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queensunshinee · 6 days

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His favorite toy- Part 2 || Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (p in v sex, oral sex), super toxic relationship.

Word Count: 6.5k

(part 1)

His favorit toy- Part 2:

Two months have passed since the last time Art and I fucked. Although it wouldn’t be fair to call it that, because I don’t fully know what it was. I only know he said he thinks he loves me. Neither of us made the minimal effort to rekindle any kind of relationship. I kept sitting with Janet and Shane, and he stayed in his place next to the friend he invented.

Occasionally, if I focused, I could feel his gaze on the back of my neck, but maybe I was imagining it. Maybe I also imagined his declaration of love, maybe I lost my grip on reality for a moment. Maybe more water needs to flow under this bridge. Maybe Tashi Duncan needs to be his, like he is hers, so I can stop dreaming about him at night. How did I become so dependent on the emotions of a girl I have no desire to exchange a word with? How did I lose someone I’m not sure was ever mine? And more than anything- what made me spend so much time in this endless whining?

A few days after that party, Luke sat next to me in one of the classes we share. He looked so good that if I close my eyes, I can imagine it's Art. A remarkably pathetic thought, but it works. Except he isn’t cruel. He doesn't try to deceive me or lead me to the point he wants me to reach. He’s interested in me and my hobbies, and sometimes he walks me from class to class, but in these two months, he hasn’t made any move beyond placing his hand on my shoulder. Maybe he thinks I have lice. Maybe he thinks I won’t be good enough in bed to risk our boring conversations about the eco-intro professor.

Maggie, the girl I work with, canceled at the last minute, so I ended up alone at the smoothie station and the register. I took comfort in the fact that it's exam season and not too many Stanford students would prefer to stand in line for a smoothie instead of grabbing a spot in the library on a Sunday night. "The usual?" I heard Art’s voice and lifted my gaze from the book I was reading. I blinked at him a few times, as if trying to figure out if I was imagining his smug smile. Maybe it wasn’t smug, maybe that's just how he always smiles when he sees me. Like he knows a secret he’ll never tell me. "I..." I tried to hold onto the reality as I knew it, "I don’t remember," I smiled without showing teeth, half-forced.

"Peach—" he stopped himself in the middle of the stupid nickname. Apparently, he understood from my look that it wasn’t appropriate after two months of radio silence. "Almond milk, banana, pecan, and coconut," he mumbled. "That’s $4.50," he nodded. I wondered if he was surprised, because I’d never asked him to pay before. I’d always used the free smoothie I got during my shift on him. "How a—" he started to speak, and I turned on the blender, seeing out of the corner of my eye that he was smirking and shaking his head. "Fair," he muttered. "Here’s your smoothie. Goodnight," I handed him the cup after a few seconds, with the most forced smile I could muster. He rolled his eyes in response and sat down in one of the empty chairs.

"What do you think you’re doing?" I asked. "Sitting and drinking my smoothie, obviously," he spoke again as if I were two years old. Like I needed him to mediate reality for me because I couldn’t understand it on my own. "Do you see anyone else sitting here?" I asked. "Just because the tables are empty because it’s ten at night and you’re working in a cafeteria-" he began. "This isn’t a cafeteria. It’s the—" "Doesn’t mean I can’t sit at one of the tables and drink my smoothie. Or are there new rules I’m not aware of?" I rolled my eyes in response. Smug dickhead. I was definitely not going to give him a second of my time. I went back to the book I was reading for my philosophy exam, trying to ignore his presence but realizing I was reading the same sentence five times in a row.

"What are you studying?" he asked after a few minutes of silence. "Why are you doing this?" I threw the question back from behind the counter, sighing in frustration. "What am I doing?" The usual smirk was plastered on his face. "Why are you here on a Sunday night, Art?" If I could stomp my foot to express protest, I would. "Because you’re here on a Sunday night." The smirk turned into a smile. I couldn’t tell if it was sincere. I never know if he’s sincere.

"What do you want?" I rolled my eyes and sighed, realizing he wasn’t going to leave. I knew he was stubborn in an almost inspiring way (or nauseating, depending on who you ask) and that he was always at an advantage with me. He always had the last word. All I had left was to let him say it quickly and move on with life. "To ask how you're doing?" he half said, half asked. He sounded hesitant, but I knew he wasn’t. I knew he was as confident as any other day. He knew exactly what he was doing. "Amazing. Anything else?" I found myself crossing my arms under my chest and saw him, without shame, shift his gaze, well… to my chest, raising an eyebrow.

"Arthur!" I felt like I was his aunt as he shook his head, almost playfully. "I missed you, Peaches. Is that so hard to believe?" He chuckled, still completely shameless. "Well, I didn’t." That was the first thing that came to mind, and the face Art made, along with the eye roll, only emphasized how much he didn’t believe me. "Why are you so mad at me?" His voice was amused as he approached the counter with his smoothie, grabbing the book I was reading without asking. "What course is this?" "Philosophy," I snatched it from his hand, and he grabbed mine with the speed of an athlete who works too much with his hands. "Let go," I muttered, not sure if I wanted him to release my hand or release me. But I was scared he'd agree and disappear again, and that was so fucking pathetic. "Never," he replied, keeping his gaze on me and giving my hand a squeeze. "It’s not fair, Art," I hated how my voice sounded. "What’s not fair?" he asked, tracing small circles on my hand the moment he felt me relax the muscle that had been trying to pull away from his touch. "What you're doing right now," I sighed. If he weren’t in front of me, I probably would’ve started crying out of frustration. "What am I doing right now?" The smirk was once again plastered on his face. "Trying to convince me everything's okay between us," I hesitated, and he shook his head from side to side. "Nothing's okay between us, Peaches. I hate it. I actually hate it. I think about you 80% of the day. Every time I want to talk to you, you're either with your friends or with Luke." He wrinkled his nose as he said his name.

"Why do you know his name?" I asked, studying him. "Because I looked him up, and I'm telling you, Peaches, he's fucking weird—" "You're fucking weird," I shot back, and he laughed, trying to move the hair from my face with his free hand. "Well, maybe you like us weird, maybe you've got a type," he tried to joke, making me roll my eyes. "Who said I like you, Donaldson?" I tried to defend myself, and Art wasn’t laughing anymore. He wasn’t smiling either. He just looked at me, not letting me read his expression. His hand, which had been playing with mine, tightened its grip, and his gaze locked onto me as if I was on trial for the words that just came out of my mouth.

"Let’s study for the statistics exam together tomorrow?" He changed the subject, not breaking his intense gaze. "Art—" "Study for the exam. Just that. I won't pass it if you don't help me," he flashed his most charming smile. The one he fakes in seconds. The one he uses for interviews with the Stanford magazine and in photoshoots for the tennis team posters. "Study with Dylan," I suggested, raising an eyebrow, referring to the imaginary friend he chose to sit with instead of me. "You want me to beg?" he asked, poking my shoulder with his finger, causing me to shift slightly but still not letting go of my hand. "Maybe," I teased. "I can. My ego will survive if you study with me for statistics tomorrow." He said it quicker than I expected.

"I have a philosophy exam at eight. Can you do twelve?" I asked. "I can when you can. Where’s the exam? I’ll wait for you," he said. "Meet me at the economics library. There’s a room where you’re allowed to talk if you’re working in groups," I explained my choice. "That’s ridiculous. Let’s study at your place or mine—" "We’ll study at the library, take it or leave it," I stated firmly, even though the temptation to go to his dorm was strong since he never invited me. We always went to mine. "Library it is," he agreed. "What’s your philosophy exam about?" he asked, finally letting go of my hand, which had been holding the book I was studying from. "Aristotle and eudaimonia. What he thinks about happiness," I muttered, opening my notes again. "What does he think about happiness?" Art asked, leaning on the counter. "You wouldn’t get it," I smiled at him, and saw him nod with a somewhat thoughtful look, as if his combative spirit and desire to argue had evaporated the moment I agreed to study statistics with him. "Tomorrow at twelve, Peaches. Don’t break my heart and ditch me," he threw into the air, leaving the booth with the same dramatic flair he had when he entered. . . . I walked into the economics library, which was packed with people. Art was already sitting there, messing with his phone more than with the notes in front of him on the table. He hadn’t noticed I’d entered, giving me the chance to observe him. His blonde curls fell over his eyes in a way that likely bothered him. He was wearing his red tennis outfit (the one I liked the most, I should mention) and looked carefree. He always seemed too relaxed, maybe that’s how it is when everything comes to you with an ease that’s almost disgusting.

