#his shoes are hanging on by a thread and it says so much

[dallasgallant]

The amount of holes in Johnnys converse…

[arminsumi]

Ahhh, student!Satoru, who's leaning into the palm of his hand, mouth concealed behind his pale hand, eyes stuck on you. And they've been stuck on you ever since he saw you first walk up the steps into Jujutsu Tech. Bright blue. Heart quivering. Fixed gaze.

He takes any excuse to be near you, even though he knows that you're annoyed by him — he's so cocky and full of himself. But don't you see that he's also just a lovesick boy? Look at the way he follows after you down the halls, long striding legs effortlessly meeting your quick pace.

You're just trying to get a cold soda from the vending machine after a long two hours of practicing martial arts with Satoru, Suguru and Shoko. And since Shoko promptly left with Suguru for a cigarette break, that left an overjoyed Satoru alone with you.

"Which flavor do you usually get?" he asks, grasping at any conversation starter he can think of. He just wants to talk to you, even if it's about something so dumb... even if it's while stood next to a vending machine.

"Uh, strawberry... it's my favorite."

He takes a mental note of that.

He's always trying to get your attention, even if he has to become a fool in order to earn a glance from you. Walking away, looking dumb, even his best friend shakes his head at him and tells him that he's way too downbad for a girl that doesn't even like him back.

But Satoru doesn't listen to anyone when they say that you don't like him back. He knows the chemistry is there, as awkward as it may be sometimes. He knows there's something connecting him and you, like an invisible thread.

He still brings you gifts on V-day. He still pesters you in class. He still shares one earbud with you on train rides. He still gets that accelerated heart beat when you so much as graze your hand over his while walking side-by-side.

So eagerly looking at your lips, Satoru pulls out lip balm and makes eye contact with you while applying it. He's always got chapped lips, he knows because someone made exactly 1 comment about it and now he's never forgotten to put a lip balm in his pocket.

"Whatchya starin' at my lips for? You wanna have a taste of strawberry?" he winks, puckering his kissable lips at you.

"Ough..." you cringe at him, "Satoru, it's no wonder you're single."

Okay, he has zero flirting skills. But he earns a smile out of you right then, so even if he's cringe, he's surely doing something right. Are the cogs turning in your head? Do you think he's cute? Do you want to kiss him should he lean into a kiss oh he's leaning into a kiss now aaand he nearly falls flat on his face, because you didn't notice that he was leaning in for a kiss and now he just has to play it off and look like a dumbass once again.

His feelings grow exponentially as the years pass.

You're always catching him staring and he doesn't even feel ashamed.

Though it's been on his mind all the time, it's not until after three years of knowing you that Satoru kisses you.

It happens one day during heavy rainfall. He runs to you with a grin, no umbrella, totally soaked, and like a bright-eyed bunny he bounces at your side.

He's unzipping his uniform jacket, hanging it over the two of you. The proximity has his heart thumping. Before he knows it, he's leaning down to kiss you, right there as the two of you are concealed from the world in your own little bubble — in reality, everyone knows that you two are liplocking under Satoru's jacket. Duh. His shoes click on the ground as he repositions himself, bending his knees and arching down to meet your lips, 'till his spine gets angry at him for falling for a short girl.

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch6. the in-laws

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency dept, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance plan in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation w him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity, mentions of cigarettes, depression/anxiety; btw gojo in this fic is in his mid 30s n reader is in her late 20s

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 6/x

ᰔ words. 12.6k

a/n. hiii my ihm lovelies!! hope you all had a great holiday season. i wanted to get this chapter out as a christmas gift but i failed and then i wanted to get it out as a new years post but failed and then i got food poisoning yesterday and while i was rotting in bed i ended up finishing the chapter LOL. it seems i can only write when i'm under duress? but anywho. hope you enjoy haha and see you at the bottom!

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“Alright, let’s head out,” you hear Gojo say from the bottom of the staircase, followed by the sound of dress shoes on the hardwood floor, and you glance over to see him clad in a navy suit with a white button up shirt that had one singular button undone. He’s messing with the cuffs of his suit jacket as he makes his way over to you. You catch the scent of his cologne, and it’s alarming how familiar it’s become to you.

Days go by shorter lately, mainly because it’s winter, and so the sun has almost fully set by 6pm. The sky outside is a dark hue of purple, seen past the windows of Gojo’s house, and the warm, dim lighting inside makes you feel strangely nostalgic. Like in a way that feels like home.

You tirelessly tousle with your hair at the mirror hanging above the foyer table that was snug up against the wall at the front entrance. Your hair wasn’t cooperating. You attempted to curl it, for the first time in forever given you can’t remember the last time you had enough time to do your hair, so you were out of practice. It was obvious, given the way some strands were curled outwards from your face, some inwards, some straighter than others, some curlier than others, and you were about to have a full blown mental breakdown before you remember your grounding exercises– 1, 2, 3, 4.

You turn to face Gojo, who you saw in the mirror was standing behind you and watching you with amusement, and you breathe in deep. “How do I look?” you ask, petting down the fabric of your dress as you face him. The thought occurs to you–why do you give so much of a fuck how you look right now? It’s just Gojo’s family. It’s not like they’re actually your in-laws. And from what Gojo’s mother had told you, it was just an intimate little get-together with Sana’s family. It’s really not a big deal. Yet the necessity to impress still consumes you.

Gojo threads his hands into the pockets of his pants and tilts his head to assess your appearance, and you watch his gaze trace the frame of you. “Nice,” he says, “you look nice.”

“That’s it? Just nice?”

“Well, I tried to call you hot earlier, but it got me yelled at.”

You roll your eyes and grab your purse off the foyer table, “okay, whatever, I’ll take it.” And then you head towards the front door. You hear the jingle of car keys from behind you as they’re shoved into a pocket.

The outside air is chilly in a way that’s almost sobering. Gojo opens the door for you to get inside his car and the warmth of your peach cobbler in your lap comforts some of the nerves you felt. By the time Gojo clicks his seatbelt into place in the driver seat, you realize you’ve never been in his car before, or driven anywhere by him before.

The interior smells of pine and something more familiar too, with sleek leather seats that are so comfortable they make you feel like you’re floating. You know it’s a Benz, you’re just not sure what year or model, and you’d usually ask most people out of a friendly curiosity, but for some reason your pride always got the best of you when it came to him.

“I seriously can’t wait to eat that thing you made,” Gojo comments after he’s backed out of the driveway, “it looks really nice.”

“Do you have a sweet tooth?” you ask him, glancing over at him, and you try not to stare at the strong one-handed grip he has on the steering wheel as he corrects it. 

“Oh yeah,” he answers, “big time.”

“You don’t seem like it,” you mindlessly say, turning your head to glance out into the dim street, passing by houses that idly sit in this neighborhood.

“Why’s that?” he asks.

“You seem to maintain a steady weight,” you politely comment.

You can hear the smile in his voice. “Is that the closest I’ll ever get to a compliment from you?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s just science. Hard to maintain a build if you eat a lot of sugar.”

He turns onto the mainroad, and you keep your gaze plastered to the outside. “I seem to manage.”

“It’s because you're tall. Tall people get to eat whatever they want.”

You see him nod his head once in your periphery, and you take it as some form of dismissal. “Sure.”

It doesn’t take terribly long to get to Gojo’s parents’ house, just a thirty-five minute drive without traffic. He kept surprisingly silent throughout most of it, and the few moments you did glance at his face, you could even say he looked like he was deep in thought. With a creased brow, a grip on the steering wheel that sometimes faltered, sometimes strengthened, but rarely fully eased. It was all so different from his usual impulse to talk. You know that you often wish for Gojo to shut the fuck up sometimes, but the silence seemed unsettling today.

His parents’ house is large, maybe twice the size of the homes in your neighborhood, but it’s tucked away in a slightly remote area, where the next closest house is about a quarter of a mile down the road. The driveway is long and runs downhill, so you stumble a little on the high heel of your shoe when you step down onto the pebbled pavement, but Gojo holds your elbow so you don’t fall onto your face. And also so you don’t drop the peach cobbler he so desperately wants to try. You’re not sure which of the two was the bigger priority for him.

As you two walk up the driveway towards the front entrance, you hear him sigh behind you. “Just so you know, my mom doesn’t really have any sense of boundaries.”

“Ah,” you comment, “nice to know where you get it from.”

He gives you an irritated look, seen in the corner of your eye, and it’s hard to fight the small amused smile that makes its way onto your face.

He sighs again as you two make it to the top of the steps. “Seriously, though. Chances of you wanting to leave me after this dinner are high.”

“Why? You’ve got a hot older brother I don’t know about or something?”

“I am the hot older brother,” he tells you.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, and then face him fully. “You’re not the first guy that’s warned me about his parents, okay? I’ll handle my own. What good is life if your in-laws–er, fake in-laws–aren’t at least a little strange?”

He lifts his finger to the doorbell, and just before pressing it, he says, “alright, then.”

It only takes twelve seconds for the door to swing open, the aroma of fresh herbs and something more sultry like vetiver arouse your senses, along with a warmth beckoning you from the inside of the home. 

Gojo’s mother stands at the doorway, surrounded by a halo of warm lighting, and her face instantly morphs into one of delightful glee.

“Oh! My dear, you’ve made it!” she exclaims happily, and just when you think she’s about to pull Gojo in for a hug, she pulls you in for one first instead, which startles you. “How lovely!”

“Oh—” you stutter, stumbling slightly as your nose becomes buried in the fluff of her silk pressed hair, but the delicate fragrance of lilac is somehow comforting.

She pulls you away to hold you by your shoulders. “You poor thing, you’re shivering! Come inside.” She hastily ushers you inside and you can feel the heat from Gojo’s body as he follows closely on your tail.

When his mother closes the door behind you, you find yourself surrounded by the kind of warmth only a house could provide. 

You take a small look around the foyer, noticing that it’s large with tones of deep wood and a bright white and golden chandelier that hangs daintily above in the cavity of the high ceilings. Leather, wood, velvet, silk, these are the textures that you see as you look around. It’s an old-fashioned taste, with a polished grand piano off to the right in the hall and display cases of vintage dolls and porcelain plates. So very different from modern, but it’s comforting. Like a wave of nostalgia, but from something you’ve never experienced before.

“What’s this?” Mrs. Gojo asks with curiosity lilting her voice as she walks up to you and points at the casserole dish you were holding.

“Oh, it’s peach cobbler,” you say, holding it up slightly with a small smile adorning your face, “for dessert.”

“How sweet! You’re an angel,” she coos, then twists her torso towards the kitchen, “honey! Come here, will you?”

Shuffling down the hallway from the heart of the house is, who you presume to be, Mr. Gojo. He’s tall, with his shoulders slightly curved forward as he approaches you all, and you note that he looks more aged than his missus.

“Ah, this must be my new daughter-in-law,” he says, his voice gruff and crackly from years of use. You smell the faintest hint of smoke from his clothing.

You glance at Gojo, who is watching you interact with his parents, an unreadable expression on his face as his hands remain shoved into the pocket of his suit pants.

Mr. Gojo takes the peach cobbler from you and gives you a curt smile before taking it back towards the kitchen.

“Darling, I must say, you have a lovely figure—” Gojo’s mother begins to say, reaching her hand out to hover it over the curve of your waist, but just at that moment, Gojo comes up to stand in between the two of you.

“Alright, what time’s dinner?” he asks.

Mrs. Gojo glances up at him, her face immediately twisting into a frown. “Nevermind that. I want to take y/n with me back to the kitchen to help braise the chicken,” she says, grabbing a hold of your wrist and tugging you towards her.

“Oh—” you stumble slightly.

“Nope,” you hear Gojo say from beside you, and suddenly there’s a strong arm wrapping around your waist as he pulls you back to his side, “she stays with me for the night.” You’d remember to blush at the feeling of being pressed flush up against him, but the shock overshadowed.

“Satoru!” Mrs. Gojo exclaims, rather loudly, and she lets out a hmph noise before placing her hands on her hips. “You’re no fun!”

“I’m not gonna let you indoctrinate her into whatever multi-level marketing scheme you’ve fallen victim to this month,” he says, his hold on your waist tightening.

“How petulant!” she says, trying to manage a stern look but Gojo doesn’t seem fazed by it, “quit acting like I’m going to corrupt her! I’m not some witch.”

“Your track record would prove otherwise,” he comments.

“Oh please, the only other time was when you brought—”

She suddenly stops speaking, her eyes going wide, and she glances at you. You cluelessly tilt your head at her.

Ah. The other woman. This mysterious ex-wife. Would you be the other woman in this case? Seeing as to how his entire family seems to walk on eggshells about the subject around you. And they all seem to think that any mention of her would devastate you, when really, you and Gojo aren’t even actually lovers.

But there’s a small part of you,

A teeny tiny part,

Revealed from the way your heart sank at the realization of who his mother was referring to,

That actually does feel some type of way about it.

You want to know who this woman was to him. Does he still think of her? Does he still love her? What happened between them? Was she the one that got away? And how does he feel about the fact that he’s now here with you?

You shake your head vigorously to get those thoughts out of your head.

It was like method acting. You stepped into the role of wife this evening, and now you feel the way that they expect you to feel at the mention of your husband’s ex-lover.

That must be the reason, right?

You slowly push yourself out of Gojo’s hold, and you try not to become hyper aware of his eyes on you as you smooth out the fabric of your dress, then you glance at his mother.

“I’d love to help you braise the chicken,” you say.

There’s a brief silence as you find your voice in this house, and then Mrs. Gojo flashes you a grin.

“Come with me, honey,” she says before wrapping a delicate hand around your wrist and pulling you towards the heart of the house.

There are pictures hung up on the walls as you brush past every hallway, along with peeling wallpaper that is peppered with florals and striped prints, sanded off from years of shoulders brushing against their surfaces in a way that creates an old, dated charm. You learn quickly that Gojo has always been pretty tall, judging from the photo of him standing with, whom you assume are his middle school friends, out on a boat, holding a bass the size of a small child. 

There’s photos of the four of them together, like one professionally taken photo where Gojo and Sana are knelt in front of their parents, and your gaze fixates on the strong grip Mr. Gojo has on his son’s shoulder, digging deep in the bone, creasing the fabric, almost desperately. Gojo looks young in the photo, maybe a recent high school graduate, and his smile is bright but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

And, God, the trophies. The trophies that adorned the surfaces of aged cedar wood dressers, seemingly random in the order they are sprawled across the display yet you know there was intention behind it too. Ballet, soccer, tennis, spelling bee, FRC, even dragon boat racing. 

“Feel free to take any of those home,” Mrs. Gojo says with a teasing tone, “you eventually get tired of staring at them.”

You wouldn’t know. Your mother never had much extra cash hanging around to take you to tennis lessons, or ballet lessons, or SAT prep, or whatever. You were lucky enough that you got into college with the cards you were dealt, but you sometimes wonder what your potential could’ve been if you had parents like Gojo did. Maybe the house you live in would be your own, and not something that your mother has spent the past forty years of her life trying to pay off. Maybe you’d have a freshly renovated kitchen and a pretty boat out on the street. But throwing a pity party for yourself right now wasn’t exactly going to get you through the evening.

Mrs. Gojo finally leads you into the kitchen, and the aroma of fresh herbs overwhelms your senses. 

“Smells wonderful,” you comment.

“I know,” she cheekily comments, “will you turn the meat please?”

You grab a pair of tongs and attempt to sear the cuts that were sizzling on the stove.

“Sooooo,” she coos, wasting no time to playfully bump her hip to yours, “how is married life?”

“Nice,” you respond, your cheeks warming slightly, “it’s nice.”

“It won’t always be that way, you know,” she muses with some underlying sense of sincerity that isn’t lost on you.

When you remain quiet, concentrating on the searing sizzling noises coming from the pan, she decides to keep speaking.

“Eventually, you two will settle in a little too much…start to care less about your bodies…and then, oh gosh, when kids come into the picture, forget about having any time for yourselves,” she continues, “some days you’ll resent him, others you’ll feel like it’s the first time all over again.” She sighs. “Marriage is a funny thing—”

“Mrs. Gojo,” you interrupt her, turning to face her, “I—…I really appreciate you, I do, but, um, I’ve already learned a lot already about marriage from my own parents. Things are fine between Satoru and me.” You look into her widened eyes. “And…if something does happen down the line, and we choose not to be together anymore, then that’s okay too.”

After all, you had to prepare her.

“But that’s the thing!” she chirps, “your generation is too—…too impatient. Unwilling to work anything out! A marriage is supposed to be hard, but also it’s something you aren’t supposed to give up on so easily.”

It’s your turn to meet her with widened eyes in response to her preaching, and her posture immediately deflates before she holds you gently by your arm.

“I’m sorry, honey…I know it’s too early to be saying all these things to you,” she says, managing a small smile, “I always forget that I’m too old to be doting on my children like this anymore.”

Your expression softens and you wrap your palm over her bony knuckles, feeling the thinness of the skin that stretches over them. In a brief glimpse, you see your own mother in Mrs. Gojo’s eyes, something familiar, a universal expression of the love a parent has for their child.

“Well…” you say after clearing your throat, “for what it’s worth, you have nothing to worry about, Mrs. Gojo.” You try to manage a small smile. “I’m—…I’m really happy with your son.”

It was hard to lie to someone like this, especially from the way there’s relief that floods her irises, a genuine feeling that is so hard to come by in these days of false niceties. You often wonder how far a single white lie can stretch before it shatters against its own resistance.

“That’s a relief,” she says, managing her own prim smile, “I’m so glad.”

The two of you finish up in the kitchen, and when you circle around back into the hall, you see Sana standing in the warmly lit family room with Gojo and their dad.

Sana catches your eye, and you purse your lips together hesitantly before walking up to her.

“Hey,” you say softly and she returns the small smile you give her.

“Hi,” she says back to you.

“Um, where’s Juno?” you ask, looking around.

“Oh, she has a sleepover at her friend’s house tonight,” Sana says, “Jun’s dropping her off, and then he’ll come by here later.”

“Ah, I see,” you comment, itching at your elbow from the awkwardness.

“Well,” Mr. Gojo says, gesturing towards the dining room, “let’s eat, shall we?”

The three of you nod at him.

It’s fascinating to watch how the family falls naturally into their chairs, an assigned seating pattern that stays consistent among all dining halls and rooms and tables in the world, one that every family has. Mr. Gojo sits at the head of the table, his wife to his left, his son to his right. Sana sits quaintly to her mother’s left, and you sit across from her to Gojo’s left. The one empty seat is left for the presence of Jun.

“Food looks wonderful, darling,” Mr. Gojo says before leaning over to place a kiss on her bashful cheek.

Your heart does something weird at the sight. A simultaneous twinge paired with a warmer feeling that follows. You hardly witnessed any affection within your household growing up, not between your parents at least, probably because you were young when they got divorced and so the turmoils and tribulations started long before you had any higher order of cognitive discernment beyond the childish interest in Disney princesses and The Backyardigans. For you, the only memories that last of your parents’ marriage are those that feel like nothing more than the frigidity of a business arrangement. Ironically similar to the one you were currently in with Gojo. Except at least yours hadn’t been initially built on a foundation of love and a promise to be there for one another until death did you two apart.

Death was knocking on your mother’s doorstep now. But your father was nowhere to be found. So much for a vow.

Mr. Gojo pours his son a glass of whiskey, single malt as read on the label. Mrs. Gojo pours you and Sana a glass of red wine, and you try to hide the grimace, because you would’ve much rather had the whiskey.

“To y/n,” Mr. Gojo says, raising his glass up into the air, “for being our newest addition to the family.”

You all clink your glasses together, then in a variety of pairings, the last one being the tap of Gojo’s glass against yours, before you all take a drink.

“So…” Mrs. Gojo speaks up, “exactly how long have the two of you been married?”

You glance at Gojo for help, which isn’t exactly an unsuspecting thing to do.

“Four weeks,” he says.

You watch Mrs. Gojo’s eyes twitch. You can understand. Her own son gets married and doesn’t tell her anything about it for four weeks after the wedding. Well, in your case, a courthouse arrangement.

“Where did you two go for your honeymoon?” she asks, and Mr. Gojo clears his throat.

You look at Gojo for help again, and mentally pinch yourself for not being more discreet about how fake this whole thing is.

But Gojo surprisingly looks at ease. “Greece,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Mrs. Gojo’s body language turns to you, clearly irritated by her son’s short and curt answers. “Did you have a fun time, dear?”

“Oh! Yes, it was a very fun time. Definitely did all the newly wed stuff. Just as normal newlyweds do, you know. Because we are newlyweds,” you say through an awkward cough.

“Like…?” Mrs. Gojo pushes, and you can tell that she’s asking out of a genuine curiosity over the itinerary you two had allegedly carried out, but you crack under the pressure.

“W—…We made love,” you say, “we made lots and lots of love.”

