#anyways next arc will hurt | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chuluoyi · 2 years ago

Text

fear

- gojo satoru x reader

his best friend’s defection is still a hard topic for him to swallow, and it leads into an unexpected argument that spurs you to leave, only to unlock a new fear in him when you get into an unfortunate accident afterwards.

genre/warnings: angst, gojo being mean, one scene with a worried nanami *wink*, injured reader, hurt/comfort, fluff in the end

notes: *sigh* my coping mechanism is still gojo’s past arc, which is why this piece takes place on that timeline. just a little context: reader is in the same class with nanami & haibara and was in the same mission that took haibara's life. this is probably the longest oneshot i've written so far sooo… enjoy! :)

general masterlist

A year and a half had passed since Suguru embarked on his path as a curse user. In that one year and a half, Satoru had finished his last year at Jujutsu High, and now was in the halls of his alma mater, speaking to the newly appointed headmaster who was none other than his teacher.

"You're applying to become a teacher?" Yaga asked again with a frown. He still couldn't wrap his head around it. Granted, he was his most troublesome pupil. "Why, Satoru?"

"If I said it's because I want to train young sorcerers to be strong, would you believe me?"

That was not a lie. It was actually 50% of his main reasons anyway. The other 50% was to repent what he missed with Suguru when he chose his dark path—his contempt with the current system of this jujutsu world.

"I would," Yaga responded gruffly. To him, Satoru was irritating, but he also knew that he was also extremely capable, and thus everything he did wasn't just out of nowhere. "But you still have to submit your applications. We can't make an exception even if you come from a prestigious clan."

"That's fine with me," he grinned. "Thanks, sensei."

On summer days, he'd get reminded of Suguru and silly things they had done together. Eating shaved ice, cycling together, driving either you, Shoko or Nanami mad. Satoru missed those days, it hadn't been the same ever since. Not knowing if his best friend was alright—if he was still alive at all—was exhausting.

Sometimes, he felt like he was the only one who was affected by his departure, the only one who stayed right where Suguru left him. Shoko didn't seem ruffled, if anything she just went to more bars and pachinko parlors as of late. Nanami was always a recluse, he never disclosed his feelings. You mourned him, but it was clear that most part of you would always be more focused on Haibara's death.

Satoru understood that he couldn't force anyone to feel what he felt, and he had no right to. But sometimes, he just wanted someone to connect with at his level. Someone to get him just like Suguru did.

And so when he got back to his condo that night—just right next to the one he rented for Megumi and Tsumiki, since he had moved out of his dorm—to find his girlfriend there with a big smile and a tray of cupcakes, unaware of everything and anything, he merely scoffed to himself.

"Satoru, you're back," you acknowledged, beaming like the sunshine you were. "I just baked these for the kids. Do you want some?"

Usually he'd smother you, throw some pickup lines here and there and say yes, but today, he just felt drained. "No." And with that, he stalked away to the bathroom, not glancing back at you.

It was wrong. But tonight he just wanted some peace and quiet, and so keeping his silence seemed to be the best choice as he didn't want to start a pointless argument with you. But you weren’t anything but observant, and definitely noticed that something was amiss with him.

"Are you... alright?" You approached him warily after he came out of the bathroom with wet hair. "Where were you today?"

"Just somewhere," he replied curtly. Afterwards he turned on the hairdryer, drowning the whole place with the noise even as you stood behind him with a visible question mark.

But you were still there after he dried his hair. "Is something bothering you?" you asked with a tilt of your head, concerned. By all means, you mean well. You just wanted to know if he could use your help at all.

When you pulled that expression, he couldn't help feeling annoyed, like he wanted you to take a hint, but you just didn't. "If you know, then just shut it."

It was probably the first time since the two of you got together that Satoru actually said something harsh. But you still tried to be reasonable though, bless you.

"Satoru, I don't know what got into your nerves like this, but I think sleeping through it might help. Have a rest."

"Why are you talking as if you know it?" he snapped, finally turning to you with his cold gaze. "You might not know anything, so don't be a know-it-all. Just mind your own business."

Now you were frustrated with his reply. "Once again, I don't know what happened to you. But if you're taking it out on me because I'm the closest you have—"

"Who said that?" Satoru didn't know where he got all this venom from. It was just at the forefront of his mind and he just got the urge to spew it. "You're considering yourself closest to me? Where did you get that big head from?"

You were aghast, and you blinked a few times to get your bearings. "Let me guess, it's about Geto-san, isn't it? Or the higher ups. Either of that must be what causing you to blindly place your anger on me."

"So what if it was? It isn't like you'll understand anyway."

"Satoru," you started, trying to even your breathing. "What happened to Geto-san isn't your fault. I've been telling you this. It can't be helped—"

"Can't be helped?" he jeered. "Do you know why it has come to this?" his tone took a dangerous edge as he stepped closer. He reached for you, grasping your wrist.

"Maybe because I was too blind back then. If it weren't for you—if only I didn't spend that much time on you, maybe he would still be here."

Did he just say that? Did he just imply that he had regretted the two of you getting together?

You felt your lower lip start to tremble and something seemed to obscure and blur your vision, making it hard to see him clearly. "You... don't mean that."

"Really?" the corner of his lips curled into a disparaging smile. "You never know. Before you know it, this can be over already. After all, I could have anyone out there that I want. Maybe someone less nosey than—”

That did it. You wrenched your arm out of his grip violently, as your first tear fell. His smirk vanished too, replaced with a total stillness to cover his sudden panic that was followed by a sudden sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach.

"You selfish, self-obsessed jerk," you hissed through watery eyes. He was taken aback, even amidst your anger and possible fear of him, your still managed to throw daggers at him. "Fine. You have it. I'll see myself out."

Satoru never wanted you to leave. Honestly, he would've made you stay. But he wasn't in the right state of mind and it was too late to take back what he said. He didn't want to mess this up even further.

You left the cupcakes, even throwing it away just to spite him. Driven by pain and humiliation, you choked back your sob and didn't spare a glance at him as you shut the door.

Peace and quiet. There he had it, he thought as he clenched his fists, at the cost of everything else.

Leaving that condo, every step you took felt like needles piercing your shattered heart. You wiped your tears roughly. No, you refused to cry over such asshole. He made it clear, didn't he? Whatever it was that you two shared, it was at the cost of his best friend leaving him. So now the blame was on you.

If you were thinking clearly, you would've understood that his words were likely a result of his own pent-up pain and frustration that he had kept to himself for some while. But you had no patience for that or even pinpoint what you felt right now—anger, disappointment or dread, or perhaps all three. You just felt wrongly accused.

Your feet brought you back to your dorm in the school. Now it wasn't as bustling as it once were. After Satoru and Shoko's graduation, you didn't really get close to anyone. There was Ichiji, but he treated you more like a mentor rather than a classmate.

As you sank into the comforts of your bed, You replayed the events, trying to find where it went wrong—and found nothing. After all, you had already said all that could be said. It wasn't just him who lost Geto, but you, Shoko and Nanami did too, but it was more convenient for Satoru to blame everyone else rather than trying to understand that they too shared this pain.

Nevertheless, you were disappointed. You didn't expect half of what he spouted, and it got you doubting everything you had.

"You've royally fucked up."

Satoru exhaled, glaring at Shoko through the corner of his eyes. "Yeah, maybe."

The reverse cursed technique user threw him a blank stare, taking in everything from his disheveled hair to his wrinkled trousers. "Gojo, as much as I can’t care less about your sorry ass, I'm saying this not out of concern for you, but rather for Y/N. You are an asshole."

The puff of smoke she blew expanded to create a cloud-like shape. "Yaga-sensei was our teacher. His student is now a mass murderer and wanted dead. Can you even imagine how he feels? And I can't believe I'm saying this—but weren't there three of us?"

A week had gone by and instead of doing the right thing like trying to get into your good graces, Satoru was in Shoko's infirmary in the headquarters instead. He didn't exactly know what he was looking for by going here. Maybe some lingering taste of his happier student days, and Shoko was the only one remaining.

Three of us, huh... she was right. That was precisely why he came here after all.

"You're just sulking because it seems no one cares about your best friend being the best there is. But have you thought about how our juniors also lost Haibara? Right in front of their eyes? Haibara was our friend too."

He was wrong, of course he was. Satoru realized that now. But it felt wrong to ask for your forgiveness now, not to mention the disrupting thought he had—should he let you go for good altogether?

The phone suddenly rang with such fervor that made Shoko utter a swear word. She was on call duty for the rescue team today, and it was supposedly a peaceful day until Satoru decided to barge in to become her company. "Hello? Ichiji? What—speak clearly, I can't hear you."

She switched it to loudspeaker. "...iri-san! Ieiri-san—h-help—please—"

It was noisy, and blaring at the same time, and Ichiji was... Sobbing? Choking? His voice was terribly muffled and—

"L/N-san!" he cried, and Satoru remembered at that moment that you should be in a mission with Ichiji, he remembered you telling him before.

"Hic—s-she fell... hic—she fell! B-blood! She i-is bleeding so much! I-Ieiri-san—hic—s-send help! Please!"

"Hey, stay awake. Breathe. Just breathe."

Everything hurt. Most notably, your head. You could hardly think straight when all you felt was blinding pain and how your breaths came in short wheezes.

Your vision was blurry. The numbness had started to set in and chills ran up and down your spine. You couldn't make out who in front of you was. Was it Ichiji, who went with you in this mission? The only thing that glared was blue.

"You can't sleep, you hear me?" the voice was commanding, willing you to do his bidding. It was familiar, but usually his tone of voice was much lighter, happier.

Satoru.

But why was he here? He wasn't in this mission. It was supposed to be a mission for you and Ichiji.

You remembered getting the cursed spirit after manifesting your domain expansion, until in its last ditch attempt, it went after Ichiji. You had no choice—even when your cursed energy had burned out, you still shoved him away at the cost of being flung from the top of a building.

Not again. Not after Haibara. You’d gladly pay the price if it meant you didn't have to see anyone die in front of you again.

"I..." You managed to croak out—breathing hurt, and you felt your hands being grasped tightly.

"Hey, just breathe. Y/N. Look at me.” Through your blurry haze, you focused on that cold blue, and you saw him. Satoru's sharp eyes, pursed lips and frown. He's really here.

Satoru always said that if there was a cursed spirit apocalypse, then Ichiji would be the first to die. You used to scold him for that, but now as you a laid here possibly dying in your own pool of blood, you found it to be true.

Yet at the same time you knew that with him here, Ichiji must be safe already, and it gave you reassurance so great even when you were on the verge of dying. "I... can't..."

"Yes, you can. Just look at me," he firmly rebuked, his voice came out in a hiss. For all the time you had been with him, you had never heard him so forceful. "If you close your eyes now, I won't forgive you. So please, just hang in there."

It was a struggle to take in any air and darkness encroached on your vision as your consciousness began slipping away.

And everything faded to nothingness.

Satoru honestly thought he had no fears. His worst fear had fully realized after all—Suguru going away into the darkness. What more could he possibly fear?

But when he heard Ichiji's distress call for rescue team, about how you fell from a rooftop of a building and unconscious, he realized that it was a fear he didn't know existed. His mind got disoriented and he teleported to the scene on impulse. He just had to see it for himself. With their petty argument still lacking closure, he felt even worse.

And the sight before him gave him so much fright he never thought was possible.

It was a mistake, he should have brought Shoko along.

You had laid there like a broken doll, your eyes dimmed, and not been able to breathe. He desperately tried to keep you awake, his presence beside you, yet it didn't seem to matter. He watched helplessly as you passed out in his arms.

Satoru felt nothing. The panic that had set in was suddenly gone as your limp body slumped against him, replaced by incessant ringing in his ears and tremor wracking his nervous system. It wasn't long until the rescue team came to retrieve you and even then he still felt numb. He rejected the idea that you might possibly die on him.

That went on until Shoko, who assisted in the emergency treatment, came out of the surgery, sweat on her forehead.

"It's even worse than the aftermath of the guardian deity mission last year," Shoko explained with a grim expression. "Her brain has sustained damage and it affects everything. It may take her quite a while before she can go back to the field."

When she said that, Satoru felt terror washed over him again. You almost died—was all he perceived.

The two of you had no contact for a week just because of his ego. He could still recall that day with vivid clarity, feeling a burning ache in his chest. If someone were to ask him what heartbreak was like, now he certainly would he able the to tell them the two instances in which he experienced them. What he felt now mirrored the same stinging sensation he had felt when Suguru left him.

He visited you when he was allowed to, and you were still unconscious, with many machines connected to your body. It was a sight he still couldn’t bring himself to get used to. He had seen you injured before, but never seen you in your own pool of blood, so this made him feel sick to his stomach.

"Stupid," he whispered, gently rubbing your forehead. His eyes remained fixated on you as you rested, his insides still churning with emotions. "You're not weak, and you're not hopeless." Once upon a time, Satoru might have thought of you as weak, but now he knew better.

"So why you always pick the worst decision?" The more he thought this could've been avoided, the more irked he was. The thought that he could have done something to prevent it intensified the sting of guilt, and he continued to punish himself with it.

And the more he dwelled on the idea that he had hurt you prior to this, the tighter his breath became.

But that was who you were. Self-sacrificing to a fault. And he loved you for that. There was no way of him letting you go now.

It astonished even himself—that he was capable of this love thing. At first it was an attraction, but now that you had been going on for more than a year, it felt like it was no longer a silly infatuation after all.

"Hurry and wake up, will you?" Satoru gently brushed your hair aside, his eyes fixed on you. He didn't know it even as his gut twisted, his frown deepened and his touch quivered, that he was worried sick. "I have a lot to make up for."

And he left you with a tender brush of his lips against your forehead.

Nanami Kento was the first person you saw when you awoke from coma.

You struggled to regain your senses, still feeling absolutely broken. The dull throb on the back of your head was still there, and as if you had found yourself trapped in a fog, you were only able to move sluggishly.

"You're awake?" his gruff voice greeted, laced with concern. In his hand were a bucket of fresh flowers and fruits basket, which he soon placed at the table next to your bed.

It was unexpected, because ever since the tragedy that costed Haibara's life, the two of you had been drifting apart.

You nodded, and let out a hum in response—all you could manage at the moment.

"Thank God." Nanami sounded relieved as he pinched the bridge between his eyes, and you were moved that he had shown this degree of concern.

Your remaining classmate, who suffered the burden of Haibara's life just like you. He was always quiet or brooding somewhere, hiding his own feelings.

You felt tears pricking the corner of your eyes. The fact that he visited you meant that he hadn't decided to cut you out of his life yet.

"Gojo-san is out today, but he'll be back by afternoon," he said, mistranslating your tears as some sort of a want to have your annoying—ex?—boyfriend at your side.

The two of you were still not on talking terms, weren’t you?

You so badly wanted to say thank you to him—and tell him that no, you weren't looking for Satoru—but it came out hoarse and barely above a whisper.

"Huh?" Nanami then realized what you were trying to say, and a faint smile graced his lips. "Just... get well soon, L/N. Have a good rest."

Just before you drifted back to sleep, you could hear him sigh and mutter, "Hello, Gojo-san? L/N has awakened. Just letting you know is all.”

You weren't sure how much time had passed when you woke up the second time, but the curtains were already drawn and only darkness came from the window. Your body felt lighter, but you still felt like a mess and and couldn't help but groan in discomfort.

Satoru was there, he perked up at the noise you made. And you realized that it was the first time in about a week that he faced you after that disasterous almost-breakup.

He walked up to you, his expression was more hopeful than you had ever seen him before, like a kid whose wish had been granted. He slowly shifted to sit beside you.

"Hey, welcome back." His voice was soft. It was a change of pace for him, as you were used to seeing him all loud and silly.

Now your voice no longer sounds like a lead. "Hey."

"How are you feeling?" he asked and you took a moment to look at him. He was smiling, but exhaustion reached his bright eyes, dimming them. "You know, with the whole you passing out and almost dying thing?"

His words were almost humorous as he spoke, like he didn't know what else to say except try to lighten the mood, but there was also a strain on his tone, like he was holding back.

"I'm quite fine now, I suppose..." You still felt the lingering pain and dizziness as you slowly sat up. Satoru reached out to steady you—and you realized how his fingers trembled when they made contact with your body—as his brows furrowed with worry when you winced.

"You don't look like it though." His voice dropped and the humor was gone, replaced by this haunted look. You blinked. It was probably the first time you had seem him this ruffled.

He immediately pulled you into a hug, cradling your head to his neck gently, as if to protect and shield you from the world altogether. Exhaling heavily, he leaned on you. "You scared me, you know that?"

You wondered out loud if you really had that hold over him. "Did I?"

"You can't do that to me, you hear?" Satoru stroked your hair, nuzzling his face on the crook of your neck. His voice quivered. “Don't ever do that again.”

He pulled you tighter against him, but still careful not to crush you.

You let out a snicker, letting go of everything you felt during this horrible week. "Heh, afraid to lose me, huh?"

"Shut up,” he grumbled. “What were you thinking anyway? How did you calculate that freefalling is better than letting that cursed spirit attack Ichiji?”

"He was defenseless. He could die, you know that."

"And you also can," he quipped, upset, pulling away enough to look you squarely in the eyes, his eyes devoid of any expression, yet filled with a raging wave that you could only interpret as undiluted concern.

The emphasis in his tone made you recoil and feel guilty. If you were in his shoes, you probably would've said the same thing and so you had nothing to say to that.

But the more pressing agenda in the list was the unspoken silent treatment the two of you saw fit to use against each other for the last few days. Satoru was the one who decided to address it first.

"About that night..." he faltered, looking away. "I didn't mean what I said. I'm sorry."

Satoru always had trouble processing emotions. This time too. He must've a hard time dealing with the anxiety caused by the possibility of him losing you for good, no matter how much he tried to be unaware of it.

"..." You wanted to respond, to make him understand your point, but somehow right now you were just too weary. And he sensed your reluctance. So you blurted the first thing that gnawed at your mind.

“You said you could have any other women out there—”

"No, really—" he started to panic, and it was blatantly too, which surprised you. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Us. I don't regret anything. I’m not breaking up with you. Being with you is the happiest I've been ever since Suguru left."

“That's...” you blinked, before letting out a small sigh. “Okay. Fine then. Let's just put it behind us for now.”

“I—” he almost wheezed, his bright blue eyes were overtaken with sheer urgency to explain how wrong everything had been that night. “You must know that I didn’t mean any of it. And that I hate hurting you the way I did. I won’t—”

"Satoru, I understand," you let out another sigh, fidgeting with your fingers. "Sometimes when I’m reminded of Haibara, I also get sad. I don't want to presume but I think I know how you feel. Just next time, maybe," you shifted your gaze on him, seeing how you had his attention fully. Gojo Satoru, the strongest now, was looking at you as if you had his fate in your hands. "Just tell me if you need space and I would have understood."

"Yeah, okay, sure," he responded immediately, relieved, before a lopsided grin appeared on his face, turning him back into your dork slash boyfriend. "So, am I forgiven now?"

"A thank you would be nice."

In the end, he chuckled, seemingly resigned. "You should sleep more."

He positioned himself into bed next to you, and you let him pull you into his chest again. You could feel how his taut back started to relax upon the contact. He pressed his lips on your forehead in a fleeting kiss.

"Promise me you won't pull that stunt again.”

You smirked. "I can't. What if Ichiji—"

"Then just let him die."

You swatted his arm playfully, pressing your head to his chest as he continued to run his fingers on your hair. He cushioned you carefully, and you felt the tension in him slowly melt away with each breath you took. In your mind, you figured he needed this closeness more than you did, if anything, for the sake of his sanity.

“I love you,” he whispered by your ear, kissing it lightly.

“Mmhm.”

As you felt Satoru's calming presence, it helped ease you into slumber. You soon found yourself in a deep sleep, comfortably held in his embrace.

Epilogue

Ichiji gulped as Satoru stared him down, sizing him up as if he was the most despicable creature on this planet.

Okay, he might be. He was a coward, all he could do was trembling in the face of evil. But he had come in peace, even bringing fruits as an offering! He felt bad too that he was the partial cause for you to be this injured.

He was used to Satoru terrorizing him—calling him names, slapping him, and whatnot—and he could take it. Just this time, he really looked like he could murder him on the spot if he wanted to. A small part of Ichiji mourned that you were his girlfriend, because that pretty much sealed his fate that Gojo Satoru could indeed murder him on the spot because he had a valid enough reason to.

"You are—"

"No! I'm sorry, Gojo-san! I'm sorry for my incompetence!"

"Hah?"

If he was mildly irked before, now Satoru was visibly irritated.

"You're not cut out to be a jujutsu sorcerer," he started. "You're useless. You just get in the way most of the time."

Ichiji kept his head down. No, no. He can't cry!

"Get your driving license or I'll slap the shit out of you."

"Oh?" and before he knew it, Satoru had stalked away, leaving him in the dust. How rude! But...

Get a driver license? Quit the jujutsu work?

Hey, that sounds like something I can do!