"You need a haircut," I muttered the first thing that came to mind as I approached, seeing him look up immediately. "Hey," he said, smiling from ear to ear, "I saved a spot because I knew it’d be crowded," he added. "How long have you been sitting here?" I asked as I took the seat next to him. "Since about ten," he chuckled, probably at himself, "How was the exam?" he asked. "Long. Have you gone over any of the material?" Yesterday, I decided I’d be practical. I’d promised to help him, and honestly, I always understood the material better myself when I explained it to him. And if Art Donaldson could take advantage of my knowledge in statistics, then I could take advantage of the situation too. Not just him. "A little, I pretty much lost track in the middle of the course." Art had taken this course as an elective. I always found it funny because who takes statistics as an extra class when it’s not even required for their degree?

"What, Kevin didn’t let you copy his notes?" I looked at him with a raised eyebrow, and he lightly tapped my shoulder. "You’re mean. Since when are you so mean?" he responded with a humor I couldn’t fully read, unsure if he was joking or if part of him actually thought there was some cruelty in me. Maybe it was the philosophy exam I couldn’t shake off. Obsessive thoughts about happiness and potential. "I’m going to get myself some coffee, want me to bring you something?" I asked, changing the subject. "Sit down, get settled, I’ll get it for you," he nodded toward me and stood up, not giving me a chance to refuse before he disappeared from my sight, leaving me alone.

Art Donaldson will be the end of me. I’m certain of it. "My brain is fried, Donaldson. I can’t look at any more averages," I summed up after two hours of studying. "Yeah? Already gave up?" he asked, amused. "I remind you that I had an exam today! I don’t think I’ve eaten anything other than my own brain," I tried to remember what I’d actually eaten today. "So let’s go eat something," he smiled. His eyes practically sparkled. "Art," I sighed, resting my head on my hand. "What? We can’t go have lunch?" he asked with mock innocence. Speaking to me again like I was a child. Like I didn’t understand what he’d already figured out long ago. "No, of course not," I wanted to smack him on the head as if he were the dumbest person I knew. "I can’t let you stay hungry, Peaches, my grandmother would be mad at me," he quickly replied. Where was your grandmother every time you humiliated me to the core? Every time you made me feel empty and stupid? So stupid. "Your grandmother will survive," I rolled my eyes. "She’s a very sick woman, you don’t know that. I’ll tell her I let you starve and she’ll have a stroke. You won’t be able to live with that on your conscience. You’ll drag us into lives full of guilt—" "Okay, you’re giving me a headache, God," I mumbled, standing up. Art Donaldson’s smug smile returned to his face in an instant.

That’s how I found myself sitting across from him at the fancy cafeteria for athletes, eating nuggets after the woman working there flirted with him and gave me a threatening look. "Don’t hate Rosie, she always gives me extra pie," he said after I pointed out that she looked at me like I was the reason the Beatles broke up. "Because she wants to sleep with you," I rolled my eyes. "So she has a reason to look at you like that. Makes sense," he replied with a chuckle. "Okay, what is this?" I dropped the nugget I was holding and pointed between us as I leaned back in my chair. "What?" he continued eating as if nothing unusual was happening. "What are you doing, Art?" I asked, feeling my leg start to shake out of frustration.

"I’m eating and making sure you’re eating," he replied, taking another bite of his food, as if we were having a completely normal conversation. "We’re not going to fuck again just because you invited me to eat nuggets at the cafeteria, you know that, right?" I blinked at him, trying to signal that he was delusional. "Of course not," he said, leaning back in his chair as well. "I have principles, Donaldson," I continued. "I know," he smiled. "I’m not some girl you found on the street that you can treat however you want, disappear for two months, invite her for nuggets, and she’ll take off her bra just so you can vanish again until the next time you’re horny," my voice rose a bit, despite my effort to keep it calm. I saw his jaw tighten, his expression shifting from amused to cold. "Is that what you think this is?" he asked, and all I could do was shrug.

"It’s not like you’ve given me any reason to think otherwise, Art," I looked at him and felt that if I stayed there much longer, I’d start crying. "I told you that I lo—" he began, but I stood up. "Thanks for lunch, it’s definitely nicer than the regular cafeteria," I forced a smile, and he closed his eyes. "You didn’t eat anything," he replied. If I focused, maybe I could have seen his frustration growing. But I was trying to focus on not crying. Art Donaldson’s ego didn’t deserve to see me cry over him again. "I’m really tired, I need to sleep a bit before my shift," I mumbled. "Will you come to my match tomorrow?" he asked quietly. "Art—" "You don’t have to, but I’m saving you a seat, okay?" he cut off my answer, not wanting to hear a refusal, maybe not believing there was a bone in my body capable of saying no to him. . . . And it’s a little pathetic how I ended up walking onto the tennis court the next day, giving up the last shred of my self-respect. I was surprised to see how many people showed up to these things, especially at the end of exam season and right before the break. The place was packed.

‘You came’ -A- I got his message and tried to look around, searching for where he might be. ‘Down on the court’ -A- I could practically see his smirk in the words. I glanced toward him and shrugged. ‘Front row, saved you a seat next to Patrick’ -A- he added.

‘What the fuck is Patrick?’ -(Y/N)- I replied, not moving toward where he told me to go.

‘A friend. Please sit there.’ -A- He answered shortly. ‘Want to lift my head and know where you are’ -A- And when he says things like that, I almost forget how cruel he can be. So I find myself rolling my eyes and walking toward the seat he saved for me.

"Are you Patrick?" I mumbled, feeling my cheeks flush from the awkward interaction with the guy sitting next to the empty seat. "Depends who’s asking," the curly-haired guy responded, flashing a mischievous half-smile. I can see why they’re friends. Fucking twelve-year-olds in the bodies of twenty-year-olds, how is that even possible?! "Don’t be a dick," we heard from down below, and I turned to see Art approaching us. "Who’s this?" the guy I didn’t know asked, as if I wasn’t standing right there—seriously, rude as hell, but whatever. "Patrick, behave," Art wasn’t joking, not even smiling, scolding him like you’d scold a misbehaving pet. "You came," Art looked me over, grinning from ear to ear. "Don’t let it go to your head, I had some free time," I muttered, sitting down. Art nodded. "Will you stay after the game?" he asked. I think it was the first time Art had to look up to talk to me. "I don’t know, I need to keep studying for statistics," I answered. "Me too," he replied. "We’ll study together," he shrugged, not giving me a chance to respond before he walked off, taking his position. Getting ready to serve.

“Interesting,” the guy next to me said. “What exactly?” I asked, rolling my eyes and still not looking at him. “You, of course,” I could hear him smiling. “What’s so interesting about me?” I kept staring into the air, unsure if I should focus on Art, who still hadn’t started playing, or the phenomenon sitting next to me. Arrogant, just like the blond guy who’s been emotionally torturing me for months. “Well, first of all, I’ve never heard of you. You’re a surprise,” he said as if it was obvious. And it stung a little, even though I knew the chances of Art talking about me were slim to none. “Maybe you’re the problem, Pete,” I muttered, snapping my fingers like I was trying to recall his name. “Patrick,” he corrected, laughing, making me look at him. He had a loud laugh, unapologetic. I knew his name was Patrick, and he knew I knew, but he still found it amusing.

“Maybe you’re the surprise,” I told him. “He doesn’t talk about you either.” I tried to sound unaffected, like everything was fine. The game started, and Art looked distracted. Maybe he always looks like that when he plays tennis- I’ve never watched his games before, he’s never invited me. “You’re supposed to watch the other side too,” Patrick whispered in my ear, causing me to roll my eyes. “Hey, Stats Girl,” I heard the familiar voice of Tashi Duncan just before she sat next to Patrick, cursing the day I decided to trust Art Donaldson and show up at his game. “The one and only,” I muttered with the best smile I could muster, feeling myself blush at the ridiculous nickname she gave me. “How’s he doing?” she asked Patrick. I wondered what their connection was. “He’s good, you know, as usual. Ice.” he replied, and they started talking quietly about the game, about Art, and about the opponent.