The sound of silverware clanking onto ceramic plates startles you out of the blissful ignorance you had to the words that you had just said. Like you were so caught up in your mind about wanting to seem like an actual real life couple to his parents that you almost forgot about the number one social rule when meeting your (fake) significant other’s parents: no references to copulation. 

You glance up to find Mrs. Gojo’s eyes are wide, a slight tinge of pink to her cheeks. The width of Mr. Gojo’s eyes match his wife’s except his expression is also duly accompanied by a furrowed, perplexed brow. Sana looks visibly uncomfortable, shifting in her seat and trying hard to put on a poker face as she pretends like she didn’t just hear what you said.

You finally glance at Gojo, who’s looking at you with the most what the fuck? face you’ve ever seen someone make, and there’s concern on there somewhere too, like he’s not even fully convinced that you’re mentally sane at the moment because why on God’s green Earth would you say something like that at a family dinner table.

Trying your best to laugh it off, you say, “ah…ahaha, d-did I say make love? I meant–I meant that we–”

“Just–” Gojo interrupts you. “Just stop.”

Everyone are still stunned silent and the flush to your cheeks grows warmer. While clearing your throat, you set your lap napkin up on the table and clumsily scootch yourself out of your chair.

“Ex…cuse…me...” you mumble under your breath, knocking the table with your knee on accident, your wine glass almost toppling all over the pretty linen tablecloth but your reflexes catch the stem to steady it. “I need to…use the restroom.” And then you head straight down the hallway without sparing them another glance.

“Use the upstairs one!” Mrs. Gojo calls out to you, “the guest bathroom is under renovation.”

“Of fucking course it is,” you mutter under your breath, but flash them a polite smile before rounding the staircase pillar and then briskly walking up the stairs.

You quickly realize there’s more personality to the house upstairs, with some clutter in the theater loft and mismatching decorations that don’t reveal the careful deliberation of an indoor designer. The master bedroom is directly to the right of the top of the staircase and you glance across the loft at a narrow hallway that leads into the three bedrooms tucked away into the heart of the house.

One foot after the other, you float in that direction as if some force were compelling you towards it. Some trance of curiosity that no human being could ever resist. It’s fine. You didn’t actually need to piss anyways.

The first bedroom you walk past is rather boring, with beige tones all around. Beige bed sheets, beige wall paint, beige lamp shade, beige curtains. But the air smells crisp, and you notice there’s a shelf that has about half a dozen plants lined up in a variety of artistic pots. Similar to the set-up Gojo has in his house at home. You walk inside and brush your fingers across the dresser surface, rubbing fine dust over the pads of your fingers, and with your next inhale, you sneeze.

A guest bedroom, you think to yourself.

The next bedroom you walk past is sweeter, kinder, warmer. There’s pink hues scattered across, the most obvious one being the pillow covers, and there are some shades of a baby blue as well. But the furniture looks modern, sleek, and new. There were two identities at war in the room, like that of a little girl and a grown woman. Neither able to find its voice among the chaos of friendship bracelets sprawled across the desk and the Louis Vuitton purse resting at the foot of the bed. 

Sana’s room, you think to yourself. 

Childhood bedrooms are like time capsules if left untouched for very long. You’ve lived in your room at home for as long as you can remember, only recently having shifted to the master bedroom. The room grew up with you. It had no chance to become some entity of its own. 

The next bedroom you walk by feels familiar, even before you walk inside. There’s a comforting feeling that envelopes just from the lighting alone. You push the door open with a gentle palm.

The culprit of any young man’s room–navy blue sheets. Stretched taut against a made-up bed that has some sort of feminine flair to it, like it wasn’t set by Gojo, but rather his mother passing by his room one day to sit in his absence, only to needlessly mess with the sheets because it gave her a sense of purpose. You go eighteen years pouring blood, sweat, and tears into raising a child, protecting them, nurturing them, being the one they lean on for all of life’s woes, only for them to pack up and leave one day. You suppose that if you were a parent, you would find melancholy in that loss of responsibility too. 

His desk is a large expanse of cedar wood with a desktop monitor and some bookshelf speakers set up on it. The PC itself has collected dust over the years but there’s a small mechanical whirring noise you hear somewhere within. The rest of the desk is mostly empty except for some unopened mail tucked away with some books, the spines creased at the last few hundred pages, but never to the end. 

You pick one of the books up, flipping the pages open, and see sticky notes on some of them. Like English literature notes one would take in class, with studious words that over exaggerate the significance of the prose just to make a teacher happy. Who cares if the curtains were blue? Maybe the author just wanted them to be blue. Why does everything in life have to have meaning?

Setting the book back down with a sigh, you walk over to the bookshelf. There are some more trophies, some sets of comic books, some strange robotic-looking figurines. Small picture frames of foreign scenery are set up in different corners wherever there is empty space, like an afterthought. 

“Hmm…” you hum to yourself, tilting your head to the side to read the vertical spine of a thick black book that was tucked flush up against the shelf's side. 

West Valley High School. Class of 2007.

With your index finger hooking the spine, you slowly pull the book out from its comfy corner. It’s heavy in your hands and you notice that there are ink smudges across the tips of your fingers.

When you open the cover, you’re met with a page filled with a variety of colors and handwriting, and you realize they’re signatures. And to no one’s surprise, most of them are feminine. With hearts, some merely outlines, some shaded in with ink, scattered across the page. Bubbly handwriting, neat handwriting, cursive handwriting, a lot of it in pinks and purples and reds. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think it was like those Valentine’s Day cards all the girls would sign in grade school to pass onto their crush, except imagine if all of them were intended for just one guy.

You roll your eyes as you flip the pages, seeing no end in sight to the signed ink. I mean, come on, how many signature pages does a yearbook even need? This was excessive. And, no, you aren’t bitter simply because your high school yearbook has maybe a max of fifteen signatures (four of which were from your teachers). It’s just frustrating. And confusing. Why does everyone on this planet adore Gojo except you? Is there something wrong with you? Are you the problem?

There are some signatures from boys too, most likely his friends. Otherwise, you’re not sure what random fleeting classmate you’ve only spoken to a couple times would be brazen enough to draw pictures of penises squirting in whatever empty space they could find in your yearbook, if not for his high school friends. These boys are probably in their mid thirties now, just as Gojo is, maybe with wives and kids they’re now responsible for. You wonder if they’d still find the drawings funny all the same today.

You flip the pages more, taking in image after image after image of smiling portraits. ABC…DE…F…ah, G. Hmm, there. There it was. 

Gojo Satoru.

Seems like his high school didn’t allow yearbook quotes, but you try to imagine what his would be. Probably something corny and lame, like See kids? I told you I was sexy in high school.

He looks cute though. With his hair fluffy, boyishly ruffled to pair with a charming smile that’s at ease. He just looks a little younger, that’s all. Not that much different. Perhaps a bit more scrawny, a bit more mischievous-looking. As opposed to his adult self, who appears sturdy. More serious. But you realize that cheeky part of him that comes out every now and then when he’s teasing you or pissing you off is that boy within him that looks exactly like the portrait in this yearbook that you trace with the pad of your finger. 

You close the book, suddenly a little out of breath, and then slip it back into place. Your eyes catch the shimmer of the trophy at the top of the shelf. It was shaped like a baseball glove mitt, and in the palm cup, there is an actual baseball in there with a black ink signature. You gently pick it up and turn it in your palm to try and read the ink.

Ichiro.

Your dad used to watch baseball. You’re familiar. Seattle Mariners, Ichiro Suzuki. The first Japanese player to ever make it to the Major Leagues. Ten time all-star, and tenth member of the Mariners hall of fame. He retired when you were just a little girl, but you still remember the look of awe in your father’s eyes as he stared at the box TV in the living room of your house when Ichiro took his last stand at the plate.

Gojo was also a boy at that time. Living in this house. Maybe his old man was watching that game at the same time. And maybe Gojo was watching the look on his father’s face, too. It’s the romance of life–you look up at the moon in the sky, and you know that there is someone else out there, someone that you’ll meet some day, maybe even someone that will mean the world to you someday, who’s looking at it too. But you just don’t know it yet.

Lost in endless, rather fruitless thought, you continue to turn the baseball in your hand to pointlessly assess the seams, but it slips out of your hand and onto the carpeted floor with a loud hollow thud that startles you, and when you attempt to bend down and pick it up, you accidentally push it with your toe and it rolls underneath the bed.

“Shit,” you mumble, getting down onto your hands and knees to look underneath the bed.

You see the ball rolled a few feet away, and when you reach for it, it becomes clear that you don’t have the arm span to grab it. You struggle and you struggle, the tips of your fingers barely tickling its seam, and the frustration makes you sweat a little.

“Come…here…you…stupid…thing,” you mutter. You’re sure your hair is a static mess now, too. 

You finally manage to roll it towards you a couple inches and then your palm wraps around it before pulling it to your shoulder, but not without something collateral that’s dragged along with it.

A photograph. Printed out, vintage. You pinch the corner between your two fingers and stand back up onto your two feet in order to better assess the image under the light of the floor lamp.

The first person you notice in the photo is Gojo. He looks younger than in the yearbook, but he’s wearing a suit and a tie. It’s a little big on him, ill-fitting as most teenage boys should look in a suit, like a rite of passage. His smile is less warm than the one in the yearbook too, more prim and stretched into a thin line that’s only slightly curved upwards. It’s only then when you notice the slender fingers sprawled across his chest near the collar of his undershirt, black nail polish blending in with the fabric of the suit. Your eyes trail the dainty hand, and your heart skips a beat when you see a girl standing next to him, pressed up against him, her smile much brighter than his. Pink braces line her teeth and her hair is that classic mid-2000s side-swept bang mess, but she’s pretty. Dressed in a pink-ish purple gown that almost looks like a bridesmaids dress, and you finally see the banner stretched across behind the both of them in the picture that reads Homecoming 2005. 

It’s hard to explain it, but you can just feel it somehow. That this person is important to him. Not just some last-minute date to Homecoming, or an old high school girlfriend he’s long since lost touch with. It seems larger than that, somehow. Unlike penises drawn on yearbook paper, this feels like something a person never outgrows.

Of course, people have lived fully-fledged lives before you’ve met them. Just as you have as well. But you’re overtaken by the insane curiosity to want to learn every single detail about this past life that Gojo has lived. Where did he and his friends hang out after school? When did he learn how to drive? When was the first time he got shit-faced drunk? When was the first time he snuck out of the house? And who was this girl in the picture? 

“Find what you’re lookin’ for yet?” a voice calls out, entirely startling you to where you almost jolt out of your skin, and you swiftly turn on your heel towards the entrance of the room. 

You see Gojo standing in the door frame, leaning against it with his arms crossed as he levels his gaze at you. He has a blank expression on his face, although you would say it’s more serious than playful. 

“What–...I–” you stutter, shuffling the picture you were holding behind your back so he doesn’t see. 

His eyes don’t flit to the movement. “You don’t have to tear the room apart to find my illicit drugs. You could’ve just asked.”

 You roll your eyes. “As if you would do drugs.”

“You say that like it’s an insult.”

“It is.”

“So, then, if you’re not looking for drugs, what are you looking for?”

Your cheeks are warm. “I don’t know. Petty cash? Human body parts? Playboy?”

He snorts. “Playboy? Who still has a subscription to Playboy?”

“Maybe your teenage self did.”

“I’m not that old,” he says, “I was watching porn like the rest of my peers.”

“Ew, you freak,” you say, and you grab one of his pillows and throw it at him.

He lets out a laugh before catching the pillow with ease, and then walks up to you, placing the pillow on top of your head. You half-glare, half-pout at him.

“C’mon,” he probes, “tell me why you’re hiding away up here.”

“I embarrassed myself,” you confide in him with a sulk of your shoulders. “I mean. Seriously. What the fuck was that? What a humiliating thing to say in front of your parents. I just feel so weird pretending like this.”

His expression softens. “Sorry,” he says, “for dragging you into this dinner.”

“No,” you sigh, “I’m the one that did. I forgot you can’t necessarily fake a marriage without…doing the typical couple things.”

“Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” he hums as his gaze flits towards the bed, “doing the typical couple things, you say?”

You roll your eyes. “In your dreams.”

“Oh, in my dreams alright,” he says with a grin.

“And if I strangled you? What then?”

“I like that. It’s kinky.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you don’t have magazines lying around?”

“Brown box underneath the bed. You didn’t look hard enough.”

You give him a disgusted look. He laughs.

“I’m joking,” he says, pushing his hands into his pockets.

“I’m not convinced,” you say, turning your body away from him slightly to keep the photo hidden behind your back.

He tilts his head at you, gaze flickering down to your other hand. Your heart skips a beat. “I could’ve guessed that.” 

His hand reaches out and you flinch ever so slightly, something he thankfully doesn’t notice, and then he’s grabbing the baseball out of your palm.

“I always thought I could sell this thing for major money,” he muses, throwing the ball up into the air to catch it. And then doing so again a couple times.

“It’s authentic?” you ask with genuine curiosity.

“Oh yeah. I caught it. First ball game my old man ever took me to, and it happened to be Ichiro’s last.”

Your eyes widen. Gojo was at that game. He wasn’t just watching it from home on some TV like you did with your dad. He was living in it.

“Wow,” you say, “must’ve been quite the game.”

“Don’t really remember too much about it to be honest, other than how stoked I was to just be there with my dad.”

“Mm,” you hum, “I’ll have to ask Mr. Gojo more about it when we get downstairs.”

His expression falters slightly, his smile dropping in the most subtle way that you wouldn’t have even noticed if you hadn’t been intently staring at his face. 

“Yeah,” he says, “maybe.”

Gojo continues to stare at the ball in his palm as he rotates it in inspection. There’s an awkward silence that settles between the two of you, and you feel the burden of conversation has suddenly fallen on you. 

“My, um. My dad was a fan too,” you say.

His eyes glance up to meet yours. “How come I’ve never met him?”

The question catches you off guard. “Wh–...I’m sorry, what?”

“Your dad,” he says, as if it was something so casual. 

“That–...well, he’s–...I don’t know, I haven’t seen him in years,” you admit, “not since…not since my mother was diagnosed with cancer.”

He stares at you earnestly, studying your expression, before he decides on saying nothing else except, “I’m sorry about that.”

You sigh. “Satoru, I–” you start, keen on the way his body stiffens slightly when you say his name, “I really don’t have the capacity for much else tonight. I mean, the questions. And the lies. And walking on eggshells around your mom.” 

“Well. I was sent up here to get you,” he says, “and I can’t exactly go downstairs empty handed.”

“Fine. Let’s just get this dinner over with as fast as possible.”

“Sure,” he easily agrees, “I’m with you on that one.”

You take a step forward to head towards the door, but then suck in a sharp gasp when you remember what was being held behind your back.

“Wait,” you say, “look away.”

“...huh?” he huffs, a puzzled look on his face.

“Just look away for a second.”

His eyebrows furrow before he lifts one in a questioning manner. But he acquiesces and turns on his heel to face away from you. “Have I ever told you how strange you are?”

“No,” you say while discretely crouching down, playing along in an attempt to distract him, “you haven’t.” You flinch a little from the sound of your hip popping, but he doesn’t seem to notice and so you bend your wrist in preparation of flinging the photo back to the abyss underneath his bed.

But you stop.

And you take one more glance at the photo.

And your stomach flips the same way it did the first time you saw it.

If you asked, would he tell you?

But the more pressing question is,

Why are you so scared to find out?

You shake your head vigorously to get rid of all your pestering intrusive thoughts. It was the stress, you played it off. A hyperactive mind leads to hyperactive ruminations. And besides, it’s just silly. Sure, there’s your gut feeling that suggests otherwise. But this girl in the photo could really just be an old friend or girlfriend that had no significant impact on the trajectory of his life. Why be the crazy one and lose sleep over this? You’ve lost sleep over plenty of other things in your life, but not stuff like this. It’s just not like you.

You fling the photo across underneath the bed and then stand up just in time for when Gojo turns around to look at you out of curiosity.

“Alright,” you say, dusting your hands off, “let’s go.”

You walk over to where he stands by the doorframe, a slight warmth to your cheeks when he doesn’t move out of your way like he usually does, but instead he leans towards you slightly as you brush past him, and your heart jumps a beat in your chest when you feel his hand gently fall to the small of your back, softly urging you forward ahead of him. A feather of a touch, yet intentional, almost naturally so, like a curious test of the boundary between you two that he’s been dying to understand a bit better. And the fact you don’t turn on your heel to face him with that same undeserved and petty rage that you always do, and instead slightly shudder at the feel of his touch, means that somewhere along the way, you’ve moved the line a little closer.

He’s hot on your trail as you walk down the stairs slowly and when you turn around the post at the bottom then make your way back to the dining room, you see his family staring at you with wide eyes.

His mother stands up. “y/n! Come sit back down, dear.”

You nod meekly, and Gojo pulls your chair out for you to take a seat before he resumes his seat next to you.

The food is slightly cold by the time you finally get to pick at it. It’s not very seasoned, either. Not enough salt for your taste. But somehow Mrs. Gojo having a phobia of sodium is a study of character that makes perfect sense in your head.

Eventually, the awkward silence is too much for you to bear, and you set your fork and knife down on your napkin with a slight bit more force than you probably should’ve.

Everyone looks at you.

You sigh. “I’m sorry for earlier,” you say, “I’m…uh, I’m just not really used to these sorts of dinners…I don’t have much family here in this town, and it’s always just sort of been my mom and me. And I—…I guess I’m just a little nervous.”

Wide eyes blink at you. Mr. Gojo shifts a little uncomfortably in his seat while Mrs. Gojo blinks her long lashes at you. Sana tilts her head, and you have no interest in seeing what Gojo’s expression looks like. You fear it’s the one you’d remember the most.

You were just being honest with how you felt. And it doesn’t take you long to realize something you probably should’ve realized earlier walking into a home like this where everything was perfect and on display with no evidence of the way a true family can crumble on the inside—a house like this does not value honesty. Your mother couldn’t afford you many luxuries in life, but you never felt like you couldn’t be honest in front of her. 

You glimpse up at Sana, and there is some knowing expression on her face. It’s almost sympathetic. As if you two were on the same page about something right now. When you glance at Gojo, you see him staring down at his plate with his brow slightly furrowed.

“It…it’s quite alright, dear,” his mother says through a prim voice, and in an attempt to change the subject, she says, “I do hope you are enjoying the chicken.”

“Ah,” you exhale, “yes. I am.”

“So!” Mrs. Gojo chimes in again as she dabs her mouth to a linen napkin. “Tell me about what you do for fun.”

You blink at her. “Oh, umm…binge watch TV? Occasionally I’ll go for a walk.”

“Ahh interesting! What about reading? Do you enjoy reading?”

“Well, the last book I purchased was a picture book about North Korean missiles…so.”

She lets out a laugh. “And where do you see yourself in five years?”

You hear Gojo sigh beside you before he reluctantly sets down his silverware and then he turns to Mrs. Gojo. “Mom. C’mon. This isn’t a job interview. Just let her eat.”

There’s a slight tinge of pink to the tips of her ears from the interrogation interruption as she glances between the two of you. She looks over at Sana for help but finds nothing other than a gaze tipped down towards a plate full of picked-at food. Mr. Gojo folds a hand over her frail knuckles as if to silently communicate, but Mrs. Gojo retreats her hands to fold in her lap underneath the table.

Feeling somewhat bad for the two of them, you turn the face Gojo’s dad. “Um…Mr. Gojo, Satoru was telling me about how you were a big baseball fan and a big Ichiro fan…do you still keep up with the Mariners?”

The man’s eyes grow wide with a visible confusion and you swear you hear Gojo clear his throat beside you.

“Ah…that’s–” he starts before the sound of the doorbell ringing startles you.

Sana immediately stands up without a word of excusal or a glance in anyone’s direction and she heads straight for the door.

You all look around at one another before Mrs. Gojo says, “must be Jun.”

You were at least glad to find you would not be the only “in-law” at the table full of a tension-laced family dinner, especially given the fact that in most of the cases where you’ve met Jun, his penchant to talk overshadows any other energy.

“What’s up, y/n!” Jun shouts when he waltzes into the dining hall, a few steps ahead of Sana. He throws his jacket over the first surface he finds, body language matching that of someone twenty years younger than he actually is. You can’t tell if it’s overcompensation for something, or if he just genuinely believes he’s still in his twenties. 

To your surprise, he opens his arms out for you to greet him with a hug, and you hesitate before standing up slightly to give him a well-meaning wrap of your arms around him, but it lacks any warmth of familiarity.

“Welcome to the fam!” he jovially exclaims before patting your arm. He then hugs Mr. Gojo, then Mrs. Gojo (paired with those cheek kisses that the French do in greeting), then daps up Gojo (to which you notice Gojo is less than enthusiastic about) before he finally kisses Sana on the cheek and then takes his seat at the other end of the table. Your eyes are keen on Sana now, watching her intently, but she remains staring at the food on her plate. You had a feeling there was someone in this room that didn’t want to be at this dinner even more than you did.