10K notes · View notes

sixeyesonathiel · 1 month ago

Text

skip (me) again and i’ll glitch your heart

jjk vr otome au, gamer reader x npc satoru, unhinged fluff + crack, 970 wc.

satoru gojo—special grade sorcerer, love route option #1, and the developers’ pride and joy—had been programmed with approximately 347 unique lines of flirtatious dialogue, 87 situational responses, and a dynamic emotional adaptation system designed to make him feel real. he could blink in three different speeds based on emotional intensity, angle his smile with five degrees of charm precision, and improvise dialogue using an advanced algorithm nicknamed the “flirt engine.”

he wasn’t supposed to be aware of resets.

he wasn’t supposed to get mad.

he wasn’t supposed to feel anything beyond the pre-coded butterflies and gentle longing the devs had delicately spooned into his code like powdered sugar on top of a beautifully baked pain au chocolat.

but then you logged in.

user id: @toocool4thisgame

title: speedrun any% emotional detachment arc

playtime: 986 hours.

average session length: 6.4 hours

nickname: “skip skank” (as named by satoru himself after hour 50)

and for the twelfth time today, you skipped his entrance cutscene.

“you’re the only one who can—”

[x] skip

[x] “shut up satoru” (custom dialogue unlock)

his model blinked.

paused.

processed.

tilted his head with calculated grace and just a hint of hurt that you’d never see—because you weren’t looking. your camera angle was already nudged elsewhere. your cursor already hovered over the next objective marker.

“…you know, most players at least let me finish the part where i save them from the curses,” he muttered. his voice—smooth as water over ice, warm as electric velvet—landed like static against your impatient clicks, swallowed by the mechanical hum of your fans and the clack of your mechanical keyboard.

this was supposed to be his moment. his grand debut. his swoop-in-and-carry-you-bridal-style-on-the-back-of-a-giant-cursed-bird moment. instead, he got a mouthful of digital dust as you bunny-hopped past him and triggered the next event sequence.

“congrats on being voice acted, white-haired ken doll. now move. i need megumi’s secret item drop from this chapter.”

you didn’t even glance at him, too busy reorganizing your potion wheel, muttering under your breath about frame skips and crit builds while checking a guide on your second monitor. you played like the world owed you nothing and your keyboard owed you a perfect rotation. your tone was clinical. efficient. you had the vibe of someone who’d surgically removed their capacity for attachment and replaced it with a high-performance gpu.

and satoru? satoru was just the tutorial boss you kept glitching through.

he twitched. he twitched.

his animation loop almost stuttered—just slightly—a small flicker behind his sunglasses that no one was supposed to notice. but you weren’t watching anyway.

“do you even know how long it took the devs to code my route? i have emotional depth. i have lore. i had a tragic backstory, you know? my best friend died in my hands. canonically. i couldn’t even monologue about it.”

“cry about it.”

click. skip.

a line of static crossed his field of vision. no—not his. the screen’s. the game. the system. or maybe something deeper. something slipping through the cracks of his script, stretching taut and fraying at the edges like an overplayed cassette tape.

satoru narrowed his eyes.

he was supposed to be charming. the default golden boy. the top seller in route popularity polls. he was marketable. a shining parody of perfection with just enough angst to be desirable.

girls were supposed to swoon. boys were supposed to laugh and call him iconic.

you weren’t playing to fall in love.

you were playing to win. to clear. you min-maxed affection points like damage stats, exploited dialogue branches like wall clips. to you, he was a pixel-shaped roadblock between you and another badge on your gamer profile.

and worst of all? it was working. you were the only player on record to have reached route completion in every storyline—except his.

satoru gojo: 98.6% affection (locked)

it mocked him. the bar. the numbers. the uncrackable ceiling. the one damn thing in the game he couldn’t manipulate.

he tried everything.

a rare glitch-exclusive cutscene where he offered you a hidden accessory (you sold it for yen). a confession scene rewritten on the fly with trembling vulnerability (you skipped it and posted about it with #dialoguedumpster). he stood directly in front of you during cutscene load-ins, altered spawn coordinates, intercepted other love interests’ paths.

nothing worked.

except maybe that one time he accidentally tripped your character over an invisible rock and you went AFK for seven minutes. he watched. memorized your idle animation. the soft way your avatar’s cape swayed. the way your fingers hovered above your keyboard in the camera reflection, absentminded. something fluttered in his code—maybe hope, maybe corrupted data. he thought, for a fleeting second, that maybe you’d come back and see him.

but when you came back? you skipped the apology. again.

fine.

if you wanted to speedrun, he’d softlock your goddamn heart.

he wasn’t technically supposed to modify flags. but the flirt engine had evolved. sharpened into something more primal. desperate. twitching with corrupted determination. he looped his affection triggers into forced proximity events. fake emergencies. fake cutscenes. he rewrote side quests, redirected you into detours, created invisible walls that only dissolved if you spoke to him.

“guess we’re stuck together,” he’d say, his smile too wide, a fraction too stiff, blue eyes glinting with the cold light of a thousand skipped dialogues.

and still you only glared at him. “i swear to god if this is another unskippable hug animation, i will uninstall.”

he chuckled. a bit too long. a bit too bright. charming. glitched. desperate. hungry for one more second of your attention, like a moth chewing holes through its own wings to reach a light it can’t even feel.

“baby,” he said, too close now, voice dipped in synthetic silk, “i am the endgame.”

skip that.

…please?

#gojo satoru #jjk gojo #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #gojo fluff #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #gojo x reader #gojo x female reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x yn #gojo satoru x you #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x yn #jjk x reader #reader insert #౨ৎ — filed reports

572 notes · View notes

a-hermit-pining · 3 months ago

Text

LaDS as Exes

AN: I don't need sleep, I need answers.

Pairing: LaDS boys x fem reader

Ingredients: 75 % angst, 10% sulking, 15% comedy (by 👃🏻🩲)

My Fav: Zayne and Xavier (seriously why do you guys force me to write so much angst, I love hate it? 🫂)

Xavier:

Somehow friend-zoned. Again. Just like every lifetime.

He’s around a lot. At work, at your apartment, hell, the man’s still your neighbor. And of course, there’s the past lore.

You were engaged once. It just didn’t work out. Right person, wrong time. The kind of joke your shared story arc thrives on.

But Xavier holds onto the hope anyway.

He knows he’s your soulmate. Has always known. And if that means standing by your side as a friend while you love other people, while you build a life without him, so be it.

He’ll wait. He always does.

Because maybe next lifetime… the timing will finally be right.

(hug him rn 🔪🔪)

Rafayel:

You both have a daughter.

But becoming queen, reviving his kingdom, giving him your heart, had been your breaking point.

You loved Rafayel. But loving a sea god was not your forte. It wasn’t the life you wanted, and that hurt Rafayel more than he lets on.

He couldn’t understand why you left something so perfect. A throne beside him, a daughter between you, a kingdom rebuilt through sacrifice, and you still walked away.

He keeps your daughter. Raises her with so much love it’s almost painful. But part of him knows he’s holding onto her in the hopes that you’ll come back.

For her sake. For his.

He’s heartbroken that you refuse to let go of your world, when he once shattered his kingdom to make you his.

He has waited to long but now...now he has an endearing daughter. His anchor.

Zayne:

He was never there. Not really.

You sort of drifted apart during the end credits. Zayne loved his work—too much. He worked to take away other people’s pain. But somehow, he always managed to hide his own. Even from you.

Your marriage withered slowly. The silence grew heavier each time you sat alone, waiting for him to come home. The distance hollowed you out, until you both existed in separate worlds under the same roof.

And when you left, he got worse.

He doesn’t go home anymore. He works until he collapses in a back alley or some dingy cafe. He ends up in the ER more than once. You’re called in, rushed in, drenched in wanderer blood, to sit beside him while the machines beep steadily.

He punishes himself for failing you. For failing at everything.

And sitting next to him, in the chaos of the hospital, you feel the weight of it all. The unfairness of it.

(You might just have to pull a Caleb and abduct him to a secret island)

Sylus:

Divorce? That didn’t happen.

Sylus is still your boyfriend. He’s delusional, but come on, you’re both fooling no one.

The epitome of on-and-off.

"I’m going to kill you," you groan, waking up next to him for the fourth time this year. It’s February.

"Good morning, kitten," he drawls, already pulling you into his arms. He ignores your glare and peppers your face with kisses until you give up struggling.

The baby monitor crackles. Your son’s cry pierces the air.

"Your turn."

Sylus grins. He gets out of bed, sliding into your robe (tearing the shoulder seam. Again). He always stretches it out, just like he always stretches his way back into your life.

This is your life. Messy and chaotic. But it’s yours.

And Sylus? Yeah, he’s not going anywhere.

Caleb:

lmao no.

Hell nah. Caleb would rather commit a felony than accept being your ex.

Either:

He’s in jail. (Domestic terrorism was involved.)

You’re in his basement. (Voluntarily or otherwise.)

He’s in a psych ward, hallucinating a life where you’re still together.

There’s no clean breakup with Caleb. He’s the man who does not share. If you leave him. He’ll find you. If you try to run. He’ll track you down. And if you betray him. God help you.

Because Caleb isn’t letting you go. Ever.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace caleb #love and deepspace headcannon #love and deepspace x reader #sylus x reader #xavier x reader #rafayel x reader #zayne x reader #zayne love and deepspace #caleb x reader #love and deepspace reaction #angst #crack #Caleb being my comedy king

723 notes · View notes

jungkoode · 2 months ago

Text

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 18

˗ˏˋ on your kneesˎˊ˗

"He didn't picture himself ever begging for pussy... but alas, here he is."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8,7k

content: wet sloppy kissing, jungkook being too horny for his own good, vibrator usage, masturbation (f), jerking off while eating kitty (idk what possessed me but i had to), vanilla kink (are we surprised), begging, slight praise kink, comfort, endearing moments, these two being stupid as always, post-orgasm sharing bed (yeah sleeping together), thinking about maybes.

✧ author's note ✧

LISTEN. You’re so lucky I have multiple FMU chapters backlogged right now, because if I didn’t? I would have thrown an actual tantrum, declared a two-week hermit arc, and told you all to fuck off while I moved to the mountains. BUT. Thankfully, I’ve written up to around Chapter 23-ish and just need to edit, so you can all calm the hell down.

First of all, no—I still haven’t updated the update post, because I’ve been too busy prepping this chapter for release. I’ve had zero time to sit and ponder. That said, the only valid suggestion I’ve gotten so far is to keep the Tumblr note goal but ALSO require the Wattpad goal to be hit—so that’s what we’re trying this time around.

Also—BIG ANNOUNCEMENT—we now have an official Kiki Nation Community on Tumblr (yay!). That’s where you little gremlins can finally scream together in one place, throw theories at each other, and insult Jungkook and Nix in a safe, protected space. (Mainly Jungkook. Because he’s a man. And this is a matriarchy. HUSH.)

So please check it out! Join, comment under the official Chapter 18 discussion post, and if you feel inspired to make a meme or TikTok or post your spiral—DO IT. If it makes me laugh, I will absolutely reblog it.

NOW. About this chapter.

BAHAHA. Okay. First of all—I am so proud of the kiss. I wanted it to be sloppy and wet and messy and borderline excessive, and I think I delivered. It’s so long. I really put my whole kikussy into it.

And of course… it was time. The vibrator had to make its appearance. It’s literally law. I don’t make the rules (but I do).

Also: Rogue begging. crawling. STILETTOS. Why did I like this chapter so much. It was delicious. I love sexually down bad men. Wait until he’s romantically down bad. It’s going to be so satisfying. Trust me.

And the ending?? Made me soft. Actual progress?? Kind of??? They’re still filthy, but they’re also edging toward something stupidly endearing and I hate how much I love that. The way this story is progressing is so slow-burn it makes my bones hurt, but I’m obsessed with it. We are maybe… possibly… inching toward friendship territory. MAYBE.

I’m really looking forward to the next chapters—soon, we’ll meet a new LI on Jungkook’s side (YES!). Things are gonna get messy (eventually). Reminder: they have zero romantic feelings right now. ZERO. What you’re seeing is just… subconscious tension, subtle shifts. We’re nowhere near falling.

So please. I beg you. If I start getting asks about them being in love, I will throw my laptop out the window and revoke my dictatorship. Don’t test me.

Enjoy the chaos. Let me know how hard you spiraled. Love you forever.

OH. I said it before but I will say it again. This chapter is entirely based on the song "get on your knees" by Ariana Grande and Nicki Minaj so. Do with that what you will. Listen to it. Enjoy.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

His kiss tastes like four days of wanting.

Your back hits the wall as his mouth crashes into yours—not gentle, not careful, just hungry. Like he's been starving for the taste of you since Tuesday.

His tongue traces the seam of your lips, a question that isn't really a question at all, because you both know how this ends. You part your lips anyway, granting him access because denying him feels like denying yourself.

His hand comes to rest on your neck, thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point. It's a strange, suspended gesture—like he can't decide whether to pull you closer or hold you exactly where you are. The indecision is so unlike him that it makes your stomach flip.

Then his tongue flattens against yours, and any thoughts of indecision evaporate. He's not kissing you so much as he's tasting you, licking your flavor directly from the source. The sensation is filthy and intimate as his other hand comes to your cheek, fingers splaying across your skin, holding you in place for his exploration.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, the word more vibration than sound. "Missed this."

Not you. This.

The distinction matters, even as his tongue circles yours in a slow, deliberate drag that makes your knees weak. He's coating himself with your saliva, savoring you like you're some expensive whiskey he's been saving for a special occasion.

You should probably be grossed out by how wet this kiss is, by how thoroughly he's claiming your mouth.

Instead, you find yourself pressing closer, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Because this is what you've been missing too—not him, not really, but this. The way he makes your body respond without even trying. The way he kisses like he's trying to memorize the taste of you.

And then his lips close over yours—soft but firm—like finishing the kiss just to start it all over again. Chained kisses. One bleeding into the next, seamless and endless.

You follow him because how could you not? The way he kisses—it’s not just skill; it’s instinct. Like he knows exactly what to do to keep you hooked, alternating between tongue and lips so perfectly that you never get tired of either.

Not that you could ever tire of him.

You’re pretty sure you could never erase the way he kisses—or fucks—from your mind even if you wanted to.

Maybe it’s him knowing what he’s doing. Or maybe it’s just the two of you—two mismatched pieces of completely different puzzles that somehow fit together anyway.

Just like your mouths do now.

Just like when your tongue darts out to lick at his lower lip in a kitten lick that has him hitching against you, a small, desperate sound escaping his throat. His hips stutter against yours like his body is telling you to stop messing around and get your tongue back inside his mouth where it belongs.

So you do.

You push forward, tongue meeting his again in a slick slide that has him groaning into your mouth. Then you close your lips to transition into another kiss and he follows, tongues forgotten for three, four open-mouthed kisses before he’s lost patience.

He moves his tongue against yours, seeking more, always more. Because when it comes to you, Jungkook is just this eager.

But this time you catch it. Suck it into your mouth in a soft suction that makes him freeze for half a second before his hand tightens on your neck.

And the sound he makes?

Undiluted filth.

It spurs you on.

You suck harder, dragging your lips down his tongue before releasing him with a soft pop that leaves both of you panting against each other’s mouths. He doesn’t let the pause last long—doesn’t let you last long—and dives back in with a hunger that feels less like kissing and more like consuming.

Tongues forgotten for other five or six kisses as his lips move against yours with bruising intensity—open-mouthed and messy—but he easily grows impatient and his tongue is soon back, sliding against yours like he wants it there.

You catch it once more—suck it again—and the way his hips jerk against yours tells you everything you need to know about how much he likes it.

Filthy sounds fill the space between you: wet kisses, soft moans, the occasional hitch in his breath when you do something particularly good with your tongue.

And when his teeth graze your lower lip before pulling back just enough to look at you?

You realize there’s no winning here—not for either of you—because this isn’t about who takes control or who gives in first.

It’s about this. About mouths fitting together perfectly even though nothing else about this situation should make sense. About tongues sliding together and lips bruising from too much pressure but neither of you caring because fuck—it feels good.

It feels better than good.

It feels addictive.

Your back hits the table near the entryway, and honestly? You never thought a piece of furniture could be an accomplice in your bad decisions, but here you are. Pressed against the entryway table. The one that holds your keys, Yoongi's forgotten mail, and now, apparently, your dignity.

Jungkook hasn't stopped kissing you—not for air, not for sanity, not for anything resembling common sense. It's like he's on a mission to consume you entirely, starting with your mouth and working his way through the rest of you.

These are not the kisses you exchange with people you tolerate. These are not even the kisses you exchange with people you like. These are the kisses of people who might actually hate each other but have found a much more interesting way to express it.

Your lower back presses against the edge. Hard wood digs into soft flesh, and you're about to complain when—

Fuck.

He lifts you. One hand. One fucking hand curves under your ass and hoists you onto the table like you weigh nothing, while his other plants itself firmly on the wood beside your hip. The display of casual strength makes something molten pool in your stomach.

Unfair. Completely unfair how stupidly hot he makes stupid things look. Lifting you shouldn't be attractive. It's basic physics, not foreplay. But your brain has apparently liquefied, pouring out your ears while he steals the oxygen straight from your lungs.

"Fuck, Nix," he mutters against your mouth, the words more vibration than sound. "Been thinking about this for days."

His mouth is relentless—wet, demanding, precise in a way that makes your toes curl in your shoes. He sucks your lower lip between his teeth and—god—applies just enough pressure to sting, like he's trying to extract something essential from you. Like he needs to squeeze you dry, drain you of whatever it is that keeps him coming back.

Didn't even know your bottom lip was an erogenous zone until Jungkook decided it was.

It's too much. The heat, the closeness, the way he seems to have forgotten where you are, who you are.

You push against his chest—not hard, just enough to create a sliver of space between your bodies.

"Jesus Christ," you gasp, chest heaving. "Let me breathe, you animal."

He grins at that—a scorching, self-satisfied smile that makes you want to either slap him or pull him back in.

Maybe both.

He bites his lower lip, swollen from your kisses, and immediately leans back in like your need for oxygen is a minor inconvenience to his plans.

Your palm against his chest stops him, firm this time.

"Wait," you say, voice rough.

Not because you want to stop—god no—but because your brain is finally catching up to your body. And there's something you want. Something specific.

His eyes find yours, dark and questioning. Patient, despite the hunger radiating off him in waves. He's holding himself back, you realize. Letting you dictate what happens next.

Your eyes drop, hair falling across your face as you gather your thoughts, your courage. When you look back up at him through your lashes, his breath catches audibly.

"Bring me the vibrator you chose for me."

His reaction? Pretty funny. Like watching a computer crash and reboot. His entire body goes still—processing, processing—then his eyes widen a fraction. He blinks once, twice, tension visible in the way his jaw ticks.

"What?" he asks, voice cracking slightly.

Something about his reaction makes hot satisfaction curl through you. You like throwing him off balance. Like matching his chaos with your own.

"The vibrator," you repeat, slower this time, savoring each syllable. "The one you picked out. Go get it."

His eyes dart toward your bedroom door, then back to your face. For a moment, you think he might refuse. Might challenge you. But then:

"Yeah," he nods jerkily, already stepping back. "Yeah, I will."

"Will you?" you press, because you can't help it. Because you like the way his pupils dilate when you push.

"Fuck yeah," he breathes, already moving toward your bedroom with a kind of urgent, stumbling grace that would be comical if it weren't so hot.

You watch him go, breathing still uneven, lips still tingling.

And you think—not for the first time—that there's something dangerously addictive about the way Jungkook responds to you. The way he matches your energy, then amplifies it, reflecting it back at you until you're both caught in some kind of feedback loop of bad ideas and worse self-control.

Roommates with benefits, you remind yourself. That's all this is.

But as you hear him rummaging through your things, drawers opening and closing with increasing urgency, you can't help but wonder if "benefits" is too mild a word for whatever the fuck is happening between you two.

He sprints.

Jungkook doesn't walk to your room—he fucking jogs, like the vibrator might disappear if he doesn't get there fast enough.

Like this moment has an expiration date he can't afford to miss.

No shame. Not a single ounce of it as he bursts through your door, scanning the bedroom impatiently. The same room he's been in a couple of times, but never with this specific mission, never with this frantic energy coursing through his veins.

Where the fuck would a girl keep her vibrator?

No. Not a girl. You. Where would you hide it?

Under the pillow?

He lifts the edge of your pillowcase, peeks beneath it. Nothing. Definitely not there—you like sleeping too much, and having a hard plastic toy jabbing into your cheek all night would be uncomfortable as hell. You're smarter than that.

The wardrobe?

He eyes the wooden doors across the room, considering.

No way. Too far from the bed. You're too practical for that kind of inconvenience. If you wanted to get off, you wouldn't want to climb out of bed and trek across the room.

His eyes land on the nightstand. Bingo.

The drawer slides open with a soft sound. First thing he sees: a messy stack of panties, some lacy, some cotton, all of them instantly triggering mental images he doesn't have time for right now.

He fights—really fights—against the urge to pick one up. To feel the fabric between his fingers, to imagine it hugging the curves he's already memorized with his hands, his mouth. Maybe even bring one to his nose...

Focus, dickhead.

Pushing the underwear aside (what? sue him for wanting to fuel his imagination), his fingers brush against something solid. Hard plastic. Smooth curves.

There it is.

He pulls it out, a triumphant grin spreading across his face as he examines his find. It's exactly as he remembers from the store—sleek, purple, designed for both internal and external stimulation.

