

However, after stopping for a later dinner, you both arrived home late, around nine or so.

“You did good tonight, Megumi,” you tell him for the nth time.

He rolls his eyes, tucking his hands deep into his pockets. “You’ve told me that already.”

“I know, I know. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m proud of you. You’re getting so much stronger.”

Instead of brushing you off like all the other times, he sighs before offering a forced “thanks.”

“Alrighty then. Try and get some sleep, okay? I’ll see you and the others sometime tomorrow, yeah?”

“Sounds good. Get back home safe.”

You nod, smiling. You make sure to watch him as he goes, making sure he gets inside before turning around. He’s capable of taking care of himself, but some habits never grow old. Making sure he gets inside anywhere safely has always been something you’ve prioritized, whether he was going to a friend's house, school, or boarding the train.

You loved him like your own, but you knew he wasn't. After all, it was only a few months ago now that he reminded you that he wasn't yours.

You’re not my mom.

It hurt—it still does—but you never held it against him. You still loved him nevertheless. Your relationship might have shifted but it doesn’t negate the fact that you care for him and would gladly give your life if it meant keeping him safe.

Then, there was Kugisaki and Itadori—two others slowly weaseling their way into your heart. They’ve helped Megumi so much; he might be too proud to admit it, but they’ve helped him come out of his shell; they were his friends, and you knew they had each other backs.

You sigh, a translucent cloud of white floating up and above your head. Just like always, your thoughts shift to blue eyes. Satoru. You’ve missed him today. No calls or obnoxious spam texts. It’s not unusual per se, especially when he gets busy. Regardless, you missed him.

But, something is bothering you. He wasn't communicating with you and he usually tells you these things. Even if he didn't have the time to tell you something right away, he'd eventually find a moment to talk to you. This time around, he didn’t. He didn't tell you he was leaving or about the whole ordeal with Megumi.

He just got up and left. You woke to a cold bed and an empty house. No text message, no note with a silly doodle. When you called him in the morning, it went right to voicemail. Eventually, when you pull up your shared text messages to check for anything new, you only saw the message you sent him from the day before. At a loss, you type out a quick message. You didn't think it would make things better, but at least it was something.

I hope you have a good day today :)

It was all you could really muster up after last night. He seemed so agitated, and so fed up. You blamed it on stress; he isn’t usually like that. Usually, his touch was careful, calculated as if you were fixed of glass. You missed his lame jokes and mischievous grins when he was up to no good. You weren't offered any of that last night. Or the night before. Even the night before that.

You’re starting to worry.

He always bounces back so quickly. The only thing that typically gets him this mad are the higher-ups. Which, in Megumi's case, makes sense. You can see why Gojo would intervene if they gave him a dangerous mission.

But why didn’t he take Megumi with him, at least?

Hm.. maybe it was beyond Megumi's skill set. Would the elders be stupid enough to set him up? They did it to you long ago, but they wouldn’t be bold enough to do it to the boy with the ten shadows technique, would they?

Or maybe Satoru… just doesn’t want to be near you?

Urg. You roll your eyes at your own selfish thoughts. Satoru wouldn’t do something like that. He’s already overworked as it is. Maybe you should make him something. A nice dinner? Or maybe he needed a pick-me-up? Kikufuku? You’re sure you could find the recipe online.

You're torn, so you decide to make both. Maybe you'll even put on a nice dress.

You decide to call him, and after a few rings, he answers. “Hey, honey,” you say sweetly, happy he even bothered to answer your call. "I was wondering when you’d be home tonight. I want to make you a nice dinner.”

He’s quiet again—too quiet. “Dinner? Tonight?”

“Yeah, you’ve been so busy lately. I figured you’d like that.”

He hums into the phone, sounding a bit lighter. “Dinner does sound nice…”

Your smile widens. You could hear the underlying stress in his tone; it was flatter than usual, but at least he was trying. “... I’ll even put on your favorite dress?”

He chuckles a bit. “Tempting, but I’ll probably have to leave after dinner.”

“Oh,” you murmur, wincing slightly at the rejection. Maybe you’ve gotten too spoiled—too accustomed to him pushing off his responsibilities all for the sake of spending a few more moments with you. Were you being too greedy? “Are you okay? They’re not stretching you too thin, are they?”

He sighs in a carefree tone. “I'm doing fine. Same old thing, just a different day,” is all he offers, but you can tell he’s withholding.

“I can help, y’know,” you offer gently. “If you have too many missions, I can take a few off your plate.”

“Nah,” he tells you a bit arrogantly. “It’s better if I handle it.”

Now you’re really starting to feel the distance. He usually reserves the softer parts of him for you. You suppose he just didn’t have the patience to do so right now. “You, uh, got into it with the higher-ups I heard,” you mention, trying to keep the conversation going but approaching from a different angle. “Megumi was telling me you even took his mission. I think he was a bit upset you didn’t take him with you. How come you never told me?”

“How come you never told me you were going to Osaka? Or the fact that you took him with you?”

Your stomach twists, unease bubbling in your chest. You didn’t like where this was heading. “I– it’s never bothered you before,” you manage, though your voice falters, dying down into nothing but a whisper. “And it’s not like you’ve been… wanting to speak to me recently. I haven't had the time to tell you much of anything," your trail off, your voice slowly fading before you begin again. "Did I do something to make you mad?”

The silence that follows is unbearable—longer than you ever imagined it could be. “Satoru… Please just talk to me.”

“I gotta go,” his tone is cold, clipped, and final.

There’s a click as he hangs up, and the silence becomes deafening and threateningly absolute.

You realize you miss the way he used to look at you. Not the way he'd gaze at you, but in the way he would gaze into you, as though you were ever the only thing that ever really mattered.

After your last conversation with him, you were unsteady. You hated how you stayed in bed for hours, analyzing everything he's said to you recently, dissecting his every action. You hated how needy you suddenly felt, even while laying there, in his bed, in his clothes. He paused just a second too long before answering you now, as if he had to must up the courage and energy to do so. His laugh no longer came out easily. Others might miss it, but you never could. It was still rambunctious, taking up a whole room, but to you, it felt forced, brittle even. You've known Satoru at his best, and you've also known him at his worst.

When he looks at you now, you wonder if he's really seeing you. Painfully, you realize you haven't seen him; not without his eyeband on at least. Last night you did, for the first time in a while, but he seemed agitated.

The worst part was that you didn't know how to bring yourself to confront him. You struggled, unsure which pretty words and cadence would unluck the distance between you two.

Did something happen on one of his missions? Was he stressed? Had the higher-ups pushed him too far, testing his patience?

Or was it you? Was this somehow your fault?

Did you scare him away? Have you said too much, cared too deeply, loved too loudly?

You weren't sure, but you had to try something.

You were grateful you were cooking him dinner tonight on your day off. It was the least you could do, and you adored taking care of him. You choose hot pot, something you and Satoru have tried at home before. It took over a few hours to prepare, but it was worth it. You made two broths, you sliced up shabu-shabu and wagyu beef and even went to the extent of watching a video to make a dipping sauce. Unfortunately, you forgot one of the ingredients for the kikufuku mochi and didn’t want to risk making something he didn’t entirely like. Luckily, you had spare time to run down to the kikufuku store right before it closed. Of course, you grabbed all his favorite, two boxfuls, in fact. He was a big guy, so you hoped you had more than enough food for him to indulge.

You and Satoru were together. Though he never outright asked you to be his, you knew. It was an unspoken thing, and you were content with that. For as goofy and eccentric as that man could be, it was rather surprising how he was never outright with what he was actually feeling.

He was damn good at showing it, though. In more ways than one.

You feel it in the way he’d always reach for you after a nightmare. Shaking, needy hands tightly clasping at your waste, fearful of you disappearing and slipping to a place where he could not reach you. Don’t ever go where I can’t follow. Please. His face would nuzzle into your neck, sharply inhaling your scent. You’d hold him, whispering endless promises. I’m here. I’ll always be here. Or it's okay. Breathe, my love. I’m with you.

You feel it on the nights he’d pin you beneath him, his grunts and moans echoing in your ears as he fills you so completely. He’d beg, no demand you—tell me you’re mine. Only mine.

And, of course, you’d eagerly nod, overwhelmed with the pleasure only he could strum out of you so perfectly. ‘m yours. All of me—yours.

You feel it in his protective gaze, his eagerness to hold you in the life vest of his arms. You felt it late into the night, damp bodies pressed against one another; low lighting, quiet laughter, and secrets revealed. His dreams, his wishes, his what ifs—the parts of him that no one knew or considered. Or when he handed you a silver key with a handsome and cheshire grin. What do you say? He was lovely, every bit of him, especially his gentle and selfless heart that you would never take for granted like the rest of the world seemed to.

You feel it when he comes home from overseas and how his strong arms hold onto you just a bit longer, a bit tighter. You feel it with how he smiles into your neck or that one time at the airport when he lifted you up and spun you around, uncaring who saw.

You feel it in the way that it was unspoken. You feel it in his cursed energy and how it perfectly intertwined with yours, reaching for you, comforting you when his hands could not. You especially feel it in the necklace he gifted you—the one your fingers were playing with now: a silver chain with cerulean sapphires, the same breathtaking shade of his eyes. His cursed energy, carefully imbued into the stones, was like carrying a piece of him with you—always, wherever you may go, and it rests directly above your beating heart.

He might not voice it, but you feel it. He loved you. And you certainly loved him.

So when had it become so hard to reach him? Why does he seem so intangible all of a sudden? Something deep and unsettling blooms in your stomach.

And now that you think about it…

When was the last time you two did any of that? When was the last time his careful hands caressed you?

Only Satoru could make you this worried or make you feel this displaced. A sense of panic strikes you, and you pull out your phone to text him when you realize he’s thirty minutes late. Usually, that wouldn’t bother you, but–

After only three rings, you're sent to voicemail. When you check his location, he’s at the high school. Should you check on him? Or would that make him… mad?

He toru! Dinners ready. When do you think you’ll be home? Miss you.

You bite your lip. He quickly read your message, but those three little bubbles never show up.

Nothing. Just nothing.

Maybe he’s staying up late writing the report for his latest mission?

“eek!” Your phone pings, and after a round of hot potato, you see he’s texted you back.

Only to be met with more disappointment.

Dealing with something urgent. Don’t wait up.

You frown, knowing you should drop it, but you can’t.

Satoru…

He’s typing faster now. What?

You pause, thumbs hovering over letters you hesitate to type. What’s going on? You’ve been off lately.

I’m fine. Just busy.

Do you want me to bring you dinner to the High School?

Those three bubbles appear and disappear more times than you can count. No. I said don’t wait up.

You know I don't sleep well without you.

He responds in a heartbeat. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Your patience is wearing thin for the first time since this ordeal started. Are you saying you won’t be coming home tonight?

You’re offered no response. He doesn’t even open your message. For the second night, you lay in a cold bed. Except, Satoru doesn’t come home.

Only he could fracture you so completely.

During your next mission, you brought the whole trio along. According to the report you were handed, you were only dealing with a grade three, but there was also an Infestation in the area. You could use the backup.

You had initially asked Megumi, but once Yuji caught wind, he was adamant that he tagged along, and, according to Nobara she had nothing else better to do.

“Are you guys sure? It’s your day off.”

Yuji shrugs, both arms up, hands up and behind his head. “Yeah, I’m game.”

“Me too,” Nobara voices with a small glint in her eyes. “I got something new I want to try out anyway. We didn’t get to go on a mission last week as it is.”

You paused. "Huh? Gojo didn’t take you on any?”

“Nah,” Yuji shakes his head. “I think he’s been busy or something.” He looks at Kugisaki. “Hasn’t Gojo-Sensei seemed a little… off?”

Nobara nods. “Uh yeah. He hasn’t been himself at all. We figured you’d know something,” Nobara says, curious eyes scanning you.

“Huh… I’m not sure. We haven’t gotten around to talking lately.”

Megumi hums, though it sounds more suspicious than his usual passive tone.

Though they weren’t necessarily your students, you figured there was no harm in taking them. You've done it before and having them around was always like a breath of fresh air—reminding you of why Satoru dedicates himself so fully to his cause and being a teacher. They give you a reason to get stronger and keep fighting. You loved these kids and all their bickering.

Except, this mission doesn’t go anything like you had expected. The report was wrong—a grade two was ambling through the abandoned schoolhouse. That was fine; the four of you were more than enough to kill it. The infestation was a bit overwhelming, but you had their backs, and they were nothing but pesky small curses lower than a grade four.

Everything went well when the ambush happens. You all saw it: right in front of your eyes, a grade one emerging from the shadows, born into something nasty. It's skin oozed a sickly black slime that clung to its misshapen body. Its face—or lack there of—was dark and amorphous, split by a jagged maw that stretched impossibly wide, revealing rows of sharp serrated teeth, ready to cut and slash through flesh like a meat grinder. Other that is daunting appearance, the only other notable thing about it was its speed.

You told the kids to back down, but it was already too late. They were already involved, stuck in the heat of battle and fighting as a seamless unite. They were more than capable of standing on their own.

But you needed them out of here. Your obligation was to protect them no matter how eager they were to help. However, before you could think of your next move, the curse made one last self-preserving attack. It opened in wide jaws, releasing several red beamed energy blast aimed directly at stone pillars.

You had no time to think, only react. In an instant, you surged forward towards the trio, faster than their eyes could react. Grunting, you knocked them back, glass shattering as you kicked them through a window. You felt the impact ripple through your body, fully knowing you knocked the wind out of Megumi and Yuji. However, they recovered quickly, their instincts sharp enough to catch Nobara–

Right in time before the building collapsed.

The building groaned like a wounded beast, its entire frame buckling from lack of support. Stone walls crumbled into clouds of dust and debris, windows shattered in explosive bursts, steel beams twisted and snaped with sickening shrieks. The ground trembled violently as the structure gave way, collapsing into a chaotic heap of concrete, rubble, and smoke, swallowing everything beneath. Including you.

You survived. Reinforcing your body with cursed energy made you strong enough to withstand the impact, and your heavenly restriction certainly helped. Nevertheless, you still took on quite a bit of damage from the tons of metal and concrete.

You woke up under the rubble with a startling gasp, choking on the dust. Were you out for a few seconds? Minutes? You were unsure, but the only thing pushing you to stand was the panic coated in Megumi’s voice. He was calling for you, and so were the others. You could hear the strain in their voices, the utter distraught. You healed your broken leg and the gash on the corner of your forehead, ceasing your gushing blood. You gathered yourself and your strength before pushing. They found you quickly after that, noticing a heap of rubble moving. They ran, rushing to help you push back concrete that threatened to suffocate you. You never did like tight spaces.

Thankfully, you were alright. The kids were safe as well.

However, the curse had escaped. Megumi was visibly shaken, his fingernail cracked, bruised, and bleeding from digging urgently through the rubble to find you.

Everyone was on edge. It wasn't their fault you didn't react quickly enough. You were more than capable; maybe that's why the failure stung so much.

You let yourself down. You let them down.

You were spiraling into a dark place quickly. The guilt threatened to swallow you whole. Gojo was still nowhere to be seen. You didn't have the strength to call him. You’re not sure what you could even say. You’ve fucked up before, but never to this extent. Not to where a whole building collapsed.

“Good morning. A tragic incident occurred last night when an abandoned school collapsed around 7 pm. Authorities are currently investigating the cause, and preliminary reports suggest that the collapse could have been due to a structural weakness—one of the many reasons why the school was abandoned in the first place. We will continue to monitor the situation as more information becomes available–"

Megumi gently grabs your phone and locks your screen. Wordlessly, he shakes his head before pocketing your device. You’re too exhausted to ask for it back.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Sensei?” Yuji's voice was soft, the first voice to break the ice. You look up from your hands, unsure how long you’ve been lost in thought. You force a small smile as you gaze at the three kids. You were sitting across from them in the waiting area outside the council room.

“I’m alright. Are you guys?"

“We’re all fine,” Megumi cuts in quickly. “We’re– we’re more than okay.”

“That's good,” you trail off. “That's really good.”

Uncertainty hung dangerously in the air. What happened now? You were okay, but for how long?

You knew you were in for a lashing with all the collateral damage you caused. It was supposed to be a simple mission. This wasn't supposed to happen. You four were fine, but did anyone else get hurt?

You flinch at your own thought. You don't think you could live with yourself if innocent lives were lost.

“Sensei?” Yuji's soft, unsure voice cuts in once more. When your eyes make contact, he smiles brightly. You can tell it’s forced. “After this, wanna go get something to eat? There’s this great sandwich shop down the street!”

“Y–yeah!” Nobara sits up straight after being less than conspicuously nudged by Yuji. “It’s pretty good. We went the other day–”

The council room door creaked open. The higher-ups were waiting, shrouded in shadows and faces hidden. Even if you couldn't see them, the tension was palpable. Even without seeing them directly, you could sense their anger, smell it as it rolled off of them in a quiet, unspoken fury. You glance at the kids once more, this time with a gentle, reassuring smile curling at your lips.

Everything would be okay.

Everything was, in fact, not okay.

The air was heavy as you entered your office. Your limbs ached, your head throbbed, and every breath felt like dragging glass through your lungs. You had thought the worst of it was over, and slowly, you felt your body begin to shut down, but only when there were no prying eyes to see how you compensated for your injuries. Even after using RCT, you had a limp—your bones were mended but not quite right. Your head was no longer bleeding—but still, you weren't quite right.

You dismiss it as exhaustion; after all, you had just learned RCT not too long ago. Maybe you missed something. However, this wasn’t anything you couldn't handle on your own. You could see Shoko, but why bother her? You’ve endured far worse. Dealing with a sore body and a headache for the next few days wasn’t out of your jurisdiction.

When you open the door, a flickering lamplight reveals a tall frame standing by your desk. Even before your eyes dance upon his sharp and still silhouette, the air shifts—your soul already knows he is there. Satoru.

But, his eyes never meet yours; you weren’t blessed enough to see them, a bright blue illuminating in the absence of light. His eyes were covered with a familiar dark cloth. However, you didn’t need to see them to know that the usual warmth they held as he gazed upon you was gone. In its place was a coldness that turned your stomach.

“Satoru–”

“I know,” he says, voice clipped as he turns to face you. “I read the reports.” Your heart sinks as he haphazardly tosses the report down to your desk.

You’re exhausted, unsure of where to even begin. So many questions floated in your weary mind. Where were you? When did you get here? Please, don’t be mad at me.

It’s funny how all your dignity, poise, and strength to endure are gone with him. You already took one berating from the elders, and you’re not sure you could handle another.

Not from him.

“But, I want to hear it from you.” He stepped closer, his height making him all the more domineering. “What happened out there? And how the hell are my students caught up in all of this?”

“The report was wrong. It was a grade two, not three, but we handled that just fine. We cleared out the area and completed the mission, but we were ambushed. A grade one appeared, destroyed the pillars, and–” You hesitate, unable to form the words. “Well, you know what happened.” He’s quiet, too quiet for your liking. “I–I did everything I could, Satoru. The students were fine, but the curse got away.”

“Everything you could?" His voice echoes. "I don’t need excuses. Certainly not from you. You endangered them—all of them. They’re not even your students!” He snapped, his voice rising in a way you’ve never heard before.

You bite back the lump forming in your throat. “I thought you, out of anyone, would understand the circumstances.”

“...Understand?” He utters back, a quiet fury rolling off him in waves.

“I made sure that–”

“You failed,” he snaps, voice laced with malice. “Enough. Just stop it. You were reckless and went behind my back, and you let a pathetic grade one get the best of you.”

Your chest tightened, crumbling at the weight of his tone. “Went behind your back? I did no such thing.”

“They could have been hurt because of you!” You visibly flinch, his words carrying more weight than the debris that had buried you—broken bones and all.

“I’m recommending you be demoted to grade two.”

What?

“You can’t do that. Satoru, you can’t–”

“I can,” he said coldly. “and I will. You failed, and not only did you fail, you went behind my back and involved my students. Your recklessness caused this,” disdain coats his voice, and he sucks his teeth. “I was gone for two fucking seconds, and you damn near ruined everything. People could have died. My students could have been injured. So stop being a nuisance and just do as you're told from here on out.”

No.

No, no, no, no.

You fought for years to get to grade one. A woman with a name of no renown—this society was never in favor of you; the system was set up for you only to fail time and time again. For years, you were held at grade three, then grade two, all because of your name’s sake—all because you were a woman. You didn’t have the luxury of being as good as other sorcerers; you had the burden to be better.

Even now, at grade one, they continue to undermine you and undervalue you. You knew you didn’t have room to make mistakes, for they would tarnish every bit of good you have done. You thought Satoru understood that. You thought he viewed you as an equal, someone strong enough to stand by him. You thought he valued you, respected you.

You never thought a mistake, a stupid mistake, would lead to this.

It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair.

“This has nothing to do with my rank. You don’t believe me. You don't trust me. After everything–”

Hearing his scornful laugh, your vision begins to blur. “Don’t make this personal. You fucked up, and now I have to clean up your mess.”

Your ears begin ringing. The pounding in your head becomes too much and threatens to crack your skull open once more.

“But it is, isn’t it?” You whisper. How could it not be personal with how he's been treating you for days? “You haven't been able to look at me in weeks. You speak to me as if I’ve become nothing but a burden to you—a nuisance. What did I do to deserve this?”

He remains silent, the muscles in his jaw ticking as he grits his teeth. Point proven.

Your heart painfully twists with each beat. “Do you even… care about me anymore?” You’re not sure why you say it, why the words slip past your lips, but they do.

He read the report and he hadn't even asked if you were okay. Maybe it was a selfish thought, but it makes your chest ache. You just wanted to go home, crawl in bed and hold him. However, you knew that wasn't in the cards right now.

“Don’t twist this into something it’s not.”

Your voice finally wavers before him, cracking as you press on, desperate for him to understand—desperate to have him by your side as he has been for so many years.

“You’re casting me aside like I’m... worthless."

It was cruelty, a quiet and deafening insult for him to demote you of your status—but more specifically, your place beside him. That hurt runs deep, to the point that feelings of betrayal start seeping into your veins, poisoning you, antagonizing you. Belittling you. It was a sharp dagger you never expected—searing with a hatred that threatened to cripple you. This wasn’t just about your position. He was a man of unchallenged stature, of the highest status and regard, lowering you, demeaning you with his every word, every action.

When did things go so wrong?

Yet, even now, you question yourself. Were you being dramatic? Were you taking this too personally? Were you being selfish?

Because he was right. Every word he's said so far was right. You failed. You put them in danger.

You stand there, a hollow feeling growing in your chest. The sting of Satoru’s words cut deeper than any blade you’ve faced. His jaw tightened, his gaze hard as steel and cold as ice. “You gave me what I never asked for.”

“Don't you dare!” You snap, finger trembling as you point his way with an accusatory jab. “Don’t you dare pretend this is nothing. You know me better than anyone. How could I not take this personally? I’ve done nothing but stand by you, love you, trust you–”

“Like I said, I never asked for any of that,” he utters sharply, his carefully composed exterior shattering. “Whatever we were was nothing more than fucking convenience.”

Suddenly, he stops, freezing at the onslaught of his own lethal words. His next words seemed to die in his throat. The damage was done.

Exhausted, defeated, numb. His words hit you like a death blow. “... Convenience?” Echoing the very word that came from his lips—a sound you hardly recognize comes from your mouth, a small slip of the anguish tormenting and swelling in your body escapes.

The necklace around your neck, the very one he had given you, seemed to pulse against your skin, warm and alive. It carried a piece of him, a piece of you, a guiding hand in the absence of light: a thread, an anchor—a way home.

Suddenly, you hated it. Hated the way it sat so close to your heart, hated the warmth, his energy; you hated that, even now, his words cutting so deep, unraveling the fabric of your being, it comforted you, reaching for you.

You yanked it off, the chain snapping in two as you held it in your trembling hands.

He falters, his whole being frozen. “What are you doing?” he asked, quiet and tense, blanketed in uncertainty.

“I don’t want it,” you say, voice quivering, threatening to fail you at any moment. His energy—the only energy that blended so perfectly with yours—reached for you, and so did his trembling hands. Reflexively, you flinched away, retreating further into the room and further from him. “Don’t,” you shake your head. “Don’t touch me. Not with your hands, not with your energy. Don’t.”

Silent tears stream down your face. You are unable to look at him, and your breathing is shallow and unsteady. You open your hand, letting the necklace drop to the floor. The faint sound of metal hitting wood echoes in the suffocating silence of the room.

There’s a soft knock on the door. It creaks, slightly opening. “... Y/n sensei?” came an unsure voice.

You stiffen, and suddenly, you can sense them, three nervous students standing outside your door. Too caught up with Satoru, you had entirely missed them. You clear your throat and dry your cheeks with the back of your hand before turning to the door. You walk over, opening the door wide enough to see them.

“Sorry if we’re interrupting, but we just wanted to know if you still wanted to come out for dinner with us...”

Fuck. How much did they hear?

You take a breath, and it’s shakier than you anticipated. “Yeah, sure. That sounds nice. Let me grab my jacket, okay.”

Yuji only offers an unsure smile. Norbora has a hard time even looking at you, while Megumis's eyes are solid and unyielding, glaring right past you. His hands were in his pockets, balled into tight fists.

You don’t know what to do other than quickly turning. Within a few ushered strides, you were at your desk, grabbing your coat off your desk chair; you’re careful to avoid Gojo, who manages to plaster on that big fucking grin.

“Heard you guys were up to no good while I was away.”

“We were fine,” Megumi interjects before Yuji could open his mouth. “More than fine.”

“Y–yeah, everything ended up being just fine. Y/n-sensei made sure of that,” Nobara awkwardly adds, shifting her weight on her feet.

“Ah,” Gojo nods. “Well, make sure you get some rest tonight. We’ve got a long day tomorrow! You guys will be training with the second years!”

You hated how he could act as if everything was alright while you were fighting back tears. It was another jab, a suckerpunch to the gut.

You just needed to get out of there.

After dinner with the kids, you headed out on your own the following day. You went home, stuffing some clothes in a bag before spending the night at a cheap motel. Before getting with Satoru, you always floated from place to place, never truly settling. Those days, all you carried on you was your backpack. You didn’t have a home or many possessions you could call your own. You just had yourself.

I guess old habits die hard.

Megumi was the first to text you: I went to Gojo's house today and didn’t see you.

All good! I’ve been busy running errands.

Nobara text you sometime after.

Hey Sensei!! Let me know if you’re available today! Let’s go shopping!

You responded rather quickly. Sorry, I’m not around today. Maybe ask Maki? Or maybe Yuji and Megumi would like to tag along.

But guys suck :(

Then, there was Yuji: Hey, Sensei! Let me know if you want ramen! The gang and I got you since you covered for us the other night! I even got coupons!

You weren’t sure what to say. You always covered for their meals (no exceptions), but you knew they were just trying to be kind. You double-tapped and hearted the message.

You appreciated them more than anything, but frankly, it was a bit embarrassing. You never meant for them to overhear you and Satrou that night in your office, and you were never one for pity. If it were anyone else, you would have called them out and told them off. However, you wouldn’t dream of doing that to the kids. They were trying to support you in the only way they knew how, but it wasn’t their responsibility to worry about you.

Surprisingly, Shoko was the next person to contact you. You never stopped by my office. I’m assuming you’re alright?

Smiling gently, you responded. Yeah, no injuries to report.

A building collapsed on you.

You scoff, imagining her deadpan expression. Heavenly restriction, remember?

That doesn’t mean you can’t get hurt.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard. Yeesh. Just meet me at the bar you like downtown.

That’s where you are now, Shoko’s favorite bar, tossing back your third shot. ”Take it easy. I don’t feel like dragging you home tonight.”

“Ah. I’m alright, Shoko.”

“You don’t look it.”

“Neither do you with those bags under your eyes.”

She brings her drink to her lips, mumbling “touché” before taking a swig. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Vivid memories pressed to the front of your mind of the building collapsing. “Satoru is demoting me. After the elders ripped into me, I found him waiting for me in my office.”

“He– what? Jeez,” she took another sip of sake. “Out of everything, I didn’t expect that.”

“I– we haven’t been doing too good. I’m not sure if there even is an us after last night.”

“Huh. He did seem a little out of it today.”

“Somehow, I kinda doubt that.” There’s a beat of silence, and you swirl the liquid in your cup.

“If it means anything, he asked me about you. Asked if you were alright.”

You smile a bit sardonically. If Satoru really wanted to find you, you knew he could, as he had the means to do so. From here, you were only about five miles away from his estate. It’s not like you were too for his eyes to see. Suddenly, that thought bothers you, and you find yourself almost subconsciously concealing your cursed energy.

“Is that why you texted me?”

She gives you a weird look. “Partially. I had my own concerns.”

“Like what?”

“If I’m being honest with you, you’re not great at RCT. I wanted to check and make sure everything was alright. It eventually catches up with you if you don’t do it correctly. I’ve seen it cause irreparable damage before.”

“Ah. I guess that makes sense.”

“You should come to my office tomorrow so I can check–”

“I think I’m gonna quit.”

“…what?”

“I mean, that’s what they really want, right?”

“If you do that, they’ll find the easiest excuse to label you as a traitor. A cursed user.”

“Don’t you think I know that? Since day one, they’ve been trying to paint me as a villain.”

