#Not quite falling back in love but something close to it

[sixeyesonathiel]

love comes in small sizes

chapter one : fatherhood dlc unlocked!

pairing – ex situationship gojo x fem reader

summary : you and satoru have always been something—never labeled, never defined. from jujutsu high to stolen rooftop kisses, your dynamic is a mess of healing hands, half-confessions, and his infuriating habit of getting hurt just to keep your attention.

but when the weight of loss and pride tears you apart, you walk away—until fate (and a tiny, pink-backpack-wearing menace) drags you back into his orbit six years later.

tags –> canon divergence au, fluff, angst, humor, hurt/comfort, unlabeled relationship, grovelling satoru, secret child trope, reunions, miscommunications, second chances, happy ending for my own sanity

series masterlist. | other works here. | next.

you and satoru gojo have always been something.

it’s just never been labeled.

from the moment you met at jujutsu high, he’s been a persistent force in your life—loud, overbearing, impossible to ignore. he pokes and prods, worms his way under your skin, grinning all the while like he knows exactly what he’s doing. and maybe he does. because despite your best efforts, despite the way you roll your eyes when he drapes himself over you or tugs at your sleeves like a child craving attention, you never really push him away.

it’s not just him, though.

because when he gets himself banged up on missions—when he returns with blood crusted at the edges of his uniform, bruises forming along his jaw, the scent of battle clinging to his skin—you’re always the first to reach for him. your hands glow with soft, golden light, the warmth of your cursed energy threading into his wounds, coaxing his body to knit itself back together. petals flicker at your fingertips, dissolving into faint sparks of vitality as you work, the remnants of your technique blooming in the air between you.

“you’re reckless!” you snap one evening, pressing your palm firmly against his shoulder where a deep gash is slowly knitting itself back together under your touch. his uniform is torn, the edges stiff with dried blood, and you can feel the way his muscles twitch beneath your fingers, still tense from the battle. “you always do this. you push yourself too far, like you think you’re invincible—”

“well,” satoru interrupts, flashing a toothy grin, his glasses pushed up just enough to reveal the brilliant blue of his eyes, “i kind of am.”

his voice is light, teasing, but you can feel the way he’s watching you—closely, carefully, like he’s waiting for something. the smirk he wears is easy, practiced, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, not when he’s tilting his head just slightly to the side, pressing into your touch like it’s the only thing anchoring him. and you hate that it works, that even now, even with blood still drying against his skin, he makes you want to soften. you press your fingers harder against his wound instead, ignoring the way he winces.

“not funny,” suguru chimes in from across the room, his voice steady, edged with something like exasperation. he’s lounging on the couch, flipping through a magazine like he’s only half-listening, but you know better—he’s watching, just like you are, waiting for satoru to take this seriously. “she’s right, you know. if you keep acting like you can’t get hurt, one day you will.”

“oh, come on,” satoru groans, tilting his head back against your lap dramatically, the weight of him pressing against your legs. his hair, messy from the fight, falls over his forehead in uneven strands, white against the deep red of his uniform. “not you too.”

shoko, sitting cross-legged on the floor, exhales a slow stream of smoke from her cigarette, her eyes lidded with fatigue. “they’re not wrong,” she mutters, flicking her gaze toward you. there’s something knowing in the way she looks at you, something amused. “you’re enabling him, you know.”

you scoff, fingers glowing faintly as the last of his wound seals shut beneath your touch. the golden light of your cursed technique flickers briefly, petals of energy curling along his skin before fading. “i am not enabling him,” you argue, shaking your head. “i’m keeping him alive.”

“see?” satoru grins, nudging your thigh with the back of his hand, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the fabric of your pants. “she cares about me.”

shoko scoffs. “no one’s arguing that.”

suguru finally glances up, closing his magazine with a quiet thud, something unreadable in his expression. “just don’t let him drag you down with him.”

your fingers still against satoru’s skin for just a fraction of a second, your breath catching in your throat before you shake your head, forcing yourself to keep moving. “as if.”

but suguru just hums, unconvinced.

and maybe he has a point.

because this is your dynamic: you take care of satoru, and he lets you. you worry, and he pretends there’s nothing to worry about. he teases, you scold, he grins, you sigh. and beneath it all, something quiet lingers, something neither of you are willing to name.

and if he lets himself get wounded just once, just enough for you to heal him—if he lets a single well-timed hit slip past his defenses, allows an enemy to believe, for the briefest moment, that they’ve bested him—well. that’s his secret.

it’s calculated, precise, a game only he knows he’s playing. he times it perfectly, choosing the kind of wound that won’t alarm you too much, won’t make you furious enough to see through him. a shallow cut here, a bruised rib there—just enough to warrant your hands on him, to feel the warmth of your cursed energy bloom against his skin. because no one touches him like you do. no one else can.

you’re careful with him, always, even when you’re mad—especially when you’re mad. your fingers press firmly against his skin, your lips pressed together in concentration, a deep furrow between your brows that he finds himself staring at more often than he should. your cursed energy hums through him, soothing in a way nothing else ever is, wrapping around him like petals caught in the wind—delicate, fleeting, something he wants to hold in his hands but knows will slip through his fingers if he grips too tightly.

so he watches you, through half-lidded eyes, through lashes that are a little too long and glasses that slip just slightly down the bridge of his nose. he commits the moment to memory—the feel of you, the way you hover so close but never quite meet his gaze, like looking at him too long will make you realize something you don’t want to. he wants you to realize it. he wants you to notice the way his breathing slows under your touch, the way he always finds a reason to lean just a little closer.

but you never do. or maybe you just pretend not to.

so he lets himself get hurt, just enough. lets himself have this, just for a little while longer. because if a single wound is the price for your hands on him, for the way you fuss and scold and heal him all the same, then—well. that’s a price he’s more than willing to pay.

but then, one summer night, something shifts.

it’s late—too late to be sneaking around campus, but that’s never stopped him before. the air is thick with the lingering warmth of the day, cicadas humming lazily in the distance. the two of you are perched on the roof of the dorms, your legs dangling over the edge, the wind stirring your hair as you watch the city lights flicker beyond the trees. it’s peaceful, or at least it should be, but satoru is shifting beside you, too fidgety, too present, like he’s itching to say something but hasn’t quite figured out how.

“so.” he nudges you with his elbow, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair, silver strands catching in the glow of the moon. his eyes, unshielded, are startlingly bright even in the dim light, a vivid cerulean that traps every flicker of movement like a kaleidoscope. “you like anyone?”

you glance at him, raising an eyebrow, unimpressed. “what?”

he grins, but there’s something a little too deliberate about it, the corner of his mouth curling just so. “you know. anyone in particular? anyone special?”

it’s meant to be casual. lighthearted. but there’s something just beneath the surface, something careful and quiet in the way he’s looking at you. his fingers tap idly against his knee, his posture loose, but you can feel the tension coiled just beneath his skin, like he’s holding his breath.

you hum, pretending to think, tilting your head slightly. “maybe.”

his grin widens, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “yeah?”

“yeah.” you tap your fingers against the edge of the rooftop, the faintest flicker of cursed energy sparking at your touch, like an afterthought. the air shifts, charged with something unspoken, something weightier than the teasing banter you’re used to. “he’s a pain in the ass, though.”

“must be a great guy.” his voice is light, but there’s an edge to it, something strained and expectant.

“oh, he is.” you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, watching the way his jaw tenses just slightly. his lips part like he wants to say something, but no words come. “except he never shuts up.”

“rude.” he gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense, his other hand bracing against the rooftop beside you. he’s closer now, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the faint brush of his knee against yours. “i am a fantastic listener.”

you snort. “sure, satoru.”

but he’s still watching you, still leaning just a little too close, his breath feather-light against your skin. the glow of the city lights flickers in his eyes, catching on the sharp angles of his face, softening the usual mischief in his expression into something quieter, something almost careful. his lips part like he wants to say something, but he hesitates, tongue flicking out to wet them before he closes his mouth again. his fingers twitch against the rooftop, curling and uncurling like he’s resisting the urge to reach for you, like the only thing keeping him still is the weight of whatever he’s holding back.

and then, just as you’re about to look away—

“you know,” he says, voice softer now, like he’s testing the weight of his own words, “if you did like me, i wouldn’t mind.”

your breath catches, the warmth of the night suddenly pressing too close, thick and stifling against your skin. cicadas drone in the distance, but the sound barely registers, drowned out by the rushing in your ears, the quickening of your pulse. the wind stirs your hair, cool against the heat creeping up your neck, but it does nothing to ground you when he’s right there, close enough that you can see the way his lashes flutter, the way his throat bobs as he swallows. the moment stretches, fragile and precarious, balanced on the edge of something neither of you can quite name.

he shrugs, tilting his head like it doesn’t mean anything, like he hasn’t just shifted the entire atmosphere between you. “i think we’d be good together.” the words are light, almost offhand, but his fingers betray him again, tightening into fists against his knees before forcing themselves to relax. his lips twitch at the corners, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk—something caught between expectation and defense, bracing himself for whatever comes next. the confidence in his voice doesn’t match the way his body betrays him, and it hits you then—he’s nervous.

your heartbeat quickens, hammering against your ribs, the weight of his words settling into your chest with something sharp and dizzying. you swallow, throat suddenly dry, fingers pressing against the rooftop like you need something to hold onto. “is that so?” your voice is steadier than you expect, but there’s something uncertain about the way it lingers between you, something questioning, something hopeful.

“yeah.” his gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t drop, doesn’t shift away like he’s waiting for you to call his bluff. he leans in, just barely, just enough for his knee to brush yours, for his breath to ghost against your cheek, for the air between you to thin into nothing. “it is.” 

he’s waiting. you could push him away, laugh it off like you always do. you could pretend this is just another one of his games.or—

you let the moment stretch, your fingers tightening in your lap, cursed energy sparking faintly against your skin. the world narrows, the sound of the cicadas fading, the city lights blurring at the edges of your vision. and then, before you can second-guess yourself, before you can let yourself hesitate, you lean in, pressing your lips to his.

he makes a small sound of surprise—quickly swallowed by the way he cups your face, the way he kisses you like he’s been waiting forever. his hand slips to the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, his touch warm and sure. he leans into you, pressing closer, like he wants to drown in the moment, like he wants to lose himself in you.

and maybe he does.

because the next thing you know, he’s pulling you into his lap, arms wrapping around your waist, his grip possessive in a way that makes your breath hitch. his infinity is off, the faint hum of his technique gone, and it’s only then that you realize—he wants this. wants to feel you, every point of contact, every shiver that runs through you as he presses open-mouthed kisses to your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.

“satoru.” you murmur, fingers curling against his chest.

he exhales a shaky laugh, his forehead resting against yours. “just let me have this.” he whispers, and for once, there’s no teasing lilt to his voice. no cocky bravado. just quiet, aching sincerity.

the night stretches on, the cicadas singing their endless summer song, and somewhere between the tangled sheets and the soft, breathless laughter, you think—maybe he’s been waiting for you, too.

after that night, everything changes.

not all at once—at first, it’s subtle. the way satoru lingers a little too long when he passes you in the hallways, his fingers ghosting against your wrist before he pulls away like it never happened. the way he leans in when you speak, as if he needs to hear every single word, as if your voice is something he can’t go without. the way his gaze finds you in a crowded room, even when you’re not looking back, even when you pretend you don’t feel it burning into your skin.

but then, it happens again.

it happens when he grabs your wrist after training, dragging you away before you can protest, his grip loose but insistent. “come on, let’s go. training is boring, and it’s not like you need it—you already have a god-given talent. or, well, a you-given talent, i guess.” he flashes that insufferable grin, the one that makes it impossible to say no, the one that makes it feel like you’re the only one who matters. his thumb brushes over the inside of your wrist before he lets go, like he’s reluctant to lose the contact. like he’s testing a boundary neither of you are willing to acknowledge.

it happens when he shoves a half-melted ice cream into your hands, his own already half-eaten, a smudge of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. “i got your favorite,” he says, like it’s nothing, like he didn’t memorize the exact flavor you picked out the last time. and when you reach out with your thumb, swiping the chocolate away, his mouth closes over your finger without hesitation—lips warm, tongue flickering against your skin, blue eyes watching your reaction like he’s waiting for you to flinch.

but you don’t.

it happens when you end up pressed against the side of a vending machine, his hands braced on either side of you, his breath warm against your cheek. the fluorescent lights flicker, his sunglasses slipping just low enough for you to see his eyes—half-lidded, unreadable, something unspoken resting just behind them. he tilts his head, his lips brushing against yours, not quite a kiss, but close enough that it feels like one. and when you let out a slow, shaky breath, his fingers skim against your waist, trailing up the fabric of your uniform, just light enough to make you shiver.

it happens when he sneaks into your dorm after curfew, flopping onto your bed like he owns it, his hair messy from the wind, the scent of the night still clinging to his clothes. “move over,” he complains, but he’s already pressing against your side, already hooking his chin over your shoulder, already making himself at home in your space like he belongs there. and when you sigh, when you give in, he grins against your skin, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your shirt like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

and then, it just keeps happening.

but it also happens in other ways.

like when you fall asleep in class, forehead pressed against your arm, and you wake up to find his jacket draped over your shoulders, the faintest trace of his scent lingering in the fabric. you don’t mention it, don’t thank him, but the next time he dozes off, you tug your scarf loose and wrap it around his neck, watching the way his lips twitch in something like satisfaction even in sleep.

or when he holds his umbrella over your head instead of his own when it rains, his hair dripping wet, grinning like an idiot when you call him stupid. “what? i have my own built-in defense system,” he teases, tapping his temple like he’s making a point. but he doesn’t turn infinity on, not once, even when the water beads against his skin, soaking through his shirt. even when you huff and tug him under the umbrella properly, even when he bumps his shoulder against yours and murmurs, “see? you do care.”

or when he shoves a handful of candies into your pocket, grinning when you shoot him a confused look. “i know you like these.” he says, voice light, offhanded, like it isn’t something he noticed just from watching you. later, you find a small sticky note tucked between them, a doodle of himself with his tongue sticking out, with tiny scribbled words beneath: for when you miss me. you will.

it’s not a relationship, not exactly. neither of you say anything about it, neither of you try to define it. but there’s a shift between you now, something thick and heavy in the air, something that settles in the pit of your stomach whenever he looks at you like that.

like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

like he knows you won’t.

and when it happens again—when his lips finally, finally press against yours, when his weight settles over you, pinning you down in a way that makes your breath hitch—there’s no hesitation. there’s no teasing remark, no cocky grin, just the warmth of his hands on your skin, just the quiet hum of satisfaction when you pull him closer. he doesn’t turn infinity on, doesn’t keep any distance between you, lets himself feel you completely, like some lovesick idiot. like he wants to remember exactly how this moment feels, how you feel.

shoko notices first.

it’s not even subtle—the way she leans back against the school’s rooftop railing, cigarette dangling from her lips, eyes half-lidded in amusement as she watches you fuss over satoru’s scraped knuckles. he’s practically melting under your touch, his head tilting slightly as if he’s trying to press more into your palm without making it obvious. you’re focused, brows drawn together, lips pursed in mild annoyance at his carelessness, but your hands are gentle, fingers skimming over his skin with practiced ease. his long legs are stretched out in front of him, his glasses perched low on his nose, letting you see the way his bright blue eyes soften when they flicker up to meet yours.

“so, are you two, like… a thing?” shoko asks, lazily exhaling a puff of smoke, watching the way satoru’s mouth twitches at the question.

“no,” you say immediately, your voice firm, but at the same time, satoru hums, “hmm, maybe?”

your head snaps toward him, brows raising in disbelief, while he merely grins like he expected this reaction. his free hand comes up to push his sunglasses up properly, but the motion is slow, languid, like he’s trying to keep his grin hidden behind his palm. shoko lets out a snort, flicking the ash off the tip of her cigarette, unimpressed.

“yeah, okay.”

suguru is quieter about it, but he doesn’t need to say anything. it’s in the way his gaze lingers when satoru drapes himself over you, in the way his lips twitch like he’s holding back a knowing smile whenever you roll your eyes but don’t push satoru away. when satoru unceremoniously drops himself onto your lap one afternoon, long limbs sprawling across the bench, suguru doesn’t comment. he just looks at you, looks at the way your fingers absently thread through satoru’s hair, the way his lashes flutter at the contact, and he knows.