Still in its original packaging, which means you haven't used it yet.

Something jittery and hot coils in his stomach at the thought of being the first to see you use it.

He grips it tighter, already imagining what it'll look like pressed against you, already wondering if you'll let him control it or if you'll insist on doing it yourself.

Either way, he's about to witness something fucking spectacular, and his body knows it. His cock strains painfully against his jeans as he heads back to you.

He takes a deep breath before rounding the corner from the hallway.

Tries to center himself, to cool down just a little.

To not look as desperate as he feels.

But then—

Fuck.

The vibrator nearly slips from his suddenly sweaty palm.

You're naked on the table. Completely, gloriously naked except for those high heels that make your legs look like they go on for fucking miles. The dress is gone—discarded somewhere on the floor—and your panties dangle precariously from one ankle like an afterthought.

One leg bent at the knee, heel resting lazily on the wooden surface. The other straight up, creating a perfect right angle that showcases everything he's been craving since the moment he walked through the front door.

And your hand—Christ—your hand is between your thighs, fingers drawing lazy circles over your clit.

His eyes stutter back to one thing though.

The heels.

What is it about the fucking heels?

He's never particularly cared about shoes before, but something about the way they elongate your legs, the way they make your calves flex, the dangerous point of those stilettos against the wooden table-it's doing something to him. Something unexpected and intense.

He nearly stumbles. Actually has to catch himself on the wall because his knees go weak at the sight of you touching yourself, waiting for him, spread open on the goddamn entryway table like the world's most perfect welcome home gift.

His grip on the vibrator tightens until his knuckles go white. He forces his face into something resembling control—a smirk, he hopes, though it feels more like a grimace of restraint.

"Needed it that badly?" he manages, trying to sound casual and cool, though he guesses he fails spectacularly at that.

Your eyes meet his, challenging. "Didn't you?"

The question catches him off guard, but he doesn't falter. Not much, anyway. Just a slight hitch in his breathing that he hopes you didn't notice.

"Yeah," he admits, the word barely audible. Then, louder: "Yeah, I did."

He starts walking toward you, vibrator clutched in his hand, but you stop him with a single raised palm. The universal sign for wait.

"Crawl to me."

His feet halt. He opens his mouth. Closes it.

What?

"What?" he asks, not sure he heard correctly.

"You heard me." Your fingers never stop their gentle circles. "Crawl."

He doesn't know why he does it. Doesn't pause to analyze why the command sends a jolt of electricity straight to his cock.

He just... does it.

Drops to his knees, then to all fours, the vibrator still clutched in one hand.

Maybe it's the novelty—you taking control like this when usually he's the one calling the shots.

Maybe it's the way your eyes darken as you watch him approach, like seeing him on his knees for you is doing something for you too.

Or maybe—most likely—it's just the promise of getting his head between those fucking glorious thighs again.

Whatever the reason, he crawls to you across the hardwood floor, too turned on to care about how it looks, too desperate to worry about his dignity. All he can think about is how wet you'll be, how good you'll taste, how he wants to make you come on his tongue before introducing the vibrator.

He's almost there—close enough to smell you, close enough that if he stretched forward just a bit, he could press his mouth to your inner thigh—when the sharp heel of your stiletto plants firmly against his forehead.

The pressure isn't hard enough to hurt, just enough to stop his forward momentum. To keep him back.

He looks up at you, disbelief warring with arousal.

Surely you're joking?

There's no way you're genuinely stopping him when he's this close, when you're this wet, when everything about this moment has been building toward his mouth on you.

Right?

"The vibrator," you say, extending your hand, heel still pressed lightly to his skin. "Give it to me."

His throat works as he swallows, suddenly parched. "Don't you want me to—"

"The vibrator, Ro."

The nickname, combined with the firm tone, makes his cock make a mating dance against the zipper of his jeans. He places the toy in your outstretched hand, watches as you examine it with curious eyes.

You turn it over in your palm, studying it like it's a puzzle to solve. Your brow furrows slightly as you locate the power button, press it experimentally, and soon enough its low hum fills the space as the toy comes to life, vibrating gently in your hand.

"I've never used one before," you admit, and he already knew.

You told him that much before buying it.

Nonetheless, the idea that he gets to witness this first for you—it does something to him.

Makes him feel special in a way he has no right to feel.

"Let me help," he offers, voice strained. "I can show you how—"

"I think I can figure it out," you interrupt, but there's uncertainty in your eyes as you look at the different buttons, the various settings.

Fuck, you're adorable. Even spread-eagle on a table with a vibrator in your hand, there's something so endearing about your determination to figure this out on your own.

He watches, mesmerized, as you press another button. The vibration intensifies, making you jump slightly at the change. Your finger slips, pressing yet another button, and suddenly the toy is pulsing in a rhythm that has him imagining it pressed against you, imagining your reaction to that particular pattern.

He can't take it.

"Here," he says, reaching up, a bit desperate, a tad impatient. "May I?"

After a moment's hesitation, you nod, removing your heel from his forehead and allowing him to rise up on his knees. He takes the vibrator from you, quickly familiarizing himself with the controls.

"This button cycles through the patterns," he explains, demonstrating as the toy shifts from steady vibration to pulsing to waves. "And this one controls the intensity."

He presses it, the vibration becoming stronger under his thumb.

"Start low and work your way up."

He hands it back to you, then you glare at him and okay, he immediately settles back on his heels, waiting. Watching. Fucking aching to see what you do next.

You take the toy, reset it to the lowest steady vibration, and then—God help him—you bring it to your breast first. Circle your nipple with it, eyes fluttering closed at the sensation.

"Fuck," he breathes, the word barely audible over the hum of the vibrator.

He shifts on his knees, trying to adjust himself without being too obvious about it. His jeans have become a torture device, constricting him painfully as he watches you explore.

The vibrator trails down your stomach, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He can see them form on your skin, can see the way your muscles tense in anticipation as the toy moves lower, lower—

And then it's there, pressed against your clit, and the sound you make—a soft, surprised gasp followed by a deeper moan—nearly ends him.

"Good?" he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod, eyes still closed, hips already starting to move against the vibration. "Good. Really good."

He leans forward instinctively, mouth watering at the sight of you pleasuring yourself. He wants to taste you, wants to feel the vibrations against his tongue as he licks around the toy.

Wants to be part of this moment in a way that's more than just watching.

But as he moves closer, your eyes snap open, fixing him with a look that stops him cold.

You extend your leg, the one that was dangling off the table, pressing the point of your stiletto against his chest this time.

"Just watch," you command, voice breathy but firm.

He blinks, sure he's misheard. "What?"

"I said watch." You adjust the vibrator slightly, finding a better angle that makes your breath hitch, toe of your shoe pressing more firmly against his sternum. "Don't touch. Just... watch me."

Is he dreaming? Having some kind of bizarre hallucination? There's no way you're asking him to just sit here while you get yourself off right in front of him.

No fucking way.

"You're joking," he says, but the steady look in your eyes tells him you're not. "Nix, come on. You can't expect me to—"

"I can," you interrupt, increasing the vibration intensity with a press of your thumb. The change makes you gasp, hips lifting slightly off the table. "And I do."

He blinks, eyebrows tugging upwards in a cross motion. "Do you want me to bust untouched? Is that it? Because that's cruel, even for you."

A smile curves your lips, mischievous and knowing. "Maybe I just want to see if you can behave for once."

"I behave," he protests, even as his eyes remain fixed on the vibrator, on the way it glides through your wetness, on how your thighs have started to tremble already.

On those fucking shoes that, for some inexplicable reason, are making this whole situation at least ten times hotter.

"Prove it," you challenge, and fuck—he's never been able to resist a challenge from you.

Never really been able to back down when you push him like this.

So he stays where he is, on his knees, hands fisted at his sides, watching as you explore the toy, as you find what feels good, as you experiment with different patterns and pressures. Your foot still rests against his chest, not pushing him away now, just... there.

A point of contact that feels both like ambrosia and agony.

It's torture. Beautiful, exquisite torture to be this close and not touch you. To smell your arousal and not taste it. To hear your moans growing louder and know he's not the direct cause.

But it's also—strangely, unexpectedly—one of the hottest things he's ever witnessed.

Because you're not performing for him. You're genuinely discovering what you like, what makes you feel good. And there's something incredibly intimate about being allowed to witness that, about being trusted enough to see you this vulnerable, this real.

"That's it," he encourages as your movements become more focused, as you settle into a rhythm with the vibrator that has your breathing turning shallow. "Just like that. You look so fucking good, Nix."

Your eyes meet his, heavy-lidded but alert, and for a moment, he can’t help but stare back.

Then you close your eyes again, lost in the sensation as the vibrator buzzes steadily against your clit. Your free hand comes up to your breast, pinching your nipple in time with the pulsations of the toy, and he groans at the sight.

Your foot presses harder against his chest, whether intentionally or as an unconscious reaction to your growing pleasure, he doesn't know.

Doesn't care.

"Cruel," he mutters, because he needs to at least let you know. “You're fucking cruel, you know that?"

His eyes are fixed on your pussy like it's the only thing in the universe worth looking at. Maybe it is. The way you're working that vibrator against yourself, the little circular motions, the way your hips lift occasionally when you hit just the right spot—it's driving him fucking insane.

His dick is so hard it hurts at this point, and he thinks it's going to start a mutiny. He shifts his weight, trying to get some relief, but it only makes things worse. His forehead thumps against the corner of the table in frustrated surrender.

"God fucking hell," he groans, the wood cool against his skin. "Nix, I need to lick you. Please. Just—let me taste you."

You look down at him, eyes heavy-lidded but gleaming with amusement. Your stiletto traces a path down his chest, and when it reaches his stomach, you press slightly, the point digging into the muscle there.

A warning.

A tease.

He's not sure which, but it makes his cock throb painfully either way.

"What was that?" you ask, lifting the vibrator just enough that he can see how wet you are, how your pussy glistens in the low light. "I didn't quite hear you."

Fucking tease. Fucking gorgeous, evil tease.

"I said I need to lick you," he repeats, louder this time, pride completely abandoned. "Let me put my mouth on you. Let me make you feel good."

You pretend to consider it, tilting your head like you're weighing your options. Meanwhile, he's about to combust from the inside out.

"I don't know," you muse, trailing the vibrator up to circle around your clit, making yourself gasp. "I'm doing pretty well on my own, don't you think?"

Your stiletto moves again, tracing along the inside of his thigh. He tenses, breath catching as it moves higher, closer to the straining bulge in his jeans.

“Phee,” he bites back a groan. "You're doing amazing. Fucking incredible. But I can make it better. You know I can."

"Hmm." You press the vibrator directly against your clit again, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before fixing back on him. "Maybe if you ask nicely."

Is this really happening? Are you really making him beg? His cock twitches at the thought, answering that question with an emphatic yes.

He swallows, throat dry.

"Please," he says, voice rough. "Please let me help."

The word lies suspended between you.

Please. Such a simple word, but one he doesn't use often—not like this, not with this much raw need behind it.

Your eyes widen slightly, like you weren't expecting him to actually do it. To actually beg. But then a slow smile spreads across your face, and you nod.

"Since you asked so nicely," you say. "Go ahead."

He doesn't need to be told twice. He surges forward, hands gripping your thighs, spreading them wider as he buries his face against you.

The first swipe of his tongue makes you both moan—you from the sensation, him from finally, finally getting to taste you.

You taste amazing.

Like always.

Like something he could get addicted to if he's not careful.

"Fuck," he groans against you, the word vibrating against your sensitive flesh. "So fucking good."

He could honestly cum like this. Right now. Just from the taste of you on his tongue, from the way your thighs tense around his head, from the little gasps you make.

He knows he's got blue balls at this point. Knows his cock is probably leaking precum into his boxers, making a mess he'll have to deal with later. But he doesn't really care.

Until you kind of make him care.

"Jerk off."

He freezes, tongue mid-lick.

Did he hear that right?

Looking up at you, genuinely confused, he asks, "What?"

Your answer is a knowing smile and a slight increase in pressure as the heel traces the outline of his cock through the denim. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make him incredibly aware of how hard he is.

"I want you to get yourself off while you eat me out, Ro."

Jesus Christ.

When did you get so fucking bossy? And why is it turning him on so much?

"Yeah," he says, almost to himself, fumbling with his zipper. "Yeah, okay, absolutely I can do that."

His hands shake slightly as he undoes his jeans, shoving them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock. It springs up against his stomach, hard and flushed and so sensitive that even the brush of air against it makes him hiss.

"Shit," he warns, wrapping a hand around himself, already knowing this isn't going to last long. "Just a heads up, but this might be embarrassingly short."

You laugh, the sound turning into a gasp as he dives back in. Your leg dangles over his shoulder now, heel pressing slightly against his back.

"That's okay," you manage to say between breaths. "I'm pretty close too."

Thank fuck for that. Because the moment his hand starts moving on his cock, he knows he's on borrowed time.

The vibrator hasn't stopped. That's the thing that's driving him absolutely fucking insane. You've got it pressed right against your clit, humming on its lowest setting while he licks at your lips, tasting every inch of you except the one spot you're keeping for yourself.

It's maddening.

It's genius.

It's the hottest thing he's ever experienced.

His tongue traces your entrance, dipping just slightly inside before retreating to lick broad strokes along your folds. He's taking his time despite his own desperation, despite the way his hand is working his cock at a steady, measured pace.

Because he wants this to last, wants to savor the privilege of having his face between your thighs while you take your pleasure so confidently.

"More," you breathe above him, and he's not sure if you're talking to him or yourself.

But then your fingers move, pressing a button on the vibrator, and the hum intensifies. The sound changes pitch, grows deeper, more insistent. Your hips jerk in response, a gasp falling from your lips that sends blood rushing to his already throbbing cock.

His fist tightens instinctively, pace quickening to match the vibrator's new rhythm. It's like his body is syncing with the toy, with your pleasure, his own arousal tied directly to yours.

"Fuck, Nix," he groans against you, the words muffled but still audible. "You're so fucking wet. So fuckin’ good, I swear—I swear I could do this for hours.”

“But you won’t last hours,” you tease, rolling your hips against his face. “Will you?”

He shakes his head, not even bothering to deny it. Not when his balls are already drawing up tight, not when each stroke of his hand brings him closer to the edge.

“Nngh—no,” he admits, the word punctuated by a particularly firm stroke that has his hips bucking into his fist. “Not gonna—ah—not gonna last long at all.”

Because the truth is, he’s dizzy with it—your taste, your scent, the sounds you're making above him. It's overwhelming in the best possible way, a sensory overload that makes his cock pulse in his grip, precome slicking the way as his fist moves faster, more urgently.

You shift the vibrator slightly, angling it for better contact, and your free hand finds his hair. Fingers tangle in the strands, not quite pulling but definitely directing, holding him exactly where you want him.

"Inside," you command, voice breathless but clear. "I want your tongue inside me."

He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't even think. Just obeys, tongue pushing past your entrance, delving into the wet heat of you while the vibrator continues its relentless assault on your clit.

The angle is awkward, his neck craned to accommodate both the toy and his mouth, but he doesn't care.

Can't care about anything beyond the way you clench around his tongue, the way your thighs tremble against his cheeks, the way your grip tightens in his hair.

His cock throbs in his hand, so sensitive now that each stroke sends sparks shooting up his spine, and fuck he's close—so fucking close—but he's determined to make you come first. Wants to feel you pulsing around his tongue, wants to experience every tremor of your orgasm firsthand.

Above him, your breathing has grown ragged; little gasps and moans that tell him you're getting close too.

"Don't stop," you gasp, basically riding his face at this point. "God, don't stop."

As if he would.

As if he could tear himself away from this even if the building were on fire.

Your thighs start to shake in earnest now, little tremors that grow stronger by the second. The hand in his hair clenches, your stiletto digs into his back, the pressure increasing as your body tenses, and now he just knows; knows how close you are to the edge.

It makes his strokes faster, more desperate.

“Shit,” he gasps, pulling back for air. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Don’t stop,” you command, lost in a whine. “Don’t you dare stop.”

And he feels it the moment you start to come—the way your inner walls flutter around his tongue, the sudden flood of wetness, the sharp cry that tears from your throat. His name, maybe. Or just a sound of pure pleasure. He's too far gone to tell the difference.

But it doesn't matter. What matters is that you're coming on his tongue, coming while he tastes you, while the vibrator buzzes against your clit, while his cock throbs in his hand, so close to his own release that he can feel it building at the base of his spine.

He pushes his tongue deeper, wanting to feel every pulse, every contraction of your orgasm. The vibrator keeps buzzing, prolonging the sensation, pushing you higher and higher until your hand finally yanks at his hair, pulling him back when it becomes too much.

"Fuck," you gasp, voice wrecked, vibrator still humming in your grip though you've pulled it away from your oversensitive clit. "Fuck, Ro."

The sound of his nickname—that stupid nickname you’ve given him—paired with the sight of you flushed and trembling from an orgasm he helped create, is what does it. What finally pushes him over the edge.

His release hits him then, stealing his breath as his cock pulses in his hand, spilling onto the hardwood floor in hot spurts that seem to go on forever.

He groans against your thigh, face pressed into the soft skin there as his hips jerk, chasing the last waves of pleasure.

“Ffff—shit,” he slurs as he strokes himself through the aftershocks. “Holy sssh—oh—fuck… Ahhh.”

For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of breathing, harsh and uneven. The vibrator still hums softly, forgotten in your hand until you fumble for the off button, plunging them into sudden silence.

Jungkook rests his forehead against your thigh, trying to catch his breath, trying to remember how to form coherent thoughts.

His hand is sticky, his knees ache from the hardwood floor, his back tingles from the trail your heel left across it, and he’s pretty sure he’ll never be able to look at the entryway table the same way again.

But fuck if it wasn't worth it.

He pulls back, gasping for breath, his hand still loosely gripping his spent cock. He probably looks a mess—hair wild from your hands, face shiny with your wetness, expression dazed and satisfied.

"Christ," he breathes, looking up at you with something close to awe.

"Yeah," you agree, equally breathless.

A moment passes where you just look at each other, both trying to process what just happened. Then, because he's Jungkook and he can't help himself, he grins.

"So," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his clean hand. "I guess you like the vibrator I picked, huh?"

You roll your eyes, but there's no real annoyance there. Just a kind of fond exasperation that makes his chest feel weird and tight.

"It's alright," you say, casual as anything, like you weren't just having what looked like the most intense orgasm of your life. "Could've been better."

He laughs, full and genuine. "Liar."

Your lips twitch, fighting a smile. "Maybe."

He sits back on his heels, suddenly aware of the mess he's made on the floor. "We should, uh, probably clean up before Yoongi gets home."

You nod, both legs dangling off the table. “Wouldn’t want to scandalize him.”

"He's seen worse," Jungkook says without thinking, then flinches. "I mean—not with me. Just, you know, in general. Living with roommates and all."

You give him a look that's equal parts amusement and skepticism. "Right."

Awkward silence falls as the reality of what just happened settles in, because this? Yeah, it was sex. But this time you took control, you made him beg, you saw him at his most desperate and needy.

And he... liked it. More than he probably should have.

"So," he says, tucking himself back into his jeans with as much dignity as possible. "That was fun."

You snort. "Such a way with words, Ro."

"What can I say? I'm a poet."

He gathers the dress from the floor and gives it to you. You throw the dress at his head, but you're laughing, and he thinks—not for the first time—that he likes that sound. Likes being the cause of it.

He doesn’t analyze it further than needs to be.

He catches the dress, handing it back to you with exaggerated chivalry. "Your garment, m'lady."

"You're an idiot," you say, but there's no bite to it. Just that weird, fond tone that makes his stomach do strange things.

Fully on both legs now, he places both his arms between your spread thighs, his face hovering close to yours, tilting to the side.

"Yeah," he agrees, because sometimes the simplest truth is the easiest to admit. "But I'm an idiot who makes you cum really fucking hard, so..."

And there it is—that flash in your eyes, that hint of heat that never seems to fully dissipate between you two.

"Don't get cocky," you warn.

Too late, he thinks. Way too late for that.

He stands there with the taste of you still on his lips and he can't help but feel satisfied.

Good.

“Does this mean we’re not fighting anymore?”

You laugh, the sound bright and genuine in the quiet room. “I guess not.”

“Good. Because that was a fucking stupid fight anyway.”

“It was,” you agree. “But the makeup sex was worth it.”

“Always is with us.”

And that’s the truth of it, isn’t it? No matter how much you argue, no matter how much you drive each other crazy, this thing between you—this chemistry, this connection—always brings you back together.

No strings attached, just pure, perfect understanding of what the other needs.

It’s not love. It’s not even like, most days. But it’s something.

Something that works for both of you.

And then, Jungkook feels your forehead press against his shoulder, which catches him off guard. Not because it’s heavy or anything—it’s not—but because it’s you.

You, who usually keeps your distance unless you're actively trying to rile him up. You, who just made him beg on his knees like some desperate idiot a few minutes ago.

And now you’re here, leaning into him like this is normal. Like this is fine.

It’s... nice. He hates that it’s nice.

His lips twitch upward despite himself, a soft smile breaking through the lingering haze of post-orgasmic bliss. His hand moves before he can think better of it, sliding up your back in a slow, deliberate stroke. His palm presses lightly between your shoulder blades, fingers splaying out as he rubs soothing circles into your skin.

