#cannot let them live their lives in peace without at least one briefly traumatic moment a week

[literaila]

Reader meeting gojo parents when since they’re confirmed to be alive ☹️

the next time gojo satoru claims to be a “grown man” you’re going to pull his annoyingly soft hair and shove him down a sink drain.

this child, this infant—the very same one who got lost exactly one minute after you told him not to wander off—is going to be the death of you.

you’d always thought that you might go out peacefully, in your sleep or lying in a hospital bed. or, at least, heroically. saving some innocent bystander, leaving the world with some witty last remark.

but no.

instead you’ll die of a heart attack. instead you’re going to look for gojo and accidentally wander into some den of cursed spirits and die before you get the chance to pull on his ear at least one last time.

even tsumiki doesn’t get lost this much—and she gets distracted every time she catches a glimpse of pink in a window.

you walk amongst the crowd, looking for long legs and a stupid blind-fold, thinking about how you should’ve brought megumi. he’s more observant than you are—he’ll look for any chance to get gojo in trouble.

namely, this one.

you sigh, dialing his number again. but you can barely hear it ring as you hold it to your ear, you can barely hear the, “it’s gojo, you must feel sorry that you missed me—“ before you hang up. he’s not going to listen to any short of breath voicemail you leave anyway.

he can teleport home, you suppose. it might be nice to have a couple of hours to yourself, to teach him a lesson for once—

(and no, you won’t miss him. that’s a ridiculous suggestion. why would you miss a third child that clings to you, and whines every time you’re not paying enough attention to him, and whispers sweet things in your ear when he’s bored, and follows you wherever you go, and always trails his hand down the small of your back because he knows—

no, okay? no.)

you’re thinking about how gojo satoru is the worst person you’ve ever met—and you’ve had to sit through meetings with the higher ups, so—when you run into someone.

you get your obliviousness from gojo, thank you.

“i’m sorry, i—“ but you look up and you’re met with the same smile you were just cursing out in your head.

though, maybe not quite the same? it’s usually not so pained and he’s usually sticking his tongue out a little bit—

“baby,” he breathes, chest inflating.

you frown. “i thought i told you to stay by me. i’ve been looking for you for, like, fifteen minutes, are you—“

he turns, just slightly, and usually you would pinch his cheek for trying to deflect but… there’s a woman standing there. looking at you—at him—like she’s seen some sort of ghost.

satoru has that effect, you suppose.

“oh, sorry,” you say, stepping so you wave at her. “did i—am i interrupting?”

“no, we—“

“it’s nothing—“

they both stop. and satoru may be blindfolded, as ridiculous as he is, but you can practically see the glance that they share.

the quick look away, awkwardness floating through the air like dust.

you tilt your head, brows furrowing.

satoru doesn’t necessarily like talking to strangers, but the man doesn’t know what social expectations are. and he’s certainly not awkward.

you wrap your hand around his arm, feeling the release of his technique (and yours), as you consider them. “satoru. who’s this?”

“she’s…” he makes a vague gesture with his hand, trying to telepathically communicate with you, and winces again.

you give him another strange look.

but the woman clears her throat, gesturing to satoru. “i am his mother.”

you still, keeping your eyes on satoru. he doesn’t look back towards you, doesn’t nod to confirm or acknowledge her in any way. his head is tilted up, eyes to the sky.

eventually, you look to the woman.

suddenly you see it, like a flash of light. her eyes are blue, and though not as breathtaking as satoru’s, still light enough to be beautiful.

her hair is a glimmering silver and her entire body is tense.

but she doesn’t look like satoru at all, you think. satoru is always smiling, always moving a million miles a minute. he’s gesturing and trying to make you laugh and he’s never nervous, he’s never caught off guard.

except for maybe now.

some hindrance in your mind thinks about how megumi resembles satoru at times—the model of his smirk or the tease in his eyes. you recall tsumiki’s laugh, the mimicry of sound when she’s laughing with satoru.

it’s not biology, you hear, but connection.

the way you mold each other, the tight grip that admiration has on the very material of your soul.