“So don’t give them what they want,” Shoko bites back. She pinches the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger. “Listen, I can’t stop you. You are going to do what you want to do at the end of the day, but you don’t need to do this. You made a mistake.”

“I’m just tired,” you tell her truthfully. “For months, I’ve been pretending, going through the motions. I've been miserable. Megumi hasn’t wanted me around much. He’s older now, and he doesn’t need me anymore–”

“Of course he does,” Shoko cuts you off. “He’s still a kid.”

“And I’m not his mother,” you retort bitterly. “Then, there’s Satoru. He’s been so distant. He used to always be in my corner and make everything better, but I don’t even have that now. Now, all of the jujutsu society thinks I’m a liability. He thinks I’m a liability. Maybe it’s why he’s grown to resent me so much.”

“Please. Just stop talking,” Shoko remarks, overwhelmed with how quickly you were talking. She wasn’t necessarily a fan of conversations like these, but at least she listened. “I’m here if you ever need anyone. And please, don’t let this fester. I would rather not lose another friend.” She takes a large gulp this time, finishing her drink before gesturing for a refill. “Tsk. Satoru is complicated—I get it—but he wouldn’t want you to leave. Neither would Megumi. That kid loves you. Maybe you and Gojo just need a break.”

A break? Ha. That was one way of putting it. However, it already felt much more like a breakup, and its permanence frightened you. Like many other things in your relationship, it was never voiced but certainly felt.

“Yeah,” you say softly, body buzzing as you down your fourth shot. “Maybe you’re right.”

You start walking home after having drinks with Shoko. It was a long walk, and you took your time. You weren’t in a rush to head home to potential chaos. The thought of staying at a hotel crossed your mind, but you had nothing to change into. Frankly, it didn’t matter where you went either. It’s not like you’d be able to sleep any better.

Though, it’s not like you were going back home to anything good. You were suspended without pay; you couldn’t go near the school grounds or exercise any curses—a stipulation you rolled your eyes at. If they thought just a few measly words would stop you from exercising a curse, they would be more idiotic than you thought.

Still, maybe it’s good to take some time off. Maybe you should stay at the hotel. If you were lucky, they’d have a washer and dryer.

Then, your phone starts to ring—a unique ringtone that a white-haired idiot assigned to his contact one day after you let him “borrow” your phone. He even changed his contact photo; years later, you never had the heart to change it.

Your heart aches when you see the contact photo of him, his goofy smile and gorgeous eyes peeking over his black shades. You answered hesitantly after a few rings.

“Hello?”

“Heyyy,” you hear, his voice light and cheery yet, lacking its usual spark. “Where are you? I know I missed dinner the other night so I picked up your favorite on my way home!”

Back to normal? Just like that?

You take a breath, reeling in your emotions. It wasn’t normal, per se, but you could tell he was trying, stepping cautiously over the ice he knew could shatter at any moment.

“I’m not home, right now.”

“Huuuh?” You can hear the slight whine in his voice, and you can imagine him pouting like a small child. You expect him to carry on with his theatrics, but he hesitates. “When do you think you’ll be home then?”

“Uh, I don’t really know,” you trail off, unable to keep up his faux mirth and bravado.

“Well, if you don’t want to sleep next to me tonight, I can just take the guest bedroom!” For a moment, he sounds hopeful.

Honestly, he’s just making your head spin.

“Honestly, I think it’s best if I stay out of the house for a little while, Gojo.”

There’s a beat of silence before you hear his nervous laughter. “Gojo?” he remarks dejectedly. “Can’t remember the last time you called me that.”

You were unsure what to say; you hadn’t even realized you initially referred to him by his last name until he pointed it out. You want to tell him sorry—for everything, but your tongue tenses in your mouth, and your throat threatens to close up. You hated it when he got like this, and typically, you’d do anything to make him smile again.

But you’re hurt, and he caused that hurt.

“I wanted to talk to you about the other day,” he adds quickly, unable to withstand your silence.

“What’s there to talk about?” You ask softly. “What done is done. I messed up.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You’re right. It can’t be undone now. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Your stomach drops your heart twists and aches. Was he going to officially end things with you? A bitter, more cruel half of you whispers—you weren’t even officially together to begin with. However, none of that even matters; he has too much of you, too many pieces of your frail heart in the palm of his hands. You were irrevocably his, but was he ever yours?

Just a few weeks ago, you thought you would have an entirely different answer than the one you have now. You're too afraid to face him or the truth. You were guilt-ridden, your pride and dignity torn to shreds. Hearing that he no longer wishes to be with you would be too much.

Honestly?

You’re not sure how you’d react. If you’d sob, if you’d remain stoic, or if you’d flip a table and trash every one of your possessions. You’re at wit's end, and the level of fallout threatening to break free from you was immeasurable.

So, you finalize what you had been contemplating just five minutes ago. “I think I’m going to stay at a hotel, Gojo. I need space. Time to think.”

“I don’t want us to go to bed mad at each other,” he says lowly, his voice reverberating through the phone. You shiver. “It doesn’t feel right.”

You hated this. You fucking hated this.

Your chest tightens, and your knees weaken. You wanted to give in. He always had that power over you. He ruled your heart so effortlessly. You yearned for him, your heart singing a million love songs, beckoning him back to you.

But you couldn’t. You were too mad. You felt cast aside as if you were nothing but an afterthought—after all these years. Yet again, you feel the foundation of your home cracking, and your knees go weak yet again. You take a shuddering breath right before repeating the exact words he threw at you just a few nights prior—words that so effortlessly dismantled your spirit. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

You’ve always had a habit of running. It was easier for you than most. You figured you’d go back to that cheap motel in Tokyo, but you were too restless. Too angry. Feelings of betrayal ran deep, and the guilt nipped away at you until there was only a void.

Before you could leave, though, you call a number you knew by heart. Stepping onto the train and holding your phone to your ear, it rings. For a moment, you assume he’s asleep. It was getting late, but after the fifth ring, the line clicked. A groggy voice peaks through.

“Sensei? What’s going on?”

“Megumi,” you breathe out. “Hi. Sorry to wake you.”

“It’s fine.”

“Nozomi 1, departing from Tokyo and heading to Kyoto, will depart shortly. Please be careful of your footing while boarding. Please refrain from using mobile phone inside the train–“

“You’re leaving?” The tiredness in his voice is replaced by something else you can’t quite place.

“Only for a short while. It’s not like I’ll be working anytime soon,” you chuckled nervously. “But I just wanted to let you know. It didn’t feel right leaving without speaking to you first.”

“Oh,” is all he can muster up at first. “I– when will you be back?”

“I’m not sure,” you answer him honestly. “A few days, maybe.”

“Well… Can we visit you? I’d go alone, but I think Yuji and Nobara would kill me if I did.”

Oh. You hadn’t expected that. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath. “Um, yeah. When I figure out where I’m staying, I’ll let you know.”

He sounds worried. “You don’t know where you’re staying yet?”

You snicker. “Ha, this is, uh, kinda an impromptu thing.”

“… and you’re sure alright?”

“Yes, yes, I’m alright. I just wanted to tell you.”

You can tell he’s not exactly satisfied, but he isn’t one to stop you. “Well, text me where you’ll be staying in a few hours. You should probably hang up now, though, and figure it out.”

You smile softly to yourself. He always was a kind boy—kinder than he’d ever reveal. “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Goodnight, Megumi.”

“Night.. I’ll call you later. Be safe.”

When you hang up, you feel a bit better.

The first night was hard—really hard. Sleeping away from Satoru was incredibly difficult, but so were his sharp words that relentlessly bounced around in your mind. You found no peace by your window, watching the last of that day's sunlight slipping away behind the horizon, casting long shadows over the dead trees covered in snow.

You could almost feel his presence, like the cast of your shadow on a wall—following you, mirroring your every move. Your phone never rang with his ringtone, your phone never buzzed with a new text. Yet you stared at the shadows for a bit longer, a bit more intensely, waiting for two blue eyes to illuminate the space. They never did.

Kyoto's stillness seemed to reflect your own, waiting for something to change, waiting for something dead and wilted to bloom once more.

However, even all the way over in Kyoto, bad luck seems to follow you like the plague. You were walking to a small corner market to grab something to eat when you felt the disturbance in the air—tasted it on your tongue. You hoped that surge of cursed energy wasn’t what you thought it was. You would have loved to be proven wrong, but your instincts were keen like a hound trained to hunt.

A curse womb opened right above a Kyoto High school.

You were definitely getting fired after this.

You knew a cursed object was most likely responsible for this. Considering it happened at a school, you were more than willing to bet a strong cursed object was placed there, most likely intended to ward off any other strong curses that might otherwise appear in the area. You assumed the seal broke, probably after hundreds of years of suppressing the power of the object. You’ve dealt with a case like that before.

You couldn’t have been more wrong.

Three stupid students—ghost hunting of all things—removed the seal. The decorated white cloth tightly wrapped around a black skull was torn, and its viscous cursed energy soared, tinting the sky black.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” you hissed under your breath when you slammed open the classroom door. “This way, c’mon!” You didn’t have to tell them twice. Book it, and you stay by their side for as long as you can. You had to put up your veil, but only after they were far enough.

You got impatient, however, especially towards the kid who had been recording everything up until now, where you crushed his phone in your hand.

“Wha– hey! You're gonna pay for that!”

“What the hell is more important? Recording or your fucking lives? Shut up and run!”

The air suddenly cracks with a tension that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. It’s here. You could feel it—the dark, oppressive presence creeping across the courtyard, lurking. You yourself could see it with your eyes, but you felt it.

Your senses were better than most. It was partially why you and Yuji got along and trained together so well. You were just like him when you were younger. Granted, he wasn’t born with cursed energy like you were, but your heavenly restrictions were nearly identical.

You stop running when you reach the edge of the courtyard, but those three kids carry on in a scram. Holding the cursed object in your hands, you raise the skull in the air. It takes a considerable amount of force, but you crush the skull, black dust coating your hand. There’s a hollow screech, and you hope that’s the end of it.

Of course, your bad luck persists.

Typically, destroying the cursed object that’s created a cursed womb kills it or at least nullifies it. The exception is when the curse is an S-grade; those wombs are damn near impenetrable.

Destroying the object seemed only to irritate the curse as it began crawling out of a bloody sac.

You hold up your fist, index, and pointer finger together, pointing to the sky along with your thumb. A crimson veil pours down, covering the entirety of the school. However, you sense three others within your veil just as you seal off the area.

“Yo, Y/n sensei!! What the hell are you doing here, loca!” A deep laugh echoes across the courtyard.

Christ. You knew that voice from anywhere.

You glance over your shoulder and see a few unexpected faces. Utahime and two other students—Miwa and Todo who looks way happier than he should be, considering the circumstances.

The newly born curse loomed menacingly overhead, its red eyes gleaming like coals in a dying fire. It was tall, with protruding joints that snapped into place. Its black and sleek hair extended beyond its long, contorted body. Its face was painted white and cracked as if crafted of aged porcelain. Its kimono was white, stained with splashes of red and black goo. You stood firmly in place, fire crackling at your fingertips, your breath steady but sharp in the cold night air. Todo and Miwa joined your side quickly, and Utahime offered you a firm nod from the sidelines. She was entrusting you with her students.

Quickly, the courtyard became a battlefield, filled with the crackle of burning energy and the hum of raw power.

The curse lunged, zipping through the air. You were faster, your body twisting and moving with fluid grace. You raised your hand to strike, a jet of flame bursting forward, crackling against the air. The curse shrieked as the fire seared its back, black smoke rising from its melted skin.

It recovered too quickly for your liking. It rolled through the flames like water through a sieve, reforming and lunging again, its claws gleaming.

Your senses were on fire—every shift in the air, every sound, every movement was magnified. You could hear the heartbeat of the curse, the faintest tremor of its form as it coiled to strike. You could smell the thick, sour scent of decay that clung to it like an ancient smog. And you could feel it—the deep, heavy weight of power pressing down on you, making your muscles tighten and strain against the oncoming attack.

The curse moved to strike again, but you were already there, rolling beneath it, body twisting in a perfect arc, and feet hitting the ground in a spring-loaded motion that sent you leaping upward. Your fist, wreathed in fire, crashed into the creature’s chest.

The explosion of heat sent the curse reeling, but it was only a momentary distraction. It retaliated, slashing the air with a massive, clawed hand. Three energized strikes were headed your way. You reacted with seconds to spare, but Miwa stood directly in the line of fire. You knew her simple domain wouldn’t be summoned fast enough, but she didn’t. It would be a miscalculation that ended her life.

The claws tore through your side, then whipped down in a sickening arc, ripping clean through your arm. The pain came in an instant—a blinding, searing agony that burned through your body. You didn't even have time to scream.

You staggered back, a cry escaping Miwa’s lips as she looked at the bloody stump where your arm used to be. Blood poured and squirted from the wound, but there was no time for that.

"Get back!" you shouted to the blue-haired girl, voice raw. She wasn’t nearly ready for this; Utahime gravity overestimated her abilities or underestimated the cursed strength. Regardless, the girl was too distraught to do anything at this moment.

There’s a rush, and you suddenly realize you are outside the heat of battle. Todo went in, guns blazing, but you could only waste so much time. Todo was strong, way above his current ranking, in your opinion, but it was only a matter of time before that curse cut him down, too.

Without a second thought, you dropped to your knees. The pain was overwhelming, but you focused, drawing from the reserves settled deep within your core. Your energy surged, and tendrils of fire spiraled around the wound, filling the air with intense heat.

“Sensei! Are you alri–" Miwa gasped, her feet coming to a haunt as she watched in awe and terror as your arm began to regenerate—pulsing with energy. The flesh knitted itself together, bone and sinew reforming in a frenzy.

But the process wasn't easy and certainly didn’t come without a price to pay. Your body screamed, the regeneration draining your reserves. You were already weakened, and the battle had just begun. Tsk.

Todo found his way back over to you two, panting heavily. “How are you doing over there, Sensei?”

"Clap," you say, voice strained. "Now." He looked at you, bug-eyed, but he nodded. He didn't hesitate.

He brought his hands together in a sharp clap, and everything shifted. “Alright! Let’s dance!”

In an instant, you found yourself on the other side of the curse. You inhaled deeply, heart pounding, immediately launching yourself back into the fight.

The curse roared in confusion, disoriented, but it was too late. You were already in motion. Your feet hit the ground in a fluid motion, and with a vicious snap of your wrist, fire erupted once again. This time, it formed into a massive whip of flame that lashed through the air.

The curse hissed as the whip wrapped around its neck, and you pulled with your whole body. Never losing your grip, muscles straining, you move forward, wrapping the flames over your arm again and again, pulling tighter and tighter until you smelt the pungent odor of the burning flesh around its neck. You wrapped the whip around your arm one last time before turning your body and pulling the whip from over your shoulder, viscously yanking and slamming the curse to the ground and into submission.

The curse struggled, its body writhing, but it was weakened. Miwa went for the opening, summoning her New Shadow Style: Simple domain. She’s gotten better since the tournament, and you acknowledge with a grave chuckle as she instantly draws her blade, slicing the curse directly across its chest cavity. She cost you an arm, but deep down, you knew she had the conviction to win and succeed.

Todo doesn’t wait. Another clap. Another shift. You and Todo swapped places with the curse itself this time, and the curse had no time to react. He goes for a punch, cracking the curse with a quick jab, followed by a right hook. He claps again. The moment the curse materialized in front of you, disoriented, you surged forward, throwing everything you had left into one final strike.

It twisted in anguish, its body crumbling to the ground before its remains turned into ash.

Then, there was nothing.

The air grew still. The ground beneath you is scorched but calm. You sucked your teeth, silently berating yourself.

You hated using your technique. Frankly, you opted not to unless you absolutely needed to, which was the main reason why people hardly knew about it. It wreaked havoc, leaving nothing but indomitable infernos that refused to be quenched like normal flames. They left nothing destruction in their wake—hungry to consume and spread. However, you’ve gotten better at controlling it—you’ll give yourself that. The only thing burned here today was the grass in the courtyard.

You stood there for a moment, panting, your body trembling with exhaustion as you collapsed to the ground, panting heavily. “Y–you did it!” Miwa cheered. “I had no idea you knew RCT. Thank you for helping me back there.”

“What the– Miwa, we won! Show some conviction!” Todo cut in, flexing his biceps.

“He’s right,” you managed a weak smile as you worked on catching your breath and easing your fast-beating heart. You collapse to the ground, still gaining your breath. "We did it."

You hear footsteps approaching from behind. Tilting your head, you see Utahime standing directly above you.

“Oh. Hi ‘hime.”

She smiles a bit, but her face remains hardened. You straighten up a bit, catching on to her attitude. Something wasn’t right.

“You guys did a good job. However, another problem has arisen across the city.”

“Huh? Another one?” Miwa asked, brows tugging inward. She shifts her weight from one hip to the other. “That's like the fifth one today...”

They continue on in their conversation as you drop your veil, sniff the air, and concentrate on your surroundings. A sense of foreboding strikes you under the dark ambiance of the sky. Even after killing that S-grade, things don’t feel right.

“Thanks for joining us,” Utahime says, drawing back your attention. “I nearly had to call for backup.”

You scoff, glancing up at her from the ground. “Something doesn't feel right, Utahime.” She nods, agreeing with your observation. “When did the reports come flooding in?”

“About an hour ago now.”

“Hm,” you wonder, thinking back to when you first found the cursed womb. “That’s about the same time I first sensed the presence of the cursed womb. They’re most likely connected.”

“That's what I thought. The presence of the cursed womb must have irritated some of the curses in the city, most likely because they were drawn to the energy fluctuations the cursed womb caused. It's good you were here. We're stretched thin right now. If you don’t mind staying, we could use your help. The other students are out on missions across the city, and things just keep getting worse.”

You smile up at her before pushing yourself back up on your two feet, brushing the dirt from your pants. “Sure, let’s get going–” but as you stand, it feels as if a bolt of lightning strikes you down or as if your chest has been cracked open by a sledgehammer. The agony was too great to even scream as you fell to your knees and crashed back into the ground.

It was lights out.

It was quiet. Dark—a vast, unending expanse of nothingness that swallowed you whole. An endless drift. It would have almost been peaceful if not for the faint pull at the edges of your awareness, like an anchor trying to tether to something you couldn’t see.

But then came the first sound.

You heard voices—muffled cries. Please wake up, said one voice. Please stay with me, came another.

Pain began to throb somewhere in the background, dull and distant. Disembodied as if it belonged to someone else.

Don’t you dare leave me. The voice was sharp, demanding, cracking under the weight of fear. You knew that voice and remembered all the sweet things it used to whisper to you. Your heart takes a painful lurch. You can hear its occasional beat in your ears. We need you. I need you.

Oddly, you were cold.

You were drifting again, further and further. The anchor was slipping. You were sinking, your head hardly above water, when another muffled voice broke through—whimpering, sobbing. Your heart lurches painfully.

Mom, please don’t go.

The words pierce through the nothingness, shattering it all to bits and pieces. The words pull at you, a lifeline you hadn’t known you clung to and needed. Images begin to flash, and suddenly, the voices are no longer just voices. Your heart suddenly burns as though the memory of life itself is fighting its way back into you.

Your eyelids were heavy, limbs weak, unresponsive—cold. You were so cold, but it wasn’t enough to stop you from crawling out of a black pit that threatened to swallow you whole. There’s a faint sensation of pressure, a hand tightly gripping yours.

Light begins bleeding into the edges of your awareness. You sucked in a deep breath, lungs empty and greedy.

Then, your eyes fluttered open.

You blinked a few times, realizing how hard it was to breathe. Breathing was supposed to be an automatic response, but you had to force it, each breath dragging along the back of your throat like sandpaper. You’re weak and shivering as you use most of your energy to sit up. You were in an empty room, you realized—the sharp smell of sanitizer permeating your nose.

You push yourself out of bed, knees buckling under your weight. You catch yourself, gathering whatever bits of strength you have left. Your teeth clattered. You were freezing. Shaking, you wrapped the white blanket over your shoulders, gripping it tight before you trudged towards the door.

The hall was mostly empty, all except for a sleeping boy slouched over in a chair beside your door. Your heart squeezes.

“Megumi,” you whispered his name. You stare at him for a moment, unable to bite back the tears that nip at your dry eyes.

You wrapped the blanket around him, tucking it gently around him. However, he flinches, jumping straight up in his chair. “S-Sorry,” you tell him quickly with a watery smile. “You looked cold.”

“You…” the word was a raw and weak whisper. His eyes widened. It took a moment for recognition to settle in, but once it did, he spoke again. “You’re awake.” He stood up from his chair, and you stepped back, offering him space. “You’re awake,” he repeated again.

Then, you start to wonder just how long you’ve been out of it. Days? Weeks? The thought of months terrifies you, but before you can even go down that loophole, he’s hugging you tightly. “You’re awake,” he says once more, his voice breaking.

However long it was, he’s right. You’re awake. You’re here, living and breathing. You wrap your arms around his torso, patting and rubbing his back soothingly. “Yup… I’m here. I’m awake.”

You let him be the one to pull away, letting him take however long he needs. You enjoyed it regardless. You couldn’t remember the last time you hugged him.

When he pulls away, his eyes are red. He sniffs a bit, backing up and taking the blanket off his shoulders. This time, he’s the one wrapping the fabric around you. He’s frowning a bit as he does. “... you’re the one that’s cold,” he notes quietly.

“What happened?”

“You don’t remember?” He asks softly, brows furrowing.

You shook your head. No. Frankly, you didn’t remember much of anything right now. “I was on my way with Yuji and Nobara. We got on the train after you let me know where you were staying.” That’s right. You texted Megumi when you figured out where you’d be staying. You thought they’d come over sometime in the following days. You had no idea they were rushing to see you on the next available train.

He places his hands awkwardly on your shoulder before gently guiding you to the chair he was sitting in moments ago. As you go to sit, your body seems to forget how to move for a moment, and you lose your balance. He catches you quickly, carefully helping you down into the chair. “When we got to Kyoto, we realized quickly how bad things were over there. We started helping out at the Kyoto school, dealing with the curses that had been lingering in the area where the cursed womb opened up. Eventually, we ran into Todo and Miwa. They told us what happened.” He grunts, kneeling down so he’s at eye level with you.

You’re silent for a moment. “How long was I out for?”

“Pushing four days now.”

The memories strike you like a fright train. “Are you okay? Is everyone alright?” You hadn’t realized you had reached for his cheek.

He grabs your wrist, thumb gently caressing the back of your hand before pulling your hand away, guiding it back to your lap. He moves the blanket until it's covering you again. “We’re all fine. Everything’s been dealt with. Yuji and Nobara went down to the cafe to grab some lunch. They’ll be thrilled when they come back.”

You tilt your head. “Why didn’t you go with them?”

He smiles a bit. “I didn’t want to leave you unattended.”

You don’t know what to think. You’re just happy you’re back. Happy because he was happy. You always hated it when he worried about you. You never believed it was his job to do so. However, he stayed by your side and protected you when you couldn’t protect yourself.

You wiggle your toes and roll your shoulders before standing again. “You shouldn’t be standing–”

“I’m alright, I promise,” you tell him, dismissing his concern. “I just want to walk around, okay?”

He stares at you intently, unsure, but he seems to have no energy to argue with you. “... alright,” he relents.

He follows you closely as you drag your feet across the floor. You don’t know where you are walking, but you want to stretch your legs and regain a sense of your body. You are weak, but you need to move.

You ask the question you were too hesitant to ask: “What about Gojo?”

He huffs. “He left a little while ago. Said he’d be back shortly,” he scoffs. “Bullshit if you ask me.”

“Megumi,” you sigh his name with a soft reprimand.

“He should be here,” he responds disgruntledly. “He should be by your side, and he’s not."

You stay quiet. You’re not exactly sure what to say to him when you agree. Maybe Gojo was done. Whatever this was, whatever relationship you had—maybe he didn’t want you anymore. You look ahead, fighting your own body that threatened to collapse at any moment. You could feel Megumi’s eyes on you, but you didn’t have the heart to look at him right now.

You were afraid you would sob if you did.

Though you had never walked these halls before, the hospital's layout was quite easy to catch on to. After taking a fourth right turn, you see your room in the distance. A stubborn part of you says to keep going and keep walking, but the exhaustion is catching up to you quickly. If Megumi hadn’t been by your side, cautious eyes scanning you, you might have kept going until you passed out. You realize that the strength you had was nearly depleted. Only trickles of your cursed energy remained, and it would be a long while before you gained it back.

You hear footsteps behind you. Quick and ushered. Megumi turns before you, his whole frame tensing. He sucks his teeth and clicks his tongue. “So he finally shows up.” He speaks in a sardonic tone, loud enough for anyone in the hallways to hear.

Satoru comes running from around the corner then, taking deep breaths. Your brows slightly pinch together in confusion. “S–Satoru,” you stutter, walking closer. “When did you get here?” He looks disheveled. Alarmed. Was he just running?

It was hard trying to figure out what he was feeling or experiencing when that black eyeband covered his eyes. However, you noticed the bouquet in his hands, a delicate combination of soft and tender hues: pale pink and roses, white peonies, deep pink lilies, and baby’s breath delicately wrapped along sprigs of greenery.

You place a hand on Megumi’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go eat with the others?”

“But–”

“I’ll be alright,” you explain to him in a soft tone.

He hesitates, torn between staying and leaving. He was unsure if he should leave you to handle this alone, but after a moment, he backed down, probably realizing he shouldn’t stand between the two of you and what needed to happen. With an irate glance shot at Gojo, he turns, pocketing his hands as he makes his way to the stairs.

Only when the door shuts do you look at Satoru again.

He stays unusually quiet, his face unreadable. Frankly, it was rather unsettling. You had no idea what was going through his mind. “I–I’m sorry!” you blurt out the first words that crash to the surface of your mind the moment you see him in his entirety. There was no hope of holding back. After days spent away from him, lost in his absence, and days dancing on the edge of death, the words tumble out of you before you can stop them—unbidden, unstoppable. “For everything. Y–You must have been stressed with work and other things. My fuck up only added to your plate. I get it, ya know? It's selfish of me, even now, to rely on you so much when there’s a whole world that needs you. They are not my students, and I put them in danger.” Quickly, the tears gather in your waterline again, but you blink them away. “I–I’ll be leaving soon. I’ll… I’ll go. I’ll get out of your way, and you won’t have to deal with me bothering you any longer–”

“Can I touch you?” The question comes suddenly, softly, and almost hesitantly.

You blink a few times, puzzled, but then, you unravel, folding inward under the weight of his voice. Your breath hitches in your throat. Was he still holding onto what you had said that night? Was he haunted by the barriers broken and the others so carelessly assembled?

He still wanted you?

You didn’t want him to let you go. Not yet. Not ever.

Like a dam breaking, you surged forward, closing the space between you two. Seconds later, you feel his resolve crumble. He crushes you to his chest, flowers falling to the floor. His arms enveloped you with a force that robbed you of breath, your feet nearly coming off the ground as you both stumble backward. Trembling, he clung to you as if you were an anchor in a world that threatened to tear him apart. There were no words—the unspoken agony and grief were far too overwhelming to put into words—if there even were words for it.

I’m sorry. I love you. I’m glad you’re okay. You felt it all with him. You could feel the pounding of his heart against your chest, hear its frantic rhythm match your own.

His hands were shaking, one tangling in your hair, the other wrapping entirely around your frame and squeezing your hip. He buries his face into your neck, and his hot breath is ragged and uneven as he inhales your scent. “I thought–” he swallows, shaking his head. “I didn’t know where you were—for a second time.”

Your cursed energy was low, more depleted than it had ever been. It explains why you were so weak, so frail. When he saw your empty bed, he must’ve panicked. He ran to you, anxiously following the weak traces of your presence.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, and the familiar silk of his eyeband rubs against your skin. You gently tug at the fabric with the tips of your fingers. His breath hitches, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he stills as you slip the black band from his face. He lifts his head just enough to rest it against yours. They were that same stunning shade of azure—bright and impossibly vivid, glowing softly as if they carried the remnants of a forgotten star. Captivating, otherworldly, yet achingly human—something he’d often forget from time to time.

“You promised,” he murmurs, voice broken. “You promised.”

“What are you talking about?” you ask just as brokenly.

Suddenly, one of his hands grasps your neck, and you choke on your words. He doesn’t squeeze tight, but the look on his face is enough to make you gasp. “I couldn’t feel you. I couldn’t feel you anymore,” he says achingly.

Your chest tightens, nails slightly digging into his forearm. You open your mouth to speak, failing more times than succeeding. You wanted to speak, but the words lodged in your mouth.

“I–I don’t understand.”

“You’re not wearing it anymore,” he murmurs, his nose brushing softly against your cheek. The necklace you always wore—his gift to you, the one that held a part of him, a part of the two of you—was gone. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach, an absence that gnawed at him like hunger, an emptiness he could never satisfy.

His voice wasn’t angry, far from it. It wasn’t even harsh, but something in it—a quiet desperation—made the air between the two of you quiver.

“You promised you’d never go where I couldn’t follow,” he whispers again. “Remember?”