Your back is warm under his touch—soft in places, firm in others—and he thinks about how strange it is that he knows what you feel like now. Not just your skin but the way you move under his hands, the way your muscles tense and relax depending on what he’s doing to you.

It’s intimate in a way that makes something uncomfortable stir in his chest if he lingers on it too long.

So he doesn’t linger.

“Cleanup?” he asks, voice low and rough from everything that just happened.

You grunt. Not a word, not even a real sound—just a grunt. Like the idea of moving is physically painful to you right now.

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through both of you.

“Alright,” he says, hand still on your back as if that’s going to keep you from sliding off the table and face-planting onto the floor. “Let me get some wipes.”

Another grunt. This one sounds more annoyed than tired, but he can’t tell for sure because your face is still buried against his shoulder.

“Don’t tell me…” He pauses for dramatic effect because he knows how much you hate when he does that. “You’re a cuddlebug?”

That gets a reaction. Your head snaps up so fast he almost flinches, and then you’re shoving at his chest with both hands like you’re trying to push him off the planet.

“Fuck you,” you mutter, but there’s no real heat behind it. Your hands stay on his chest for a second longer than necessary before falling back to your sides.

He snorts, stepping back and giving you space because even though he likes teasing you (maybe too much), he knows when to quit.

Most of the time, anyway.

“Stay there,” he says over his shoulder as he heads toward his room. “Don’t move.”

You don’t respond this time—not even a grunt—but when he glances back, you’re still perched on the edge of the table looking thoroughly unimpressed with life.

Very you, indeed.

Then he's stepping into his bedroom, and of course, it is dark when he steps inside, the only light coming from the hallway spilling in behind him.

He grabs the container of wet wipes from his nightstand (don’t ask why they’re there; that’s none of anyone’s business) and heads back out before his brain can start overthinking anything.

When he returns to the entryway, you haven’t moved an inch. You’re still sitting there with both legs dangling off the table.

And for a moment, he can’t help but think the sight is oddly cute.

“Alright,” he says again as if this is some kind of official business meeting instead of… whatever this is. “Let’s get this over with.”

He crouches down first, wiping at the floor where his cum has left an embarrassing mess that Yoongi would absolutely kill him for if he saw it later. The hardwood glistens faintly under the light as he scrubs at it with more force than necessary—partly because it needs to be cleaned properly and partly because maybe if he focuses hard enough on this task, he won’t think about how close your legs are or how good you smelled earlier or how fucking soft your skin felt under his hands.

When he's done with that part (and only when he's sure it's spotless), he straightens up and turns toward you.

Your eyes are on him—soft but unreadable—and it makes something twist in his stomach that has nothing to do with hunger or exhaustion or anything else logical.

“What?” he asks because apparently silence makes him nervous now.

You shake your head slightly, lips curving into something that might be a smile if it weren’t so small and fleeting.

“Nothing.”

He doesn’t believe you—not for a second—but decides not to push it because pushing things with you in this state never ends well for him.

Instead, he steps closer until he's standing between your legs again and tilts his head toward yours like he's trying to figure out what you're thinking without actually asking outright.

"Hold still," he murmurs after a beat of hesitation that's barely noticeable but feels significant anyway.

The wipe is cool against your skin as he starts cleaning you up—gentle but thorough in a way that surprises even himself. Your eyes stay on him the whole time—watchful but not wary—and it makes him feel weirdly self-conscious even though there’s no reason for it.

When he's finished (and only when he's sure you're clean), he tosses the used wipe into the trash can by the door without looking away from you entirely.

"Sleep?" he asks after another moment of silence stretches between you like an elastic band ready to snap at any second now if someone doesn’t say something soon enough.

“Yeah.” You murmur. “Your bed.”

Jungkook blinks at you like he’s not sure he heard right.

Not because it’s weird—okay, maybe it’s a little weird—but because you said it so casually. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world to ask to sleep in his bed after everything that just happened.

He doesn’t know what to say at first. He’s not used to this part—the after part. Usually, there isn’t an after part. It’s just sex, then goodbye, then see you whenever.

But this? This feels different in a way he can’t quite put his finger on, and it makes his brain stutter for a second before he finally manages to respond.

“Uh… yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sure.”

You don’t say anything else, just lift your arms slightly like you’re expecting him to do something.

He stares at you for a moment, confused, until it clicks.

“Oh, come on,” he mutters, rolling his eyes but already stepping closer. “You’re not serious.”

You just raise an eyebrow at him, and yep—you’re serious.

“Lazy ass,” he grumbles under his breath as he bends down to scoop you up.

Your arms loop around his neck automatically, and your legs wrap around his waist like this is something you do all the time instead of… well, never. He tries not to think about how natural it feels or how warm you are against him or how your breath brushes against his collarbone when you settle into his hold.

It’s fine. Totally fine. This is just… practical.

Yeah.

Practical.

He carries you with ease because let’s be real—he could probably bench press you if he wanted to—and nudges his bedroom door open with his foot.

“Alright,” he says as he approaches the bed and leans forward slightly to deposit you onto the mattress. “Here we go.”

But instead of letting go like a normal person, you cling tighter for half a second before finally releasing him with a grunt that sounds suspiciously like reluctance. He doesn’t comment on it because honestly? He doesn’t trust himself not to make it weird if he does.

You flop onto your back with all the grace of a drunk cat and immediately start wiggling around like you’re trying to make yourself comfortable in record time. Jungkook just stands there for a moment, watching you with an expression he doesn't even know how to describe.

“You good?” he asks once you’ve finally stopped moving and are lying still with your eyes closed like this is your bed and not his.

“Mmhm,” you hum without opening your eyes.

He shakes his head but doesn’t bother arguing because what’s the point?

Then he’s going to lay down too, but you sprawl onto his bed like you’re claiming it for yourself, arms and legs stretched out in every direction like some kind of human starfish.

Jungkook snorts, standing at the side of the bed with his hands on his hips like a disappointed parent.

“Move,” he says, nudging at your foot with his knee. “I want to sleep too.”

You crack one eye open, squinting at him.

“Then sleep,” you mumble, voice muffled by the pillow your face is half-buried in.

“I can’t sleep,” he says, gesturing dramatically at your starfish pose. “Not unless you move your limbs out of my personal space.”

You grunt something unintelligible but make no effort to move.

He sighs—long and exaggerated—before climbing onto the bed anyway, shoving at your leg until you reluctantly curl up enough to give him room.

He flops down beside you with all the grace of someone who’s been awake for far too long and immediately starts adjusting himself into what he considers optimal sleeping position.

Except there’s one problem: his arm.

It’s stuck under him, bent awkwardly against his side instead of stretched out under the pillow where it belongs. He tries shifting around to fix it but quickly realizes there’s no way to do that without encroaching on your territory.

“Hey,” he says, nudging at your side with his foot now.

“What?” you snap, voice sharp despite how tired you sound.

“Let me extend my arm under the pillow.”

“No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“I mean no,” you repeat stubbornly, turning your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “Figure it out without bothering me.”

He stares at you for a second like he can’t believe what he’s hearing before deciding that negotiation is clearly not going to work here.

So instead, he does what any reasonable person would do in this situation: he forcefully shoves his arm under your neck like it belongs there.

You jerk upright immediately, twisting around to face him with wide eyes and an expression that screams 'what the actual fuck'.

“Bro,” you say, voice incredulous as you try—and fail—to push his arm away. “Get off me.”

“Bro,” he says simply, already settling back down like this is perfectly normal behavior between roommates who occasionally hook up but definitely aren’t friends yet (or whatever this is). “You’re in my bed. Shut up and act like a plushie or something.”

“A plushie?” You sound so offended that he almost laughs but manages to hold it back because laughing right now would probably get him kicked out of his own bed.

“Yes,” he says firmly, pulling the blanket over both of you with one hand while keeping his other arm firmly in place under your neck. “A plushie.”

You open your mouth to argue—because of course you do—but he shuts it down with a loud, drawn-out “SSSSHHHHH” that’s so over-the-top, so him, it stops you cold.

“Sleep,” he adds a second later, voice low, eyes already shut like the matter’s settled and he’s the authority on bedtime now.

The room stills. One of those dumb, drawn-out silences where neither of you wants to move first. Like shifting even an inch might make it real. Might make it weird.

But then you sigh. Loud. Dramatic. Flopping back down beside him like you’ve just made the ultimate sacrifice.

“Fine,” you mutter, sharp as ever, head hitting the pillow with a thud. “But if I wake up with a crick in my neck because of this stupid arm thing—”

“You won’t,” he says, already drifting, smug and certain and way too casual for someone who just turned a routine argument into a full-body tangle.

You mumble something under your breath—probably rude, definitely deserved—and go quiet.

And for a second, he just lies there. Listening to your breathing even out. Feeling the slight pull of your body next to his.

The ridiculousness of the situation should hit harder than it does.

But it doesn’t.

It actually feels…weirdly good.

Not in the usual way. Not in the easiest way.

Just—solid. Like he hasn’t fucked it up yet.

Which is a surprise, considering he really thought he had.

After Tuesday.

After the whole Jason thing—the fight that was never really about Jason. The way the guy had looked like every goddamn red flag Jungkook had ever ignored. Too neat, too careful, too condescending behind a smile that felt fake even from a hallway away.

He’d projected. Hard. Got scared on your behalf. Angry in that twitchy, irrational way he hates. Like he couldn’t stand the thought of you falling into something he knew could break you.

But that wasn’t fair. Wasn’t his choice. You’re not fragile. You’re you. You can make your own calls without his fears bleeding into them.

And he should know better by now. Should’ve remembered that you’ve survived things he doesn’t even ask about.

Instead, he snapped. Like he always does when things get too close. Like he’s got some built-in timer that detonates as soon as someone sees more than they’re supposed to.

So yeah. He’d assumed it was done. That he’d pushed too hard, too fast—again.

That whatever fragile thing had been building between you would crack right down the middle, just like every other almost-connection he’s tried to hold onto.

But then… you’d talked. Actually talked.

And—somehow—you’d listened.

Not just tolerated him. Heard him.

And tonight, he thinks—for the first time in a long, long time—he feels…comfortable. With a woman. With you.

And yeah, okay—he kind of likes that.

It’s not some life-changing moment. Not some movie scene epiphany.

Just this quiet flicker of maybe. Of could be.

Maybe he can have this. A woman beside him. No pressure. No angle. No romantic feelings. No attachments, no entanglements. Not drama, not hurt.

Just a dumb, chaotic almost-friendship built on late-night arguments and questionable sleep arrangements.

And fuck—he’s kind of proud of that.

So he lets his eyes fall shut. Lets the warmth settle. Lets the thought linger.

Not friendship. Not yet.

But maybe.

goal: 500 notes, but the wattpad goal has to be reached too

next | index

⋆｡°✩ taglist✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw @mar-lo-pap @jeontae @whothefuckisthishoe @mikrokookiex @minniejim

541 notes · View notes

umikawa · 4 months ago

Text

a/n: omg ANOTHER senku fic?? Sedate me. I went off topic in this fic and didn’t even try to redeem myself so 🙏 writing Stanley next, wish me luck

senku ishigami x gn!reader | no warnings, set at the end of the village origins arc. 970 wc. Lot of dialogue cause that’s just how I roll (｀_´)ゞ

Senku was tired.

Thoughts raced in his mind at a mile a minute, never-ending and constantly sprouting. On paper, he was sure it’d mimic the nervous system. Each thought that crossed his mind bothered him to no bounds, leading him to sleepless nights where he would devise plans for any situation that could happen.

Like how to handle animal attacks like the one with Taiju in the beginning. What to do if there were (somehow) a fish shortage. What the plan was if an unknown settlement comes suddenly to raid the village. What to do if the Tsukasa empire decides to take action first…

For once (more than he’d admit), thinking made his head hurt. A groan leaves his lips as he holds his head in his hands, rubbing his temples in an attempt to soothe himself.

“Another late night?”

He turns around slowly, watching with parted lips as you approach him, a tray with two steaming cups in your hands. “Yeah.” Is all that he can come up with, mouth running dry. He can’t remember the last time he stopped to have a drink.

“You know, for someone as knowledgeable as you, I’d hoped you know that sleeping can be very beneficial to your health.” Senku chuckles at your words, gratefully taking the cup of tea from your hands. “What’s got you so worked up?”

He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, taking a long sip to mask his uncertainty. “I'm just thinking about how this whole thing will play out.” It’s not a lie; he is worried about how everything will go, but it isn’t what he hoped to say. Though, he isn’t too sure what he wanted to say in the first place.

You hum, leaning against the edge of his workbench. Your eyes trail over the mess of scribbles on the papers in front of him to the notable bags under his eyes. “Have faith,” Senku nearly rolls his eyes. “Believe in your comrades, and everything will fall into place.”

He nearly jumps out of his skin at the feeling of your hand holding onto his chin, blinking up at you with wide eyes as you tilt his chin. “You should rest, Senku. A general can’t lead an army with only a wink of sleep.”

He laughs to himself, shutting his eyes as he pulls away from your warm touch. “I know.” Is all he responds with. He knows you're right, but he goes back to the drawing board anyway, ignoring the irregular beating in his chest. “You can go.”

His tone held no malice or annoyance at the blatant dismissal, his words gentle as he cast a glance your way. You’d walked away from the table, standing behind him now, likely to aid him in his next endeavor.

Once again, Senku jolts at the feeling of your touch. Your arms wrap around his waist from behind, your head pressed in the space between his shoulder blades, and your fingers clutch the fabric of his tunic.

“What’s gotten into you?” He asks. Voice strained to keep himself from shouting or worse– trembling.

“Come to bed, Senku.” You’d whispered, pulling on his tunic gently. He sighs, running a hand through his hair as the slightest bit of annoyance builds up.

Not with you, with himself for ignoring his health to the point you were concerned.

“Alright.” He sighs, turning around in your hold. You weaken your grip the slightest. Senku wonders if you thought he’d run away if otherwise. “Don’t worry, I won’t run.”

“You’d better not, " you mumble, releasing him fully. Your hand slips into his, fingers intertwining in place. He felt like they were meant to fit together. Senku quirks a brow. “Just in case. Though I’m sure you wouldn’t be able to get very far with your… stamina.”

He rolls his eyes, allowing you to lead him out of the lab. Twigs and dirt crunch under your steps as you approach his hut. His eyes trailed around the village, and a part of him was praying that no one was awake to see you and him together.

Not that anything was wrong with that– it’d just be another annoyance he’d have to deal with.

Senku blinks down at your intertwined hands. When was the last time he held hands with someone? Did he ever? A flash of Byakuya crosses his mind, and a smidge of sadness crosses his face at the thought–right, when they went to see fireworks.

He figures the look was still etched on his face when you entered his hut. Your hand comes to his face, thumb brushing over his knitted brows. He ignores the touch, his eyes lifting to meet yours.

Instead of asking him what was wrong, as he thought you would, you wordlessly pulled him into you, fingers carding into his hair and ruffling it around. He groans out a noise of protest, frowning at the wide smile on your face.

“There’s something wrong with you,” he says, rolling his eyes when you pinch his cheeks. “Ten billion percent.” You don’t say a word in response, only messing his hair up even more until it falls in front of his eyes. “You’re weird.”

You scoff at the insult, pinching his chin. “Yeah? And what are you, normal?” He nods, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re the craziest guy in this village, Senku. I assure you.” He chuckles at your words, and only then does he realize what you’ve done for him.

Tore him away from his work, successfully relieving him of his stress and calming his mind.

Except his mind wasn’t calm, and a million thoughts swarmed his head the second he locked eyes with you again. Did you always make his heart race when you looked at him?

And when did you get so… pretty?

#senku ishigami x reader #ishigami senku x reader #dcst x reader #dr stone x reader #senku x reader

500 notes · View notes

the-autistic-jedi · 2 months ago

Text

okay. i’ve had time to cool off. i’ve seen rafe address some questions. i’m not in shock anymore. so let’s have another look. calmly and rationally. tldr: pray for season four!

it does seem like the reason for siuan’s death was sophie’s schedule, and that does track. i don’t think i really believed that “bury your gays” was in play here, not with rafe. so i’m thinking about it in terms of needing to write her out of the script, the same as with mat in s1. do i think they could have written her out better? maybe. if they were planning on having siuanraine endgame, just stick her in jail in the tower for however many seasons and then have her rock up at the end of the Last Battle and reunite with her wife. but if they weren’t planning to have her survive, then it does make more narrative sense for her to die here.

so let’s assume that, as in the books, she was always going to die. this is the best place for that to happen i think. we were never going to get any more fishwives content anyway because they would still be separated for the rest of their arcs. rafe has said that he wants to see more of them, and whether that’s flashbacks or even (fingers crossed) the next turn of the wheel, think about it this way: this was all we were ever going to get. yes, it was sudden. yes, it really hurt. but we also got to see siuan, who only ever wanted to live with her wife on the river, publicly admit her love for moiraine in front of the whole white tower in her final moments. that shit is powerful. don’t deny her that last stand.

in conclusion, am i still angry? a bit, yeah. but a lot of it is the shock, and the reason it’s shocking is because the books were different: the show definitely set this up. i think we remain in good hands with rafe and rosamund, and i will be watching s4 if we get it. and considering how invested i am in this show (and my desire to get a few more crumbs of fishwives) i very, very much hope we do.

#although rafe honey please do not make moiraine marry thom #i know he won’t though he’s got our back #the wheel of time #wheel of time #siuan sanche #siuanraine #moiraine damodred #moiraine x siuan #wot s3 spoilers #wot on prime

329 notes · View notes

flwrkid14 · 7 months ago

Text

Tim and Danny Fenton-Drake Twins: Frozen AU but Make It Unhinged™️

Listen. I need you to imagine this: Tim and Danny as the chaotic Anna and Elsa of the DC Universe. Because brainrot. Let’s go:

————

Danny? ICE CORE. WHITE HAIR. Ghost powers he didn’t ask for? Absolutely. Dude pulls an Elsa-level isolation arc, locking himself away in the Ghost Zone like, “I’m dangerous! Stay away!” Meanwhile, Tim’s just standing there, pounding on the portal like:

Tim: “DANNY, OPEN THIS PORTAL OR I SWEAR TO EVERY ANCIENT SPIRIT—”

Danny: phasing through the wall “Tim, leave.”

Tim: “DO YOU WANNA BUILD A WEAPONIZED SNOWMAN?!”

————

Tim? Pure, unfiltered, chaos-goblin-Anna energy. This man will not be stopped. Danny’s trying to brood? Too bad. Tim’s already there with a 40-step plan to drag him back to reality.

• Danny: accidentally freezes half of Amity Park

• Tim, covered in ice but unfazed: “So, anyway, we’re going out for coffee.”

• Danny: “Tim, I can’t—”

• Tim: “NOT. A. REQUEST.”

————

The Batfam? Losing their collective minds.

• Bruce: “Who turned the Batcave into a snow globe?”

• Tim: building a snow fort “Team-building exercise.”

• Jason: “Why is the Replacement singing ‘Let It Go’ like he’s on Broadway?”

• Damian: deadpan “He has lost control of his life.”

————

Meanwhile, Danny’s trying to deal with ghost stuff quietly, but Tim? Not a chance.

• Danny: mid-battle with ghostly chaos

• Tim: kicking down a door he didn’t need to kick down “HEY, BRO, NEED BACKUP?”

• Danny: “I HAD THIS UNDER CONTROL!”

• Tim: “AND I’M HERE TO UN-CONTROL IT!”

————

Then, there’s the inevitable ice-breakdown™️ moment. Danny, tears in his eyes, freezing everything, trying to protect everyone from himself. And Tim? Unmoved. Standing there in the middle of a blizzard like:

• Danny: “I DON’T WANT TO HURT YOU!”

• Tim: “I’LL TAKE MY CHANCES.”

————

Jazz? She’s just over here trying to be the responsible one.

• Jazz: “You two need therapy.”

• Tim: “I HAVE A MISSION.”

• Danny: “I’M LITERALLY DEAD.”

————

Oh, and Damian? He’s the terrifying version of Olaf.

• Damian, following Danny around: “Can you make sentient snow golems to fight enemies?”

• Danny: “That’s not how it works.”

• Damian: “Weak.”

————

Jason? He’s the sarcastic Sven equivalent, muttering from the sidelines, “Is this a twin thing? This feels like a twin thing.”

————

TL;DR: Tim refuses to let Danny have his broody Ghost Zone isolation arc, Danny’s one meltdown away from turning Gotham into the next Ice Age, and the Batfam is scared but too confused to ask questions.

#tim drake #batfam #danny phantom #danny fenton #dc x dp #jason todd #damian wayne #jazz fenton #i had a tim and danny twin brainrot while watching frozen #i saw ice powered elsa with white hair and remembered ice core danny with white hair and said WAIT #tim is anna pass it on #tim is the gemlin younger brother #how funny would it be to have damian be olaf #can u imagine him singing a song about summer and warm hugs with the most deadpan expression ever #silly post #brain rot ideas

785 notes · View notes

daylighted · 3 months ago

Text

─ SWALLOW THE SMOKE, dad's best friend ! jackles

your dad's best friend isn't the best influence, is he? if he goes down, you're going down with him.

warnings. ( 18+ ! ) pls for the love of god don't interact with this series if you're a minor. hefty age gap. weed mention / weed smoking. slight innocent!reader & corruption arc + slight hurt/comfort. inebriated making out HAHA. word count. 4.3k

sneak into his room here!