“you’re really serious about her, huh?” suguru muses one evening, when it’s just the two of them on the rooftop, the sky bleeding into shades of deep purple and burnt orange.

satoru scoffs, stuffing his hands into his pockets, but there’s no real bite to it. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

suguru only shrugs, turning his gaze toward the horizon, the wind ruffling his dark hair. “nothing. just wondering.”

but if there’s one thing about suguru, it’s that he doesn’t wonder about things unless he already knows the answer.

still, life goes on. there are missions, there are late-night walks, there are stupid jokes and stolen glances and moments where the world feels like it’s standing still, like it will always be this way. satoru still rests his chin on your shoulder when he’s bored, still tugs on your sleeve when he wants your attention, still lets his infinity down when you touch him. suguru still watches with quiet amusement, still nudges satoru’s foot under the table when he gets too obvious, still exchanges glances with shoko that say this idiot is hopeless. everything feels steady, like nothing could possibly go wrong.

until it does.

until riko amanai dies. until satoru comes back from that mission looking—different.

his presence is still overwhelming, still too much, but there’s something sharp underneath it now, something cold that wasn’t there before. his shoulders are broader, his stance heavier, his hands looser at his sides, like he’s more aware of their power now. he’s grinning, like always, like nothing’s changed, but it doesn’t reach his eyes—not really. the endless blue of them looks deeper now, like a well with no bottom, like something in him has caved in and been swallowed whole. he’s stronger, untouchable, but suddenly, it feels like he’s farther away than he’s ever been.

and worse than that—suguru is slipping.

you feel it before you fully understand it. the way his voice is quieter, the way his patience wears thinner, the way he sighs more often, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s tired in a way that sleep won’t fix. his words become sharper, his glances more distant, and when you reach for him—when you try to hold onto whatever is still left—he only offers you a fleeting smile, a ghost of what it used to be.

one day, you watch satoru and suguru stand side by side, just like always—just like they always have. satoru is saying something, something cocky and arrogant and so typically him, but suguru doesn’t bite back the way he used to. he just listens, nods absently, something unreadable flickering in his expression. and for the first time, it feels like there’s a canyon between them, a chasm that wasn’t there before, widening with every passing second.

you don’t know it yet, but things will never be the same again.

one year passes.

twelve months, fifty-two weeks, three hundred and sixty-five days—each one dragging by in a haze, dissolving into the next like watercolors bleeding together. sometimes, satoru forgets where he is, what day it is, what he was supposed to be doing before his mind wandered again. everything feels muted, muffled, like he’s watching the world through a fogged-up window. time keeps moving, but nothing feels real.

suguru is gone.

satoru barely blinks when it happens. it should feel like something—something bigger, something louder, something that shakes the world the way it shakes his chest. but all he does is sit there, in the quiet aftermath of his best friend’s defection, listening to yaga’s words like they’re coming from underwater. the room is too small, too tight, pressing against the edges of his skin, and yet he’s weightless, floating in some vast nothingness where things don’t really matter. his fingers twitch, restless, aching for something to crush between them, but what’s the point? if he destroys the walls, the floor, the entire goddamn building, it won’t bring suguru back. it won’t change a thing.

he doesn’t remember leaving the room, but suddenly he’s outside, staring at the sky. it’s clear, painfully so, stars scattered across the darkness like someone thought to mock him with how vast it is. the wind tugs at his uniform, cool against his too-warm skin, and still, he doesn’t feel anything. it doesn’t make sense. none of it does. suguru wouldn’t leave. suguru is—was—his other half, the one who understood him in ways no one else could. he has you, he has shoko—but it’s not the same. it will never be the same. satoru is the strongest. the strongest doesn’t lose things.

except now he has. and no matter how tightly he grips the edges of his own world, everything still slips through his fingers.

you find him there, quiet for once, his head tilted back as he watches the stars. the moonlight catches on his white hair, turning it almost silver, his sunglasses hanging loosely between his fingers. you don’t say anything right away, just stand beside him, close enough that your shoulder almost brushes his. he’s grateful for that, the silent understanding, the way you don’t push him to talk when he doesn’t want to. but it’s you—you—and eventually, your voice cuts through the thick, choking air.

“come inside, satoru.”

he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “not yet.”

you hesitate, then sigh, your fingers brushing over his sleeve. it’s light, barely there, but he still feels it. you’re real. that’s something, at least.

“you can’t keep doing this.”

he doesn’t know what you mean—staring at the sky? ignoring everything? pretending suguru didn’t leave?—but he just laughs, a short, hollow sound, and grins at you like none of this matters. like he isn’t crumbling under the weight of something he refuses to name. “doing what?”

you don’t smile back.

you don’t say anything at all.

but your fingers tighten against his sleeve, just for a second, just enough for him to feel the warmth of you before you step away.

and he can’t—he won’t—let that happen.

before you can take another step, his fingers close around your wrist, pulling you back toward him. it’s not gentle, but it’s not rough either—just firm, desperate in a way he won’t let himself acknowledge. you stumble slightly, your palm landing against his chest, and he doesn’t let you move away.

“don’t,” he says, barely above a whisper. his voice is raw, frayed at the edges, like he’s holding something back. his fingers tighten, his grip the only thing grounding him. “not yet.”

your eyes search his, looking for something, anything, but he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to give you. he only knows that he needs you to stay.

“satoru…” your voice wavers, and he hates it—hates that you sound like you pity him, hates that you might see him for what he really is. but you don’t pull away.

his free hand lifts to your face, brushing against your cheek, barely there, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he holds too tightly. you don’t. you stay.

and then you’re kissing him. or maybe he’s kissing you. it doesn’t matter—he just knows that your lips are warm, that your hands clutch at his jacket, that he’s losing himself in the way you breathe against his mouth. it’s messy, uncoordinated, more about needing than anything else. he doesn’t care.

he just wants.

it doesn’t take long before he’s pushing you inside, backing you into his room, his grip never loosening. you let him. maybe you need this too. maybe you need something real just as much as he does.

it’s not love. not really. it’s a desperate, clumsy attempt to hold onto something—each other, maybe, or just the pieces of a world that’s slipping through both of your fingers. it’s the press of his body against yours, the way his hands shake against your skin, the way neither of you speak because there’s nothing left to say.

when it’s over, you stay, your fingers tracing idle patterns against his skin. his arms are loose around you, his breathing slow, almost steady. but he’s not asleep. he won’t sleep. not tonight.

his grip tightens just slightly, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. it’s unhealthy. he knows it. you do too. but neither of you move.

not yet.

a month later, you come to him late at night, standing in his doorway like you’re already bracing for a fight. your arms are crossed tight over your chest, fingers gripping at the fabric of your sleeves, like you need something to hold on to. your weight shifts from one foot to the other, hesitant, uncertain, like you’re not sure if you should even be here. but your eyes—your eyes are worried. tired. heavy with something he can’t quite name yet, but it makes his stomach twist all the same.

“satoru, we need to talk.”

he groans, throwing himself back onto his bed like a petulant child, limbs sprawled carelessly across the sheets. his uniform jacket is crumpled beneath him, the collar tugging awkwardly at his neck, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. instead, he throws an arm over his eyes, sighing dramatically. “ugh, if this is about me skipping out on yaga’s stupid lectures again—”

“it’s not about that.”

your voice is clipped, firm in a way that makes his fingers twitch where they rest against his forehead. something in your tone makes him hesitate, but he doesn’t sit up just yet, doesn’t acknowledge the way his stomach knots at the sharp edge of it. instead, he props himself up on one elbow just enough to grin at you, lopsided and careless, blue eyes glinting in the dim light of his room. “then what? are you finally confessing your undying love for me?”

you exhale sharply through your nose, pressing your lips together so tightly they pale at the edges. your jaw tightens—not in frustration, but in restraint, like you’re biting back words you can’t afford to say. for the first time since you walked in, your gaze flickers away, dipping down toward the floor, then back up again. “satoru.”

his smirk falters.

it’s barely noticeable, the shift so subtle that most people wouldn’t catch it—but you’re not most people, and you always notice. he covers it up with a roll of his shoulders, a quick raking of fingers through his hair, but he can’t stop the way his chest tightens, the way something uneasy coils deep in his gut.

he doesn’t like it.

you take a breath, shoulders rising and falling with it, like you’re steadying yourself. your stance shifts, one foot moving slightly behind the other, like you need an escape route, just in case. “i—”

“’cause i mean, it’s pretty obvious.” he barrels right over whatever you were about to say, voice light, teasing—too quick. he leans back against the pillows, arms crossed behind his head, a lazy grin stretching across his lips. “can’t blame you, really. i am incredibly handsome. the strongest, too—”

“satoru, this is serious.”

your voice cuts through his like a knife.

his grin twitches, faltering at the edges, but he doesn’t let it fall completely. instead, he groans, sitting up in one fluid motion, his frustration bleeding through in the way he rakes a hand through his hair. his bangs fall messily over his forehead, but he doesn’t push them back this time. “yeah, yeah, everything is serious with you lately.” his words come out sharper than he intends, but he doesn’t stop. “you know, you used to be fun. we used to be fun. now all you do is worry, and nag, and—”

you flinch.

it’s small. barely a twitch of your fingers, a quick inhale, a tightening of your shoulders. but he sees it, and the moment he does, regret clenches in his throat.

too late.

your fingers curl in on themselves, your nails pressing into your palms. your expression remains composed, but he sees the cracks forming—the slight tremble in your exhale, the way your shoulders stiffen as if bracing for impact. “satoru, i need to tell you something.”

his pulse kicks up.

it’s barely noticeable, the way his fingers tighten around the fabric of his pants, but you’re not most people, and you always notice. there’s something about the way you say it—something final, something that makes his skin prickle with the kind of unease he can’t shake.

he doesn’t let you.

“what? that i’m reckless? that i’m changing?” he cuts in, sharp and bitter, words laced with something dangerously close to something real. something he doesn’t want to name. “yeah, i’ve heard it all before.”

“satoru—”

“what do you want me to do, huh?” his voice rises, frustration twisting into something uglier, something more desperate. “cry about it?”

a long, heavy pause.

your face shifts—something breaking, something splintering right in front of him, and he hates it. your gaze flickers downward, away from his, away from the conversation entirely. your fingers curl tighter, drifting to your stomach, barely grazing the fabric of your shirt like—

he doesn’t get the chance to figure it out. because whatever it is, whatever you were going to say, it dies before it can even reach him.

you exhale, slow and measured. your fingers curl deeper into your sleeves, knuckles turning white, tension wound so tight in your shoulders that it hurts. there’s something unreadable in your expression, something quiet and distant, and for the first time in a long time, satoru doesn’t know what you’re thinking. the uncertainty makes his skin itch, makes his stomach turn. and then, finally—

“nevermind. i’m leaving.”

he scoffs, an ugly, humorless sound, sharp and bitter in the stillness between you. his lips curl, not in a grin, but in something twisted, something that doesn’t reach his eyes. “yeah, right.”

but you don’t roll your eyes. you don’t laugh. you don’t give him the reaction he’s expecting, the easy back-and-forth that makes it all feel normal. you just look at him—long and quiet and sad, your fingers still trembling where they clutch your sleeves.

“i’m serious.”

his chest feels tight, like he’s breathing in smoke, like his ribs are about to crack under the weight of something he refuses to name. the words don’t settle right in his ears, don’t make sense in his head, don’t belong in your mouth. you don’t leave. not him. not this.

but then you say it—you tell him you can’t do this anymore, that you’re leaving jujutsu society, that you can’t watch him become someone he’s not. your voice is steady, but there’s something fragile in it, something raw at the edges, like you’re trying to convince yourself just as much as him. you say it like a choice, like something you’ve decided on, but all he can hear is that you’re leaving him.

and it makes him panic.

so he does what he always does when he panics—he lashes out.

“fine, go then.” his voice is venomous, cutting, every syllable sharpened into a weapon. he means for it to hurt. he needs it to hurt. “if you really think i’m so hopeless, just leave like he did.”

the second it’s out of his mouth, he wants to take it back.

because you freeze. because something inside you cracks, visible in the way your breath hitches, in the way your fingers curl into your palm like you need to hold something, anything, just to keep yourself together.

your mouth opens—then closes.

whatever words were lingering on your tongue, whatever truth you had been about to give him, they wither before they can take shape. they don’t belong here, not after what he’s said. not when he’s already decided to throw you into the same abyss as him. the realization settles in your chest like something sharp, something splintered, pressing against your ribs.

he doesn’t deserve to know. he doesn’t even want to know. so you just nod, slow and deliberate, as if committing this moment to memory—his face twisted with something between anger and regret, his fingers curled so tightly into the fabric of his pants that his knuckles go white. something hollow settles in your gaze, something distant, something final.

then you turn around.

and you walk away.

but just before you cross the threshold, just before the distance between you stretches into something permanent, you pause. your hand lingers on the doorframe, fingers splayed against the wood, as if you’re waiting—waiting for him to stop you, to say anything that might make this easier, to give you even the smallest reason to stay.

he doesn’t.

so you exhale, steady and soft, and when you finally speak, your voice is barely above a whisper. “i hope it’s worth it, satoru.”

he doesn’t ask what is ‘it’—his pride, his stubbornness, his refusal to let you in—because he knows. he knows. then you leave, and he watches you go, convinced you’ll come back.

(you don’t.)

six years pass him by, and it’s safe to say that it wasn’t worth it.

he never says it out loud—never lets the words leave his lips, never even lets himself think them too long—but the truth lingers, settling deep in his bones like a slow, creeping ache. he feels it in the way silence stretches too long in his apartment, in the way he still catches himself pausing at the door, expecting to hear your voice. it’s in the way his fingers twitch, like they still remember the shape of your wrist in his grasp, the way his bed feels too big now, empty in a way that nothing else quite fills. he tells himself it doesn’t matter. that he doesn’t care.

(he does.)

at first, he’s bitter. you left him. you gave up on him. just like he did.

the thought twists, ugly and sharp, digging into the tender parts of him that he refuses to acknowledge. he doesn’t dwell on it. won’t. he has better things to do, more important things—missions, responsibilities, a world that won’t stop turning just because he wants it to. so he throws himself into work, into being the strongest, into playing the role that everyone expects of him. if he keeps moving, if he keeps winning, maybe—maybe—he won’t have to think about what he lost.

but then the quiet comes.

it always does.

he can hold it off for a while, can drown it out in the noise of battle, the weight of duty, the voices of the students he’s taken under his wing. but eventually, when the dust settles and the world slows, when it’s just him and the empty space where you used to be, the silence seeps in, heavy and suffocating. it presses against his ribs, sits in the hollow of his chest, winds around his throat like something clawing for a home. and in those moments, there’s no ignoring it.

he dreams about you.

sometimes, they’re good. warm. the kind that make him wake up reaching for something that isn’t there. he dreams of your laughter—light and careless, curling around the edges of his mind like something precious. he dreams of your touch—the way you used to smooth your hands over his shoulders when you thought he wasn’t paying attention, the way your fingers would toy with the hem of his uniform absentmindedly, like you didn’t even realize you were doing it. he dreams of the way you used to look at him, with something so soft in your eyes, something he never knew how to name.

but other times, the dreams aren’t good.

sometimes you’re standing at the door, gaze unreadable, voice soft as you whisper, “i hope it’s worth it.” sometimes you’re walking away, and no matter how fast he moves, how desperately he reaches, he can’t catch up. sometimes you turn back, but there’s nothing left in your expression, like you’ve already disappeared, like you were never really there. and sometimes—sometimes, you don’t look back at all.

he thinks about looking for you. about dropping everything and scouring the world until he finds you, because if anyone can, it’s him.

but if you wanted to be found, you wouldn’t have left.

so he lets you go. or at least, he tries to. he tells himself it’s for the best, convinces himself that this—this missing, this hollow ache, this unbearable emptiness—is just another thing he has to live with. 

at least he pretends to.

and satoru seeing you again in what supposed to be an another monotone day clearly doesn't help his already pathetic facade.

he wasn't expecting to see you again, he dreamt about it often, that much is true but not like this.

not in the middle of a crowded mall, washed in artificial light, where the air smells faintly of buttered popcorn and overpriced coffee. not with the hum of idle chatter pressing in from all sides, footsteps tapping against the polished tiles, distant laughter ringing from a store playing a song he doesn’t recognize. not standing in front of a shelf filled with pastel notebooks and gel pens, head tilted in quiet contemplation as you skim the label of a glittery-covered planner. not looking so much like you that it knocks the breath from his lungs, like he’s been punched in the gut by the weight of time itself.

six years apart, and yet, seeing you now—nothing has changed.

your fingers still tap absently against the book’s spine, your brow still creases just slightly in thought, your weight still shifts from one foot to the other in that familiar, absentminded sway. it's the same little habits he used to watch from across a classroom, half-listening to you scold him for never taking notes, grinning when you’d huff in exasperation, muttering something about how even if you copied mine, you’d still flunk the test, gojo. it’s muscle memory now, the way he leans forward ever so slightly, the way his lips part to call your name before he even realizes it.

for a split second, he forgets the passage of time, forgets that you aren’t seventeen anymore, that he isn’t either, that the six-year gap between then and now has swallowed whole everything that was once soft between you.

somewhere between one breath and the next, his feet move on their own. he doesn’t remember closing the distance, but suddenly he’s there—standing right beside you, close enough to see the way the artificial lighting catches on the curve of your lashes, close enough that his pulse trips over itself in something stupidly close to nerves.