You nod in his hold, tightly pursing your lips together when a few tears escape, dripping from your eyes. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours again, gazing deep and unwavering into your eyes. I remember. His grip on your neck loosens until he removes his hand from your throat completely, gentle fingers pushing down your shirt's fabric. His fingers trace your skin, the empty spot where your necklace once laid.

Then, it suddenly hits you. “Oh.”

He could feel you as much as you felt him. If you were ever too far from him—out of the range of his sight, out from where his hands could reach for you, that necklace was a beacon, a beckoning, a lighthouse in the storm that guided you home—guided him home.

You squeeze him tighter. You missed him. You really missed him.

“How did you find me?”

He takes a moment to breathe, trying to settle the rapid beat of his heart. “Utahime.” He wheezes out a pained laugh. “She called me panicking once you collapsed. I got there as quickly as I could.”

You copy his laugh, albeit coughing a bit from the pain blooming in your ribs. You hated to admit it, but the longer you stood, the more your body began to hurt. “I should just heal myself and get this over with.”

“Don’t,” his grip tightens on you again. “you’re using it wrong. There’s damage, lots of it,” he tells you, wiping at the blood that had stained your skin at the corner of your mouth with his thumb. “Any more and–” his eyebrows furrowed deeply, the weight of grief and guilt tugging his features. The corner of his lips tightened. “Shoko operated on you for hours. You nearly died.”

He sees what others cannot, his gaze piercing the surface to something deeper, something raw. He sees the world through an entirely different lens, and right now, the sight of you seems to pain him dearly.

For a moment, you wonder just how much damage is hidden within you and how much it must weigh on him to see it. “Shoko might have gotten you out of the woods, but she told me you’d need a few more rounds to get you back to normal.”

“That makes sense,” you murmur, allowing your entire body weight to ease into him. He accepts you with open arms. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. Or twenty.”

“I missed it,” he utters, voice thick with regret. “If I had just looked a bit closer, we wouldn’t be in this mess. I fucked up. I could’ve prevented this.” His careful grip on you tightens as if you’d slip away from him once more. “But,” his tone softens. “You did so well. You took care of that cursed womb before I could even get to the scene.” Even through his pain and wallowing, his heart swells. He was proud of you.

He bends down, grabbing the flowers he dropped before moving towards you again. “Oh gosh,” you hide your face into his neck as he reaches down, one arm hooking under your legs as he lifts you. You don’t hesitate, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I’m definitely fired, aren’t I?”

He carefully guides you back into your room. He manages to toss your flowers on the counter by the window. “Don’t worry about any of that. I’ll handle it. ‘Kay?” He places you down on your bed, but he hesitates, not wanting to fully pull away.

Your eyes flicker, recalling the night of your augment. You knew this was the reason behind his haunted expression. You recognized the torment because you, too, had felt it. “You’re mad,” he observes relatively quickly.

You didn’t want to bring it up. You weren't necessarily mad, not anymore, but even near death couldn’t make you forget the pain he had caused with words he so carelessly struck you down with.

“What you said… Hurt me, Gojo,” you look down at your hands, feeling selfish for even bringing this up after nearly dying. However, you knew this conversation was inevitable. “Even if you were right I felt cast aside. Useless. Why didn't you tell me you felt that way before?”

“No… don’t say that. I was being stupid. I over reacted. I know you'd always protect those kids and that's exactly what you did. You’re not weak or a nuisance, or... convenient.” you flinch at the word. “You’re far from that. I need you to know that.”

“...Then what am I?”

“Everything,” he shudders. “You’re everything.” His lips brush over your forehead, your cheeks, and eyelids, each kiss tender and lingering. But then he pauses, his smooth lips hovering just above yours. He’s always been so confident, so self-assured. You’re unsure how to react.

You were sitting on your bed, feet dangling just above the floor. He is leaning over you, one large and warm hand on your thigh, the other cupping your face gently. He was close, but not close enough. Even bent at the waist, his height keeps him just out of your reach unless he leans back down just a bit more…

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down to you, giving him all the assurance you have to offer.

You were hurt, but you still wanted him.

You still loved him.

His mouth was warm and soft—testing the waters and treading carefully. His grip on your thigh tightens until–

He lets go. You feel the tension in his body dissipate, and finally, he allows himself to fully enjoy you—taste you. The kiss deepens, and you swear it brought life back into your frail body. He overwhelms you now in the most delicious way possible. Your toes curl, and your tight embrace eases. Your arms go weak, your hands moving to run down his chest, his taut muscles quivering in the wake of your touch. Every moment was a promise, every brush of skin a new vow. No words were spoken, but you both heard everything that had been held back, everything that had been left unsaid.

I’m sorry.

I love you.

He smiles against your lips, but you don’t stop or pull away, catching and nipping at his bottom lip. Then, you kiss him again, slotting his top lip between yours. “You really love me, huh? Hehe.”

Oh. You hadn’t realized you said it—whimpered murmurs against his lips. No wonder why he looked all dopey and smiley.

“You’re not going to make me grovel for forgiveness?” He pecks your lips again. “This seems too easy. I know you’re still mad.”

You chase after his lips. “Of course, I’m still mad,” you mutter against him. “But I thought I would never see you again.” Even as he frowns, you pepper his lips with kisses. “Plus, it's not like you to grovel.”

“I would for. Only for you, of course.”

You giggle, nipping his lip a little harder. “Yeah,” you rolled your eyes. “I’d like to see that.”

Oh no. You’ve made a grave mistake. You knew you messed up again the second the words fell from your lips. There’s a glint in his eyes now.

“Oh, my beautiful, angelic Queen! I know I have displeased you. Please accept my humble apologies!” You squeak at the suddenness of his actions. He sinks to his knees dramatically, and his palms meet the dirty floor, and so does his forehead. “I am at your mercy! I have failed you greatly, and I wish to make amends.”

You swat him on the back of his head, but it's not nearly enough to hurt him or deter him from whatever this is. “Gojo! Don’t bow like that! Get up!”

“But I can’t!” He whines. “You must forgive me! I will spend eternity on my knees if it means I can regain your favor, my perfect, beautiful, divine Queen. You alone rule this sinners heart!” He inches forward on his knees, squeezing himself between your legs. His hands find homage on your waist as he nudges his face into your stomach.

Your eyes roll skyward. “Only you could apologize and insult me at the same time, Satoru,” you grumble, looking down at him before running your fingers through white stands.

Suddenly, he looks up from this position, resting his chin right beneath your ribs, grinning ear to ear. “You called me Satoru~”

You feel your face flush, heat gushing to your cheeks and ears. “Shut up. You’re such an idiot. Can you get up now?”

“Nah,” he says lazily, burying his head into your stomach again. His voice comes out muffled. “I’m trying to make amends with my Queen. Let me, will ya?”

You ease, realizing you won't be able to stop him from doing what he wants. Even if it was a bit theatrical, he was doing his best—you know that because you know him. You let your nails gently graze his scalp as you continued to pat him. He hums, almost purrs, as your other hand finds his shoulder, squeezing him gently before running your fingers under his shirt, caressing his skull and the taut muscles in his back. A beat of silence passes, but you find yourself uncaring.

You had him back in your arms. That’s all that really mattered to you right now.

“Look, I know… I know I messed up,” he begins, voice so low, you nearly miss it. “I’m not great at this—saying the right things. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was stressed. I was fed up with the higher-ups and fed up with my missions, but that’s no excuse. If I could take it all back, I would in a heartbeat. You deserve better than what I was giving you. I’m gonna try to be better… for you. For us.” His words hang in the air a bit awkwardly, but you can see the sincerity in his eyes and hear it in his voice. It couldn’t be missed. He shifts a bit, moving to kiss your belly. Then, his large hand wrap around yours, guiding your hand closer to his lips. He kisses the back of your knuckles tenderly as if the act of his apology could never be enough.

“You want me to stay?”

He squeezes you tighter. “Of course I do. What would I be without you?”

“Hm. You’d still be Gojo Satoru. Even without me.”

“I don’t want to imagine a life without you,” he mutters. “Wherever you go, that’s where I’ll follow. I've already told you that…”

“Don’t say that,” you whisper sweetly, patting his head. He nudges his head further into you. “The world will always need you.”

“I will always need you. So please… stop talking like this.” He pinches your side, making you squeak. Finally he looks up, an unimpressed expression gracing his features. “And don’t ever leave the city to get away from me. When you told me you were going to a hotel, I thought you meant in Tokyo.”

You chuckle nervously, looking elsewhere. “Yeah… Sorry about that.”

“Next time, take a walk or something. I dunno, go touch some grass if you get tired of me.”

A small smile escaped you, followed by a quiet laugh that shook your shoulders. You pat his back three times before kneading him softly. “Okay, humble peasant. You've groveled for long enough. Now lay with me,” you demand him. “I want you to lay with me. I’m so tired.”

“Psh. I’d hardly fit on this bed.”

“Whatever,” you tell him, scooting over. “I’ll make room. Get in, string bean.”

He grins. “Yes, ma’am.”

It’s a bit awkward at first with his lanky form, but he makes it work. It was a tight fit, and his feet slightly dangled off the bed, but he made no objections. With your back to his chest, he held you against him securely.

“You’re cold,” he observes out loud when you start playing with his fingers. It’s a bitter realization, a deafening one on his part. You know it bothers him, especially as he wraps the blanket around you tighter.

He tries not to let it show. However, he quickly becomes restless and you know he isn’t sated. He begins to move. “Let me go get you another blanket.”

“Nooo. Stay here.”

“Huh? But you’re freezing! And you’re never cold!”

“I’m already warming up!” You intervene with a small giggle, tugging him by his jacket. “Just shut up and lay with me, already.” He hesitates before unbuttoning his black jacket. When he was determined, there wasn’t any stopping a man like him, and right now, he was determined to get you warm.

He lays his jacket over you, spreading the fabric out, smoothing away all the wrinkles, and making sure you're covered. It might as well be a blanket with how long it was over you. Bonus points because it still carried him warmth and smelled like his cologne. A blend of earth and wood with a hint of something darker—smokey and smooth. You always loved the scent. Whenever he walked by, it brushed past you like a gentle breeze over still water, warm and inviting, with subtle notes of leather, musk, and vanilla.

He grunts a bit before easing into the bed again. “My little icicle- ow,” you shot your elbow back, getting him right in the ribs. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop.” He chuckles, before wrapping his arms over you one more. He brushes your hair from your neck, his breath fanning against your skin. He kisses you there once, twice, three times before saying something familiar.

“I could sense when you left Tokyo. I didn’t know what to do. Even with my eyes, I couldn’t find you. You were just gone. Don’t ever go where I can’t follow." He kisses your neck. "Please.”

You turn around, searching for his lips. He melts into you once again, squeezing your side sweetly. “I promise,” you murmur. “Wherever you go, that’s where I’ll follow,” you say, voicing back the same promise he made you. He smiles faintly against your lips.

When you woke up the next morning, your necklace was there. It was back where it belonged, sapphires resting gently over your steady beating heart—carrying Satoru’s silent promise.

Wherever you go, that’s where I follow.

a/n: I honestly don't know how I feel about this but if you made it to the end I hope the nearly 18k was worth reading. If you couldn't tell its based off the song Die With A Smile. Honestly, I think I might have been happier by making this a bit longer and flushing out some of the scenes more, but I was trying new things and I was excited to post my first jjk post :) however its getting late now but if there's any typos or errors I notice later I'll edit as needed.

anyways, if you'd like to see more gojo x sorcerer!reader let me know! also I really hoped you liked the bits I added with Megumi (he's just a smol bean).

likes and reblogs are always appreciated! :p

#milawritess #jjk #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #fanfic #satoru gojo x reader #angst #jjk x you #happy ending #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #gojo angst #gojo x you #gojo satoru x you #satoru gojo x you #jujutsu gojo #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk fanfic

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noredemptionhere · 1 month ago

Text

𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𓍯𓂃𓂃𓂃

pair: 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚔𝚊 𝚡 𝚖𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚌!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

tags: fluff. so much fluff, mention of blood, reader is shorter than sevika—neither of them has a specified height.

life was a pain in the ass.

not always—but most of the time. and this week? this week seemed determined to chew her up and spit her out.

as if getting her ass handed to her by a dead, pink-haired brat wasn’t humiliating enough, an enforcer had to go and bust the shimmer tank in her prosthetic.

now here she was—one arm barely functioning, the other gripping a screwdriver so tightly she might snap it in half.

sevika wasn’t the kind of woman who whined. she didn’t believe in asking for help—asking for anything, really. taking matters into her own hands always got the job done. it took time, sure, but it spared her the headache of relying on anyone else.

but—

this little piece of shit wasn’t fixing itself.

no matter how hard she studied the intricate network of screws and gears, no matter how carefully she pressed the screwdriver against the bolts, no matter how many hours she wasted at her desk trying to crack the goddamn riddle of it all…

nothing. nothing.

the prosthetic arm remained sluggish, unresponsive—mocking her.

and sevika? sevika could not afford that.

she was the right hand of a man who held zaun in his palm. silco’s enforcer, his blade. when he gave an order, she was expected to execute it—swiftly, cleanly, with all the force necessary. she was his shield in the undercity’s shadows, his muscle behind closed-door negotiations.

and she was ‘useless’ without this arm.

the anger coiled in her gut wasn’t the kind she could drown in liquor—not tonight. it wasn’t the sharp, cutting kind that had her picking fights just to bleed out her frustration. no, this was the slow-burning kind. the kind that settled deep in her chest, thick and suffocating, turning over and over.

silco noticed—took him long enough.

“you’re getting too pissy.”

his voice was as smooth as ever, carrying that infuriating calm as he stood near the window of his office, gaze set on the city below.

sevika didn’t look up. instead, she rolled her jaw, pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek, and traced idle circles against the rim of her glass.

“i’m fine,” she muttered.

a tired excuse. a lie neither of them bothered to acknowledge.

“you have more important things to handle than some ludicrous gadget.”

his voice was flat—nearly bored. but there was something else beneath it.

disappointment, maybe. or amusement.

she wasn’t sure which one pissed her off more.

“you could’ve just asked.”

sevika exhaled sharply through her nose, gaze flicking up to him at last.

she didn’t ask. she never asked.

and yet, she waited—silent, expectant—for him to finally say something useful.

silco sighed, dragging his fingers through his hair before finally giving her what she was waiting for.

“sugar & sparks.”

sevika squinted. “you’re fucking with me.”

he didn’t even smirk. “i wouldn’t waste my breath.”

sevika rolled her eyes, tossing back the last of her drink. sugar & sparks. what kind of mechanic named their workshop like it was a damn bakery?

she scoffed, setting her glass down with an audible clink.

“what even is that?” she crossed her arms, unimpressed.

silco didn’t turn from the window. “the place where your prosthetic was made.”

for a moment, sevika just stared.

the workshop that built this—the metal monstrosity fused to her shoulder, the thing that made her more machine than woman—was called sugar & sparks?

her fingers tightened around the ruined prosthetic.

“sir.”

the word was flat, edged with a cut the bullshit tone.

“get ran to set up a meeting with her. she knows her.”

her.

sevika didn’t react, but the detail lodged itself in her mind. if silco was involved, this wasn’t just help anymore—this was an order.

𓍯𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃 𓈒𓏸

the city pulsed around her, a mess of flickering neon and distant shouts. deckard’s directions had been clear enough, leading her to a quieter part of zaun—quiet by its standards, anyway.

she found it easily.

and she really needed this done.

the entrance to the workshop was… tidy. almost out of place.

sevika stepped inside.

a bell chimed overhead.

cute.

adorable, even.

the thought hit before she could stop it, an uninvited flicker of pink in an ink-black world.

her gaze swept across the shop. everything was too neat, too soft. tools hung in perfect rows, the air smelled faintly of metal and something sweet, and the workbench was cluttered—but not in the usual, careless way. this was rather a careful, lived-in kind of mess.

it was the kind of place that didn’t belong in zaun.

and there you were—the pink dot.

sevika nearly whistled, watching as you swept the floor, head twitching just slightly at the sound of the door. a quick glance, a flicker of recognition—just a girl in her little shop, unaware she was about to fix more than just a prosthetic.

the bell above the door jingled, and you didn’t think much of it at first. another customer, another repair—same as always.

then you looked up.

sevika.

you almost dropped the broom.

sevika, the sevika, was standing in the doorway of your workshop, broad, scowling, much taller and bigger than you imagined. her sharp eyes flicked over the space, unimpressed, before landing on you.

you knew her. not just knew her—you made that. that poor, disfigured work of art clamped to her shoulder. it was one of—if not the best—pieces of your opus.

you could recall the entire day silco—the silco—sent one of his gang members to your workshop. you still remembered your conversation with ran, her reaction to your shocked face when she informed you about sevika’s incident. how your eyes almost spilled a few tears from the intensity.

you had also seen sevika in real life once—at the last drop, when you went out for drinks with your friends. she hadn’t acknowledged you that night. too busy getting her dopamine fix from poker, collecting chips under the whining of grown-ass men.

were you fangirling? fuck yeah. your eyes had practically sparkled with red hearts like a lovesick idiot when you first saw her.

were you intimidated? still fuck yeah.

and now? now she was standing here. in your shop. with you.

who knew—maybe she was here to tell you how much of a shit job you did on her metal limb. except you knew you were a pro at your job and she already had that arm for years now, so… maybe there was still hope she wouldn’t get your workshop shut down.

you forced yourself to blink, to breathe, to not stare at the way the dim light caught on the sharp angles of her jaw or how her arms—one flesh, one metal—looked like they could snap your spine in half. not that you would complain.

your voice wobbled when you spoke. “uh… hi?”

brilliant. amazing. that was definitely the way to greet a terrifying crime lord’s right-hand woman.

she didn’t react, just strode further in like she owned the place.

up close, she was even worse.

her presence practically swallowed the room, bringing with it the scent of smoke and metal and something vaguely like whiskey. the prosthetic—the one you built—was in bad shape, the shimmer tank cracked and gears struggling to turn.

your mind screamed at you to focus.

this is a job. you’re a professional. get it together.

“what happened to it?” you forced your hands to stay steady as you gestured toward her arm.

“got into a fight.” she said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

‘i’d pay to see that.’ the words almost slipped out of your mouth.

“right.” you nodded, as if this was normal. as if your stomach wasn’t flipping over itself like an idiot. “i, um, i can fix it. just—sit?”

she gave you a long look before sighing and dropping into the chair beside your workbench. the metal groaned under her weight.

you got this. you’ve literally made this arm. you sure as hell can fix it.

but the moment you reached for her prosthetic, her gaze flicked up—sharp, calculating.

and suddenly, touching her felt like a very big deal.

your fingers hovered over the damaged plates. “i, uh… is it okay if i…?”

sevika raised an eyebrow.

you wanted to melt into the floor.

“i mean—you came here for this, so obviously it’s okay, just umm—” you shut up immediately when you saw the corner of her mouth curl up.

she knew.

she knew how flustered you were, and she was amused.

you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to focus on the task instead of the heat creeping up your neck. carefully, you pressed your fingers against the damaged joint, testing its movement. sevika barely reacted, but you could feel her watching you.

you were going to die. this was it. cause of death: overwhelming gay panic.

you kept scolding yourself. fix the arm. stop thinking about how ridiculously attractive she is.

sevika rolled her shoulder, exhaling as the weight of the prosthetic lifted. she was used to the process—clamps unlatching, metal shifting, the familiar dull ache left behind. what she wasn’t used to was this.

the girl—you—were practically vibrating with nervous energy.

she didn’t miss the way your breath hitched when you looked up at her. how your fingers stilled for just a second too long before you yanked your gaze away, gripping the prosthetic like it was a lifeline.

pretty.

so damn pretty.

she leaned back in the chair, stretching out her flesh arm as you turned your back to her, moving to your workstation like a skittish little thing trying to escape a predator’s gaze.

sevika smirked.

she wasn’t trying to intimidate you. but she wasn’t exactly trying not to, either.

her eyes trailed over the workshop—cleaner than she expected, with little tools and scrap parts neatly lined up. it smelled like metal, like oil and faint traces of something sweet. there was a little lamp flickering beside the workbench, casting warm light over your hunched shoulders.

there was nothing remarkable about the place. but somehow, it felt different from the usual grime of zaun. quieter. softer.

sevika rolled her jaw, exhaling through her nose.

what a weird fucking day.

she should’ve been more annoyed about coming here at all— but she wasn’t.

not really.

her gaze flicked back to you.

you were already at work, delicate hands moving with practiced ease, eyes sharp and focused. the nervous stammering was gone now, replaced by quiet concentration.

sevika tilted her head slightly, watching.

maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

she watched as you turned the prosthetic over in your hands, lips pressed together in quiet focus. a muttered string of words slipped past them—barely loud enough to catch.

“…some of the glass shards fell into the gears…”

your voice was soft, almost thoughtful, but sevika caught the way you winced slightly, shaking your head like you were scolding yourself.

she still found you so fucking cute.

she didn’t bother responding—just watched as you worked, fingers quick but careful. you were so damn delicate with it, like the thing wasn’t a weapon built for splitting skulls open.

the silence stretched, thick with something unspoken, before sevika finally broke it.

“this your place?”

you flinched, just barely, before nodding. “mhm. my father started it. i, uh… took over after he passed.”

sevika hummed, gaze dragging over the workshop again.

that explained the neatness. the warmth in the way things were arranged. it wasn’t just a place for work—it was yours.

didn’t quite fit in zaun.

didn’t quite fit her.

she leaned forward, resting her forearm on the workbench, the sheer size of her making the space feel even smaller. “and you fix up scum like me for a living?”

your breath hitched.

she smirked.

“i… i don’t see it like that,” you muttered, eyes fixed on your work. “i just… fix things.”

sevika chuckled lowly, the sound deep and full of something unreadable.

fix things.

interesting.

you were squirming now—so easy to unravel. so easy to toy with.

she tilted her head, voice smooth, mocking. “what, you got some soft spot for criminals?”

you didn’t answer right away. probably too busy trying to figure out whether she was fucking with you or testing you.

smart girl.

“i don’t pick sides,” you finally said, tweezers plucking a small sliver of glass from the prosthetic’s inner mechanisms. “i just… i like helping people.”

sevika watched the way your fingers trembled, just slightly. the way your throat bobbed when you swallowed.

you liked helping people.

and yet, you looked like a rabbit cornered by a wolf.

“a thing like you won’t last long with that mindset.”

you swallowed again, shoulders tensing.

sevika leaned in a little more, voice dropping.

“…and you look like you don’t last long.”

you swore your heart stopped—maybe it had, maybe you were already floating.

her presence was suffocating in the softest, most deliberate way. the knot coiled in your stomach from the moment she walked in wasn’t enough. the heat rising in your cheeks wasn’t enough either.

the faint prickle behind your eyes—the humiliating threat of tears—had to be the cherry on top.

you dropped your gaze, fingers tightening around the plucker in your hand, grasping at whatever was left of your composure. anything to ground yourself—to not crumble under the weight pressing against you.

you weren’t crying. not really. you just… wanted to melt. to fold in on yourself, small and soft, and disappear into the floorboards before she could see what she was doing to you.

the worst part was—

she saw.

every. damn. thing.

and she was quiet about it. not a chuckle, not a hum—just stillness, watching, waiting. then she saw your eyes.

glistening. soft.

her smirk widened, eyes dark with something far too pleased. this was going to be so good.

“are you fucking crying?”

your breath hitched. your eyes widened. stupid—so ridiculously stupid—because now she had a perfect view of your ruined, trembling self.

ignore her. just ignore her. you were about to finish—her arm. just say it.

“th-the glass is out…”

“yeah?” she cooed, pushing up from her seat.

she got up.

fuck. fuck. abort.

your body moved before your mind��bolting upright, searching for an escape route.

sevika followed.

slow. deliberate. a predator, savoring the chase.

“what… are you doing?” you whispered, as if she’d answer with mercy.

she didn’t.

your back met the corner.

and she was still coming.

amused. patient. towering.

trapping you in this unbearable, suffocating heat—until there was nothing left of you but shivers and surrender.

melting.

sevika watched you for a second longer, amused, before lifting her hand—slow, deliberate—until her fingers brushed your cheek.

you froze.

rough fingertips swiped just beneath your eye, catching the heat of your skin, the lingering dampness that betrayed you. and her smirk—god, her smirk—only deepened.

“didn’t know you were this soft.”

the words curled around you, thick and mocking, a lazy amusement laced beneath them like she was enjoying this. like she was studying you—memorizing the way you squirmed under her touch.

and you did. you squirmed.

a sharp inhale, a panicked jerk away from the warmth of her palm—your back hit the wall first, then you shoved off it, slipping past her as quickly as your legs would allow.

she let you go.

didn’t move. didn’t chase.

just turned, leaning back onto the table with her usual lazy confidence as she watched you scramble to finish the job.

you could feel her gaze on you the entire time—steady, knowing, hungry.

and if your hands shook while working, well…

she definitely noticed.

you worked faster than ever, fingers fumbling over metal, tightening bolts, securing plates—all under the weight of her gaze.

finally, you stepped back. done.

your lips parted, the price tumbling out before you could think—before you could breathe.

“seven brasses.”

it was embarrassingly low.

sevika noticed.

but more than that, she noticed something else.

the quiet. the ease.

for the first time in what felt like years, there were no gnawing thoughts, no simmering rage pressing at the back of her skull. just this—this small, quiet space, the hum of old machinery, the scent of oil and metal, and you moving carefully around her, buckling the joints against her shoulder with hands that still trembled slightly.

it felt almost… nice.

like stepping into a warm room after a cold night. like that first slow inhale of a cigarette after a long fight.

she flexed her fingers, rolled her wrist, tested the weight.

perfect.

her lips twitched as she snapped the glowing red knife out of her palm, watching the way your breath hitched ever so slightly at the sound.

she pushed off the table, clenched her metal digits for the last time, and tossed ten brasses onto your desk.

three more than you asked for. just because she could.

then, as if the moment had never settled in her chest, she strode for the door.

no teasing remark. no parting words.

but before stepping out, she did pause—just briefly—to glance back at you, eyes flickering over your form, before disappearing into the night.

after she left, everything felt quiet—except for the little pumping piece of shit caged between your ribs, refusing to let you pretend this was just a normal interaction.

it wasn’t. the ‘piece of shit’ was right.

you could still feel her hand lingering on your cheek, the warmth of it sinking into your skin like an ember refusing to die out. it felt even better than it looked, so soft, so warm. almost like a hug to your heart after the enervating events of the day.

you exhaled slowly, pressing your lips together as if you could somehow trap the feeling inside you before it disappeared completely. but it was already fading, slipping through your fingers like smoke, leaving behind only the ghost of her touch and the mess she made of your head.

her presence lingered in your workshop even after she was gone, in the air, in the heavy silence, in the spaces she had occupied without effort. you felt her in the rest of your body even when she hadn’t touched it. felt her in the places she looked at. like she left something behind, something you couldn’t name but couldn’t shake off, either.

but it was gone now.

and you really shouldn’t get your hopes high—especially when it came to people.

so when she returned, the first time, then the second, then the third, you told yourself it meant nothing. that it was just a coincidence. that she was only here for the repairs, for convenience, because you knew her arm better than anyone else and didn’t ask too many questions.

and yet—she always came back too soon.

the first time, her excuse was simple: a bad fight, a rough night, nothing out of the ordinary. you believed her.

the second time, she grumbled something about a shitty enforcer nearly breaking her wrist. you weren’t sure if it was true, but you let it go.

by the third, the fourth, the fifth—you knew better.

the damage was never anything catastrophic. a loosened joint, rusted gears, wiring that had been fine the last time you saw her. always just enough to warrant another visit, to keep her in your orbit a little longer.

and she lingered.

at first, she would hover by the doorway, arms crossed, watching as you worked in silence. but then she started staying longer. sitting on your workbench, exhaling cigarette smoke into the warm air of the workshop, commenting on things that had nothing to do with her arm. you ever sleep? she’d asked once, her gaze flicking to the dark circles under your eyes.

you had laughed—soft, surprised. “you ever take care of this thing properly?” you had shot back, tapping the side of her prosthetic.

she had only smirked. “that’s your job, isn’t it?”

you should’ve known then.

but it wasn’t until her latest visit—when you unscrewed the panel on her forearm, pushed back the plating, and saw the state of her gears—that it really hit you.

they were rusted. neglected on purpose.

your fingers stilled, eyes narrowing slightly as you studied the damage. not enough to completely disable her arm, but enough to slow her down, to make sure she had to return before it got worse.

slowly, your gaze lifted to her.

sevika was already watching you, unreadable, jaw tight.