All I could think about was how good Art looked. He looked as if everything came to him effortlessly, as if he didn’t need to try for anything—everything just happened. And I knew that wasn’t true, I knew he worked hard, trained, ate properly, invested in his studies, and that he was probably a good grandson and a good friend. He was good to everyone except me. “Are you enjoying the game?” Tashi asked, pulling my gaze away from Art for a moment. “Huh?” I asked, not understanding what she wanted. “The game, are you enjoying it? He’s playing well,” she clarified. “Yeah, he’s really good,” I mumbled. I didn’t know what else to add to make it sound convincing. “Leave her, Tash. She doesn’t know anything about tennis, she’s his cheerleader,” Patrick answered her, snickering. I shot him a murderous look. “Patrick, don’t be rude,” Tashi said, “I’m sorry about him, he doesn’t know how to behave around people,” she turned to me, as if he wasn’t there. “It’s fine,” I replied, feeling my leg start to shake from the frustration. They went back to talking about the game, and I suddenly felt how pathetic it was, showing up to watch him play. To come and see him in his element, when he wasn’t part of my life anymore. When his friend sat next to me, mocking me to my face. “I’ll be right back…” I mumbled, walking toward the exit. I had no intention of coming back. . . . Two hours later, there were chaotic knocks on my door. “You left,” Art walked in without waiting for an invitation the second I opened the door. He looked angry. “I told you I didn’t know if I’d stay, I have an exam tom-” “Bullshit. What’s your deal? Why did you come?” He practically shouted as I closed the door. “You asked me to come,” I mumbled. “I also asked you to stay, but you left in the middle, so what was the point of you coming?” He crossed his arms. I don’t think I’d ever seen him this angry. He’s always calculated and calm. “Did he say something?” he added, asking a question. “What?” I returned, not understanding what he was talking about. “Patrick, did he say something to you? Why did you leave?” He asked again, speaking to me like I was a child. “He didn’t say anything to me. I left because I didn’t understand what I was even watching. I don’t know anything about tennis, Art, and I have an exam to study for,” I tried to justify. “Enough with that exam. I heard you studying for it yesterday, you know the material, we both know you know it.” He sighed. “I didn’t ask you to come to give tennis commentary. I asked you to come because I wanted you in the crowd. I wanted to see you in the crowd,” he continued. I could hear the effort in his voice to keep it together, to not lose control.

“Tashi was in the crowd; that should be enough for you,” I muttered, lifting my gaze to him, seeing that he was already staring at me. We had never talked like this about Tashi. She had always been this figure hovering above us. He talked about her constantly, unrelated to anything. He talked about her like she was a god. He talked about how she played tennis, about her training, how she helped him. He talked about parties he only went to because Tashi wanted to go. But I never responded in a way that would let him understand that I knew. That I wasn’t completely clueless. That I knew he was completely in love with her. That he loved her the way I loved him and that nothing would change that. “Oh, so that’s the problem. You could’ve started with that. It bothered you that Tashi was in the crowd?” He chuckled. He fucking chuckled. “Why did it bother you?” He moved closer to me, and I had no choice but to avert my gaze from his piercing blue eyes, which felt like bullets at that moment. “It didn’t bother m-” “Look at me.” He was close enough to grab my head and turn it back to face him. “I asked you a question,” he added, not letting me escape. And if there’s anyone I didn’t want to talk about, it’s Tashi Duncan.

“Why did you invite me? Why did you want me in the crowd?” “Because I wanted you to see me play,” he answered without blinking, as if it was obvious. As if there wasn’t a single question I could ask him that he wouldn’t have an answer for. “You love Tashi, Art. You lo-” His lips were on mine the second I said it. Again, there was nothing calm or calculated about this kiss. He was trying to prove that he didn’t, that I was wrong. While we both knew I was right. “You can’t say things like that, Peaches. You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he mumbled as he pulled away from me to catch a breath. “It’s okay that you love her. I’ve made peace with it. I just need you to let me move on, Art,” I sighed, trying to catch my breath again. “I don’t fucking love her.” He was angry; I could hear it in his voice. “What do I have to do to make you understand that you’re the only girl for me?” He kissed me again, and I could feel him getting hard from the way he pressed against me, causing me to moan into his mouth. “Yeah? Is this the only way I can get through to you? Is this the only way you believe me?” he asked, running his lips down my neck. "Art," it was half a moan, half a cry. My eyes closed, and as they did, I felt the weight of his hands on my shoulders, pulling me down until I was on my knees in front of him. I unbuttoned his jeans and quickly pulled down his boxers. I felt almost possessed as he sat on the edge of my bed, forcing me to crawl toward him. “There we go. Is this the only way I need to treat you for you to understand your place?” he muttered as I knelt before him again. I felt a light slap on my cheek from his cock, much more humiliating than painful. “I asked you a question,” he continued.

“N-no,” I mumbled. “Even your voice is annoying me right now,” he muttered, and without warning, I felt his cock in my mouth. He didn’t give me a moment to adjust, punishing me for leaving the match, maybe for bringing up Tashi, maybe for everything combined. You could never tell with him. I felt him hitting the back of my throat, and I tried to suppress my gag reflex with little success. Three months since he’d been in my mouth showed signs. “Shhh, you can do better than that,” he half-stroked my hair, half-held me in place by it. Then he pulled me back, leaving a trail of spit and precum. “You’re such a mess,” he chuckled, and again I felt a light slap of his cock against my cheek. I put my lips back where I knew he needed them the most, and this time, there was no gentle stroking of my hair. There was only a hand forcing me to stay in place as he used my mouth however he wanted. “Nothing to say now, huh?” he said, not very coherently, as I began to feel the warm, thick liquid spill into my throat. “Atta girl,” he patted my hair twice before letting me pull back.

I stood up slowly, trying to catch my breath. “Come here,” he mumbled, pointing to his thigh. I can’t refuse Art Donaldson, so I sat on his lap, placing my hands on his neck in an almost embrace, watching him smile. “Why is everything so hard with you?” he muttered, and his lips lazily found my neck. “I just don’t know what you want from me,” I responded, trying to focus on anything other than his lips currently on my collarbone. “I told you I love you,” he mumbled, his eyes locking onto mine. “You don’t mean that,” I shot back.

“Oh yeah?” His smirk spread across his face, and in seconds, he tossed me onto the bed as if I weighed nothing. He was above me. “For now, the one acting like a brat is you,” he said, his presence casting a shadow over me like a predator playing with its prey. “The one who left in the middle of my match is you.” His lips again left trails on my skin. I don’t even know when he took my shirt off. I felt a light bite on my nipple that made me moan. “Fuck, fa- Art,” I mumbled, unable to focus. “The one avoiding interaction with my friends is you.” His hand joined in, starting to torture my other nipple as his kisses moved further down. “I’m not,” I managed to respond, just as he easily removed my panties.

His breaths hovered over my pussy, short and hot, and if I didn’t know Art Donaldson so well, I would’ve thought he was looking up at me with almost a pleading expression. But he was in complete control. A small kiss on my lips, but not where I really needed him, made me shift my hips a little, and he chuckled- a laugh that was almost childlike. “Hey, ask nicely,” he managed to say, and I returned to the position I had before, legs around his head. “Please, Art,” I knew there was no point in arguing; he always got what he wanted in the end. “No problem, baby,” in seconds, his tongue was on my clit, starting slowly with circular motions and picking up speed with every moment. “There you go, you’re almost there,” he muttered, pulling back just before I could come. “What-” I tried to catch my breath again, craving the euphoria only he could give me at that moment. “I want to be inside you,” he answered without waiting for the full question, and in an instant, his cock filled me, making me moan. “Fuck,” I managed to mumble, feeling my eyes roll back. “Hold on a little longer, Peach,” he said, slipping his finger into my mouth like he liked to do, watching my lips close around it. “Now,” he muttered, pushing it deeper into my throat while he thrust into me, feeling me tighten around him like only an orgasm from him could make me do.

He fucked me stupid. There’s no other way to describe what I experienced, and as we both tried to catch our breath, I wondered how long it would take for him to leave this time and what his excuse would be. “Don’t you have practice tomorrow?” I quietly asked, trying to throw him off balance for a moment. “No, but I don’t know anything for the stats exam,” he admitted and chuckled. “Art! I taught you all the material yesterday,” I rolled my eyes. “I can’t concentrate when you’re teaching me.” “Then why did you ask for help?” It was my turn to laugh. “Because you’re the most beautiful when you’re in your element,” he shrugged like it was obvious. Like hearing me talk about statistics would make him fall in love with me. Like it wasn’t what I felt two and a half hours ago when he played tennis, until I almost choked on love.

“When are you going home?” he asked, probably knowing my last exam was in statistics. “I’m not,” I replied casually, and he quickly shifted positions. “Why the hell not?” he asked, and I saw a small wrinkle form between his eyebrows. “It’s no big deal, Donaldson,” I chuckled, “I picked up extra shifts, and I have a paper to work on. Speaking of shifts, I need to get ready for mine.” I added as I checked the time. He watched me as I walked around the room, trying to decide if I smelled too much like sex to push the shower until after work. “Are you coming to the study marathon tomorrow before the exam?” he asked, starting to get dressed too. “Of course,” I looked at him like he was crazy. “Don’t think about skipping it, Art. You need it,” I said, knowing exactly who I was dealing with. “Okay, Mom,” his voice was amused, and I rolled my eyes, looking at him for another moment. We don’t get too many moments like these. Almost domestic. Almost mine.