“How was traffic, Jun?” Mr. Gojo asks.

“Oh it was nothing. Took a shortcut. Backroute off of Lake City Way. Full of pot holes though.”

Sana turns to him and scowls. “While you were taking Juno to her sleepover?!”

He lifts an eyebrow at her. “Yeah? We were running late.”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to take that route to get into the city! Those pot holes are so dangerous.”

“Honey. Chill. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Just last week I saw news of three plot holes on the Mercer Street intersection opened up. Three people were injured, including a young boy.”

“Okay well if I also believed everything I saw on the news was going to personally happen to me too then we’d have never gotten this far in life.”

“Jun,” Sana deadpans.

“W-Why don’t I fix you a plate, Jun? You must be tired.” Mrs. Gojo chimes in. 

Sana breathes in deep and exhales slowly before slumping down into her chair. 

“Thanks,” Jun says, easing his brow as he sits back in his chair nonchalantly, before he turns to Gojo and starts to talk about mundane things like the stock market, the recent election, something about a new bowling record, and this one Thai restaurant he really wants to try on the other end of town, all within the span of time it takes Mrs. Gojo to set a plate down in front of him.

Mr. Gojo jumps in on conversation from time to time. Mrs. Gojo listens idly, sometimes placing a laugh where she feels appropriate. Jun gets particularly animated about this incident he ran into earlier last week when he was dropping Juno off at school, a story that you notice everyone at the table is for some reason entirely intrigued by, but you suppose it’s the most interesting topic of conversation you’ve all had tonight thus far. At certain critical points of the story, Sana jumps in with a that’s not what happened, Jun and you find yourself finally settling in somewhat to the evening.

Just as Jun’s story is ending, you glance up to Mrs. Gojo and find that she’s staring at you with a smile on her face. It makes you jump in your seat a little, luckily unnoticed by the rest of the table because of Jun’s engaging theatrical hand gestures as he attempts to keep his wife, his brother-in-law and his father-in-law engaged. You would’ve expected Mrs. Gojo to avert her gaze the second yours locked with hers, but she doesn’t. She just continues to look at you with a soft smile on her face and a slight tilt to her head, like she’s getting used to the sight of seeing you at this table.

Her gaze flits downwards slightly and you follow her line of gaze, tracing it to the ring that was adorning your left hand. 

Your eyes widen slightly.

“Oh–” you stutter, the words already getting caught in your throat, “I–...I forgot to say, it’s an honor to wear your ring, Mrs. Gojo.” The table suddenly goes quiet, and you can’t tell if it’s because of you, or if it’s because there was no more story left to tell. “It’s beautiful.”

It truly felt like for every two steps you took forward, it was ten steps backwards. Because you watch the way that soft smile of hers entirely drops, her expression replaced with one of confusion, brows knitted together as she looks at you like you’ve just spoken in a language no one on Earth can speak. 

She glances at Gojo, and you don’t have to look at him  to tell that he’s stiff in his seat. You could’ve felt the tension from a mile away. 

Mrs. Gojo looks at you again. “Oh honey, that–” She glances between you and Gojo. “That’s not my ring…”

Your eyes widen, cheeks already flush from whatever’s to come.

But suddenly, and to your surprise, Sana speaks up. “It was our mother’s ring.”

You look at her with confusion. And then you glance at Gojo. And then you glance back at Sana. And then at Mr. & Mrs. Gojo.

“But…” you trail off.

“Sumiko and Daichi are our aunt and uncle,” Sana says with a strained voice, “our real parents died in a house fire when we were younger.”

You blink at her in shock.

“He didn’t tell you?” Mr. Gojo asks.

“I–” You glance at Gojo and see that he’s poking his tongue to the inside of his cheek as he stares down at the glass of scotch he was twirling around in his hand.

“Of course he didn’t,” Sana interrupts, the bitterness in her voice matching the attitude she’s since displayed this entire evening. Her gaze is locked onto her brother’s face, and when his gaze flickers up to meet her eye contact, his expression is set with a tense jaw. “He never wants to mention them. He never wants to acknowledge their life. He never wants to honor them. He just wants to pretend like they never existed.”

“Sana,” he cuts her off, and a chill gets sent down your spine from the seriousness and rigidity in his voice. “Now’s not the time for this.”

“When is the fucking time?!” she spats at him, the simmering tension brewing over. Ah. Yes. The moment you had been expecting. After all, what family does not have its baggage? Sana abruptly stands up from the table, startling everyone with the clanking of silverware and ceramic from the motion. “When is the fucking time for you to admit that you never gave a shit about mom and dad dying? When is the fucking time for you to admit that we moved on to live with these people so fast? When is the fucking time for you to admit how wrong it was for you to force me to call the people here my mom and dad my whole life when they aren’t?” Her voice cracks near the end.

You glance at Mr. & Mrs. Gojo, who both look shocked, hurt, even embarrassed as they gaze down at their food. Your heart stalls in your chest for them.

When you glance back at Gojo, you see that his gaze is hardened even further now. “You’re being rude,” he says, in as steady of a voice as he can manage from the way his brow is creased with disappointment. 

“Yeah, whatever,” Sana says as she wipes at the tears with her sleeves, and you notice that she looks young like this. Younger than the usual prim and proper self that she portrays. Too young to be a mom, too young to be a wife, too young to be an adult. Like someone propelled into a life that she never wanted. “That’s always what you say, isn’t it? No answers, you just claim that I’m being childish and rude.” Jun tries to reach out to hold her hand but she snatches it away from him. Under her breath she says, “I didn’t want to come here. I should’ve just stayed home.” And with a rough swipe of her sleeve across both of her cheeks, she suddenly storms off somewhere deep into the house. Jun immediately stands up to follow her, leaving the four of you here with stale, cold food.

The timer in the oven goes off, the sound heard in the distance like a lifeline, and Mrs. Gojo immediately stands up. “Ah, must be…the roasted potatoes. I’ll be right back,” she fusses, and you avert your gaze from her face so she doesn’t feel embarrassed over the streak of a tear you saw streaming down her face.

“Let me help you,” Mr. Gojo says in a small sheepish mumble before following his wife into the kitchen.

And then there were two.

You only have a moment to process the dramatic outburst and subsequent fall-through before you turn in your chair to face Gojo, your face narrowing in contempt. You see him running a hand through his hair, entirely ruffling out any sort of neatness he had combed it into earlier, and he undoes the top button of his shirt with an impatient thumb like he was letting go of whatever image he had been trying to keep up for tonight, because after what just happened, there was no use. 

“So when were you going to tell me that they aren’t actually your real parents???” you hiss at him.

He sighs and runs a hand down his face. “They’ve raised us since Sana was just three years old. I didn’t think it mattered.” 

“Okay well if I had known then I wouldn’t have mentioned the ring??? Now everyone’s left the table because of me.”

“It’s not because of you,” he quickly corrects you, “it’s because of years of unnecessary drama of which I’ve still got no fucking clue why it still gets brough up at every. family. dinner. If you didn’t bring it up, then they would’ve figured out a way to bring it up somehow anyways.”

You blink at him, a little taken aback by how dejected he was by this entire conversation.

“Are you going to go check on Sana?” you ask him.

“No,” he says without hesitation, “she’ll calm down soon enough.”

You press your lips into a thin line, contemplating his dismissal, before you let out a huff of disappointment and disapproval. You pull your napkin off of your lap, setting it up on the table, and slip out of your chair to head into the house in the direction you saw Sana storm off into, leaving Gojo to himself at the table.

As you walk down the hallway, all those pictures you saw hung up on the walls, those photos of illusion that painted this pretty picture of a nuclear family fall apart in the narrow space, those firm smiles and hesitant postures making much more sense to you now. They aren’t even his real parents. Baseball and wedding rings. Those details belonged to a life he never intended on sharing with you. 

You walk past the kitchen, stopping briefly just beyond the entrance before backtracking and you find Sana standing near the sink with her arm across her chest as her other hand wipes at her cheeks. The soft sound of a sniffle echoes in the room and you’re surprised to see that Jun left her alone.

Tentatively, you shuffle your feet across the wooden floor. She seems to make note of you in her periphery but refuses to glance up. 

“Hey…” you start when you finally make it to the space in front of her, your hip leaning against the edge of the sink counter in parallel with hers as you face her.

“I—” she starts, shuffling her palms across her cheeks again. “I am so severely embarrassed.”

Your eyes widen slightly at the honesty. “Don’t be. It’s just family.”

“No but that’s the point,” she says through a crack in her voice, “I’m thirty-one, I’m married, I’m a mom, but they’ll always just see me as some immature little brat because I always behave like this.”

You don’t know what to say. You suppose if you were a therapist, or a priest, or a mentor, or a mom yourself, or any other person with an emotional IQ higher than yourself, you would know the right thing to say to her right now. But you don’t. So silence is all that you can offer her, and you hope that it’s enough.

It seems to work in it’s own magical way, as she slowly opens herself up to you within the next passing sixty seconds. A fleeting glance up to your face. The halt of pointless fidgeting with the fabric of her sleeve. The way she stands up straighter, her hip no longer leaning against the kitchen counter, and you find that you mirror the same movement.

She clears her throat, rubbing her nose with the knuckle of her index finger, her eyes no longer glistening with tears but the corners of them look puffy.

You glance down at your feet for a moment before inhaling deep and making eye contact with her. “Hey, listen…” you say, “I’m—…I’m really sorry…about earlier today. For overstepping about the bullying. Juno’s your daughter, and I really shouldn’t have given her advice before at least running it by you beforehand. Especially for something so sensitive.”

The delicate muscles of her brow lift in surprise at your words, lids fluttering slowly as she processes your words, and the wave of melancholy is contagious as it washes through you as well.

“I’m sorry too,” she says, “for how angry I got with you. It’s just—” she hesitates, and you see that semblance of her that you’re more familiar with. Strict, stern, rough around the edges but for a noble reason. “Y’know, with kids…we tend to get overprotective over them.” Her gaze drops to somewhere beneath yourselves as if she suddenly lost confidence in her train of thought. “I’m just trying to do the right thing for her.”

A silence settles between the two of you before you realize you ought to respond to her.

“I get it,” you finally say. “I mean—…I don’t. Because I’m not a mom. But…I’m sure that when I am one some day, I’d understand.”

She finally offers you a smile in return to your words, polite but genuine nonetheless. And a soft remnant sniffle makes her ruffle her nose.

Her expression softens, and she stares straight ahead to your collarbone rather than your eyes. “She really likes you, you know?” Sana glances up at you now. “Hasn’t stopped talking about your ‘blubbery’ pancakes since last week.”

“Aww.”

There’s a sad glint in her eyes when she turns her torso away from you slightly in resignation before some hint of optimism flashes by in her face and she turns to you again.

“Do you…think you could give me the recipe?”

You want to ask her if everything is okay. But instead, you say, “sure.”

The sound of footsteps approaching is heard near the kitchen entrance and the two of you glance in that direction to see Jun walking in. He offers you a fleeting glance before taking his place beside Sana, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling him towards her before placing a kiss on her temple and saying, “hey honey.” 

You watch as she averts her gaze down to the tips of her toes.

“Feeling better?” he asks her but there’s this lack of warmth you cannot quite discern.

“Yes,” she responds, scratching at her cheek as a discreet way of getting rid of the last remaining wetness that had streamed down her face earlier.

He rubs her arm soothingly and then looks at you with a smile pressed into a firm line. “Doing alright?”

You blink at him. “Wh—…yes.”

“Say, y/n, how’s your mom doing by the way?” he asks.

“She’s…better. She’s in hospice now.”

“Palliative?”

“Well—” you say, “I guess. It’s just temporary.”

He shuffles inside the pocket of his coat and takes out something. A small card with finely printed black ink on it. He hands it to you.

“I can’t imagine how expensive that all must be,” he says, and you glance down at the card.

Carevest Capital est. 2016

Invest in a healthier you!

You glance up at Jun. Sana’s gaze has now shifted to the inside of the sink.

“I started this business,” he says, “where we’re revolutionizing the way healthcare costs are managed. In our platform, we basically invest our clients’ money into the stock market, leveraging our high-reward algorithm to maximize returns. But here’s the unique part: we partner with leading healthcare CEOs who match a portion of the profits as an incentive for stock purchases. Together, these funds go directly toward paying off hospital bills and easing related financial burdens.”

Your eyes widen at his words. The speech was practiced, one you can only assume he has pitched to many potential clientele. But there’s a hint of personable grace to it as well.

“I’m telling you, y/n, we’ve had clients who have overcome six figures of medical debt in just six months,” he says, “and you’ll only need a couple thousand dollars to start yourself up.”

You purse your lips together, your finger pinching the corner of the card. “That’s amazing, Jun.”

He smiles at you, releasing Sana’s waist. “Sorry if this kinda came out of nowhere, but I heard through the grapevine that things have been rough.”

Oh, like how your card has declined publicly at the grocery store multiple times, or how you haven’t been able to afford your insurance deductible to get that chipped off part of your bumper fixed, or the fact you haven’t paid your landscapers in over three months so your lawn now looks like a swamp? It was a small town. And people’s finances were always a topic of interest for most.

“I just wanted to offer any help I can,” Jun says.

“Thanks,” you say, returning his smile, “I’ll, um, I’ll look into it.” You push the card into your pocket.

He offers you that same firm smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes before he pulls Sana to him again, placing another kiss along her hairline and the PDA seems like overcompensation on some front from the way Sana is entirely frigid to his touch. 

Maybe it was a woman’s intuition,

But you felt like something was wrong.

“Kids,” you hear Mr. Gojo’s crackly voice say as he stands leaning against the doorframe near the kitchen entrance, “let’s finish dinner?”

The three of you exchange glances before nodding and heading back towards the hall.

Your peach cobbler was apparently very good, the only thing that seemed to cut through the tension of the night. But that was the thing with family, right? You can yell and scream and cry and lecture and mope and roll your eyes at each other all you want but at the end of the day, they’re still family. Sana still seems slightly dejected though, and you can see Gojo in the corner of your eye at the table glancing up at her every other minute or so. His own way of making sure she’s doing okay, you think to yourself. Sana refuses to meet anyone’s line of sight except yours, however, which makes you feel some slight burdensome responsibility of sisterhood you had never signed up for. Nonetheless, you try to offer her a soothing smile whenever she looks up at you, and it seems to put her at ease.

The news of Sana and Jun moving seemed slightly anticlimactic, as Mrs. Gojo mentioned that they had already had an inkling that Jun and Sana would be moving closer to the city. You briefly wonder if Mrs. Gojo knew all along, but decided to make the announcement into some big affair just so that she could see her niece and nephew over a meal.

You make no more embarrassing comments. Conversation dulls into anything and everything unpersonal to you all, such as the news and weather and gossip of other people. And somewhere along the night, you relax your knee, the ball of it pressing into Gojo’s thigh underneath the table. It was wordless, innocent contact that occurs when two people become more comfortable with one another. Only excusable due to the slight buzz you felt in your veins from the wine. He’s kissed you before, yet somehow the press of his thigh against yours feels even more searing. There’s a point along the night where you tip your head to the right slightly, daringly close to resting your head on his shoulder due to the tipsy dizziness weighing in your head, and it would certainly put on a convincing show of newlywed affection for his aunt and uncle, but you manage to catch yourself. And subsequently refuse any more glasses of wine.

“Thanks for having me,” you say to Mrs. Gojo at the front entrance before she pulls you in for a hug.

“Oh, anytime dear,” she says as she gently pats your back, “please.”

When she pulls away from the hug, she holds you by your shoulders before her eyes glance down towards your left hand and the shimmering diamond that sat on the ring finger. She holds your hand in hers and lifts it to examine the twinkle underneath the lights of the chandelier.

“It really is a pretty ring,” she says, her eyes glossing over. “It looked beautiful on my sister, and it looks beautiful on you too.”

Your breath hitches slightly in your throat. “Thank you, Mrs. Gojo.”

“Please,” she says in response to the title, “Sumiko is fine.” But in less of a way in which she’s relaxing formalities, but rather in a way that acknowledges she never had the sovereignty to be called that in the first place.

You hear masculine voices approaching down the hallway as the three men make their way towards the front entrance as well. Gojo glances at you in the midst of their conversation, and he leaves the two of them to make his way over to you.

“Alright,” Gojo says, turning to face the rest of them as he stands beside you. “We’ll head out now.”

Sumiko pulls him in for a hug, then his uncle, and then obnoxiously by Jun as well. Sana fidgets with her fingers as she remains at the end of the line, and you catch a glimpse of surprise on her face when Gojo pulls her in for a hug too. You see him whisper something to her, and it’s only after she hears what he said that she returns the hug and wraps her arms around him as well.

You’re jolted out of your people-watching trance when Gojo walks up to you and takes your hand in his, shoving his other in his pocket. You glance down at the sight, the way his large hand engulfs your own. It’s warm in a firm hold, delicately squeezing your hand once right before you feel the cold air behind you when his uncle opens the door.

Well, you survived. That’s what you think to yourself as you sit in the passenger seat of Gojo’s car, watching the city lights twinkle as you two drive by. You don’t know what you were expecting. Drama? Ease? Tension? For a piece of the sky to fall and land on the roof? There was a part of you that wanted to impress. You want to be one of those daughter-in-laws that the in-laws just adore. You know, where they’re like, god am I so happy that she’s a part of the family now! The one that the mother-in-law is just so ecstatic to know that her son managed to hold down such a catch.

But any expectations and pressure dissolve with the reminder that this is all fake. Fake, fake, fake. And you’d do really well to remind yourself of that reality whenever you spent time with Gojo. Whenever you find yourself acclimating into his life for even a moment, just remember that it’s fake. Can you have a little fun here and there? Sure. Will you probably find yourself in even stranger situations going forward? Yes, because, well, that’s how life is. But it’s just fake. No obligations, no responsibility, nothing. Nada. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

But as you walk through the front door, staring straight ahead into the dark house at Gojo’s back as he sets down the keys by the foyer table, and even as you follow him further into the house towards the kitchen, that feeling inside you surges. 

A woman's intuition.

That something between Jun and Sana was wrong.

Not just routine marital issues,

Or the occasional argument,

Something worse. Something dangerous.

And it’s not something you would ever expect a man to pick up on, even Gojo.

Because it was from the way Sana’s eyes silently communicated with you from across the table,

Something so subtle, a silent plea across a shared dimension,

That she needed help.

“Hey…” you speak up softly, standing in front of the fridge. 

Gojo glances over his shoulder at you from the other side of the kitchen island, barely illuminated by the moonlight through the windows. He turns to face you. “What’s up?”

You blink at him. 

“Um, I really don’t want to overstep again, but—”

There’s a sobering thought that flashes through your mind when you recall that you have never seen yourself as the hero in anyone’s story.

Simply because you could never, ever, ever trust yourself.

You could never trust your feelings or your decisions.

Because you cosigned on hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical loans. Because you stuck around for five years with a man that didn’t love you anymore. Because you still feel naive enough to believe that your best friend who betrayed you still misses you somehow. Because you still foolishly believe your mother will be around to hold her grandchildren someday.

Because you thought that your best bet in order to pull yourself out of hell was to fake marry a man,

And then act as if it’s all real when his aunt looks you in the eye with bittersweet tears as you now wear her bereaved sister’s ring in honor, entirely unaware it was actually being worn in vain.

How could you ever trust your judgement when you behave this way? 

Never the hero. If anything, the villain.

“What is it?” Gojo repeats when he sees that you’ve been silent for too long. He tilts his head at you, his hair falling over his forehead haphazardly and he runs a hand through it to try to get it out of his face. Even in the dim light, his eyes shine a breathtaking blue.

You swallow hard.

“Um,” you say, and then glance down at the wetness you find at your heel. “The, um, the fridge is leaking again.”

He blinks at you for a solid ten seconds, and then the tension in his shoulders drops when he sulks and closes his eyes with exhaustion and defeat.

“Fuck. Okay.”

.

.

.

[end of chapter 5]

a/n. looool i really keep thinking i can post shorter chapters and them bam they be 10k+ words. but i swearrr it's just cuz i be yapping :(( anywho hope you enjoyed this chapter!! a lot of characters were kinda introduced and mm given a bit more depth in this chapter. sorry there wasn't as much romance or anything in this one though haha there will be more in the next one :0 big big thank you to my lovely ihm beta readers ayelin, jules, leni & mirl for helping me out w this chapter!! i believe i may have mentioned this before but i STRUGGLLEEEE with multi-character scenes (i'm much more comfy writing scenes that just have back n forth between two characters) so this chapter was challenginggg esp the whole dinner sequences and there were also a lot of complicated feelings at play, descriptions, stuff i wasn't sure if it was coming off the right way (and tbh am still not sure haha) but they really helped me work my thoughts out n gave wonderful suggestions too so tysm :'') much loveee!! hope to see you all in the next one <3 - ellie

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[gorysims]

BAKING WITH KENTO

ৎ୭ synopsis - house husband Nanami, whose favorite hobby is baking, wants you, his pretty little wife, to taste his new custard cream pie filling.