“shut your mouth,” she muttered.

you didn’t say anything. just smiled—warm, understanding. the kind of smile that softened the edges of the moment, made it something else entirely.

sevika felt something lurch in her chest.

the workshop, the heat, the scent of oil and metal—it all faded into the background. the only thing left was you.

and that damn smile.

she had been coming back for the repairs.

that was what she told herself.

but now, she wasn’t so sure.

you leaned in slightly, still holding her arm in your hands, and whispered—so gently it nearly undid her:

“i didn’t say anything.”

the ache in her chest settled deep, smoldering. for a split second, she considered what it would mean to have you… not just as someone who fixed her, but as something unchangeable, something always with her. the thought curled through her like smoke, slow and insidious, sinking into her bones.

sevika’s gaze never left you, her eyes darkening as they followed the smooth, practiced movements of your hands. you weren’t asking for anything. you weren’t pleading, weren’t demanding. no, you were just there. with her.

she wanted you. god, she wanted you in a way that shook her, made her pulse race with the raw need to have you.

but wanting meant needing. and needing meant surrendering control.

so she did—but in her own damn way.

at first, you didn’t think much of it.

a slow week wasn’t unusual, and business in the lanes had always been unpredictable. maybe people found a cheaper place. maybe they were just busy.

but then the silence stretched. days passed. the usual faces—the old man with his busted radio, the kids with their broken toys, the regulars who came in just to tinker with their own gear under your watch—never showed.

the only person who did?

sevika.

she came in like nothing was different, like she hadn’t bled your business dry with nothing but presence and intimidation. and worse? she acted like she was doing you a favor for keeping you occupied.

and for some reason—you knew exactly why—customers stopped coming.

men, women, kids with their tiny gadgets, elderly folks with their busted radios. all of them. gone.

now, you just sat there, waiting. working. for one customer who paid too much for fixes that took too little time.

you weren’t sure what to feel about it. stay neutral? drill her eye with your screwdriver? wipe that ridiculous—gorgeous—smirk off her stupid, gorgeous face?

…fuck.

“you seriously need to start oiling these… i’m so done with you”

you growled, hands greasy and covered in rust. at this point, you were starting to believe she’d cursed the damn thing—like some kind of spell that kept her prosthetic in a constant state of disrepair.

“how did you even do that?” you scowled, digging into the mess of loosened joints and worn-out gears.

the funniest part? she didn’t even bother hiding it anymore.

sevika was shamelessly, blatantly fucking up her own arm just to have an excuse to see you.

you don’t know how long it’s been since the first time she walked in—two months, maybe three.

and yet, those months had been full. oddly full, despite your shop being emptier than ever.

she had made something here. filled a gap you didn’t even know existed.

she made your stomach knot, your heart dance, your fists clench in frustration.

and somehow, all of it felt good.

“you’ll do it for me,” she murmured, smug.

you shot her a deadpan glare. “i will kill you in your sleep.”

“bet.”

fuck this woman. for real.

despite all your grumbling, you never actually told her to leave. never kicked her out, never set any real boundaries—not when she lingered in your workshop long after her arm had been fixed, not when she started treating the space like her own. at some point, she stopped hovering near the door and just stayed. sat on the worn-out couch like it belonged to her, took slow drags of her cigarette, let herself be comfortable.

and maybe you should’ve minded. maybe you should’ve told her to take her arrogance, her constant smirking, her ridiculous way of worming herself into your life, and get the hell out.

but then there were moments like this.

where the rain drummed against the window, where the scent of warm tea curled in the air, where she was settled deep into the cushions, her prosthetic resting on the armrest, her real hand gesturing lazily as she ranted about something that had pissed her off today.

and you? you sat on the floor in front of her, legs crossed, fingers curled around your mug, watching her talk like she wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the room.

“fucking nightmare of a day,” she muttered, rubbing a hand over her face.

you hummed, amused, taking a slow sip of your tea. “that bad?”

she exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “you have no idea.”

you stretched your legs out, letting the heat from the mug seep into your fingers. “alright, let’s hear it. what ruined your day this time?”

sevika exhaled a long, irritated breath, tilting her head back against the couch. “some idiot decided to run his mouth at the bar. you’d think grown men would know when to shut the fuck up.”

you raised a brow. “and you, of course, handled the situation with patience and restraint.”

she snorted. “obviously.”

you gave her a look.

“…okay, i might’ve broken a chair over his head.”

you nearly choked on your tea. “sevika!”

she grinned, shameless. “it wasn’t that bad. he hit the ground before the chair even fully broke.”

you groaned, pressing your fingers to your temples. “damn.”

sevika just shrugged, like yeah, and? before propping her prosthetic up on the armrest. “what about you? your day any less of a shitshow?”

you huffed, blowing at the steam curling from your mug. “dunno, my only customer is an impossible woman who keeps ruining her own arm on purpose.”

her lips twitched. “sounds like a real pain in the ass.”

“oh, you have no idea.”

there was a beat of silence. the kind that wasn’t heavy or thick, just… easy.

then—

“you ever think about getting out of here?” she asked, voice quieter, more thoughtful.

you blinked, caught off guard by the shift. “what, the shop?”

she nodded, gaze unreadable. “zaun. this whole… life.”

your fingers tightened slightly around your mug. “…i don’t know,” you admitted. “maybe.”

sevika hummed, studying you for a long moment. then, just as smoothly as she’d brought it up, she let the conversation drift again.

“so, this tea any good?”

you rolled your eyes, grateful for the change in subject. “it’s amazing, actually.”

she held out her hand. “lemme try.”

you narrowed your eyes, lifting the mug just out of reach. “no.”

“why?”

“because you don’t appreciate flavored tea.”

sevika scoffed. “the hell does that mean?”

“it means i saw you down three shots of double whiskey earlier. you’ve lost all credibility.”

she actually laughed at that, a low, warm sound that settled deep in your chest.

and for some reason, despite all the trouble she caused, despite the way she took up more space in your life than she probably should have—

you let her stay a little longer.

on an unremarkable wednesday, you were lost in the kind of mindless routine that existed only to fill the time. you didn’t care much for what you were doing—shuffling through old tools, wiping nonexistent dust off the counter—but it was something.

something to keep your mind occupied until she showed up.

you were expecting her soon. it had been a few days since she last dropped by, and she never stayed away for long.

the bell above the door jingled, breaking the quiet.

without looking up, you exhaled through your nose, amused. “you want some tea? i’ve been begging for anything to distract me these days, thanks to yo—”

you glanced up—

and wished you hadn’t.

sevika was bloody.

not just scraped-up, not just roughed-up—bloody. her shirt was torn in places, her knuckles cracked and caked with dried red, her cheekbone split open just beneath her eye.

but still, she moved like nothing had happened.

already half-sunken into the couch, she wrestled with the lighter in her back pocket, hand trembling with the effort.

your stomach dropped. “sevika!”

her fingers twitched—like she was deciding whether or not to wave you off—but she didn’t look at you. just kept digging for that damn lighter.

you were at her side in an instant, hands hovering uselessly. you wanted to touch her, check her, do something, but she was so tense, so unreadable, you weren’t sure if she’d let you.

“what happened?” your voice was quieter now, tight with concern.

she exhaled sharply through her nose, head tilting back against the couch. “shit night.”

“that’s not an answer.”

she finally looked at you then, lips twitching up in something almost like her usual smirk—but it didn’t reach her eyes. “it’s the only one i got.”

your heart twisted.

for all her arrogance, her sharp-tongued bravado, this wasn’t the first time she’d shown up like this. but something about tonight—about the silence, the barely-there tremor in her fingers—felt different.

felt worse.

wordlessly, you moved. crossed the room to grab some water from the sink in the back room, dampened a clean cloth with the warm water.

when you came back, you knelt in front of her, settling onto the floor between her legs, legs crossed beneath you.

sevika watched you, unreadable, as you reached out. your fingers barely ghosted over her jaw before she closed her eyes and let out a slow breath.

not a word.

just… acceptance.

you swallowed thickly, then pressed the cloth to her cheek, wiping away the blood.

“i don’t have anything to help you with…” you whispered, your tone almost scolding yourself.

the cloth in your hand felt useless. like no amount of warm water could fix this. like you were just wiping away evidence instead of easing the pain.

your fingers trembled against her skin. maybe from nerves, maybe from something deeper. either way, sevika noticed.

she reached out—not with metal, not with something cold and unfeeling, but with her real hand.

rough fingers found your cheek, thumb brushing over the skin in slow, absentminded strokes. like she was memorizing the feeling. like she was claiming it.

your breath hitched, your body going soft before you could stop it. without thinking, you leaned forward, resting your head against her knee.

and then—she smiled.

not a smirk. not something sharp and teasing. just… real.

the warmth of it settled in her voice as she spoke.

“you help.”

simple. certain. like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

sevika exhaled, slow. her hand stayed where it was, cradling your cheek like she needed it there. like she was grounding herself.

“i never had anything of my own—never.”

“no one belonged to me. i never held feelings in my grasp.”

she exhaled softly, something like a chuckle slipping out, but it held no real humor. more of an exhausted amusement, like she was laughing at herself.

“not even my arm.”

she let the silence stretch for a moment, let the weight of her words settle. and then, softer—more certain.

“but you…”

“something about you—something about you is mine.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. you weren’t sure if you were supposed to say anything at all.

so you let it be. let it settle. let it breathe.

let her have it.

𓍯𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃 𓈒𓏸

it was an ordinary day.

a quiet one.

not wintry, not summery—just soft. the kind of day where the air smelled like something in between, where the breeze carried warmth but the sun wasn’t overbearing, where the light filtered in through the windows just enough to make the dust motes dance.

the kind of day that should’ve gone unnoticed.

you sat at your workbench, tools scattered around you, hands busy with the kind of mindless repair work that didn’t require much thought. the shop was empty, save for the hum of your favorite song spilling from the radio, filling the space with a low, dreamy melody.

“𝕚 𝕨𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕞𝕪 𝕨𝕙𝕚𝕤𝕜𝕖𝕪—𝕟𝕖𝕒𝕥”

your fingers tapped against the desk absently, matching the rhythm.

“𝕞𝕪 𝕔𝕠𝕗𝕗𝕖𝕖 𝕓𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕜 𝕚𝕟 𝕞𝕪 𝕓𝕖𝕕— 𝕒𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕖𝕖”

it was one of those songs—the kind you didn’t just hear, but felt, settling into your bones, sinking beneath your skin. you swayed in your seat slightly, shimmying your shoulders to the beat, lost in the music.

so lost, in fact, that you didn’t notice the door creak open.

didn’t notice her step inside.

didn’t notice the way she stopped—just for a second—to watch you.

sevika leaned against the frame, arms crossed, lips twitching in quiet amusement as she took in the sight of you, completely oblivious to her presence.

she had gotten used to this.

but she still smiled, just because she saw you.

she smiled whenever she saw you.

“didn’t know you danced for an audience, mechanic.”

the sound of her voice startled you so hard you nearly knocked over your drink.

you whirled around, heat already creeping up your neck. “sevika!”

she smirked, pushing off the doorframe. “go on, don’t let me stop you.”

you shot her a glare, heart still hammering. “how long were you standing there?”

“long enough,” she said, walking over to your workbench.

your lips parted, ready to fire back something deeply unflattering, but—

then she did it.

that thing.

that fucking thing she always did—where she got too close, where she took up too much space, where she looked at you with that knowing glint in her eye, like she was waiting to see how long it would take before you went putty in her hands.

you clenched your jaw. “you’re impossible.”

she grinned. “i know.”

you exhaled sharply through your nose, shoving your tools aside. “alright, are you coming in here just to bother me, or do you actually want me to fix your gears for the—what is it now? god knows how many times?”

sevika hummed, as if considering. “depends. what do i get out of it?”

you scoffed, shaking your head. “unbelievable.”

but still, you didn’t push her away.

instead, you let her linger.

let her steal your space, let her smirk, let her lean against your workbench like she belonged there.

like she belonged here.

the song shifted. a softer one.

the kind that wrapped around you, quiet and warm, settling between the spaces left unspoken.

“𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈ℯ 𝓂𝓎 𝓁ℴ𝓋ℯ 𝒾𝓈 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ, 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ…”

your fingers curled against the wood.

“𝓂𝓎 𝓁ℴ𝓋ℯ, 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ, 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ, 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ…”

without thinking, you moved.

got up, stepped toward her, reached out.

and she let you.

your hand wrapped around her waist, fingertips brushing over the hem of her cloak, barely there. you tilted your chin up, resting it lightly against the pulse point of her neck, the steady thrum beneath your skin.

and she—

sevika almost growled.

not loud. not harsh. just a low, barely-there sound in the back of her throat, as if caught off guard by the touch, by the warmth, by you.

slowly, she took your wrists.

slid her fingers over your skin, guiding them behind your back—so deliberate, so slow.

your breath hitched.

you squirmed slightly. “oh come on,” you muttered, playful, pressing against her just a little more.

her grip tightened.

you exhaled, heart hammering.

then, with a quiet chuckle, you let your hands slip behind her neck instead, fingers tangling in the short strands at her nape. “dance with me a little,” you whispered, barely audible. your face burned, but you still tried, still wanted.

you needed this moment.

she was silent.

drinking you in.

slowly, intensely—like she was trying to memorize you.

and then—

without a word, she pulled you closer.

wrapped both arms around you. flesh and metal. warm and cold. human and not.

but she let you see both.

by choice.

for once, without hesitation.

for once, without regret.

you two moved.

let the music fill the air, let the rhythm guide you, let the moment stretch.

“𝓃ℴ𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃ℊ 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽ℯ 𝓌ℴ𝓇𝓁𝒹 𝒷ℯ𝓁ℴ𝓃ℊ𝓈 𝓉ℴ 𝓂ℯ… 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓂𝓎 𝓁ℴ𝓋ℯ..”

sevika exhaled, slow and deliberate, before her hand—her real hand—drifted up.

fingers grazing your throat.

pointer finger brushing against your jaw.

“…𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ, 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ, 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝒾𝓃ℯ.”

her voice, when she finally spoke, was low, deliberate.

“be mine.”

her eyes poured into yours.

your eyes, already hazy, already melting, flickered up to hers.

she was looking at you like you were something to be kept.

to be always there.

to be the only thing she ever wanted to have. the only and the last.

and when you nodded—

when your lips parted—when you finally dared to move—

she kissed you.

everything else faded away.

the world came back to her in pieces.

first, the feeling—warmth, unfamiliar but real, sinking into her bones. the weight of blankets tangled around her waist. the scent of something soft, something clean.

then, the quiet—no city noise, no distant shouts, no clanking gears or drunken brawls. just the steady hush of breathing.

and then—

the sight of you.

sevika blinked once, slow, letting the haze of sleep clear from her vision.

you sat in front of her, perched on your knees at the edge of the bed, watching her with a quiet sort of focus. you didn’t fidget, didn’t look away, just smiled.

soft. like morning light. like something easy and untouched.

something hers.

sevika didn’t move right away.

didn’t speak, either.

she just let herself have this. let herself wake up to something other than aching joints and an empty bed. let herself feel the way her chest tightened—not with panic, not with grief, but with something terrifying in its own right.

something she didn’t name.

you tilted your head, amusement flickering in your gaze. “you’re awake.”

sevika exhaled through her nose, slow, measured. “you were watching me.”

a quiet laugh, barely there. “maybe.”

she should’ve made some sharp remark—should’ve teased, should’ve scoffed, should’ve pulled the moment apart before it had the chance to settle.

but she didn’t.

instead, she reached out.

didn’t think, didn’t hesitate—just moved.

fingers curling around your wrist, tracing absently over your pulse. feeling the proof of you, steady and real.

she kissed the soft skin of your wrist, slowly dragging her tongue over your pulse.

you didn’t pull away.

didn’t shift, didn’t falter. just let sevika hold you.

and for the first time in a long time, sevika let herself believe. believe that this—this warmth, this weight, this having—wasn’t something she’d wake from.

warmth was a thing.

and it was all hers now.

#sevika #sevika x you #sevika x reader #sevika arcane #arcane

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frudoo · 1 month ago

Note

I am a plague tonight and I’m making it your problem 💀

John Price x tattoo artist reader… he finds them cos they specialise in neo trad stuff. The boys keep teasing him that his tattoos are aging worse than he is, colour fading and lines blurring, so John decides to treat himself, have a little self care time getting poked.

Doesn’t hurt at all, not with that pretty face poking him. Doesn’t she look so sweet when she concentrates?! Obvs he can’t help but imagine what else he could absorb her time with.

Spoiler alert it’s him

Emmy! Here's nearly 1,850 words worth of a prompt you sent me last year (oops)

Warnings: Alcohol consumption. Needles, obviously. Suggestive. Fem!Reader. MDNI.

Muppets, the lot of them, guffawing at their beloved captain over the rims of their condensed glasses. John is far from tipsy but not quite stone cold sober, a nice buzz brewing in his brain. It blissfully distracts from the idiocy of his drunken team and their jabs at him.

“Fookin’-” Johnny hiccups, then continues. “Ah reckon they’re fookin’ ancient! Wha’, Cap, did ye steal yer designs from a bleedin’ museum? The- the hero… herogilfibs… the heir-?”

“Hieroglyphics, y’knobhead,” Simon snorts, smacking the back of the Scotsman’s neck as he finishes the last of his drink.

“Tav’s go’ a poin’, sir,” Kyle grins mischievously. “Ya tattoos really are lookin’ worse than ya face, ol’ man.”

“Shove it up your arses,” John rolls his eyes, tossing back the rest of his beer before slamming the bottle down on the table. “You’re all coverin’ my tab.”

Slurred protests and pleas fall from the other three men’s lips as John leaves the bar without so much as a look back. The cool rush of evening air hits him, and John breathes it in gratefully. The smell of booze was starting to give him a migraine.

As he heads in the direction of his flat, the streetlights illuminate what little of his tattoos show past the sleeves of his t-shirt. The guys are right—his tattoos that were once vibrant and full of color have dulled, much like… well, himself.

God, when’s the last time he did something for himself that didn’t include going out to the pub or rotting in bed all day while on leave? He’s not even fucking forty yet, and still his knees creak, and his face is bone-dry, and there is nothing to celebrate in his life besides the fact that he’s been able to avoid death for this long. He’s in desperate need of something to look forward to other than piles of paperwork and the crippling knowledge that his next mission could very well be his last. That’s hardly any comfort.

He checks his phone and grumbles when he sees that it’s only eight o’clock. Fucking hell, he’s displaying more old man tendencies than he thought. He weighs his options; there’s no way in hell he’s walking back into that pub and risking more lighthearted insults—or, worse, actually having to pay for his own drinks. He could head back home and climb into bed, staring at the ceiling until it hurts to shut his dried out eyes. Neither choice is more attractive to him. With a groan, he turns on his heel and heads in the opposite direction of his flat, determined to find something to occupy his time.

It’s either fate, luck, or some sick joke that he ends up standing face-to-face with a little tattoo shop. He scans the outside of the brick foundation, reading the poster that they have hanging in the window. There are three artists here that specialize in realistic black and grey, and another who specializes in color. Back when John first got his tattoos, he wasn’t interested in having a certain style, he simply just pointed at the wall and told his artist to put it on him.

John sighs and reluctantly walks into the shop, looking around at all the art on the walls. It’s beautiful, of course, with intricate details in both large and small works done by the talented artists. Hopefully they’re as good with tattoo machines as they are with pencils and markers.

“Can I help you?”

John turns toward the voice behind the counter, his eyes widening slightly as he sees, quite possibly, the most gorgeous woman to ever live. Captain John Price, the big, scary bear of a man, whose mere presence is enough to demand respect, stammers over his words.

“I-I, uh… I’m looking to g-get, erm…”

“Sir, if you don’t know what you want, you’re welcome to have a seat and figure it out, or stop wasting my time,” the deity raises an eyebrow and John feels all the blood in his body rush south.

“Tattoos! I-I need to get my tattoos… replenished?” He hums, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

“Can I see what we’re working with?”

John is quick to roll up his sleeves, revealing sad, sun-worn ink. When your fingertips gently brush over the work on his freckled skin, he has to will every goosebump threatening to rise to stay beneath the surface.

“Damn, when did you get these done? The Renaissance era?” You joke, huffing through your nose as you look up at him.

“Been told they look pretty rough,” John grunts.

“Nothing I can’t handle. How much were you expecting to get done tonight?” You cross your arms over your torso—the man is fighting demons trying not to stare at the delicious crease of your cleavage.

“What time does the shop close?”

“How much money you got?”

“Touché.”

With a giggle that makes birdsong seem more akin to nails on a chalkboard, you lead him back to your station, plopping a clipboard of paperwork into his lap the moment he slides into the chair. Once he’s finished filling out all the forms, John takes a moment to admire the canvases decorating your area, humming with approval. It’s all clean, perfectly neat work. There’s no doubt in his mind that you’ll be able to turn the eyesore that is his old tattoos into something worthy of being displayed in a gallery.

You slump into your own chair, motioning for him to roll up his sleeve once again. He complies, of course.

“Since it’s just your bicep, I’m thinking we can get this arm done tonight if everything goes smoothly, which I expect it will,” you explain.

“Sounds good to me,” John smiles.

You grin in satisfaction, giving him a small nod as you snap on a pair of sterile gloves. While you shave and prep his skin, he leans back against the headrest, allowing his eyes to shut peacefully. It’s nice, knowing he’s doing this for his own benefit, not for the greater good of the world or the men in suits who order him around to do their dirty work for them. When he hears the first buzz of your machine, he opens one eye long enough to watch as you bring it to his skin.

“Ready?” You ask, and he hums his confirmation.

As expected, it doesn’t hurt. Not really. Compared to the countless injuries he’s sustained on the field—bullet wounds, knives to the abdomen, things he’d rather not think about at the moment—the pain is nothing. If anything, it brings him comfort. If he’s not hurting somewhere at all times, he tends to forget he’s alive.

“Considering you got these done back when dinosaurs were roaming around, it’s pretty good work,” you tease, and that makes his head perk up.

“Got jokes, do ya?” He muses.

“Oh, plenty. The night’s still young,” you wink up at him and John thinks he sees stars.

Truly, you are ethereal, tattoos of your own scattered across your supple skin. His crystal blue eyes trace over every inch of your face—the way your tongue catches between your teeth while you work on the smaller details, the scrunch in your brow as you trace over the thicker lines. You do the tiniest little dance between each stroke, and it makes him chuckle. He can’t help but admire you.

“Got a staring problem?” You tease, taking a break from filling in the outlines to wipe away the blood.

John’s face flushes, and he pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand in embarrassment. He’s hardly a humorless man, but the way you joke with him so freely has him blushing like an idiot.

“It’s okay. I’m used to elderly men checking me out.”

John groans as you cackle at your own words, but in reality it amuses him to no end.

“Do I really look that bloody old?” He grumbles.

“Nah, I’m just messing with you. You’re kinda… I mean, you’re a dilf,” you shrug.

“I’m a fuckin’ what?”

“Let’s just say that there’s a niche and you fill it perfectly,” you grin widely, enjoying the confusion written on his features.

He’s silent for a long moment, only the music playing over the speakers and the soft hum of your machine audible. Every time you move even slightly, his gaze follows. Normally, if it were anyone else you’d be uncomfortable, but he’s so charming and handsome. You welcome it, really.

“Do you have a wife? Kids?” You break the silence, meeting his eye briefly while you dip the needle into some more ink.

“Not hardly,” he answers, sucking his teeth. “Not for lack o’tryin’, though.”

“Sorry to hear that,” you bite your bottom lip, feeling bad for bringing the subject up.

“I’m not. It’s just reality that no woman goes after a grumpy ol’ man past his prime,” John chuckles humorlessly.

“Bullshit,” you roll your eyes. “You’re fucking hot. I bet there’s a whole group of women drooling over you that you’re not even aware of.”

“You seem pretty certain,” John raises his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth curling just barely upward.

“I told you, there’s a niche that you fill,” you double down on your statement, beginning to fill the linework of the final piece on his arm with color. “And, maybe, I just so happen to be an enjoyer of that niche.”

John’s heart skips a beat. His fingers twitch with excitement, and he can no longer hold back a smile.

“That right, love?”

“Ah, don’t go getting a big head, now,” you laugh, sniffling softly.

“Well, you sure know how to inflate a man’s ego,” he jokes.

“Keep that shit up and I’m charging you extra!”

“Do that and I won’t give you a tip.”

“Which kind?” You ask, biting back a snort as you watch his face contort with a scandalized look.

“Cheeky fuckin’ thing, you!”

Your shoulders bounce with your laughter as you finish the final touches of his last tattoo. You clean the entire area of his raw skin with alcohol wipes before carefully covering it with a few large pieces of saniderm. You smooth the wrap out gently, ensuring that there are no air bubbles. Satisfied, you lean back in your seat, disposing of your used needles and other supplies.

“You’ll leave this first saniderm on for about 24 hours, then you can take it off and gently wash the tattoos with unscented soap and warm water,” you explain, spinning your chair to face him. “You can come back to me tomorrow night, and I’ll replace the saniderm for you.”

“I’m all set, then?” He asks softly, pulling his wallet from his back pocket.

“Yes, sir,” you beam, telling him the amount he owes you. “Wait, one thing, though—I never asked for your name.”

“It’s John, love.”

“Well then, John,” you hum, handing him one of your business cards that oh-so-conveniently has your personal number written on the back. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The man slips your card into his wallet, radiant, sparkling eyes meeting your own as he stands.

“I guess you will.”

#ask me!#call of duty #cod #cod mw2 #captain john price #john price x reader #john price x female reader #fem!reader #tattoo artist!reader

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syntheticavenger · 2 months ago

Text

better off

Thank you to @geminixevans-stan for giving me the cheerleading I needed to get this finished.

Senator! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 1.8K

Warnings: World building so nothing really, unless you count heavy angst and mentions of a break up. If you follow my work, I’ve sprinkled in an Easter egg in here from another fic.

Summary | Keeping busy is something you know how to do well, especially after the publicized break up with your ex. As his political fame rises, so does the need for you to focus on yourself and keeping your walls up for self-preservation. If only it was that simple.

The ringing in his ears has finally stopped, President Wilson’s State of the Union speech bringing people to their feet, the applause thundering for more than a few minutes.

Sam Wilson hasn’t always been known to be a rousing orator - years as a VA counselor meant he led with empathic firmness - but the determination in his voice, two years after the battle with former President Ross had nearly brought the world to the brink of destruction, President Wilson’s speech would be forever cemented in history.

“Senator Barnes!” A woman shouts, a microphone thrust in his face as she turns on her megawatt smile like she’s turned on some internal switch. “President Wilson’s speech is being hailed as a tremendous achievement, bringing multiple party lines together. As a longtime friend to President Wilson, I am sure you’re very proud of him tonight.”

”Very,” Bucky agrees, seeing Jules, the head of his staff, tap her watch. “President Wilson did not hold back on reminding the public of the things he had promised once he got into office and how he has delivered these promises to the great people of the United States and our allies and friends.”

Jules mouths the time as he pivots to leave.

”Thank you Senator, always a pleasure!”

The flashes of the cameras and more reporters yelling for him for another sound bite only makes his steps quicken to the waiting car. Normally, he would stop for another interview but time is of the essence - he has a speech he will be delivering to his constituents in less than six hours.

“You alright?” Jules asks, looking up from her phone to inspect her boss. “We can move the speech back by a day, you know. You’ll get two hours of sleep if you’re lucky.”

”Two hours is a start.”

He can see her running her teeth over her lower lip, which means she wants to say more, even as her eyes go back to her phone.

”Jules.”

Her head snaps to attention at the mention of her name.

”Hmm?”

”What’s wrong?”

”Uh, nothing, I…” she trails off. “I sent her flowers. It’s her birthday today.”

Immediately he goes silent, his head sinking back into the headrest while Jules lets out a sad sigh.

“It doesn’t have your name on it if that’s what you’re worried about,” she says quickly, pushing her black rimmed glasses back up her nose. “You didn’t ask this time but I figured you were busy with everything else going on so, I -”

”I didn’t forget. It’s been almost a year and a half.”

”I’m sorry, Bucky. I didn’t mean to interfere, I just know that you used to…” she stops, shaking her head as if to remind herself to drop the subject. “I’ll shut up.”

The car ride is quiet for a moment - almost too quiet to where he can hear the soft pull of the leather when he adjusts in his seat.

He knows exactly what day it is. He woke up this morning wondering what you would be doing, how a year prior he woke you up to breakfast in bed, a myriad of gifts placed around the room for you to open. You never wanted anything fancy, just a small celebration and he had done just that.

How it had all gone wrong was his fault.

”I’m sorry,” comes Jules’ reply after a moment.

“I’m not mad, Jules,” Bucky replies. “Thank you for sending her flowers. For doing what I wanted to do but didn’t.”

”Why didn’t you?”

”She stopped taking my phone calls a year ago. I got the hint.”

”It wasn’t your finest moment,” Jules counters with a nod. “I think you had noble intentions.”

He lets out a snort as the car turns down the street, the airport in full view.

”Noble intentions? That usually means -“

”You fucked it up. She was good for you, Bucky. Remember President Barber? Married his VP! Now he’s the governor of Massachusetts and deliriously happy. You have to allow yourself to be happy, your constituents are great and the ones that aren’t? You give ‘em a big middle finger and move on.”

Jules is pleased with her little speech, nodding at the end of it as Bucky turns to look at her.

”You think she would survive these stories about my past? I barely survived.”

Jules pokes him in the shoulder.

”And look at you now,” she clarifies. “A whole public servant, Senator Barnes.”

Deep pink roses greet you when you open the door to your office, wrapped in a happy birthday sash in a sage green.

Your favorite color.

These same ones were delivered to your apartment two days ago, the ribbon a light pink. A gift from Jules, you know that much. Ever since she had seen you wear a pink dress to a dinner, instead of your monochromatic go-tos, she’d decided that pink was your favorite color.

It was a nice gesture, of course, acknowledging the occasion.