“oh,” you breathe out finally. but you don’t say anything else to her, can’t think of anything you might want to. you turn to satoru, leaning closer to him, hand gripping his arm. “satoru, do you want to—“

he finally looks forward, towering both of you. “this is my wife,” he interrupts, smoothly. “we were just shopping.”

“it’s lovely to meet you.”

the woman is trying to smile but it doesn’t mean much to you. she keeps glancing at satoru—staring like he’s some public attraction, hesitating like he might bite if provoked.

you pull on his arm a little bit, dragging him a step away. you don’t want to ask in front of her—dont want to take that means of distance away from him—but you don’t have a choice.

“do you want to go?” you whisper to him, wishing you could meet his eyes. “we don’t have to stay.”

his mouth opens, then closes. “i’m not—“ he swallows, stopping.

you’re about to say something—to tell him that he doesn’t owe her anything, that he doesn’t have to be afraid—but she clears her throat again and you turn, ready to say whatever you can to get your satoru back.

the one who’s never left speechless, never left not knowing what to say.

“satoru,” the woman speaks, saying his name like she deserves to. like it’s different when it’s in her mouth—a possession no one else can have. “i have to go—we aren’t supposed to be in the city for very long.”

you frown at her and satoru continues to stare at the side of your head.

“here’s my phone number. i would like—love. i would love to speak with you, if you have the time. whenever you want. if you want.”

she holds her hand out to him and you already know that he’s not going to reach out to her.

you already know that even if he did—she would never get past the world of space between them.

so you reach out instead, grabbing it from her. “thank you.”

“no—thank you. i am…” she pauses, looking away, finally. “i am glad you’ve found happiness, satoru. i… have to go. it was nice seeing you,” she blinks at you, a slight bow as she takes a step back. “and meeting you.”

you don’t say anything but wait, watching for satoru as she walks away from the two of you—keeping him safe for just a moment.

and as soon as she’s gone, you turn to look at him, not sure what to say.

it’s not like with your mom—if satoru understands your childhood at all, you’re completely lost to his.

“you okay, baby?” you ask, staying close to him. maybe it’s a defense mechanism—trying to keep him from shutting you out—or maybe it’s so he knows that you’re there.

“i didn’t think i would ever see her again.”

“did she…” his eyes meet yours, even through the fabric, his mouth a straight line. “did she say anything before i showed up?”

he shakes his head. “no. she just stared at me. i—i didn’t realize who she was, at first.”

“that’s understandable.”

“i don’t know why she would be here.” he looks around, seeming to come to, and then finds you again. “did i get lost?”

you laugh, a bit shocked, pushing your forehead into his chest. “ran away, more like.”

his arms wrap around your back, holding you in place. “sorry. i smelled dessert.”

“of course you did.”

he takes a deep breath, then pulls away. “okay. more shopping? did you check out at the gift shop?”

“are you okay, satoru?”

“i’m fine,” he answers immediately. you stare at him, unblinking, and wait. after a moment, he licks his lip. “okay. yeah. i don’t know.”

“that’s okay.”

three years ago, he wouldn’t have said anything to you. two years ago, he would’ve feigned indifference and hidden himself away for a week.

but you’ve learned to move past these walls, learned how to fill the space and not push too hard.

and you love satoru. too much to let him fall away from you, now.

he sighs after a moment, shaking his head again. “she.. she looks different.”

“it’s been at least ten years, right?”

“yeah.”

you wipe his cheek, adjusting his blindfold for him. “do you want to call her?”

“i don’t—“ he frowns, just minimally. “i don’t know.”

“that’s okay. but you can, you know?”

“would you help me?”

“help you dial her number?”

he grabs your wrist, his cheek quirking. “help me talk to her.”