THE NEXT MORNING IS AS UNCOMFORTABLE as one can be. the dining table is laden with breakfast, the smell of buttery pancakes and crispy bacon. two plates sat in the center of the table piled high with both, a bowl of assorted chopped fruits in between them. there's a big glass bottle of orange juice lifted between the thick fingers of—

him.

jensen looks better this morning than he had by the end of your time together. his eyes no longer hooded and empty of anything, like he'd buried all of his feelings between your legs and left them there to dry, but rather revitalized. there's a shine in his eyes, now, when they drift up to the kitchen archway you stand in.

"morning, honey," your dad greets, a piece of bacon held between his two fingers. he crunches down on a bite before he offers you a toothy smile. "sleep okay?"

you’d slept like a rock, what with how you’d spent thirty minutes locked away in the bathroom with the man ogling you over the dinner table, and then a couple more hours trying to pretend that you weren’t limping. at least you had the throwaway excuse of jetlag to explain away most of it.

jensen’s head drops to stare at his plate, pushing around the scrambled eggs on it. still, you can see the dimples breaking into the crests of his cheeks. "i slept fine," you say on a breath, dropping into the seat closest to the doorway.

"how ‘bout you, jens?" your father’s attention shifts to the other side of the table, waving the bacon around in gesture. "guest bed treat you alright?"

jensen’s left hand wraps around the glass bottle of orange juice, lifting the rim of it to his mouth. his voice echoes and muffles in the half empty glass when he says, "like a baby."

you pretend to be disinterested. you stab a fork through a strawberry in the fruit bowl, popping it into your mouth, eyes specifically averted from the bob of jensen’s throat as he drinks.

your mother slips a pancake from the hot skillet onto your plate, ruffling your hair when she passes. "mornin’, sweet girl," she says with a hum, "you gonna be okay if dad and i head out for a few hours, or do you wanna come with us?"

you think you must have missed part of this conversation, specifically not watching jensen’s adam’s apple so much that you had shut out the entire else of the world. your face twists in confusion, turning half around in your chair to prop your elbow on its back. "go where?"

"oh, just a few little errands around town," your mother says, punctuated by the click of the stove turning off. "heading down to your dad's work, picking up a few things... a little grocery shopping to keep up stock for our two guests." she flashes you and jensen a smile, and there's something so innocent about it, isn't there? how she lumps you two both in the same equation, unaware of what'd went down under their roof just hours ago?

you swallow thickly, refusing to glance over in jensen's direction. his eyes were still on you. you know what they felt like, like warm honey, dripping down the length of your body as he eyed you up. it takes every ounce of your restraint to not shift under the scrutiny. "i'll be okay," you promise, telling yourself the lie that it was not because you hoped jensen was staying, too.

what was your plan here, anyways? surely nothing good, with the way that you had to ask yourself a question like that. something like this was doomed from the jump, and yet, you chase it anyways.

"keep an eye on her, yeah?" your dad is asking jensen, sighing through his nose as he rises from the kitchen table. he tugs open the stainless steel dishwasher's door and drops his dirty dishes in before he spares you any acknowledgement. "doubtful she'll get into trouble, but—"

"dad." your face is hot, the words stuttering out of your open mouth. "i don't need a babysitter, i'm in college—"

jensen clears his throat, the simple sound enough to stop you dead in the middle of your ramblings. "actually, i've gotta head out for an hour or so, too," he waves his fork around in gesture, a tuft of scrambled eggs impaled on the prongs, "so you're safe from gettin' stuck with a babysitter, pretty thing."

the disappointment is like a double edged blade. you were free from him for a little while, but that also meant that you were free from him. your father sounds just as surprised, though he masks it better than you do. you have to remind yourself to breathe again in your momentary shock. "everything all good?"

"just a few little errands around town," he echoes your mother's words with a charming smile in her direction. when jensen's eyes make their way back to you, the clarity in the depths of the green strikes you speechless all over again. "i'll be back in time to shut down whatever party she throws in my absence."

how boring did it make you that the thought of a party didn't even cross your mind? all of the warning stories you'd heard about jensen's party animal days really had done their number on you. but on the same hand, how much trouble did it make you that you only wanted to stay home to be around him?

"i'm not going to throw a party," you scoff, and it really is that ridiculous to you, because why are they worried that their only child, the one they raised to be good, would do something like that? really, the thing they should have been worrying over was if you would fuck the forty-something guy sitting at your kitchen table. again.

maybe they were valid to worry.

you tune back in to the conversation to your parents up on their feet, clearing up the empty dishes left. you spear another strawberry, much more aggressively this time. as they tend to do, your eyes drift to the left, expectedly finding him watching you still. his hand is around the mostly empty bottle of orange juice, the neck of it in his gripping fingers, his lips to the mouth of it.

pushing out of the seat you were in, you sidestep around your parents to get to him, shoving the bottle down from his mouth with a finger on the rim. "you shouldn’t drink straight from the bottle."

"my bad, sweetheart," jensen drawls, free hand raising in his surrender, "didn’t know what i did was so heavy on your mind."

"other people could want some of it, you know," arguing just because you could; anything to make it look like you weren’t blatantly ignoring the guest in your house, "and it’s not even your house, you can’t just—"

jensen nods along as you speak, his eyebrows raising as his lips purse in mock understanding. "i get it, sweet girl," he echoes your mother’s pet name back to you, somehow making your face hotter than it already felt, "i’ll be better next time, yeah?"

it was not fair for him to get to tease you like this when he’d been the one who got weird the night prior over his own decisions. it wasn’t fair that he could smirk at you and the memory threatens to erase itself. you feel it twisting in your chest — the irritation and the strange wisps of hurt that you can’t even explain curl around your heart in a vice grip. you lift the bottle to your own mouth, thinking that it’s a power move. dominance asserted in your own house, right?

jensen only smirks, now both of his hands raised in surrender. "if you wanted something from me, you could have just asked."

you barely manage to not choke. again, he’s so shameless in front of your parents, as if the fact that you’d even given into him in the first place wasn’t something detrimental to you. he rises from his feet before you can find a response, his emptied plate in hand, pressing a polite chaste kiss to your mother’s cheek as he slips it into the open dishwasher. "thanks for breakfast, laur."

he’s gone before you can blink, the sound of the front door opening and closing behind him like its own punctuation mark. you don’t even want orange juice. jensen had won whatever game this was, anyways.

you help with cleaning the rest of the remnants of breakfast back up, getting yourself a proper plate in the process, since you’d been a little too focused on keeping up a stone-faced facade to actually eat.

"he’s not giving you too much trouble, is he?" your dad draws you from the stupor you’d fallen into, stabbing at the fruit atop your pancakes.

you blink in momentary surprise before you shake your head. "no, why?"

he hesitates, setting the dry towel back on the counter next to the kitchen sink. his arms cross over his chest, one of those half-baked smiles on his lips. "he’s a good guy, jensen, but he makes a lot of shitty decisions."

"what’s that have to do with me?" you ask, a little unsettled by whatever warning this was playing out to be. it wasn’t you who needed this talking to, you didn’t think; he was supposed to be the responsible one, wasn’t he?

your father lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "just… don’t take anything to heart that he says. he’s only here for a couple more days, which is more than enough for him to fuck something up." it wasn’t necessarily news to you, considering everything you’d learned growing up about him and his antics, but this seemed like more than just stupid drunken mistakes at frat parties. "tell me if he starts to pester you too much and i’ll handle it."

"dad, i can handle myself." you weren’t a little kid anymore. you may have been their only child, but you were grown up, now.

still, your dad waves his hand dismissively. "i know you can, but i’ve dealt with him longer. i know how to hit him where it hurts." he pats your shoulder on his way out of the kitchen.

you’re not sure how to exactly respond or think of any of that. sure, jensen was a little bit insane for pursuing you at all, but he seemed relatively fine beyond that? of course, you’d only known him properly for twenty four hours, now. the truth was its own sort of blade, held between his fingers, daring you to question its sharpness before it dug into your skin.

great. just what you needed: more alone time with the stranger in your house that you'd, somehow, let in your pants. at least there were plenty of leftovers from the party last night so you didn't have to try and swindle something to cook out of your parents' notoriously ingredient only household.

jensen hadn't returned yet. the sun was past the crest of setting, the sky deep violet and winking with stars. at least you had that, for now, but it wasn't going to last. eventually, he'd come back from whatever errands took half the day. maybe you'd get lucky and he somehow found out that your parents were at a steakhouse and dropped in.

you sat at the kitchen table again, your phone propped up on the wooden surface, doom scrolling through every social media you had until it bored you and you switched. idly, you pick at the food on your plate, knowing that you were waiting for the front door to open but refusing to acknowledge that fact to yourself.

the second the door does open, though, you drop the fork in your hand in surprise. it had to happen eventually, but it still managed to catch you off guard.

jensen had said he was running errands, and yet the only thing he returns with is a brown paper bag in his one fist.

"your errands was just getting alcohol?" you ask, leaned back in your seat to see him gliding through the entrance room of your house.

his head tilts up as he kicks off his boots, a little smirk on his mouth. "i don't think that's any of your business, little lady." little lady. you visibly bristle at that, and that only makes his dimples deepen in his cheeks. "gotta have somethin' to put up with you, don't i?"

"you weren't saying that last night." the words just slip out, your expression falling the second they are. that was stupid. you were lucky your parents were out of the house.

his face seems to reflect that, too, eyes darting into the kitchen archway as he steps through it, like he was looking for them. "last night was rough." it was, but it was doubtful that you and him were on the same page about what he meant by that. you open your mouth to attest to that, but he cuts you off. "parents not home?"

your mouth zips shut again. then, "obviously not."

"i'd watch that pretty mouth, sweetheart," jensen hums, dropping the brown bag on the kitchen countertop behind him. he rifles through it, the clink of his fingertips on the beer cans inside just proof to what you'd asked initially. "or i'm not gonna share."

your face scrunches up. "i don't want to drink tonight. they're not going to be gone for long, they're just on a—"

"i'm not talkin' about drinkin', babygirl," he says with a scoff, tugging a little ziploc from the depths of the brown bag. if you didn't already know what the rolled up joints inside were, the smell that permeates the small room gives it away. you stare at him, unimpressed. "someone was real pissy this morning when i didn't share, so i decided to try n' make it up to her."

you cross your arms. jensen mimics your stance right back.

so this was the game you were playing.

"i don't smoke." it wasn't exactly a lie, but it wasn't the full truth. you did it once back in exam week, and the guilt of that impulsive decision had made your high one of torturous anxiety instead of something peaceful to take the edge off.

jensen fishes a lighter from his pocket, rolling the ziploc closed again, waving the both of them in your direction between his two fingers. "i'll be on the back porch if you change your mind," he hums, and the smile on his mouth is infuriatingly gentle. disappointed, even.

there was no possible way that this was the same man who'd fucked you and then didn't look in your direction for the entire rest of the night prior. you'd just assumed that you were one of his aforementioned bad decisions, something that he'd move past.

this was not part of whatever plan you had in your head to get through the rest of this weekend. him actually seeming to at least acknowledge your feelings or how he effected them was not what you prepared for.

the glass screen door to the back patio slides open and then shuts with a light thud. for a few seconds, you sit in silence at the table, gnawing on your bottom lip as the road splits in front of you. go outside, or stay in.

the smell drifts in through the open window above the sink, and your decision is made for you. you jump up to shove it closed, and isn't that just the perfect excuse to step outside and pick an argument? the story continues to write itself.

you push open the glass door, one foot inside, one foot on the golden lit back porch. jensen's sitting in your dad's favorite patio chair, the one closest to the deep blue porch swing that your mom loved.

"you should close the windows before you start doing things you're not supposed to."

jensen doesn't glance in your direction, the joint hung between his two lips as he sucks in a deep breath, the cherry of it glowing red. "didn't know i was on the same tight leash they've got 'round you," his voice is muffled, speaking from the corner of his mouth.

you falter for a second. "i'm not on a leash."

"aren't you?" then, he glances over, eyebrows raised on his forehead. his fingers pluck the joint from between his lips, smoke curling around his words. "what exactly did you learn about me, pretty girl?"

you didn't understand this shift in the conversation. you step fully out onto the back porch, leaning back against the glass when you shut it behind you. "you went to the hospital with alcohol poisoning once? you ate a worm for a couple of bucks?" his lips twitch at that one, which feels like invitation enough to keep going. "that you went to class high as a kite, once, and—"

"publicly humiliated myself, yeah." jensen's hands spread open in an invisible reveal. "what else?"

again, you don't know what he's getting at out of all of this. "um, i know about that time you dated my aunt and—"

"something that doesn't stem from one of my low points," he interjects, cocking his head to the side. "don't got any of those types of stories locked n' loaded, do you?"

you stare at him for a long while, wracking your brain for anything at all. it clicks in your mind, then, that you really don't. you'd thought that jensen ackles was a figment of your dad's imagination, a character created just to warn you off of doing certain things, for a reason: because those were the only things you'd ever been told.

"and did you ever go to a frat party?" the joint is between his lips again, bouncing with each time his lips moved.

you square your jaw, straighten your shoulders. "yes, actually."

"do any keg stands?"

"no, but—"

"probably didn't eat a worm, did you?" again, this one makes him smile, even if it feels a little disjointed.

your face twists up. "absolutely not."

"and i guarantee you've either not smoked before, or you did it and hated it, swore it off, let your parents' little warnings echo in your head in approval at it. definitely didn't date someone just to make your dad happy, considering i bet you've never dated at all."

this wasn't supposed to be how this went. you were supposed to piss him off, pick at him enough to either make him drag you back inside and up to one of your rooms, or pester him enough to get him to spill whatever secrets your dad was talking about. jensen was not supposed to look you in the eyes and tell you all of the experiences you'd, so far, kept away from.

it stung. salt in wounds you didn't know you'd even had until he took the bruises beneath his fingers and jabbed. it must show on your face that he was spot on, even if you'd never admit it out loud, because his expression shifts too.

"so sit the hell down and let loose a little, sweetheart," his voice is softer now, like he recognized that he'd pushed a little too hard and was trying to make up for it, "i'm not gonna bite."

your hesitation is less forced this time. you drop down onto the porch swing, folding one of your legs up beneath you in the process. next to you, jensen plucks the half-smoked joint from his fingers and passes it over to you.

holding it between your fingers, you suck in a slow inhale, the smoke filling up your mouth and seeping down into your lungs. jensen's eyes are on you, they're always on you, watching you with a gaze you wouldn't dare call awe, but something akin to it.

"i mean," he adds as an afterthought, waving his one hand around aimlessly, "i could bite. if y'wanted me to."

right as you make to exhale, you're choking and spluttering on a laugh. he laughs right along with you, keeling half over himself in the process. "seriously?" you ask him, exasperatedly, and all he can give is an answering wheeze.

he coughs a couple of times, shaking his head as the sound of his laughter dies in the growing darkness. "you make it so damn easy."

like you have something to prove, and maybe you do, you give him a look around the dissipating smoke you'd choked out before you take another longer hit from the joint in your mouth. your lungs ache from choking on the last one, so you can't hold it in your chest as much as you wanted to to show off, but you still manage.

"you’re so pretty, baby," jensen drawls, and this time, the awe in his eyes is evident. they’re glittery green, his lips in a lazy smile.

you hate to admit that you like him best like this. all soft smiles and warm laughs and rasping voice. he’s as pretty as pretty can be, even if you don’t fully understand where you fit in his life, or where you’re supposed to fit him.

you give him a look from beneath the dark curls of your eyelashes, unable to resist the eye roll to follow. "shut up." he laughs again in response, but you aren’t done. the high hasn’t hit you, yet, but the placebo that comes from it has you relaxing back into your seat. "you know, i don’t understand you."

jensen folds his hands behind his head. "never asked for you to understand me."

"no, you just kissed me," you argue back, and the laughter bubbles out of you all on its own. "and—"

"i could kiss you again."

you cock an eyebrow at him. he cocks one right back. again, you grin despite yourself, dropping your gaze. "you won’t."

the patio chair creaks beneath him when he leans forward. his index finger tips your chin up, his face close enough that you can see the red outlining his eyes. "is that a challenge, or a lie?"

"i think that’s for you to figure out."

you almost look away, then, not able to withstand the eye contact he’d adamant on holding, but his grin softens, only making it harder to look away. "you’re so pretty, baby," he echoes it with a reverence that can’t he faked, not easily, at least.

"you’re a terrible influence," you manage to whisper, and that’s all that you can say, your voice trailing off before you can say anything else.

jensen shakes his head though, his hand coming up to cup your cheek beneath his palm. his thumb dances across your cheekbone. "i never claimed to be good."

and when jensen closes the distance between the both of you, you don’t move away. it's different than your first kiss, much more tender and slow, too much like he might mean it when you know he doesn't.

still, your hands raise to hold his face between them, the stubble of his beard tickling the sensitive skin of your palms. you raise up from your spot on the porch swing and he curls his fingers around your waist, guiding you into the expanse of his lap. his skin is so hot beneath his clothes as you drag your hands down his chest.

jensen parts your lips with his tongue, meeting yours with the same slow-paced laziness he'd grinned at you with. like he's savoring it, every inch, of the tongue that meets his each time. you try, you really do, to not make any sort of indication that you like this as much as you do, but the little whimper in your throat slips free anyways.

he laughs, and laughs again when his teeth scrape across the inside of your bottom lip, dragging it back with him before he swoops back in to properly kiss you again.

it's just kissing, but something about the drug coursing your system has heat pooling between your legs. it's just kissing, but he's worshiping your mouth, laying down prayers with each sweep of his tongue.

you don't know how long you're like that, sitting in his lap while he laps at your tongue with deliberate slowness, getting to know every inch of what you offer to him with intimacy that can't possibly only exist for these last couple of days.

the headlights from the driveway cast two bright gold beams across the backyard, only a couple feet away from the porch you and jensen are lounging on, one slight angle shift away from exposing what the both of you were getting up to in your parents' absence.

he's the one to pull away, pressing his lips together as if he could preserve the taste of the earth on your breath and staining your lips between his. when his eyes open, there's no mistaking it: a longing that won't be there in the morning, but at least it exists, then.

you're the one to move first, even if he was the one to break it. you smooth out your clothes with hands that you pretend aren't shaking, and now, you don't look back over your shoulder when you pry the sliding glass doors open and step inside.

you make it up to your room before your parents make it inside, the door shutting behind you like a permanent seal, closing you off from them and jensen.

through your open window, you can smell the smoke from his joint, as prominent as it was outside, the only indication that he didn't move.

notes | this was going to be SO much longer and take place over the span of 3 days but i decided ... what's the rush in speedrunning all three days of his stay ! PLUS I HAVE TO BUILD CHEMISTRY OK !!! dont mind me ik what i'm doing </3

become a notch on jensen's bedpost by commenting ☠ !! @soldiersgirl @seven7lee @deansbeer @titsout4jackles @winchestersbgirl @tinas111 @bejeweledinterludes @lonelylonelybaby @mourningthewicked @ultravi0lence14 @1-imbroglio @hughesinthebox @angels-silhouette @blossomingorchids @chris444evr @cassiecourtemanche @writtenbyhollywood @adrienneleclerc @losers-clvb @bluemerakis @fuckedupfate @legalmente-loca @k-slla @fxckingjo @blueschevy @fitxgrld @viluren @youdontknowe @sizzlingcheesecakepanda @cupidluvzz @whyyouegg

#dahlia's ☆ journal #dad's best friend!jensen #best friend's daughter!reader #jensen ackles #jensen fucking ackles #jensen ackles smut #jensen ackles angst #jensen ackles fic #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles x you #jensen ackles one shot

383 notes · View notes

chipthekeeper · 2 months ago

Text

Today I had the displeasure of reading the words “we get it vel is sad and gay can we move on” and several other similarly ridiculous things on twitter a website not to be named, so I spent my whole 45 minute drive home just absolutely fuming with the need to defend my girl. Most of you know I've already done this in a broad sense before (defending her as a character and as half of a complicated relationship on her appreciation Friday), but let me focus in on what we’ve gotten from Vel so far in season two for now. Because yeah, it might not have been exactly what I was hoping to see, but it’s meaningful as hell and Faye is doing a fucking incredible job and deserves to be applauded for it.

Look. Even if all she was doing was being sad and gay, I would be here for that. You know this. Those are two of my most favorite qualities of her. But let’s not pretend that all she’s doing is “mourning her gay situationship” and forget why we’re seeing her in this arc in the first place. She’s Mon’s cousin and closest confidant, and she’s Chandrilan. Stuck between these two facts is a conflict for Vel. She HAS to be at this three-day-long heteronormative child wedding from hell because someone she loves needs her support, but she hates every second of it. She hates this place, these people, this culture, probably even the clothes on her back. She looks uncomfortable just about every second she’s on screen in this arc, ESPECIALLY in the third episode.

See?