"Hey, we're good, right?" he suddenly asked, holding my hand and not letting me continue running around the room. "Yeah, Art, everything's fine," I smiled half-heartedly, feeling a bit embarrassed. "Because I don't want another two months like these," he muttered, and I knew it was hard for him to admit. It was hard for him to say that the past two months had been strange, to say the least. Difficult, to be honest. "Me neither." I nodded at him. "When are you flying home?" I asked as we were both already outside the door, after I had locked it. "Four hours after the exam, I’m supposed to be on a flight," he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Wow, two weeks at home, excited?" I asked. "Not that much, mostly glad I get to visit my grandma. She follows my matches with her entire retirement home, it’s a big deal for her." "Ooooh, you've got fans, Donaldson?" I joked. "You know I do," he replied. "Seriously though, why aren’t you going home?" he added. "It’s not that deep, just an opportunity to make some extra money. Plus, my mom and I aren’t in the best place right now," I shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal. "Don’t you miss home?" he asked. "Not like most people probably do," I smiled at him. "I hate it when you smile like that," he said and suddenly stopped. "How?" I asked, looking at him as if he were crazy. "Without teeth. That’s your fake smile," he replied without blinking, as if it were strange that I was even asking. "I didn’t think you noticed," I mumbled. And I really didn’t think there was a possibility that Art Donaldson paid attention to details that, until now, I thought only I noticed about him. "I’ll see you tomorrow at the marathon?" he asked when we reached the point where I was supposed to head to the cafeteria and he to his dorm. "Don’t be late," I ordered, giving his face a small push, watching him chuckle and walk away from me. . . .

The next morning, I woke up with the worst headache I’d ever had in my life. I felt my nose was blocked, and I knew for sure I had a fever, though I had no way to measure it. 'Where are you?' -A-

'Sick, I’ll come for the exam' -(Y/N)-

'What’s wrong with you?' -A- I didn’t respond to that message, preferring to sleep a bit more before waking up for the statistics exam.

I got in the shower, and when I got out, I looked at myself in the mirror, seeing my flushed cheeks as a contrast to my pale face. There was no mistaking it when you looked at me- I wasn’t at my best. The auditorium was partially full when I entered, people chatting among themselves, and I looked around, seeing Art already staring at me before he approached, getting ahead of Janet, who shot me a questioning glance. "Well, you look like shit," he stated, placing his hand on my forehead. "Fuck, Peaches, you’re burning up," he muttered, looking at me with an almost angry expression. "How did you manage to start dying in the minute and a half I left you alone?" he said. "I’m talented, Donaldson. Can you not yell? My head hurts," I mumbled, sitting in the empty seat I found.

The exam went smoothly and ended faster than it began. I physically couldn’t wait for Art to finish, so I texted him, hoping he’d enjoy his time at home, and I went to sleep. Half an hour later, there was a knock at my door, chaotic like the one from the day before. "Hey," he muttered. "You’ll miss your flight," I replied, running a tired hand over my eyes. "I’m not flying," he said quickly. "What?" I asked, not understanding what he was talking about, seeing him take off his shirt and pants, left only in his boxers. "Art, I physically can’t have sex," I chuckled, not understanding what was happening. "We’re going to sleep," he declared, pulling me toward him, leaving me no choice but to get into bed next to him. "Your bed’s worse than mine. Tomorrow we’ll sleep at my dorm," he stated.

"You're going to get sick too" I rolled my eyes, "Why aren’t you going home?" I asked quietly, while his hand traced shapes on my shoulder. "It felt weird going home when you’re sick and staying here," he replied, not ashamed for a second. "Your grandma must be disappointed," I mumbled. "I told her my girlfriend is sick," he said. I wanted so badly to see his face, but I had my back to him. "She must’ve been surprised you have a girlfriend," I said the first thing that came to mind, feeling my heart race. "Not at all, I talk to her about you all the time."

. . .

So here it is. The second part I didn't plan. Hope you like it even tho I wrote half of it while being super sick and didn't check my own grammar at all, so bear with me (a reminder: English is not my first language). Let me know what you think. It's always the best part. Also, I think I'm up for some requests. Let's see what we can come up with. Love you guys

#challengers fic #art donaldson #challengers #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson smut #his favorite toy

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luv4fushi · 1 year

Note

HEYYY🦅

I really likes your megumi drabble. HE SO CUTE😭😭 i kinda wish you write more megumi 🩷

megumi fluff (?) and angst at your service! sorry it took FOREVER i had 478274 exams these past few weeks ughhh sorry & ily thx for the req ~~~

he likes me, he likes me not

jjk fushiguro megumi x fem!reader

all megumi fushiguro does is apologize when he rejects you. everything changes because of your confession.

content: angst, fluff if you squint, all characters aged up to 17-18!!!, misunderstandings, confessions, eventual relationship!, megumi is so bad at feelings, ooc megumi a little sorry, takes place at jujutsu tech high school and shibuya has NEVER happened so life is good, yuji and nobara are your besties

wc: 5.1k

click on my masterlist for more!

“i like you.”

for a moment, the world stills. everything comes to a halt.

megumi is sitting across from you at your favorite cafe, just down the street from tokyo jujutsu high, the school you’ve been attending for nearly two years now.

in that short amount of time, you’ve grown into a person you think the past you would’ve liked. you’re taller now, more fit and lean. you’ve got bounds of experience from your missions piled on your shoulders, the unwavering burden of being a jujutsu sorcerer making itself at home.

you’ve grown in other ways, too. you’re stronger now, you’ve got a good hold on your emotions. you haven’t seen your parents in months, but the sting doesn’t hurt anymore. you’re wiser. older. you’ve got a handle on your feelings.

then there’s megumi fushiguro.

oh, how enamored you’d been.

he’d spared no glance when he first met you. you had trudged into the classroom, eyes darting at the unfamiliar faces. gojo satoru, the undeniably handsome teacher of yours, introduced you brightly albeit the low energy of the room.

you had weaved your way into the jujutsu world, just as you had been able to slither your way into the lives of your newfound friends.

but megumi, oh, megumi fushiguro.

it had taken you laborious months to befriend the raven haired boy. his uninviting attitude hindered your relationship with him for some time, and you had half-heartedly decided to pursue something else, but your near death experience during a particularly difficult mission with him had sent him reeling. he had held onto you the entire time you cried for your mother.

you don’t talk about that day. he doesn’t mention it, either.

“what?” his eyes, dark blue, blink in surprise. his lips are parted slightly. “what did you say?”

your throat constricts. then, the words flow: “i’m in love with you.”

love. it’s too strong of a word. you’re not even quite sure what it means, or if what you feel is actually love.

the cafe begins to bustle with life again. the barista from behind the counter steams some milk—almond—and she glances up at a customer approaching. the music from the overhead speakers filters it’s way softly into your ears. it’s a cheesy love song, and you can’t help but feel like it isn’t the right time for that.

“are you serious?” he says, almost spitting out his drink.

“i mean,” you shrug, “yeah? i wouldn’t bring you all the way out here to fuck with you.”

he blinks again. his lashes flutter perfectly. it’s annoying how perfect he is. there’s a slight hue of pink to his cheeks, but not enough to confirm anything—just speculation.

“i’m sorry,” he begins, breathing it out all in one go. “i’m really sorry.”

if you’re being honest with yourself, you’d seen it coming from a mile away; megumi fushiguro is different. he’s got the composure of a brick wall. the perpetual frown on his face never, ever leaves, not even when he’s with you. he doesn’t crack, doesn’t shake. his soul is hardened from things that he’ll never speak of with you.

“it’s okay,” you say, but it’s not.

you’ve changed—grown into a person you’re proud of, but you’re still stuck sometimes. you’re still a pushover. still just a small shrimp in the vast ocean. still apologizing for your existence.

“i’m sorry,” megumi repeats.

you know he’s apologetic, that he really means it, just from the way his brows furrow slightly. you know him too well for your own good. you don’t think he can say the same about you.

“it’s fine.” your voice breaks. you duck your head in embarrassment. rejection has never hurt you this badly. “you don’t have to apologize for not liking me back. it’s not your fault.”

you wonder why you’re comforting him when he’s the one who has ripped your heart out completely.

“i’m gonna head back,” he mumbles out, hesitating to reach out and dab away your tears with the napkin he’s been wringing around his thin fingers. “you… should come, too.”

you shake your head. “i think i’m gonna finish my coffee.”

he offers a smile. “you can finish mine as well, if you’d like.”

“nah,” you say, scrunching your nose through watery eyes, “black coffee isn’t really my thing.”

“yeah.” his laugh is soft, almost forced, but you can tell it’s genuine. “i know.”

oh, you think. it really hurts.

he knows.

something inside you snaps. your lungs feel itchy. your ribs squeeze. you think that it would’ve been easier to never say anything at all.

megumi leaves the store. the jingle of the bell above the frame rings through the air. you’re left with your cold cup of coffee and megumi’s cup across from you.

the barista gives you a look of pity. you chug down your drink and chug his, too.

it’s bitter.