ৎ୭ wrd count - 721

ৎ୭ house husband series

House husband! nanami who loves his pretty little wife just as much as he loves baking, isn't particularly open about his love for baking like he is for his wife; he enjoys it enough to consider it a hobby.

House husband! Nanami, who's recently been studying a new pie recipe for you to try, and he's almost perfected it, except for the cream filling. For the past week and a half, he's been struggling to find the perfect filling, and as of lately, it's really been annoying him.

House husband! Nanami ears perked up the second he hears the locks on the front door unlocking and soon enough he’s wiping his flour covered hands on his ‘kiss the cook’ apron before heading towards the front door to greet you his lovely wife.

House husband! Nanami who greets you with a look of content as he steps forward to grab your purse with one hand and paper bag filled with groceries in his other hand before setting them down on the console table near the front door.

House husband! Nanami who then helps you take of your coat before tilting his head down slightly and pecking a kiss onto your lips, “how was your day?” he’s asking as he hangs your coat up on the coat rack while you hum thinking about how to answer his question and slipping off your sling back stiletto kitten heels and stepping into your house shoes.

“It was good Ken, Oh! and I just remembered—it's Higuruma's birthday! Make sure to give him a call so he knows you haven't forgotten.” you say as nanami nods his head in remembrance before grabbing the bag of groceries and heading off to the kitchen.

House husband! Nanami not typically one for talking, quickly apologies for the mess he made…The sink holding a small stack of dishes, while flour dusted the dark oak hardwood floors. and bowls of different fruit flavored custard cream fillings just sitting there lined up on the granite island counter top.

“baby you don’t need to apologize, i know how hard you’ve been working lately” you comment softly while sneakily dipping your finger into one of the fillings while his back is turned, you knew your husband could be quite the neat freak so you never minded when nanami made small messes because you know he’d clean up after himself either way.

House husband! Nanami whose ears flushed pink after hearing you call him baby, even though you’ve been married for years he still never got used the the pet names you’d call him…thankfully he was turned around so you wouldn’t be able to how flushed his face was.

“this one needs some vanilla extract” you say after licking the lemon-flavored cream off your finger, the taste was somewhat sour and with the little knowledge of baking you had, you knew adding vanilla would balance the flavor. Honestly, you were surprised that Nanami hadn’t thought of it already.

House husband! Nanami whose left eye twitches slightly after hearing your words, how could he not think to add vanilla of all things.

and now here House husband! Nanami was letting out gruntled groans as he sank himself into the warmth of your cunt, your body was pushed against the granite counter top, black pencil skirt somehow pushed up your to your waist while the sheer stockings your wore were now ripped open with your panties pushed to the side.

needy moans leave your lips as you clench around your husband’s girth, nanami, whose grip on your hair never falters while muttering the nastiest of praises into your ears. You’re practically hanging on by a thread—Nanami stretching out your walls with each thrust and muttering how much he adores and appreciates you and your pussy.

his apron long gone and forgotten to the side, same with the grocery, “kennnnn” you moan out dragging out the n in the little nickname, your so close to reaching your orgasm and nanami knows it, he’s studied everything about you, from how pretty you look cumming on his dick to how your eyes get droopy and your pupils would dilate.

nanami leaned forward feeling himself working through his own and letting his grip on your hair go, another round of gruntled groans leave his mouth as his hot sticky cum shoots into you.

guess you could say your husband’s pie wasn’t the only thing getting filled. <3

@gorysims — this is my first time writing on tumblr so I’m very new to shit like this so constructive criticism is very much welcomed and appreciated.

all work belongs to me @gorysims, do not try to copy or revise my work without asking me cause I’ll shut that shit down real fast.

[ellecdc]

Love, i hope youre staying hydrated 🩵

A poly!wolfstar idea that lives rent free is that Rem, for lack of a better word, hoards Siri and Reader as it gets closer to the fullmoon/ a specific type of moon. Like a dragon. Hes so openly, aggressively affectionate too and is much more likely to mamhandle them

thank you all for constantly reminding me to drink more water - you're my heroes.

poly!WolfStar x fem!reader

CW: territorial boyfriend, slight jealousy, dom/sub dynamics if you squint but SFW

You weren’t hiding. Not really...

But you were also sort of kind of definitely hiding.

You loved your boyfriends, both of them, so damn much. And for the majority of the month, it was Sirius driving the two of you up the wall (affectionately). But as the night of the full moon dragged closer and closer, you and Sirius could hardly move without Remus’ sights set on you.

Most of the time, you and Sirius handled Moony’s obsession quite well in your humble opinion; you usually relished in his neediness and all the affection he showered on you. 

But exam season was around the corner, and you were currently hanging on by a thread.

Anything and everything that could have gone wrong today did; you got a run in your sheer tights at breakfast, you only received an acceptable on your most recent essay for Charms, you dropped your potion during class which spilt on your shoes, and you forgot your textbook for Transfiguration which earned you house points and detention.

So, you loved Remus – truly, you would die for him – but you needed to get this redraft of your essay for Potions finished (using the corrections you received on your dreadful Charms essay) and you could not deal with Sirius’ non-stop flirting and joking which you knew you’d have to deal with if you let Remus drag you up to his dorm room as he wont to do.

So, you were hiding.

Definitely hiding.

In the furthest corner in the library that you could manage which was probably not the best hiding place from the studious, book-loving lycanthrope – but you were too desperate to be making effective plans right now.

You probably should have tried a little harder.

“There you are.” Remus’ lilting voice floated to you in your little corner of solitude. 

“Hey, Moons.” You called quietly as he approached you and placed a searing kiss to your lips, his hand at the nape of your neck keeping your head in place for him.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were avoiding me.” He whispered against your lips with a smirk.

Your face flooded with heat at the prospect of being caught, but Remus just chuckled and pressed another kiss to your lips before he pulled back and took a seat beside you. 

“Where’s Sirius?” You asked.

Remus looked at you from the corner of his eye as he pulled out a book from his bag. “Practice, why?”

You felt your shoulders drop in relief at the idea that you may actually be able to finish this essay before Sirius came to (lovingly) distract you.

Remus hummed at you as a grin grew across his face. “Ah, perhaps it’s not necessarily me you’re avoiding?”

Your face heated again at the mortifying ordeal of being known.

“I love him, I love you, I love you both, but I-” 

“Hey,” Remus interrupted what was quickly becoming an increasingly panicked tangent as he slid his hand into yours. “It’s okay dovey, you do what you need to do. I’ll try to control myself and keep Sirius busy, okay?”

And Remus kept his word...mostly.

He had his hand on you at all times: it started with your hand in his before you needed to pull it away to flip through your parchment, which became a solid grip on your thigh as he continued reading before that hand began to migrate further up your thigh and tease around the bottom of your skirt to which you whined “Moony” at and pushed his hand away. 

It was when Remus - apparently provoked by some younger Hufflepuff allegedly “making googly eyes at you” from across the aisle - hauled you into his lap and began nipping at your neck that you decided you had gotten all the revising you were going to get done today, done.

“Hungry, dove?” He asked into your neck.

You wanted to roll your eyes, but the way his hands wrapped around your middle to envelop you in a sweet hug as he murmured into the crook of your neck made you melt a little.

“Yeah.”

You could feel him smile against your skin and press one more kiss to it before he was helping you off of his lap and packing your things up. “Let’s go to dinner then.”

Remus held your hand and carried your bag all the way to the Great Hall before all but seating you himself and pressing himself up against your side on the bench of the Gryffindor table.

Lily smirked at you from her place before ensuring no one around could hear her.

“If I hadn’t known it was Remus’ time of the month already, this would have solidified it for me.” She said with a salacious wink.

You tried to glare at her, but Remus took that moment to shove his face back into the crook of your neck causing you to flush and duck your head shyly.

You heard boisterous laughing at the entrance to the Great Hall as the Gryffindor quidditch team made their way in from their practice.

You smirked at the sight, specifically Sirius, who had obviously showered - his hair was still damp, and his cheeks were still flushed a pretty pink from the adrenaline of his flight.

A gruff moan from your boyfriend seated beside you alerted you to his shared appreciation of the scenery.

However, Sirius flashed the two of you a smirk and a wink before following McKinnon over to the Ravenclaw table where Dorcas was sitting with Pandora.

Remus tensed slightly but settled for pulling your closer into his side.

It didn’t last long, however, when a particular bark of laughter garnered yours and Remus’ attention only to find Sirius talking to a Ravenclaw girl everyone knew had a raging crush on him.

Now, it’s important to note that Sirius was not deceitful nor disloyal to you and Remus, but he was mischievous and... bratty... sometimes.

Usually, you and Remus would scoff and laugh, and he’d tell you he would deal with this later causing Sirius to pout and whine, begging for attention – but today Remus immediately rose from his seat and grabbed both of your book bags, calling over a hasty “let’s go dove” as he stalked over to the Ravenclaw table to throw your shared boyfriend over his shoulder and stalk up to Gryffindor tower. 

You knew Sirius was going to pay for it tonight. 

[gor3-hound]

over again

ft. leon kennedy x fem!reader

cw: 18+ content, dark content, heavy dub-con, forced ddlg, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, fingering, p in v, creampie, mentions of past drugging, daddy kink, lots of pet names

a/n: took me forever n ever to write this ahhh sorry :/ hope you all enjoy it !! feedback always appreciated !! hopefully the writers block will finally perish.

word count: 1.6k words

14 weeks. 98 days. 2352 hours.

Leon leaves the house at 7.30 am every morning, except for Sundays. From Monday to Thursday, he's home around 6 pm. On Fridays, he isn't home until around 9 pm. Saturdays are the worst because he's home just after lunch.

Usually, when he comes home, he goes to the bedroom and unlocks the door to let you out. He threads his hand in your leash to take you upstairs, giving you a kiss on your forehead as he takes you to the kitchen to eat a meal. He gives you your food on a pink, plastic princess plate with plastic cutlery, and cuts the food into bite size pieces. More often than not, he hand feeds you.

You don't fight it. You'd learned your lesson. You refused food from him once. For 2 out of your 14 weeks locked up in his home, he'd underfed you to the point of starvation until you were begging him to feed you. He sat you in his lap, cooing all sweet as you chewed and swallowed every mouthful he'd given you. That day was the first day he slept with you.

It wasn't all bad. He was sweet. Gentle. If you closed your eyes, you could pretend he was a loving boyfriend. Someone who cared for you, not the creep who'd snatched you from the street after you had a few too many drinks at your friend's party, promising you a better life, safe from the world.

But he isn't sweet, or nice, or kind. He didn't do this for you, despite what his twisted brain tells him. You can pretend all you want that he's something other than what he is, but it doesn't change what he is. A monster.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“Where's my little princess?” Leon's asking as soon as he walks into the house, kicking his shoes off and hanging his jacket up at the door. You recently got free reign of the home for being on your best behaviour. Didn't even have to keep the leash attached to your collar anymore. Lucky you.

“Here, daddy.” You say meekly, poking your head out of the living room to approach him, fiddling awkwardly with the edge of your shirt. Head down, so he doesn't have to see the defeated expression on your face as you force out the words, swallowing thickly to hold back your tears.

“You have a good day, sweetheart? You do any coloring in those cute little books I got you?” Leon's hands come up to your cheeks, gently stroking his thumbs back and forth across your cheekbones. You shake your head, gritting your teeth to stop yourself from saying something.

“No? Why not, baby? You don't like them? I got the one with lots of kitties. Pretty girls like you like cute things, don't they?” He coos, squishing your cheeks in his hands to make your lips all pouty so he can lean down and give them a little kiss, letting out a loud ‘mwah’ as soon as his lips make contact.

“You eat at least? I left some food in a lunchbox for you.” You shake your head again, and this time it seems to elicit a worse reaction. His brows furrow, and his hand grips your face even tighter. “No? Silly baby… can't do anything without daddy, can you? Come on. Daddy'll feed you, cutie.”

He heats up some food for you and puts it on a plate. The pink, plastic princess plate. He sits you on his lap and feeds it to you from a fork. Pink, plastic fork. The routine is the same, no matter how much you wish for it to change. When you finish eating, he presses a tender kiss to your head and rocks you in his arms.

“Such a good girl. Good girls get rewarded, princess.” He murmurs, pressing soft kisses against the skin of your neck, trailing them up until he's nosing at the hair behind your ear. His hand slides up your thigh and under your skirt, his thumb swiping your swollen bud through the already damp fabric. It didn't matter if you didn't want it. Your body didn't seem to understand what was happening - all it knew was Leon made you feel good. You hated how compliant you got when he touched you, how any thoughts of defiance melted away.

You go limp when he touches you. Docile. You let him do what he wants to you, just like a good girl should. Back-talking daddy is a big no-no. He wrote that in big writing on the rule list that's pinned to the fridge. Escape didn't use to seem impossible, yet now the thought never even crossed your mind. You'd tried, but he kept a tight lock on you. You wouldn't be surprised to find out one of the many injections he gave you when you were unruly had a tracker in. He always seemed to know exactly where you were.

You whimper as he dips his hand under the waistband of your panties. He parts your puffy lips with practiced ease as he continues on with the next part of his routine. 98 days later and he's mapped every inch of your body perfectly - found out everything that has you keening under his touch. Your hips buck as he runs his fingertip between your folds, gathering slick before rubbing small circles into your clit.

“Poor, dumb baby. She's soaking me already. You couldn't make yourself feel good when daddy was gone, huh, sweetheart?” His words are followed up by a finger burying itself in your tight heat, curling to find that gummy spot that has you clenching around him and bucking your hips. “Pretty princess cunt's been drooling for me all day.”

A choked sob leaves you when he pulls his cock out and sits you on top of it. He pulls you down until he's buried to the hilt, groaning as you tighten around his length. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, peppering it with tiny little kisses. You can't help but cry whenever Leon fucks you. 98 days later and you still sob whenever he bullies your cervix with his dick. No matter how many times he makes you cum or makes you go dumb on his cock, it doesn't change anything. He took everything from you - your family, your friends, your job.

You hated yourself more than Leon. For letting him break your walls down. For clinging to him as he tightens his grip on your waist, manhandling you on his cock, lifting you up and down. For finding yourself missing him when he's at work.

“Love…love you, daddy…” Your words come out more like a cry, nose all runny and cheeks wet with tears as he fucks up into you, his head shifting to hang back in pleasure. His fingers dig into your waist as he hears the words, a breathy laugh leaving him as he smiles - all toothy and bright like it always is when you say that.

“Love you even more, princess.” He grunts out, leaning back on the seat to force himself deeper into your pussy, guiding your hips back and forth so you're grinding his cock inside of you, rubbing your pretty clit against his happy trail. You gasp at the sensation, your hands gripping into his shoulders as your brows furrow in pleasure.

“Daddy… daddy…” You gasp out as your orgasm hits, your lips parting as you gush all over him. The look on your face as you cum is enough to have his balls tighten, his teeth gritting as he starts to shallowly thrust into you once more, chasing his own release. You always cry when you cum, and Leon always kisses the tears away when you do, his lips pressing against the wetness on your cheeks repeatedly. Another part of the ritual, another moment repeating day after day.

“Want daddy to fill you up, sweet girl?” He grunts, nipping at your neck as he wraps his arms tight around your waist in a bear hug, holding you steady as he fucks up into your drippy cunt. “Gonna warm you up right in that cute lil’ tummy.”

His hips stutter as his orgasm hits him, his jaw going slack as he presses the tip of his cock right up against your cervix, filling you to the brim with his sticky cum. He slides a hand under your shirt, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into the skin of your tummy.

“That's it. Keep it all in, okay? Daddy doesn't want to see his little angel spill a single drop.” He says softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. He holds you there for a couple of minutes, cradling you against his chest until it's time to go to sleep.

Before bed that night, Leon ushers you into the bathroom. Like every night before this one, he gently grips your jaw with one hand as he stands behind you, his other hand gripping your pink princess toothbrush as he brushes your teeth, his eyes locked onto you through the mirror. At bedtime, he tucks you in and curls up behind you, spooning you with one hand on one of your tits, and the other wrapped tightly around your waist.

Tomorrow is a Friday. He wakes you up at 6.30 am with a kiss to your head as always, a warm cup of milk in one hand and your breakfast in the other. He feeds you off of a pink, plastic princess plate and presses a kiss to your lips before leaving at 7.30 am on the dot.

[risuola]

TOO MUCH — F. READER x GOJO SATORU

Lately, it felt like not a second pass by without some new curse appearing somewhere in Japan and both you and Satoru had your hands full of work for few weeks, but when he comes back home, exhausted to the bone, his composure snaps and he unloads his frustration on you.

cw: angst, verbal abuse, hurt/little comfort, mentions of blood and hurt, reader is injured, mental exhaustion — 2,5k words

Too much. Too much of everything that piled up on Satoru's shoulders, weighing him down so heavily that he almost couldn't breathe. It felt like the world was on fire, curses crawling out of every shithole in Japan, most of them first or special grade, spreading nothing but death and chaos. So many people killed, so much blood and pain he had witnessed in the last few weeks, it drowned him in exhaustion and helplessness. Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer alive, and yet he felt so helpless in the current situation. He traveled from town to town, fighting these terrors, but the lives that had been taken away, he couldn't bring back, and he used to think that he was immune to it already. Turns out, one can never be immune enough.

You had your hands full with work as well, but you stayed in Tokyo. The situation drained your energy too, the cascading waves of sadness and sorrow made you feel like you couldn't think straight, but you pushed through. You felt so weak, but had to be strong, everyone had to be. All of your sorcerer friends were just as engaged in the fight as you were, just as tired and distressed, but the show must go on, as they say.

You and Gojo weren't officially a couple, though everyone knew you were together. You were friends, yes, the kind of friends who kiss and have sex. The kind of friends that use pet-names and fall asleep while cuddling naked. Shit, you lived together for a few months, you know everything about him and he knows just as much about you. And you were happy, sharing every moment. He always said that you bring him so much comfort, that he feels like he can be openly himself when he's with you and be accepted for it. Nothing could ever bring you more joy than the man you love feeling comfortable with you.

That being said, it wasn't the best time for your relationship slash situationship. He was more out of the house than in it, and you were just sleeping there, barely. It's been going on for a few weeks already, and it's just now it’s beginning to finally calm down. Few weeks of constant fighting for everyone involved in the jujutsu world, but it started to slow down. So you knew that Satoru would finally return home.

It's when you showered and put on your pajamas that you heard the keys twisting in the lock and the doors opening. Putting on a smile, you rushed to welcome Gojo home, but the moment you saw him, you knew he's extremely exhausted.

Satoru entered the house already annoyed by the conversation he had with Gakuganji a few moments before. That old fart had the audacity to nag him about his methods while he himself was sitting in his cave sipping green tea, not caring one bit that the world was drowning in curses and blood. He threw the keys on the shelf, kicked off his shoes and took off the blindfold, then looked at you, all clean and comfortable in your pajamas. He scoffed quietly.

He felt like his own body was falling apart, everything hurt, his head was pounding, his eyes were burning. Even though he was actively healing himself, the side effects of everything were getting to him. A few weeks of nonstop fighting, of domains, of reds, blues, and purples, and so much physical combat had left him hanging on the last thread of his composure. The usual mask of cheerful carelessness long gone.

Suddenly he wished he could enter the empty house, throw away his clothes, collapse on the bed dirty and just fall asleep, but he couldn't. You were there. And there was never a time in the past when he wouldn't be absolutely overjoyed to come home to you. Even when tired, he wanted nothing more than your arms around him. But not right now.

"Satoru, hey," you greeted him, keeping your voice soft and on the quiet side. You knew him so well, you could see how fatigued he was and frankly, you couldn't blame him. Being the strongest had its downsides, one of which was being very much in demand, and sadly, no one could take his place. "You're exhausted, huh?"

"Look at you, so damn perceptive," he snapped harshly, his eyes cold and empty as he looked down at you. He walked past you to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.

“Are you hungry? I can make you someth-“

"No, just shut up, you cannot make me fucking anything," once again, his tone was cold as he snarled at you. It was the first time so much cyanide spilled out of his mouth and he just barely opened it. At first you tried to understand it. Things had been really draining lately and you knew he was angry because he was tired, but it hurt nonetheless.

"Alright," you sighed, deciding it's best not to get deeper into the conversation when he's so argumentative. "Do as you wish, get some rest, Satoru."

"You know, why instead of telling me what the hell to do, you just don't leave my house, huh?", Shut up Gojo, he screamed at himself subconsciously. "Why are you even here anyway?" Shut. Up. " All comfy when I'm constantly on the job?"