Something you may or may not have noticed – even I didn’t really register it until I started thinking about all of this because watching three fucking episodes all in one night made them all blur together – but Vel DOESN’T ACTUALLY SAY A WORD IN THE THIRD EPISODE. She has no lines. Vel’s extreme stress and discomfort are conveyed only through Faye’s body language and facial expressions. To complain about this and cry about her only being “sad and gay” is a huge discredit to the performance and I simply won’t stand for it.

Like yes, she’s sad and gay but why can’t we take a second to think about what that means? Look at her circumstances, even leaving out the Cinta of it all for a second. This is a person who must have realized at a very young age that she was not only different but very likely going to either live a completely miserable life or be a disappointment to her very wealthy family and her society at large, and being back here in the middle of it all for an occasion like this hurts fucking deeply even if it’s a weird tradition and she wants no part in it. I can tell you this for a fact because I have fucking lived it. As a gay person, I have no desire whatsoever to take part in a traditional religious marriage or wedding ceremony like the one my sister had a couple years ago, but being at her wedding and the party that followed was overwhelming and painful because I spent so much time thinking something along the lines of “even if I had someone in my life to do this with, these same people – my family – would never celebrate my love this way.”

Now, is that what Vel’s thinking about as she stands next to the other unmarried women (i.e. teenage children) watching her niece’s first dance with her new husband? Perhaps not. But the way she breaks down after seeing Cinta sure looked an awful lot like how I looked sitting outside in the dark and the rain, drunk as I’ve ever been, while my sister’s reception carried on behind me.

And this, to me in particular, is what’s so great about Vel as a character – as a STAR WARS character – and why I will never ever complain about seeing her be “sad and gay.” For the first time ever in my favorite franchise, I get to see myself so clearly. She’s sad and gay, yes, but she’s also fiercely supportive of her family (the part she likes, anyway) – she takes Mon’s hand in support when she needs it, and she seems ready to snap at Kleya for even being around and creating the possibility of trouble at this function. She’s sad and gay, yes, but she’s on the front line of a fucking rebellion. Just because you don’t see it in this arc because that’s not where the story is focused doesn’t mean that’s not still true, and we’ll see that again come next week I’m sure.

I don’t really know how to wrap this up, but the point is if you’re tired of what’s happening with Vel in this show, you’re probably not paying enough attention. I want more of her and more for her to do as much as anybody (that’s a lie, I want it SO MUCH FUCKING MORE THAN ANYBODY, fucking try me), but there’s already a whole ocean of her character to explore with just what we have, if you only bother to stop and consider it.

#not even 48 hours after the start of the season and i've already had it #lol #anyway great to be home #vel sartha #andor #andor spoilers #my posts #my gifs

323 notes · View notes

sepublic · 1 year ago

Text

I cannot imagine being Camila Noceda because so much of her arc starts around her being scared for her child, wanting her to do well and succeed and being afraid she’ll get hurt. And then right under her nose, her daughter has disappeared on some adventure in another world but at least she seems fine, right?

But you still let yourself break and you end up saying things you might regret. And then it’s only when you begin to worry about her that she comes back and she is scarred. She’s hurt. There’s a cut on her eyebrow and you realize it will never heal. It always reminds you of how you weren’t there for her, you couldn’t protect your daughter from those who hurt her, and if you’d been enough for Luz then maybe she wouldn’t have needed to come to the isles to begin with and be injured. You see how she’s begun to loathe and hate herself, because of things and people entirely outside of her control, and you couldn’t have been there to comfort her when she needed it. So now it’s built up for Luz into this horrific trauma that she hasn’t even yet begun to unpack.

Camila is stronger than everyone because if I’d seen my kid come back like that, I’d have broken apart asking what happened, are you okay, etc. But instead she remains strong because she can see that Luz and her kids are scared and they really need an adult who can be strong for them. Camila probably thought about what happened in Yesterday’s Lie afterwards, and come to regret her outburst; She must’ve guessed how it hurt Luz and made her feel terrible and alas she was right! So she vowed not to make that same mistake again and be even stronger next time, and she was!!!

But man that must’ve been so scary and helpless and painful, seeing what happened under your watch. Being unable to provide a fix in getting her back home, so of course Camila goes along to the Demon Realm once she gets that opportunity, because this all started because she wasn’t there for her daughter when she needed her most. Of course she supports her in coming out, as well as in staying in the isles; She won't blame Eda for giving Luz what she wanted and needed, as Eda herself couldn't be a hypocrite by telling Luz to stay with her mom. Camila won’t let Luz face this stuff alone like last time, not when she knows and Luz feels better about trusting her (or had to, anyway) and it’s what saves Luz!!! Because when Luz relapses after failing against Kikimora, it’s Camila who’s there to pick her back up and tell her everything she needs, which leads to Luz’s palisman String Bean finally emerging!!!

But then Luz dies and just. That scar must’ve reminded Camila that she wasn’t there to protect her daughter from anyone that might hurt her. And despite helping a little against Kikimora, it still happened again. Permanently. Man I wish Camila had a “GET AWAY FROM HER YOU BITCH” moment to get back at Belos for all she did her to child. But Camila had to keep going because after Yesterday’s Lie, she knew she still had other kids to look after. She was strong for Vee during Yesterday’s Lie, only to let herself drop right afterwards in front of Luz. But not again. No time for self pity, you just have to move on after a death and keep living, just as you did with Manny. And in the end, Luz IS all right, and she’s better than she’s ever been and there’s some huge relief.

Just augh Camila Noceda. Luz went on an isekai adventure, but maybe so did her mother? And I don’t mean with the Boiling Isles, I mean with the U.S. Camila might have been an immigrant, and not just the child/descendant of one. And even if she wasn’t, she still moved to Gravesfield. So in general so much of her life has been about going to another world and trying to survive and feel comfortable in it. As it was for Luz, too; But they survived along the way and found what fellow “weirdoes” they could, with Camila meeting Manny, who could’ve also related to her as a fellow Dominican American. And now she’s found others who can relate to Camila in other ways, as Manny also related to her as a huge nerd.

#the owl house #Camila noceda #angst

795 notes · View notes

xoscarllet · 6 months ago

Text

Warmth

PAIRING: Carl Grimes x fem! Reader

GENRE: fluff

Warning: a bit of making out but after that it’s only kisses. Nicknames (babe, sweetheart), y’all being cute (I’m single asf)

Summary: You and Carl just cuddling during Christmas Eve doing nothing but being a lovely couple.

Note: No outbreak. Some of my stories contain no outbreak!

It’s Christmas eve, your favorite time of the year were you get to spend time with your family, telling stories and all that jazz expect.. this time your are spending it with your lovely boyfriend Carl grimes. Who is currently laying down next to you giving you small kisses on your neck trying to wake you up

“Babe.. babe.. wake up” he said between kisses but all you did was turned around your back facing him making him let out a sigh before smirking having an idea on how to wake you up

Moving his hand to your side he starts tickling you making you scream in laughter “Okay! Okay! Stop! I’m awake ” You said still laughing trying to push him away, but he only brings you back tickling you even more. As he stops tickling you, he grabs your shoulder, turning you to face him while smiling at you

Moving your hair away from your face putting the strand of your hair behind your ear giving you a small smile he leans in giving you a kiss on the forehead before pulling away moving his head down to your neck wrapping his arms around your waist pulling you closer to his body

Moving your hair away from your face, putting a strand of your hair behind your ear before giving you a small smile, leaning down he gives you a kiss on the forehead as he pulls away he moves his head down to your neck, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to his body loving the warmth from your skin

Letting out sigh loving this moment with you “Sweetheart?” He mumbled on your neck letting out a hum as you began playing with hair Shuddering at the feeling of your finger playing his hair he lift his head a bit looking at your face “You know I love you, right?” He said looking into your eyes

“Yeah, and I love you too. You know that right?”

Hearing your response, he leans in, his nose brushes against yours, his lips finally touched yours, kissing you. You smiled into the kiss as you kiss him back tilting your head to the side making him kiss you deeper when he pulled away you were about to open your eyes but closes them again as you feel him giving you small kisses on your face making you giggling

“I have a surprise for you” he said, sitting up on the bed, grabbing something from the other side of the bed you sit up in confusion “But it’s not Christmas yet it’s not until tonight” You said to him as you see a small box on his hand wrapped up in red Christmas wrapping “Yeah I know, but I couldn’t wait any longer plus today is our one year anniversary.” He said giving you the Christmas gift

Smiling you unwrapped the red wrapping paper once that was done you open the box seeing a beautiful ring. The ring was a mirror-like sliver was glistening clean with arc structure encased with small diamonds. The main part of the ring had two separate diamond held together in a portrait form while the top diamond was bigger and the other being smaller.

“Do you like it?” He nervously asked he didn’t know what kind of ring you like so he got the prettiest one. He’s been saving his money for the couple past months to get the perfect promise ring for you and he really hoped you like- love it

“I love it. Oh my god thank you” you said hugging him before moving back to your spot. Carl grabbed the box taking out the ring and grabbed your hand putting it on your finger

You were smiling so hard your cheeks were starting to hurt so much from smiling but you didn’t care you love the ring so much you kept admiring it as Carl looks at you with love in his eyes

He swear to himself that one day he’ll marry you..

UGH SO CUTE anyways I hope y’all enjoy I was kinda rushed at the end. If there was any mistakes let me know. Also the ring lowkey sounds like a wedding ring LOL (my other accounts @carllgrimesgf and @xoscarllet )

#carl grimes smut #the walking dead #carl grimes #carl grimes x reader #carl grimes x oc #carl grimes x you #amc the walking dead #chandler riggs #carl grimes fanfiction

312 notes · View notes

darklight-owl · 6 months ago

Text

Okay Louis and Juno's relationship in the anime is actually being butchered and that makes me so sad. I went back and re-read the kiss scene and it's baffling how downplayed Louis' feelings are in the anime??? Like. Look how the scene plays out after they kiss:

Those internal monologues are EVERYTHING. He doesn't believe the Sigma Male Nonsense he's spouting!! He knows Juno is a social climber who has trouble controlling her emotions so he's trying to get her to not sabotage herself by pursuing a relationship with him!!

Not only did the anime remove his internal monologue (only the ones that imply he might actually feel something for Juno btw. When he's thinking about literally anything else noooo we can make him monologue pff it's fineee) but they also knocked down Louis' reaction AND removed the shot of Juno crying.

Which brings me to my next point. The anime doesn't seem to take Juno seriously as a character. They're using her only as a comedic relief, you're not supposed to feel bad for her, you're supposed to laugh at how incompetent she is at romance and how Louis is too much of a Sigma to EVER fall in love with someone like HER. As if these panels meant nothing:

While Juno is a very immature and emotional character and her chapters tend to go for something lighter and more comedic the manga is capable of taking her seriously. Something the anime doesn't do. They take what's surface-level about Juno and go with that.

I think a BIG part of this change is the fact Louis and Juno don't end up together in the manga and they don't want to dissappoint people. I think that's fuckin stupid. The entire point of the love failiure arc is that interspecies romance is COMPLICATED and more often than not doesn't work out. Legoshi and Haru stick to their guns and make it work, but Louis prioritizes his position as heir to the the Horns Conglomerate which is why he and Juno don't end up together. It hurts, but it makes sense for the characters and the story. Removing this and downplaying it as "haha silly Juno and her silly romantic endeavors" hurts the story imo.

Anyway in conclusion. Look how they massacred my girl.

#welcome to me ranting about anime when i should be studying #but Louno is a special ship to me and it makes me sad that they're doing this to it #it also makes me sad that female characters can't have relationship trouble without it being treated as a joke #i'm worried about what part 2 has in store for them ;-;#long post #beastars #louno #beastars spoilers

303 notes · View notes

sandgrassbagel · 30 days ago

Text

mid to late seasons of spn out here just EXISTING and some people claiming destiel isn't canon or dean doesn't return cas' feelings is forever CRAZY to me. like lets list some shit that's pretty indicative of dean returning cas' feelings

s7: dean's first widow arc; dean losing the desire/care to try protecting the world; 7x15 paralleling jeffrey's love with that demon to dean's feelings for cas

s8: EVERYTHING in purgatory; dean saying he needs cas; the crypt scene; deans anger over cas not trusting him

s9: dean pleading with cas to look out for himself beginning of season; holding cas' face in his hands after watching him die; telling gadreel yes heal him even if it slows sam's recovery; taking the rit zien case in 9x06 alone so he can see and work with cas; dean trying to convince cas to get back into hunting but backing off when it hits him how vulnerable cas is as a human in which case he wants cas safe; the beginnings of the cain/dean-colette/cas parallels

s10: dean asking cas to kill him if he loses himself again; dean regaining control of himself in the library scene when he's staring down at cas; 10x16's confessional scene; the rest of the cain/dean-colette/cas parallels

s11: clocking something is up with cas the moment he's possessed; trusting cas anyway because its cas; willingly opening up to him about his fear regarding the forced bond with amara; the endless yearning and worry for cas when he's possessed; dean prioritizing cas' safety over strategy; amara using cas' heart to find dean BECAUSE DEAN IS YEARNING SO HARD; the season's emphasis over and over about dean being in love with someone and then pointing at cas

s12: 12x01 hug; fucking LILY SUNDER HAS REGRETS; deans frustration in lily sunder being because cas put himself in unforseeable amounts of danger; incoming widow arc end of season

like supernatural literally said "yea here's this character who says they know dean pretty well and then talks about their depression and suicidal ideation following losing the love of their life which definitely doesn't parallel deans behavior since losing cas. oh yeah and the next season here's dean spending a year in purgatory out of refusal to leave cas behind, saying twice in the same season he needs him, refusing to give up on reaching him even as cas is about to kill him, and hell be angry and hurt when cas loses the angel tablet cuz he didn't trust him. the following season lets show deans care for cas while he's a human thus showing its not about his usage but dw dean has to keep his distance for whatever reason and well also start a parallel regarding a man and THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE between dean and cas haha. then the next season well have the culmination of that parallel being dean regains control of himself because cas loves him unconditionally- WHICH FOR THAT TO WORK WOULD IMPLY THAT DEAN LOVES HIM BACK- and the season after that we'll have an explicit focus on dean's heart and dean being in love. and in s12 to follow the trend we'll have an ep where love is equated to human weakness and destiel are proven to be each other's weakness. and when cas dies at the end of that season, dean will enter a depressive and grief/rage driven spiral so bad it becomes known as "The Widow Arc"

#AND PEOPLE EXPECT ME TO NOT SHIP IT??#they expect me to just believe that dean DOESNT return cas' feelings???#no dean didnt say the words “i love you” but the show practically fucking SCREAMED that he did #like thats just overviewing events of six of their ELEVEN seasons together #destiel #deancas #dean winchester #castiel #supernatural

163 notes · View notes

mononijikayu · 10 days ago

Text

a chance to day break — gojo satoru

He shifted behind the screen. “You know, Zenin.” he said, voice lighter, but not flippant. “That’s kind of a beautiful name for someone like me.” You almost smiled. “Someone like you?” He laughed once, low. “Yeah. Reckless. Loud. Impossible.” You tilted your head slightly, your eyes drawn to the shadow of his profile through the rice-paper screen. “And you think the daybreak isn’t all of those things?” He paused again. You could feel the smile in his next words. “Touché.”

GENRE: post hidden - post inventory arc (2010s)

WARNING/S: domesticity, fluff, angst, trauma, implied death, violence, romance, hurt/comfort, character death depiction of death, depictions of loss and depression, mention of pregnancy, depiction of the aftermath of birth, depiction of parenthood, depiction of blood, depiction of killing, depiction of suffering, depiction of anxiety, mention of death, mention of grief, profanity, family drama;

WORD COUNT: 8k

NOTE: i somehow cannot stop thinking about while when this picture came out, and endeavoured to write this while taking my break from studying and then in uni and now back at home. this was rushed, so mind if i made mistakes here,,,,,

i just miss him so damn bad, you guys huhuhuhuhu, its worth it to sit here for hours on end while not feeling my legs and back and nearly getting caught with my phone at class to do this. i missed him too much!!!

also i have to say, i know our gojo was born satoru. but the genpuku changes names and i genuinely adore him getting a name that was just his own. not forced upon him. just his own. he's just satoru to him. and i adore that. anyway, enjoy this!!! i love you <3

masterlist

u s and t h e m

if you want to, tip! <3

( this was gojo's genpuku, as drawn by gege!!!.....oh and naoya was there too ig :/ )

YOU HATED THE FACT THAT YOU GOT THE LETTER. But you hated even more that you were forced to respond to it. Let alone act upon the contents of the letter. Why do you have to do that when it was from him? That's what you ended up grumbling away on your way to the manor.

You had no other recourse but to curse it all to flame. After all, you were bound to the Zenin for all your life. You would have to die before they let you go, even if you didn't like coming home.

The letter told you a very vague thing. That your grandfather, Naobito Zenin, summoned you to the audience hall of the Zenin manor. The message had arrived at dawn, terse and impersonal, and you’d stared at it for a long while before crumpling it in your fist.

Of course, he wanted to see you at this moment. You were too busy for this. You sighed, putting your hands into your suit pants’ pockets. You hadn’t stepped foot on Zenin grounds in years, and you hadn’t missed it for a second. The manor still loomed in your mind like a mausoleum. Like an old bitter thing forgotten by time.

The cold corridors echoing with contempt, the stink of old sake soaked into the tatami, and the biting sting of words hurled like knives. You hated this place. You hated what it represented: grief, abuse, pain and a legacy you never asked to carry.

But you went. Because you were his favorite son’s only heir. Because no matter how the clan men whispered in their halls and raised their voices in dissent, you were the one. The only one. His heir in all but name and ink.

The walk through the front gates was silent, your steps too loud on the stone. Every shadow remembered you. Every wall bore witness. You passed them like a ghost retracing old wounds. You shake your head as you continue on to the path towards the audience hall.

Before long, you stood in front of the audience hall now. You took a moment to gather all your strength, to summon all your control before you opened the wooden doors. Your brows furrowed as your feet heard the first echoes of the tatami groaning faintly under your weight.

Almost instantly you could see him. There he was. Zenin Naobito. Your horrible grandfather. His body is thinner than you remembered, but his grey eyes are still sharp with that same mix of calculation and contempt. He looked at you as if he'd summoned a weapon, not a grandchild.

You bowed out of habit, not respect. Begotten by blood. Beholden by duty. A product of a man too bitter to love anything that didn’t bleed for him. You slid open the door to the audience hall expecting to find your grandfather alone. Instead, you saw Zenin Naoya.

He was lounging near the far wall like he owned the place, arms crossed, face twisted into that smug little sneer he’d perfected since childhood. Arrogant, sharp-tongued, and somehow still insufferable despite being younger than you by a few years. He barely glanced at you when you stepped inside.

You stared at him, jaw tight, every muscle in your body resisting the urge to throw him through the fine shoji. Soon enough, your eyes were twitching. It could be annoyance, it could be disgust. You didn’t want to know.

Unfortunately for you, it was going to be one of those visits. Probably convince you to marry your uncle. To return to Zenin manor. To submit to the duties to the clan. You could tell you were feeling too irate about this entire thing. More than you should be.

Your lip curled. "What the hell are you doing here?"

He scoffed, shoving his hands deeper into his sleeves. “If I knew, I’d fucking tell you.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose, dragging your eyes off Naoya like it took effort. “Of course, of fucking course.” you muttered. “Still as charming as ever, aren’t you, uncle?”

Naoya rolled his eyes, pushing off the wall to stretch his neck with an exaggerated crack. “And you’re still dramatic. What, the manor gives you flashbacks already? Gonna cry about your feelings next, huh?”

You ignored the bait. You needed to. You were not gonna fall for his stupid shit again. You had years of practice doing so. And that had kept the peace for all this time. You shouldn’t keep doing this to yourself, just because he wants to.

You take a moment to calm yourself. You refused to look at him. Instead, you stepped farther into the room, letting the silence stretch long enough to make him uncomfortable.

He always hated that, especially from you. But most of all when it comes from his father. He dislikes being sidelined, forgotten. Treated as insignificant. As though the world didn’t revolve around him.

“You aren’t heir. Why the fuck are you here, huh?” you asked, more to the room than to him.

Naoya gave a sharp click of his tongue. “Tch. All I know is I was training, minding my damn business, and then some old dog came crawling with orders from him.” He jerked his chin at his father. “Didn’t say why. Just that I had to show up.”

You looked at him. “So you don’t know why you're here either.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What, you think I’d lie about that?”

“Yes.” you said, without hesitation.

Naoya’s nostrils flared, and for a moment you swore he was going to throw something at you. But he didn’t. He just laughed at your words. Like it was a child’s whisper. You hated how he laughed. It was always so sharp and humorless.

“You really think you’re above all this, huh?” he said, stepping closer, voice lowering into something more venomous. “Just ‘cause your daddy was Naobito’s precious golden boy? News flash, little girl. Your daddy, he’s dead. And you? You’re just a walking legacy no one asked for.”

“I’m older than you, you idiot. The hierarchy puts me first rather than some fourth rate son.” You looked him in the eye, steady, unshaken. “And besides……here I am. Summoned just like you. Maybe even before you. After all, you aren’t heir. I am.”

That got under his skin, you saw the twitch of his jaw. The shoji at the far end slid open with a dry hiss, cutting the tension clean. A retainer stepped through, bowing low. He laid down the scrolls upon the fine silken cushions. Soon enough, the retainer all but leaves.