-☆

megumi arrives to his dorm exactly five minutes after four pm. he slips off his sweater and changes into a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. his mind is blank, except for the image of your teary eyes.

he swallows nervously. maybe he’ll sleep it off.

“yo, megumi.” yuji slams himself against the door impatiently. “how’d it go?”

megumi sighs, the irritation swiftly making its way into his fatigued body. he opens the door and yuji tumbles in without an invitation.

“what are you talking about?” megumi mutters with another sigh.

“the confession,” yuji says matter-of-factly.

megumi stares. “you knew?”

yuji’s smile slowly removes itself from his lips. “…yeah? it was pretty obvious.”

“what was obvious?”

“that she likes you…?” yuji tilts his head. “and you like her back, right? so i figured you guys would be all cuddled up in here.”

megumi doesn’t say anything. the gears in yuji’s head begin to turn as he looks around the room, noticing the comfy attire megumi has on.

“you said that you liked her back… right?” he raises an eyebrow. “because it’s not a secret that you do.”

“i left.”

“you left her there?!”

“i didn’t know what else to do.”

“so you said ‘yes, i’d like to be your boyfriend’ and then dipped out on her?”

“i didn’t say yes.”

yuji pauses. he looks at megumi, then at the made bed, then back at megumi.

“for fuck’s sake,” he groans, running his hands through his pink hair. “i’m gonna go.”

megumi stands there, appalled. the door is shut harshly and the hinges squeak. he’ll have to scold yuji about that later. for now, he wants to take a nap.

maybe he’ll feel better about everything when he wakes up.

-☆

on the other side of the building reserved for dorms, yuji crosses his way into the girls’ section. it still feels wrong no matter how many times he’s made this trip before.

he meets you on the way there. you’re dragging your feet, headphones strapped on your head, and lips quivering.

“hey,” he calls out, tapping your shoulder. “you okay?”

he waits until you hang the silver headphones on your neck. they’re megumi’s, he realizes as he sees the fading stickers on the metal plate.

“hm?”

“you okay?” he asks again. his eyes scan you for any signs of distress, and he can practically see it radiating off of you.

“yeah,” you hum, “i’m cool.”

“want me to grab nobara?” he suggests with a grin.

“sure,” you say.

the sun feels hot on your back. you hate the way the school is so widespread for having such a small population.

“i can grab some ice cream,” yuji rambles. “and i’ll get us a notebook so we can write shitty things about megumi.”

you pat him on his back, but his sturdy body almost sends you flying backwards. he catches your wrist just before you fall, and he’s laughing at your expression with glee.

“you’re so funny,” he says through his fit of laughter. “you’ve gotten scrawnier. you needa eat more! i’ll get us snacks, too.”

you pout. “shut up, yuji. not everyone can be as buff as you and todo.”

“oh, todo is a whole different story.”

“tell me about it,” you say, playfully rolling your eyes. “i’ve seen him beat you up into a pulp.”

“hey! in my defense,” yuji says, his hands coming up to the sides of his ears, “i couldn’t do much against him!”

you’re nearing nobara’s dorm, which is right across from your own. you like how homey hers is compared to yours. she’s got a knack for interior design, or so she claims.

she swings the door open the moment you reach the inside of the building. you’re halfway down the hall when she sticks her head out from the frame of her room. her black roots are showing more than usual.

“how was it?” she asks once you’re close enough so that she can whisper.

you want to tell her that there’s no point in keeping it a secret. you had told yuji about your feelings far before you even mentioned to her, mainly because yuji had been your first friend at jujutsu high. megumi isn’t here, either, so there’s no reason to whisper when everyone knows.

“bad,” is all you reply with.

her eyes soften a considerable amount, an expression you’ve never seen on her face before. she takes a small breath and pulls you into her room by your arm.

you’re met with her fragrances, vanilla and strawberry—a nobara kugisaki signature scent. she had begged gojo to buy her shelves to place her k-pop albums on and sure enough, the white furniture stands proud at the far corner of the room. there are fake vines hanging from her ceiling right above her desk, where she has an organizer messily places over a few books.

“you wanna dye your hair?” she jokes, looking back at you. “my roots are coming in so we might as well dye yours while we touch up mine.”

“is orange all you have?” yuji’s nose twitches. “i don’t think she’d look good in orange.”

“gee, thanks,” you sarcastically respond.

“sorry.”

nobara clicks her tongue. “wanna unpack?”

“kinda,” you say, your body going limp once you’re at the foot of her bed. you sprawl yourself on the silky sheets and stare up at the ceiling.

“get out, yuji,” nobara demands. she doesn’t even acknowledge his downturned lips.

“i know everything already!” he whines. he shuts the door behind him with much more care than he had with megumi’s.

“still!” she insists. “i wanna have a girls’ talk.”

“i’m one of the girls.” he crosses his arms.

nobara’s shoulders sag. “fine, but you need to go buy ice cream.”

“was planning on that already,” yuji replies. he taps quickly at his phone, presumably asking gojo for his credit card.

when yuji leaves the room, he promises that he’ll get your favorite flavor. once nobara senses that his presence is completely gone, she turns to look at you.

“i’m sorry for making you confess,” she whispers. her tone is comforting, genuine, soft. she takes you into her arms and squeezes your shoulders. “i really thought he liked you back.”

“it’s not your fault,” you reply earnestly. “i chose to do it out of my own selfish feelings.”

“you can cry,” she says, patting your head. at times like this, nobara seems years wiser than you are. her touch is warm.

you bite your lower lip. “don’t wanna. i think i’ll be fine.”

“okay,” she says, and you feel her chest vibrate with the word. “you’re allowed to cry, though. megumi would’ve been a shitty boyfriend, anyway.”

all you can do is let out a watery laugh. you don’t tell her that he would’ve been an amazing lover. he would’ve taken you out on dates at your favorite places because he’s observant like that. he would’ve known your favorite foods, though he knows them even as friends. he would’ve kissed you tenderly because that’s the type of boy he is. he’s the type to love carefully, like he’s afraid he’ll lose someone forever if he doesn’t.

“i’m up for dyeing your hair,” nobara pipes up after the silence that penetrates the room. “yuji’s right, though… i don’t think orange would suit you… ha.”

you giggle. “let’s just touch up yours, yeah?”

yuji’s footsteps can be heard from outside the door when you’re a third of the way done with nobara’s roots. she complains about how long he’d taken, but there’s no real malice in her voice. he explains that he had ran into trouble obtaining gojo’s card (“i had to beg him for it!”).

the ice cream is all melted. it’s gooey and delicious and makes you smile. as you look around your friends, your crinkled eyes say more words than you ever could.

“you’re welcome,” yuji says into your ear. “you don’t have to thank us for any of this.”

-☆

the next morning comes by quicker than you want it to. you mentally prepare yourself for seeing megumi in class at eight in the morning. you haven’t made a mistake as bad as confessing your dying, unrequited love on a wednesday afternoon quite like this before.

nobara had suggested walking with you the night before, but you’d sternly told her that you could handle it. looking back, maybe you should’ve agreed with her offer.

megumi isn’t in class when you come in. he’s usually there at least five minutes before gojo starts teaching. something inside you tells you it’s because of yesterday—as much as you hate to admit it.

he walks in through the sliding doors a few minutes late, but gojo pays him no attention. megumi has privileges like that—at least, with gojo. he’s practically your teacher’s son, and though you’ve never heard of the full story, you’re well aware of gojo’s slight favoritism.

the class is short. all jujutsu sorcery classes are. they mainly consist of typical real school lessons, only because under the law, jujutsu tech is still a high school. the other, much bigger portion of class with gojo is focused on maintaining cursed energy and providing yourself with the best possible victory in battle.

when it’s over, you don’t know if you should be relieved or upset. you won’t be able to see megumi after this, assuming that he’ll avoid you for a good month or two. however, you think you’d rather die than attempt to make conversation with him.

“don’t do anything stupid,” gojo warns, signaling the end of class.

you hear yuji snicker quietly and say, “yeah, nobara.”

the bickering brings a smile to your lips. from the corner of your eye, megumi shifts in his seat.

you decide that it’s best to let the feelings marinate, as stupid as it sounds. it’s an infinitely better choice than moping around and begging megumi for a chance. you may be soft, but you’ve got pride.

“see you guys,” you announce, more to yourself than to anyone.