Birthdays are a thing of the past now, something you force yourself to think of as any other day,

You have nowhere to put them, wondering if you can get a vase today in between your packed schedule. Running a business isn’t for the weak but it’s kept you busy and that’s all you can hope for these days.

Your attention goes back to the roses, a card peeking out from it that you hadn’t seen before. It could be anyone but you know it isn’t.

In fact, the minute you slip the silver letter opener under the envelope flap, you’re aware of the writing. It isn’t wordy but succinct and to the point, your eyes settling on his penmanship.

Happy birthday, beautiful. I miss you every day.

You’ve been strong.

Even when he was ending things, wiping your tears as he apologized over and over for hurting you - for hurting both of you - over a decision that he thought was best, you had been strong enough to know that you’d have to process the hurt, the feeling of betrayal that you believed you had been enough.

Strong meant living the shared apartment you’d had for two years, mailing the key and garage opener certified mail as you licked your wounds, leaving a job you loved because you knew you would run into him and that was nearly as devastating a thought as the breakup itself. You’d cursed his name into your pillow, hot tears sinking into the satin fabric before you woke each day, a little stronger than the last.

You could be stronger, you tell yourself, shoving the card and envelope into a drawer when a knock at your door brings you back to center. After a moment, a head pokes inside, your assistant Rea cocking her head at the sight of you. Trying to fix your expression, you’re aware that you’ve let your emotions get the better of you, straightening your shoulders as Rea walks up to your desk.

”Goddamn it,” Rea mutters, pushing the door open as you try to sit up straight. “He did it again, didn’t he?”

She inspects them carefully, picking them up to inhale the scent.

”He’s good at this,” she continues, voiced filled with praise before it takes on a cautionary tone. “Are you gonna give in?”

You’re quick to deny her, shoving the card into the drawer.

”Give into what? Flowers for my birthday don’t mean anything.”

”It’s a nice gesture. Expensive too. I know French roses when I see them. ”

”Do you want them?” you ask, seeing her face go into shock at your offer.

”What?” Rea asks. “They’re for your birthday.”

”I don’t celebrate my birthday anymore, remember? They’re all yours.”

”I mean, you don’t have to tell me twice,” Rea says, pulling the bouquet toward her. “ I couldn’t impose… but if you insist.”

She doesn’t move from near your desk, intently watching you for a moment.

“What?” you ask, giving her a look.

“Happy birthday, boss. You may not believe in celebrating things anymore but I’m grateful for you every day.”

Rea gives you a smile before she plucks the bouquet off of the desk.

”And don’t stay late tonight because I know you,” she says in finality, closing the door behind her.

Jules watches as Bucky paces in his hotel suite, his tie hanging over his neck as he practices his notes. His support of a veterans bill means five rows dedicated to those who have served, the glint of his metal hand peeking out from his white shirt. He’s deep in thought, the minutes ticking by until he has to finish getting ready.

A notification on her phone makes her glance down.

Thank you.

She knows better than to share this news, as small as it may seem. Her little confession about sending you flowers had turned into an uncomfortable silence, him diving headfirst into work. Great for his constituents and bad for her personal life. Focusing on his work meant more interviews, more town halls and more canvassing for up and coming electoral candidates.

It’s what he doesn’t say, the way he checks his phone to see if there are any signs of communication before placing it face down on the table, to the way he not so casually glances at your now deleted social media to see if you resurfaced.

Jules knows how quickly you had swept your presence off of social media, quitting your job at the law firm to pursue your own career. Whispers around your former social circles had said you had disappeared to start your own bid for office, a ploy to get back at Bucky for breaking up with you.

She’d known better.

If anything, removing all traces of your presence had been devastating, especially with how quickly you had done it.

Neither of you had gotten the closure you needed, him so quick to end things when the media began to poke around your personal life, cameras popping up when you least expected them and how his name was now appearing in fashion magazines, rather than the political heavyweight papers. He’d given you an out and you’d taken it and then some, leaving him reeling with a sense of loss that still continues to be felt, even by the way he’s written in a clause that his personal life is completely off limits when it comes to interviews.

And you, quick to accept your fate, ceasing all communication with him. The bad timing of his speaking engagements had meant he had left days after, leaving you to simply mail what was left of your relationship.

You hadn’t been there to see the absolute despair in his eyes, how fast his walls had come up when she had asked him if he needed time.

He checks his phone again, shaking his head as if to get himself out his thoughts, quickly fixing his tie in the mirror.

“Ten minutes,” Jules says in a warning, another notification coming through.

Jules? Tell him thank you as well.

She hides her smile at the idea of him sending you flowers after all.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you

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xxbirkindoll · 8 months ago

Text

coming back to you

pairings: ex!rafe x ex!reader

warnings: angst, fluff, jealousy

summary: rafe and y/n broke up and after 6 months, reader sees him at a party—except rafe isn’t alone.

words: 2.9k

The sunset over the Outer Banks was a spectacular sight—an explosion of orange and pink hues blending into the purple twilight. But tonight, as you watched the waves crash against the shore, the colors seemed muted, like they were missing something. Much like your life over the past six months.

Six months. It felt like both an eternity and a fleeting moment since Rafe had broken up with you. Even now, the memory of that day still stung, etched into your heart like a scar that refused to heal.

"I just need to work on myself, Y/n," he had said, his voice thick with emotion. "My temper, my… everything. You deserve better than what I can give you right now."

You had stood there, tears blurring your vision as you tried to understand what was happening. Rafe was your world, the one constant in the chaos of your life, and suddenly, he was telling you that you needed to be apart. That you, his Y/n, deserved better than him. It was a noble reason, and you knew he meant well, but it did nothing to soothe the heartbreak that followed.

Rafe was your first love, the person who made you feel alive and safe in a world that often felt too overwhelming. You had been drawn to him, not just for his good looks or his undeniable charm, but for the way he seemed to understand you in a way no one else did. He could be reckless, yes, and his temper was legendary, but beneath it all, you had seen the softer side of him, the side that cared, that loved fiercely and deeply.

You hadn’t expected to be torn away from that side of him. But he had been right, in some ways. Rafe had demons to fight—his addiction, his anger, his own insecurities. And he needed space to do that. You understood that, but it didn’t make the pain of losing him any less real.

For months, you’d been trying to move on, to rebuild your life without him. It was hard. Every corner of the Outer Banks held memories of him. From the beach where you first kissed to the docks where he’d whispered how much he loved you as the sun set. It all haunted you, a constant reminder of what you’d lost.

But tonight was different. Tonight, you were determined to take a step forward, to finally put some distance between you and the past. That’s why you agreed to go to the party with Sarah, despite your initial hesitation.

“You need this, Y/n,” Sarah had insisted earlier that day, her tone firm but gentle. “It’s been too long since you’ve done something fun. And I promise, Rafe won’t be there. He’s… been keeping to himself lately.”

You knew Sarah meant well. As Rafe’s sister, she was caught in a tricky position—being loyal to her brother while also being your best friend. But she had always been there for you, through the highs and the lows, and you trusted her.

And so, you found yourself at the Cameron family’s beach house, the music pounding in your ears and the smell of the ocean mixed with the scent of alcohol filling the air. The party was in full swing, with people dancing, laughing, and losing themselves in the carefree atmosphere.

But as much as you tried to blend in, to lose yourself in the moment, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Maybe it was the fact that you were at a place so closely tied to Rafe, or maybe it was the way your heart clenched every time you thought about him. Either way, you felt a knot of anxiety tightening in your chest.

“Hey, are you okay?” Sarah’s voice cut through your thoughts, and you turned to find her watching you with concern. She was holding two drinks, one of which she handed to you. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You forced a smile, not wanting to worry her. “I’m fine. Just a little overwhelmed, I guess.”

She nodded, her expression softening. “I get it. But try to have some fun, okay? You deserve it.”

Taking a sip of the drink, you nodded again, though you weren’t entirely sure you believed your own assurances. You scanned the crowd, trying to distract yourself by observing the people around you. Most were familiar faces, locals you’d grown up with, but one person caught your eye. A girl you didn’t recognize, with short, brown hair and a confident smile.

And then you saw him. Rafe.

He was standing by the pool, laughing at something the girl had said, his hand resting casually on her waist. Your heart stopped, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t just seeing him again that hit you like a punch to the gut—it was how different he looked. His once shaggy hair was now buzzed short, and he had put on muscle, his t-shirt clinging to his toned arms and chest. He looked good, better than you’d seen him in a long time.

He looked like he was doing well. Like he was happy.

You wanted to be happy for him, you really did. But all you could feel was the sharp sting of jealousy and hurt. He had moved on. And you were still here, stuck in the same place, unable to let go of the past.

“Who’s that?” you found yourself asking, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sarah followed your gaze and winced slightly when she saw what—or rather, who—you were looking at. “That’s Sofia,” she said carefully. “She’s new around here. I think she’s just visiting for the summer.”

“Oh.” You swallowed hard, trying to process the information. Rafe was with someone else. Of course he was. You had no right to feel this way, but you couldn’t help it.

“He seems… different,” you murmured, not sure if you were talking to Sarah or just voicing your thoughts out loud.

Sarah sighed, her expression troubled. “He’s been trying, Y/n. He really has. But it’s been hard for him, too, you know? Breaking up with you—it wasn’t easy for him.”

“I know,” you whispered, your eyes still fixed on Rafe. “I just… I didn’t expect this. I thought that if he got better, maybe…”

“Maybe he’d come back to you?” Sarah finished gently.

You nodded, feeling the tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You blinked them away, not wanting to cry here, not now.

“Y/n, I think—” Sarah started, but before she could finish, someone bumped into you from behind, causing you to spill your drink. You turned, muttering a quick apology, but when you looked back towards the pool, Rafe and Sofia were gone.

The rest of the party passed in a blur. You tried to have fun, to talk and laugh with Sarah and the others, but your heart wasn’t in it. All you could think about was Rafe. You caught glimpses of him throughout the night, but he was always with Sofia, and it hurt too much to keep watching.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. You needed air. You needed to get away.

“I’m gonna go for a walk,” you told Sarah, who looked at you with concern but didn’t try to stop you.

“Do you want me to come with you?” she offered, but you shook your head.

“No, it’s okay. I just need a minute.”

She nodded, squeezing your hand before letting you go. You made your way down to the beach, the cool night air a welcome contrast to the heat of the party. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore was soothing, and you found a spot on the sand, sitting down and hugging your knees to your chest.

You let the tears fall then, the ones you’d been holding back all night. It wasn’t fair. You had waited, hoping that Rafe would come back to you when he was ready. You had believed in him, in his ability to change. And now, seeing him with someone else, it felt like all your hope had been shattered.

The worst part was, you couldn’t even be angry at him. You knew why he had broken up with you, and you knew it was the right thing for him to do. But that didn’t make it any less painful.

You stayed there for a while, letting the tears flow until there were no more left. When you finally looked up, the party was still in full swing, but you didn’t feel like going back. You just wanted to go home, to curl up in bed and pretend that tonight had never happened.

But as you stood up to leave, you saw a figure walking towards you along the shoreline. Your heart skipped a beat when you realized who it was.

Rafe.

He stopped a few feet away from you, his hands shoved into his pockets as he looked at you with those piercing blue eyes that had always made you weak in the knees.

“Y/n,” he said softly, his voice carrying over the sound of the waves.

You swallowed hard, trying to compose yourself. “Rafe. What are you doing here?”

“I saw you leave,” he said, his gaze never leaving yours. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. Part of you wanted to scream at him, to tell him how much he had hurt you, but another part of you just wanted to fall into his arms and forget everything else.

“I’m fine,” you said instead, though your voice wavered. “You should go back to the party. Sofia’s probably wondering where you are.”

“Sofia’s not important,” he said quickly, and the intensity in his voice made you look up at him in surprise. “She’s just someone I’ve been hanging out with, nothing more,” Rafe continued, his voice edged with urgency. “I’m not with her like that, Y/n. I’m not with anyone. I couldn’t be.”

Your heart pounded in your chest as his words sunk in, but you couldn’t let yourself believe them just yet. “Rafe, it’s been six months,” you said, your voice cracking. “You’ve had time to move on. And that’s okay. I don’t expect you to—”

“I haven’t moved on,” he interrupted, taking a step closer to you. “I haven’t moved on from you. God, Y/n, I’ve tried. I’ve tried to get over you, to pretend that I’m okay without you, but I’m not. I’m really not.”

You stared at him, unable to speak. His words were like a lifeline, something you had desperately needed to hear, but it only made things more confusing.

“Then why did you leave?” you finally whispered, the question that had haunted you for months slipping out. “Why did you break up with me if you still… if you still care?”

Rafe looked down, his jaw clenched tightly, as if he were fighting some internal battle. “I was scared,” he admitted after a long moment. “Scared that I was going to drag you down with me. I was a mess, baby. My temper, my addiction… I didn’t want you to have to deal with that. You deserved better. I needed to get better, for both our sakes.”

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice, but there was still a part of you that couldn’t let go of the pain he had caused. “And now?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Are you better now, Rafe?”

He looked up at you then, and the raw emotion in his eyes nearly broke you. “I’m trying,” he said softly. “I’ve been going to therapy, working out, trying to stay clean. I’m not perfect, and I’ve still got a long way to go, but I’m trying. And the whole time… all I could think about was you.”

The words hung in the air between you, thick with unspoken feelings. You wanted to believe him, wanted to run into his arms and let him hold you like he used to. But you were afraid—afraid of getting hurt again, afraid that he might leave you once more.

“I don’t know if I can do this again,” you whispered, your eyes filling with tears. “Rafe, you broke my heart. I thought you didn’t want me anymore, that I wasn’t enough.”

Rafe’s expression crumpled with guilt and regret, and he closed the distance between you, reaching out to gently cup your face in his hands. His touch was warm, familiar, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

“Y/n, you are everything to me,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I never stopped wanting you. I didn’t want to hurt you anymore. But I see now that I did anyway, and I hate myself for it. I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so fucking sorry.”

The sincerity in his voice, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world that mattered. It broke down the walls you had built around your heart. The tears you had been holding back finally spilled over, and you let out a shaky breath.

“Rafe…” you began, but the words caught in your throat. You didn’t know what to say. All the pain, the longing, the love you still felt for him—it was all too much.

Before you could stop yourself, you closed the remaining distance between you and wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his chest. For a moment, Rafe seemed stunned, but then his arms were around you, holding you tightly against him as if he were afraid you might disappear.

He smelled like salt and the faint scent of his cologne, the combination so achingly familiar that it made your heart ache. You felt his chin rest gently on top of your head, his breath warm against your hair as he held you close.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest. “I didn’t want to, but I did. I missed you every single day.”

“I missed you too,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “More than you’ll ever know.”

For a while, neither of you moved, content to just hold each other, to feel the connection that had never really been broken despite everything that had happened. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore was the only thing that broke the silence, a calming rhythm that matched the beat of your hearts.

But eventually, reality crept back in, and you pulled away slightly, looking up at Rafe. His face was so close to yours, his blue eyes searching your own with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

“Rafe,” you began, your voice unsteady, “I don’t know if we can just… go back to how things were. So much has happened.”

“I know,” he said quietly, his hands still resting on your waist. “I know we can’t just pick up where we left off. But I’m willing to do whatever it takes to earn your trust again, Y/n. I want to be with you. I’ve never stopped wanting that.”

You searched his eyes, looking for any sign that he might be saying this out of guilt or obligation, but all you saw was the truth. He meant it. He still loved you, despite everything.

“I still love you too,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I never stopped.”

Rafe’s eyes softened, and for a moment, you saw the boy you had fallen in love with all this time ago—the boy who had made you laugh, who had held you when you cried, who had loved you with everything he had.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you,” he whispered, his forehead resting against yours. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you’ll let me.”

You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of his breath on your skin, the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. And in that moment, you knew that despite everything, you still wanted him. You still wanted to be with him, to try again.

But there was still a part of you that was scared, that didn’t want to go through the pain again.

“I’m scared, Rafe,” you admitted, your voice shaking. “I’m scared that things will go back to how they were.”

He pulled back slightly to look at you, his expression serious. “I won’t hurt you again, Y/n,” he promised, his voice firm. “I’ve been working so hard to change, to be the person you deserve. I won’t let you down this time. I swear.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to trust him, to let yourself be vulnerable with him again. But trust was something that had to be earned, and you knew it wouldn’t be easy.

“I need time,” you said softly, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt. “I need time to trust you again.”

Rafe nodded, his expression understanding. “I’ll give you all the time you need,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through you. “Okay,” you whispered. “Okay.”

And for the first time in six months, you felt a glimmer of hope. You didn’t know what the future held, but you were willing to take a chance on Rafe, on the love that still burned between you. It wouldn’t be easy, but nothing worth having ever was.

As you stood there on the beach, wrapped in Rafe’s arms, you knew that this was a new beginning. A chance to rebuild what had been broken, to find your way back to each other. And this time, you would do it together.

a/n: i hate this so much! maybe bcs its too long and doesn’t have smut but ill try next time. pls give me requests!!

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron obx #rafe cameron one shot #rafe cameron x y/n #outer banks #outer banks imagine #rafe cameron imagine #drew starkey #drew starkey imagine #drew starkey one shot #angst #fluff #rafe cameron fanfiction #happy ending #drew starkey x reader

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justarkive · 23 days ago

Text

THE JEONS | smut drabble 2

Needy 🔞

summary: a collection of chaotic family drabbles. thats it.

contents: family!au, non.idol jungkook, girl!dad jk, fluff, angst, sensitive topics + smut sometimes!

chapter contents: smut, but its mostly humour lmao. m!masturbation, jk jerks off in a bathroom stall, NEEDY jungkook, f!masturbation. phone sex kinda, reader CANNOT take jk seriously, dirty talk, angry jk, but they dont fuck (SORRYYY), grinding, kissing, featuring jks iconic “ were not done yet, understood ?” IYKYK. hana cockblocks in the end </3

• a/n: i tried to combine fluff and smut but uts literally just humour 😭😭 anyways, enjoy!

• taglist: @jenniebyrubies @lovingkoalaface @iamstilljk @elinaki92 @rpwprpwprpwprw @mafersame @parkinglot-nights @reallygenerouskoala @mimi1097 @aznstoner @jungshaking @pinkpunkdynamite (cmnt to be added)

masterlist, series masterlist

It starts with Hana. Like most things in your life do. She’s all cuddled up against you, soft and warm, blinking up at you with those big, sleepy eyes that look way too much like Jungkook’s.

And she’s stalling. So hard.

Her tiny fingers play with the ends of your shirt, fidgeting, wiggling around under the blankets, and then— “Mama.”

It’s so sweet, so sleepy, and you already know what’s coming next. “Where Dada?”

You sigh. “Baby, if you sleep, he’ll come home faster.”

And Hana just gasps. Like that’s the best news she’s ever heard. She nods, fast and eager, and then she flops onto her pillow, eyes squeezing shut dramatically, so determined.

You roll your eyes. Of course she listens when it’s about him.

You wait a few minutes, stroking her hair, letting her little breaths even out, and once she’s fully asleep—

Your phone.

Blaring. From the bedroom.

You don’t even need to check it to know who it is.

Jungkook’s out with his friends tonight—even though he didn’t want to go, even though he would’ve much rather stayed home with his two princesses—you forced him out so you could actually get some stuff done. Because, let’s be honest—

When Jungkook’s around, you never get shit done. So you take your time. You clean up Hana’s room a little, gather the mess of toys and books scattered around, and then finally—

Finally, you step into your bedroom. Your phone is still buzzing. He’s been calling for ten minutes straight. You sigh, snatch it up, answer without thinking—

“What?” There’s a beat of silence. Then—

“Wow, baby. What was that? You don’t love me anymore?”

You snort. “Not if you’re spam calling me while I’m trying to put your daughter to sleep.”

Jungkook grins on the other end of the line. You just know he does.

“Damn, that’s crazy,” he says, all cocky, all teasing. “I could’ve sworn you were obsessed with me.”

“I was.”

“Past tense?”

“Mhmm.”

He gasps. You laugh. “Why are you even calling? Is something wrong?”

“No.” And then—

It sounds echoey. You frown. “Wait—why does it sound like that? Where are you?”

A pause. Then— “The bathroom.”

You blink. “Jungkook.”

“Baby.”

“Why?” Another pause.

And then, all low and whiny and so fucking needy— “Because I need you.”

Oh.

You’re laughing at him. Like, full-on laughing. “Seriously? It’s been, like, three hours, Jungkook.”

“Yeah,” he whines, “and it’s been a whole day since I was inside of you.”

You gasp. “Jungkook—!”

“What?” he says, shameless, as if that wasn’t the most insane thing to just say out loud. And then, as if that makes it any better—

“There’s no one else in here.”

You scoff. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, baby, it’s one of those bathrooms where it’s, like, a singular room—just a toilet and a sink.”

“Damn,” you mutter, “Sounds fancy, and you’re there without me?”

Jungkook groans. “Baby, I’ll take you here—tomorrow, next week, whenever you want, just please help me right now.”

You roll your eyes. “And what do you get to deserve it? Why can’t you just come home?”

“Baby, please.” He sounds so desperate.

And you? You just giggle. Because this is hilarious. Then, Your phone buzzes with a picture. From him.

And when you open it— You lose it. Because it’s so bad. He’s sitting on the toilet, legs spread wide, palm gripping his bulge through his jeans.

And— It’s hot…until.

You notice his double chin.

And the way he’s breathing into the mic, trying so hard to sound sexy— But it’s just so stupid.

You burst out laughing. “Oh my god—”

“Baby, please,” Jungkook groans, “I don’t have time—”

“I’m sorry—” you wheeze, “but this—this picture is so stupid—”

“Baby—“

“If someone walks in—!”

“Baby, stop laughing—please.”

And he just sounds so done. So miserable. So unbelievably desperate. And it just makes it funnier.

Then— Jungkook turns on FaceTime.

His face pops up on the screen, glowing with desperation. “Let me see you.”

You roll your eyes. “Jungkook—”

“Baby, please.”

You sigh dramatically, but whatever. You tilt the camera up, showing him your face—completely unimpressed.

And then—

You notice something. The phone’s moving. Jungkook groans. “Baby—”

You squint. “Are you—?”

“Baby, just—” His head tips back. His voice is wrecked. “Show me something.”

You giggle. Because this is so bad.

“You are so desperate,” you tease. Jungkook just whines. And then—

You hum, pretending to think about it. And then you say, “Fine.”

His eyes light up. You pull your top off. Then tilt the camera down to your chest. Even give it a little wiggle. And—

He groans. Then— The screen jerks. And suddenly— It goes black.

He dropped the phone. You lose it. “Jungkook—!”

You are cackling. Like, wheezing. Like, this is actually the funniest thing that has ever happened.

Then, the screen flips back. And—Oh. Jungkook’s got his cock out now.

And it’s— It’s actually kinda hot.

Until.

He throws his head back. Hitting it against the wall with a loud BANG. You flinch. Because you hear it. A loud ass thud. “Ah—fuck—!”

Jungkook groans in pain.

And you instantly pull the camera back up to your face. Because oh my god. “Baby—” You are trying so hard not to laugh. “Please just come home—”

You lose it again. Because this is actually the stupidest shit ever. Jungkook’s still at it.

His fist is tight around his cock, stroking himself slow and teasing, showing you everything through the screen.

You, on the other hand— Are laughing. Like, full-on giggling at him. Because this is so ridiculous. And Jungkook? He is not amused.

“Baby,” he groans, sounding wrecked. “You know I love your face and all, but if you want me to hurry up—” his hand moves faster—“show me something more.”

You gasp. Dramatically “Wow. Am I not pretty enough for you?”

Jungkook lets out the loudest whine. “Baby, please—” His fist bangs against the stall wall. And you? You wheeze.

“Okay, okay, fine.” You lift your hips—wiggle out of your shorts.

And then you tilt the camera down, showing him everything. You’re still giggling as you drop the phone lower, letting him see your whole body while your hand glides down—

And Jungkook?

Oh, he is gone.

“Yeah—” he pants, completely feral. “Yeah, just like that. Come on, baby—” his voice deepens—“put them in.”

You snort. Because he is trying so hard to be sexy. But you are not taking this seriously. Like, at all.

Because you are still giggling.

And Jungkook? He doesn’t even notice.

Your face is out of frame, and he is so deep in his own world—just stroking himself faster, panting out these breathy, desperate moans, trying his hardest to talk dirty. And you are just, trying so hard not to cackle. Until, your phone slips. Flops right out of your hands. Lands face-down on the bed.

And you? You lose it.

Like, full-on, dying of laughter. Because, this is so fucking funny. But Jungkook? He just growls.

“That’s it.”

And then the call ends.

You blink. And then, a text. From him.

Jungkook [5:48PM]: You better be fucking ready.

Jungkook [5:48PM]: You better pray Hana wakes up before I get home.

Your eyes widen.

Oh. Oh shit.

It takes him twenty minutes. Before you hear the front door slamming open. Followed by hurried footsteps. And then—

Your bedroom door bursts open.

And there he is.

Jungkook. Looking furious. Still rock-hard in his jeans. And you?

You immediately roll onto your side and pretend to be asleep. Because why not piss him off more? But Jungkook is not having it.

“Oh, fuck, babe—” he groans, falling to his knees beside the bed. “Please wake up, please, please—”

He sounds so desperate. And you try to keep a straight face. But eventually, you let out a dramatic sigh and roll over to face him, blinking sleepily. “God, you got here so fast.”

Jungkook’s panting. He grips the mattress like a lifeline, hovering over you, eyes dark with frustration. “What did your friends say?” you ask.

And he—“I don’t care—” he grits out—“I didn’t say bye, I don’t give a fuck about them—”

You blink. Deadpan. “I can’t believe you did that.”

Jungkook glares. And then he pounces.

“Did that? I’m doing it—” he growls, “You thought we were done right?” pushing you back onto the bed. “Were not done.”

Your eyes widen.

“I said i’m not done. Understood?”

Before you can say anything, his mouth crashes onto yours—his hands everywhere, his body grinding against you. It’s heated, needy, so rushed—

Until—

“WAAAAAHHHHHHHH!”

Both of you freeze.

Jungkook’s entire body goes stiff. And then— He shouts.

“FUCK!”

You wheeze. Because—

This is the funniest day of your life. And Jungkook?Jungkook collapses on top of you, groaning into the mattress.

“I hate this house.”

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p0orbaby · 9 months ago

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You’re Tired of Moving, Your Body’s Aching

summary: after a loss, you’re there to ease the pain

warnings: all the feels

a/n: something small and soft

word count: 1k

The night is sweltering, a thick humidity hanging in the air like an unwanted guest. Paris, usually dripping with charm, feels oppressive, each winding street and picturesque facade mocking you with their indifference. The Eiffel Tower glows in the distance, a cruel beacon in a night you’ll never forget. It’s as if the city itself is holding its breath, waiting for you to make your move.

You’ve spent the past hour navigating bureaucratic labyrinths, slipping through cracks in the system with well-timed smiles and carefully chosen words. Getting into the Olympic Village isn’t easy, especially now, but you’ve managed it. Your heart hammers in your chest as you finally make it to the Spanish team’s floor, your shoes barely making a sound on the polished tiles. It’s too quiet, the kind of quiet that buzzes in your ears and makes your skin prickle.

Alexia’s room is at the end of the hall, a sliver of light spilling out into the corridor like a weak beacon. The door is slightly ajar, and as you push it open gently, it creaks, the sound almost deafening in the stillness. She’s there, sitting on the edge of her bed, still in her kit, her face buried in her hands. Seeing her like this, broken, vulnerable, makes your chest ache. A dull, persistent pain that settles behind your ribs.

“Alexia,” you whisper, stepping inside and closing the door softly behind you. She doesn’t look up, but you know she’s heard you. The room feels too small, the air thick with unspoken grief. You cross the room and kneel in front of her, your fingers trembling as you reach for her hands.

She lifts her head slowly, her eyes red and puffy, tears tracing silent paths down her cheeks. Her face, usually so fierce and determined, is a mask of despair. The sight twists a knife in your gut. You wish you could take her pain and make it yours, to bear the weight she’s carrying.

“Hey,” you murmur, cupping her face in your hands. Her skin is warm and damp, her tears mixing with the sweat of the match. “I’m here”

Her eyes, usually so full of fire, are dull and distant. She leans into your touch, closing her eyes as if trying to shut out the world. You brush away her tears with your thumbs, your heart breaking with every hitch in her breath. The silence between you is heavy, each breath a struggle.

“It’s not fair,” she whispers, voice cracking. “We were so close”

“I know,” you acknowledge, because what else can you say? Words feel inadequate, useless. You slide onto the bed beside her, pulling her into your arms. She comes willingly, burying her face in your neck, her body trembling with sobs.

You hold her tight, fingers threading through her hair, murmuring soothing nonsense into her ear. The room is filled with the sound of her crying, the harsh, ragged breaths that speak of a pain too deep for words. Each sob feels like a blow, a reminder of her shattered dreams.

You’re not allowed to stay in the Village, but you’ve made arrangements to be here tonight. It took some doing, a few favours called in, but it was worth it. You’d have done anything to be here for her. The logistics and politics are nothing compared to the sight of her, broken and needing you.