“hmm…” you tap his nose with a finger. “maybe if you beg.”

“this is why i ran away,” he says, just barely pouting.

and that’s how you know you’ve gotten your satoru back. as annoying as he is.

[justkindaoverhereobsessing]

you stumble, you soar (3/3)

What if Tony and Ziva had just a little more time in Paris during Jet Lag?

Part one is here and part two is here.

Happiest of birthdays to @why-did-you-just-lie-to-mcgee, and thank you one last time to @indestinatus for plotting assistance! This chapter is smutty, so ‘read more’ at your own risk.  ___________________

“There are only two places in the world where we can live happy: at home and in Paris.” 

— Ernest Hemingway

___________________

Sharing a bed is more comfortable, more natural the second night. Dancing and confiding have brought new closeness, and as the lights go off and the room falls into darkness, Ziva feels decidedly content. “Tony?” she murmurs.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For listening, and for… for reminding me.”

“Of course. Reminding you of what, though?”

“Of what it means to let go.”

He finds her hand in the darkness and holds on tight.

___________________

In the wee hours of the morning, something wakes Tony from a deep sleep, and he blinks his eyes open, confused and groggy. He can’t place what woke him up, and it takes him a minute to figure out where he is—it’s the smell of Ziva’s hair that gives him the clue he needs to figure it out.

Ah, yes, Paris. 

Everything seems normal in the room, no bright lights or loud noises to tip him off as to what made him stir, so after a moment, Tony closes his eyes and starts chasing sleep again. Then he hears it…

A moan.

It’s obviously coming from Ziva, and he opens his eyes once more to glance at her. Afraid she’s having a nightmare—particularly because of what they talked about earlier—he debates on whether or not to wake her.

By the time his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, Ziva has let out another groan, and Tony squints at her face. Her features are contracted into an expression that disappears before Tony can identify it, but she doesn’t look too upset, at least. Her body seems relaxed under the covers. 

As soon as he has the thought, though, she starts shifting restlessly, and she makes another noise. Maybe it’s time to wake her up.

“Ziva?”

She responds by moaning again; this time, it’s his name.

Interesting. 

“Ziva?”

___________________

The bullpen has never seemed like a particularly sexy place, but it sure as hell is when Tony’s head is between Ziva’s legs. 

She’s behind her desk, one foot planted on the floor and the other draped over the arm of her chair. She rarely if ever wears a skirt to work, always ready to run at the drop of a cat, but she’s glad she did today. It gives Tony easy access—and he certainly isn’t complaining. In fact, he’s making hums of approval deep in his throat that make the strangest, most addictive vibrations across her clit as he sucks on it. 

“Mm, Tony,” she groans.

Good thing the office is empty besides the two of them. 

She can feel him smile and it does funny things to her insides. “What can I do for you, Agent David?” he purrs. 

“Harder. Fingers.” Her language skills have clearly deteriorated, and it doesn’t even occur to her that he shouldn’t understand the words she just uttered in Hebrew; it was all she could get out. It doesn’t matter, though—all that matters is that he follows her directions immediately. 

She hisses and spreads her legs further as he dips a finger and then two into her heat, even as his lips form a tighter seal and he increases the strength of his sucking.

Fuck.

This is almost agonizing, the way he’s touching her and finger-fucking her without bringing her quite to the edge she’s aching to reach, and to make matters worse, he keeps stopping what he’s doing to taunt her. “Someone could walk in,” he says, his voice rough—he’s obviously just as turned on as she is. “What do you think of that, Ziva?”

A fresh surge of wetness against his fingers answers his question, and he laughs throatily. “Naughty, Ms. David. You’re a dirty girl, aren’t you?”

She can’t even answer. 

Getting the hint, he puts his mouth right back where—in Ziva’s opinion—it belongs. She lets her head drop to the back of the chair, her eyes sliding shut in ecstasy. 