“alright,” yuji calls after you, “see you later.”

you can’t help but feel a little disappointed with the lack of clinging when it comes to you. your absence doesn’t seem to cause a ruckus like it does for most people. you wonder if it had been yuji retiring early; would everyone else ask him to stay a minute longer?

that’s how life is for a while.

you attend class, spar a little, and sleep. some days you go out into the city with nobara. you avoid the cafe, even though it’s your favorite. perhaps it’s because you’re still embarrassed by megumi’s rejection. on other, slower days, gojo takes you all on outings because he’s basically everyone’s replacement father.

it’s still as tense as ever between you and megumi.

the boy doesn’t make any effort to reach out. you don’t blame him, though you should. he steals small glances at you, particularly when you’re smiling and forget to cover your teeth with your hands. that’s all he takes from you, and he can’t be the only guilty one, because that’s all you give.

on this day, gojo takes you all out to the fair. it’s annual, taking place in the beginning of summer, and it’s a great way to practice forming barriers and such. the fairs always bring out a few nasty curses that need to be exorcised—the four of you are already used to being dragged out here for that sole purpose.

as if gojo knows, he sends you out in pairs. of course, you’re paired with megumi fushiguro. at first, you open your mouth to reject gojo’s demand, but you notice the way megumi doesn’t seem to care and your resolve hardens.

“it’s really awkward around you guys.” gojo pretends to act busy, flicking something from his nails. he’s got his sunglasses on and the ladies around him fawn.

“huh?” you and megumi look at him with accusing glares.

“is something going on between the two of you?”

“no,” you say almost entirely too quickly.

“right,” he drawls, a smirk forming on his face. “anyway, good luck out there. get rid of the little ones and then—i don’t know/-meet up with yuji and nobara if there are gross ones that’ll kill you.”

megumi nods. “okay.”

“this was what i was talking about,” gojo mutters as he walks off. “it’s soooo awkward…”

megumi gives you an apologetic look. “for the record, i don’t think it’s awkward.”

“it’s fine,” you say. you find that you’ve been pardoning him quite a lot. “you don’t have to lie.”

his face flushes. “i’m not.”

“i confessed to you and you don’t like me back, so there’s really no need to tiptoe around it anymore,” you rush out. “just treat me like normal. i don’t really care.”

he looks hurt, and you want to laugh.

you discover that, in those days of being alone, you’d rather megumi treat you like a friend again than be completely ignored. at least then, you’d have a part of him. at least then, he’s not slipping through the cracks of your heart, becoming a distant memory.

you want him to be anything but a memory.

“you want me to treat you like normal…?” he repeats your words. he paces himself just a few steps behind you when you begin to walk away from the conversation. “what does that mean?”

“i think you know what being friends is like,” you attempt to joke, but it comes out harsher than intended.

the fair is getting more crowded by the second. the shopkeepers are yelling out cheap deals and there are children that snake in and out of the lines of people. paper lanterns are hung at the front of tents to attract foreigners—it seems to be working because there are more people surrounding shops with lanterns than without.

megumi takes a breath. “how could i do that?”

your steps falter. “what do you mean?”

“how can i go on to treat you like normal,” he says softly, “when i know you’re in love with me?”

you bite the inside of your cheek and taste blood. “i don’t know. you’ve done it before without knowing my feelings. you can do it all over again, right?”

you look over your shoulder to see his lips part. he’s given up on the cool-guy persona. his vulnerability begins to show through the dents in his personality.

“you’re saying that you’ve liked me for that long?”

“yeah,” you admit. something about this is more freeing than you could’ve imagine. “i think i always have.”

a man shoves himself into you. he’s older with a beer belly and a scruffy beard attached to his face. he barks at you to move out of the way as he drags his young daughter through the sea of people. megumi’s warm hands come to rest on your waist, pulling you aside and closer to his toned chest.

you do your best to ignore your beating heart.

“i’m not,” megumi starts shakily, “lovable. i don’t know why you like me.”

your body goes cold. it's even worse than when he'd rejected you.

“curse,” you say, detaching his hand from your body. “i feel it around the back alley.”

the night ends. nothing is solved. you go to bed and curl into yourself.

-☆

loving megumi is weird. there’s an odd sense of comfort to it, like you’ve known him for longer than you actually have. he makes you feel safe even though he's gruff and a little mean about it. maybe that's just part of his charm, though, because it makes you love him even more.

he seems to have taken your words seriously; he starts to treat you like normal again. he doesn't avoid you anymore, and the obvious tension surrounding you two has disappeared for now. he lets you take a few of his sweaters when you forget to do your laundry and he buys you your favorite snacks sometimes.

it gets to be too much. you almost wish he'd go back to ignoring you. the grass is always greener on the other side.

summer goes by slowly. it's the prime time for bad feelings to manifest into curses. you push away your lingering feelings, convincing yourself that you've gotten over it. it's been more than enough time now, coming up on two months since you've confessed. you don't want your resentment, if you can call it that, to form any bad curses—you'd hate for them to be attached to megumi. that'd be a burden too hard to carry.

a few missions involve partnering up with megumi. gojo thinks you two work well together; there's a sort of synergy that you have with each other that is hard to come by sorcerers nowadays. you don't mind the compliments, or at least you pretend you don't.

the missions aren't difficult, but maybe that's because you've grown stronger. megumi has, too.

summer passes. it still hurts.

"you're confusing me," you whisper.

you and megumi are shopping for a surprise birthday party that gojo is forcing you guys to throw for nanami kento, a good coworker of his. you've met him more than once, and you're not really sure if he'd appreciate such a last minute party. regardless, you and megumi are tasked with finding enough balloons to fill the poor man's office.

megumi doesn't allow you to hold any of the bags. he lies and tells you that it's out of habit—nobara makes him carry her shopping bags every time they go out—but you know he's doing it just because he wants to. you're perfectly strong enough to carry a few paper bags, and he doesn't carry nobara's bags like he claims he does. megumi doesn't even go shopping with her unless yuji's there and even then, yuji holds the bags.

"sorry?"

"why are you doing this?" you refuse to look at him.

"doing what?"

"this," you say, gesturing at the two of you. "why do you act like we're close enough to do this?"

you cringe at yourself, aware of how hypocritical you're being. you had wanted this, wanted him to go back to being a friend, to treat you like he had before you went and ruined everything. why are you angry? why do your eyes well up with tears as he steps closer to you?

"we aren't close?" he asks. his arms fall to his side.

passerbys give you curious glances. he takes off his sweater, the one he always wears depsite it being humid out, and wraps it around you. the paper bags filled with confetti and paper plates are set down by your feet. he pulls the hood over your head to hide your wet eyes.

"we are," you mumble out sorely, "but not like this."

"i'm sorry," he says, and you're brought all the way back to the day you had told him about just how much you liked him.

"'s not your fault." you sound like you're trying to convince yourself and not him. "i'm being an asshole. you can forget about this."

you don't want him to feel guilty. he can't help how he feels, after all. you don't want him forcing himself to love you.

"what you said that day," he coughs out. the bags crinkle as he lifts them from the pavement. he continues, "what did you mean by 'always'?"

you squeeze your eyes shut and he pauses next to you. you can feel his soft gaze on you and you're glad you can hide behind his sweater, the cloth draping over you like an oversized blanket.

"i don't know..." you tilt your head up to look at him. he looks like the boy you think you'll always love. "i think i was doomed from the start."

"doomed?" he says, a little amused. "loving me is dooming? how sweet of you."

you need to remind yourself that he's not playing with your heart; this is how he copes—and how you cope, too. he must know you better than you had thought.

you nearly scoff. "it's because you're you. you're so good at being you that it hurts."

megumi slows. you hadn’t even noticed that he'd been guiding you down the sidewalk the entire time until now.

"i think it applies to me, too," he say quietly.

"what?"

"'always' applies to me, too." the clarification does nothing to settle your nerves.

"i don't understand," you blurt.

he gives you a look, as if to say, "really?", but he keeps talking, "i think i'm used to this feeling because it's always been there."

"what feeling?"

he shrugs. "you pissed me off when i first met you. you're really stupid, you know?"

your face morphs into an irritated expression. "thanks. you're pretty great yourself."

he laughs and it sounds like music to your ears. "i wasn't finished, dummy."

"sorry."

"you're pretty... a lot more than you think you are," he admits shyly, "and i guess that annoyed me because i kept feeling all weird around you. i got used to it, i think—that weird feeling. but it's always been here. it never left."

you stumble, tripping over your feet at megumi's statment. you don't want to interpret it the wrong way, but with how he's looking at you, you can't help but maybe think that he likes you too.

"this isn't how i wanted to tell you, but," he breathes in sharply, "i don't like it when you cry."

it's awkward. perhaps a little funny, if you really look at it, but it's megumi and you can't hate him. you'll never find it in yourself to truly hate him.

nanami's surprise birthday party isn't much of a surprise. though gojo nor nanami say it, you all know yuji is a favorite of theirs, and no one is surprised when yuji says that he had accidentally revealed the party a few hours prior.

gojo has fun. even shoko, who never shows up to any of these events because of her busy schedule as a doctor, seems to enjoy herself. nanami pretends like he's not entertained, but he has on a fond smile that looks weirdly similar to the way megumi smiles. you're all old enough to party now, as gojo puts it, so it's a little less like a classroom celebration and more like a familial one.

it's the third of july, nearly two months and a half after your confession, when megumi hints that he feels the same way about you.

you don't know what to make of it.