"I know you're tired, Satoru, but I've been on missions too. I'm tired too," you looked at him in defeat, unable to keep the smiley mask on. There was so much wrong in this situation, so much anger being thrown at you for no reason whatsoever, and you had every right in the world to be just as angry as he was, but you just chose not to. You wanted to welcome him home with warmth, comfort him, and keep him up even if you felt down. You wanted to soothe his aching body when yours hurt just as much. Or worse. You were badly injured during the last few battles, but Shoko had her hands so full, you told her you could wait, and you hid all those wounds from Gojo's eyes so as not to worry him.

"'Yeah, your little missions,'" he bit, and your brows furrowed at the sound of his words.

"What does that even mean?" you asked, slowly feeling the heat of anger coursing through your veins. "I'm first gra-"

"I don't care what you are. You're still nothing to me. I deal with real shit, not those..."

You slapped him. Or at least you tried, your hand stopping just short of his face, and it surprised you to realize his limitless was still on, even though he was home already. He was still in fight-or-flight mode, still feeling threatened enough to keep his defensive techniques activated.

"Just what do you think you're fucking doing?" he growled, taking your wrist into his grip, the squeeze shooting shockwaves of pain through your nervous system. "Did my words hurt you? Did the truth hurt you so badly that you thought you could actually hit me?", his tone had a taunting undertone, and when you looked into his blue eyes, you saw nothing but cold. "Funny little thing."

"Let go, Satoru."

"Oh, I will. And when I do, you'll get your useless ass out of here. I'm not your boyfriend, we just fuck, we're not in a goddamn relationship for you to be here all the time. I need my space."

Gojo hated every word that fell out of his mouth, but now he couldn't take them back or erase them, and he didn't exactly know how to act now that he had said them. Immediately, he let his limitless inactivate, hoping you'd want to slap him again. Shit, he'd even accept a kick in the balls, but you remained silent, just looking at him. He could tell by the way your eyes glistened in the sharp artificial light of his kitchen that there were tears threatening to come out, but you didn't cry. Your jaw clenched for a moment and you lowered your hand.

"Right," you exhaled deeply, feeling the hurt burn your heart and soul. The smoke of sadness already flowing through your veins, your cells, your mind. "You're right, we're not. Here," you performed a theatrical swing of your arm, displaying the interiors to him, "your fucking space. I'll let myself out."

"Y/n..." he tried, but you were already in the room, changing from your pj's to sweatpants. He stayed in the kitchen, hoping you'd just jump into bed and maybe cry about it all, and he'd just come back later and comfort you when he wasn't mad anymore, but it didn't go that way.

Once he saw you again, you were heading towards the door.

"Y/n stay, don't be silly, stop," he tried to grab you, but you slapped his hands away.

"What, does the almighty, fucking honored one wish to add something to his oh-so-wonderful speech?"

"No, I'm sorry, stay," he took your hand forcefully, pulling you into his chest, but you fought back, not wanting anything to do with him right now. He had said too much. You knew it was all driven by his exhaustion, but it was far too much.

"No, Gojo, I don't want to stay here. I'm more than pleased to leave you in your space. There's no damn reason for you to share your precious air with such a useless nothing."

"No, no, please," he begged, his anger slowly being overtaken by panic. The sound of his last name felt cold and unfamiliar as it rolled off your tongue. "I'm sorry, please stay. I didn't mean it. Fuck, I didn't mean any of it."

"Please, take your hands off me," you told him more quietly. You were tired and now emotionally drained as well. All you wanted from this evening was to cuddle up with him to sleep. To bask in his warmth, knowing he's safe and home, to feel his skin against yours, to breathe him in. But no.

"No, I won't," he lowered his head and buried his face in your neck. "Please, I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't mean it, I'm just so tired. I feel dead, there has been so much fighting and pain and suffering and death all around me these past few weeks. I'm sorry, y/n," his voice faded to whisper as he rambled against your pulse.

"Gojo..."

"I don't think you're useless or nothing. Fuck, what have I done" he was spiraling slowly into a panic attack. You could feel his heartbeat getting hectic, his breathing uneven, and his grip on you so tight it hurt. "I am nothing without you. Please stay."

"Gojo."

"I love you," he whispered, his tone breathless, and at first you thought you had heard him wrong. He had never told you that. Not even once. "I love you so fucking much, please. Slap me, kick me, punch me in the dick, I don't care. Just don't leave me. I'm so sorry."

"Satoru, please, it hurts..."

"Hurts?", he froze. What hurts? Did he hurt you? The thought frightened him, not only did he insult you for no damn reason and now he caused you pain? As if burned, he let go of you completely, raising his hands as if he wanted to keep them in sight so you knew he wouldn't hurt you anymore. "I'm sorry."

"I've been fighting for these weeks, too. I'm tired too. I would never compare myself to you, but I gave it my all, too," you exhaled deeply. "And I know you're exhausted, Satoru. So please go to bed and get some sleep. I'll just go home."

"Here is your home, with me."

"Here?", you briefly looked around. It was a place you loved because it was filled with him. It was where your heart wanted to be when you felt safest and happiest, but now... "Suddenly I feel like an intruder here. I feel like I shouldn't be here."

"No, please don't say that. Listen, y/n, love," he dropped to his knees, took your hands in his and kissed the tops of them gently and tenderly. "Please, stay with me. I'm an idiot. But I love you. And I need you here, I need you in my life. I want you by my side."

"So, what do you want us to be? You said we're just fucking. God, I thought we were at least friends, if not a couple, but..."

"I want us to be everything. I want you to be my friend, my partner, my lover, my wife and my entire world."

You sighed. Deep and slow, pushing the air out of your lungs, letting your whole body deflate as you took his hands and pulled him up.

"Go take a shower and come to bed. You need to sleep it off. I need to rest too."

Obeying, Satoru rushed to the bathroom and you made sure to lock the doors, turn off the lights and took the time to change back into your pajamas. Sitting on the bed, you finally felt the tears running down your face. They brought you some relief and you let them flow freely, desperate to get it out of you before Gojo came back. It pained you how wrong the evening went and you wondered if there was anything you did to cause it, but no. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t deserve it. And you should leave him there alone, just as he wished for. Then why were you still here?

"Please don't cry," his long arms wrapped around you from behind, enveloping you in his warmth. The light sweet scent of his body wash pleasantly filled your airways and it's out of habit that you leaned into him. "Will you ever forgive me?" he asked, gently wiping the tears from your cheeks. Slowly, he laid you down on the pillows and took his usual place beside you.

"I will," you sighed, already feeling the discomfort. "But please, let's change sides."

Satoru didn't understand at first, but he did what you asked anyway. When he saw you exhale in relief as you turned to the other side, his brain clicked. Moving his hands in the most delicate way possible, he lifted your shirt a little, revealing the many layers of bandages, already tinged with red that was seeping through them slowly.

"God, you're wounded. That's what was hurting you when I held you... I had no idea why you didn't tel-, ah, because I was being an asshole, right," he sighed.

"Yeah, I wasn't going to tell you anyway. I'm fine, just Shoko had her hands full, so I told her I'd wait a day or two. It's just a scratch, really," you told him, fixing your shirt. "Please, let's get some sleep, okay? We'll talk about it all later."

"I love you," he whispered, pulling you to his chest and planting a kiss on the top of your head. It was only now that he could feel his body relax, with you right next to him, your heartbeat syncing with his own, and all of your loving aura filling his body. And he realized that the words he never had the balls to say out loud to you now felt natural, rolling off his tongue. "I love you so much."

"You idiot," you sighed, closing your eyes and slowly melting into his form. "I love you too."

[bruisedboys]

can I request remus and anxious!reader where he asks her to be his, but she is worried that remus will think that she is too much to take care of?

thank you for your request angel!! this was fun to write <3

remus lupin x fem!anxious!reader, 1.3k words

Remus turns up unannounced at your door with a huge bouquet of flowers. You think you know where this is going.

“Hey,” he says, smiling a brilliant smile that sets your heart aflame. “You look nice. Can I come in?”

You don’t look nice, at least not in your opinion. You’re in your pyjamas, a loose tank and a pair of flannel pants, fresh out of the shower with your damp hair hanging limp over your shoulders. But you can’t not let him in. You like him too much.

“Uh— sure. Yeah, come in. Sorry about the mess.” You kick a stray shoe to the side to prevent him tripping in your doorway, embarrassed.

“Don’t start,” he tells you, fondly exasperated as he toes off his shoes. He closes the door behind him and then turns back to you, holding the bouquet out. “These are for you, by the way.”

You’d guessed. Still, you’re very very happy to get them. He’s given you flowers before, ones he’s picked on the way to your place or a rose, once, on your last birthday, but never a bouquet. You take it from him, fingers brushing his at the stalks.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. You can’t imagine how much they cost him. It’s the fullest bouquet you’ve ever seen, petals bursting out of the tissue paper in pretty pinks and whites and creams. You don’t try to fight the smile working it’s way onto your lips. “They’re really pretty.”

Remus grins and raises one shoulder in a shrug. “Pretty flowers for a pretty girl.”

“Remus,” you whine, heat building in your cheeks at an alarming rate.

Remus laughs, surprised. “What?”

You glare, fierce as you can when you’re so infatuated with him. He’s making this hard for you and he knows it. “Nothing. Come on, come through, I’ll find a vase.”

You lead the way through your entryway and into the kitchen. Remus sits at your kitchen island and watches while you find a vase for your flowers and fill it with water from the tap. You feel his gaze like laser beams and try not to think about how much skin your pyjama top is showing right now, how much you don’t actually care because you want him to look at you.

“Stop looking at me,” you say anyway, though you know he won’t listen.

“No, I don’t think I will.” Typical.

“You’re awful.”

“Thanks, gorgeous.”

You sigh and finish setting up your flowers, setting them on the kitchen island. Remus smiles at you like a fool when you meet his eyes.

“Do you want a drink?” You ask, desperate to do something other than be under his gaze.

“No. I want to ask you something.”

Your heart stutters. This could go a million ways and you’re not sure which way you’d prefer. You sit down across from him and try not to fall right off your chair.

“Okay,” you say quietly, playing with your hands, pulling at your fingers. “Ask away, then.”

Remus doesn’t say anything right away. He slides his hands across the counter and pushes them over yours, stopping your mindless fiddling. You let him take your hands in his. They’re warm, rough but soft in the places that count. His fingers thread through yours and your heart does a backflip.

“Look at me?” He asks, voice soft as silk. You’re glad he’s stopped joking around but somehow his sweet patience is worse.

You look up, meeting his eyes. Remus beams.

“Hi,” he says, grinning.

You huff a laugh through your nose. “Hi,” you say back.

Remus strokes the back of your hand with his thumb. “Look, I’m not gonna beat around the bush,” he says, words measured as if he’s being careful to not worry you. You both despise and adore how patient he is with you. “I want to ask you something, and if you don’t like it, please feel free to kick me out of your house. Okay?”

You swallow the lump in your throat, wondering if the hammering of your heart is for a good reason or a bad. “I’m not gonna kick you out of my house, Remus.”

“You might.”

You shake your head firmly. “I won’t.”

Remus takes a deep breath, and you watch his chest rise and fall.

“I really like you,” he says. “And as much as I enjoy being friends, I think I’d like to be more.”

You blink. You can barely open your mouth, feeling like your lips have been glued shut. “More?” You manage.

Remus nods. “Yeah.”

You don’t know why but you suddenly feel like crying. You’re not oblivious, you’d known Remus liked you at least a little bit more than just a friend. You’ve gone over this moment countless times in your head, content with it happening in your head but never in real life. You’re a fish out of water. You swallow.

“Remus,” you say, trying not to sound like you’re rejecting him. “I … I don’t know.”

Remus blinks.

“Not— I mean, it’s not because of you,” you say in a desperate rush. You untangle your hands from his and wrap your fingers around his wrists instead. “I like you, Remus. You know I do. It’s just— I don’t think you’d … I’m a lot of work,” you finish dejectedly.

Remus gives you a looks like a kicked puppy. “What? Y/N, that doesn’t—“

“No, listen, Remus,” you say, desperate for him to understand. “I’m not— I wouldn’t be a good girlfriend. You already do so much for me, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to do more.” Remus knows about your anxiety. It’s one of the reasons you like him so much, because he knows and doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t treat you any differently for it. Still, “You’d get tired of me.”

Remus genuinely looks like he might cry. He releases your hands and gets up, and for one terrifying second you think he’s leaving you, that he’s already sick of you and your worries, that he doesn’t want anything to do with you anymore. But he only rounds the kitchen island and gets so close to you you can smell his cologne.

“Can I give you a hug?” He asks in a soft murmur. “Please?”

You nod. Remus only hesitates for a half a second before wrapping his arms around you, pulling your head to his stomach, a hand in your damp hair. He’s warm and firm, tall, all-encompassing. He’s hugged you before but never like this. Never like he wants to hold all the pieces of you together in case you fall apart. You might just.

You weasel your arms around his tummy and try not to squeeze too hard. Remus strokes the back of your head, once, twice, three times. He doesn’t seem to mind your wet hair, the dampness slowly soaking into his soft t-shirt.

“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I want you to know that none of that matters to me. Only you matter. I don’t care if I have to look after you, I wouldn’t care if I had to carry you around like a log everywhere we went. I want to look after you.”

You squeeze him harder.

“I don’t want to burden you,” you say into his t-shirt.

Remus makes a sad noise and pulls back, hands climbing to your neck. He encourages your face from his stomach gently, fingers pushing your hair out of the way so he can cup your jaw.

“You won’t be a burden,” he says. “You’re not. I like you just the way you are. I could never get tired of you, honey. Every time I see you it’s like I’m seeing you for the first time all over again.”

There’s a pause in which you look at each other, a lot of big, beautiful feelings in the way you study each other’s faces. Your heart pounds in your chest. You know your decision has already been made, was probably made the second he appeared at your door, maybe the moment you met him however long ago. He’s lovely, the best person you’ve ever met. You like him enough to put aside your worries and be with him, if that’s what he wants.

And it is what he wants. Suddenly you feel so happy you could burst.

“Okay,” you say hoarsely, emotion thick in your throat. You nod, not caring how desperate you look. “Yes.”

Remus’ answering smile is bruising. “Yeah?” He says, pleased and almost as giddy as you. His eyes light up like stars and you know you could’ve never said no to him. “You’ll be mine? Let me look after you for ever and ever?”

A giggle bubbles out of you before you can stop it. You beam up at him. “Only if you let me look after you, too.”

Remus thumbs the hollow under your eye slowly, his touch like fireworks along your skin, leaning close like he’s gonna kiss you. You’re surprised to realise you really, really want him to.

“I think that can be arranged.”

-

thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if u enjoyed 🤍

[deusfoundry]

hihi!! first of all i wld like to congratulate u on 200 and say that ive been following u for a bit now and im??? absolutely obsessed with ur writing omg???? and also if it's alright id like to request number 8 with zayne for ur 200 followers event please and ty!! <3

welcome home kisses with zayne

a/n: HII thank u sosoo much for ur kind words (saw the 2nd ask u sent ehe) and for sending this req in!! now im . gonna be honest the kiss itself ended up not being the star of this drabble and for that im so sorry 😭 but i hope u still like it!! <3

zayne comes home to his apartment shrouded in pitch black darkness.

his arm rests against the wall, one hand reaching out blindly to turn on the lights in the foyer and the other moving to take his shoes off. he loosens the tie around his neck, slips off his jacket and the weight seemingly sewn into it. exhaustion from back to back surgeries settles within his bones. it's there, in the cracking of his joints and the faint, almost unnoticeable cramp of his muscles.

and yet, zayne has only one thing on his mind as he wades past the living room. his sock-clad feet take quiet, measured steps over the wooden floor, only stopping to briefly pet your cat when he feels her paw at the loose thread of his socks.

he pushes the door of your shared bedroom open.

the curtains are pulled halfway to each side. moonlight streams through glass windows, casting its soft rays at your sleeping form. it's almost as if you're drowning. in the hazy moonshine. in silk sheets and the warmth of the blanket pulled up to your waist. in the fabric of his shirt, so loose that it hangs off your shoulder to reveal a tempting patch of skin.

zayne approaches you, crouching down until he's leveled with your face. immediately, like it's a force of habit, his hand gravitates to move a cluster of hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. the knuckle of his index finger brushes against your cheek, and the slightest touch of skin sends a chill down his spine.

his eyes travel across your face steadily in silent admiration, from your chapped lips to the bridge of your nose. from the fat of your cheeks to your stilled lashes under closed eyelids.

and that's where he notices it, the bags beneath your eyes staring right back at him. it serves as a painful reminder of how he's left you to fall asleep to an empty bed again.

his hand flies to the side, palms running up and down the length of your arm, the way he always does on days when you mirror the skies painted gray, yet they're free of rain. when tears are absent from the corner of your eyes, but you're in need of comfort all the same.

he leans in, the ghost of his lips over yours, and whispers an apology so quiet it fails to echo within the dead silence of the room.

"what are you saying sorry for?"

zayne freezes as you begin to stir to life.

he snaps out of his daze when you make a move to sit up. using the combined strength of your limp arms and his assistance, you lean back on the headboard of your bed. you stare at him, just barely through your squinted but curious eyes.

"i came home late again, i'm sorry."

zayne sees the brief moment of shock that courses through you, watches the way it's overtaken by a fond smile almost immediately. you scoot to the side, patting the space just wide enough for him to sit down. he doesn't waste a moment in following your little command.

you lean forward, dragging your body across the sheets until zayne finds himself just a hair away from your face.

when you're this close, zayne can do nothing but stare in awe at how your eyes shine brighter than the sun. at how someone who could hold the entire galaxy in the tiniest specks of their eyes could look at him with so much love.

"i don't care about that." you bring your hand up to his cheek, dragging your knuckle against his skin the same way he does for you. you move until your palm finds his jaw, using it as leverage to push yourself up.

zayne is pulled into a kiss that's so sweet, so tender in the way your lips move against his in slow, unhurried drags, a feeling strikes within his chest that's almost painful and certainly pleasant.

"all that matters to me is that you're home."

dividers by @cafekitsune

[maxlarens]

hello jack doohan lovers. pls excuse any weird characterisation etc, i’ve never written jack before and am writing this because @coff33andb00ks gave me brain worms about this idea for jack x oscar’s childhood bsf!reader:

Oscar’s your friend. Your oldest friend in fact.

Which is to say you’re proud of him and his big boy job as a Formula One driver. And, of course, you’re endlessly grateful for the opportunity to follow him around the world in return for your services as his social media lackey. It’s a job you enjoy even. Which is not to say that you’ve got any kind of ulterior motive to show up on race weekends—

Nope. None at all!

It’s certainly got nothing at all to do with the fellow Australian Flynn Rider-lookalike that hangs around Alpine hospitality. Nothing whatsoever.

Jack Doohan isn’t even on your radar. And you certainly don’t keep an eye out for a flash of warm brown hair or that Roman nose of his. The familiar Australian accent in a crowd, grey-blue eyes shining in the sun, the tooth that often catches on his bottom lip—

No. You don’t pay attention to Jack Doohan at all.

Well, at least not as far as Oscar is concerned.

Cootie-ridden, annoying, pain-in-your-arse, Oscar.

Who as far as you know, thinks you’re still seven years old and pushing him into the sandpit in your parent’s backyard. Who honestly thinks all boys look at you and still see the little girl with pigtail braids who used to play race-cars with him. Which, well, is the same way you look at Oscar and see the kid who used to pick his boogers and spend hours reading his favourite racing magazine to you when you just wanted to play Barbies.

So whatever, you’re even—

You think his girlfriend is crazy for being in love with him and he doesn’t think Jack Doohan has a crush on you.

Oh yeah: you think Jack Doohan has a crush on you. Or you might have a crush on Jack Doohan, who’s to say?

It’s really not some baseless accusation you’re spouting with no evidence. Again, Oscar just thinks you still have cooties. And, okay, y’know what, see for yourself—

You swear this time you’re only outside Alpine hospitality on accident. Oscar and Lando are wrapped up in some McLaren PR thing and you’re filming B-roll of the paddock to use in a reel you’re thinking about making. Ending up by Alpine was a total mistake.

Not that it bothers you much when the object of your affection turns up regardless.

You hear the scuff of shoes against gravel and feel a presence hovering at your back before you know it’s him. Somehow, you know it’s him anyway. As if you’re linked by some cosmic thread. As if you’re attuned to his very aura… Not that you believe in that stuff. But it is weird. The way you know him without sight.

You feel his hair tickle your cheek as he leans over your shoulder, all up in your space.

You don’t mind.

“Hard at work, huh?” he teases into your ear, his breathy laugh making you suppress a shiver.

“Mm hm,” you answer, tight lipped, trying to keep the camera stabilised despite yourself, “Doin’ my job.”

He moves away and you finally hit the button to stop recording. You spin around to face him, trying not to let a full-blown grin appear on your face. He’s doing something similar, half-grin, that snaggletooth you like so much on display. Eyes sparkling in the sunlight.