As the minutes tick by, her sobs begin to subside, her breathing evening out. You press a kiss to her temple, lingering there, feeling the warmth of her skin against your lips. The taste of her tears lingers, a bitter reminder of her heartbreak.

“I love you,” you whisper, because she needs to hear it, because you need to say it. “I’m so proud of you, Alexia. So, so proud”

She pulls back just enough to look at you, her eyes searching your face. “I let everyone down,” she says, her voice barely more than a breath, laden with self-recrimination.

“No,” you say firmly, shaking your head. “You gave everything you had. You fought with everything in you. That’s not letting anyone down. That’s being a leader. That’s being a champion”

A fresh wave of tears spills over her cheeks, but there’s something else in her eyes now. A spark of the fire you know so well. You lean in and kiss her, softly at first, then deeper, pouring all your love and reassurance into that one kiss. The taste of salt and sorrow mingles with the heat of your desperation to make her feel something other than pain.

When you finally pull back, you rest your forehead against hers, your breaths mingling. “You’re not alone,” you tell her. “You’ve got one match left, and you’re going to win that bronze. I can feel it”

She nods, a small, fragile smile curving her lips. “Thank you,” she whispers. “For being here”

“Always,” you promise, the word a vow that echoes in the quiet room.

You spend the night wrapped around each other, the darkness outside the window a stark contrast to the soft glow of the lamp beside the bed. You talk, you cry, you kiss when she wants to. You hold her as if your very presence can stitch her broken pieces back together. Each touch, each whispered word, is an attempt to rebuild, to heal.

As dawn begins to break, casting a pale light over the room, Alexia finally falls into a restless sleep, her head on your chest, your fingers still tangled in her hair. You stay awake, watching over her, knowing that this is where you’re meant to be. The early morning light paints her face in soft hues, the remnants of her tears glistening like dewdrops.

In the quiet of the early morning, with the world slowly coming to life outside, you make a silent vow. To stand by her, to lift her up when she falls, to be her rock in the storm. Because love is more than just the good times; it’s the strength to face the bad ones together. You press a final kiss to her forehead, the gesture a silent promise.

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #fcb femeni #fcb femeni x reader #espwnt #espwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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marksbear2 · 2 months ago

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Bucky Barnes x birthday boy reader

This is a special fic for ml and one of my most cherished friends ever, @daydaydayrk420 @6dayday9. I love so much and I hope you have a wonderful year, you mean the world to me and I hope you enjoy your day.

A Birthday to Remember

It was the evening of your birthday, and the anticipation had been building all day long. The Avengers' compound was unusually quiet, a stark contrast to the usual hustle and bustle of missions, training, and constant banter. You couldn’t help but feel a flutter in your stomach as the day went on, wondering what was in store for you. Bucky had been acting a little more reserved than usual, but you chalked it up to his tendency to get nervous about things like this—especially birthdays.

You had been with the team for a while now, and despite all the chaos that surrounded their world, Bucky had always been someone you could count on. Whether it was during a fight, a late-night conversation, or simply sharing quiet moments, Bucky had always made sure you felt safe, valued, and cared for. And while he had never been good with words, you knew he spoke volumes through his actions.

As the evening sun began to set, you found yourself in the common area, trying to focus on a movie that had been playing. But your mind kept wandering. You couldn’t shake the thought that something was going on behind the scenes—something Bucky was planning, even though he’d been acting suspiciously evasive all day.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and there he was: Bucky Barnes, standing in the doorway, looking both nervous and determined at the same time.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice a bit raspy. “I, uh... I’ve got something for you.”

Your heart skipped a beat as he stepped into the room, holding something behind his back. The way he looked at you, like he wasn’t sure what to expect, made your stomach flip in the best way. You tried to suppress the smile that was forming, but you couldn't help it.

“You didn’t have to do anything, Buck,” you replied, your voice full of warmth.

He smiled sheepishly, stepping closer. “I wanted to. Trust me.”

With a dramatic flourish, Bucky pulled out a small, wrapped box from behind his back, handing it to you with both hands. You raised an eyebrow but accepted it with a soft chuckle.

“What is this?” you asked, tearing off the wrapping paper.

Inside was a sleek, silver bracelet, with a charm in the shape of a small shield—the symbol of your team. It was understated yet meaningful, just like Bucky himself. You could tell that a lot of thought had gone into it. It was simple, but it felt personal.

“Bucky, this is—” You paused, overwhelmed by the gesture. “It’s perfect.”

His smile softened, and he looked down for a moment, almost shy. “I thought it would remind you that you’re part of this family. You know, you’ve done a lot for all of us. For me. I wanted to do something... meaningful.”

You reached out, pulling him into a tight hug, the warmth of his body melting away any lingering tension. You could feel his heartbeat against your chest, a steady rhythm that calmed you, grounding you in the moment.

“Thank you,” you whispered into his ear, the words filled with more emotion than you could express. “I really... I really appreciate it.”

Bucky pulled away slightly, his hands still resting on your shoulders, his eyes searching yours. There was a tenderness there that made your heart ache.

“I’m glad you like it. I wanted today to be special for you,” he said quietly, his voice low.

“It already is, Buck. Being with you... is all I could ever ask for.”

He paused for a moment, his eyes flicking to the ground before looking back at you with a mischievous glint. “Well, if you think that’s special, wait until I show you what else I’ve got planned for you tonight.”

Your heart raced a little, your curiosity piqued. “What do you mean?”

Bucky smirked, giving you a wink. “Follow me.”

You raised an eyebrow but followed him down the hall, your mind racing with possibilities. The moment you entered the private lounge area, you froze. The room was dimly lit, soft fairy lights strung across the walls, casting a gentle glow. The scent of your favorite food lingered in the air, and a small table was set for two, complete with candles.

Your breath caught in your throat as you took in the sight, realizing just how much effort Bucky had put into this.

“Bucky... you didn’t have to do all this,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky turned to face you, the light from the candles dancing in his eyes. “I wanted to. You deserve to feel special.”

As you both sat down at the table, the conversation flowed easily, filled with laughter and stories from both of your pasts. But there was something unspoken between you—an undeniable connection that only grew stronger with each passing minute.

After dinner, Bucky surprised you again by pulling out a small cake, decorated with a simple, yet sweet "Happy Birthday" message. The frosting was a little uneven, but that only made it feel more genuine. You shared a quiet moment as you blew out the candles, feeling a sense of warmth and contentment settle over you.

The night went on, and the two of you found yourselves on the balcony, overlooking the compound grounds. The stars were bright, and the cool night air brushed against your skin.

Bucky stood next to you, his shoulder lightly grazing yours. “So, uh... you’re okay with how the day went?” he asked, his voice a little more uncertain than usual.

You looked over at him, taking in his dark eyes and the way his hair fell just so. The man who had become so much more than just a teammate—a friend, a confidant, someone who made you feel like you belonged in a world that often felt too big to navigate alone.

“I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, Buck,” you said softly. “Thank you. Really.”

He gave you a soft, genuine smile, a smile that made your heart swell. “You deserve it. More than you know.”

As the night continued, it wasn’t about grand gestures or extravagant surprises. It was about the quiet moments, the shared glances, and the feeling of being truly seen by the person who meant the most to you.

And for the first time in a long while, you realized that this birthday—this simple, quiet evening—was the most special one yet.

THE END

#x male reader #male reader #male reader insert #x male y/n #x reader #amab reader #x gn reader #x top male reader #marvel x male reader #bucky barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes x male reader #bucky barns x male reader #bucky barns x reader #marvel x reader #marvel x you #marvel #winter soldier x male reader #winter solider x reader #the bear club

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onekeii · 4 months ago

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Would I ever hurt you?

Day 12: Feast Baldur's Gate 3: Astarion x Fem Virgin Reader Warnings/Genre: smut, pet names, blood sucking, oral (f receiving), piv sex, not proof read Word count: 1.6k Summary: You let Astarion drink your blood, but his feast quickly turns into something else. AN: first time posting a full on smut please be gentle ALSO happy new year!

Read on AO3

Letting Astarion drink your blood had become a regular occurrence, one that developed its own routine. He’d let you get comfortable on your bedroll, crawling over your tense body with his sweet touch and even sweeter words encouraging you to relax. Then his fangs puncture the sensitive skin on your neck, pain coursing through your veins as your blood leaves your body. Astarion strokes your hair, runs his hands gently through it, bringing you back to the mortal fold. But you want more.

You want to feel his arms graze your bare skin. You want to feel his fangs on other parts of your body, his tongue lapping at more tender areas… You blink fast as if that would banish such thoughts. It’s scarier, somehow scarier than trusting a vampire to not drink you dry, so you leave it.

Yet Astarion seems to be able to read your mind, for his hands move from your hair to your waist, tracing the outline of your body, they travel first down to your hips and back up to the sides of your breasts. Something ignites within you and you lean into his touch, satiating that yearning in your belly. Then you place a hand on his chest and gently push him away, careful not to use so much force that he might rip your throat out.

Astarion releases you and pushes himself back onto his knees. He’s towering over you, kneeling between your legs, but his eyes are soft, free from their usual malice or glint of mischief. He sucks in a breath before he speaks, “It seems I’ve crossed a boundary…” he sighs, “I apologise.”

He shifts his weight, moves to stand up, but you sit up with such speed that you nearly knock your forehead against his. Your vision splinters, scattered with sparks and stars as your heart works to pump more blood around your body. Astarion holds you up by the shoulders, taken aback by your foolish and sudden movement, “What are you doing?”

“You didn’t- I, uh, I-” pausing at the mess of words streaming from your mouth, you look down and frown. Why was this so difficult? You bite your tongue, think it through, and look at him again with determination. His eyes, blood red, flicker in the nearby firelight. They’re searching your face for an answer, and you nearly choke on your words again at their beauty, but you push through, “I-I want to, but, you know,” your cheeks were uncomfortably hot now but you refuse to let your eyes wander, “I’ve never done it before.”

Astarion’s eyebrows jump, his eyes blown wide and reflecting your face clearly back at you, “You haven’t?!”

“Um…” This was definitely not the reaction you were expecting, “...No?”

He smiles. A genuine smile; it’s faint and small and disappears in an instant, but it was there. “My darling, you are so beautiful, I thought you would have used it much to your advantage, but…” Astarion leans forward, threatening to push you back into the bedroll if it weren’t for one strong arm wrapped around your back and holding you in place. Your heart stutters at how close his face is to yours now. He continues, “I don’t think I deserve it, but the thought of being your first is exciting. To hear what vulgar sounds might come from your mouth, or how you might react if I touched you elsewhere.”

They were only words, but you could feel his touch already, his cold hands setting your body on fire. You needed him tonight, you were ready, “You do deserve it, but…” there was one small problem, “I’m just, I don’t know, scared?”

“You? Of pain?” he chuckles, his free hand brushing against the fresh wound on your neck still dribbling blood. Astarion brings his now bloodied fingers to his mouth, sucking up the remainders of his feast without breaking eye contact. Then he pulls his fingers away with a pop and says, “Would I ever hurt you, dear?”

When you shake your head - no, you could never hurt me, truly - he pushes you the rest of the way into the bedroll and adjusts the flat pillow behind you, making sure you’re comfortable.

And then his hands slip under your shirt, his ice cold touch sending shivers through your body as he travels further up. One finger traces a circle around your nipple, the other hand cups your breast and plays with it gently. You’re unsure what to do with your hands at first, so you place one at the back of Astarion’s neck and pull him close, kissing him gently.

His hands travel even further up, wrapping around your back and lifting you off the ground for a moment, breaking your kiss to pull your shirt over your head. Before the fabric is even on the ground, your lips are crashing against his again and your tongue is begging to go deeper. Astarion lets you in, and you’re so lost in your kiss that you don’t have time to shy your now bare torso from him.

When Astarion breaks away again, he makes up for it by leaving a scattered trail of kisses, bruises, and shallow bites down your neck and then your chest. He’s planted his knees either side of one of your legs now, and when he latches onto your nipple with his mouth, he pushes his thigh into you at the same time. You let out a weak groan, but with each swish of his tongue against your tit, Astarion has you whimpering.

He wants to hear you more, so he drags his tongue further down, his lips meeting the band of your trousers. When he looks up at you through dishevelled white locks, you don’t hesitate to nod your approval. He’s pulling your pants and underwear off in an instant, peeling them from your legs and letting you kick them off your ankles. You freeze up for a moment when you realise that you’re now fully naked and powerless before him, while he remains fully clothed. But there’s nothing you can do or say before he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, pushing the other to the side as he descends upon your needy clit.

You immediately feel a pressure building in your core, only much more intense than anything you’ve experienced before. You decide you want more and roll your hips forward in an attempt to feel more of him on you. Astarion obliges, parting your already sick folds as he pushes his tongue into you. The feeling is budding, it threatens to spill, wash over you and drown you. Astarion pulls away.

Cool air taunts your aching core, the pleasure you were chasing now regrettably subsiding. You grab at the fabric of Astarion’s shirt in a feeble attempt to pull him closer, and whine “Please…”. But he just smirks at you.

“You were so nervous just moments ago,” he teases, “but you’ve forgotten it all from just a few flicks of my tongue,” he’s toying with you, but he still pulls his shirt over his head and finally reveals himself to you. You get busy roaming his skin with your hands, exploring as much as possible, while he continues to taunt you, “You’re so beautiful when you writhe around underneath me like that.”

His lips are on yours again, his tongue fighting and beating yours in a futile game of dominance. Your face burns even hotter when you realise you can taste yourself on him, but you’re distracted again when you feel Astarion tugging at the drawstrings of his pants and pulling them down just enough that his already hard member springs free. He bites your lower lip playfully and drags it out as he breaks the kiss, shifting his weight to line up his dick with your entrance. It takes all your self-control not to push yourself onto him.

“Are you ready, my love?” he asks.

You nod. Astarion holds himself up with his arms either side of your face, eyes trained only on you as he pushes himself into you. You wrap your arms around his neck for support while he watches in admiration as your face twists in pain and pleasure. He stops when you let out a sharp gasp, watching you bite at your lip so hard you taste blood. Astarion stays completely still inside you, giving you time to adjust as he leans down and laps at the traces of blood pooling in your lower lip.

When you finally relax a little - welcoming him - he slips in further, groaning into your ear as he bottoms out in you. And when he begins to move, the feeling is strange at first: the pain of his cock stretching you open sets you on fire and leaves you wanting more, melting into tasteful pleasure. Everytime he pulls out, you moan into his lips, not wanting to lose him from you.

Sounds tumble from your mouth, spurring Astarion to move faster and harder with each whisper of his name. You feel that tight pressure returning to your stomach, your walls clenching around him and drawing a grunt from him as he continues to thrust into you. He’s chasing his own high still as every part of you crescendos, pleasure crashing through your body in waves. Your body falls limp as you feel Astarion finish, too, inside of you, his cock twitching once, twice, three times in your cunt.

Astarion makes no effort to move, collapsing on top of you and burying his face in your shoulder. After a few moments of silence, punctured only by the dying fireplace and your harmonising and desperate pants, he mumbles into your ear, “You feel amazing.”

@12daysofchristmas

If you enjoyed, please consider helping out by dropping a reblog or follow ✩

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chaotic-birds · 1 year ago

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strong for you || j.pt

Jason comes home injured, prepared to patch up and rest with you, but he soon realizes something isn't right.

❤️‍🩹 Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

❤️‍🩹 Genres/AUs: Action, some angst & fluff, established relationship

❤️‍🩹 Warnings: Use of guns, mentions of killing, hostage situation, blood, injuries, reader referred to as girl

❤️‍🩹 Word Count: 2.3k

❤️‍🩹 Author's Note: Just felt like writing more Jason 🥰

masterlist

Jason uses the rest of his strength to lift open the window. His panting grows louder after he tumbles inside, feeling a bit safer in his home. He doesn’t have to worry about people hearing him in pain and taking advantage of his weakened state.

He knows you’ll be by his side in a matter of seconds. He hates how he came home injured since it always worries you, but he rather be hurt here than anywhere else.

His eyes shut tightly as he tries to calm down. It’s becoming harder to breathe under his helmet. He feels suffocated. He needs fresh air.

With a shaky hand, he begins to raise it to unlatch his helmet. However, an all too familiar click makes him halt; his eyes open wide and he forces his breathing to slow so he can hear better.

It’s then he realizes you should’ve been tending to him by now. You should be easing him out of his suit as you comfort and scold him simultaneously.

He lowers his arm as slowly as he can, worried whoever it is will act irrationally if he moves too quickly. Maybe if he was somewhere else and not injured, he would’ve leaped up and snatched the weapon from their hand.

But he can’t.

He’s home. He can’t put you in any more danger.

In slow motion, he turns his head to assess the scene.

There are five men in total. Each has a rifle in their hands, accompanied by a handgun on their hips. You’re seated on one of the dining table chairs that’s been moved, hands and feet tied together. You’re staring at him with big eyes—a mix of worry and panic.

Jason curses to himself mentally.

You’re already fearful of being held captive, but now you’re fearful of his wound too.

He already knows what questions are floating in your head: How deep is it? How much blood has he lost already? Are there any more injuries?

Jason hates that he was stupid tonight. He hates how out of all the nights to have fucked up, he fucked up tonight. But that doesn’t stop his determination. He’ll power through the pain if it means you’ll be safe in the end.

You turn your head to the man on your right. He holds himself to a different status than the others. The amount of confidence this man must have makes Jason want to gag.

“I’ll give you the files if you let me tend to his wounds,” you bargain.

Macho Boss smirks down at you before moving his sight to Jason.

“Well, you’re surely an unexpected guest. Didn’t think one of the bats would come to rescue a mere civilian when there are bigger crimes out on the streets,” he observes, then glances at you. “I guess this one’s special, huh?”

Jason suspects that this guy thought he could get away with his act since he’s not committing a big crime, compared to others in Gotham. Illegal activities happen all the time here, right? Jason almost snorts at his bad luck.

Macho Boss nudges your shoulder with the barrel of his gun. The cold metal touches your bare skin exposed by your cardigan, making you shiver. It must’ve fallen in your scuffle earlier.

Jason narrows his eyes at him even though his glare is hidden by his helmet. He’s grateful he etched a permanent scowl on it now. He wants your captors to know that despite being injured, he’s still got enough strength to incapacitate them.

“Please,” you grab the captor’s attention again. “Let me help him.”

“Why should I let you? His injury means he’s weak. I can’t let him stop us, now can I?” he questions, slightly mockingly.

“You can tie him up after I’m done.”

“Like hell you will,” Jason gruffs and the other person holding a gun to his head jabs him with it.

You send him a glare—signaling it isn’t the time to be snarky. Jason rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything more.

“Do you want the files?” you ask Macho Boss.

“You’re going to give us them whether we let you play nurse or not.”

“Perhaps, but you’re wasting time. Why take the hard way when I’m offering to give them up so easily?”

The man hums in thought. Finally, he nods at the man to your left.

Within seconds, your ropes have been cut. You gesture to the bathroom.

“First aid is in there,” you inform and carefully make your way to the room.

One of the men follows you, gun pointed to your head. You expect nothing less.

If they weren’t here, you’d be rushing to the kit, but any sudden movements will get them trigger-happy.

Your movements are slow as you retrieve the first aid along with a wet washcloth. You make your way to kneel beside Jason. Blood continues to seep through his fingertips, creating a pool of red beneath him. You fight back the worry consuming you.

You gently guide his hand from the wound so you can begin cleaning it.

Jason watches you for a second before shifting his gaze to the others. They’re staring at you both, weapons aimed. They seem impatient and ready to fire.

“You should be making a run for it,” Jason says to you lowly. Though it doesn’t matter the volume of his voice, it’s so quiet that everyone will hear him regardless.

“And get shot in the back? No thanks,” you argue, setting the bloodied rag to the side to start patching him up.

Jason wants to reply he wouldn’t let that happen. He’d have his hands on his guns, shooting everyone before you could get hurt. But he doesn’t want them to know how much he cares about you. Perhaps that’s a fruitless wish since they’ve probably already gauged their affection from their body language.

Jason grunts when you touch a certain area. He’s been trying to keep his cool—for the sake of seeming stronger than he appears to his captors, and for the sake of your sanity.

Your eyes move to his helmet, and there’s a silent “sorry” in your expression. He can tell you’re trying to appear strong, too.

All Jason wants to do is fill these guys’ heads with lead, then snuggle you in bed.

As you continue attending to his wound, he asses his options. He could quickly shield you with his body while he took out the men, but even then, he wouldn’t be able to move and risk the potential of you getting shot. The thought about tossing you out of the window since there’s a fire escape there is strong—get you out of harm’s way so he doesn’t have to worry about you in the crossfire.

Jason’s thoughts get interrupted when you lean in. He watches quietly as you kiss his helmet softly. His lips twitch in an immediate response, but then he feels something slip into his palm.

Clever girl.

With one hand, he slips the small knife you gave him up his sleeve; with the other, he caresses your back. He hopes his action distracts the men from the quick exchange.

You pull away carefully as Macho Boss grits out, “Touching. You done now?”

“Yes,” you reply.

The second the word leaves your lips, a pair of hands are pulling you from Jason roughly.

Jason quickly begins to stand but a heavy boot stomps on his fresh wound, forcing him down again. He breathes in a sharp inhale at the impact, head tilting back and fists clenching.

“Red!” you gasp, struggling against your captor’s hold. More so for his health and safety than yours.

“Relax, love,” Macho Boss coos, but it’s nothing close to soothing. “You can’t expect us to trust your buddy here.”

Then, he turns to the person who’s pinning him down. “Tie him up.”

“You better be treating me to dinner after,” Jason huffs.

Suddenly, Jason’s hauled up and shoved into a nearby chair. His arms get pulled back, forcing a grunt out of him because of his injury. His feet are then secured.

“What a charmer,” Macho Boss scoffs. “Now, the files.”

Your gaze lingers on Jason to make sure he’ll be okay before walking to your bedroom where your laptop is.

“Put me in that room,” Jason demands as he watches you leave.

“Not a chance. You can sit pretty with me right here,” the man behind him says.

Jason clenches his fists as you disappear from view. There are only three of them in the room now. Two went with you.

Easy.

Jason shimmies the blade low enough to reach the rope around his wrists. He waits a few minutes for everyone’s focus to dim before beginning to slice at the material.

“So what’s Red Hood doing in some rando’s apartment, hm?” Capture Two says.

Jason shrugs, subtly cutting the rope as he speaks, “Would you believe me if I said I have a magical power that lets me sense trouble? Because wow… My inner crime detector was blaring.”

Captor Two huffs in annoyance. “Yeah right. You probably got cameras set up around here.”

Jason catches on to the man’s agenda: Find the location of the cameras so they can take them out next time.

“There’s even one over there,” Jason says with a nod to the left.

“There is?” the guy questions and turns.

The second he does, Jason breaks through the rope and disarms and knocks out the man behind him. Gunfire erupts and Jason quickly takes cover in the kitchen nearby.

“Fucking liar,” Captor Two growls.

Jason laughs. “Sorry, man. Let me make it up to you.”

Jason peeps around the cabinets and aims with proficient precision. Two down, one to go.

Upon hearing the scuffling in the living room, you quickly retrieve the gun that’s taped under the desk. For once, you’re grateful for Jason hiding guns around the apartment.

Before you can second guess your actions, you shoot Macho Boss in the kneecap before ducking and shooting the second man in the same place. Once they’re both down, you take away their guns in case they try anything on the ground.

Jason rushes into the room hearing the gunshots, both pistols raised. He pauses in his trek when he sees you—seemingly unharmed—standing between the two men on the ground.

The men are groaning, blood soaking the carpet he vacuumed yesterday.

“Next time come when the carpet is already dirty,” he says before slamming the heel of his gun onto his head—knocking him out. He walks to the second guy and does the same. It’s tough for him to do so since he really just wants to shoot them instead, but he told Bruce he’d attempt his no-killing rule. It’s day four, and he already feels like giving up.

“Nice teamwork,” you comment and place the guns on the desk.

Jason stuffs his pistols in his holsters before he unlatches his helmet. He tosses the item on the bed, then pulls you close until his mouth captures yours in a heated kiss.

You yelp in surprise into his mouth. Jason smiles at the sound and squeezes your body tightly against his armored one.

When you pull back, you’re looking at him with a silly smile.

“Don’t tell me all this is what gets you hot and bothered?” you tease, fingertips gliding down his chest gradually.

Jason grins and pecks your lips with a proud grin. “Can’t help it. You’re sexy when you’re in action.”

You laugh, pushing at his chest until he’s loosening his grip reluctantly. “You’re sexy too.”

Jason can’t resist but lean in again, although this kiss is shorter.

“You okay?” he asks, mood turning serious. He holds you at arm’s length to examine your body.

“I’m okay, don’t worry about me. Are you okay?”

“Nothing but a flesh wound,” he beams.

You shake your head and glance around the untidy room.

“Can you call Dick or someone to clean this up while we go to a safe house?” you plead, too lazy to help with the cleanup. You just want to sleep with Jason next to you.

“We don’t need him. I’ll take care of it,” Jason informs and bends to pick up one of the men.

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself more, Jay,” you sigh, words meaningless as he throws the second body over his shoulder like a sack of rice.

“I’ll be fine, babe. Give me ten then we can cuddle. I know that’s what you want.” He smiles knowingly.

You roll your eyes playfully at his light tone. He isn’t wrong, but you wish he wouldn’t exert all his energy now when he’s injured.

But this is Jason.

Stubborn ass.

Jason takes two trips to carry the men out. You rest your elbows on the window seal, watching him drag the unconscious men in a small circle with their backs to each other. He takes a chain and secures it tightly around them. You think he’s done but he pulls out a paper. You squint, leaning a little out the window.

Sprawled in black ink is:

BAD GUYS FOR PICK UP

Jason steps back to admire his work, then turns to look at you. Although you can’t see his expression due to his helmet, the two thumbs up he gives you indicate there's a smile adorning his handsome features beneath.

Chuckling, you shake your head playfully and return the thumbs up before nodding to come back inside.

Your gaze follows the tall man as he struts back toward the building. You tuck yourself inside, shutting and locking the window as you stare at the silly paper with his handwriting.

He wouldn’t be your Jason if he wasn’t mischievous. After all, it’s one of his many talents.

©️chaotic-birds // DO NOT REPOST OR MODIFY Please consider reblogging if you liked this work to show your support. Feedback/commentary is always welcomed.

#jason todd #jason todd angst #jason todd fanfic #jason todd action #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you

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bruthaewwwww · 25 days ago

Text

Alina! change

As the sun began to set, casting soft pink and orange hues across the sky, Paige and Azzi found themselves back at home, settling into the familiar rhythm of their evening. Alina had drifted off to sleep not long after they returned, worn out from her adventures with Zoe at the park.

The kitchen was quiet except for the occasional clink of utensils and the bubbling sound of something simmering on the stove. Azzi was chopping vegetables for their dinner, her movements smooth and practiced, while Paige set the table. It was a simple meal tonight—roasted chicken, a salad, and mashed potatoes, nothing too extravagant, but they were both looking forward to a peaceful evening together.

Paige glanced over at Azzi, who was focused on the cutting board, her brow furrowed slightly in concentration.

“You know, I can never quite get the potatoes as creamy as you do,” Paige said, turning her attention back to the plates she was setting out.

Azzi looked up, her lips curving into a small smile. “That’s because I have a secret weapon,” she teased, holding up the butter dish like it was a prized possession. “It’s all about the right amount of butter and cream. You can’t skip it.”

Paige laughed. “I figured. You always make everything taste amazing, even when it’s something simple.”

Azzi’s eyes softened, and she walked over to where Paige was standing, her hand briefly brushing against her wife’s arm. “I love cooking for you. It’s one of my favorite things to do. And honestly, I love these quiet moments. Just us. No pressure.”

Paige smiled, setting the last plate down on the table. “Me too. It feels... peaceful, you know? I never realized how much we needed these moments until now.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean? You’ve always loved time at home.”

“I know, but now, with everything going on—games, traveling, the press—it’s so easy to lose sight of how good it feels to just be here. No distractions, no expectations. Just us. And Alina, of course,” Paige added with a soft laugh. “But you get what I mean.”

Azzi nodded, her hand resting on the back of Paige’s chair as she leaned in. “Yeah, I get it. Sometimes I feel like we’re running on autopilot, and it’s easy to forget what really matters. But days like today... they remind me of why we’re doing all of this. Why we work so hard. For moments like this.”

Paige reached up and gently squeezed Azzi’s hand. “I’m glad we’re in this together. I wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else.”

Azzi’s smile grew, and she leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Paige’s head. “I feel the same way. And I know Alina does, too. She’s so lucky to have both of us.”

“She’s lucky to have you,” Paige corrected gently, her voice soft with admiration. “You’re amazing with her. The way you just... get her. It’s like you two speak the same language.”

Azzi’s cheeks flushed a little at the compliment, but she shrugged it off with a grin. “She’s easy to understand. She’s just like you—so full of life and love, and so determined. I can’t wait to see how she grows up. I just want to be there for every part of it.”

Paige’s heart swelled as she turned to face Azzi fully. “You’re going to be there, babe. You always are. You’ve always been so supportive, no matter what. I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”

Azzi’s eyes softened, her hand moving to cup Paige’s cheek. “You know I’m always here for you, right? No matter what happens, no matter how crazy things get, I’ve got you.”