Then Tony’s talking again, and the tone of his voice is different somehow. “Ziva?”

She doesn’t answer. Whatever he wants can wait; frankly, she’s not interested in hearing it. 

“Ziva?”

“Mm. Tony.”

“Ziva? Ziva!” 

She feels a hand shake her shoulder, and she wakes with a start. 

___________________

Tony has tried several times to pull Ziva from whatever dream she’s having, but she won’t wake. Usually a very light sleeper, tonight she seems determined to hold onto the images her subconscious is providing. 

Finally, after several rounds of repeating her name with louder and louder volume, Tony finally grabs her shoulder and jiggles it lightly. It works, but within a half second, he’s been knocked onto his back on the mattress and there’s a knife to his throat.

This is more or less what he was expecting when he resigned himself to waking his partner. (Where the hell did she hide her knife, though? He watched her as they went to bed; he saw no sign of it.)

“It’s just me, Ziva. Wake up.”

The deep suspicion in Ziva’s expression fades at once, and she pulls the knife from his throat. She stays inches from Tony’s face, though, and she frowns at him. “Why did you wake me?” she demands. “I could have killed you.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t.” He’s distracted by the way her lips look in the dimness as they form her words. He remembers all too well from years ago how those lips feel against his own. “And you seemed like you were having a nightmare.”

This seems to frustrate Ziva more, because she leans closer to hiss at him. “I was not.”

“Geez, okay, sorry for waking you, then.” What’s he even saying anymore? All he wants is to kiss her; he can’t help the preoccupation. He is who he is. 

“Do not do it again.”

“I won’t.”

There’s a beat, and then she’s kissing him. Tony groans into it, enjoying the instant gratification of wish fulfillment. He lets himself be caught up in it for a moment, but he realizes after a long moment just how wrong this is, particularly when he feels Ziva’s fingers start to dance down his chest.

He pulls out of the kiss immediately, gasping for air. “Ziva, stop. Stop.”

She does, but she seems confused and frustrated. “Why?”

Tony dimly hears the knife thud to the floor on Ziva’s side of the bed; he hasn’t realized she was still holding it.

“Because this isn’t a good idea. You’re—you’re feeling vulnerable right now.”

“Do not presume to tell me how I am feeling.” There’s less annoyance in her tone, though, as she realizes that he’s simply trying—yet again—to take care of her. 

“Okay, sorry. I just mean that you’ve been through something traumatic, and maybe you’re just feeling—sorry, you’re just acting or whatever—you’re wanting closeness because you shared so much last night. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“Who kissed who, Tony?” She doesn’t move off of him, but she does lean away slightly. Not being able to feel her breath on his face helps Tony focus slightly, and he gives her a small smile.

“You kissed me. But it doesn’t mean I was right to kiss you back.”

“You worry about you, and I will worry about me.”

“I can’t just turn off the concern, Ziva. You’re important to me.”

The rest of Ziva’s frustration leaves her face, and she drops her forehead briefly to Tony’s chest. “You are important to me, too,” she answers softly. “But I know what I want.”

“And that’s me?”

“You cannot pretend we have not had… tension… since day one.”

“We have,” he agrees, hating his morals for making him argue with her. He really does want her. God, he’s never wanted something so badly in his life, it feels like, especially since she’s still partially on top of him, warm and sweet-smelling and very willing. “But I’m not sure now is the time.”

In answer, she lifts her head to kiss him again, less fiercely this time. “I disagree,” she whispers when she pulls away. “I think now is exactly the time. I am okay, Tony. I am. And I would not do this if I was not certain. I want… intimacy again, yes? I am ready.”

When she kisses him a third time, Tony has a hard time remembering why he stopped her in the first place, and he kisses her back lightly. “Are you sure? You can’t exactly take this back, Ziva?” he murmurs against her lips. 

“Yes.”

And he senses that she means it, so he stops arguing. Instead, he renews the kiss, trusting that she knows herself well enough to understand what she wants and needs, and having equal faith in her ability to stop them both if she changes her mind. 