-☆

"i like you."

you're in the middle of getting ready to go out with nobara and her favorite upperclassman, maki, when megumi tells you he likes you back. your eyes widen and the mascara you've just finished putting on smears on your lid.

megumi hands you a makeup wipe as if he's done it a million times before. (he hasn't, but he just knows.)

"w-what?" you stutter out, your breath catching in your throat.

"it took me a while to figure that out," he says.

he's flat on your bed, covering his face with his arm. his t-shirt rises with each of his nervous movements. according to the rules set by gojo, he shouldn't even be here in your dorm. he shouldn't be on your bed and listening to your playlist through your shitty speaker gifted to you by yuji.

"are you joking around?"

"what?" he sits up and turns to you, frowning. "why would you think that?"

"is this you pitying me?"

"i just," he sighs, frustrated, "i needed to tell you before i chickened out. i meant what i said the other day, you know?"

"about you getting 'used to' the strange feeling?"

he nods and then slouches back against your pillows. if it had been any other day, you would've felt shy about sleeping in his scent.

"yeah," he says, running his slender fingers through his jet black hair. "i really did mean it. i think i just—i don't know—pushed you away because i was afraid."

you've given up on applying your makeup by now. your hands are shaking too much, anyway.

"i'm scared sometimes, too," you reply, catching his eyes in the reflection of your vanity mirror.

you see the side of his lips turn upwards. he looks as handsome as ever. he's gotten older since the first time you met him, and it hits you harder now that he's on your bed, his features sharp and his body lanky and tall. there's a sort of intimacy that you sense between the two of you.

"i'm not afraid anymore." his legs swing over the bedframe and he easily reaches the ground even though your bed is raised. "i'll be brave for the both of us."

oh.

"what do you think?" he tilts his head.

you stay home that night.

-☆

"so are you guys dating now?" yuji exclaims.

you both freeze.

"fuck off," megumi says instead of answering the question.

"god," yuji huffs out. "finally! all those peptalks and you don't even tell me that you got the girl?"

megumi blushes from beside you. neither of you had expected yuji to be awake to witness you two watching the sunrise on the hill beside the school.

"you know," yuji grumbles, "it took a lot of convincing to have you realize that you've been in love this entire time, megumi. the least you could've done was tell me."

megumi ignores him and snuggles further into you.

"why are you up so early?" you ask, shuffling underneath the blanket that is covering you and your boyfriend.

"instinct." yuji's shoulders drop, defeated. "'k, i'm gonna leave you guys to be romantic and shit up here. have fun explaining this to nobara later."

nobara almost wrings your neck out when she catches megumi holding your hand that saturday morning. she tells him that he needs to make up for the months he left you feeling sad. he says he's already forgiven, and he's not wrong (because you're weak when it comes to him, just like he's weak when it comes to you).

you think that you would've chose to love him no matter the outcome. loving him is easy like that.

a/n: oh my god. this was a word dump and not proofread. i am so sorry this took forever to come out but i ended up changing the plot like a billion times cus it wasn't good enough.. LOL. hope u enjoyed this!!! thx for making me write more megumi because i love writing him (he's been my fave character since the anime came out three years ago hehehe). ngl it was kinda rushed bc i wanted to get this out but i think it turned out fine!!!! ok thx once again ily muah xx

#jjk x reader #megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro #megumi angst #megumi x you #i love megumi sm #he’s been my fave since i was like 15 so you know i had to write this up #sorry this took forever #yuji and nobara are really good friends #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you

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pinknatural · 11 days

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cybersecurity

Cas has his hand aglow with grace, preparing to smite his phone, when suddenly a hand wraps around his wrist. The light fades and he looks up at Dean, who is reached across the kitchen table looking vaguely panicked.

“Woah, buddy, hold your horses,” he says. “What’d your phone do this time?”

”It broke,” Cas says in disgust, showing Dean the screen. It is dark and frozen, with words across it proclaiming that it is “locked” for five minutes, due to “too many failed password attempts”. Infernal thing. Cas is pretty sure cellular phones are the work of demons, which would explain why it is difficult to use and also extremely addicting. Candy Crush, in particular, is certainly demonic work. Emojis were probably invented by a human, which would explain why they’re so delightful.

“Well,” Dean says. “Looks to me like you forgot your password, except that I know you don’t have a password. Did you set one on accident?”

“How would I have done that?” Cas demands. To be quite honest, he thought his phone simply didn’t come with a password.

“Under ‘settings’ or ‘general’, or something,” Dean says. Cas shakes his head. The only apps he goes on are the texting one, and Candy Crush. And Pinterest. He spends far too much time on Pinterest.

“Well, then, it’s a stumper,” Dean says. He takes another bite of his scrambled eggs. Cas glares at his phone.

Sam comes into the kitchen, whistling cheerfully. He goes to the fridge and starts to pull out his kale and almond milk and whatever else he puts in his post-run kale smoothies. He’s dressed in flannel and jeans, and his hair is wet, so Cas supposes he must have showered already.

“Sammy, do you know why Cas’ phone would lock him out? He doesn’t even have a password.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sam says, turning around to face the table and snapping his fingers. “I gave you one.”

“What?” Cas says.

“It’s not very secure to not have one,” Sam says. “What if someone steals your phone? Or you leave it somewhere?”

Cas has forgotten his phone on a case approximately eleven times. Apparently Dean has never told this to Sam. Suddenly, leaving his phone behind so much seems less embarrassing and more of a wonderful secret that he and Dean share. He looks at Dean, but his face is steady and he’s still facing Sam.

“And you just didn’t tell him you locked him out of his own phone?”

“I literally set it an hour ago,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t think he’d notice!”

It’s possible Sam doesn’t know about Dean and Cas’ routine of sitting together and eating breakfast, Dean scrolling his phone for cases and Cas scrolling through wedding inspiration on Pinterest, but that seems impossible, for this time is as holy as church. He squints at Sam.

“So what is the password?” he asks.

“I just made it 123456,” Sam says, raising his hands defensively. “But you should change it to something else.”

Dean rounds on Cas, eyebrow raised. “And you didn’t guess that?”

“How would I know to guess that?” He had mainly guessed things like 888888 or 333333.

“Ugh,” Dean says, dropping his fork onto his eggs. “Ok, Steve Jobs, put in your new password and I’ll help you get set up.”

Cas enters the password. Sam rattles around in the pantry. Dean leans across the table. Cas tilts his phone toward him.

“Go to Settings,” Dean instructs, pointing at the gray gears in the top corner of Cas’ phone screen. Cas taps it and follows Dean’s directions into the “passcode” section. He has to enter Sam’s absurd password one more time to change it.

“What should I change it to?” he asks.

“I dunno,” Dean says. “A lot of people use a date or something.”

“Is yours?” Cas knows Dean’s password, of course, but he thought it was a random string of numbers that had come with his phone. Why he thought his phone didn’t come with one while Dean’s did he doesn’t know, but it was easier without a password and so it never bothered him.

“Yeah,” Dean says. Cas tilts his head.

“Why October 22, ‘69?” he asks. Dean grins. Sam groans. To be honest, Cas had forgotten Sam was even in the room.

“Led Zeppelin II’s release date,” Dean says. “The day ‘Ramble On’ came into the world. Best day ever.”

Cas develops a new appreciation for October 22, if not just because Dean likes it.

“Plus I wanted to put 69 in my password,” Dean says, winking outrageously. Sam pretends to vomit. “Sammy over there likes to rotate his password out,” Dean says. He rolls his eyes. “Always between sappy shit like my birthday and Dad’s birthday and Mom’s birthday.”

“Whatever,” Sam says. “Normal people use birthdays or anniversaries, Dean. You’re the freak here.”

“Sounds like something a little bitch would say,” Dean says, winking at Cas. Cas looks down at his phone, hiding a little smile.

“Jerk,” Sam says, and then he turns on the blender.

Cas should use a birthday, he supposes. But he does not have one of his own to use. He wants to make it Dean’s birthday. He glances up at Dean, who is jokingly exchanging nasty expressions with Sam. He imagines one of those expressions turned onto him, and looks back at his phone. Perhaps 012479 would be too revealing. He looks at Dean again, and then types in a number.

Sam turns off the blender and Dean turns back to Cas.

“So?” he says. “Think of something?”

”Yes,” Cas says. “091808.” He likes those numbers in his mouth.

“What’s that?” Sam says.

“Just a random number,” Cas says. For some reason, he doesn’t want Sam to know.