Paige leaned into her touch, closing her eyes for a moment. “I know. I’m so lucky to have you.”

Azzi smiled, brushing a strand of hair out of Paige’s face. “Well, the feeling is mutual. Now, how about we sit down and enjoy this dinner? It’s been a long day.”

Paige chuckled softly. “Yeah, I think that’s a great idea.” She looked over at the stove, noticing the chicken was nearly done. “Smells like it’s almost ready, too. Perfect timing.”

Azzi laughed, grabbing the oven mitts and pulling the roasting pan out of the oven. “You’re not the only one who can cook, you know,” she teased as she set the chicken on the counter, the crispy skin glistening.

“I never doubted you for a second,” Paige said, leaning in to steal a small piece of the roasted chicken skin. “See? This is why we’re so good together. You can cook, and I can... sneak bites.”

Azzi rolled her eyes but smiled as she began to carve the chicken. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Paige leaned against the counter, watching her wife work. “I love you, too. You know, we should do this more often. Just... cook together. I love how we’re able to share even the simplest of moments.”

“I think that sounds perfect,” Azzi said, glancing over her shoulder at Paige with a smile. “Maybe we could have a ‘family dinner night’ once a week. Just the three of us. Alina can help too, of course. I think she’d love that.”

Paige’s eyes brightened at the thought. “That would be amazing. I think she’d really enjoy that. And it’d be a good way to spend more time as a family, without distractions. I love the idea.”

The sound of Alina stirring in her room interrupted their conversation. “Is dinner ready?” she called from down the hallway, her little voice laced with excitement.

Azzi smiled, glancing at Paige. “It’s almost ready, sweetie. Why don’t you come set the table for us?”

A few moments later, Alina appeared at the kitchen door, rubbing her eyes sleepily. “Mommy, I’m hungry!”

“Dinner’s almost done, baby. You can sit at the table, and we’ll bring everything over in just a sec,” Paige said, smiling as she motioned for Alina to sit down.

Alina climbed up onto her chair, her eyes lighting up as she saw the food being brought to the table. “Wow! It looks so yummy!”

Azzi slid into her seat beside her, reaching over to help Alina with her napkin. “It’s going to taste just as good as it looks, I promise.”

Paige took her seat next to Azzi, their fingers brushing under the table. As they all dug into their meal, the conversation shifted easily to stories from the day—Alina’s new friend Zoe, the adventure at the park, and the ice cream they promised her afterward.

But even as the conversation flowed, Paige couldn’t help but notice how right this felt—this simple, beautiful moment of sharing dinner as a family. It wasn’t about the grand gestures or the press conferences or the games. It was about this. Just being here. Together.

She looked across the table at Azzi, who caught her gaze with a soft, knowing smile. Without a word, they both knew. This—this—was everything.

As the evening wore on and Alina settled into the familiar comfort of her pajamas, Paige couldn’t help but notice the way her daughter had been unusually quiet all night. The excitement of the park and dinner had faded, and now, sitting on the couch with her daughter curled up beside her, Paige could sense that something was on her mind.

“Alina,” Paige said softly, brushing a stray curl from her daughter’s face, “is everything okay, sweetie?”

Alina looked up at her mom, her big brown eyes reflecting a mixture of curiosity and concern. She seemed deep in thought, which was unusual for her. After a few moments, she sighed softly. “Mommy, do you think things will be different when the baby comes?”

Paige’s heart swelled, both from the wisdom in her little girl’s words and the love she felt for her. She had known this conversation was coming, but it didn’t make it any easier. Alina had always been so intuitive, and for months now, Paige and Azzi had been talking about how things would change when the baby arrived. They’d kept it a secret for a little while, but now, both Paige and Alina knew. And it was time to have the conversation.

“I think things will be different, honey,” Paige said gently, her voice soft but reassuring. “But different doesn’t always mean bad. It just means... we’ll have to adjust to a new little person in our lives, and that’s a really special thing.”

Alina nodded, her face pensive. “But will you still have time for me? Will I still be your special girl?” Her voice wavered, just a hint of concern slipping through.

Paige smiled and pulled Alina closer, wrapping her arms around her tight. “Of course, you will always be my special girl. Nothing, not even a new baby, will ever change how much I love you.”

“I know,” Alina said, her small voice steady now. “I just... I don’t know how to help with a baby. I’m really good at helping with things now, like making sure the dog is fed and playing with my toys, but a baby is different. What if I don’t know what to do?”

Paige’s heart softened as she gently cupped Alina’s face, lifting it so their eyes met. “You know what? You’ll be amazing. You’re already such a big helper, and when the baby comes, you’re going to be such a good big sister. You’ll be there to help with the little things—maybe helping me pick out the baby’s clothes, or bringing me the diapers, or even just being there to make the baby laugh when they’re older.”

Alina smiled, her worry melting a little at the thought. “I can do that,” she said with a small nod. “But it’s still going to be different. Like, the baby will need a lot of time, right?”

Paige’s smile softened, her heart full of love for the little girl who was growing so much before her eyes. “Yes, the baby will need a lot of care at first. But that doesn’t mean I won’t have time for you. We’re going to make sure that we still spend special time together, just you and me. You’ll get to help with so many things, and I’ll make sure we have time for our own little adventures, just the two of us.”

Alina looked up at her mom, her expression still serious but full of understanding. “So, even though I’m going to have a baby brother or sister, you’ll still be my mommy, right?”

Paige’s heart clenched with emotion, and she nodded, pressing a gentle kiss to Alina’s forehead. “I’ll always be your mommy, sweet girl. That will never change.”

Alina took a deep breath and smiled, though a small hint of worry still lingered in her eyes. “I guess it’s okay if things change a little. I’ll still be your girl, and I’ll still be the best big sister ever. And... we’ll all take care of the baby together, right?”

Paige smiled, her chest full of pride and love for her daughter. “Exactly. We’ll do it together, as a family. It might be a little different at first, but we’ll make it work. And just think of all the fun things we’ll get to do as a family of four.”

Alina’s eyes sparkled at the thought, her worries beginning to fade. “Yeah! And I can teach the baby how to play with my toys and swing on the swings just like I do.”

“You sure can,” Paige said, her voice full of warmth. “You’re going to be the best big sister. And I know the baby is going to be lucky to have you.”

The room grew quiet for a moment, the soft hum of the evening settling around them as Alina leaned into Paige’s side. The weight of the conversation was behind them now, and Paige could feel the peace settling back into their home.

Alina’s small voice broke the silence. “Do you think the baby will like my drawing of the park?”

Paige chuckled softly, brushing Alina’s hair back from her face. “I’m sure the baby will love it. You’re such a great artist, sweetheart. And the baby will love all the things you do. It’s going to be so exciting for all of us.”

Alina grinned, her excitement returning. “I can’t wait! I’m going to be the best big sister, and I’m going to show the baby all the fun things we can do together.”

Paige smiled, kissing the top of her daughter’s head. “I know you will, sweetie. I have no doubt.”

As Alina settled into her mother’s arms, her eyelids fluttering as sleep began to take over, Paige let herself relax, taking a deep breath. She knew the changes ahead wouldn’t always be easy. There would be moments of adjustment, moments when it would feel like too much. But she also knew that with Azzi by her side, with Alina’s love, and the new little one on the way, they’d figure it all out—together.

And with that thought, Paige closed her eyes, her heart full of gratitude for the family they were, and the family they were about to become.

After the conversation about the changes ahead, Paige and Alina made their way down the hallway to Alina’s bedroom. The soft glow of the nightlight illuminated the room, casting a gentle warmth over the pink walls adorned with drawings, stuffed animals, and little trinkets Alina had collected over the years.

Alina climbed into her bed, the familiar softness of her sheets welcoming her, and snuggled under the covers. Paige sat on the edge of the bed, her hand gently smoothing Alina’s hair away from her face.

"Alright, sweet girl," Paige said, her voice calm and soothing, "ready for a bedtime story?"

Alina nodded, her big brown eyes still wide with curiosity. “Can you read me the one about the little bunny and the stars, Mommy? The one where the bunny goes on an adventure in the sky?”

Paige smiled, reaching for the small book that Alina had asked for so many nights before. It was worn at the edges, the pages soft from repeated reading, but it still held the same magic it always had. She opened to the first page, and Alina shifted a little closer, curling up with her stuffed bunny in her arms.

As Paige began to read, her voice low and steady, she could feel the weight of the day starting to lift. “Once upon a time, in a meadow full of soft, green grass, there was a little bunny who loved to gaze up at the stars. Every night, the bunny would sit by the big oak tree and dream of flying high into the sky, where the stars twinkled and danced like tiny, glowing diamonds.”

Alina’s eyes grew heavy, and Paige noticed the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of her daughter’s chest. She continued to read, her voice a soft melody in the quiet room.

“The bunny wished upon the brightest star, and to its surprise, the star whispered back. ‘I’ll take you on an adventure,’ the star said, ‘and show you the wonders of the night sky.’ And with that, the little bunny was lifted high into the air, floating up into the sky like a leaf caught in a gentle breeze.”

Paige’s voice barely wavered as she read the story, her words like a lullaby, meant to comfort and calm. Alina, who had been so lively earlier, now seemed completely relaxed, her breathing deep and even.

The room grew quieter as Paige reached the end of the story. “And so, the little bunny flew across the sky, visiting all the stars, making new friends, and discovering the magic of the night. And when the adventure was over, the bunny returned to the meadow, safe and sound, with a heart full of wonder.”

Paige closed the book slowly, taking a moment to look at Alina’s peaceful face. She was sound asleep, her stuffed bunny clutched tightly in her little arms. A soft smile played at Paige’s lips as she leaned down to kiss her daughter’s forehead.

“You’re going to be such a great big sister,” Paige whispered, her words meant only for Alina’s ears, though she knew the little one was already lost in the dream world.

Paige tucked the covers around her daughter, smoothing the edges with gentle care. She stood up quietly, taking one last look at her before she reached the door. Just as her hand touched the light switch, she hesitated.

The house was quiet, and though the evening had been full of talk and change, there was peace in this moment. She knew the next few months would be filled with new challenges, new routines, and plenty of adjustments. But right now, in this small corner of the world, everything felt perfect.

With one final glance at her sleeping daughter, Paige whispered to herself, "We’ve got this."

She turned off the light and quietly shut the door behind her, the soft click of the latch almost like a promise to herself. Slowly, she made her way down the hallway and toward her own room, where Azzi was already finishing up a few things before bed.

Azzi looked up as Paige entered, a tired but loving smile on her face. “How’s she doing?”

Paige sat down beside her on the bed, her heart full. “She’s asleep. I think... I think she’s going to be okay with all of this. She’s worried, but she’s ready.”

Azzi leaned back against the headboard, her hand automatically reaching for Paige’s. “She’s so strong. And she’s lucky to have you. I know we’ll get through all of this together.”

Paige leaned her head on Azzi’s shoulder, feeling the tension of the day finally slip away. "I hope so. I want to make sure she knows she’s still the center of our world. Even with the baby on the way."

Azzi’s fingers traced gentle circles on Paige’s hand, her voice soft. “You will. We both will. We’ll balance it all. And I know Alina will be an incredible big sister.”

Paige closed her eyes for a moment, the warmth of Azzi’s presence calming her. "I can’t wait to see her with the baby. But... I also know it’ll be a big adjustment. For all of us."

Azzi nodded, squeezing her hand. “It will be. But we’ll make it work, one day at a time. We’ve done it before, and we’ll do it again. Together.”

Paige smiled softly, knowing that despite the unknowns ahead, they were in this together. “Together,” she repeated, letting the word settle in her heart.

As the night deepened, the house quiet except for the soft rhythm of their breathing, Paige allowed herself to drift off, feeling at peace. It had been a day full of change, but also full of love. AThe sun was barely rising the next day, casting soft rays through the curtains, and the house was still quiet. Azzi was in the kitchen, making breakfast, the smell of pancakes wafting through the air, and Paige was already up, tying her sneakers as she prepared for a long day of practice. She was excited to get back to the court after the press conference yesterday, but there was something else on her mind—something that made her smile as she thought about it.

Alina had asked her, over breakfast, if she could come watch Paige’s basketball practice that afternoon. It had been a long time since Alina had seen her mom play in action, and Paige couldn’t help but feel a little flutter of excitement. She was looking forward to showing Alina what her world looked like, and she knew it would mean a lot to her daughter.

“Are you sure you’re ready for all that running around?” Azzi teased as she placed the plate of pancakes in front of Paige, a grin on her face. “I mean, you’re getting pretty good at the whole ‘mom life’ thing—don’t overdo it.”

Paige laughed, feeling the warmth of Azzi’s teasing in her heart. “I think I can handle a couple of hours on the court. It’s not like I’m planning on doing an entire scrimmage today.” She picked up her fork and took a bite of the pancakes, savoring the sweetness. “But I’m looking forward to having Alina there. She’s been asking to see me practice for a while.”

“Alina’s really looking up to you, Paige,” Azzi said, her voice soft as she leaned against the counter. “It’s beautiful to watch, you know? You’re her role model in so many ways.”

Paige smiled, a rush of affection filling her chest. “I just want to make sure she knows that even with everything changing, she’s still so important to me. I think seeing me play today will help.”

With breakfast finished, Paige grabbed her gym bag, kissed Azzi goodbye, and headed out the door with Alina in tow. The little girl was bouncing with excitement, clutching her favorite stuffed bunny in one hand and wearing her new sneakers, a mini version of her mom’s.

"Are you ready, Mommy?" Alina asked, her face lit up with enthusiasm.

“Ready as I’ll ever be!” Paige replied with a smile, adjusting the strap of her bag. “Let’s go show you how it's done.”

The drive to the gym was filled with light conversation, Alina chatting about how excited she was to watch her mom play. She kept asking Paige all sorts of questions about the game, the team, and even the ball itself—what it felt like to dribble and shoot. Paige answered as best as she could, relishing in how curious and eager Alina was to learn about her world.

When they arrived at the gym, Alina's eyes went wide as they entered the court. The gym was buzzing with energy as players stretched and warmed up, the sound of basketballs bouncing echoing through the space.

"Wow, Mommy! Look at all those people!" Alina exclaimed, her little voice filled with awe.

Paige chuckled and bent down to her daughter’s level. “That’s just part of the team warming up. You’ll get to see everyone in action soon.”

The assistant coach waved them over, and Paige leaned down to Alina again. “You ready for a front-row seat to the action?”

Alina nodded vigorously. “I can’t wait!”

They sat on the bleachers, right next to the court. Alina was practically bouncing in her seat as Paige warmed up with the rest of the team. She caught sight of her daughter every few minutes, making sure she was okay and had a good view. Every time their eyes met, Alina’s face lit up with pride.

The whistle blew, signaling the start of practice, and Paige immediately fell into the rhythm of the drills. She was focused, her body moving with the fluidity that came with years of training. But no matter how fast-paced the practice got, her thoughts kept drifting to Alina, sitting there on the bleachers, watching intently. It made her feel like everything was right in the world. The energy of the court, the sweat on her brow, and the knowledge that her little girl was there—it all felt like a perfect moment.

As practice went on, Alina’s eyes never strayed from Paige. She was so engrossed in watching her mom that she barely noticed when one of the team’s players tossed her a basketball.

"Here you go, little one," the player said, giving Alina a friendly wink.

Alina’s eyes widened in surprise as she caught the ball, and her hands instinctively gripped it. She looked up at Paige, her face full of wonder. “Look, Mommy! I got the ball!”

Paige laughed and waved at her, clearly amused and proud. “Nice catch, Alina! You’re going to be an awesome basketball player one day.”

Alina’s face lit up with joy at the compliment. She turned to the player who had thrown the ball and said, “I want to play just like my mommy one day!”

The player chuckled. “Well, if you keep practicing, I’m sure you’ll be as good as her in no time. You’ve got the spirit for it!”

As the practice continued, Paige couldn’t help but watch her daughter more than the drills she was running. There was something magical about seeing Alina so excited and proud. It reminded her of how much she loved what she did—how much it meant to her to be able to share it with Alina.

After an hour of intense practice, the team finally took a break. Paige jogged over to the bleachers to join Alina, who was still holding the basketball and grinning from ear to ear.

“How’d I do?” Paige asked, sitting down beside her.

“You were amazing, Mommy!” Alina exclaimed. “I loved watching you run and shoot. You’re like a superhero!”

Paige chuckled and wrapped her arm around Alina’s shoulders, pulling her in for a quick hug. “Thanks, sweetheart. I’m glad you liked it. I’m proud of you for watching so carefully.”

Alina looked up at her with wide, earnest eyes. “Do you think I could play in a game like you one day?”

Paige’s heart swelled. “Absolutely. I think you could do anything you set your mind to. But don’t rush it—just have fun, okay?”

“I will!” Alina replied, nodding seriously before her face broke into a smile. “And I’ll always cheer for you, Mommy. You’re the best player in the whole world. Besides mommy.”

Paige felt a lump form in her throat, her heart overflowing with love. “You’re the best cheerleader, Alina. I can’t wait to see what you do with that basketball when you’re ready.”

With that, Alina threw her arms around Paige in a big hug, and Paige held her tight, feeling the bond between them grow even stronger.

As practice wrapped up and they headed home, Paige couldn’t help but feel that, despite the changes ahead, everything was falling into place. There was love, there was family, and there was basketball—everything she cared about in one beautiful moment. And as she looked down at Alina, still carrying the basketball proudly, she knew this was just the beginning of many more moments like this one.

nd in the quiet of their home, surrounded by her family, she knew everything would be okay.

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twilght-talks · 2 months ago

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An Over-the-Top Valentine - Kang Dae Ho

Project Valentines Day - 5#

Warnings: nothing!

Kang Dae-Ho wasn’t the type to let any occasion go by without making it special—especially Valentine’s Day. He’d never been one for the quiet, simple approach. No, when it came to you, he wanted to go all out.

But the problem? Dae-Ho didn’t have a fortune to spend. Instead, he had creativity, determination, and a whole lot of love that he was willing to show you. And that, he figured, would be more than enough.

You were caught off guard when he knocked on your door, looking uncharacteristically put together in a crisp shirt and dark jeans, holding a small but beautifully wrapped box. “For you,” he said with a grin, clearly proud of himself.

“What’s this?” you asked, accepting the gift with a curious smile.

“Something special for my favorite person.” His eyes sparkled mischievously. “Trust me, it’s gonna be a night you’ll never forget.”

You laughed, a little skeptical, but intrigued all the same.

The evening started with something simple but thoughtful. Dae-Ho had spent hours setting up a cozy little space for the two of you in his apartment. There were fairy lights strung across the walls, and candles lit, casting a warm glow on the small space. A stack of your favorite movies was placed neatly on the coffee table, and he had somehow managed to get your favorite takeout—nothing fancy, but he’d put in the effort to make sure it was exactly what you wanted.

“Dinner fit for a queen,” he joked, gesturing to the food he’d made. “Just wait—there’s more.”

After eating, Dae-Ho led you to the living room, where he had set up an art project—a canvas, some paint, and brushes.

“I thought we could paint something together,” he said shyly, clearly hoping you would enjoy it. “It’s a bit cheesy, I know, but it’ll be fun. And when it’s done, we’ll hang it up somewhere. A memory of tonight.”

You agreed, both of you laughing and joking as you painted. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a piece of art that represented the two of you—something you could hold onto forever.

Later, when the art was drying, Dae-Ho pulled out a small envelope from his pocket. “Okay, this is it.”

You opened it to find a handwritten letter, filled with all the little things he loved about you—your laugh, your kindness, the way you made even the most ordinary days feel special.

“I’m not great with words,” he confessed. “But I wanted to give you something that showed how much you mean to me. You’ve made my life better, and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend this day with.”

You blinked back a tear, touched by the sincerity of the gesture. “Dae-Ho…”

Before you could say anything else, he grinned. “Wait, there’s one more thing.”

He led you to the door, where he had arranged a small, impromptu surprise—outside was a blanket spread across the grass, and despite the chilly night air, there was a small, portable heater to keep you warm.

“It’s not much,” he said quickly, “but I thought we could watch the stars together. Just the two of us. A quiet end to the night.”

You smiled, heart swelling at his thoughtfulness. You two sat together on the blanket, the warmth of the heater providing just enough comfort to allow you both to forget about the world. The stars twinkled above, and it felt like the night was just for you two—no need for anything more than this moment.

In that quiet space, you leaned into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your own. “This has been the best Valentine’s Day,” you whispered, squeezing his hand.

Dae-Ho smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’m glad, because you deserve the best.”

A/n: Hi my lil monsters! How we likey? This is fic 5# of Project Valentines Day 2024! Hope you enjoy!

Love ya, Twilight

Taglist:

@amoristt @lousypotatoes @imflying-high @mirahyun @takuma-talkz @sxmmerchxld @multifandomgirllol @gizaspicebag @truefandemonium

#dae ho edit #kang dae ho #kang ha nuel #kang dae ho x reader #kang ha neul #dae ho x reader #dae ho #dae ho squid game #squid game #squid game season 2 #squid game fanfic #squid game x reader #squid game 2

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wonwoosmagnetic · 3 months ago

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No Saints Here | kmg

Pairing : bodyguard!mingyu x rich!reader

Genre : angst, romance, mystery

synopsis :

Some secrets are meant to stay buried. Some love stories were never meant to begin.

Evangeline Perez thought she buried the past along with her sister. But when whispers of the truth resurface, she finds herself tangled in a web of secrets, power, and deception—one that could cost her everything.

Mingyu is a complication she never asked for. Cold, relentless, and far too protective, he’s determined to keep her from chasing ghosts. But Eva has never been one to obey orders, and the deeper she digs, the harder it becomes to ignore the tension pulling them together.

Because some things refuse to stay in the dark.

And some hearts are doomed from the start.

CHAPTER ONE

You had spent your entire life performing.

The daughter of Rafael Perez didn’t get the luxury of being anything else. Every movement, every carefully measured smile, every moment of silence in a room like this—it all meant something. Tonight was no different.

The ballroom glittered under chandeliers, the golden light reflecting off silk gowns and polished shoes. Laughter drifted through the air, mingling with the clinking of glasses, but beneath the practiced pleasantries lay a current of power. Deals were being made, alliances solidified, and Eva, as always, was a pawn on the board.

You lifted a champagne flute to your lips, though she barely took a sip. The bubbles fizzed against your skin, but you weren't drinking. You never drank at these events. Staying sharp was a necessity, not a choice.

You sat on your bed, eyes fixed on the blank canvas before you. The brushes, untouched and coated in dust, sat idle on the windowsill. You used to be able to lose yourself in the colors, the strokes, the world you created. But now? Now, it all felt hollow, a reminder of the life you were supposed to want, but couldn’t seem to care about.

Every day felt like you were moving through a fog, playing a part in a show you didn’t audition for. The more the days passed, the more you felt lost. A knock at your door pulled you from your thoughts, and before you could even respond, the door creaked open. Rafael Perez, your father, stepped inside with that cold, calculated look he always wore.

His presence was like an impenetrable wall, looming over your every move. “I see the canvas is still here.” he said, his voice devoid of emotion, but there was a clear disappointment in his words.

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t respond immediately. He’d been saying the same thing for months, as though avoiding painting would somehow fix everything in your life. You stood, brushing your hands together, as though trying to dust off your frustration.

“I told you, I’m not interested in your... ‘vision’ for me, Dad,” you replied, trying to keep your tone neutral, but there was a sharpness to it you couldn’t quite hide. Your father didn’t react to the anger in your voice, like he didn’t even hear it.

He just stepped further into the room, his gaze never leaving yours, and approached the canvas with that same critical look. “You’re wasting your time, Evangeline. You’re wasting your potential. You have a responsibility to the family, to the company, to everything we’ve built.”

You scoffed, folding your arms across your chest. “What about what I want? Does that even matter?” His eyes flickered to you briefly, the hint of irritation flashing in them, but he quickly masked it. “What you want doesn’t matter. What matters is what needs to be done.” He paused for a beat before adding, “I’ve arranged for you to attend an event tonight. Mingyu will be there to make sure you’re... presentable.”

The mention of Mingyu made your stomach twist. You'd almost forgotten about him—almost. That damn bodyguard was always around, like a shadow, looming over your every move. He wasn’t just your father’s watchful eye; he was the constant reminder that you weren't in control of your own life.

Your eyes narrowed. “Mingyu,” you muttered, trying not to let the frustration creep into your voice. “What a surprise.” Rafael turned toward the door, as if the conversation was over, but not before adding, “You should be grateful he’s here. He’s only doing his job. I trust you’ll behave.” Your teeth ground together.

“I’m always behaving, Dad,” you spat, sarcasm dripping from the words. Your father didn’t flinch. “I’ll see you later.” He gave you one last look, this time more piercing, before he left, the door closing behind him with a soft thud. You stood still for a moment, staring at the door, your chest tightening with frustration.

You could hear his footsteps fading down the hallway, but the suffocating feeling remained, heavy in the air. You hated how his presence seemed to fill every corner of your life, like you were never allowed to breathe without someone watching.

And Mingyu? He was just the physical embodiment of everything your father represented. The rules. The control. The expectations. You let out a shaky breath and glanced over at the window, the bright sunlight streaming in, but it felt like the room was closing in on her.

Every day felt the same—tethered to your father’s demands, suffocated by the people he surrounded you with, and watched over by Mingyu.

You tossed your phone onto the couch, frustration building in your chest. Another message from your dad about the upcoming event—the usual “you need to look perfect” reminder. You sighed deeply, your fingers dragging through your hair as you sat down beside Caro, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor flipping through a fashion magazine.

The two of you had spent the entire afternoon together, but your mind was miles away. “I hate these events,” you muttered, glancing down at your phone. “Everything’s always so perfect and expected. I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Caro stayed silent, a soft smile playing on her lips as she nodded. She was used to your rants, always ready to listen even though Caro’s own thoughts were a little more complicated when it came to these events. She didn’t have to attend them. She was always on the outside looking in.

You, completely oblivious to the weight of Caro’s thoughts, looked up, her eyes bright with determination. “I need your help. I have to look perfect tonight.” Caro blinked, not sure what to expect. “What do you mean?” Her voice was soft, but she couldn’t quite hide the curiosity.

You tossed her phone aside again and turned to Caro, her eyes lighting up. “I need a dress. Not just any dress—something that'll make a statement, you know? Something that says, ‘I’m here, and I’m not going to play by anyone’s rules’.” Caro’s heart skipped, the awkwardness creeping in as soon as she realized what this was about. She shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the floor.

She knew the drill—Your extravagant events, the expectations, the people. It wasn’t her world. She didn’t belong there. “I—I don’t know if I’m the right person to help with that,” Caro muttered, her voice faltering slightly.

She fiddled with the corner of the magazine, a nervous tick she always had when she was uncomfortable. You, however, didn’t seem to notice. She was already on a roll, thinking about all the details. “But you know fashion better than anyone, Caro. Please, just help me pick something out. I trust you. You always know how to make me look amazing.” Caro didn’t answer immediately.

She just nodded, forcing a small smile, even though the thought of stepping into that world made her feel out of place. She was just the friend��the one who didn't belong to the circle of high society, the one who had to watch it all from the sidelines.

Your excitement seemed to fill the room, making Caro’s discomfort that much more pronounced. You weren't just talking about a dress; you were talking about fitting in with your father’s world, about being the perfect image for all the people who would be watching. And Caro wasn’t even invited to those events.

When you suddenly brightened, your smile widening, Caro’s stomach twisted. “Oh! And you can come as my plus one. I mean, you’ve got nothing to do tonight, right?” Caro’s throat tightened. She stayed silent for a long moment, biting her lip as the awkwardness settled over her like a heavy blanket.

You were expecting her to say yes, but all Caro could think about was how out of place she’d feel surrounded by people who had everything she didn’t. She forced herself to nod, her voice barely above a whisper. “I... yeah, I guess I can come. If you want me to.”

Your face lit up at her agreement. “Of course, I do! You’re my best friend. You’re going to help me pick out the perfect dress, and then we’ll go together. It’ll be so much fun.” Caro smiled weakly, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

She didn’t want to be the one to burst your bubble, but it was hard not to feel like a pawn in this whole thing. You had no idea how different their worlds were. No idea how uncomfortable it made Caro to be asked to be her “sidekick” in a world that would never accept her.

Instead of speaking up, Caro just nodded again, still feeling out of place. “Sounds fun,” she said quietly, her voice almost sounding distant. You, completely oblivious, bounced up from the couch, heading toward the door.

“Let’s go! We’ve got to find that dress, and then I’ll text Mingyu and tell him I’m all ready to go.” And as you dragged her out the door, Caro couldn’t shake the feeling that this night was going to be another reminder of just how different they truly were.

The venue was dazzling—golden chandeliers casting a warm glow over the sea of elegantly dressed guests. Laughter and the soft clinking of glasses filled the space, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and champagne.

Everywhere Caro looked, people moved effortlessly, slipping in and out of conversations like they belonged to some secret world she could never quite step into.

You, on the other hand, fit right in. The moment they arrived, you were swept up in a flurry of greetings—soft cheek kisses, perfectly rehearsed compliments, and warm, effortless smiles exchanged between people who had known each other since childhood.