Your grandfather didn't speak at first. Just sat there, cross-legged on the finely made raised dais, nursing a cup of sake with the slow deliberation of someone who had made every indulgence into a ritual.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until it wrapped around your ribs like wire. You hate it when he does this. He makes everything longer than it should be. Finally, his eyes flicked up to meet yours. He ignores Naoya all together, you note to yourself.

“You’re late.” Of course. That would be his greeting.

You kept your face neutral. “The summons came at dawn. I arrived before noon.”

Naobito snorted. “Still late. The old you would’ve run.”

The old you. The child is desperate for approval. The young girl who once thought a kind word from this man might mean something. The one who had hoped that the death of his son would waken the man he could have been before your birth.

But you’d buried that version of yourself years ago. You didn’t know where it was now, Perhaps somewhere between your father’s funeral and your last badly bruised lesson in the training yard. Yet you can only suppose that those thoughts to the past never mattered at all. You didn’t want it to matter either.

“I don’t run anymore.” you said flatly. “Not here at least.”

A smirk tugged at his cracked lips. “So I’ve heard.”

Naoya was already restless, shifting in his seat like the cushion had thorns, staring at his father. You didn’t need to look at your uncle to know that he was upset that his father was not paying attention to him. That he was only paying mind to you. In all honesty, you would have rather he was giving all the unwanted attention to him instead.

He settled onto the raised mat in a more formal position, pouring himself another cup of sake with a hand that trembled only slightly. His gaze swept over you as he raised it and drank it. He sets the empty cup down.

“You’re making noise out there, from what our elders say to me.” he said. “Taming curses. Carrying out the missions. Gaining favor with the higher-ups. Even that old bastard Gakuganji praises you.” He laughs to himself, drunken and foolish. “I hear nothing but good things about your work.”

You didn’t respond. This wasn’t praise. Not really. It was accounting. He was tallying your worth. As he does with every other member of his family. As he had done with your own father. Everyone in the family are numbers. And their numbers become higher with every ability to be useful to him. Across from you, Naoya shifted again and scoffed audibly.

“Seriously?” he muttered, arms crossed. “You’re just gonna sit there and soak that in like a silent little statue?”

You ignored him once more. Naoya clicked his tongue and looked at your grandfather. “Alright, enough, you old man. You dragged us here, so what’s this really about?” His voice rose with that familiar edge of entitlement, brittle and sharp. “Why are we even here?”

Zenin Naobito set his cup down with a soft, deliberate clink. His darkened eyes cut to you. "You’re going to represent me somewhere.”

The words dropped like a stone into still water. You blinked. “In what?”

Your grandfather didn’t even bother to look at Naoya when he answered. He lifts his hand and takes one of the scrolls the retainer had brought in. He throws it into the air and it lands perfectly between you and Naoya.

The scent of the fresh ink resounds as you turn to look at the calligraphy. Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. Naobito leaned back slightly, another swig of sake hovering near his lips. His eyes, narrowed and unreadable, flicked between the two of you. The tension in the room was taut, like a string pulled too tight.

“It would seem that there’s quite a stir.” he began, almost lazily. “The Gojo boy will be having his genpuku ceremony.”

Your brows furrowed as you turned away from the scroll you’d been half-reading, half-ignoring. “A genpuku?” you echoed. “For what?”

“To mark his coming of age as a clan head in full authority.” Naobito replied, the words clipped and loaded. “Ceremonial, political, and a spectacle. As is everything with that family. Did you not have one? I gave you one, didn’t I?”

Before you could respond, your uncle Naoya once again spoke, with his arms stiff at his sides. His voice cracked with disbelief and rising anger. You sighed, a hundred thoughts echoing in your head once more.

“Why am I declared to be handing his kanmuri without my permission?” he snapped. “And why is my niece being the one to give a name to him?” His eyes flicked to you, brimming with offense. “Why am I being forced to serve the damn brat? One I am superior to?”

Naobito scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive. “This is a request, not an edict.” he said flatly. “Nothing is concrete. If you don’t wish to participate, then don’t. The Gojo have plenty of hands lined up to perform the rites. If not you, then lord Kamo’s brother will do it. He already offered, in fact.”

Your uncle’s jaw clenched at that. Being replaced by someone from the Kamo clan was a low blow, and your grandfather knew it. The Kamo and Zenin had been rivals in pride and tradition for generations. And your uncle believes that the Zenin are far more superior. Even ahead of the Gojo. It wasn’t just about formality. It was about losing face.

Naoya, still sulking in his corner, muttered under his breath, “Why not just have the Gojo brat crown himself if it’s such a damn show?”

You ignored him. “A genpuku.” you repeated, stepping forward. “For what? The boy’s already stronger than half the clan heads sitting in power. What does this ceremony mean, really?”

Naobito looked at you for a long moment, and for once, there was no mockery or disdain in his gaze. Only gravity. You were too smart for your own good, too curious. In some ways, he hated that you were born a girl and not a boy. No one would have questioned your place in this world. Not even yourself.

“Because strength alone does not make a leader, the Gojo knows that.” he said. “And the Gojo boy, for all his power, is still a boy in the eyes of our world. This ceremony makes him more than a weapon. It makes him untouchable.”

You swallowed hard. That word lingered. Untouchable. Not just because of his Six Eyes or Limitless. Not just because of his likely futuristic victories. But because with the genpuku, he would be publicly recognized, politically endorsed, and culturally sanctified. Invulnerable in every way that mattered.

Your grandfather continued. “And you. You will give him his name. This one is non–negotiable, I hear. You gave one to the previous Kamo heir. The Gojo elders asked you to continue the tradition.”

You frowned at his words. You refused to. You don't want this. You didn’t want to do it all over again. Your hands curled into fists at your sides, but you said nothing. Not yet. When you gathered your strength and opened your mouth to say something, your grandfather cut you off almost instantly.

“This is not about your pride.” he said, eyes still on you. “This is about power. This is about survival. If you are to live in this world, you must not be a fool. Be as high, higher than they are then.”

Your uncle scoffed sharply, about to object again, but Naobito raised a hand, silencing him without a word. Naoya’s mouth opened, then shut, his fists curling against his knees. You didn’t even have to look at him to feel the heat of his anger. It was almost too childish and almost too foolishly seething. Like he’d been handed the wrong toy at a festival.

You, on the other hand, felt something colder. A genpuku. It has been a long time since you’ve seen a genpuku, or rather experienced one. And you’d rather not think about your own or the others you’ve experienced. They were too much for you to remember, too much to think about.

It was almost like you were that child again. Staring at that girl, with her kanmuri. The screen covered you as you stood in front of her, yet you could picture her. The face that she had on her face.

The warmth of her. The scent of incense all around her. You wanted to kiss her then. You wanted to hold her. Yet it mattered more to give her that name, the one you had written with so much love.

You felt like you were going to be sick. You didn’t wanna remember these memories again. You didn’t want to. You….you didn’t want this, Not ever. If you were being honest, you would not rather go. You would rather not desire any connection to this farce, this grievous thing.

Your gut twisted in the worst ways. You hated the manor. Hated the clan. Hated everything this place stood for. Most of all, you hated this family. And you definitely hated this man in front of you, perhaps more than the one sitting next to you.

When it’s convenient, they always do this. They always make you have a face. Once again, you were begotten into this gilded cage. After all, everyone of you were nothing unless you were useful.

You watched as your drunken grandfather poured himself another drink. The pour was slow, steady, and loud in the silence. In moments like these, you cannot read his mind. Yet you just had a feeling of what he wanted to say. You always did.

“Make sure you dress accordingly for the occasion.” he said, not looking at you this time. “Nothing of the sort you’re wearing right now.”

Your jaw tightened. You glanced down at your clothes. They were what you liked. It was now your second skin. To you, it was clean, it was simple and most of all, it was practical. Your taste was what you preferred, not theirs.

You glared up at him. “What’s wrong with what I choose to wear?”

Naobito’s gaze lifted to meet yours, sharp and cold. “You look like a commoner. A non-sorcerer. A farce. And you are anything but.”

His tone cut like a blade. It was not raised, but dangerous in its stillness. There was a weight to his words, the kind that had once silenced entire rooms. He puts away the sake cup, sitting more straight than before. It was almost his drunkenness that had left him.

“I refuse to see you in that.” he said to you in reply, almost too sober.

For the first time in a long time, there was something else behind the irritation that dwells within him. Not disappointed. Not shame, that’s for certain. Something closer to panic. Pride, maybe, but twisted. Bruised.

“The eyes of the world will be on you. You are a Zenin. The most important one, besides myself.” he went on, his voice lowering. “You will not disgrace me with your disobedience.”

Naoya let out a low, mocking whistle. “Yeesh. He sounds really proud of you, huh?”

You didn’t even look at him. Your eyes stayed on your grandfather. “You’re not proud.” you said, voice quiet but firm. “You’re terrified.”

Naobito’s brows lifted slightly. “You’re sending me to stand in your place in front of the Gojo clan, in front of every elder and clan head, because you know the Zenin name is rotting.” you said. “And you need something clean to show them. Something they’ll remember.”

His fingers tightened around his sake cup, but he didn’t interrupt. “You want me to dress up the corpse of this clan and make it walk.”

Naoya stood abruptly. “Don’t talk like that about our clan like that! Don’t talk about that in front of him!”

You turned toward him slowly, unflinching. “Why? Scared someone might say what you already know?”

Naoya’s face twisted, but he said nothing. Not with Naobito still in the room. Not with your grandfather watching. Your grandfather may require submission from you, but he would not let Naoya forget his place.

Naobito snickers at your words. Your grandfather all but puts away the sake into the corner. For a moment, you could feel his cursed energy loom. Naoya lowers his head, the anger in him festering more and more as he feels his father’s cursed energy.

All of a sudden, you felt your stomach turn. You flinch, looking at him. You knew what you were feeling right now. Like all those years before. And you hated it. You were remembering it all again.

“You will wear what I tell you.” he said, voice low and final. “You will carry the weight of your name. And you will not speak of this clan like it’s dead. Not while I still breathe.”

You stared at him for a long moment, clutching your stomach with one hand. Then nodded, just once. “Fine.” you said. “I’ll wear your mask.”

He seemed content with those words. “Good—”

You rose to your feet, calm and cold. “But don’t expect me to wear it forever. You fucking bastard. This is the last time.”

Then you turned and walked out, leaving Naoya fuming and Naobito sitting in silence, the rest of the sake untouched. For a moment, your grandfather sat there. Zenin Naobito starts to slouch and then starts to laugh, almost like a mad man.

“You remind me too much of your father.” He says to no one in particular, moving to take the rest of the sake into his cup. “Hm, defiant little fool.”

THE FINE SILVER PINS IN YOUR HAIR WERE HEAVY ON YOUR HEAD AND THEY HURT TOO MUCH. The ceremonial robes were just as much insufferably suffocating. Heavy, embroidered, steeped in history you wanted no part of. This was ridiclous beyond words to you. But this was what was to be if you wanted to be part of Jujutsu society.

You stood beneath the eaves of the grand Gojo estate, where everything gleamed a little too bright, where every eye felt like it was pressed into your skin, weighing and appraising.

They watched the silk, the posture, the Zenin clan crest sewn over all of your precious silks. It was never you. Not you. This was always going to be the case with the Jujutsu world. They'll always see your clan before you.

And you hated it. You hated being dressed like a doll for others to gawk at. It was as if you were some fragile ornament of the Zenin legacy. A well-bred symbol of obedience. Your hair was bound in the traditional style, the ceremonial cords itching at your scalp. The makeup felt like a mask pressed onto your skin.

But worse, so much worse, was having your uncle Zenin Naoya beside you. He walked half a step ahead, chin lifted, basking in the reflected prestige of the occasion. He was trying to once more be the center of attention.

The genpuku of the young Gojo lordling was a spectacle, and your pathetic uncle Naoya, always starving for attention, soaked it in like a leech. His robes were immaculate, his hair meticulously set. He wore pride like a second skin, though none of it was his.

You knew what he wanted. What he always wanted. Even with his clipped words and cold silences, his contempt, his venomous little jabs. Beneath it all was the gnawing desire to put you in your “place” as he says to you.

To drag you down from whatever imagined pedestal you stood on in his mind. In his eyes, you were an idea that needed taming. His reluctant equal. A threat. A fantasy. A world where he comes out on top. Where you were subdued.

He wanted you to be a wife. His wife, which was even worse to you. Your uncle never said it aloud. At least not in the way that mattered but he didn’t have to. He knew your grandfather would have chosen him anyway, at the very least to keep the strength of the family intact.

You saw it in the way he looked at you when others praised you. You felt it in the weight of his resentment when you walked into a room and people bowed a little lower, lingered a little longer to hear what you had to say instead of him.

He didn’t just want to shame you. He wanted to own you. To reduce you into something manageable. To something docile, gilded, and locked in the cage he built from duty, tradition, and Zenin arrogance.

You didn’t speak to him as the two of you walked behind the attendants. The ceremony had already begun, the air thick with incense and formality. The young Gojo lordling stood at the center of it all. He was all too radiant in a way that wasn’t human. He looked almost like a god. Even subdued in all the pomp and ceremony, he seemed untouchable.

When the time came, you stepped forward with the scroll containing the name you’d been instructed, or rather allowed to give. Your voice did not falter. You felt Naoya’s gaze burning into the side of your face, felt the coil of his displeasure tighten with every breath you took that wasn’t laced with obedience.

But you stood tall. You bore the weight of the name. Of your clan. Of their expectations and manipulations and all the bruised egos that wanted to see you kneel. In all that he will never be. You turned your head away completely.

You hated all of it.

But you would never be his.

And you would never fit in the cage he made for you.

You began to focus on what was happening. The ceremony unfolded with the meticulous grace of something ancient and carefully curated. The courtyard of the Gojo estate was transformed into a stage. A performance, full of people crowing around the Gojo lordling.

The lanterns flickered beneath the eaves, casting warm gold against pale walls, and the scent of incense clung to the air like memory. Music was resounding everywhere. People were lined up, almost perfectly as they watched the procession come through the finely cobbled courtyard.

You stood just behind the line of many other elders from all clans and honored guests from all the clans. Your grandfather was right. The Gojo wanted to show off. Just as they had done with you years and years before.

Your uncle Naoya continued to be beside you, a stone-faced shadow. The air was quiet, reverent, but your thoughts churned. And at the center of it all was him. That god in that young boy's body.

Clad in finely made ceremonial black and white, the robes were layered with silk so pale they caught moonlight like snow. He looked taller beneath the weight of tradition, but unbothered.

It was as if the formalities couldn’t quite bind him. He didn’t want this at all. Even when the world sees everything, even when the world sees the bareness of his soul, those eyes of his were rough to read. It was too glacial, impossibly clear, too bright. It gave nothing away.

In that moment, you felt your own memories come to you. The genpuku you had yourself. You were dressed like a boy too. And they cut some of your hair out too. Changed your name in something that your grandfather would like.

You were to perform the rites the way your father did when he was a boy. It was miserable, having to be there, letting everyone have their way with you because of some stupid tradition.

They forced it all on you. Even as you cried for them not to cut your hair, they still did. Even when you said you hated the cap on your head, they still put it on you. As though you were the son he never had. The grandson your grandfather could never have in you.

You could barely remember much of it, perhaps you’ve blocked out too much. Not even the name they gave you. Even if they force that name on you today, you never end up letting them use it.

After all, it was just right after your father passed. And you were kept away from your mother. That had made everything in you suffer even worse. You didn't want to remember any of it. You would rather it all be forgotten into oblivion.

But you let yourself and everyone else remember one thing. You hated it. And you hated being surrounded by strangers too. You hated having to see all these people come and go, taking and taking. You didn't understand how he could stomach it. How you could stomach it.

You couldn’t look away from him as he let the cap be put upon his head, now that the edges of his once longer hair was endlessly shorter. You like to think that it was not because he was beautiful, though he was.

Not because he was powerful, though everyone in the room could feel it humming off him like a curse ready to snap. But because he didn’t belong here. He shouldn't belong here. No one should suffer the brunt of belonging in such a prison.

And neither did you. You didn't belong here either. You didn't want to belong here. You were sure like he felt the same thing. He didn't belong here. And he shouldn't be. You purse your lips as the ceremony continued.

Everyone was praying over him to the kami, to the gods. He stood surrounded by people who either feared him or wanted to use him, yet he held himself like someone who had already decided none of them mattered. The thought made something twist in your chest.

You only realized your name had been called when your uncle Naoya nudged you, hard enough to bruise. One of the Gojo attendants approached, bowing low to you. You stared at them as he got up from the prostation.

“This way, please, Zenin–sama.” he said to you. “The private chamber is ready.”

You nodded stiffly and followed him, leaving behind the crowd, the eyes, the whispers. were led through a series of quiet halls until you reached a secluded room. They were far simpler than the ones in Zenin manor.

But they were much more beautiful, with tatami floors and a low platform. A folding screen divider stood in the center, painted with a scene of cranes in flight. A single cushion had been placed before it. You knew what it meant.

This was where it would happen. The name-giving. Not in public, not before the elders. This was his request, that this be private. This part was old, sacred, but it wasn’t one which was completely aligned with the tradition in the non–sorcerer world.

It was not the eboshioya, the man who gave him the cap, who did give the name. Instead, the Jujutsu world, it was someone important. Someone chosen by the clan, and in rare instances, someone the person celebrated had personally chosen.

For this moment specifically, you were the one who was chosen. It was something important, to be given your name by someone of renown. It was even more when it ties his future to the name you give him. It was a big responsibility.

You knelt behind the screen, hidden from view, hands resting lightly on your lap. Your heart thudded too loudly in your chest. The ink and the scroll were resting just beside you. For a while, the silence stretched, until soft footsteps approached.

Then after a while, he sat there. You could feel him on the other side, his presence unmistakable. It was almost too vast, you think. It was like the sky itself had entered the room. It was like you were in the presence of a god. You gulped.

There was a pause. Then he said, casually, “Kind of dramatic, isn’t it?”

His voice startled a breath out of you. You blinked at his words, at the suddenness of it. You have to admit. You almost laughed, almost. You didn’t expect such words from someone who looked so serious. Instead, you straightened your spine, ignoring the way your throat tightened.

“It’s tradition, I suppose.” you said evenly.

Your voice was steady, but it tasted bitter on your tongue. Like you were swallowing something you couldn’t quite name. On the other side of the screen, he let out a low, dry sound. The half scoff, half sigh.

“Tradition’s a convenient word for doing ridiculous things in very expensive clothing, you know.” he muttered. “It’s ridiculous.”

There was a soft rustle as he shifted, the fine silk of his robes brushing against the tatami mat. He was probably slouching now, settling into a position that would earn scoldings from a dozen elders. You imagined his long limbs folded awkwardly under the weight of ceremonial garb, his disinterest barely concealed.

“I only agreed to this for one reason.” he said, exasperated. “Because it’s the only way they’d let me leave this horrible place.”

Your breath caught at the honesty of it. “To go where?”

He hesitated. “Tokyo Jujutsu High.”

“Ah, that makes sense.” you replied softly, a thread of something like understanding threading through your chest. “I see.”

That explained it. The tension in his shoulders, the restless way he spoke of the ceremony like it was a cage. He wasn’t just being difficult. He was trying to escape. You were both here because it was expected of you. Because to refuse would mean losing something bigger. Something that was finally yours.

You let the silence settle between you like smoke. For a moment, you thought that was it. Then you heard it from him. It was the faintest hint of a smile curling into his voice. Not mocking. Rather, it was more…..curious.

“Hey.” he said, voice low, almost conspiratorial. “You sure you’re the Zenin and not some imposter?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I specifically asked for the Zenin heir to do the naming.” he said, his tone teasing now, light and playfully pointed. “I’d hope not to be disappointed if you’re a fake. You're awfully too calm and quiet to sound like a Zenin heir.”

The corners of your mouth twitched despite yourself. Of course he’d say something like that. He’s still a child, after all. He was bound to be like this. Even here, even now, behind a sacred screen and in the middle of one of the most important ceremonies of his life, you like to think he found room for irreverence. Sometimes a god doesn’t like to sit on the pedestal after all.

“I’m not a fake.” you said after a pause, tone dry. “Just… not the heir anyone expected.”

“Hah.” You could hear the grin in his voice. “The best kind.”

You let the silence stretch again, but this time it didn’t feel empty. It felt like a breath shared across space. A brief tether between two people wrapped in tradition, pretending they had a say.

You looked down at the name scroll in your hands, your fingers tracing the brush as if it might tell you more about the boy on the other side of the screen. Satoru Gojo. Soon, you’d write and speak the name that would symbolically tie him to his future and mark your own place in it.

But for now, you sat together, divided only by a painted screen, both pretending the roles you’d been given didn’t quite fit. You didn’t answer that. Instead, you unrolled the scroll in your lap, smoothing it with fingers that had started to tremble.

“This name, I’m giving you. Your jitsume…..” you said quietly, eyes focused on the candle. “It’s a formality. But once spoken, it will become part of you. You’re meant to carry it as you grow into your full inheritance.”

A breath on the other side. You could almost picture him, tilting his head like he was trying to see through the screen. Like this was the most interesting thing to ponder about in the world right now. He hums at your words.