”I guess you met us in ‘08,” Sam muses.

“I suppose,” Cas says. He looks at Dean. His beautiful face is kind of frozen, cheeks dusted with red. Their eyes meet. Dean’s flush deepens. Cas stares at him.

Somewhere behind them, Sam bottles his smoothie and leaves the kitchen, muttering about research. Cas doesn’t look away from Dean.

“Good numbers,” Dean croaks out eventually. “Cool…password. Uncrackable.” He stands, gabbing his plate and dropping it in the sink before running out of the room. Cas looks back down at his phone, smiling at the screen, and absurdly pleased that Dean recognized the numbers at all.

#happy september 18 have a dumb fic #supernatural #writingtag #destiel

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mtchee · 13 days

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[IMAGINE] Living with Cat! Gojo | GN

cw: not edited, second-person-pov, cat! jjk au, non sorcerer au, cat! gojo, kitty satoru, fluff, he's a little shit, love my cat series aww

[1.6k]

| masterlist | jujutsu kaisen collection |

Imagine living with cat! Gojo Satoru. You have no idea where he's from, or who his owner is--but apparently it's you now.

You first saw him loitering obnoxiously outside your region's specialty sweets shop, and he was pawing at the window display longingly. Then suddenly, his head turned to you and he hasn't left you alone since.

When he sauntered over, you cooed and gave him some attention before heading on your way. The strange cat followed you for a bit, and you gently shooed him off a few times before he relented. It was only when you finally got home that you realised he actually hadn't.

He popped up in front of your door bright and early the next morning, sitting all poised and beaming at you before letting himself in.

His fur was too clean to have been out in the streets for long, and he was much too well groomed to be a stray.

But he was yours now, it seemed. Or maybe you were his.

Either or.

Imagine living with cat! Gojo Satoru, one of the prettiest cats you have ever seen.

He's fat.

Or at least, it looks like he is at first.

He's incredibly fluffy, with pristine white fur and the most darling baby pink paws. His eyes are an entrancing cerulean blue, though hidden behind a pecular pair of rounded blackout specs that fit perfectly proportionate to his kitty face. He didn't have a collar--still doesn't with you.

Instead, you had found his name engraved in tiny elegant lettering on the temple of his accessory.

Cat! Gojo Satoru is long. You had been fooled into his thickness from the look of all his fluff, but then when you held him and let him dangle, he just extended.

You had been kneeling when you had first done so, holding him out at arms length from under his shoulders and his hind legs were comfortably touching the ground. You were shocked, all the whilst he went slack and let you manoeuvre him however you wanted.

Imagine living with cat! Gojo Satoru, who fucking yaps nonstop.

He's a chatty little thing, and awfully entitled too.

Just like when he first appeared and walked into your house like he'd always lived there, he abides by his own whims no matter what.

While you buy the prettiest decorative pillows, he kneads them and pokes holes in them like it's nobody's business while shaking off his fur all over. Now, along with his furballs, you see tuffs of the pillows stuffing sticking out from his claw marks.

When you buy him the best kitty bed that you can afford (accompanied by the softest blanket), he turns up his nose and rolls himself around on your clean bedsheets.

He ignores his scratching post in favour of the leg of your dining table.

He would rather starve than eat any of his dry food.

He will not just be drinking tap water--it must be served nice and cold from the fridge. He will also not drink any sort of cat-safe milk. He wants it fresh and full cream. If you have any sort of milk substitutes (whether it be skim, almond, whatever), that won't fly. No, you have a full-cream carton just for him.

Also, whipped cream. He loves it.

God forbid you run out.

He will find a way into your kitchen cabinets and pantry, and he will be eating any and all of the sweets you have stored. Sour gummies? Devoured. Hard boiled candy? Those sugar rocks are done for. Complimentary chocolate? Not a single crumb left behind.

You have no idea how he isn't dead yet.

Imagine cat! Gojo Satoru constantly starving for your attention. He'll yowl, mewl, trill, scream--anything for just a lick of your time.

Imagine cat! Gojo Satoru frightening away your creep of a neighbour who was trying to force his way into your home.

With your eyes slightly glossy from fear of what could happen to you, features perpetually frozen in an expression of discomfort and fright--your cat weaves between your legs with a sweetened "mreow?" before taking seat by your feet.

He tilts his head at the sight of the unwelcome disgrace of a human being leering in towards you, leaning threateningly against your door frame. Despite cat! Gojo's light hearted trill, his fluffy tail swishes agressively from side to side behind him.

A quiet panic latches onto your heart--you don't know if you could bear it if anything happened to him too. "Satoru, inside please," your voice trembles as you whisper at him.

Your neighbour glances down, puffing a condescending laugh at the fluffy cat before taking a step forward and reaching for your arm.

You don't really remember what happened after that. You don't recall blacking out, or maybe it all happened in a blink? Either way, by the time you regained your senses, the offender was scattering off with a series of wounds littering his form, and a scorch mark was left where he once stood in his wake. You swallow wearily, processing everything.

Cat! Gojo plants his fluffy butt back down by your feet, licking at his front paw indifferently before looking up at you with his big, sunglass clad eyes.

When you let out a soft breath of relief and incredulity, he sticks out his little pink tongue with a dopey cat-grin.

Imagine cat! Gojo Satoru, escaping and wandering off for hours at a time, only to come back with some sort of (rather expensive) gift in his clutches.

He's the adventerous sort. Although he loves to laze around the house, he gets the urge to be up and off, and he'll annoying weasel between your legs and make you trip up before heading on his way.

He might leave for the day, but by the evening he always returns. Sometimes you'll find him waiting patiently at your door like you did when you first found him, this time with something akin to an offering sitting at his paws.

Other times he'll already be back in the house, awaiting you leisurely with his present sat nearby.

He's popped up with a paper bag of pricey chocolates (perhaps in replacement of the ones he ate in your pantry?), a pouch of authentic ginger and tea leaves (you'd been complaining about getting migraines recently...), a cashmere scarf (winter is getting closer, where the HELL did he nick a CASHMERE SCARF from!?), and a thin, 22-carat gold chain from GOD KNOWS WHERE.

Whenever you scold him for stealing, he never looks abashed. If anything, he goes out the next day and returns with something even more expensive for you to panic about.

Imagine having a bad day and indulging in your most bed-rotting desires with cat! Gojo Satoru.

Normally you wouldn't eat in bed. You don't like the feeling of grain or bits and pieces poking you in your sleep. Aside from the occassional, mostly able to eat clean meal, you wouldn't eat in bed.

But today--today is an exception. What started as a decent morning turned into an annoying afternoon and a shitty evening. A flurry of emotions battle within you: frustration, irritation, sadness, confusion, annoyance--it ate up at you.

So after getting home and foregoing a shower to change into some old, tatty pyjamas to make you feel even more miserable, you'd picked out your most unhealthy snacks to take out your upset on.

When you get home, normally you'd greet cat! Gojo happily, or at least with a cuss after he trips you up in his excitement, but after a simple sigh and sad, passing smile, he knew something was up.

And so the graceful feline joins you on your bed, padding softly over the covers to stare at you uncomfortably. And when you notice and wave him away with a scrunched nose, finally he scoots closer and rolls onto his back, wriggling up to you with a gentle playfulness that you can't help but indulge.

You poke at his paws when he stretches them out at you, and for once, you decide to share your pile of treats with him. Together, you crunch down on some chips, chew on some candy, eat all your chocolate, and gradually spoon away all your ice cream.

And even when it's all gone, cat! Gojo lays with you some more before gently coaxing you up and guiding you towards your bathroom, urging you to wash the crappy day away.

And when you're done, he's waiting for you on the bed with the messy doona dragged off and replaced with a clean one, pillows fluffed and his favourite plush toy placed as an offering.

Imagine cat! Gojo Satoru taking up a majority of your bed at night because he refuses to sleep elsewhere. Not only does he take over your bed, but also your space.

Where you go, he goes.

When you decide to nap on the couch, he'll flop himself onto your tummy and crawl up to your chest, splaying himself over your body like a weighted blanket.

If you decide to take a nap outside on the grass, he'll lay tummy-up with his head pressed against yours, the both of you soaking in the warmth of the sun. Or, shoulder the weather be a little chilly, he'll cosy up to your side, flopping across your arm and nuzzling into your neck.

On your bed, if you shift so much as an inch, he follows. Where this might lead you to balance precariously on the edge of your side of the bed, eventually he'll just flop on top of you since you keep moving away.

He's a clingy little shit.

But to be honest, you wouldn't have him any other way.

#mtchee's tea & story house #mtchee's library #x reader #character x reader #cat! jjk au #cat! jjk #cat au #cat! gojo #cat! satoru gojo #cat! gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojou satoru x reader #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #cat! gojo x reader

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