You shined in the dress Caro helped you pick, a sleek midnight blue gown that hugged your form just right. Confidence radiated off you as she laughed, gesturing animatedly while talking to a group of perfectly put-together people.

Caro, however, stood off to the side, her fingers wrapped tightly around the stem of her untouched champagne glass. She shifted on her heels, her dress—borrowed from your closet—feeling a little too tight, a little too foreign.

The conversation around her moved like a fast-flowing river, and she was just a rock stuck on the bank, watching it all pass her by. You had promised they’d stick together, but within minutes, she was off mingling, seamlessly blending into the crowd.

Caro swallowed, her gaze flickering over the room. There was no one here she knew, no one who would even think to talk to her. And maybe that was the point—she wasn’t supposed to be here. She was just the friend. The outsider.

"You know you have to say no to her someday, right?" The deep, measured voice made her flinch. She turned to find Seungcheol Perez- your brother, standing beside her, a crystal glass of whiskey in one hand.

His dark brown eyes, always sharp and unreadable, carried a hint of amusement as he glanced toward Eva, who was across the room, laughing with a group of perfectly polished socialites. Caro sighed. "Oh, is this where you deliver another one of your grand lectures?" He smirked, tilting his glass slightly.

"Not a lecture. Just an observation." He took a slow sip. "She drags you into this world like you belong here. But we both know you don’t." Caro scoffed, arms crossing over her chest. "Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence." He chuckled lightly.

"I’m just saying, you let her pull you around like a shadow." There was teasing in his voice, but something else, too. Something heavier. "She’s my best friend," Caro muttered, glancing at you again. Seungcheol nodded. "I know."

His voice softened, just slightly. Then, after a pause, "But you don’t always have to say yes just because she asks." Caro hesitated, shifting on her feet. "Why do you even care?" He tilted his head slightly, considering her. "Maybe I don’t. Maybe I just enjoy watching you squirm." Caro huffed out a quiet laugh despite herself.

"You are the absolute worst."

"Mm." He smirked again. "And yet, here you are, still talking to me." She rolled her eyes, but the warmth between them was unmistakable. Seungcheol may have been blunt, but he wasn’t cruel. And despite everything, she knew he was right—you never saw how hard it was for her to be in this world. But Seungcheol did.

And for the first time that night, standing beside him, Caro didn’t feel so alone. “Come here to steal my best friend as well?” Your voice cut through the air, her words dripping with barely-contained irritation as she approached them. There was no warmth in her tone, only an edge of frustration. Her eyes narrowed as they settled on Seungcheol.

He didn’t react, his expression calm as always, though there was an underlying tension that was hard to ignore. He took a casual sip from his drink, his gaze steady on you as he replied, "I’m not stealing anyone, Evangeline. Just having a conversation." Your lips tightened into a thin line. You didn’t miss a beat.

"You should know better than to waste your time," you said coldly, your voice flat, like she was talking to a subordinate. “If you’re not here to work, I don’t know what you’re doing.” There was no affection in your words—just the distant, sharp edge of someone who had long ago put up walls. Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “I’m not here to waste anyone’s time,” he replied, his tone smooth, his posture professional.

Your gaze shifted to Caro for a split second, “you really think I need you to babysit her too?” Seungcheol glanced briefly at Caro, whose awkwardness was palpable, before responding in a level voice. "I’m not babysitting her, Evangeline. We’re just talking." You took a step closer, your heels clicking against the floor in a purposeful way. “It’s not your job to talk to her,” you said with a brittle smile, now aiming your words directly at him.

“So why don’t you go find something else to do?” Caro felt herself shrink a little, the tension in the air thickening with every word. She wasn’t sure what had caused the rift between them, but it was clear that whatever it was, it was deep—and it wasn’t about her. Seungcheol didn't flinch.

He met her sharp gaze with the same unflinching calm. "You really don’t need to control everything, Evangeline." Your eyes flashed for a moment, your jaw clenching as your fingers curled slightly around your drink. “And you don’t need to lecture me," you snapped back, your voice low but cutting.

“You’re not in charge here. Stay out of it.” There was a moment of silence before Seungcheol sighed, as if he was tired of this back-and-forth, but he didn't show it. "Fine," he said simply, his voice calm as always. "Enjoy your night." He says raising the glass in Caro's direction as he leaves. Caro watched as Seungcheol disappeared into the crowd, and for a moment, she felt an ache in her chest.

But before she could linger on it, your voice broke through. "I don’t know why he has to make such a scene everywhere he goes." Caro didn’t even look up at you. Instead, she took a slow sip from her drink, trying to steady the chaos in her mind.

"It’s not a scene," she replied quietly. Caro let out a soft breath, glancing over at you, who was clearly still fuming. She could feel the weight of the conversation, but at this point, she wasn’t going to let it ruin her night. Not when you had gone out of her way to make sure they were having fun tonight.

“We don’t like him, Caro. He’s is an asshole,” You said again, her voice steady, but there was a sharpness in it that made it clear you weren't backing down. Caro nodded, her eyes scanning the crowd for a moment, avoiding the topic. She wasn’t sure what else to say. “Yeah, of course. I was just—” “There is no ‘just,’ Caro. He is a fuck up, and I won’t let him ruin our night,” You cut in, more serious now, your expression set. Caro turned back to you, her voice a little quieter as she sighed. “Yeah, yeah obviously.”

There wasn’t much else she could add. She knew you were just looking out for her, but sometimes it felt like everyone had an opinion on Seungcheol. He was complicated, yes—hard to deal with, yes—but he was her friend, and that made things harder. She didn’t want to argue with you about it. Not now. Not tonight.

Caro let the music wash over her, the bass thudding beneath her feet as she tried to shake off the lingering tension. You, on the other hand, had already moved on, flagging down a server to order another round. “You need to stop letting him get under your skin,” Caro said, forcing a smile as she leaned against the bar beside her best friend. You scoffed, picking up your drink.

“I don’t. He’s just always in the way.” You tossed back a sip, your nails drumming against the glass. “It’s pathetic, honestly. He acts like he’s some kind of protector.” Caro hesitated, glancing down at her own drink. “Maybe he’s just—” “Don’t,” You cut in, her voice firm. “You don’t owe him the benefit of the doubt, Caro. Not him.”

Caro swallowed back her words. There was something unshakable in your voice, something that made arguing feel pointless. Maybe you were right. Maybe Seungcheol wasn’t worth defending. But if that were true, why did Caro feel the way she did? Before she could think too much about it, a familiar voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Ladies.” Caro turned, blinking as she took in the man who had appeared beside them. Sleek suit, charming smirk, an air of confidence that was just a little too polished. Elias Park. Your posture relaxed instantly, a slow smile curling at your lips. “Elias,” you greeted, tilting your head in interest.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.” “I could say the same,” he replied smoothly, his dark eyes flicking over to Caro for a second before returning to you. “But then again, you do have a habit of making any place worth being at.” You let out a quiet laugh, clearly enjoying the attention. Caro, however, just gave a small, polite smile before turning back to her drink.

Elias leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you.” You raised a brow, intrigued. “Oh?” “Yeah.” His eyes gleamed under the dim lighting. “There’s something I think you’d be very interested in.” Caro barely heard the rest of the conversation.

Her mind was elsewhere, her thoughts drifting back to Seungcheol. Something about the way he left—unbothered on the surface, but carrying something heavier underneath—stuck with her. And she couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t over.

#seventeen ff #kpop ff #kpop fanfic #seventeen fanfiction #seventeen angst #seventeen imagines #seventeen x reader #mingyu ff #mingyu x reader #seventeen fic #scoups ff #bodyguard romance #seventeen smut

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fatesundress · 2 years ago

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⭑ life of the party. tom riddle x reader

summary. when one game is ruined, another begins.

tags. explicitly fem afab reader, smut with as minimal plot as i can physically allow myself, minors SCRAMMM, loosely implied hogwarts university au as always, flirting via mutually assured jealousy, impeccable communication skills, established relationship, the guy the reader is talking to gets annoyed she doesn’t want him but he doesn’t do anything, religious undertones that might have accidentally become overtones, party setting (background drinking & general degeneracy), probably the meanest tom i’ll ever write and i still tried making him nice, fingering, piv, a little degradation but that's life, fawwwk the weeknd but the song this is based on is so sexy, etc

note. Me writing this: nightguard: ON, religious themes: RIFE, shame: ABOUNDING. i am so embarrassed by this. have i mentioned smut doesn’t come naturally to me? i don’t even know how i got here. i’m on heelys at the proverbial skatepark and everyone else apprenticed under tony hawk. Do you understand? ok.

word count. 4.5k

request. yes!

He is what he is. Stoic, sacred, silent and then verbose. You knew he had his fixations before you knew him at all — no one made top of every class without a shadow of obsession to contrast the glint of their excellence — but you could not anticipate how that obsession might translate when applied to a person. You’re not sure he had either.

He is what he is. The muggle world taught him religion and in it he learned only the tenor of devotion. When his fingers take your jaw, trace slow at the stripes of your thighs, steady your hips from under you and hold tight, there’s reverence in it. His kisses don’t wane with the months gone by; they soften with purpose. They rouse with hunger. His eyes don’t waver. Should a good man gaze upon his altar? Should he smile like sin when he gets on his knees?

He does.

Tom Riddle is what he is and you solemnise in equal part.

You don’t come to these things often, taken aback by the sight of the Slytherin common room in ribbons and banners tattered within the first hour of the night. Bottles glow green in the lake-light on every available surface, scattered about the place and spilled in sticky puddles.

You’re a wallflower tonight, though not for lack of options. You observe from a comfortable distance the drunken antics of new adults, free to carry their liquor in hand rather than hidden away in pockets and pillowcases. There’s something vaguely entertaining about it, intoxicating where someone else might mind their business and actually get intoxicated, but you see no harm done. Whispers fall on your ears before the rumours make their rounds, couples slink away in the darkness where someone in the crowd might not notice, and the night’s first instance of someone hurrying up the stairs in tears comes barrelling right past you. You invent a story for why to keep yourself busy.

It’s all just buzz.

Now, if you don’t come often, he certainly doesn’t.

Tonight, he has, and for reasons explicable but few, you’ve found yourselves on opposite sides of the room.

It began on the green couch by the window with a chess set spilled across the velvet — a bet you made with him upon arrival; you find wizard’s chess trite, Tom finds it feckless, but it makes for a good challenge.

What else could convince a man so perpetually controlled to pour himself a drink? And you imagine, from his perspective: what else could convince a woman so determined to outwit him?

It’s for no nefarious reason — to slight him or see him stumble — but because you love the fractions of relief that colour him, soften him, temper him. It’s because he loves you in every shade, in every pliancy, in each and every fervour. But mostly it’s because you love kindly to best him, and he loves mirthfully to best you.

So you play. The game is slow and teasing, hard to see in the ripples of the lake, and toppled over in the final moves (which you’ll insist you were winning) by the same swaying body that spills its drink down the front of your dress. And so you’re up, brushing your index finger over the corner of Tom’s sudden scowl. You whisper like a joke not to kill anyone but he’s so quick to look like he might that you consider repeating yourself with more conviction.

You poke at the spot where his jaw is tense. “I’ll be right back.”

Drying liquor from lace is a matter of precision even with magic, and this is half-gelatinous like someone raided the kitchen’s supply of jelly and steeped it in something offensively alcoholic. You utilise the clearer light of the Slytherin girl’s lavatory, wetting your dress before evaporating the water from it. There’s the matter then of transforming the stained fabric back to its original colour, and you huff in the mirror at having a game you thought you didn’t care much for ruined so close to its end.

You care about Tom, though. The omphalos of your issue resides there.

(It is fair to say most of your issues reside there.)

With only minutes gone by, the common room crowd looks doubled when you return, and though you wade through you’re pushed back like debris caught in a tide, the bodies more stubborn rubble than you. So you retreat, stand flush at the wall with your arms crossed, and wait for Tom’s eyes to land on yours. To, perhaps, open your mind and let him in, tell him exhaustedly from afar that the game is at rest and you’re ready to leave.

But even he’s hard to find in the bodies unified in breath, flux like a big set of lungs — and nothing about Tom blurs into the background.

So you wait. You wallflower. You pour yourself a drink.

The moment stretches on longer than anticipated, and after many detached observations of the room, someone else finds you instead. He’s tall, blond to Tom's inkwell black, kissed by summer sun even as autumn soothes its blister. Your gaze wavers back to him a few times though his own is uncertain for all its focus. He seems to be waiting for you to stop, perhaps for the silhouette of someone else to slip by and prove you were looking at them instead. When no one else comes, he traverses the crowd with a straightened inch of pride, stepping through new colours until he’s close enough to you that the light settles emerald-black and you can see the great chasm of his beauty up close.

His freckles are carefully dusted, his structure strong, all squarish, rugged lines and shades of August.

The chasm is not a lack of allure, per se, it’s just a lack of him. One man’s August to your adherent’s December, the intention of his warmth, a thing that does not come to him like everything else but that he makes and makes and mends when it lapses because he does not want to see you cold. The singular reward of a rarity like that.

“Hi," you say, glancing over a broad shoulder.

“Evening," he responds. He takes you in with a look of (unappreciated) appreciation. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, we haven’t.”

He extends a hand. “Oliver Belby.”

“Pleasure.”

You don't offer much in the way of conversation. He’ll vie for your attention regardless of how much of it you offer. So you lean against the wall where the buzz of sound prickles your hair, let him talk, let his hand come up to rest beside your head, and you find Tom.

He’s right where you left him, a new clearing in the crowd making space for your eyes to meet.

His are ice even at a distance. As if you proselytise — as if you could — kneel for another man or let one kneel before you, all of your trysts together faithless.

They aren’t. He must know they aren’t.

But you put yourself here and standing at the target of his gaze has never been marred by the severity of it.

You decide then; when one game is ruined, another begins.

In truth, you can’t deny the element of theatrics in the way Tom denies everyone but you: his soft, penitent smile, the apologetic cant of his head, how his eyes can find you in any crowd and whoever is clinging onto his every word that night will follow his gaze and deflate when they discover you at the end of it. Sometimes it’s harsh. Final. He lacks the patience of pretence.

Sometimes, the week is dull. Sometimes, the whoever is undeterred. Sometimes you’ve pushed him here.

No — You’ve never done that before. This is new.

So it’s one of those weeks, and one of those whoevers, on an anomaly you may as well have directed the encounter yourself, and Tom is half-indulgent as he forces his eyes away and you force yours to stay.

You watch him from across the room as the woman drapes herself across the arm of his chair. There's a furious blush on her cheeks even in the dark, a pretty disarray to her shoulder-length hair, skirts pleated over knees she faces toward him. She smiles and offers him a glass of something, and you know for certain Tom understands this game because he accepts it, eyes flicking back to you as he swirls the glass in contest.

To that you take an inappreciable sip of your own.

“ — Which is why no one has even attempted to kill one in decades. And capturing one is another thing entirely. My mother works with the Greeks on occasion, and the nearest she came to a den was in the twenties. If she had gone any nearer I wouldn’t be here.”

“Hm?” You look back at the man in front of you. His lips glisten with having licked them between every phrase.

“The manticores,” he says, undeterred.

“Right. Five-X beasts, aren’t they?”

“That’s what I said. I heard from one of my mother’s colleagues that — ”

The woman is whispering something in Tom’s ear, her hair on his cheek. He’s looking at you as if you had said the words. You don't shy away when Oliver leans in to whisper too. It's a strange, fractured language. Too intimate while too detached. Whispers from across the room, desire from another in the place of desire for each other. But the strangeness should not surprise you anymore. This is Tom: beautiful and wicked and the one you chose.

“ — And Nundus are worse. Deadliest creature there is — ”

She’s laughing about something, the woman. Half-reserved, she’s angled toward the party despite her leaning on his shoulder and the dissipating inches of distance.

“ — They stalk in silence. Think of the size of one, right? They’re apex predators… so commanding and still they could be in front of you one instant and gone the next.”

You engage with detached interest. “Really?”

And now Oliver barricades your view, his other hand coming to rest on your other shoulder.

“Do we have any classes together?”

You blink up at him. “No.”

“No, right,” he says, eyes darting to your lips. “I’d remember you.”

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you wonder if for some men one-sided discussions of class five beasts qualify as foreplay.

You place a hand on his chest, eyebrows raised and half a startled smile curled.

“You’re not going to kiss me," you inform him.

His face falls, but with it, at least, does his hand.

“Did you hear me?"

“It’s loud,” he decides suddenly. “Can we go somewhere else?”

You’re not sure you believe that.

You duck under an arm and search the crowd again. The woman is on the arm of the chair looking thoroughly dismayed, and for good reason —

Tom is gone.

Your breath is caught.

“This isn’t… You’re not going to…?”

You flash Oliver with a glare. “So you did hear me.”

He makes a pathetically sad face, and you think: it’s a wonder he made it this far when his courtship evidently hinges on the subject of his affection not listening to a word out of his mouth.

“Goodnight, Oliver,” you say tersely.

“What was that for, then?” he asks, and it comes out practically whined.

“That was talking.”

“But you’re —”

“Belby.”

He is what he is. It shouldn’t surprise you when he appears beside you all fatal rage on a quiet lead, narrowly fixed to you.

Tom’s cold is his median temperature, yes, but in moments like this it’s as much for you as his handmade warmth. He’d pluck the fingers off a boy like Oliver. The digits would string eaves like icicles.

Oliver is looking between you and Tom like something terrible has dawned on him, hands urged to his pockets to soothe the flames your unveiled ties to a man seemingly singed him with.

“Riddle — Mate, I didn’t… I didn’t know she was…”

Tom’s voice is flat, edged with something that makes his monotony sound merciful. “Pity. If only you knew as much as you talked.”

Oliver’s mouth opens and closes and opens again, but wisely he settles on silence instead of excuses, and wastes no time fleeing slowly into the crowd.

The instant he's stolen by the wave Tom's eyes are on yours and they’re molten. You move to say something but his patience was for show — he’s dragging you by the arm out of the common room and into one of the dungeon's empty classrooms without giving you the chance.

“Tom —" You start to protest, mouth twisted in a scowl. “Tom, you're being —"

He shuts the door behind you and locks it with such delicacy your breath catches at the question of how badly he's holding himself back right now.

“I'm being what?"

“You're…" It's hard to formulate an answer when he's like this. “It was a game. Don’t pretend you weren’t playing too."

Tom inches in, chest rising with angry breaths. “A game, was it? Did he know that?"

“Did she?” you hiss.

“It certainly became apparent when she was discarded so that I might retrieve you.”

“It was as apparent to Belby, judging by the way he was left gawking.”

“And with great restraint I let him. A mercy I didn’t take his eyes so he was left without the ability.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, now I understand; the problem wasn’t the game, it’s that I played it better than you.”

He looks at you for a long time before casting a silencing charm on the room.

Oh.

Oh — your heart barrels off somewhere. You’re without it for a moment, breathless in the wake of the implication of a spell like that.

“Tom," you say politically, “It was hardly a matter of rescuing.”

He nods imperceptibly. “No, it wasn’t.”

“So we’re in agreement.”

He hums a non-answer.

Each step he takes forward, you take back. It's a peculiar way to have a conversation, but part of the game, you suppose.

Interesting he’s still playing.

You still gasp when you inevitably hit the wall, hands going to the carved edge of a windowsill.

“You’re terrible when you win,” he whispers. His lips brush your ear.

You shudder, mouth dry as you press against his shoulder. “You’re worse when you lose.”

His mouth drags down your jaw but he refuses to kiss you, still withholding something, still holding back in some terrible, electrifying way. Instead one of his hands starts to dip down your side. You shiver as he grazes the skin of your breast, exposed by the cut of your dress, and continues down your waist. His mouth traces your bare shoulder as his tongue makes a slow pass, skin beneath leaping at his careful ministrations.

With long, slender fingers he's pulling your dress off button by button, torturously slow, and you feel mocked to have cleaned it earlier. You feel foolish to have left knowing the night would have ended like this regardless.

“Tom,” you say. His name is followed by staggered breaths. Your fingers are clutching the windowsill.

The air is thick as he watches you, flesh exposed by each undone catch. And still he will not kiss you, even as his lips trail along your collarbone and you start to tug instinctively at his belt. He makes the barest sound of disapproval and spins you to face the window, your hands urged on instinct to press against the glass.

“Tom...”

He hikes your dress up your thighs. It clings to your hips, a meagre two buttons left attached to keep it from falling.

Your wand clatters as his fingers work the clasp of your bra and his teeth skim your shoulder, leaving little bites he laves at softly with his tongue. You shudder, arching into him, searching for friction. His touch traverses the shape of you and stops feather-light between your legs.

“Tom —”

“Quiet," he admonishes, a little tut.

Your skin jumps at the caress of his fingers tracing deceptively timid up your thighs, like he hasn’t done this before, like it’s care and not punishment. His favourite oxymoron: the gentlest torture, the cruelest succour.

His index draws upon the lace of your underwear and tugs it aside with a tenderness that makes you gasp. Is there a way to press harder to the glass without breaking it? Is there ever enough to grab onto when he gets like this — so singularly focused on ruining you?

One of your hands latches onto the arm half-disappeared in your skirts instead, clinging steadfast to the white of its sleeve, your body swaying as if at sea. He keeps you steady, but this is his crown achievement: that he is all there is that can do it when you’re so singularly focused on being ruined by him.

The sinews of his forearm work imperceptibly under your fingers as he appreciates the newly unfettered flesh, two digits sliding between your legs, and he makes a satisfied sound against your shoulder at the wetness he finds there.

You’re swallowing air with a moan stuck in your throat; too dry, you realise, and feel like you’re choking when he starts to move, gripping his arm somehow tighter.

As a rule, you know how much he loves this, but it’s tenfold under his jealousy and you think deliriously, probably wrongly, that for how much he enjoys pushing you you enjoy pushing him to get here. You’re his and he’s yours, there’s no doubt in it — but what he can reduce you to — this is the translation; the fruition of his fixations put to a person rather than a subject. This is what it is to be his.

Tom’s mouth opens in a smile at your throat, and there it feels more like bared teeth, a smile that is as animal as it is pretty.

And still he whispers with all the affection of a lover, your name peppered between kisses.

His fingers inch inside you and curl. You’re wedged in the perfect balance of his discrepancy; your disciple and your devil. He worships you in white. He ruins you in it too.

Now his name comes out in a babble, wet, half-drooled. A nip pinches the little space beneath your ear and you clutch impossibly harder to his wrist, your free hand squeaking down the window pane as you grind on his palm. He crooks his fingers against a spot that has you seeing stars, thumb pressed to your clit in a subtle motion, and you feel yourself tip off into an unknown he aquaints you with often. In a blurry, flickering moment, the light gleams somewhere beyond the stained hues of the window. And that should be it. The edge is at your heels and you should be falling. But the sinful press of him at your back commands you to lurch against him, and when you moan for more he pulls his fingers free.

You stumble weakly into his chest, startled.

“What… What?”

“Ask me for it,” he says, his voice hoarse, markedly wanton in spite of himself. But there is hunger and there is greed. There’s a sacrificial lamb and there’s a hunted one— there’s religion and there’s Tom. He invents something that demands greater devotion.

And the sound of leather rasping serge and metal clinking metal reels your conscience in. There are no stars. There’s just him. His belt is coming undone.

“Tom.” You swallow. “I told you —”

“And I want you to ask.” He cups your jaw in his hand, thumb tracing your lower lip. “Nicely.”

Your mouth opens for him and you shiver, pressing further back for contact he doesn’t allow. Instead another small tut is whispered at your neck, relinquished to a kiss.

His finger brushes your teeth when you speak. “I want you.”

You feel him shake his head and you all but whine.

“I want you inside, Tom — need you — please.”

“Please?” he echoes mockingly.

“Please,” you say in an uneven voice, and when your tongue grazes his thumb he eases it further into your mouth with an appeased hum.

And so his zipper comes down and you hold your breath with the weight of your dress at your hips.

He pushes inside you with minimal pause, slow still, to relish the way your little pants hitch, stop, and shudder out in a broken moan; the way your breath is guided by his rhythm, how you’re shaped by him, fitted around him. You careen forward and your palms flatten on the window, trembling at the first thrust. Your fingers quiver down the glass.

Tom pulls you into him on the second, patience abandoned. His lips chase your pulse. His grip on your jaw tightens as his thumb pops free with a string of spit. He nudges deeper at a new angle, your body forced as far as it can lean back, gasping heavenward when your head falls helplessly onto his shoulder.

It’s profane. Your ears almost dull to the sound of his hips snapping against yours, the obscenity of your skin on what he offers of his, but you waver between earth and something else, brought back to him by the torturous sight of the edge he stole you from. Always brought back to him.

He’s gripping your jaw in one hand as he pushes deeper, and your fingers are lost for purchase on his forearms, trembling to hold onto something.

When he pulls out of you at your brink again, you practically cry out. But you understand when he spins you around again, hiking you up against the windowsill, your shoulders hitting the cool glass with a gasp you barely register in the fog of your desperation. His eyes are dilated to midnight rings. The weight of his desire is frightening. The insistence to claim you better yet.

He wastes no time before slamming into you again, pausing at the hilt to watch your eyebrows wrench together before resuming his pace. When your mouth falls open, he swallows the noise that tries to come out of it.

It doesn’t feel like a kiss. It feels like the prolusion to a bite.

His fervour is all the reminder of how you got here in the first place; the teeth, the force, the grip on your waist. There’s a rough sound he makes in your mouth that you taste more than you hear. The vibration of him is everywhere. You’re too hot and it only occurs to you because your fingers are clawing at fabric instead of skin that he’s fully dressed and your last button has finally snapped, lace pooled on the classroom floor as he fucks you. The thought is consigned to oblivion as quickly as it came. It doesn't matter.

You're clutching at his shoulders, the nape of his neck — trying to kiss him back, but you feel torn in two by the intensity of his ministrations, a low, immolating pressure building in your abdomen. He’s proving something with you, and his is a relentless, unending appetite. You don't really stand a chance. You think you've known that from the start.

Tom is all-consuming. Tom is a force of nature, a whirlwind that sweeps over you. He leaves you breathless and somehow needing more as he wraps his hand around the small of your back and seizes you in place.

Still you find yourself wanting to be held tighter.

“T-Tom —" you sob through the kiss but he doesn't give you enough air to do it. He pushes harder, a rasp at the back of his throat, some carnal thing. He’s not withholding your release now; he’s spurring you towards it.

When he withdraws his lips from yours, his brows are furrowed in concentration. There’s a fine lustre of sweat on his forehead, stray curls pulled across dark, wicked eyes. The sight of him alone is condemnable, but it isn’t for you.

He likes to watch you like this. When your moans dissolve to the torn syllable of his name, again and again. The veneration. Your choked litanies.

You give them to him.

Sleeves drawn up by your body’s baser instinct for skin, you’ve carved a canvas of praise into his arms, marked up to his elbows where your fingers had jerked upward to rake at his back. This time, when you find the cliffside, nothing stops you from teetering off its edge. Flames dance across your skin in an explosion, your collar damp and bitten, your waist in Tom’s vice-like grip. One hard thrust and you’re falling.

The stars are blinding. You decide then they were made by him.

Your head lulls back as shocks of pleasure course through your body, the coil snapped, the hard shape of him inside you demanding impossibly for more. You stumble through the light, vision blurred, praying and praying and praying. His grip comes to find your jaw again.

You keen, addled through the ecstasy, barely conscious of the way his panted breaths hitch at the sight of you in his hands, soft-eyed and puddy.

He always comes apart soon after you, but it happens rarely that your body is so taut on the wire of rapture that his twitching inside you takes you with him.

This time it does.

You sink against him, thighs numb and wet, one hand slipping dumbly from his figure and swiping across condensation-foggy glass. The second orgasm is an aftershock of the first. It’s slow. It feels like being caught from the last fall. You land in Tom’s arms and they’re holding you through whitened knuckles. His eyelashes flutter, ink-dipped twines of quills, and he steals the shaky sigh from your mouth by pressing it to his.

You kiss lazily and softly. The room feels sheeted in static. The electricity lingers on both of you.

It’s hard not to fall against the window when he slides out of you. You slump on quivering legs into his chest instead, heaving, spend trickling down your legs.

Tom holds you close, adjusting his trousers before sinking down to settle you on his lap. He wipes the sweat from your face and presses his lips to the feverish skin it plastered. Forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, whispers of your name down your jaw like a prayer answered. Your eyelids flutter shut and he kisses you there, too. His lashes tickle.

You love him more than you worship him. You think he likes that more.

He grabs your forsaken dress from the floor and slips it over your bare shoulders, summoning the snapped button back in place before he begins to meticulously clasp the rest together again. His mouth leaves a path at the skin under each one before it closes, and you hum in dizzy gratitude.

“That was,” you say in a very worn voice, “a terrible way to reinforce not making you jealous.”

He glares at you from one of the lowermost buttons and you giggle sleepily, curling a hand into his hair. “Don’t look at me like that. You liked it too.”

He leans back up at that, tipping your chin with his fingers, gaze darting over the wrecked state of you with a pleased gleam in his eyes. “You liked it? What a modest interpretation.”

Now it’s your turn to glare.

He is what he is — pursuit of buttons forgotten as you’re laid down on the moonlit floor to be reminded just how much you liked it.

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