“woah,” he blurts out before he can stop himself, because he’s never been good at thinking before speaking, never been good at silence. his voice comes out rougher than he means, cracking on something fragile, so he leans into bravado, tilting his head with a grin like this doesn’t feel like the start of something dangerous. “didn’t take you for the cute little stationery type.”

you freeze.

not in an obvious way. it’s a flicker, a split-second hesitation, just the faintest shift in your shoulders, the way your fingers still against the spine of the planner. it’s long enough that something in his chest tightens, long enough that he wonders if you might run.

then, finally, you turn to him.

and satoru, for all his power, for all his foresight, for all his years of learning how to predict and anticipate—he’s completely unprepared.

your face is the same. but not really. the softness he remembers is still there, but refined, tempered into something quieter, something heavier. time has carved something sharper into the delicate lines of your features, something weary, something distant, something closed. and when your eyes meet his, something ugly churns in his gut at how unfamiliar it feels, how your gaze doesn’t hold him the way it used to—how it skims over him like he’s anyone else.

and then you open your mouth.

your lips part, hesitation flickering in your gaze, the faintest shift of your brows betraying something unreadable—something he isn’t sure he wants to name. for a moment, your throat bobs like you might say something else, something more, but then your expression settles into something carefully neutral. practiced. distant.

“gojo.”

not satoru. never satoru.

his stomach twists, and for a brief second, he hates himself for expecting anything different. of course, it would be gojo. of course, you would opt tl say his last name like it belonged to a stranger, disregard his first name like it was just a word, just a title—like you hadn’t once whispered it into his skin, like it hadn’t once meant home.

he exhales sharply, a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth, though it feels stiff, foreign, like it doesn't quite fit on his face anymore. his hands shove into his pockets, his shoulders rolling with a forced ease, but the tension lingers, settling somewhere in his spine.

“so,” he drawls, playing it easy, playing it light, playing it like the years between you never happened, “you a teacher now? or just hoarding sparkly pens?”

there’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe, or the ghost of it—passing through your expression. fleeting. barely there. but he catches it, latches onto it like a dying man gasping for air, like proof that maybe, just maybe, he isn’t the only one drowning in this moment.

and then you exhale, a quiet huff—not quite a laugh, but close enough that something in his chest clenches, tight and aching.

“it’s not for me.”

not for you.

his fingers twitch before he can stop them, the urge to reach out settling deep in his bones like an instinct he thought he’d long buried. his six eyes, ever-perceptive, drink you in without permission, tracing every minute detail, cataloging every shift in your stance. the way your shoulders hover between tension and ease, the way your weight subtly shifts as if you’re fighting the impulse to move—toward him or away, he can’t tell. but it’s your hands that betray you the most, your thumb brushing absently against your palm, slow and methodical, a grounding habit, a tell he never got the chance to memorize.

and yet, for all the little details his sight clings to, it’s the absence of something that twists like a knife beneath his ribs.

the faint indentation on your finger. a whisper of what once was—or maybe what never came to be. a ring should have been there. but it isn’t.

hope is a sickness, and it spreads fast, coiling through him like wildfire, igniting something reckless, something desperate. before he can stop himself, before he can think—before he can remind himself that hope has never done him any favors—the words slip out, raw and unfiltered as he stepped closer. “then who—”

but you do something he doesn’t expect. you step back. not much. just an inch.

but it’s enough.

enough to silence him, to lodge something cold and sharp in the hollow of his chest. enough to remind him that time is not a wound that can be rewound, that the six years between you are filled with things he was never there to witness. enough to remind him that no matter how tightly he might want to cling to the past, you have already let it go.

your expression doesn’t falter, doesn’t crack, but there’s something in the way your lashes lower just slightly, in the way your lips press together, careful and deliberate. restraint, or maybe consideration—like you’re choosing your words with more care than he deserves.

“it was nice seeing you, gojo.”

was. past tense. final.

his stomach twists, his throat constricts. he hates how easily you say it, how effortlessly you close the door between you.

you turn to leave. his whole body locks up. he should let you go. if he were a better man, he would let you go.

but he’s never been a good man, has he? never been selfless, never been someone who could bear to lose something precious to him—not again, not again, not again—

“wait,” he blurts out, reaching for you—

but in the corner of his vision, something shifts.

small. deliberate.

he doesn’t see it.

doesn’t see the way a tiny figure leans forward from behind a display shelf, chin tilted up in blatant curiosity, eyes sharp and calculating. doesn’t see the way her fingers tighten around the straps of her pink, glittery backpack like she’s bracing herself for something—like she’s trying to piece together the scene before her with the unrelenting scrutiny of someone who refuses to be left out.

she isn’t hesitant. she isn’t uncertain.

she watches.

studies.

eyes flicking between you and him, her expression shifting through something unreadable—thoughtful, shrewd, maybe even the slightest bit unimpressed, like she’s already decided she doesn’t like what she’s seeing.

he doesn’t see her.

doesn’t see the way she plants her feet, stance wide like she’s ready to charge forward and insert herself into the conversation the way only a child with too much confidence can. doesn’t see the way her tiny mouth presses into a firm, stubborn line, the way her nose scrunches in concentration, the way her little fingers drum against her arm as if waiting for the right moment to interrupt.

because right now, for the first time in six years, he finally saw you again. he only sees you.

he can only see you.

satoru doesn’t breathe.

not at first.

not when you disappear from sight, not when the absence of your presence leaves behind something gaping, something cold, something he doesn’t have the words to name. six years. six years of nothing, of static, of moving forward because what else was there to do but move? and now—now you were here, now you were leaving again, and if he doesn’t do something, doesn’t say something—

before he can even take a step, before he can even exhale—a tiny, pointed presence looms at his side.

looming shouldn’t be a word that applies to a child. but here she is. cornering him.

when he finally registers her, she’s already staring up at him, blue eyes sharp, head tilted in deep, almost theatrical thought. her posture is relaxed, but not in the way a child’s should be—no fidgeting, no nervous glances, no uncertainty. instead, there is something deliberate in the way she plants her feet, how she clasps her hands neatly in front of her, how she breathes so evenly it’s like she’s assessing him.

the soft scent of vanilla clings to the air around her, mixed with something delicate, maybe peach-scented lotion. her sneakers—pink and white with sparkly laces—are pristine, barely creasing as she shifts her weight. her cardigan, worn off her shoulders like a fashion statement, matches the ribbons in her hair, and her ruffled socks peek out from beneath the hem of a dress that isn't a princess dress but might as well be with how carefully chosen it looks—pale pink with embroidered flowers, soft and dainty.

but the most striking thing about her, above all, is that she is him. down to the way her lips purse in contemplation.

she blinks. once. twice. assessing.

and then, with all the grace of a tiny, self-proclaimed noble who has just encountered a most peculiar sight, she tilts her chin up and announces—“ugh. you’re taller than i thought.”

satoru blinks down at the little diva frowning up at him, her brows furrowing like he’s already failed some unspoken test.

she is… dazzling.

for all the wrong reasons.

because that is his nose. those are his eyes.

the slope of them, the sharp, fox-like tilt—so much like his own that it knocks the air from his lungs. it’s all there in the way her gaze flickers between calculation and feigned indifference, in the way her lips purse in mild dissatisfaction, in the way she shifts her weight onto one foot, expectant. her presence is something deliberate, something intended, as if she is waiting for him to notice her. but that’s ridiculous, right? right?

his throat bobs, dry. he clears it anyway.

satoru barely catches himself before he lets out a laugh—sharp, surprised, incredulous. instead, he exhales through his nose, slow and careful, before slipping his sunglasses off and hooking them onto his collar. the world is suddenly too bright without them, but he needs to see her properly. he lowers himself to one knee, eye level with the little diva who stands before him, hands on her hips like she owns the entire shopping district.

“uh.” he cocks his head, scanning her face for any sign of hesitation. none. not a single crack in that unshakable confidence. “hey, kiddo? are you, uh… lost?”

the reaction is instantaneous.

she gasps—loud, dramatic, affronted.

both hands fly to her chest as though he’s just accused her of something heinous, scandalized horror flashing across her tiny face. her perfectly arched brows shoot up beneath the sharp cut of her bangs, pink lips parting with the kind of exaggerated disbelief that could only be described as theatrical. she takes a step back, but not like she’s retreating—no, she makes it look intentional, like a leading lady on stage setting up the perfect moment of tension.

“excuuuse me?” she demands, her tiny chin tilting higher, voice dripping with the kind of indignation only the truly self-assured can muster. her hands, small but precise in their movement, land imperiously on her hips. “do i look like a peasant who gets lost?”

satoru blinks.

for once, his mouth moves faster than his brain, but that doesn’t mean it makes sense. he opens his lips, closes them, then opens them again, fingers twitching slightly at his sides. “uh—”

“i have an impeccable sense of direction,” she continues, not even sparing him a glance as she flicks her hair over her shoulder, her tiny fingers adjusting an imaginary crown. her eyes shut briefly—dramatic, self-important, as if recalling some great tragedy. “unlike mommy, who keeps walking the wrong way even with google maps.”

he startles.

it’s subtle, a twitch in his fingertips, a shift in his stance—so minor most wouldn’t even notice. but he does. he notices everything. the way her voice rounds out just slightly as she says mommy, the sharp, confident edge softening into something softer, something practiced. it’s natural, the way she says it, habitual, like it belongs to her in a way no other word does. there is no hesitation, no awkwardness, no resentment—only warmth.

only fondness.

or maybe he’s imagining things.

he’s still trying to process it when—

“anyway.” she rolls her eyes, slow and deliberate, like she’s giving him the benefit of the doubt and immediately regretting it. her voice is lighter now, offhanded, but the unimpressed arch of her brow makes it clear: he is wasting her time.

“let’s get back to business.”

his brows furrow. “business?”

“yes, business.” she plants a tiny hand on her hip like she’s about to announce the world’s next big fashion trend. her stance is commanding, legs slightly apart, the picture of confidence despite being barely three feet tall. “keep up.”

satoru isn’t sure what to expect, but it definitely isn’t this.

because the way she looks at him—no, studies him—is unnerving. there’s nothing idle about it, nothing remotely innocent. her gaze is razor-sharp as it sweeps from his feet to his head, dissecting every detail like she’s mapping out a blueprint only she understands.

the pristine uniform. the tall frame. the striking, almost unnatural contrast of white hair and blue eyes.

he's been stared at his whole life, but never like this—never like he's the one being judged. the gaze on him is unwavering, sharp, dissecting him piece by piece as if stripping him down to something more raw, more human. then, as if arriving at some profound conclusion, she lifts her tiny chin and flips her bangs with a small, decisive nod.

“you have white hair.”

her lashes lower slightly, a subtle shift in expression that tightens something in his chest.

“you have blue eyes.”

satoru’s pulse stutters.

before he can process the shift in atmosphere, she clasps her hands together, fingers lacing neatly over her chest. the movement is fluid, graceful, too composed for a child so young. it reminds him of a practiced performer, someone who understands the weight of gestures, of theatrics.

then, with the finality of a verdict, she nods again.

“i guess you’ll do.”

…do what now?

he stares, momentarily incapable of thought.

there is something deeply unsettling about being scrutinized by someone who barely reaches his waist. yet, there is an undeniable weight to the moment, a strange sort of gravity pressing against him. he can feel it—his own energy mirrored back at him, sharp and self-assured, too knowing for a child so young.

his lips part, but he isn’t even sure what he wants to ask.

the answer comes before he can find the question.

“so,” she announces, as if stating the obvious, “i need you to pretend to be my dad.”

satoru chokes.

the cough rattles his ribs, sharp and sudden, like his own body is rejecting the reality of what he just heard. he presses the back of his hand against his mouth, shoulders tensing, but it does little to stifle the noise. his throat burns with the effort, and yet, the words still echo in his mind, rearranging themselves into something even more absurd.

he drags his palm down his face. “come again?”

the menace—no, the tiny, immaculately dressed con artist—squints at him.

“are you hard of hearing?” she enunciates, slow and patient, like she’s explaining a simple concept to a particularly dense student. her small hands settle on her hips, fingers tapping in silent judgment, and the stance is so eerily familiar that it sends a ripple of unease down his spine. her chin tilts up, her expression unwavering—like she’s used to being the one in control of conversations, and the thought alone is terrifying. “i said, i need you to pretend to be my dad for a father’s day event at school.”

something in his stomach lurches.

his brain can’t keep up. the words don’t fit, don’t make sense, don’t align with anything logical. she says them with such ease, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, but for him, it’s the equivalent of a meteor crashing into his reality.

his throat is suddenly dry. “that’s… uh…”

“obviously, i don’t have one. and you were talking to mommy earlier, so you must be one of her friends.” she shrugs, breezy, nonchalant, as if she’s discussing the weather.

but it is a big deal.

a very big deal.

his heart is pounding so fast he might actually pass out.

“mommy always comes with me, and i guess she’s cool and all,” she continues, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. the movement is casual, self-assured—the same unconscious confidence he had as a child. satoru watches, helpless, as she flicks the curl over her shoulder with a tiny sigh, her expression morphing into something contemplative. “but i pity her, y’know?”

his throat tightens.

“pity.” he repeats, blankly.

“yeah, like.” she exhales, weight shifting onto one foot, lashes fluttering like she’s the protagonist of a soap opera. “all the other kids have dads, and she’s stuck with me all the time.”

his breath catches.

she sighs again, deeply, dramatically, as if she’s making some grand sacrifice. her lower lip juts out ever so slightly, just enough to look a little more pitiful, like she’s spent time perfecting this exact expression. “so, i figured i’d do something selfless and find a dad for the day.”

satoru swallows, something thick and unnameable clogging his throat. “that’s… very generous of you.”

she preens. “i know, right?”

and then—she leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“but don’t tell mommy,” she warns, expression shifting in an instant. her eyes are dead serious, her tiny fingers curling into the fabric of her dress as if to physically hold the secret in place. “she’d get mad.”

his stomach drops.

the weight of her words slams into him with the force of a truck, hollowing out his insides. his pulse roars in his ears, loud enough to drown out the hum of the store’s overhead music, the chatter of passing customers, the clatter of shopping baskets. he feels it somewhere deep in his chest, a sensation not unlike free-falling—because of all the ways this day could’ve gone, this was never in the realm of possibility.

“mad?” he echoes, voice suddenly hoarse, the word barely scraping past the dryness in his throat.

“mhm.” she nods sagely, lowering her voice even further, like she’s sharing classified information. her tiny fingers tighten around the straps of her pink backpack, knuckles pressing into the glittery fabric as she leans in just a fraction more. her expression is thoughtful, brows furrowing slightly, as if she’s considering something heavier than a child her age should. “i think she still misses my real dad.”

satoru stops breathing.

his chest tightens, a sharp, unbearable squeeze, as if his ribs have turned into a vice, crushing him from the inside out. the world around him dulls, the chatter of passing shoppers fading into static, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing like a swarm of unseen locusts. the air in his lungs turns thick and heavy, refusing to move—because everything, everything, is falling into place so fast he can barely keep up.

the kid stationeries you were browsing, the set of pastel pens you picked up only to set them back down, like you were debating whether to buy them. the pink, glittery backpack in her hands, the same shade of obnoxious bubblegum pink he once claimed to hate, but now realizes he would buy in a heartbeat, no questions asked. the way she looks just like him—the sharp slant of her nose, the high curve of her cheekbones, the impossibly bright blue eyes that reflect his own like a taunt. even the way she stands, weight shifted slightly to one hip, tiny hands confidently gripping the straps of the backpack—like she already owns the space she stands in, like the world itself is just a little too small for her.

holy shit.

“anyway.” she huffs, as if he’s the one wasting her time, her small mouth curving into a pout of mild exasperation. she adjusts the straps of the backpack in her arms, shifting its weight against her chest, fingers drumming impatiently against the sequined fabric. she tilts her chin up ever so slightly, radiating a confidence that shouldn't belong to someone so tiny. “it’s on friday, 9:00 a.m., at kikyo kindergarten.”

he blinks, the words sluggish as they filter through his brain, like a broken radio signal cutting in and out. “what?”