“Was that a jab at me?”, he raises his eyebrows (can’t raise just one, you’ve discovered).

You make a face, shake your head, “No, I would never,” you tell him in an exaggerated tone that says you’re taking the piss.

He scoffs, points a finger at you, “I’ll have you know that I was on the sim until three in the morning.”

You laugh this time, loud, tucking your phone into your back pocket and trying to resist the urge to lean into him like girls do in the movies. Hand on his shoulder, folding in half, like he’s just said the funniest thing ever. Like he’s not just some guy with brown hair and pretty eyes.

“Yeah, I know, Jack. You don’t let anyone forget it.”

His eyes widen impishly, “People need to know.”

“Sure do,” you smile broadly; meaning it, also taking a bit of a jab at Alpine’s chronic ‘middle-of-the-pack’-ness without being too mean, “Where would Alpine be without you?”

He shrugs nonchalantly, “In the gutter, with Williams, probably.”

You both burst suddenly into a fit of laughter. Neither one of you leaning on the other, but close to it. You’re sure it looks suspicious— Oscar Piastri’s known best friend and Alpine’s reserve driver bent over and giggling with each other— but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Being around Jack is intoxicating.

He makes your head spin and your heart race and your chest feel like it’s got some yawning sun inside of it. When you’re with him you always want more. To hear him talk, to watch his expressions shift, to feel him, warm and there and next to you. It’s never enough.

You want you want you want,

He occupies your mind when he’s not around. You think back on your texts. Interactions that the two of you have had. How he looked on a certain day. If you’re being too annoying by replying to his Instagram stories—

It shouldn’t matter. It does anyway. You want him to like you, so desperately that there’s an ache pulsing in the middle of your chest. Right in the centre of your ribs.

Sometimes, you think he wants you to like him too.

You’re drunk on it— him, the laughter— it makes your fingers tingle when you look at him. Not sure if this is the Moment exactly, but feeling something in the air anyway. The way his mouth is parted, the way the corner of it lifts. It’s not the Something, but it is something. Or at least it’s something until,

well, until Oscar—

Oscar who comes barreling over like there’s not palpable electricity between you and Jack right now.

“Hey man,” he says, as you’re watching them dap each other up like Oscar isn’t totally ruining any chance to flirt further with the Alpine reserve driver. You roll your eyes covertly. Huff audibly when Oscar drags you away for PR duties. Send Jack a beaming smile over your shoulder anyway, get one in return that makes you all warm and fuzzy and hopeful.

Oscar side eyes you, “Why do you look all red?”

You raise an eyebrow, hair flicking into your own face as you snap your head to look at him, “Excuse me?”

He gestures at his own face, then points at yours, “Dunno. You’re all red. Did you say something embarrassing to Jack? He probably doesn’t care—”

“Oh my god,” you cut him off, “Are you that blind?”

He frowns, furrows his eyebrows, “What do you mean?”

You jut a thumb at Alpine hospitality in the distance, careful to keep your voice low, “You don’t think there was something back there? Like between Jack and I?”

Oscar stares at you for a long moment. Dumbfounded. Utterly confused. So much so that you begin to get annoyed at his silence. What does it say that your boy-best-friend can’t even imagine a guy having a crush on you? Are you really that insane for thinking Jack might?

“You and Jack?” he asks.

“Jack and I,” you repeat, tone clipped.

He’s quiet for another long second. Then he’s shaking his head like it’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard,

“No,” he’s saying in that way that’s trying to sound like a maybe but betrays his true feelings on the matter.

You scoff indignantly, then shove him hard enough that he stumbles into a wall. He’ll eat his words one day, you know it.

hope u guys enjoyed🥺

[discordantwritings]

Taken Back (Crocodile x Reader)

Warnings: NSFW 18+ MDNI, fem afab! Reader (reader is referred to as girl), degradation, oral sex, facefucking, clothed sex/ dry humping, idk what the nice tag for getting off on a shoe is

WC: 1.9k

Summary: Your old boss is out of prison and back in action. You know he doesn’t like loose ends so you make a play to kill him before he can kill you. Things turn out differently than you plan.

Notes: I am not sure if this is what the requester wanted but my mind went to places that I couldn’t stop and I hope they like it!

Tagging: @keiva1000

Sword griped tight you wait for the lackey pirates to pass as you sneak further into Karai Bari island. Sir Crocodile’s wanted poster weighs heavy in your pocket as you mentally run through your plan once again.

Get into his office. Kill him or die in the process. Finally be free one way or the other.

Shitty plan, but it’s the best you’ve got.

Ever since you heard the news that Crocodile had escaped from Impel Down you knew you had to do this. You knew he didn’t like loose ends. You knew him well, he was your old boss after all.

For years you had worked for Baroque Works, a special agent directly under Sir Crocodile’s rule. You would go so far to say you had a decent relationship with him, as decent a relationship as Crocodile could have. You appreciated his efficiency and ruthlessness and he appreciated your obedience and skill.

You were a spy, often away from Alabasta for months at a time, and you had been away when the Straw Hat Pirates had turned the country upside down. When you got back there was nothing left for you, so you had to rebuild your life. It wasn’t easy- but your skills were more than enough to keep you above water.

But then Crocodile broke out.

It was like a knife was hanging over your head held by only a fraying thread. In every dark alley you expect to see him or one of your old coworkers, every night you shove a chair underneath the doorknob so no one can sneak in. Living in fear wasn’t much of a life. So when you caught wind of your old boss’ new hideout you stole yourself a ship and started sailing.

Now you’re here, sneaking through carnival surplus and dodging the gaze of pirate clowns. You’re not sure how exactly Sir Crocodile got in business with Buggy the Clown but you can’t really spare that much thought to that right now. It’s just a fitting backdrop for your quickly declining mental state.

You navigate carefully according to the (thankfully sound) information you bartered for and avoid being spotted as you come up on the door to Sir Crocodile’s office. Instinctually you know it’s his- painted in that signature dark green he loves so much. Sword in one hand, short dagger in the other you seep your haki into the blades. Pitch black weapons ready, you shove open the door and prepare to attack.

Sir Crocodile looks exactly the same. You figured maybe prison would have done some damage to him, but you couldn’t have been more wrong. He was still the same broad, imposing, terrifying man.

A man who was standing in front of his desk facing the door. A man who knew you were coming.

You falter in the door way as he smirks at you. All the adrenaline you were running off of evaporates in an instant as you’re faced with the cruel fact you’d be outsmarted.

You really should have known better.

“It’s been a while.” Sir Crocodile says, absentmindedly polishing his golden hook with a cloth.

“It has.” Is the best response you can come up with.

“You were really thinking of killing me? I really thought you were smarter than that.” The slight disappointment in his voice hurts more than the fact he’s going to kill you.

“I didn’t want to wait around to be killed.” You turn the dagger over in your hand, fighting to keep your willpower strong enough to empower the blade.

“Fair enough.” You feel his eyes slide over your form and you fight not to shrink away. “But what makes you think I want you dead?”

“What?” That wasn’t a question you were ready for.

“I don’t think I stuttered.”

“No- I-“ Your stance shifted, letting your guard down slightly. “I’m a loose end. You don’t like loose ends.”

Silence hangs in the air as he seems to contemplate that answer. “That is true. But why did you never think I’d want you working for me again?”

…

Admittedly, that thought never crossed your mind. You were caught up in the countless ruthless slaughters you had seen at his hand and hook. Never did you think that you could come back, that there was room for you to come back.

And now you’ve probably destroyed that chance.

“I clearly had a lapse in judgement.”

“Clearly.” Sir Crocodile pushes himself off his desk and walks over to you and you drop your now useless blades to your side, willpower having run out long ago. “If it wasn’t me this whole gambit probably would have worked. It was good to know you still had all your connections and skills. And no one noticed you sneaking around.”

“You did teach me well.” You admit as he stalks over to you.

“That’s why I’m not going to kill you.” Crocodile is standing only a foot from you now, grey eyes bearing down on you. “I’m going to take you back.”

A confusing rush of emotions swirl in your head as you process the fact that you’re not actually going to die and actually just got your job back. “Thank you sir.”

“You will have to work very, very hard to make up for this though. You did think about killing me.” He saunters back over to his desk, taking a seat behind it.

“Of course.” Of course you would never expect things to just go back to the way they were.

“Double shifts, and of course every bit of information you gained while I was away.”

“I will compile all that information for you.”

“And I expect you to come up with some other ways to get back on my good side. You’ve always been creative.”

He wasn’t implying anything. But the crazy cocktail of emotions, adrenaline, and honestly the way your mind was always a bit in the gutter had you thinking about less conventional ways to get back on his good side. There had never been anything between you two but you can’t deny that you’ve thought about it- I mean who could blame you? He was strong, commanding, and incredibly handsome. And, while you didn’t want to get overly full of yourself, you swear you’d occasionally feel his gaze on you when you weren’t looking.

If you were wrong your head might go back on the chopping block but if you were right then you’d get back in his good graces pretty damn fast.

Worth a shot.

You walked over to his desk, one hand trailing on the dark wood as you walk behind it. “I was wondering, sir, if there was anything I could do for you right now?”

He looks up at you with a raised eyebrow, studying you before answering. “Depends. What are you thinking?”

Of course he was going to make you say it. You can see in his eyes that he knows what you’re implying. He’s playing with you.

You choose not to say anything else, simply letting your knees hit the ground in front of his slightly parted legs. You don’t move after that, choosing to fold your hands in your lap while you wait for him to give you an order.

“Oh well look at this. Seems you are smart.” He shifts in his seat, legs spreading wider. “C’mere.”

You shuffle closer to him, hands quickly finding his belt. You swear you hear him chuckle but you’re too preoccupied with the large bulge growing in his pants as you unzip them. Reaching under his boxers you pull out his half hard length and your mouth waters.

He’s thick- so much so that you know it’ll be a challenge to wrap your mouth around him. But that fact only spurs you on further as you nuzzle up to his base and press sloppy kisses against it. You feel him harden under you and you flatten your tongue and lick a long stripe up from his base to the tip.

“Stop teasing.” His fingers thread through your hair, gripping hard as he pushes your head closer in warning.

You don’t need to be told twice. Taking his tip into your mouth you swirl your tongue around it a few times before slowly taking him further into your mouth. Crocodile groans in appreciation as you sink down, his cock slipping down into your throat until your nose brushes against his pelvis.

“If I’d of known you were so good on your knees I would have hunted you down the second I got out.” His grip pulls you back ever so slightly just so he can shove you back down again. “We’ll just have to make up for lost time.”

It’s thrilling to let yourself be used like this, the drag of his cock in your throat foreign yet intoxicating. You’re already soaked, shifting unconsciously to try and get some friction to relieve the quickly growing ache. Of course Crocodile notices.

“Are you such a whore that you’re getting off on this?” Your eyes flick up and you see him grinning down at you. “Spread your legs.”

You’re confused but you do as he asks, knees going wide and holding onto his thighs for support. It isn’t until you feel the tip of his expensive shoe between your thighs that it all clicks. You grind down on the hard surface and moan around Crocodile’s cock.

“That’s it.” Crocodile mumbles appreciatively above you.

You let him continue to use you, filthy wet noises filling the room as spit drips down your chin and onto his lap. When he’s controlling your head it’s easy to focus your effort on grinding yourself against his shoe. It’s humiliating, degrading, disgusting, and you love it. Your head swims with lust, captured in the feeling of his cock throbbing in your throat.

You know he’s close when his grip tightens on your hair and his hips buck up every time he shoves your face down. If that wasn’t enough signs, his mouth gets looser, filthy words spilling out.

“Fuck you’re too good at this- tight little throat was made for my cock, huh? It’s like you were meant to take me-“ The pulling of your hair brings tears to your eyes, just on the verge of spilling over. “You’re going to swallow what I give you- take my fucking load-“

You feel his cum hit the back of your throat and you do your best to swallow as you’re still held down. You can only swallow so much before you feel him dripping out the side of your mouth and down your chin. Finally he pulls you off and you gasp for air, face still held up for Crocodile to see. His hook comes up to your face and collects the spit and cum on your chin. He presses the cold metal up to your mouth and you lick it up without a thought, earning a groan from Crocodile.

“Such a good girl.” You’re rewarded with him pressing his shoe up to your clit. “Be a good little whore and get off on my shoe.”

It doesn’t take long now that he’s helping, forced to look in his eyes as you moan and shudder, coming undone in a way you never thought you could. As you come down he lets you go and your head falls down to his lap, head light from your orgasm.

“You have certainly proven yourself.” You feel the hook lightly brush through your hair. “And now I’ll never let you go.”

[thefreakandthehair]

The thing about drinking at 31 years old is that it's different from drinking at 18 years old– or 21 years old, or even 25 years old. Each shot, each drink, is one sip away from a terrible night’s sleep and an equally terrible morning.

Eddie Munson’s figured this out. Steve Harrington though? Steve Harrington has not. 

That’s how Eddie finds himself corralling his husband onto the couch after stumbling into the house, the front door slamming loud enough to jolt their cat out of her otherwise peaceful slumber. She glares for a moment before stretching her paws and curling back into a neat little ball. 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Steve repeats, an immediate tell that he’s definitely not making it any further than the couch anyways. “I’m good, I’m fine, this– this is a nice couch.” He punctuates his thought by slapping the cushion and laughing. 

Eddie shakes his head and grins. “Yep, it sure is. You picked it out, remember?” 

Steve gasps and laughs some more, falling back into the corner of the sectional. “I don’t but it’s comfy so if I did, I did a good fucking job.”

He watches with fond comfortability as Steve squirms around on the couch and lays back, arms over his head and dopey laugh still on his lips. It takes a lot of willpower and frankly, respect, not to climb on top of this giggly, flushed, disheveled man he loves so goddamn much and kiss him until he’s flushed for other reasons, but he digs deep and focuses on doing the next best thing: taking care of him. Eddie’s a little worse for the wear in his own right but a sliver of his iron constitution remains from his wild youth and he hangs on by a thread. 

Eddie gets Steve situated into a comfortable position, his back against one side of the cushions and his head propped up on a few pillows to make sure he doesn’t end up with his face smushed into the corner somehow. 

“I’m good, I’m fine– hey, hey, what are you doing?” Steve slurs and Eddie looks up from his position at the end of the couch, his fingers moving quickly as he unties Steve’s sneakers. 

“Taking your shoes off? You can’t sleep in your jeans, Stevie. You’ll thank me tomorrow.” 

Steve hums from somewhere high in his throat but doesn’t say anything else Eddie moves to unhook his belt. 

“Stop–stop it, hey, I’m married!” Steve smacks Eddie’s hand and Eddie barely suppresses a cackle. “You’re hot and all but I’m married and my husband’s hotter than you anyways.” 

With that, Eddie can’t stop himself. Warmth spreads through his chest as he laughs, from his heart all the way down to the tingling in his toes. Even drunk, even with his eyes closed, Steve would still choose him without a thought and sure, after all these years, it shouldn’t come as a surprise but it does. Because Steve is Steve, and Eddie is Eddie, and Eddie still hasn’t figured out what huge karmic debt he must’ve paid for them to have become SteveAndEddie.

He stares at Steve who’s nearly asleep but feebly muttering words like “hot,” and “perfect,” and “lucky.” 

“Hey, hey, Stevie, open your eyes for a second?” Eddie brushes the hair back from his forehead, gently shifting it away from his bloodshot, glossy eyes. He’s beautiful, even like this, what the fuck?

“Oh,” Steve’s eyebrow unfurrow and the right side of his mouth turns up into a small grin. “It’s you. Hi, Ed.” 

“Hi, Steve.” Eddie chuckles and kisses his forehead. “Gonna get your jeans off so you can sleep, okay?” 

“Mhm, yeah, that’s– thanks.” 

Eddie coaxes them off, tossing them onto a chair where they’ll remain until the next morning, and sets a glass of water down on the coffee table for when Steve inevitably wakes up with cottonmouth. One more soft kiss and an even softer blanket later, Steve is out and Eddie tip toes up the stairs to bed. 

The next morning, Eddie wakes to see Steve next to him. At some point, he must’ve woken up and gotten himself to bed which gives Eddie the opportunity to stare uninterrupted in the silence of their bedroom. It stands in stark contrast to the boisterous night before– the loud music and jumping bodies and Chrissy popping a bottle of champagne in celebration of Robin saying yes, as if there’d ever been a doubt. 

Steve’s on his back, the sun just starting to intrude on their tranquility. He takes in Steve’s features, the same ones he’s memorized time and time again but that never fail to stun him just the same. The moles, the freckles, the scars that make him ache and feel thankful simultaneously. The strong line of his jaw, the eyelashes that flutter as he sleeps, that one tendril of hair that insists on curling until Steve forces it into place. Eddie’s seen a lot of the world now, having traveled a bit with his band, and there’s nothing that compares to the man sleeping next to him. 

Even if he’s snoring. 

When Steve does eventually wake up, trudging downstairs with one eye open and asking why Long Island Iced Tea’s even exist, Eddie’s ready with the necessities– a black iced coffee, two sausage, egg, and cheese sandwiches delivered to their doorstep, and a Gatorade for himself. 

“You’re the fucking best, you know that?” Steve smiles through the pounding headache as he sips his coffee and tears into the sandwich. 

“Eh, I try,” Eddie grins with a mouthful of egg and leans over to bump their shoulders together. 

Comfortable quiet drapes over them like the blanket from last night still over the back of the couch, and like the jeans hanging off the recliner– little reminders of the night before and of the domesticity of the life they’ve built together. 

Once Steve finishes his sandwich, their cat, Florence, hops up on the table and starts batting at the rolled up wrappers. 

“Think she wants to play,” Steve grumbles, sliding off the couch and laying on the carpet. “Listen, Florence, you know I love you but kid, I cannot play right now. I’m barely alive.” 

Eddie doubles over and nearly spits Gatorade all over the coffee table. Even their terrible, hungover, washed up mornings aren't all that bad.