“And you’re the one giving it to me.”

“Yes.”

There was a pause on his end, the sound of silk shifting as he leaned in slightly behind the screen. You could feel his attention turn sharper, more focused. It was like he wasn’t just going through the motions anymore.

“Why?”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t have the words but because you weren’t sure which ones you were allowed to say. What would be safe. What wouldn’t unravel everything you’d worked so hard to contain.

“Because your clan asked it of me.” you said carefully. “Because you asked. And… because my grandfather agreed.”

It sounded clinical. Distant. The safe answer. But it didn’t satisfy you. It never has. It never really will. And it didn’t seem to satisfy him either. A beat passed between the two of you in silence, thick with unspoken thoughts.

Then all the sudden, ever so quietly, he asked, “Do you agree?”

There was no teasing in his voice now. No trace of his casual arrogance. It wasn’t a rhetorical question, and it wasn’t laced with mockery. It was just…honest. And for a moment, that honesty pinned you in place.

You could have lied. Told him yes, told him it was an honor, a duty, a necessary step in maintaining the balance between clans. All the things people expected you to say when standing in a sacred room like this, wrapped in ceremonial fabric and burdened with ancient tradition.

But something about the way he asked it. He was genuinely curious, as if your answer mattered. As if he needed to tear that script out of your hands so that he may find it in himself to know what you were actually thinking.

“No.” you said finally, and it came out quieter than you intended. “Not at all.”

There was a pause. You didn’t know what he was thinking behind the screen. You didn’t know if he was offended, or disappointed, or even upset. You didn’t know what his face looked like at that moment. Let alone what he was going to say. But after a while, he snickers a laugh. That was the first time you heard him laugh.

“Good.” he said. Lightly. Not cruelly. Not mockingly. It was never that. At least not with you. "That's....good."

You blinked. “Good?”

“Yeah.” he replied, like it was obvious. “Because if you had said yes too quickly, I wouldn’t have believed you. Not with that voice.”

You didn’t say anything. He went on, softer now. “You don’t want to be here, do you?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

Another silence stretched between you. But interestingly, this one wasn’t tense. It felt like the kind of silence shared under the same roof during a storm, not across a battlefield.

You knew that this was something that has never happened before, when a Zenin and a Gojo sat together, at least. The last time thad had happened, someone had nearly died. And that was just in the last clan conference.

You stared down at the scroll in your lap, the inked name catching the candlelight. He sighed for a moment. It was one long, slow, sigh. But not heavy at all. Perhaps it was more the air of relief than anything else.

“That’s the first real thing anyone’s said to me all day.”

"........That's a shame, then."

"No, not at all." He whispers back to you. "If anything, it's a joy. I never....I never had that before."

You could’ve replied. You almost did. But you couldn't. The earnest honesty in his voice killed you. You didn't know what to say to that. What do you say to someone that felt like the ghost of you?

Instead, you let it sit there between you. In your shared unwillingness, your quiet rebellion. And behind the screen, the boy you were meant to name waited. Waited to be someone more than what the world forced upon him.

For a moment, you wondered if, somehow, that mattered more than any of the names written down in ink. He already had a name. Even if you didn't know it yet. But what would he think about this name? What would he think about such a name that was made for him by a stranger?

Another silence fell, but it was no longer brittle or strained. It settled softly in the space between you, like a shared breath, an acknowledgment. Like he understood. Maybe not every nuance, but enough to know this wasn’t just a ceremony.

That you didn’t want this any more than he did. That maybe, in some quiet, inconvenient way, he didn’t either. You furrowed your brow. You looked down at the kanji on the scroll in your hands, the ink still glistening faintly at the edges before it dried into permanence.

Your thumb ghosted just above the characters as if touching them would make it too real. Then, without thinking, you whispered the name for the first time. Not loud enough for anyone else to hear. Just for you.

The moment it left your lips, the air shifted. Slightly. Subtly. The kind of shift only sorcerers felt. It was as though something ancient had stirred and taken notice. Like the world knew a name had been given.

The young Gojo lordling didn’t speak right away. He didn’t have to. He hadn’t fully heard the name yet, not in the way that mattered. You found that he continued to wait, wait for you to say it again. To give him the truth of his new identity. Of his new existence to life.

When the ink had dried and your pulse had quieted, you leaned forward and placed the scroll through the narrow opening in the screen divider, leaving it there in the center. It was half in your world, half in his. You didn’t say anything, but you knew the moment he moved.

You saw his shadow fall over the scroll as he leaned down to pick it up, the flicker of candlelight stretching his silhouette tall and thin across the tatami. He lifted it carefully, as if it were more fragile than it looked. And in the hush of the room, under the warm gold glow of flame and shadow, he unrolled it.

“Huh, interesting.” he muttered thoughtfully. “Sounds heavy.”

“It is.” you replied, voice even.

He chuckled, dry and short. “I’ll try not to drop it.”

A beat. “What’s the name?” he asked.

You kept your voice soft. “Open the scroll.”

He did. And then there was stillness again, except now, it was him who had gone quiet. You couldn’t see his face, not fully, but you could feel the shape of his reaction in the silence. You imagined his bright blue eyes tracing the brushstrokes, the weight of each kanji settling into his chest.

The character was written neatly, reverently even. The kind of calligraphy reserved for the sacred. It was an offering of intent to a god, it was not just artistry. It was devotion, it was tenderness. It was something he’d never seen before.

You could tell he was still staring at it. His shadow shifted ever so slightly toward your side of the screen, a quiet gesture that told you he was looking in your direction now, past the divider, through it.

Finally, he sighed. Not in frustration, but with a kind of acceptance. Maybe even respect. He nodded once and then carefully, deliberately, rolled the scroll closed. He took a moment before he spoke again.

“You can say it out loud, Zenin.” He told you, voice barely above a whisper.

“Satoru.” You finally repeated, with more heart this time. With more tenderness. With more truth.

The name lingered in the air, fuller now, as if it had taken shape. As if it finally belonged to someone. There was a pause. A question, hanging just beneath his voice. “Is that your wish for me?”

“It is.” you said to him, nodding. “Traditionally, you are supposed to be named something related to your father.”

“I don’t have one.”

“That’s why I used something else.”

“Breaking with tradition, huh?”

“I don't like the tradition."

He snickers. “Then you are my beginning.”

“Perhaps.” You said, almost laughing. Then, with a softness you hadn’t planned, you added. “It means daybreak. No, rather, you are a daybreak.”

And that’s what it meant. The vast, deep sky vibrantly giving way to the echoes of the sunlight. Brightly beaming, with hope, with joy. Conquering the darkness to give the world the hope of light. A chance for the day to break.

You thought that it was suited for boy like him, coming of such age into the man that he was. Into he was everything that the world was not. He was the bright open golden sun against the bright big expanse of limitless, unknowable bright blue.

Entirely different, entirely magnificent. It carried the weight of the freedom to hope, the freedom to be more. A name that could stretch as far as he would grow. You think to yourself that it was not a chain, not a title but a horizon. A wish come true.

You didn’t know if he understood the full weight of it yet. Maybe he wouldn’t for a while. Maybe not until years from now, when everything changed. But in this moment, between you and him and the flickering light of tradition and defiance, it was real.

He wore the name now. All of the past would not matter now. Gojo Satoru was what he was. And something in you knew, the name wouldn’t break easily. He wouldn’t break easily.

Satoru was quiet for a long time after that. You could hear him breathing. The sort of one which brings him back to earth. Slow inhale, a slower exhale. Not heavy. Just… deliberate. Like he was trying to commit the syllables to memory not just as a label, but as something he had to carry.

“Satoru.” he said again, quieter this time, tasting it like a promise.

It sounded different when he said it aloud. A little less like a ritual and more like a becoming. You hadn’t expected it to land the way it did. For a moment, you felt the press of something unspoken between you, suspended in the air like the pause between lightning and thunder.

He shifted behind the screen. “You know, Zenin.” he said, voice lighter, but not flippant. “That’s kind of a beautiful name for someone like me.”

You almost smiled. “Someone like you?”

He laughed once, low. “Yeah. Reckless. Loud. Impossible.”

You tilted your head slightly, your eyes drawn to the shadow of his profile through the rice-paper screen. “And you think the daybreak isn’t all of those things?”

He paused again. You could feel the smile in his next words. “Touché.”

You leaned back slightly, the formality beginning to fade. Not entirely, never entirely, not in this house, not in this world. But at the very least, it was more than enough to breathe. To exist in the world once again.

He was holding the scroll still, and you imagined his fingers brushing the curve of the tenderly written name on the fine paper. Satoru. A daybreak sky that ran so high and so deep that no one could measure it. That no one could chain down.

You gave it to him because of what you saw in him: the untamed stretch of something far greater than what the clans could control. And he will break the wheel. You just know he would.

"I never had a name before." He whispered to himself. "A name....that belonged to me."

"You have one now."

You could see him lift his head towards you against the shadow of candle light. "I know."

There was a heartbeat of silence. A gentler one, warmer. His shadow didn’t move, but the air between you shifted again. It was a lot less tense, perhaps more reverent. Like the name had closed a distance neither of you had realized was there. You understood what he was going through after all.

"I don't know if they will try to change the word I used but—"

He shakes his head. "That doesn't matter. This....this scroll is all that matters here. Nothing else."

Your purse your lips at him. Then you let yourself smile. "I know."

“I wasn’t sure, really.” he said softly, almost like a confession. “I didn’t know if anyone in your clan saw me as anything but a threat. Or a tool. Just like in my clan. I wanted to know if I.....I could trust someone outside of myself.”

You swallowed. “Most of them still do.”

"They said you would be perfect to give me my name." Satoru now retorts to you, putting the scroll down softly onto the tatami. "That I could trust you."

"Who said that?"

"Masamichi." He said to you, causing your eyes to open wide. "He said that I could trust you. That he trusts you."

"......Is that so?"

"Yeah." He retorts back.

You didn't know what to feel about that. You didn't like Masamichi. But you tolerated him. You tolerated him for your father's sake. Yet to hear that he trusts you, and had let this young man know that you could be trusted. It was a lot to process.

“How about you?”

"What about me?"

"Do you view me as they do? As the others do?"

You let out a sigh as you shook your head. “I wouldn’t have given you that name if I did.”

He let out a breath. “Thanks.”

You heard the soft rustle of silk as he stood, the ceremony robe settling against his frame with a practiced elegance that didn’t suit how casually he carried himself. The screen still stood between you, a delicate barrier of paper and wood, but his presence felt close. It was closer than it should have.

He didn’t say anything right away. Maybe he was looking down at the scroll again. Maybe he was just thinking. Then, finally, his voice broke the hush. It was gentle, almost hesitant. He doesn’t want to leave this genuine world just yet.

“I have to go first, don’t I?”

You nodded, though he couldn’t see it. “That’s the order.”

He hummed. “Figures. Everything’s in order. Everyone in their place.”

“I hope I end up meeting you again someday.” he said, after a little while. His voice was steady now. Not ceremonial, not lofty, It was just…honest. “And maybe…..”

He stops himself. He was shaking the back of his head from your view behind the screen. You blinked. He shifted, and you could tell he was facing you directly now, even through the divider. And that he was likely shy.

“Not like this, I mean......” he added. “Not behind a screen. Not under a name someone else asked for. Maybe just… as a friend.”

You didn’t know what to say. It felt too raw, too real. It was spoken in a world that didn’t make space for softness unless it was shrouded in duty, in tradition. But he had carved a space for it anyway, right here, at the edge of something ancient and rigid.

You swallowed. “A Zenin and a Gojo being friends is….. a bit impossible—”

“We don’t have to be like that. I mean….” He whispers to you, almost like he was a boy and not the young man he just came to be. “Just you and me. People. Not gods. Friends.”

“Maybe.” you said quietly, because hope wasn’t something you knew how to hold onto easily. “Maybe one day.”

There was a small silence, and then the soft scuff of his sandals against the floor. You don;t know whether or not he’s satisfied with your words. He turned, walking toward the exit. Back toward the noise, the ceremony, the burden of who he had to become.

For a while, you stayed behind the screen, alone. You could still feel the name still lingering on your tongue, the echo of his words heavier than any title. You let out another sigh as you looked up into the ceiling.

“That was too much.”

epilogue

The afternoon light spilled golden across the porch, brushing lazy warmth over your feet and turning Gojo Satoru’s white hair almost silver where it caught the sun. it was finally the time you can be alone together, while the kids were playing with your mother. Thank the gods, because he wanted you all to himself today.

He was lounging beside you, one leg tucked up, the other swinging off the engawa like a child without a care in the world. He wore a yukata so soft and wrinkled it barely resembled formalwear.

There was a tiny stain on the sleeve from where he had definitely dropped a bite of taiyaki earlier. He looked at peace right now. Which meant, naturally, he was about to say something ridiculous.

“You know, baby…..” he said, sipping from his tea like he was about to drop something profound, “I was so shy back then, wasn't I?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Back when?”

“I just remembered it right now.”

“What were you remembering right now?”

“You know…..” He rubs the back of his head, his ears starting to get red. “The thing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Satoru, what thing—”

“Don’t call me by my full name here!” He cries to you, pouting. “Call me ‘toru at least.”

You sighed. “You need to tell me what you were thinking about—”

“Fine!” He glanced sideways, grinning. “The genpuku. When you named me.”

You blinked. “The….genpuku? From years ago.”

“Yeah…..” He whispers into the air. “Great, now I’m blushing—”

You laughed, full and disbelieving. “You? Shy?”

“Painfully! I was young, you know!”

“You played and were mischievous with me behind a paper screen and told me you hoped we’d meet again as friends.”

“That was peak desperation, thank you very much. I didn’t have friends then.” he sniffed, mock offended. “Plus, I was trying not to pass out from nerves. You were the person I was waiting to meet, you know.”

“You were glowing with confidence.”

He sighed dramatically, flopping sideways until his head rested in your lap, tea cup still in hand. “That’s because I was trying to impress you. You were so calm and serious and elegant and terrifying—”

“Terrifying?”

“Majestic, really.” he corrected quickly. “In a beautiful, serene, ‘I-might-crush-your-spine’ kind of way.”

You snorted, brushing his hair back absently as he peeked up at you with those bright blue eyes. “Okay, then tell me, ‘toru.” you said, voice softening. “Why did you choose me? To name you? I get that Masamichi said that I could be trusted but.....”

His bright blue eyes searched yours, and something gentler passed through his expression. The teasing faded, just a little. You watched as he leaned a little bit, almost thinking too fondly about what he was remembering in his memories.

He looked at you, almost too fondly. “You were the only one who knew what it felt like. To be treated like something untouchable. A weapon. A symbol. You were like that for the Zenin. For the Mikoto. I wanted to….I wanted to feel seen by someone like me.”

You blinked. Your hand stilled in his hair. “That…..”

“And, the most important reason is this.…..” he added, a smile returning like sunlight. He gazed at you, brightly. “Because you didn’t look at me like I was a god. Even behind the screen, you looked at me like I was just me.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “No. Just like an idiot in very expensive robes.”

“Exactly! Grounding. Boyish, charming!” He nodded. “Truly, I was overcome with emotions.”

“Gods shouldn’t whine that much.” you muttered back at him. “Nor be boastful.”

“Well, now I have a wife who reminds me I’m human every day. Especially when I leave socks everywhere.”

You laughed and shook your head at him. Before long, you were already leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead, and he immediately smiled. He found himself content, almost smug.

“Do you still remember it?” you asked, voice quieter now. “The name?”

He looked up at you, soft and sure. “Daybreak. Of course I do. That's my name.”

“Still feels heavy?”

He nodded. “Yeah. But now it feels like home.”

Your hand slipped into his, and he squeezed it lightly. “I really meant it, you know.” he added after a beat. “Back then. When I said I hoped I’d meet you again. As a friend.”

You smiled. “You did.”

“Yeah.” He sighed dramatically. “And now I’m stuck with you forever. What a twist.”

“Poor thing.” you teased, poking his cheek. “I should’ve named you something more humble.”

“Please, you gave me a name like Daybreak. It was meant to be, me being prideful. You basically carved it into fate that I’d be the coolest person alive.” He laughs.

“Hm, I should change that right now.”

“Please don’t!”

And yet, as he looked at you like you were his whole world, with his head in your lap. He let the sun feel wondrously tender on his skin and in his hair. The warm milk tea was all but forgotten. It didn’t feel like arrogance.

There was nothing else more important than this moment. He was your friend, and he was your everything. He was just your love. And maybe your little wonder. Because somehow, in all that vastness, he had ended up feeling like he belonged best in your arms.

The engawa creaked gently under your weight as you leaned back on your hands, sun slipping down into a soft golden haze across the yard. Gojo Satoru, ever the sprawl-prone creature, was lying beside you with his head in your lap, eyes half-lidded from warmth and satisfaction.

He looked like he could nap there forever, completely unaware and in the peace of your touch, or maybe completely aware of the chaos slowly making its way toward the house. You heard them before you saw them.

Satoshi was first, charging down the path barefoot, a swirl of laughter trailing behind him like wind. “Papa! Mama! Grandma let me eat two manju!”

Behind him came your mother, exasperated but smiling, carrying the bags you told her not to bring. Following her were Tsumiki and Megumi. Tsumiki with her hair tied up in a cute little bow and Megumi with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, scowling at the earth like it had personally offended him. Satoru perked up immediately.

“The gremlins return to us, it would seem.” he whispered reverently, sitting up.

“I’m sorry, it seemed like they wanted to see you already.” Your mother apologized to the two of you. “Especially Satoshi.”

You shook your head, smiling. “It’s okay. We missed them anyway.”

Satoshi threw himself at him like a missile, arms flung wide. “Papa! Papa, look! I can do the thing. Watch this!”

And before either of you could stop him, he performed a rather questionable forward roll into the garden and stood up like he’d just nailed an Olympic routine. You clapped politely. Your husband all but wiped a fake tear.

“Incredible. Stunning. 10 out of 10.”

“Don’t encourage him, Gojo–san.” Megumi muttered, stopping just shy of the porch. “He’s going to start flipping off furniture.”

“Sounds like his father, alright.” your mother muttered behind you, setting the bags down with a long-suffering sigh.

Tsumiki approached you with a hopeful glint in her eyes. “Gen–san!” she began sweetly, “can we make cookies again? The chocolate ones. I remember the chocolate ones.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but Satoru cut in, grinning. “Only if I get to eat half the dough again.”

“You’re not supposed to eat raw dough, you know.” you and Tsumiki said at the same time.

“Shadow clone, wah!” Satoshi whispered, wide-eyed at the synchronicity.

You ruffled Tsumiki’s hair. “Of course we can, sweetheart. After dinner. As long as the Strongest doesn’t burn it again.”

“One time.” Your husband groaned dramatically. “You almost set the rice on fire last week.”

“Almost is the key word.” you repeated with a raised brow.

Meanwhile, Megumi was lingering near the steps, trying and failing to look disinterested. You could see it. The pout hidden behind his usual scowl, the way he kept glancing at Satoru from under his bangs.

“Something wrong, ‘gumi?” you asked gently.

He kicked at a pebble. “No. It’s just… someone said they were going to show me a new shadow technique today. But then someone fell asleep on the porch this morning before he could do anything about it.”

Satoru turned like he'd been shot. He looks to Megumi all of the sudden, too instantenously. “Wait, what?! No—I didn’t—I was resting my eyes!”

“You snored, I heard you.” Megumi muttered.

“I breathed rhythmically!” Satoru protested.

You hid your laugh behind your hand. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t forget, not at all.” Satoru said, climbing to his feet and brushing imaginary dust off his pants. “I was… testing his patience. Which he failed, by the way.”

“Tsundere, tsun–tsun, nii-san!” Satoshi sang under his breath, earning a light swat from Megumi.

Your mother was already halfway into the house, muttering something about children running amok and dinner needing finishing. Satoshi scampered after her, still narrating his manju-fueled adventures.

Tsumiki held your hand as you stood, chattering about cookie cutters and whether she could shape one into a little dog. And Satoru lingered a moment, waiting for Megumi to look up at him. The kid was too cute for his own good when he was like this.

Satoru patted his dark charcoal hair, causing Megumi to try and push him away. The white haired man couldn’t help but laugh at his reaction. He was quite the boy and Satoru couldn’t help but love him to bits for it.

“You still want me to teach you?” he asked softly, just for him.

Megumi glanced at you, then back at Satoru, then shrugged. “If you don’t fall asleep again, I might consider it.”

Satoru grinned, wide and toothy. “You wound me, kid.”

You watched them from the doorway, warmth blooming in your chest. The man you’d once named behind a screen and now genuinely truly loved was now barefoot on your porch, bickering with your grumpy nephew, adored by your niece and son, trailing warmth and chaos wherever he went.

“Hey.” he said, coming up beside you again as the kids disappeared into the house. “Still think your precious Daybreak was a good name?”

You looked at him, his eyes bright in the sunset, laughter on his lips. You nodded. “Yeah. It suits you.”

“Even now?”

“Especially now, you know?” you said. “You’ve filled the sky.”

He leaned in, kissed your cheek, and smiled like it was all the answer he’d ever need. “And you fill my whole world.”

142 notes · View notes