“the event, duh.” she frowns, unimpressed, tilting her head with all the attitude of someone who cannot believe they have to repeat themselves. her lips press into a thin line, tiny shoulders rising as she takes a slow breath, like she’s summoning every ounce of patience she has to deal with an absolute idiot. “weren’t you listening?”

his mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, but nothing coherent comes out. “uh—”

“you better be there.” she declares, arms crossing over her chest, voice firm and unwavering, the kind of voice that does not take no for an answer. her stance shifts as she leans in closer, an almost imperceptible movement, but one that carries all the weight of an unspoken challenge—daring him to refuse, daring him to disappoint her. there is something unreadable in her gaze, something old and knowing, something far too perceptive for a child her age. “or else.”

his pulse jumps. “…or else?”

she meets his gaze head-on, unflinching, as if she already knows she has him backed into a corner. her small fingers tap against her arm, considering, calculating—then, her lips curl into a smile that is nothing short of mischievous.

“or else, i’ll tell mommy you tried to kidnap me.”

his soul leaves his body. “WHAT—”

“bye now!” she beams, the picture of innocence, her entire face transforming in real time, as if she didn’t just completely dismantle his entire world in the span of a conversation.

in real time, satoru watches his own child scam him.

his tiny daughter—his menace of a child—spins on her heel, dropping the entire conversation like it never happened. she prances away, light on her feet, twirling slightly as she rounds the aisle you disappeared into, her little frame swallowed by the shelves.

her voice, when she speaks, is a melody, high and sweet and utterly deceiving. “mommy! look! this is the backpack i want!”

satoru can only stay there. staring.

his breath is shallow, like his lungs have forgotten how to function, like his entire body is refusing to move, to react, to process what just happened. the world feels too sharp, too clear, yet somehow far away, like he’s watching himself from outside his own skin. the fluorescent lights above hum too loudly, the colors of the store seem too vivid, and the ground beneath his feet feels like it's seconds away from giving out.

his daughter just found him before he ever found her.

his hands feel cold. his mouth is dry. his brain, usually a relentless, unyielding machine, capable of dissecting complex battle strategies in seconds, is blank. utterly, hopelessly blank.

she’s real. she exists. she is his.

and she just walked away like it was nothing. like she didn’t just turn his world upside down. like she didn’t just unknowingly rip open a part of him that he didn’t even realize had been closed off.

satoru exhales, slow and shaky, dragging a hand down his face. it doesn’t help. he blinks rapidly, trying to reboot his system, but all he can hear is the echo of her tiny voice—matter-of-fact, unimpressed, brimming with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

he comes to terms with something horrifying.

his menace of a child just blackmailed him. she didn’t ask. she demanded. she set her terms, delivered her threat, and walked away like a goddamn professional.

the absolute audacity.

the sheer talent.

his chest swells, something warm and bright bubbling beneath the overwhelming shock. his lips twitch, his vision goes a little blurry, and then—a slow, unhinged grin spreads across his face.

he has never been more proud.

“holy shit,” he breathes, blinking rapidly, his pulse still hammering in his ears. then, after a long moment of processing the absolute scam he just walked into, he straightens, grips the nearest shelf for support, and mutters under his breath;

“she so gets that from me.”

a/n: any normal person would be horrified finding out they missed out years in their child's life but he's not any normal person sigh he's so silly

tag list: @akeisryna

comment to be added on the tag list xx

[fluentmoviequoter]

Tim Bradford's Princess

Part 3 of Bradford's Princess

Pairing: Tim Bradford x younger(24-26y/o)!fem!reader

Summary: Being Tim's princess is the best position you've ever held, and the last one you'll ever want. Every little thing he does proves it, even if it means tearing himself apart.

Warnings: the briefest of brief angst, fluff, domestically dominant Tim, makeout sesh, hickeys, Tim offers to ignore a Dodgers game for you

Word Count: 2.7k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Rules

“Do you like my ring?” Lucy asks.

Tim looks away from the road just long enough to see the simple rose-colored ring on her index finger. He lifts his brows rather than replying.

“You buy any new jewelry recently?” she inquires.

“What are you doing?” he counters.

“Just making conversation.”

“Well, stop.”

“Tim,” she sighs. “We’re in a shop together all day. Give me something.”

“I did. A request for you to stop.”

“Did you propose on Valentine’s Day?”

“No,” Tim answers, more out of surprise at the sudden question than a genuine interest in discussing his personal life. “Not that it’s your business.”

“But you’re going to propose soon, right?” Lucy continues.

“Chen,” Tim says sternly. “Drop it.”

Lucy nods, murmurs something about popping a question, and turns her attention to the radio as dispatch alerts of a nearby carjacking. Tim hits the lights and sirens, attempting to rid his mind of the image of you wearing a ring he put on your finger.

“How’s whipped life treating you?” Aaron inquires as Tim exits the locker room.

Tim stops and turns toward Aaron. He sees Lucy, Nyla, Angela, and Nolan approaching. Sighing, he spreads his arms.

“What is it that you’re all so interested in knowing?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Nyla answers. “Just curious about how everything is going.”

“And that involves using quite possible the least subtle hints about engagement rings?”

“Lucy,” Angela chides.

“How’d you know it was me?” she exclaims. “Nolan could have said something!”

“I’m actually the only one here with a healthy respect for Bradford,” he interjects.

“Well?” Nyla asks, turning back toward Tim. “Are you proposing any time soon? You’re not getting any younger and clearly you’re obsessed with this girl.”

“Which I can’t blame you for,” Angela adds. “It’s nice to see you happy, and if a woman as sweet and beautiful as her wants to be with you despite the age difference, you should do everything you can to keep her close.”

“Whoa,” Aaron says while Nyla grips Angela’s arm, and Lucy’s eyes widen comically.

“You’ve met her?” Nolan questions.

“I ran into them while they were on a date, remember?” Angela replies.

“You didn’t say you met her!” Nyla argues. “Just that you bumped into Tim.”

“I want to see her!” Lucy says.

“Me too,” Aaron agrees. “Tim? You got a picture?”

“Or a free night where we could all get dinner?” Nolan suggests.

“No,” Tim responds.

“You have to give us something,” Nyla says.

“Something about what?” Wade inquires, approaching Tim’s side.

“He won’t show them a picture of the girl who has him wrapped around his finger,” Angela explains, ignoring Tim as he shoots daggers with his gaze.

“I wouldn’t show Aaron, either,” Wade murmurs.

“You’ve seen her too?” Lucy asks.

“Get out of here while you still can,” Wade whispers to Tim. “The rest of you, I’ve got a question about the call in Hancock Park.”

The quiet murmur of the television and soft, glowing candles greet Tim as he walks into his home. He smiles when he sees you on the couch. You look up when the door closes and smile brightly. Tossing your Kindle beside you, you stand on the cushion.

“I missed you,” you say, reaching for Tim’s shoulders.

“You’re going to fall one of these days,” he replies, setting a bag on the floor before he lifts his arms to hold your waist and steady you.

“You won’t let that happen.”

Tim shakes his head in silent admiration of your trust in him.

“I love you,” you say.

“I love you,” he promises.

“How was your day?”

Tim answers you, giving a brief overview of his day. His shoe bumps against the bag, and he stops talking. You always seem more excited to see him than anything he may have with him. He’s come to you with flowers, expensive makeup, concert tickets, and a dress you’d been eyeing for weeks, but you’ve always seen him. That won’t make him stop getting you gifts, though, because every little thing Tim can do for you saves a piece of him, healing from the inside out.

“I have a question,” Tim says, sliding his hands down to your hips.

“I have an answer,” you reply.

Tim waits until you lower onto the back of the couch, sitting with your arms around his shoulders. He pulls the bag up and offers it to you.

The bouquet inside has white roses and baby’s breath, and a blue ribbon circles the trimmed stems. An envelope attached to it bears your name and the Los Angeles Dodgers logo.

“They’re beautiful,” you say.

“I’ve been going to opening day at Dodgers Stadium for years,” Tim explains. His hands run along your sides and down your thighs as he speaks. “I bought tickets: two seats in my usual section. If you wanted to sit somewhere else though, we could. It’s a tradition, and I want you to come with me.”

You remain quiet, watching Tim’s face as you admire his excitement. After dating Tim for as long as you have, it’s no surprise that a moment in the baseball season could mean so much to him, but seeing the joy and anticipation in his eyes makes you happy. Tim has dealt with things you can’t imagine, yet this tradition holds a special place in his life. Now, he’s inviting you into it.

“You don’t have to go,” Tim murmurs. “I don’t even have to go. We can do something else if you want.”

You shake your head adamantly, pressing your hands against Tim’s chest. “You do have to go,” you reply. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t quiet because I don’t want to, you’re just really cute when you’re excited.”

Tim narrows his eyes at you, but you don’t let him speak.

“I’d love to go with you,” you answer. “I really appreciate you inviting me to part of your tradition.”

Tim brushes his right hand over the ends of your hair before he cups the back of your head. “You’re part of a lot more than that,” he whispers.

After he parks, Tim hurries around the front of his truck to open your door. His gentlemanly actions and princess treatment of you are nothing new, but you still smile and thank him softly. Tim’s fingers slot comfortably between yours as he leads you into the stadium and to your seats. His preferred section has a great view, and as you sit beside Tim, you briefly wonder how you got so lucky.

“C’mere,” Tim says, tapping your shoulder where his hand rests.

You shift in your seat, and Tim carefully removes your Dodgers hat. Your hair falls onto your neck, and you frown when you realize your hair tie has broken. Tim runs his fingers on the underside of your hair as he pulls it back where it was. You feel another band tighten around it before he carefully pulls your restyled hair through the back of your hat.

“There you go,” he says.

You raise one hand to check it, then smile and take Tim’s hand. “Thank you.”

Tim shakes his head as if it’s no big deal that he just fixed your hair in a stadium full of people. Then, you realize that the black band he wears on his left wrist is gone. He’s offered you hair ties, bobby pins, and lip gloss, but it usually comes from his truck. The fact that Tim carries things you may need is just another in the long list of reasons you love him, and can clearly see he feels the same.

When the game begins, you flip your joined hands so that Tim can stand and cheer as he desires. He pulls your hand off the stadium seat and into his lap, and you realize within a few minutes that you stand with him more often than not. Although Tim treats tonight like a date, it’s his tradition, and you want him to enjoy the night and the game.

“You need anything?” Tim asks after cheering for a good pitch.

Shaking your head, you answer, “We’re here for the World Champs, remember?”

“I think they’d understand,” he replies.

Tim kisses your forehead and takes your hand in his again.

You look up at the blue and white fireworks in awe. Tim wraps his arm around your shoulders, and you lean against him as the night continues.

“You want a picture?” he asks.

You turn toward him, and he gestures to the field, where a large photo of the team is projected as they celebrate their win. Nodding, you open the camera app on your phone and try to get a good angle. Tim removes his arm from your shoulders, bends slightly to circle your hips, and lifts you onto his shoulder. He holds your outfit in place with his free hand as you take the perfect photo. When you’re back on the ground, you put your phone away and smile at Tim.

“Thank you,” you say.

“Any time,” he promises.

When you’re back home, changed out of your jerseys, and preparing to go to bed, Tim traces his finger along your collarbone and then spreads his fingers gently over your throat.

“Thank you for tonight,” he murmurs. “For being part of my life.”

“Thank you for letting me,” you reply. “There’s nothing in this world I want more.”

Tim uses his hand, still on your neck, to turn your jaw toward him before he kisses you. As the city continues to celebrate the opening night win, you have much more to celebrate and be thankful for.

The day after opening night, the Dodgers are playing again. This game is different, however, because it’s also the night of the World Series Ring Ceremony. You run your finger along a page while Tim watches the television, pursing your lips as you attempt to understand what you’re reading.

“Do you want help?” Tim asks.

You look up, smile, and shake your head. He nods, then looks back to the TV as he pets Kojo.

“Which color should I use?” you ask.

“Do you have white?” he inquires, leaning to the side to look at the supplies you’ve spread across the table.

“Yes,” you answer. “This one: Marshmallow.”

“I like it.”

The game comes back on, and you thank Tim for his input as you prepare to do the next step. Tim ordered you a nail art kit after you mentioned one in passing, but he found one that was bigger and better. Now, as you spend time together while enjoying different things, you wonder why you didn’t start doing your nails yourself months ago. When Tim’s hands wander to your shoulders, and his warm palms run along your exposed upper back, you decide that no salon will ever compete with this.

“It’s too much,” you say, pouting.

“It’s not,” Tim replies. “You’re the one that said it was the best flavor.”

You stare at the family-sized cheesecake. It is the best flavor the bakery has, but you expected Tim to buy one slice for you to share, two if he thought it looked really good. Not an entire cheesecake.

“How much does that weigh?” you ask.

“Fourteen pounds.”

“Tim!”

Tim chuckles as he lifts the lid. “We don’t have to eat it all tonight. Want your own piece?”

You shake your head vehemently, ignoring Tim’s continued laughter. When you accept a fork and taste the cheesecake, your protests are forgotten.

“Maybe you should’ve gotten two,” you say after offering Tim the last bite.

“Wesley mentioned a dessert tour a while back,” Tim replies. “Would you want to do that sometime?”

“Yeah, that sounds fun.”

You watch Tim’s back as he puts the rest of the cheesecake in the fridge. He dressed up for your date tonight, and you’re convinced he gets more attractive every day. When he turns back to you with his brows raised, you blink to refocus.

“Did you ask me something?” you inquire.

“If you’re free Friday,” Tim answers, looking as if he’s hiding a smile and aware that you are staring at him rather than listening.

“I’ll have to check my calendar,” you muse with a sigh.

Tim returns to your side and agrees, “Of course. Have your people let me know.”

Smiling, you tug the bottom of Tim’s shirt. “You are my people.”

“Oh. Should be a short phone call then.”

Tim takes your hand and pulls you toward the couch. Kojo is asleep in his bed, and you laugh as you collapse onto the cushions.

“You look beautiful,” Tim compliments.

“You look handsome,” you reply.

Tim kisses you quickly, then immediately leans in for another longer kiss. He holds your jaw carefully, sliding his fingers into your hair.

“Stunning,” he says, moving to kiss your jaw.

“That’s all you,” you breathe.

“Perfect,” he continues, kissing toward your ear.

“Tim,” you whisper, holding his shoulders.

He pulls back enough to look into your eyes, and you smile. As you shift to place your leg over his, you kiss Tim again. He lowers his hands from your face to your waist. When your hands slide down his chest and dip under the hem of his shirt, Tim pulls you closer. His left hand returns to your jaw, his thumb running reverently beneath your cheekbone. You push your hands up his torso until you reach his bare chest. Tim deepens the kiss as you roam, attempting to memorize Tim’s skin through touch alone.

Every kiss with you is memorable, but moments like this, makeout sessions that simply happen and don’t have to lead to anything more, hold a power that Tim will never be able to describe. Your hands on him, your acceptance of his scars – both seen and invisible, and the way you want to be as close as physically possible make Tim fall even deeper in love with you. Tim is your everything, and when you lose yourself in moments like this, being held by the man you love as if he never wants to let you go, everything else fades. You’d spend an eternity in this moment, and that’s part of how you know that Tim Bradford is the one. He’s your forever.

It's unusual for Tim to be home before the sun sets. Today, his shift was changed at the last minute. He was called to the station before 3 a.m. and now has the entire afternoon to spend with you. The early start was worth it, he thinks. Your homemade dinner bakes in the oven as Tim enjoys quality time with you.

“So,” you begin, sitting on the counter. “Last time we made out in here was after your friends called you whipped.”

“Yeah,” he replies, not taking his attention away from his current task.

“Have they said anymore about your treatment of me?”

Tim’s hands tighten around your waist as he stops what he’s doing long enough to say, “My relationships are none of their business.”

You hum, running your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck. “But you have relationships with them too… If you’re ashamed of me, just say so,” you joke.

Tim hums against your collarbone. He’d pulled you into a kiss the moment he came through the door, but after you prepared dinner, Tim opted to let you relax while he did the heavy lifting. Hence, the new hickeys. And the work in progress, which Tim reminds you of by running his teeth over the sensitive skin just beneath your collarbone.

“I don’t need to match the bruises you get at work, you know.”

Tim separates himself from your skin and replies, “And you don’t need to meet the people who think I treat you better than them.”

You move your hands to Tim’s shoulders, encouraging him to meet your eyes. He sighs as he straightens to look into your eyes.