[toysrguts]

sally face hc's!!!!

been putting off posting this for god knows what reason sally face fandom plz 🙏🙏🙏

sal:

•cuts his own hair with safety scissors

•his fav food is dino nuggets idc sue me

•runs his own lowkey piercing business. he even pierced larrys ears and ashleys nostril. he wants to make it a career in the future

•somehow so good at comforting everyone but himself

•always knows what to say when someone's having a hard time, probably cuz hes been through a lot and can easily put himself in others shoes

•always really reserved and shy until him and larry go to a concert together

•cares more about price than looks so most of his stuff doesnt match at all

•most, if not all of his clothes are from thrift stores

•most inconsistent sleep schedule ever. sometimes he goes to bed early and sleeps like a baby, other nights hes restlessly playing his gearboy until the sun comes up

•regular cigarette smoker, but will only smoke weed if larrys with him

•so fucking awkward but always has good intentions. bro just cannot communicate for shit

•when he meets new people he likes to freak them out with his glass eye when they least expect it

•definitely a big industrial fan (NIN, skinny puppy, KMFDM, etc) but his favorite band is korn

•also loves music from the late 70s-early 80s that he grew up hearing on the radio cuz it reminds him of the good memories he had with his mom

•his earth shattered when kurt cobain died

•started watching so much mtv after meeting larry cuz he wanted to be more educated on his kind of music

•his shoes are covered in doodles and signatures from the group

•theyre also hanging on by a thread cuz theyre old as shit and hes had them since grade 6 💀

•has a small collection of custom prosthetic eyes with different colors and cool shapes in them and stuff

•when he meets new people he likes to freak them out with his glass eye when they least expect it

•takes halloween VERY seriously

•writes songs for ppl he cares about and plays them on his guitar

•he wrote a song for ash once and she still asks him to play it for her every now and then

•typa fella to never cuff his pants so theyre all faded and torn and gross at the bottom

•collects random animal (or human) bones he finds around the woods of nockfell

•baggy clothes cuz body dysmorphia

•seems really calm and collected all the time but lets it all out behind closed doors

larry:

•sal’s tripsitter

•REEKS of axe body spray to cover the weed stank

•has literally witnessed murder but is DEATHLY afraid of most bugs

•pulls a lot of evil pranks and sal just goes along with it

•lisa taught him how to cook from a really early age

•whenever the gang is hanging out they force him to cook them food but he usually just goes the lazy route and microwaves some mac n cheese

•only really shows his emotions around sal because he knows he understands

•so attractive but carries himself like hes not

•uses humor to cope and often jokes about being fatherless

•has a guilty pleasure for pop music

•a grade above the rest of the group

•frequent guyliner wearer

•his paranoid ass carries a switchblade everywhere he goes for self defense

•actually carries so much random shit in his pockets

•has a framed photo on his nightstand of him and sal at a meet & greet with the members of sanity’s fall

•his band shirts are so ancient most of them have massive holes in them

•the group calls him “larr bear” to piss him off in a loving way

•the look on his face when lisa calls him that in front of people is priceless

ashley:

•hair is so damaged from constantly messing with it

•loves doing other ppls hair too, especially sals (they do matching hairstyles sometimes :3)

•brings her camera literally everywhere and has a scrapbook of a bunch of memories of the gang throughout highschool

•also just takes random pictures sometimes cuz shes really into photography

•carries bandaids everywhere she goes just in case

•has to decorate literally everything she owns and make it look cute

•does not hold back on adding stickers (sal lets her stick them all over his mask sometimes)

•usually dozes off before she takes her makeup off and then just fixes it up in the morning and rolls with it

•collects everyones baby teeth to make necklaces and jewelry with

•likes to practice nail art on everyone

•has the best sense of style out of the whole group. the amount of clothes and accessories in her closet is impressive and she always puts together the most fire fits

•has a huge shoe collection from adidas, to docs, to combat boots

•so sweet and friendly to literally everyone but will actually kill someone if they fuck with her

•has a really hectic home life so she basically trained herself to sleep like a rock through anything

•literally the mom of the group, shes always looking out for everyone especially cuz she has her own little brother she takes care of

•master of diy she can make something out of literally anything and make it look amazing

todd:

•when times get desperate he sells bud from his dad’s garden

•never even came out to his parents, he didnt feel a need to they just accepted it and never questioned him

•has so many plants around the house and has names for every single one

•he doesnt allow sal to bring gizmo to his apartment cuz he once tried to eat bob

•everyones always asking to touch his hair cuz he takes care of it so well its so soft and curly

•spends the most amount of time on the internet than the rest of the group

•probably why his eyesight is dogshit 😹😹😹

•his brain is like its own encyclopedia, he’ll just randomly drop the most insane fun facts on everyone for no reason but its always a good conversation starter

•his parents randomly tell him these crazy stories from when they were young hippies

•they almost named him some hippie shit like “star”

•talks to himself a lot, like actual conversations with himself. sometimes he just narrates what hes doing without even realizing it until his mom walks in and is like “who tf are u talking to”

•on the spectrum and is deadpan majority of the time so whenever hes being sarcastic its so hard to tell

•so full of wisdom literally everyone goes to him for advice, even his own parents sometimes

•thats a left handed mf if ive ever seen one

•not photogenic at all and always has to be suade into being in group pictures

other random things:

•when theres no mysteries to be investigated, the gang likes to have sleepovers at larrys place where they smoke and watch movies and play video games and stuff

•sal and larry take “whats mine is yours” to another level. theyre always together and they share pretty much everything, from clothes to literal toothbrushes (they are disgusting)

•sal brings gizmo to chug’s place sometimes so soda has someone to play with (she likes to style his fur and he steals her stickers)

•a lot of the songs from the ost were songs that sal, larry, and sometimes rob recorded together for fun

•rob also taught them both how to skate

•chug is a massive weeb

•ashley and todd are basically sal and larrys ubers cuz sal has horrible vision and larry got his license revoked

[jiminiecrickets]

LOVE’S LITTLE DAGGER. KTH / M!READER

summary. taehyung hates your guts, so you rearrange his. maybe he likes it more than he should.

wc. 3.6k

tags. smut | (eventually) sub bottom!tae, dom top!reader, playboy!tae, unprotected sex, brat taming (?), overstimulation (implied), teasing, handjobs, choking, shotgunning (position, i think?), they’re both very verbal and annoying, use of “puppy” and a couple mentions of “whore” (tae receiving) so maybe a bit of degradation

[ part two ]  [ requested + 2 ]

a boy with fire engine-red hair slams into your chest with both hands. your books and notes scatter to the floor, pens skidding across the empty hallway, and you barely avoid knocking your head against the wall.

"oops," he says innocently, those infamous smoky dark eyes fluttering down at you. "you should watch your step."

frustration bubbles like lava beneath your skin. just as he steps away, your hand darts out and hooks in the ripped knee of his blue jeans.

the snapping tear of cloth brings a satisfied smile to your face. he whips around, alarm flashing across his features, and he yanks his leg away to check his pants.

"juhyun's waiting for you in our hall," you inform him smugly, shuffling your papers into a messy stack and stuffing them into your messenger bag. you chase your pens, too used to his jabs to give him much more of a reaction. you glance up. "and her brother. she says you did some unspeakable things to the both of them, and they'd like a word with you. judging by the look on their faces," you slip the last handful of pens into your bag and rise to your feet, "i'd say you're in for a treat."

his brow furrows. he still smooths his jeans consciously, fiddling with the white threads. "who?"

"you fucked her," you say, "while dating her brother. don't you remember? it was last month."

he rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his silk bomber jacket. "why would i? it wasn't even serious. i told him that."

"i'm just the messenger, taehyung. before you go..." you lean in, your lips brushing his earlobe. a spiked shiver runs down his spine. "i got a hundred-and-two on that test."

with that, you turn on your heel, carrying on down the hallway and rounding a corner. your shoes click on the linoleum sharply, and taehyung glowers at where your figure once was.

that's the third time he's smacked into you this week. why haven't you blown up at him yet?

just once, he'd love to see something on your face aside from that vile, arrogant smile and composed gaze. he's never seen you angry. nobody else has, either. 

when others see you, they see gentleness. no one but him knows the look in your eye when they meet his, glittering with edged, haughty superiority. there are a thousand whispers about who you are and who you might've been – some say that a violent past turned you into an all-around pacifist.

it confuses him. why would someone so apparently gentlemanly and non-confrontational arouse such wild rumours? what is it about civility that impresses less than savagery? why are his pants so tight?

he scowls and shifts his belt, messing with the pant leg you'd seized earlier. it still doesn't sit right, twisted halfway around his calf, but he's running out of time for his next class and he doesn't have a lot of late strikes left.

he hurries away, pretty girls and their pretty brothers the farthest thing from his agitated mind.

two hours later, taehyung slaps a stapled paper down in front of you. everyone in a six-metre radius in the cafeteria falls silent, wide eyes trained on the absolute fury rippling from taehyung's body. they whisper behind their palms.

"you fucking cheat," he hisses without any attempt at discretion. "a hundred-and-two. a hundred, and two? what'd you do, fuck the t.a.?"

neatly, you place aside your chopsticks, sliding the plate of sushi out of the way for the paper you dig out of your bag, formatted exactly the same as taehyung's all the way down to the size of hanging indents and margin spacing.

you flip to the last page and tap your finger against a brief paragraph before the conclusion. "one extra mark for addressing category nine-b. it was one sentence on an otherwise packed page full of more important parts, so i'm not surprised you skimmed over it."

taehyung flips over to the rubric stapled to the back of his assignment. he scans down to nine, and his frown deepens with every line.

a single-line paragraph indented as if it was part of the previous one. extra marks: /1.

he wants so badly to slap the smirk off your face that it takes every effort to dilate his blood vessels. an incorrectly-formatted guide has just cost him everything.

"hey, a hundred per cent is still amazing," you comfort him sympathetically. your eyes glimmer pridefully as you lean back. "you know, i think we're now about even."

he snatches up the papers, and after a moment's pause, your yet-to-be-touched coffee. "i don't want to be even," he mutters, and he stalks away.

—

while your spaghetti simmers in a pot in the kitchen, taehyung saunters by. he drops half a shaker of salt into it. "oh. my hand slipped."

your jaw clenches. "taehyung, this is very petty. even for you."

he grunts, watching as you pour out the steaming water and rinse off as much salt as you can. most of it dissolved as soon as it hit the bubbling water, and you make a note to add more tomato into the base. maybe it'll help hide the salt. 

"i wouldn't be if someone would stop inviting his friends over to play mario kart when i'm trying to get my rocks off."

"what?" you ask with a roll of your eyes, stirring a pot of sauce. "you want me to listen to your weird noises for two hours straight?" you mimic his growly moan, low in the throat and reverberating through the chest, and taehyung's back teeth grind and he shifts on the sofa. he's never heard anything like it come out of you before.

"then stop opening my door!" he argues.

"it must get stuffy in there."

jumping to his feet, taehyung crosses into the kitchen in two steps and jabs your chest with a finger, anger flushing his neck to his ears. "you are the reason i'm like this. i haven't been able to do anything for three fucking weeks because of your stupid blue shells – i’m constantly aware that you could walk in at any second! the next time you bring someone pretty over, you're gonna be seeing me so much you'll practically be fucking me instead."

you turn away from the pot and turn off the stove. taehyung glances down uncertainly at it – why'd you do that?

"you'd like that, wouldn't you?" you ask impatiently, an octave deeper than usual. you step forward; he doesn't give. he can feel the minty heat of your breath against his cheeks.

"don't be ridiculous," he scoffs. "you? you wouldn't know what to do with a cock if it was in front of your face."

your gaze sweeps over his body – casual, clean. yet, it feels as if you've stripped him raw.

"where i'm interested, i don't need to know what to do with your cock," you murmur. "and after i'm done with you... you'll be too gone to care."

warmth rides up his spine. it takes a moment for him to register that it's your hand creeping beneath his shirt and bumping over the ridges of his spine.

"what's wrong, taehyung?" the way his name rolls off your tongue sounds too sweet to be the poison he knows it to be. "never taken a cock before?"

"of course i have," he snaps without realising what exactly has been said. his throat bobs and he averts his eyes, gnawing on his lower lip furiously. "i mean... well..."

your grin widens. "well?"

"just... me. my hands."

"your hands?" you repeat with an arched brow and a soft chuckle that has taehyung hot under the collar. "cute. can't find anyone willing to tame you, hm?"

taehyung bristles. "i don't need taming," he growls, leaning in those few centimetres more until your noses touch. "but i bet you'd like to try."

he slams his mouth onto yours, twisting his fingers in your hair. your hands close around his slim waist, pushing him back against the wall, and he gasps as you tug his hair back to give you better access to his swan-like throat, warm and golden.

a muffled groan trickles past his tight lips as you shove your knee between his thighs. your hands roll his hips for him – as if he doesn't know what to do.

his grip tightens in your hair. bastard.

you nip at his neck, littering hot, stinging hickeys along the smooth line of his throat. his dick throbs embarrassingly in his jeans and he reaches for it.

you slap his hand away, tilting your leg to grind your cock into his. he gasps and moans as his knuckles hit the wall and you take the opportunity to press him harder into the wall, restricting how much he can move.

for someone so flammable, he's awfully good at taking everything you throw at him.

"you – hah – fuck everyone so roughly?" he sighs.

"only the brats." you tug at his belt with deft fingers. "mm. you're already so hard, puppy."

he glares as best he can with lust-blown pupils. "i'll kill you."

"really, puppy? how, if you can't even control yourself like this?" your palm glides over his hot cock. "tell me, baby."

"i'll – i'll get the hundred-and-two next time. it'll be my name next to the number one, and you'll be the one pinned to a stupid wall – fuck!"

you let loose a long, slow whistle, and taehyung's face burns. you grin, pressing a kiss to his lips. "for someone who's in bed with another every other night, you're surprisingly desperate. you're close, yeah?"

"shut your mouth," he grits out between clenched teeth, his hips rutting into your twisting hand. "mm – s'your fault. you and—"

"me and my blue shells, i know," you tease, ignoring your own problem for taehyung's adorably furrowed brows. your hand jerks sharply and you'll never forget his stuttered moan and the way he half-crumples, knees buckling as his fingers dig into the wall behind him. "come up with something new, and i'll let you come."

his head whips around so fast he's at risk of snapping his neck. "what?"

"you heard me, puppy." you swipe your thumb over his leaking slit and he groans into his shoulder. your hand slows to a turtle's crawl and you glance down with a hum, encircling him with a thumb and forefinger. "it’s very pretty. but i'm bigger."

he bucks his hips. "fuck you."

"don't get me wrong, baby. you've got nothing to be ashamed of. i'm just getting you ready – mentally."

he could kill you right there. but, as you tilt his head to meet your lips, he can't help but soften just that little bit more, already half a mess with his jeans struggling around his hips.

"i hate you," he groans, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks as you squeeze his cock, and his face flushes with heat as it twitches in your palm and you glance up at him with a smug grin. "no, i – i'm serious. you're a competitive jerk who's crazy-obsessed with me and beating me at everything. you're the poster boy for desperation for validation. i bet if i told you that you did well on your last assignment, you'd cream your pants like a teenager."

you chuckle and press your lips to his ear, loosing a soft, teasing moan just for him. "careful, taehyung. don't make me angry. you're the one taking it."

the way your words roll over him, concentrating in his cock, pisses him off. he twists his wrists out of your grip and grabs your jaw, thumbs at the base of your ears, and yanks your mouth onto his as he steps forward. you push his jeans down and he chuckles breathlessly as you urge him to jump – he does, and you catch him with impressive ease. he knows where his centre of balance is, and he's considerate enough to shift it close to yours.

you can't believe you're calling kim taehyung considerate. his hobbies include stealing your food and locking you out of the dorm when you leave to discard the rubbish.

"my room," he mumbles against your mouth, his kisses hot and nerve-stinging. "it's closer."

"read my mind." you toss him onto his bed, resting one knee against the mattress as you tug your belt off. taehyung pulls his hoodie over his head into an indeterminate corner and crawls closer, sliding his palms up against the soft denim of your jeans, gazing up at you with dark, hooded eyes and a proud curl at the corner of his lips. he nips the warm skin above your waistband when he draws the zipper down with his teeth.

"you're stupid," he whispers, "and handsome. i hate you."

"a hundred and two," you remind him, and reach for the back of your collar. you tug it over your head and taehyung's appreciative gaze doesn't go unnoticed. "i hate you, too. you're a bully and immature. you drink all the milk and never buy more."

he turns over onto his stomach and spreads his knees, tossing his hair with a kiss-plumped smirk. "give me a reason to."

your palm glides down his spine, resting over the high curve of his ass. he pushes back into your hand and gasps as you press your thumb into him, his cock pulsing.

"idiot! who s-starts with the..." his eyes flutter shut as a moan bubbles its way from his belly. "oh..."

you hum. "someone's been having their fun, hm? were you playing with yourself right before you threw half a kilo of salt into my poor dinner? that explains why you're so tetchy – and sensitive."

"shut up!" he grumbles, his cheeks the darkest shade of pink you've ever seen. "just – just fuck me, already. i've done half your job for you."

"you sure?" you reach below him, fingers grazing his pulsing cock. it's embarrassingly eager, and he arches his back prettily in an attempt to taunt your attention elsewhere.

"i can take it," he says with a stupid heft of confidence. he grins, cocky. "guys always add a couple of inches."

you scoff and grab his thighs, pressing them together. he might think he doesn't need it, but he needs to relax as much as possible. he hums and presses his cheek into a pillow with a teasing sway of his hips, rolling back against your bulge as you fiddle with his bottle of lube.

he hears the shuffle of cloth and the clink of a metal buckle, and he grows impatient as the lid clicks shut. "shit, take any longer and i'll go—ah, god!"

you smooth your palms over his heaving ribs, hushing him as you rock your hips deeper into his. 

"f-fuck," he moans, arching back into you. "oh, shit, baby, you feel so big in me... fuck me, damn it—mmh..."

you start off slow, gently allowing him to get used to you. after his first verbal outburst, he dissolves into pleased moans, finally relieved of being stuck between a rock and a hard place. he relaxes, expression soft and open as his brow furrows.

he's pretty when he's not biting at your fingers. you smirk.

you draw back until just the tip, then snap your hips forward.

he hisses, legs kicking at your thighs as he shudders, pleasure running up his spine. you stroke a line down his spine and squeeze his supple ass.

setting a slow, easy pace, you grind your hips into his ass, hushing him as he judders and whines into his pillow. his teeth clamp down on the soft cotton and you groan softly as he clenches around you, the tight ring of muscle scraping against your shaft.

"still think you can take it?" you murmur with a smug grin, smoothing a hand over the dip of his waist. "you're shaking like a leaf, taehyung."

"sh-shut up." he grits his teeth and throws his head back with a blissful moan as you give his ass a playful smack. "feels good, s'all..."

"good," you reply, cocky amusement leeching into your voice. it's so familiar that something inside taehyung instinctively tenses with anger. "maybe a good lay is all you need to loosen up. metaphorically, of course."

"fuck you!" he barks.

"you'd like that, wouldn't you?" with a harsh thrust, you stroke his hips, gently pulling him backwards onto your cock. he looks so pretty, stretched wide around you – it's a boost to the ego you don't really need. "always have to come out on top, always have to be the one giving orders... can't take a fucking break around you. you're really quite infuriating."

"a-at least i'm not a fucking pushover!"

he lets out a sound between a moan and a mewl as you shove him down, speeding up until your hips slap against his ass loudly. if someone were to walk by, they'd have no questions about what you're doing.

you twist your fingers in his dyed locks near the base of his neck and tug sharply, silencing his gasped, raspy moans as he buries his face in the pillow, his eyes rolling back briefly as his whole body bounces harshly.

the cheap dorm bed creaks. roommates were assigned by gender, which was a lousy and backwards attempt to stop students from fucking. it wasn't as if they tried very hard, either – a quartet of girls could reside three steps away from a quartet of boys because segregating entire buildings on gender was apparently too much and not good for pr.

still, you can't help but grin, tipping your head back with a soft groan. breaking the rules has never felt so good.

"you like getting pushed over, puppy. moaning like a whore for my cock, spreading your legs so eagerly – you've hit a new low. you'd let just about anyone fuck you, wouldn't you, puppy? even people you can't fucking stand?" you purr into his ear, your chest rolling against his freckled back. you connect the cute dots with your tongue and he shudders with a whimper, fists twisting in his bedsheets. you pump his cock rapidly in tine with your thrusts and he leaks endlessly, slicking up the warm tunnel of your fist as he bucks furiously into it. "what, not gonna say anything now? c'mon, puppy. you're not agreeing that you're a whore, are you? goad me into fucking you harder – i dare you."

all he does is whine tearfully, hips jerking against yours as your cock slams into his swollen prostate and glides past, filling him up like nothing ever has before.

"i'm gonna c-come," he cries, scrambling to cover his mouth when a particularly well-aimed thrust unravels every thought in his head. he struggles to build them back up, rocking harshly against the mattress as your cock pulses hotly inside of him, twitching at the sight and burning heat of him. "gonna come, gonna come, fuck fuck fuck, ye-e-es—!"

with a final low moan, he spurts in your fist, his thighs trembling and twitching as you fuck him through his high. his chest heaves and he lets himself relax into the pillow he hugs under him, lashes fluttering as you gradually slow, your warm, slick fist milking him of everything he's worth.

“i win,” you coo.

dazedly, he pants softly against his pillow, lashes fluttering as you scrape your nails against his scalp. you pull it back into a messy ponytail at the back of his head, as red as his cheeks. his heart thumps against his chest, deep and echoing to his core.

"f-fuck," he whispers, mewling in surprise as your thrusts speed up again. he bucks against your cock and cries, "fuck—!"

somewhere between his moans, slowly sliding up in pitch, you can gather a single question: why?

you flip him over, thrusting in deep as you settle yourself between his golden thighs and wrap a hand around his untouched throat. 

so smooth, so agonisingly perfect. you'll have to amend that.

his dark, glossy eyes can't stay on you for long, rolling back as he spreads his shaky legs wider and half-sobs. he claws uselessly at your hand and wrist.

you slide it further up, gripping just behind his jaw to stop him from thrashing and throwing his head back. you force him to look you in the eye with those pretty, unfocused, blown-out eyes, nearly black with just the slightest hint of honey-gold around the rim.

"what, you thought we were done?" you glide your hand down his tense stomach and over his cock, smearing his cum and arousal over his hot skin. he shivers, sweat-slick, and flushes in embarrassment, oddly docile. "i still haven't finished, puppy. you'll take it like a good boy, won't you, taehyung?"

he releases a soft, choked whine, his lower lip trembling almost imperceptibly. he nods, twitching as your cock buries itself deep in his guts, and his hands fall limply beside his head, fisting the abused pillow.

"atta boy." you pull his thighs around your hips and he locks his ankles over your back, holding you close. you want to watch him as your tip punches his prostate, over and over, chasing your own ruthless high.

you want to fuck that lazy, cocky attitude out of him. you want to see him break.

and you will, you muse as you watch him writhe and whimper, his soft, pretty cock bouncing on his tummy. but not yet. he's still glaring up at you with shiny eyes and hot pink cheeks, embarrassed at the predicament of his own making.

you wrap your warm, messy fist around his cock and grin hungrily as it throbs in interest. he jerks, eyes widening almost fearfully as he tugs your cock in deeper by his legs around your waist.

you know where to start.