Ziva responds, immediately and with great enthusiasm. Within very little time, she has climbed entirely on top of her partner, and they’re both groaning. “God, you’re loud, aren’t you?” Tony asks in breathless amusement when his hands find themselves on her breasts and she lets out a particularly loud moan.

“Shut up,” she orders him, and then she does something with her tongue to the underside of his jaw that has him nearly matching her volume. 

Clothes are shed, and while Tony half-expects Ziva to put a halt to their activities, she only seems to grow more fervent in her participation. He remembers her saying she prefers it on top—well, that certainly seems to be true. Maybe it’s just that she likes being the one in control. Whatever it is, he’s more than happy to let her have it. 

When Ziva produces a condom from somewhere and starts to put it on, he tries one more time to make sure that she really wants this. “Ziva, are you—”

“If you ask me one more time if I am sure, Tony, I will trade this condom for my knife.”

He gulps and shuts his mouth; she’s smiling to herself as she rolls the condom on, certainly seeming at peace for now. He won’t argue again.

When she positions herself and sinks down on him, Tony stupidly thinks that the City of Love is aptly named. When she briefly shifts her position, he thinks the City of Lights is even more appropriate, because he’s seeing stars. Then she starts to move, and all thought leaves his mind completely. 

Despite the somewhat fierce starts, Ziva moves slowly, languorously. The sex becomes sensual, overwhelmingly intimate, wordless but not emotionless. It’s been a long time in coming, and neither Tony nor Ziva misses that fact.

Ziva’s sharp mind logs details even in the throes of passion; soft sheets sliding across skin, her fingernails scraping through the smattering of hair on Tony’s chest, the way her toes curl underneath her involuntarily when Tony hits that spot, the surprisingly graceful curve of Tony’s throat as he throws his head back in a deep groan that borders on a growl.

She’ll remember this for a long time. So will he.

And when they finally come, it’s together.

Though they separate to get cleaned up, they fall asleep holding hands again.

___________________

In the morning, it’s back to business, picking up their witness and transporting her to the airport.

No one mentions anything from the last twenty-four hours. They don’t bring up the dancing, or Ziva’s confession, and they certainly don’t talk about the sex. There are little smiles, though, little glances.

Hints of something passed and something that’s maybe yet to come.

Of course, they both deny up and down that they shared a bed. That’s just a given.

But they know the truth, and neither has any regrets.

___________________

Ten years later, Tali skips ahead of her parents as they stroll down Pont Neuf. Tony and Ziva are still a little cautious around one another—Ziva has only been back for a week—but they’re determinedly pushing through it. They’re holding hands now, going back and forth between murmured conversations about nothing and watching their daughter as she joyously releases pent up energy. 

“This is where it all started, huh?”

“Where what started?” Ziva asks, but she’s smiling—she knows what he’s talking about. 

“Us.”

“I think we started in Washington.”

“Maybe unofficially, but this is where…” he shrugs, and looks down at her with a rare flash of shyness. “You know.”

Ziva’s grin widens. “I know what?” she prompts.

“This is where we first made love,” Tony reminds her, amused with her nudging. 

“We were not even dating then—was it not just sex?”

“Jesus, woman, are you going to make me spell it out for you?” Tony laughs and glances over to where Tali has struck up a loud conversation with a charmed florist five meters ahead. She’s quite the flower child.

“Spell out what?” It’s almost a challenge.

“This is where I realized I loved you, Ziva David.” He gives her a crinkly-eyed smile, the kind that’s only reserved for her and for Tali. 

“It was the same for me,” Ziva agrees, feeling very warm. “And I never forgot. No matter where I went.”

“Wherever you went… you were always going to end back here, in Paris,” Tony says with a confidence he can’t explain. “We were always going to end up back here.”

Paris, after all, was home even before they lived here.