“I understand the separation,” you begin. “But don’t split yourself into two sides to the point that it hurts. If there’s not room for me and everyone else you care about-”

“Stop,” Tim interrupts softly. “I’ll introduce you when the time is right. I promise.”

You nod, accepting his promise and trusting that he’ll do what’s right. He drops his chin and kisses your jaw. When his second kiss lands open-mouthed, you laugh and pull him up for an actual kiss. He runs his fingers over the darkening mark on your collarbone as his hands rise slowly toward your hair, and you decide that being Bradford’s princess is the best position you could ever hold and the only one you want for the rest of your life.

[angelicsz]

Hello!! May I ask for a separate scenario each for Pure Vanilla Cookie and Shadow Milk Cookie from CRK? The idea behind it is, the reader (who is their partner) is helping them destress or simmer down after a long day — and brushing out their hair in comforting gesture! Thats what I want the most!

The 'why' of their fatigue can be different. Maybe Reader is laying Pure Vanilla on their lap and brushing out his long hair to help him relax for the evening on their wedeing bed. Meanwhile for Shadow Milk, maybe he's wound up from the boredom of having to play nice in the kingdom all day now that he's technically 'redeemed' or something..! Just my thoughts, you can switch it around a little, I just wanna brush their hair...

Sorry if this is long! Thank you for offering your lovely work! Please take care!

"ease your worries"

summary: comforting your partner, that's all.

↱ before you read: gender neutral reader, implied marriage, established relationship, ooc shadow milk? pet names, if you find any more please let me know.

0.5k | m. list

shadow milk:

"i practically cannot do anything now. no NOTHING." he complained as he stared at the sky above you. you were laying in the forest, its the only place you could have some peace for yourself, however you do not come here often. you hummed in response, brushing his scalp, playing with his hair at this very moment.

"and who does he think he is? HE took MY soul jam HE took everything from me, and yet.." your boyfriend stopped for a moment, looking up at you. "maybe he didn't took everything from me."

a smile appeared on your face "sorry? i didn't quite catch that?" you whispered, pretending to be oblivious. you watched as his face changed from pure love and admiration to somehow mad and annoyed.

"i said that i hate him." he practically snarled in response. he hid his face in your thighs, and groaned in annoyance as you chuckled, clearly amused by his behavior.

nevertheless a few minutes later a comforting silence appeared and none of you seemed to want to move from your places. savouring the moment. although you will have to apologise to him for your behaviour.

pure vanilla:

after your husband came back from beast-yeast he looked completely different. even though he seemed to shine brighter than usual you could see the tiredness in his eyes, after all eyes never lie.

that's how you ended up in the current situation, him laying his head on your lap, you mumbling meaningless words of comfort in his ear. the room had a pleasant atmosphere, the birds were chirping, the open balcony bringing fresh air into the room and the sun that is just about to rise.

you noted that pure vanillas hair has gotten much longer than his length before. not that you minded of course.

"mmm.. dear i have to get back to my duties." he practically purred on your lap. you chuckled, amused at his antics. it was awfully hard to get him to lie down with you, you knew that your husband's very hard working and needs a break. despite his objections when you dragged him into the bedroom he practically melted immediately. despite his statement, he didn't seem to want to move from your lap nor was planning to.

"your hair got longer." you changed the topic, brushing your fingers against his scalp. "would you want me to take care of it?"

".. later sunshine." he mumbled. oh you thought he looked so pathetic right now, lovingly of course. noticing how your husband was practically falling asleep, even though he didn't need any, you lied your head on the headboard and closed your eyes, savouring this very moment.

sorry for the late reply, lowkey died for a moment here.

[lilangelbud]

The sky had just started to bleed orange and pink when he pulled into the driveway, the engine of his old pickup rumbling to a stop. The crinkly brown bag on the passenger seat shifted as he reached for it, his fingers brushing against the sugary contents inside. He smiled to himself, that lopsided grin he always wore when he was about to surprise her. She loved surprises, especially when they came in the form of sour gummies.

He stepped out of the truck, the bag swinging lightly in his grip, and made his way to the front door. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that meant she was probably curled up on the couch with a book or dozing off in her room. He pushed the door open, the familiar creak of the hinges announcing his arrival.

“Little angel?” he called out, his voice soft but carrying through the house. “Daddy’s home.”

There was a faint rustling from the living room, and then she appeared, her bare feet padding against the wooden floor. Her hair was a mess, falling in soft waves around her face, and her oversized sweater hung off one shoulder revealing the strap of her tank top underneath. She looked sleepy, her eyes still heavy with the remnants of a nap.

“Daddy,” she said, her voice lilting with a mix of surprise and relief. She didn’t say it often, not anymore, but when she did, it always made his chest tighten in that sweet, familiar way.

“Got something for you,” he said, holding up the bag with a playful shake. The sound of the gummies shifting inside made her eyes light up, and she practically skipped over to him, her hands reaching out eagerly.

“Sour gummies?” she asked, her voice hopeful.

“Your favorite,” he replied, handing her the bag. She was so easy to please, he thought, watching as she tore the bag open and popped one into her mouth. Her face scrunched up at the first burst of tartness, and then she smiled, her cheeks rounding in that way he loved.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice muffled by the candy she was chewing. She leaned into him then, her head resting against his chest, and he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. She smelled like the vanilla body wash she always used, and something warm and comforting, something uniquely hers.

“Missed you today,” he murmured, his hand stroking her hair. She made a small, contented noise in response, her body relaxing against his. There was something about moments like this, when she was soft and pliant against him, that made his heart swell with something he couldn’t quite name.

They stood like that for a while, the house silent except for the occasional rustle of the gummy bag and the steady rhythm of their breathing. But then she shifted, her body tensing slightly, and he felt it—the faintest tremor running through her.

“What’s wrong, little angel?” he asked, his voice low and gentle.

She didn’t answer right away, her fingers clutching the bag a little tighter. He knew that look, the way her brows furrowed and her lips pressed together. She was fidgety, her body betraying the restlessness she was trying to hide.

“It’s… nothing,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Tell Daddy,” he urged, his hand stilling on her back. He could feel the heat radiating off her, the way her skin seemed to pulse with a quiet energy. She was always like this when she needed him, when that ache started to build inside her. He’d seen it before, felt it before, and he knew exactly how to fix it.

She hesitated, her eyes darting up to meet his, and then she nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement. He didn’t wait for her to say anything else. He scooped her up effortlessly, one arm under her knees and the other supporting her back, and carried her to the couch. She was light in his arms, her body fitting perfectly against his as he settled them both down, her legs straddling his lap.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his hands smoothing over her thighs. “Daddy’s here. Daddy’s got you.”

She nodded again, her hands clutching at the fabric of his shirt. He could feel the tension in her body, the way she was trying to hold herself still, but he knew better. He knew she needed this, needed him.

“Just relax, little angel,” he said, his voice a soothing balm. “Let Daddy take care of you.”

He reached for the hem of her sweater, his fingers brushing against her skin as he lifted it up and over her head. She didn’t resist, her arms lifting instinctively to help him, and soon she was left in just her tank top and shorts. He could see the way her chest rose and fell, her breaths coming a little faster now, and he knew she was beginning to feel it—the heat, the need.

“Daddy,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I…”

“Shh,” he said, pressing a finger to her lips. “No need to talk. Just let me make it better.”

His hands moved to her shorts, deftly unbuttoning them and sliding them down her legs. She shivered as the cool air hit her skin, but he was quick to warm her up again, his hands spreading her thighs apart and settling between them.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his gaze locked on hers. “Just like that. Let Daddy take care of you.”

He could see the way her body reacted to his touch, the way she tensed and then relaxed, her hips shifting slightly as he pressed his fingers against her. She was already wet, her body betraying the desire she was too shy to voice.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “My little angel, always so perfect for Daddy.”

He slid a finger inside her, slow and careful, and she gasped, her body arching into his touch. He could feel the way she clenched around him, her walls tightening as he began to move, his thumb circling that sensitive spot just above.

“Daddy,” she whimpered, her hands gripping his shoulders. “Please…”

“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice steady. “Just let go. Let Daddy make it better.”

He added another finger, stretching her gently as he worked her open, his pace slow and deliberate. She was panting now, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps, and he could feel the way her body was beginning to tense, her muscles tightening as she neared the edge.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice soft but firm. “Let it happen, little angel. Let Daddy make you feel good.”

She cried out then, her body shuddering as the pleasure washed over her, her thighs clamping around his hand as she came. He didn’t stop, didn’t let up, his fingers still working her through it until she was boneless and pliant in his arms.

“There you go,” he said, his voice filled with warmth. “All better now, aren’t you?”

She nodded, her head resting against his chest as she tried to catch her breath. He held her close, his hand stroking her back, and felt the way her body slowly relaxed, the tension easing out of her.

“Daddy,” she whispered, her voice soft and sleepy. “I love you.”

“I love you too, little angel,” he said, his lips brushing against her forehead. “Always.”

[mspinkyponky]

୭˚. ᵎᵎ LADs Thread: What College would be like with them!

just a soft fluffy thread i’m doing for fun!

₊˚⊹ ᰔ featuring: Zayne, Xavier, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb

₊˚⊹ ᰔ content: the boy’s college life based one their personality, major, school clubs, and relationships with MC!

₊˚⊹ ᰔ SFR! for my ramadan mcs ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂)⸝♡

₊˚⊹ ᰔ i’m using she/her pronouns for mc!

₊˚⊹ ᰔ all pictures are found on pinterest! also this is my first ever post on here so feel free to let me know what i should improve on ദ്ദി(ᵔᗜᵔ)

──── ୨୧ ────

❆ Zayne

Personality: He is the kind of student that is the best without even trying. he is frankly quite popular and tries to avoid the attention, even though it is inevitable, like have you seen this man? he is charming who wouldn’t have a crush on him? definitely a campus good boy crush.

Major: i do not see MC and Zayne being in the same school as he definitely would enrol in med school, but if there is an AU where he is in the same college as MC, he would be in biomedical sciences or biotechnology.

School Club: for his school club, he would definitely be in student council and a sports club like archery. if INFOLD ever has a sports quint banner to celebrate, i don’t know, Linkon Sports Day, i would definitely want to see Zayne in archery. just me? i don’t know, i want to hear from my zayne lovers, what do yall think?

Relationship: for his relationship with MC, it would definitely be a childhood best friend kind of trope. he is definitely the type of guy to do anything for MC. he would pull all nighters for MC if she needs his help in studying to give her motivation. then he has to carry her to her bed when she inevitably falls asleep during their studying session. because he is popular, and MC is always seen together with him, naturally, everyone ships both of them together. both of them are the cutest pair and the whole cohort supports it. he would definitely have to confess when the shipping gets out of hand, his ears would always show his emotions even when his face is super straight. his ears would be redder than tomatoes.

──── ୨୧ ────

✦ Xavier

Personality: for Xavier, i would definitely see him as the laid back, quiet guy. he would be at the back of the lecture with his hood up and asleep. he would do borderline for regular assignments. but when its graded and counted in the credit, he would ace it. its diabolical. he is the type to pass without even needing to pull all nighters, its like he is still listening to the lesson in his sleep. he definitely loves to explore the foods in campus and would tell new students what foods he’d recommend. would definitely have a food blog as like a hobby.

Major: for his major, he would definitely be in something that relates to astronomy, like cosmology and astrophysics. MC would not be in the same course but her classes would be near his.

School Club: after school clubs for Xavier would also be a sport but not the vigorous kind. similar to Zayne but instead of archery, i’d see him in fencing. what do my Xavier lovers think? [i try my best not to relate the school clubs to their majors because it adds more character.]

Relationship: his relationship with MC would be like hallway crush or same club mates type of thing. where they would occasionally see each other in the hallways or during fencing practice, and it becomes so often that MC decides to speak to him. a simple hi or something like that. then slowly they bond over food and start to get close to each other. both of them aren’t popular so its isn’t really known, but because of Xavier’s huge crush on MC, he would definitely glare at any guy who tries to talk to her. she doesn’t see his feelings for her at first, but when one of her friends point out certain things he does, MC gets a grasp of it and would confront him over hotpot! he would nonchalantly tell her that he likes her while chewing on hotpot meat. manz would NOT blush or show a sign of fluttery.

──── ୨୧ ────

༄.° Rafayel

Personality: Rafayel is 100% the most popular kid and would bask in the attention, as he should, pop off king. he’s popular because of his charm, his personality, and his talent. he is sassy and is extremely bold. he would definitely have a sense of fashion that makes him stand out. he may not be nice, but he’s funny so he doesn’t get slander for being mean. he’s not a valedictorian but is good at what he is interested in.

Major: he is definitely in an artistic type of major like Fine Arts. i know it would be a stretch, but being in Interior Architecture would kinda eat… i mean do you see how his studio looks in the game? 100% might eat.

School Club: picking a school club… i definitely KNOW he is a drama kid. he is in a drama club and he is the president. he plays in musicals and would rock the theatre, hence gaining popularity. like the amount of times i’ve seen a theatre relating to him in game is insane. he is a theatre kid and drama queen at heart.

Relationship: it might be an even bigger stretch… BUT! i see him in an opposite attract with a hint of enemies to lovers kind of vibe with MC. OKAY HEAR ME OUT! he is the popular guy, everyone wants him, everyone likes him. and MC is that one quiet kid that pretends he doesn’t exist. doesn’t acknowledge him one bit and that annoyed him. so he made himself known to her. i definitely see a Glinda and Elphaba type of relationship. he saw Wicked, pointed to Glinda and definitely said ‘thats me what are you talking about?’ Naturally MC hates his cocky and sassy attitude. but she eventually falls for his sweetness and charm. its not an intense enemies to lovers but more towards opposite attract type of thing. his confession would come about during an award ceremony for a musical competition. he would thank everyone and ‘someone special’. once he was off stage and he’d run to MC and confess to her.

──── ୨୧ ────

♛ Sylus

Personality: oh lord, this one was difficult. i can’t see Sylus in a college AU… like bro has an empire why would he need a degree? but if there was one, i imagine he is the big intimidating guy who is a softie at heart. he has this tough personality of being that sporty guy that people respect. his aura is intimidating and no one dared to speak up to him. until a certain someone. he is pretty much a delinquent and does what he wants, the consequences be damned. he also is the hottest guy in school, having a damn sports bike that makes him stand out from the other popular guys.

Major: he would be in a business or accounting major, just something that is useful to start his own business. for some reason, i imagine he is amazing at maths, and sucks ass at science. just me?

School Club: yes… i know people would think he would be in a boxing club… but i don’t think any school would have a boxing club (¬_¬") , so i think Sylus would definitely be in rugby/football. like a vigorous sport that matches his physique and stamina. he is definitely the captain of the the team.

Relationship: MC’s relationship with him is definitely a forced proximity trope. how they are forced to work together for a graded pair presentation. they barley know each other, but right off the bat, they dislike each other because they are basically polar opposites. MC wants to ace the project, while she has a partner who basically doesn’t give a damn about the project. he would propose a deal, that if she wants him to work on the project, she has to attend and watch his game as his fake lover (he wanted to shoo away attention from the other annoying cheerleaders). eventually he would fall for her first because of her braveness and boldness to step up to him and her determination to get under his skin. MC would accidentally slip out a confession during a fit she’d throw because he got under her skin first.

──── ୨୧ ────

❦ Caleb

Personality: honestly, Caleb is the heartthrob of the school. every girl and guy wants him. he’s the guy with that charming smile that could knock anyone out. but sadly he only had his eyes on one person. he would show off his popularity to MC and would brag about the flowers, letters and free food he’d be getting from secret admirers. MC would be annoyed and unfazed. secretly, he is obsessed with you and would do anything to protect you from harm. he is the type to host those college parties and everyone would go because it is 100% the biggest party of the year.

Major: if Caleb had a major, it would definitely be an Aviation type of major, before graduating to Flight school. (i have no idea how pilot in training works cus im a dumb goof)

School Club: for his after school club, he’d 100% be in a sports club like basketball, and he is the captain. MC would attend his games and cheer him on.

Relationship: MC and him are obviously childhood best friends, but with much more banter than Zayne. he is the type to tease and poke fun at MC for past habits or funny moments together. you both have a strong bond and is a 100% the biggest idiots together. Dumb and Dumber. without MC knowing, he had always liked her since the first time he saw her from across the street. a boy next door type of love. he had always been there to protect her even when she wasn’t aware of it. why did those other guys stopped bullying her? you don’t want to know what Caleb did to them. he would confess during graduation before he goes off to another state to start his pilot training. it is more fun that way cus MC would 100% think about it all the time and start to miss him. he is a good tease ;)

[sunflowersonatas]

limited edition: drabble

james potter x f!reader / fluff / happy birthday jamesie poo ily <3

summary: It’s James’ birthday, and you’ve made him something golden, glittery, and entirely him—a gift to immortalize the boy who already shines brighter than the sun.

a/n: this was entirely self-indulgent, i saw other ppl posting bday blurbs for james and thought: i wanna do one!!! so this is my take on being a sappy crafty girlfriend bc i think that's what he deserves. hehehe enjoy bbys, sunny ☀️🌻

wc: 777 (angel numbers hello??? i swear i didn't do that on purpose)

You stride into the Great Hall with a grin that threatens to split your face. James notices you immediately—he always does—and he brightens instantly, like someone switched on a light in him. He starts to rise from the bench, already leaning toward you, his curls messier than usual, tie askew, a sleepy smile tugging at his lips. Even the morning seems to be treating him gently today.

Sunlight streams through the tall windows, casting warm, golden lines across the table and illuminating his hair like it was designed to reflect light. The whole space glows—but you can’t quite tell whether it's the sun or James himself lighting the room. Maybe they're indistinguishable. Maybe he's always been composed of light, and you’re simply fortunate enough to exist in his orbit.

You stop in front of him, hands tucked deliberately behind your back.

"There’s my birthday boy," you say, your voice soft and lyrical, like the melody of something cherished.

James looks at you as though you’ve handed him the cosmos. He leans forward to kiss you—tender, instinctual, like he's greeting a dream he's not ready to wake from. He smells of cinnamon toast and the warmth of sleep, and when his thumb brushes your jaw, it feels very purposeful, a reverent act, as if he's memorizing you.

You return the kiss slowly, with the familiarity of something well-loved. When you part, his eyes remain closed, reluctant to release the moment.

"I brought you something," you whisper.

James peers at you through his lashes, amusement and curiosity dancing in his expression. "What’s this? Another love letter? A restraining order?"

"Open it."

You produce the card from behind your back and hand it to him. He accepts it like it’s spectral, like it might vanish if he’s not careful. He opens it—and freezes.

Then: "No bloody way—"

It’s a hand-crafted Chocolate Frog card. The border gleams gold and glittery (Lily had shown you a trick to bewitch the glitter to stop it from spreading everywhere), and in the center is a moving photo of him mid-Quidditch dive, hair windswept, cheeks flushed, smiling like he’s flying on joy alone. He gazes at it, visibly overwhelmed.

Beneath the photo, in your deliberate, curling handwriting:

James Potter (b. 1960) Renowned Gryffindor Chaser. Known for his record-breaking speed, his signature wink, and his heart of gold—which, allegedly, belongs entirely to the girl who made this card. Fiercely loyal, devastatingly charming, and prone to acts of ridiculous bravery (like falling in love).

He says nothing for a moment, just stares. Turns the card over once or twice in his fingers, appreciating the front and back equally.

"I don't have words," James says at last, cradling the card like it might crumble under the weight of how much it means. His voice cracks halfway through. "You made me a Chocolate Frog card. With stats."

"I did," you say, glowing with pride. "You’re a limited edition. Happy birthday."

He blinks rapidly, fighting off emotion. His fingers lightly trace the gilded border. "This is the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever given me. Ever."

You smirk. "Even better than Sirius’ ‘Kiss the Birthday Boy’ badge?"

"Infinitely better," he replies, pulling you close again, arms wrapping around you as if he’s anchoring himself to this moment. "You’ve officially immortalized me."

"As you should be," you murmur, brushing your nose gently against his, your smile aching with sincerity.

He glances again at the card, like it validates something sacred—that he is loved deeply, without condition.

"You make me feel like I’m everything," he says. "Even when I’m just me."

You kiss the edge of his mouth, smile pressed soft to skin. "You're my everything, birthday boy."

He tucks the card inside his robe with care, then takes your hand, threading his fingers through yours like it’s second nature.

You sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder, legs nudging beneath the table. Around you, the Great Hall stirs with the sound of breakfast and sleepy chatter, but it all fades into background static. James watches only you—like you’re his wish, already granted.

He lifts your joined hands to his lips. "Best birthday ever," he murmurs.

"You always say that."

"That’s because you keep making it true."

You laugh gently and rest your head against his shoulder. For a moment, the world is hushed and golden. Just the two of you, cradled in something secret and safe—held in quiet reverence.

And James Potter—a little older, a little softer, and incomprehensibly adored—holds onto it all like it’s the rarest kind of magic. Because it is. Because it’s you.

The morning sun, jealous as ever, spills light across the table, trying to keep up with him.

☀️🌻 masterlist

[syluss-slut]

Yearning hours｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+.｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+

Pairings: vessel x fem!reader

Summary: You have a horrible day and need cuddles stat. Luckily for you, you have someone to look after these needs.

CW: nothing really. Just tooth-rotting fluff.

-------｡⁠*°.( ⁠T⁠_⁠T⁠)⁠＼⁠(⁠^⁠-⁠^⁠ ⁠)｡⁠*°.------

You were having the worst fucking day ever.

Luteal phase wasn't being kind to you, and this time it was abnormally vicious.

You've been having tummy aches the entire day, studying for the soon-approaching finals and the cherry on top of this disaster pie was feeling nauseous 24/7.

Safe to say, you've had enough of the day.

Finally stepping away from the study corner in your room, you stretch and rub your eyes.

You haven't seen vess the entire day as well; he was cooped up in his studio–probably composing lyrics.

You haven't had the chance to spend time with him and vice versa. With how busy your academic life was getting and his upcoming tour dates, the most you both have interacted is eating lunch together and finding each other in the kitchen at midnight for water or snacks.

The memory of these moments made you smile, an inside joke between the both of you being that whenever you couldn't spend much time together, fate somehow makes you guys meet during late nights by sheer coincidence.

Your heart hurts a little when you realise these moments haven't happened recently; and that regardless of living under the same roof you and vess had barely the time for each other.

Taking heavy steps you walk towards his studio, finding the door locked and the sound of muffled music.

Exhaling a breath you didn't know you were holding, you knock at it.

Knock

Knock

Knock

The music stopped playing and soon enough the door opened before you.

Wordlessly, you let your limp body fall in his arms.

Albeit a little amused, vessel hugs you back.

It felt so good to be in his embrace after so long, to feel the warmth of another body against yours.

Subconsciously you bring your arms up and hug him tighter.

"Everything okay sugar?" The deep timbre of his voice sounded, concern laced under his words.

Eyes still closed, you nod in a no and reply in a weak whisper.

"I need you"

Sometimes you yourself wondered how you could yearn for someone you quite literally live with, but that's something vess somehow understood.

With a comfortable silence and his hand in yours, he leads you towards the spacious couch in his studio–laying down and signalling for you to join him.

You need not be told twice. Wating no time, you get comfortable besides him.

Vessel pulls the blanket draped over the arm of the couch and pulls it over the both of you.

You snuggle further against him, the world around you melting away as his hands once again wrap around you in a secure embrace, finding purchase against your back.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asks, still a little puzzled at your sudden clinginess.

Your emotions were already haywire, and vess expressing valid concern at your behaviour finally did it.

Overcome with feelings, you tear up and let out a choked sob against his chest.

"I missed you" you managed to let out through tears.

All the pent up stress and emotions finally caught up to you, and now you were crying in his arms.

"It's okay, it's okay love. I'm right here. Not going anywhere" he comforts you, the baritone of his voice soothing your frazzled nerves.

He pulls you even closer, tightening his hold against you. You let out a soft sigh when you feel vess caress your scalp from the back.

Leaving all your worries behind, you focus on being held by the love of your life, safe and warm.

With all that exhaustion–physical and mental, it was no surprise you drifted off to sleep easily.

Feeling your breaths go from ragged and uneven to laboured and even, vessel sighs and rests his chin on top of your head.

Even unconsciously–you nuzzle against the crook of his neck; making him smile before he drifts off to slumber himself.

-----------------------------

Me as I write this:

[shyamanuensis]

i love you - t.r

i love you - slytherin boy series. tom's up first. enjoy xo

The first time you say it; it barely feels like a choice. The phrase slips from your lips as if only inevitable, like a prophecy uttered too late to be rewritten. Tom stands before you, his sharp, handsome features cast by the dim candlelight of the library alcove you both meet to study in on Thursday evenings. Shadows coil around him in a poetic sense; they are drawn into his presence like moths to a flame – just like you are to him. His eyes, his gaze – piercing, unreadable, difficult to decipher – pins you in place, although you’re aware, completely that someone like Tom would never need such theatrics to make you stay. Keep you occupied.

It's fact. You are already his. Whether he likes it or not. Whether you comply and give in.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that”, he murmurs with a voice as smooth as silk. His words hold darkness to them, like the menace of a dagger sliding from where it has been held discretely within its sheath. You swallow uncomfortably, your pulse fluttering under every inch of your skin. From where you stand, the space between you both is deceptively small – close; but right now, in this moment, it feels endless. Tom always makes sure of it. To keep you just far enough away that you never quite are able to reach him.

“Like what?”, you ask – voice feigning an innocent ignorance. He exhales with a sound that conveys almost amusement, but not quite. His chest rises and falls a little more obviously than usual. He takes a moment before replying, as if to build but also break tension.

“Like I matter.”

Oh, you want to tell him that he does. Badly. That he always has. Since the day you both crossed paths as first years. From the minute you became smitten. From the moment smitten turned into obsessed. You’re aware, however, that he just wouldn’t understand – ot at least not be able to comprehend it in the way you mean it. Tom has made it clear that he does not believe in love. That it is a waste of the minds resources. He believes in facts, in power, in control, in bending those around him and the world to his will. He believes in conquering, in possessing, not in the romantic sense. Not now, not ever.

It would be easy to try and correct him. Considering that even after what he’s said, he’s still standing in place, not having moved an inch – mulling. He’s still letting you speak your foolish, fragile truths and the alcove becomes quieter. Your breaths intime with his, the only sounds to be anticipated. To come fluid. To be expected. Your hands tighten into fists, nails digging into the flesh of your palms. It’s the only give away you display regarding your frustrations. He watches carefully; as if waiting for you to break. He’s expecting it. The silent treatment works on most, but not you. You want to hurt him. You want to wound him. You want to destroy him by providing that there’s something inside of you that he does not own. That he can’t control. That he can’t possess. That he can’t anticipate. It’s somewhat of a lie though.

You know he won’t understand. You don’t quite understand yourself. So you say it. Delicately. As if the words might just be the end of you.

“I love you.”

The words land softer than a whisper in a graveyard; like a spell spoken over the dead to bring them back to life. At first, his expression does not change. It never does. You know better than to expect it to. A few seconds pass and you wonder if he has even heard you. Or perhaps, the words were swallowed by the shadows that surround him before they could actually reach him. It’s almost theatrical the way he finally tilts his head; like that of a doll, his eyes studying you like a puzzle, a personal conundrum, a riddle. His expression shifts, giving you the impression that he may have the ability, the power, the influence to dissect the meaning of your words straight from your body, your heart, your soul if only, he looks heard enough.

“Love..”, he mutters with a scoff, “You love me.”

Its not a question. The words are repeated by him with no intonation. No curiosity. No entertainment. They sound like a cold assessment. A judgement. As if he is taking his time to weigh up the worth of your words before deciding if they should be acknowledged and kept or scrapped to be discarded. It’s easier said than done to try and hold his gaze. You answer although he hasn’t asked.

“Yes.”

Tom’s expression twitches. It’s miniscule and yet dangerous. There’s a flicker of calculation which weaves through his darkened eyes; the look sending a thrill of unease dancing down your spine. Along with this his lips curve. It’s not a smirk. Not a smile. Not something that you can describe or even name. His next words are deliberate. Selected. Curated as he speaks.

“Love is a weakness. A pathetic ball and chain that you forge yourself. Not something I’d waste my time on.”

You know him. You knew he’d respond like that. You didn’t have expect it – you could have almost responded for him.

“And yet Tommy, you’re still here… with me”, you whisper, taking a step in closer. The space between you both now non-existent. The air between the both of you is tight. Your presence suffocates it. There’s a trained silence dancing between your expressions. Your lips. Have you won? You think for a split second that perhaps – just maybe, for the first time in all the years that you’veknown him that he might just break first. That maybe you’ve achieved the unachievable. That maybe you’ve managed to slip inside a crack within his heart.

His hand finds your jaw; the move too quick for your eyes to follow. He tilts your face up gently towards his. His touch feather light; tender, yet it might as well be an iron or copper or lead in how it stills you, steadies you, keeps you still and to the spot.

“You don’t understand what you’re saying”, he drawls, and for once you pick up on something akin to emotion being resembled in his voice. It’s barely there. Sounding close to a warning. Oh but you do understand. You always have. So in response, you dare yourself not to flinch, challenge yourself not to apologise and keep still – your eyes as warm as they can be towards his daring him to face what he might not be able to control.

To face you. It’s a torment. Only briefly, however. Other boys would run. Flee. Escape from the situation leaving feelings tarnished and questions unanswered but not Tom. All you get from him is a snicker – it turns softer into laughter. The sound decorated by amusement. His fingers stroke ever so affectionately across your cheek as he leans in, shaking his head before his lips ghost warm across and over your ear.

“… prove it.”

[fictionrealms]

Hound's Teeth--A Caleb from Love and Deepspace Fanfic--Chapter 3

“Stevie, we can’t.”

His voice soft and gentle, like warm summer breeze. His brow furrow as if he’s holding himself back. There’s a storm in the deep purple of his eyes. Something violent and dark that I can’t quite name. It makes my heart ache and I pull away. 

Safe.

Caleb is safety. He is everything good in this world. He is the warm summer sun to my cool winter night. He cradles me in his lap with my head on his chest as he smoothes my hair from my face. There’s several questions I yearn to ask him. But I keep my mouth closed for now. Here, encompassed by his neverending warmth and comfort, I want for nothing.

Safe.

I am safe.

He had put me in the bath and washed my hair. But I hadn’t even bothered getting dressed before curling into his lap. I couldn’t be alone. Didn’t want to be. I needed him more than I ever did.

“Caleb, who are they?” My voice is so weak I barely register it as my own.

A deep sigh escapes him and his arms tighten around me. Like he was debating on whether to tell me or not. There was no doubt in my mind that it was exactly what he was doing.

“Ever, pip, they’re with a group called Ever.”

“Why were they after me?”

His arms tighten around me again, almost like he was scared I would run if he let go. But I wasn’t going to. Wouldn’t even if I wanted to. Caleb was home. He’s where I belonged.

“That’s a long story, pipsqueak.”

He doesn’t need to say anything more. I can feel the tension in his muscles and the anxiety he’s fighting. All I needed was the fear that coursed through me while they chased me through the streets. That was enough for me to know I needed to stay away. With Caleb.

Away with Caleb.

My voice comes out as a soft caress against his palm as I bring it to my lips. Pressing a featherlight kiss to the middle. “Why not?”

He runs a hand over his face–exasperated. “Because–”

But I cut him off, rising from my place on his lap. “Why? Because we grew up together? Because Grandma raised us both? Why?”

“Because I’m supposed to protect you!”

He rises to his feet, fists clenched at his sides and eyes closed. It’s hard to tell if he’s fighting with the chip or something else these days. But it feels as though the wind was knocked from my lungs—so I stay where I am. Feet firmly planted on the hardwood floor and my eyes narrowed. When his eyes open they’re filled with pain and loathing. Never at me, but at himself.

“Caleb—” I reach for him, fingertips almost close enough to touch his cheek.

“Don’t. Don’t do this, pip. Okay? Not now. I was supposed to protect you. But I slacked off, got too comfortable and they found you. They found you .”

His last sentence is so tinged with hurt and regret it makes me flinch. I had always been a creature of impulse. Ready and willing to leap with arms open and eyes closed into everything and anything if given the chance. Caleb always hated that about me. I was reckless and careless even as a child and he was always right there to stop me. Or catch me in the fall. He was always there. Even when I didn’t want him to be. Everything made sense now. Why he was so hurt when I said I didn’t need him. How I had pushed him away. 

“I do need you.”

Caleb opens his eyes. “What?”

I take a deep breath before continuing. Not sure where I was going with what I was about to say. But needing it to come out all the same. “I do need you, Caleb. Jesus, would you just fucking look at me?”

It takes two steps to bridge the distance between us. My hands cup his face, bringing him to look at me. I am drowning in the deep purple of his eyes. Thrown into galaxies I never thought imaginable. It hits me then—what this gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach is every time he so much as looks at me. Why it does a sommer sault every time he says my name or takes my hand in his. I’m in love with him.

The realization hits me so swift and hard it knocks the wind from my lungs. I recoil instantly, my mouth falling open in shock as I back away. Eyes dropping to the floor, refusing to look at him. Caleb is on his feet in an instant, hands cupping my face and brow creasing with concern. My heart beats so loudly in my chest I swear I can see my nightgown move with the force. The beating so lound I can hardly make out what he’s saying to me as he tries to make me look at him. Roles were now reversed as I refused to meet his eyes, turning my face into his palm and squeezing my eyes shut.

Caleb is frantic when he speaks to me. His voice the only thing I can make out against the pounding. 

“What’s wrong? Is it your heart? Stevie, talk to me–what’s going on?”

My breathing comes in quick, uneven gasps when I finally look at him. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“Pipsqueak–” 

I cut him off, my voice a little harsher than I meant. “It’s nothing, Caleb. Just drop it, okay.”

His hands drop from my face back to his sides–defeated. There’s hurt and worry clear in the way he looks at me and it makes my heart ache so much it feels like it might cave in. I hadn’t meant to be so harsh with him, but I couldn’t tell him. Not now, not after everything else there was to worry about. It was better if he didn’t know a thing and we brushed it off as something else. Maybe it was better, easier, if he believed it really was my heart that caused me to back away. But there’s nothing left to do, so I leave the room and collapse on my bed.

Caleb had it decorated with everything I loved, right down to the color. The walls painted a deep forest green with accents of black around the borders to make it look like trees. My own little forest in the middle of the two busiest metropolises. Grandma used to take us camping as kids. Caleb would help me set up our tent and bring fish back for dinner at night from the lake nearby. While I stayed at the campsite and hung faerie lights from the trees surrounding our little area. He would tease me and ask me why they made a circle around us in the trees. Then tease me more when I would proudly declare them as a faerie circle. Telling me that it isn’t the same thing as a real one. It used to hurt my feelings so bad I would ran crying to Grandma and tell on him for it. But those days were long gone and so was she. Not just Grandma, but the little girl who dreamed of being whisked away by faeries.

Leaning off the bed, I grab the Aerospace jacket he used to wear in the Academy. Wrapping it around me until I almost feel like I’m back in our old house in Linkon waiting for him to return on holiday. Caleb’s OTTO glides into my room, blinking at me as if waiting for a response. So, I roll over to face the wall before murmuring a command.

“Otto, turn off the lights.”

The room goes dark, nearly pitch black, as the faerie lights around the cieling shut off one by one.

I don’t know what time it is when Caleb comes in the room. Doesn’t turn on the lights, no word spoken–he simply lifts the blankets wrapped around me, and lays behind me. His back pressed the mattress as he stares at the ceiling and whispers goodnight.

[xi4oyan]

Anonymous Casual ask inspired by late night thoughts while watching an animation by cudlil(Internet Baby by PinkPantheress)

I wanted to ask if you would have any headcanons or any particular thoughts about some of LMK characters(Wukong or Macaque in particular) if they were romantically with a popular singer/star with a similar vibe like Ariell—in the sense of them being like a shooting star—(A character embodying the fleeting bright nature of a shooting star that is short-lived, impactful, and leaves a lasting impression, even if only briefly)?

♡ hope you like it, that is a pretty animation! sorry for the delay, I've been sick these weeks

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. Sun Wukong

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. "You shine too bright, little star," he says, golden eyes reflecting every spark of you. But there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, a hungry gleam. "And what if I want to go blind?" He laughs, as if it’s just a joke, but there’s something in the way he watches you—like he wants to hold you in the palm of his hand.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. He loves watching you on stage. Loves the chaos of the lights, the roaring crowd. But most of all, he loves seeing the world in the palm of your hand. And when your voice fills every corner, when your presence is so blinding no one dares to blink, he whispers, "Ah... so this is how a star dies."

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. "You disappear as fast as you arrived" he grumbles, arms crossed as he watches you carve a path through the city, like a comet streaking across the sky. But in the end, he’s the one following you, even knowing he’ll never catch you.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. He teases you, calling you "falling star." Says that if he closes his eyes for a second, you might be gone. But every time he retreats into the shadows, it’s him who’s waiting, hoping for one more glimpse of your light.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. He steals your sunglasses, your microphone, your favorite hoodie. "The whole world already worships you," he laughs, twirling the mic in his fingers. "At least let me have something of yours."

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. He always stands in the front row at your shows, and if anyone dares interrupt you mid-song, he’s already scheming some prank to make karma work faster. "I don’t like sharing" he jokes, and no one’s quite sure if he’s serious.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. He hates when paparazzi swarm you. "Want me to throw them on a cloud and send them far, far away?" He says it with a grin that suggests he just might. But in the end, it’s just him pulling you somewhere higher, somewhere only the two of you exist.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. "You don’t have to shine all the time," he murmurs against your skin, on a quiet night, far from the spotlights. "Not with me." But then you laugh, and the sound is so vibrant he realizes—you don’t know how to be anything but a star.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. When he holds you, there’s something desperate in his touch, as if trying to steal some of your glow for himself. "Just... don’t disappear so fast, okay?" And for the first time, there’s a genuine fear there, hidden beneath the laughter

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. Macaque / Liu Er Mihou

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. "You know what they say about falling stars?" He asks, leaning against the dressing room wall, shadows draping over him like an old coat. "That they’re beautiful… and doomed."

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. He watches from the darkness, never getting too close, as if he knows that if he touches you, he might snuff you out. But deep down, he longs for it—for something so bright and fleeting that even after it’s gone, it will have left him scarred.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. Pretends he doesn’t care about your fame, but he knows every lyric of your songs. "Pure coincidence," he says, looking away, while your melody plays on his phone.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. When he disappears without a word, you find him in the audience of your show, hidden in the back, where no one can see him. "You shine better from a distance," he murmurs, as if it’s an undeniable truth.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. "You’re like a song no one can forget," he whispers, his fingers tracing the curve of your wrist. "And I’m the one who keeps replaying the verses in my head, even when I don’t want to."

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. He hates seeing others worship you. Not out of jealousy, but because he knows they want you without understanding the ephemerality that defines you. "They don’t know that falling stars aren’t forever," he mutters.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. Never says he loves you. He says, "I see you," as if that’s enough. And maybe it is. Because in the end, no matter how many eyes are on you—it’s his gaze you seek in the crowd.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. Calls you "forgotten song"or "distant echo," but never really lets you go. "If you’re going to disappear," he says, "then at least give me a memory to carry with me."

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. "You leave too soon" he sighs, his voice carrying something he never admits. But still, he stays. Even knowing that one day, all that will remain is the shadow of what once was light.

[hoe-days]

Kiss the Girl

Senku has no clue what’s wrong with him. Well, he does, but it bothers him to no end. She was standing next to him in their makeshift lab. Everyone else had long passed out after a day of hard work. It was only the two of them. Nothing out of the ordinary. It’s not like he’s some handsy guy that can’t be in close proximity to his girlfriend without being all over her. It’s no different than before the petrification. They’d spend hours in the school’s lab alone after classes were over, they’d spend hours in his room and home lab alone just talking about science and experimenting, so why does he feel so different now? The lighting? The time of night? The way the lab’s light illuminates her face, her soft, kissable looking lips-

Wait, huh?

Senku sighs, shaking his head as he blinks the thoughts away. He looks back to the beaker in his hand. (Y/N) looks over at him and he gives her a sideways glance, he can’t help but chuckle at how goofy she always looks with her goggles on, like a crazy sci-fi scientist. But then she pulls them up onto her forehead. Those eyes. They remind him of the stars, so bright, so full of love and admiration when they’re focused on him. He can feel the heat creeping up his neck and a blush forming on his face.

“You okay?” She cocks her head to the side, her eyes a bit tired, but mostly etched with concern.

“Yeah I’m fine,” He says, looking back to the experiment, swirling the chemicals around in the glass gently. “You can go to bed if you’re tired, Senku.” Her voice was soft and gentle, quite the turn around from the energetic way she speaks during the day when she and Senku are bossing everyone around in the name of science.

“I’m fine, (Y/N).” He says this, but his eyes fall right back onto her lips, they look so...She immediately catches to what’s bothering him and the air in the lab becomes heavier, and it’s not because of the chemicals they’re mixing, hopefully. He puts the beaker down, turning to her and smiling softly. “How long have we been at this?” She thinks for a moment before responding. “About four hours I’d say.” Senku lets out a soft hum, already leaning in, his hand finding place on her cheek. She closes her eyes, leaning into his touch and into the kiss.

CRASH.

They both pause, startled with their eyes open wide. They’re lips nearly touching before they pull away and run outside.

“OH MY GOD SENKU, (Y/N) THE FURNACE BLEW UP.”

Ginro runs around panicked, arms flailing as the other members of the Kingdom of Science begin to gather, woken up by the loud noise. Senku sighs, his expression deadpanned. It’s always something.

I thought of this while cleaning to Disney music

[multific]

A Devoted Heart

Father Charlie Mayhew x Reader

Summary: When an injury leaves you bedridden, Charlie stays by your side.

The fall was sudden, a misstep on the uneven ground near the church steps. You barely had time to react before pain exploded through your ankle and wrist, sending you crumpling to the cobblestone below.

By the time you were carried inside, your vision was blurred with unshed tears, your body trembling with shock.

Charlie had been the first at your side. He always was. The priest, whose devotion was meant to be reserved for the divine, had carried you inside with a careful strength, his grip firm yet trembling. He did not speak as he settled you into the modest cot in the back room of the church, only letting out a quiet sigh as he knelt beside you, brushing stray hair from your damp forehead.

“You should rest,” he murmured, though his fingers lingered against your skin longer than necessary.

For the first few days, pain was your constant companion. 

The doctor had done what she could, binding your wrist, and wrapping your swollen ankle, but the ache remained.

And yet, even through the discomfort, another presence was just as constant: Charlie.

He was always close. Bringing you water, pressing a damp cloth to your forehead when you burned with fever, ensuring your comfort even when you insisted you were fine. 

He would sit at your bedside late at night, reading from scripture. You absolutely enjoyed his deep, soothing voice. 

But when he thought you were asleep, the words he spoke were not from the holy book.

“You must be more careful,” he whispered one night, his thumb skimming lightly over the back of your hand. “I nearly lost my mind when I saw you fall.”

Your eyes had remained closed, your heart hammering in your chest at the tenderness in his voice and the honesty of his words.

“You shouldn’t be here so much,” you finally said aloud one evening, your voice hoarse. “People will talk.”

Charlie exhaled sharply, his chair creaking as he leaned forward, his fingers curling around the edge of your blanket. 

“Let them,” he muttered. “You’re hurt. I’m not leaving you.”

Your chest ached but not from pain, from the unbearable longing you had tried so hard to suppress. Charlie had always been careful with his affection, his touch fleeting, his gaze a quiet storm of things left unsaid. But now? 

He was so close, his warmth radiating onto you, his devotion evident in every soft touch, every quiet moment he spent by your side.

“Charlie,” you whispered his name.

His hand found yours, gripping it firmly. “Don’t.” 

There was something in his voice. Something he couldn't quite point out.

But you could. 

Love. 

The same love that had lived in your chest for so long, unspoken. 

And now, you saw it reflected back at you in his tired eyes, in the way his grip tightened ever so slightly as if he was afraid to let you go.

“You take care of me like you-”

“Like I love you,” he interrupted. He exhaled, shaking his head. “God help me, I do.” you could see the weight lifting from his shoulders. He was finally able to say it, to admit it.

He had fought it for so long, denying himself, hiding behind duty. 

But at this moment, he could no longer deny it.

“You shouldn’t,” you murmured, but there was no conviction behind your words. You wanted him. 

“And yet, I do,” he said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I always have.”

Your fingers curled around his.

It felt good to finally say this truth that neither of you could run from any longer.

His lips found your forehead first, lingering there for a moment too long. Then, with a deep, shuddering breath, he cupped your cheek and pressed his lips to yours. It was soft, uncertain, but filled with every word he had never spoken. 

You melted into him, the pain, the exhaustion, all of it fading away beneath the weight of this moment.

When he pulled away, he stayed close, his forehead resting against yours. “You are mine,” he whispered. “And I am yours.”

You smiled, your fingers tracing the curve of his jaw. “Then stay.”

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[faithhearted]

Even the sensation of his thumb tenderly grazing her inner wrist was enough to rob her of breath. Edwina hoped she wasn’t so dreadfully obvious in her longing for his affection, but knew better to think he wasn’t entirely aware of how she so clearly cherished any act of fondness he was willing to give. No. Surely, she appeared pathetically desperate, especially after he’d finally bedded her. But, God, she couldn’t deny that she wanted him, that she wanted his love and approval, no matter how often he’d hurt her. How terribly pitiful indeed.

He thanked her for her admittance, his hot breath warming her cheeks as she stared at him. Her heart was full. Even more so when she revealed her secret to him. It liberated her, in a way. And knowing that Ben would be the only one that kept this secret, and she his was enough to sate her.

“I would like to follow in your sister’s example.” he admitted, “Clearly, Kate was quick to discover what it means to love you… Though I should hope it won’t take something so drastic to affirm this to my heart.”

“You should know, Benjamin…” Edwina’s gaze fell to their still intertwined hands as she felt the need to lightly squeeze, “I do not expect you to fall in love with me. I’m not fool…”

She paused a moment, saddened by the thought that he might never be in love with her. In that likely case, friendship would have to suffice, and even though it wasn’t ideal, she could certainly live with that. It wasn’t far more appealing than the distance that had existed between them up until this point.

You’ll be happier when you have children, her mother had assured her in a recent letter. Children bring happiness even to the most loveless of marriages. They will be your light and reason.

As much as she’d always dreamed of having a large family, Edwina could only hope her mother spoke the truth.

“Did you have any friends growing up? I would like to meet them — and…I would like you to meet my friends, as well. Caleb, you know, but Abraham and Anna, you do not.”

“I’m afraid I must disappoint you,” she answered sheepishly, adding an ‘again’ in her head. I have very few friends with whom I’ve maintained contact. I do still correspond with one or two. Peggy Shippen is a lovely woman, but we’ve grown less close when the war began. She and her family are Loyalists. I do still hear from Daphne Basset every so often. She’s had her hands full with four children and one on the way. Her husband has a seat in Congress, so their lives have become quite busy.”

Fearing she was proving to be nothing but a disappointment, Edwina shifted the conversation back to his friends.

“Caleb has mentioned Abraham and Anna a few times in his tales. He’s a rather talented storyteller, albeit one for embellishment, I’m sure.”

It was better if Benjamin was the one doing the talking now. His past, after all, was far richer than hers.

“I’m eager to meet them…” briefly, she hesitated before mustering the courage to add, “And if you’d allow it…I’d like to meet your Katherine too.”

Her whispered "Always" came as a bit of a surprise. Although Benjamin knew Edwina was devoted to being a good wife, the idea was still so unfathomable to him, and most especially when he didn't deserve her patience and grace.

He moved to ask her why -- why me? Why do you forgive what I've done? -- but the words died on his lips when her hand came to cup his face, careful and gently stroking.

Swallowing, he caught her wandering touch in his, then cautiously anchored her palm to his cheek. It seemed unfathomable that he needed to tread so carefully with his own wife, but he genuinely feared hurting her and returning her to a state of wide-eyed, teary sorrow. With his thumb stroking along her inner wrist, he thought of pressing a kiss to her palm, but ultimately refrained. Despite all they'd shared, it somehow felt far too intimate.

Finally, Edwina processed his request, and her lips quirked into a baffled little grin.

Benjamin couldn't recall ever having seen her smile before -- but then, had he ever truly looked?

Before he could tell her she looked beautiful like that -- natural, unbothered, at peace -- she squeezed his hand and praised, “That’s beautiful, Benjamin. Truly… Thank you for sharing it with me.” 

With a self-conscious little smile, he dipped his head by way of answer. In that moment, he didn't trust his words.

“Samuel told me much about Susannah in his letters. You both clearly love her very much and I’m certain she’d…” The hesitation was palpable before she barreled on, “That they…would be extremely proud to see you now. I certainly am.” 

Benjamin faltered. Could she truly mean that?

With the lump in his throat growing near unbearable, he whispered a soft, "Thank you," his pulse still racing as they remained a hair's breadth apart.

Edwina confused him further when she grinned and nudged her nose into his. The act was affectionate, endearing, and dare he think it, akin to what an actual couple would share. On impulse, his free hand fell to her hip and he chuckled, idly stroking his thumb along her skin. "Only share if you want to," he murmured. "I hate that all I've done is ask of you, rather than ask what you truly want..."

Edwina hesitated. Although Benjamin initially wondered if she would recant, she was quick to spin a tale of sibling rivalry and one-sided resentment. It completely baffled him. Her own half-sister hadn't wanted her? Did this poor woman never wind up as anyone's first choice?

Guilt-stricken, he listened as the story eventually pulled to an uplifting close -- the love the two sisters shared was near unrecognizable in contrast to the past Edwina had revealed -- and on impulse, he blurted, "I'm glad you were all right...that you lived." Flushing, he looked in between her eyes and their entwined hands. "I would like to follow in your sister's example. Clearly, Kate was quick to discover what it means to love you... Though I should hope it won't take something so drastic to affirm this to my heart."

Idly stroking her knuckles, he asked, "Did you have any friends growing up? I would like to meet them -- and...I would like you to meet my friends, as well. Caleb, you know, but Abraham and Anna, you do not."

[backpackingspace]

Of course post-canon odysseus and penelope love each other (they are a little bit insane about the other. Neither is allowed to leave the others side for months after odysseus gets back. They cycle between sobbing on one and another and aggressively making out. ) but it's true that they have both changed. It's been twenty hard years after all. So

Odypen courting each other again just for the fun of it. Odypen deciding to act like teenagers again and make elaborate plans pretending to sneak into the others room.

Odysseus sending penelopes 90 year old dad a letter challenging him to a race for penelopes hand in marriage. (This does not go over well but penelope though it was hilarious)

Odysseus begging Athena to help him win penelopes heart/hand again. (Athena: What no why you're already married I don't understand you ) (she helps anyways)

Penelope weaving all of odysseus's clothes. Penelope hauling out every tapestry she made of telemachus's childhood (she made one for every year. To gift odysseus on his birthday when he returned.)

Odypen leaving telemachus incharge while they go off on dates (to harssass, cause problems, and badger other people into giving them things). It should be fine Athena has been sticking close to the house lately. And it's only for an afternoon anyways (at first. Headcanon that penelope came with odysseus when he had to go plant the oar and call it a windmill quest.)

[sixic]

gojo hates condoms ☆

not even in an ‘i can’t feel a thing’ frat-fuck way either. he just wants to be close to you. he’s touch starved as it is and being inside of you is quite literally the closet he can be to you. why would he want a barrier between his achy length and your silken walls?

he hates condoms. hates them like they’re pointing south on his moral compass. hates them like they hurt to use—which they do, in a way—the mental anguish feels real to him, at least. he picks up a fuss in the grocery store when you pull a pack of ribbed condoms from the shelf to try because why would you seek pleasure from artificial ridges when the protruding veins of his cock would feel just as good if not dressed in a condom?

sometimes he eats you out for twice as long as usual to get you really fucked out and dumb. he’ll make you cum hard and fast and so much that your mind is a mess in the hopes that you’ll forget all about your safety precautions and let him feel you from the inside out. but you always catch on. with a tsk and a finger pointed to the draw where he keeps the horrid things out of sight.

so when you let him fuck you raw for the first time, gojo is reeling. it’s on the condition that he promises to pull out, and promise he does—with a pinky finger hooked around yours and his lips to his thumb—he promises to pull out.

he decides on missionary, because as much as he loves the hundred different positions he knows how to wrangle you into, he wants to connect with you. to make love, not fuck.

and even your wetness against his tip is enough to jolt his stomach downwards. collecting your glossing over his angry head as he rubs himself up and down your folds—he would cum just like this if he wasn’t so stuck on feeling all of you. you’re warm and wet and tight as he pushes against your entrance and oh god he’s going to cum already.

“oh,” he stills, eyes deadset on yours as he slides into you. his tip is rubbing against that spot that makes your back arch upwards and it takes everything in you not to laugh at the distraught look on his face as he says “i have to pull out.”

“you’re joking, right?”

“i really wish i was baby,” he looks pained. he’s never felt something so heavenly and ungodly at the same time. he wants to do bad things, to fuck you into the mattress and breed you full of himself until you’re too weak to care about the aftermath of such recklessness. “i can’t pull out.”

“what?” you laugh, his balls tighten at the sound.

“if i move—” satoru has never looked so serious, “—i will cum. this was a bad idea. why would you let me do this?”

“you’re the one always—”

“actually don’t argue with me, you know what it does to me.” he squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on anything other then the way you feel around him. he does math in his head, thinks about the people he’s killed, how much he loves you… how pretty you look right now… growing old with you.

“i swear you’re getting harder inside of—”

“imsorryiloveyoubutpleasebequietorelseyouaregoingtogetpregnant.”

it takes him a minute of mental gymnastics to feel confident enough to start slowly sliding out of you, but all hope dies when the heel of your foot presses against his ass and with a smile made of sin you pull him deeper inside of you.

he opens his mouth to protest, to tell you he is not joking and all that comes out is a beautiful strangled moan that makes you tighten around him. for a man who claims to be the strongest he is rather weak-willed when it comes to your pussy. he needs to cum so hard that it hurts, but a fear of maybe ruining your life and relationship digs his teeth into his bottom lip.

“don’t do this to me,” he whines.

but you’re smiling. you’re so tight and wet and beautiful and everything he’s ever dreamt of having and holding and you’re smiling. “satoru,” you say, and he’s weak. “cum inside.”

anything for you. it’s gorgeous: the way he lets loose, falling forward to press all his weight into you as he groans and his balls release in hot spurts that you can feel painting your insides white. it’s the connection, the intimacy, the tears that prick at his eyes.

and he doesn’t pull out. no, he presses his hips forward to fuck his cum as deep into you as he possibly can and he vows to throw out every condom in the goddamn house.

god he hates condoms.

part 2

[madamechrissy]

Pornstar Satoru

Pairings- Pornstar Satoru x shy f!reader

Warnings- mentions of sex and sexwork, masturbation, mentions of drug use, weed smoking, Gojo has an OF hehe, lots of longing, pining, Satoru can't get hard if it's not you, whipped ass Satoru

This will be a FULL fic as a thank you for 11k followers (I can't BELIEVE I'm almost there!?!??) I wanted to show a little preview first, so here are some hcs!! Thank you all sm for following meee <3 Comment to get tagged!

Pornstar Satoru is one of the most famous pornstars there are, hence him constantly wearing jet black shades and hoodies at times, he never knew just who he'd run into that would recognize him. Whether it's his flicks or his OF - he's the top .01 % - he gets a lot of notice, especially in bustling LA. But, he loves what he does, he especially loves watching his abs flex in the camera as he hits one of his lovely costars from the back.

Pornstar Satoru loves making the costars and girls he collabs with actually cum, where they're shaking and squirting all over his latex covered cock. Not that fake shit like he watches them do with other men- no Satoru makes sure to slam that curved tip against their cervix, to roll his thumb right on their clit with the perfect amount of pressure. Perhaps that's the secret to how famous he really is, along with his good looks.

Pornstar Satoru makes so much money from each shoot and is in high demand, so he can have whoever he wants as a co star. They line up to have a chance at him, watching his videos and aching for a chance to feel his cock hitting them deeper than damn near anyone could hit, to say they got to shoot with the Satoru Gojo. This just makes Satoru fuck them harder, smiling right at that camera, as women dream it's really them that have captured his pretty blue eyed gaze.

Pornstar Satoru thinks it's a pretty damn good life, being rich for fucking beautiful women on camera, as he's inhaling a blunt after a threesome shoot with his best friend - and often costar- Pornstar Suguru, as they talk about who got the girl to squirt more, right in the middle of a bouguie party in East LA. Suguru let's out a throaty laugh, while Satoru narrows his blue eyes. 'I had her cumming so hard she was shaking' he says, taking a hit and handing it back to Suguru. 'Nah, that was all for me, did you see...'

Pornstar Satoru stops listening when he sees you enter the room, completely out of place at the coke filled, booze filled party, wearing a pair of black glasses that cover half of your pretty face, and a little nervous look as you stand there, in a cute white pleated skirt and a big oversized sweater. Satoru smacks Suguru on the shoulder then and he coughs up smoke. 'Shit what is it?' Satoru looks back at you, when you're handed a drink, some guy flirting as you look down shyly. 'Who's she?' Suguru blinks a bit curiously. 'I don't know, she's pretty though'

Pornstar Satoru scowls at Suguru who snorts in laughter then. 'Satoru we don't have 'girlfriends' and she... looks like a good girl' your eyes catch his then, across the room, like something shifts as you smile sweetly, before peering at your phone, biting your lip in concentration. 'I'm talking to her' Suguru chuckles as he watches his friend, and Satoru feels his heart race when he comes too close to you, something he can't say he's felt, even pleasing countless beauties, nothing has quite altered him as your sweet turn of lips, as you look down at your converse, so out of place you're fucking adorable. 'Hey sweetheart... Satoru Gojo' he says, introducing himself with ease, expecting you to maybe notice him, get starstruck, fuck women get wet just near him, but you simply grin, and your name whispers through his mind when it spills from your lips.

Pornstar Satoru has you sitting with him later, you fall into easy conversation, you're a little gamer nerd, you love science and the environment, he just bets you were head of your ecology club in college, which you quickly confirm, all while you're in awe of just how beautiful this man is. He's sweet, he's sexy... you feel he shouldn't even be talking to you. You're pretty but... he's experienced so clearly, by every way he moves, he's worldly, so confident, and you've never really left this little part of LA, but the two of you can't stop talking, to the point you forget what brought you here.

Pornstar Satoru laughs with you, as you're sitting side by side, and he lights up a blunt, leaning back on the burgundy couch on the outskirts of the party, inhaling it deep into his lungs. 'Want a hit, sweets?' he murmurs, you take it nervously, putting it to your lips and inhaling a bit, before coughing, covering your mouth. Satoru chuckles, 'you're cute' earning your cheeks heating up. 'Can you tell I don't do this?' you're nervously tapping your leg now. 'Yeah, what does bring you here, doesn't seem your...' 'my scene?' he nods then. 'yeah, that.'

Pornstar Satoru watches avidly as you sip on your drink, wincing at the strong liquor. 'Well, my friend invited me over, but she's running late' Satoru grins now. 'Party time is different, everyone comes late, that's on time. About fifteen minutes late' 'oh no I came early!' you smack your own forehead, giggling along with him. 'Are you like... a model, or an actor?' you ask, eyeing him and his baby blues, the cheekbones so perfect, those lips that wrap the blunt again. 'You could say I'm a bit of both,' he muses, then spits out his drink when you ask 'what are you in!?'

Pornstar Satoru coughs just a bit, he's never been ashamed of what he does, but he's nervous for some reason to tell you. Why, he doesn't know. 'I'm... into some indie flicks' you brighten up then. 'Oh, let me know, I love lowkey films! I bet you're great' Satoru sighs, gulping down the rest of his drink and eyeing your cup. 'Want more?' you frown now, maybe you're asking too much, or offending this actor that you don't recognize him!? You nod, the amount of people around you making you press against this friendly, pretty white haired stranger just a little more.

Pornstar Satoru has another drink, eyeing the sea of bodies undulating in the extravagant mansion, and soon the two of you are dancing together you're cute and so awkward, Satoru's enjoying this far, far too much. He has plenty of costars and fans come up to the two of you, but he's too interested in showing you how to move your hips to pay them any mind, when finally your friend comes. Satoru instantly recognizes her, she's a pretty famous co star he's collabed with on her Onlyfans not long ago. When she sees you giggling and enjoying yourself so much, she damn near drags you away, making Satoru curse.

Pornstar Satoru eyes you when your friend whispers in your ear- 'you really don't recognize him!?' you blink curiously, looking at him more closely. 'Should I?' she sighs then, eyeing Satoru up and down. 'He was in my OF videos, we collabed' you heat up furiously then. 'I never watched your videos! I just subbed to be supportive!' she giggles. 'You're so cute, I thought you at least watched some?' you shake your head nervously. 'I don't really watch, is he... like an OnlyFans guy?' Satoru is back over with Suguru now, while you sip your drink, feeling your body warm up. 'He's the top pornstar there is, the collab was like a dream. He's really sweet but you should know is all, you're kinda...' you glare. 'kinda what?' she giggles again. 'you're just... sweet, emotional, is all'

Pornstar Satoru expects you to be done with him once you find out, after all you just seem innocent, uncorrupted for this city, not the kind of girl to be at this party where lines are being snorted off bodies, and people are naked and jumping in the pools, a heady, wild atmosphere. But you smile at him, as you murmur - 'he's sweet?' to your friend. She nods then. 'He is, but just know... he doesn't date so, it'd only be physical' you frown at that now, that's not something you think you can do, you're about as demisexual as it gets, hence your very limited experience. 'He doesn't date at all?' Your friend gently touches your shoulder. 'No, love, I'd hate to see you hurt'

Pornstar Satoru catches you before you leave later that night, when you are just feeling too out of place, his big hand wrapped around your delicate wrist, earning you looking up at him. He can't stop thinking how pretty your eyes would look rolled back, how good your lips would feel wrapped around his cock, as you relax a bit, turning and looking up. 'Headed out already?' he asks softly, you flush as you remember just what he does for a living, your friend had just described his cock in far too vivid detail. 'It's not really my thing, but I'm glad we met, Gojo' you smile so cute then, leaning up and pecking him on the cheek, his arm wraps your waist as he leans down, inhaling that sweet vanilla scent cloying to your skin.

Pornstar Satoru pulls you in closer, blue eyes staring under snowy lashes. 'Can I... get your number?' Satoru has never asked for a number a day in his life, but he delights in watching you shift nervously, nodding as you tuck your hair behind your ear. 'Yeah, I'd like that' he exchanges numbers, tilting your chin up then, watching the way your eyes dilate, the color spread on your pretty cheeks. 'She told you?' you clear your throat, nodding a bit, still being captured by his fingers. 'I don't judge at all, Gojo, I'd still like to be... friends...' your whisper is met with the most subtle kiss on your lips, shooting desire hot and heavy until Satoru releases you, plump lips smirking- 'sure, sweets, we can be friends'

Pornstar Satoru can't get you off his mind, the feel of your skin on his, the sweet sigh against his lips. He is on a big shoot and - the Satoru Gojo that never gets soft - is having trouble keeping it up, to the amusement of his costar Pornstar Sukuna. Satoru scowls at his comments, just picturing your sweet lips against his for that brief moment. A man who just fucks and fucks, and doesn't feel, is hung up just on some fucking kiss. He has to take a break after pleasing his costar with his fingers, she's cumming so much she doesn't notice, but the directors wonder why he's off. He's in his own dressing room, eyeing the phone, hands shaking as he decides to type a message - 'could you give me a picture, sweets, to save as your caller id?'

Pornstar Satoru finds his cock is right back on hard when you send one quickly, just a cute selfie with a little peace sign, but he sees your glossy fucking lips, the teeth indentations he aches to rub the tip of his cock on, along with just a hint of your breasts. Your nipples press against the thin material of your little tee shirt- Pokemon, he notices, smiling- his cock throbbing. 'Can I get one too?' you're biting that lower lip nervously as you ask, getting a picture of him shirtless then, doing nothing to stifle the curiosity in your mind, your heart racing as you seee his body. 'You at a shoot?' you ask in the messages, he hesitates before answering - 'yes' - and somehow you feel jealous of whoever his costar is. You message a - kill it, Gojo! - despite the feeling in your tummy, little do you know you're drowning his fucking mind when he performs later, feeling the star squirting all over his latex covered cock.

Pornstar Satoru can't stop texting you that week, he can't even get hard if he doesn't look at that picture, and you can't stop your curiosity, when you friend mentions he's doing a live stream. Since Satoru can hardly perform, he's decided to masturbate on live cam, in minutes making more than he'd make in a shoot, all while having your picture propped up. People are chatting, watching, dollars by the hundreds being tipped every moment, fuck he's making way more than he usually would, and he can think of you. He laughs softly, abs flexing as he hits the right angle, reading the comments, making you dripping wet, this isn't what you do!?

Pornstar Satoru is stroking his wet, slick cock that's glistening, up and down with his huge hand, and you feel your pussy clench, breath coming faster, unsure whether to look away or keep staring, meanwhile he's picturing you in all sorts of positions, on your knees, a fucking mating press. He's shutting his eyes for a moment, grinning as the viewers go crazy. 'I know, it's pretty, huh?' he spits right on that long, veiny cock of his, pinching his pink tip and whining, white lashes fluttering open right when he sees a familiar name enter the chat.

Your name.

hehe it'll be a FULL FIC not a drabble/oneshot - if you're interested in getting tagged drop a comment <3

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