[querenciasturniolo]

i absolutely love your writing! could you maybe write something like nick and y/n is best friends and play argue/ fight all the time but y/n accidentally admits her feelings about matt and nick goes ballistic?

obviously ⮕ n.s.

word count: 1k

warnings: swearing, accidental confession, shame, embarrassment

summary: one slip of the tongue has you at a complete loss of words

a/n: thank you so much 🫶🏻 this is such a funny concept, and it was so fun writing it.

everything written is completely fictional. the people i write for are written with characteristics and mannerisms that i made for them, this is in no way depicting what would actually happen in real life.

part one || part two

Nick never kept anything he was feeling to himself.

It was one of his many charms, constantly saying how he felt. You loved it, considering he was your best friend. You were never bored when Nick was on one of his rants. Right now was one of those moments, the two of you were laying in his bed, your stomach aching with how hard you were laughing.

“No, I’m serious! This old ass man was walking so fucking slow in front of me, and then pushed the pull door. He deserved it though, he wouldn’t let me pass.” He said. You shook your head and ran your hands through your hair.

“You always get yourself in the worst situations, I swear.” You said, another smaller laugh bubbling out of you as you sat up.

Nick pushed himself up and pulled his phone out. “Okay, topic change. Why are you posting all of these mushy, agonizingly painful text quotes about love on threads all of a sudden?” He asked. You turned to face him with your eyebrows raised.

“What are you talking about?”

Nick scoffed and tapped away on his phone, pulling up your threads profile and reading one of your posts out loud. “The only love that lasts is unrequited love.” He quotes dramatically, putting his whole soul into the theatrics. “I am in love with you, and I can’t do anything about it.” He finished. Your face was burning as you shook your head and shrugged.

“I don’t know, I thought they were beautiful.” You said, the look on Nick’s face completely unamused.

“Just tell me, Y/n. I’m not gonna judge you.” He said. He stood from his bed then, the expression on his face goofy. “Is it me? Are you in love with me? I wouldn’t blame you, I’m great.” You threw your head back and laughed, meeting Nick’s smiling face once more as you shook your head.

“Please, I’m not that delusional.” You said, reaching down and sliding your shoes onto your feet. “There’s no point in me saying it, because it would never happen anyway.”

Nick’s hand rested on your shoulder, your gaze meeting his. He was frowning, and you couldn’t help but scoff at him. “Okay, now I’m convinced that it’s me.” He said, a goofy smile on his face.

You snorted and shook your head before reaching for the door handle. “Nope.” You said, Nick raising his eyebrows.

“Chris, then? You guys have been hanging out a lot.” You scoffed and pulled a face, making it seem like you found it ridiculous.

“Wrong brother, but nice try.” You said, your hand freezing before you turned the knob. You could feel the gears turning in his head as he processed your slip up.

“Oh my God, it’s Matt, isn’t it?”

You turned your head to face him, more than likely resembling a deer in headlights as you met his eyes. His eyes were wide as realization dawned on him.

“Holy shit, I knew it!” He shouted. You shushed him, holding your hands up. Nick shook his head and stepped past you, slowly turning the door handle.

“Nicolas Antonio, I swear to God.” You said through your teeth, trying to avoid laughing as he ripped open the door and bolted down the stairs. You chased after him, shouting obscenities the moment you had him cornered. He was on the other side of the dining table, his smile playful as he moved from side to side, trying to catch you off guard. You were one step ahead of him, laughter trying its hardest to break through your lips as you beamed at Nick, shaking your head with each movement he made.

“I will smite you, I can promise you that.” You said, the both of you moving to the left quickly, completely switching sides of the table. Your back was to the sink, his to the stairs and both of your hands resting on the back of a chair.

Nick laughed quietly and shook his head. “I’m not going to tell Matt you like him, obviously. That’s just fucked up.” He said. You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, you noticed the movement out of the corner of your eye.

It took you too long to process that Matt was standing next to the fridge, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. You felt all of the color drain out of your face, shame and embarrassment creeping in as your eyes flickered between Nick and Matt. Nick finally turned around, his eyes widening when seeing Matt standing there.

Before anyone could say anything, you rushed around the table and down the stairs, rushing out of the house and to your car.

The entire drive home, you were ignoring your phone vibrating, wanting to let yourself calm down and get home before you even looked. It took you getting to your room and sitting on your bed before you even pulled your phone out to see.

You sighed and messaged Nick back, letting him know you weren’t mad at him and that you just needed some time to yourself to process everything.

You were mortified, to say the least. It felt childish to be embarrassed about having your feelings for someone revealed, but considering you’d known him your entire life, it almost felt…desperate.

It felt as though you’d ruined everything. You never wanted Matt to find out about your feelings for him, you were planning on just ignoring these feelings and letting them go away. Knowing them for as long as you have, it felt almost wrong, like you weren’t supposed to have these feelings because of your friendship.

You groaned and dropped back on your bed, grabbing a pillow and pressing it against your face to muffle yourself. Tomorrow you’d be over this, you knew the embarrassment and shame would go away quickly. You’d never been the type to let something like this hold you down, but you figured it was the shock of it all happening so quickly.

It felt like you were laying there for ages, your pillow resting on your face lightly and your arms resting above your head. Your phone vibrated next to you, your hand reaching for it blindly as the other pushed your pillow off of your head. You figured it was a text from Nick, probably asking you if you wanted to talk about it or something along those lines.

Your heart stopped in your chest when Matt’s name lit up your screen. You immediately opened the text, your hands shaking as you read over the three words over and over again.

[missfrustration]

hear thee on bended knee (priest!sanji x reader)

rating: explicit 18+, minors do not interact!

tags: pwp, smut, alternate universe - priest, top sanji, priest kink, vaginal sex, fingering, church sex, altar sex, confessional, improper use of rosary, improper use of holy water, no use of y/n, praise kink, choking,

A/n: this is probably very inaccurate catholicism, what can i say (I'm sorry). inspired by hunnismokah's priest sanji au. original fic found on my ao3.

word count: 4.0k

Desperate heels click underneath the glazed wood of the service. Before dusk, you reach the cathedral late, hoping to find someone to speak to.

The priest greets you at the archway of the chapel. In his hand is a Bible, his finger snug between the thick of the pages. Laid on his chest is a rosary with rouge beads that hang to his trousers.

He does not wear proper attire during the hours of dusk. The service last held wasn’t today, which permitted him to wear his Roman collar with a black button-up and suit pants. He vests a warm smile as he looks at you with wonder. Being here late is not a common occurrence.

“Father Sanji,” You ask him. “Are you available to speak?” 

“Of course, I was just reciting the next sermon. What brings you here, my child?”

“I have transgressions on my mind I feel I should confess. If now is not a good time, I can return tomorrow.”

“Nonsense, dear. If you come here to hear God’s word, I no longer want to deny you. Let me be of assistance.”

“If that’s the case…”

He could see the hesitation you held in your heart. He holds out a hand for you in encouragement. 

“Let me help you, my child. You’ll feel much satisfied afterward.” 

You take his hand as he guides you to the confessional. You pass pew after pew, illuminated by the candles lit down the corridor walls.

“Before we start, I want to remind you that whatever you say in this confessional will remain between us, and I will not repeat it under any circumstances. Do you understand?” 

“I’m alright with that, sir.” You meekly nod. You wear a smile that strives to mimic his.

“Good. You are brave for coming this far, Godchild. Please step inside.” His hand rests on your shoulder as he opens the wooden door for you.

You feel so safe from his words, yet stones weigh on your chest. You know relief awaits with Father Sanji, but… 

…Will it be enough? 

You sit in the confines of the confessional booth, closing the door in front of you with a disgruntled squeak of the hinges. 

As Father Sanji steps into his booth, you hear that similar creak and taps of leather shoes on wood. 

“You can start whenever you want.”

You gently exhale, thumbing the smooth wood of your seat.

“Father, I have been having some sinful thoughts…” You start, finding courage in your voice to continue. “Shame feeds me. These thoughts weigh unbearably heavy that it is too hard to ignore them.”

“What is it, my child?” Sanji asks. His warm tone graces your ears. 

“I’m… having unholy thoughts about men that are deceitful in the eyes of God.” 

You catch yourself fidgeting with the hem of your skirt. Pleats threading through the pads of your fingers is a feeble way to soothe a confession. 

“What type of thoughts?”

“They are… explicit thoughts, Father. I feel I cannot stop my lust. Sometimes, I cannot get away from them. Even in,” You pause, looking at Sanji’s still figure through the bars of the confessional. ”Even at this moment, there are lusts that I cannot deny I feel.”

Sanji shifts in his confessional, reaching to his chest to palm his rosary. The same rosary that holds courage and divinity in a priest.

"These feelings you have are normal, dear. After all, we are only human. We sin, repent for our sins, and then sin again; It's part of the cycle. I, too, have these thoughts. That is why I understand you. Please, don't feel ashamed to share these thoughts. However - "

Sanji stopped briefly before speaking once more.

"However, do not let these feelings take over. It's good that you are taking steps to seek my guidance, but, my child, I believe that these feelings are simply a natural and beautiful attraction to another human."

“This attraction is… more than natural. I lust towards men. Please, Father, these thoughts are too much. What should I do to satisfy this hunger? I feel it right now. The way I think of you is… It is rather sinful.”

“What will you do if this relief is not granted?”

“I will need to…” You pause, kneeding your palm against your thigh as you swallow thickly. “I will need to relieve it myself, then.”

“Oh,-oh my dear, you must not do that.”

“I know, Father. I know it is against Him, but… I am desperate for relief.” 

You look at your hand. Finding release now would be worldly, but you can only take a little longer.

“Father Sanji, what do I do?”

You hear nothing but the faint sizzle of incense that burns outside the confessional. Judging by the priest's unusual silence, you fear you have said too much.

You hear the creak of hinges whir in the air and the heavy knocks as Sanji’s shadow steps out of the confessional. You grip onto the loose fabric of your skirt, concluding your transgressions were too sinful for the man to bear. 

You flush in embarrassment, standing up to burst out of the booth and run back out the church's doors. You don’t manage to get far after letting the hinges cry again.

Your confidant stands in front of the booth when you open it hurriedly. He quickly catches the door's force so it doesn’t sound against the walls of the confessional. You visibly wince as you regret acting so rashly.

“I apologize for startling you. I didn’t mean harm.” Father Sanji says, worry glancing at his face from your troubled haste. “My dear, just relax. These kinds of thoughts are not uncommon, and you shouldn't be ashamed of it.” 

He took a deep breath and spoke again.

"I believe the hunger you feel is something completely natural. But, I must ask... Is this a hunger you truly want to quench?” He raises an eyebrow.

”Yes, sir. I’m ready to do whatever is necessary. Even if you were to… help me.”

Father Sanji looks taken aback by you, unmoving with widened eyes, when his face takes on a reddened tone.

“Do you know what you ask of me, my child?”

But your feelings don’t falter. You nod.

“Come closer, dove.”

In the dim light of the cathedral, Father Sanji reaches for you.

He pulls you closer as he kisses your lips softly. Fingers run through the back of your hair. His hold on you makes you feel like a new gift he couldn’t think of tarnishing. He breaks it after a few moments to gauge your reaction.

"How… how are you feeling?"

Sanji’s eyes are gentle on you. You look back at those quiet pools of ocean fog. You can’t help but ease into his gaze.

“Father, my desires fill. But I want so, so much more.”

“What you ask of me is no small thing. I don’t know if you can handle something like that.”

“Please, Father. I beg of you. I want this. Do you?”

"Yes, my child. Oh yes..."

Sanji's hand slid back up your hair and softly down your back. His other hand already lay on your waist.

"Will you trust me?"

“Of course. You must do whatever you can.”

“Good girl, now tell me what you wish for the most.”

“I want you to touch me, sir.”

He leads you back into the confessional seat. You sit down and feel Sanji grace his hands on your thighs. His fingers brush the same pleats you wrinkled.

“I didn’t think I would be the one tempted by your seduction.” Sanji's hand slowly crept up your body and reached your cheek. He kissed the side of your neck and whispered. "Do you trust me to do whatever God wills, my child?"

The fingers on your pleated skirt warm your legs, making you shiver. 

“Yes. God, yes, sir.”

"As you wish.”

Sanji pulled your body closer to him and kissed the tip of your nose. At the same time, that hand on your pleats slowly takes off the underwear of your skirt. He looked at you with half-lidded eyes before whispering in your ear.

"Be a good girl for me."

You back into the seat of the booth as Sanji touches your body. 

When he feels the frills of your panties in the dim light, he plunges under them. They don’t need to travel long before they figure out what they want. The hand finds your clitoris, causing you to shake. His other fingers reach lower before his unmoving arm rests on your side. 

“Spread your legs.”

You spread them. He whisks himself between them, bent over above you. 

“More.” He asks. Gently, he takes his leg to push against one thigh as his hand does the other. Your knees gently knock against the confession walls. The narrow booth is shy of relinquishing full access to Sanji, yet it is enough. 

His thumb latches onto your clit as his forefinger slips into you. They work at a steady pace and pump into you immediately. While his forefinger curls in and out of your pussy, his thumb firmly rubs against your clit, angled in a way that his thumb makes an enticing circle each time he pumps into you with his digit.

“God–fuck, your hands feel so good, sir.”

“Oh? Does this feel like heaven to you?” He crows.

You don’t respond; you hope your vice grip on his arms says enough. The perfect stimulation of his hand slicking against your cunt keeps you squirming in the booth seat. You kick your feet up, loll your head around, and arch your back toward the Father.

And the look he gives you. Oh. Even in the dark confines he’s stuck you in, those eyes gaze at you the whole time. He wants to watch you become a mess. If that’s what he wants, he certainly gets that. 

You cum quickly from his hand. You clamp your hand over your mouth and tremble under Sanji. It doesn’t take long for Father Sanji’s long fingers to feel your cum seeping deep from you. 

You take your time coming down from your high. Your lips stay apart as you pant for air. Sanji's hands linger on you before he kneels and again claims your lips. 

"Is this all that you want? Don’t you deserve more wishes?" Sanji spoke quietly. 

Even coming down from your orgasm, you feel a devilish smile come to your face. His question showed that he didn’t want to end this escapade soon. No, it’s too soon to stop.

“Father Sanji, haah, yes, I want more than this. I promise I can take it.” You look at him with pure wanton. Your lidded eyes look deep into him. 

"Such a needy one… please, come closer."

He reached up from your thighs, his hands leaving and grabbing onto your waist. He pulled you to stand until your lips touched again.

Sanji kissed you softly for a few seconds, his hand reaching your thighs.

"You deserve more for being such a good girl, so you will get more. But what do I get in return? I risk my title with a wish like this.”

He asked, his voice sounding as if it was full of lust but also mixed with respect for your wishes and desires.

“I will do anything you ask of me, Father Sanji. I’ll be good to you. What do you wish for?”

He hoists you up by your legs, kissing you fervently. Your feet dangle in the air while your thighs hug around his torso. His rosary beads click onto your nails as he leans into you, carrying you as his steps echo through the corridor once again. The air around you turns silent as you feel the priest shift around you. When Sanji breaks the kiss…

You discover you’re straddling his lap on the altar of the church.

"This is…is this what you wanted?" You say, shifting down on his lap.

“Yes, my dear. I want to display your body here.” 

Like the confessional, the altar was also wooden. It was sturdy enough that you barely felt it shake when Sanji lay you on his lap. You straddled him now, the skirt only long enough to cover your womanhood.

You couldn’t gawk a second longer when his hand claimed your chin, squishing your cheeks gently between the pads of his fingers. His other hand clutches on your hips while he places sloppy kisses down your neck. His mouth sucks and licks like an animal tenderizing a prey’s flesh. 

You run your hand down his chest and brush against the beads of his rosary as you slowly rub your hips back and forth on the tent in his pants. It only took a few bucks to have you both panting, gripping each other in fervor.

"Oh... oh my.”

”Haah, is this okay?” You ask.

"It is more than okay. I enjoy you, my dear. " He spoke softly, looking down and smiling slightly in surprise, yet he did not stop you.

You grind on the priest until the tent of his erection grows into a bulge. You discard your underwear so your bare clit rubs against the mound, constantly jerking with the pleasure you feel you could get off to.

That's only if Father Sanji would’ve let you. You know he craves to fulfill your full wish.

“Sit up a little.” He whispers in your ear. 

Sanji undoes the fly of his suit pants, maneuvering his garments to slip out the suffocated member you’ve been rocking against. It peaks out from his trousers, the head leaking precum from increased arousal. The distinction of veins pulsing up and down his shaft is enough to make you drool. 

Sanji leans over his cock. While he looks straight at you, he spits a huge glob of saliva, letting it dribble down his lips until it lands straight on the cockhead. He pumps it down his length until it’s coated.

“Put a show on for me.”

You reach down under your skirt, pumping his cock into your hands before guiding into your hole. You knew it would be a challenge by the time your slit touched him, but you didn’t realize how much you’d tremble when you reached the shaft of his divine member. You work on eagerly swallowing him down your pussy, yet you stifle your pained whimper when the priest’s palm pushes you down firmly. He is way too big, yet it’s all the more enticing to grip him. Inch by inch, you take him in like it was your calling to do so.

By the time your hips touch his, you feel elated from the fullness of your cunt and begin to rock your hips in small waves. Sanji watches you like you are a masterpiece, and you certainly don’t want to disappoint.

“Please, guide me by my waist and show me how to please you, sir.”

"Yes. Like this, my dear.” Father Sanji whispers to you, slowly putting his hands down on your waist. He adjusts you to a rhythmic speed. Your hips start to move quicker than earlier.

”F-fuck.” You move the way Sanji guides you, admittedly faster than you could handle without him. 

Your hips stutter into him as his calloused hands help you bob up and down on him.  All you can do is rut into him with enthusiasm.

“Your body is so perfect, miss. You're the most beautiful woman I could worship like this.”

“Sir…” You pant. You can’t help but grip around his shaft as you clutch his rosary harder. Sanji leans into you, nibbling on your ear as he firmly guides your body onto himself.

"Yes, good girl? Tell me how it feels.” 

“It feels like heaven— I’m in heaven. Fuck!” 

The creak of the wooden altar is barely audible, with your ears ringing from his words. As you move up and down, your knees hold your weight, stinging from the hardwood.

"Ah, amor. The sounds you make when you're enjoying yourself sound so wonderful to my ears." He spoke quietly and brushed his fingers across your hair, sticking to your moist forehead. 

Sanji changes the pace to a slower but harsher rhythm as he uses his hands to make your hips rock back and forth on him. You catch on quickly, trying to replicate the motions, stretching yourself more on each thrust than the last. Each time you spear yourself on the priest, your knees take each pump. You whine from the pain.

“Haah, my knees…” 

Sanji leans into your body, pecking the skin under your chin to the crook of your shoulder. His hands graze down from your waist to your hips until they reach the fullness of your ass. 

His arms tense as you’re raised in the air, as high as the panes of glass that adorn the cathedral. Father Sanji lifts your hips before resting you back down on him. The depths that he reaches inside you make you choke on your breath. 

“Move with me, dove.” Father Sanji whispers, gripping your ass to motion.

You rock your hips and push with your knees to the rhythm of his hands once again. The combination of force you two use only ends up spearing yourself on him. 

Your insides churn as he protrudes into your stomach. You can only come down on him harder on bended knees. This service you two participated in, you kneeling onto him in front of the cathedrals, with countless pews and glass panes, it feels…

The feeling was gracious, holy even. In the way that Sanji gripped your buttery skin and the gracious noises that befell his tongue, you can’t help but think he feels the same. 

“Jesus. No one--haah–has made me feel this good before,” Father Sanji says.

Prayers spill out of you in more audible moans at his words. You cover your mouth when Sanji’s cocks grazes your cervix by rolling his hips from under you. You can’t help but whine as you muffle desperate mewls that threaten to infect the air.

But Sanji knows what you’re trying to do. He leans into you with compassion.

"I want to hear you louder, my dear. Much louder."

At his words alone, you threatened to come on his cock right there. He’s giving you free reins to your fulfillment, but it’s doubtful it won’t come without cost. 

“What about others?” You pant, clutching onto his rosary with anxiety. To attract attention from dwellers within the cathedral walls is terrifying. Even with this fear, the feeling of masking your moans so others don’t find you is riveting. You clamp down on him at the thought, making him more eager to jack his hips into you.

He reaches a hand to your cheek, brushing the fingertips down the side of your flushed face, which holds eyes glazed with lust.

“My child, the church is empty until service tomorrow morning. Only us and the Holy Spirit are here.” He whispers, ”I want you to try and be as loud as you can… Please?"

His pace is faster. Now, he relentlessly ruts his hips to yours, causing you to squeak. He’s not just asking anymore. 

“Yes,” You mewl. He can only lean into you from the vice grip you have on his rosary.

Then, Father Sanji whispers your name. 

He unsheathes you from his cock by lifting you back up, kicking himself off of the altar to gently lower you off of him. As soon as your feet touch the ground, he gently pushes you against the edge of the altar, bending you over so much that your feet hover above the floor. You feel the skirt flip up to show your ass.

“Let me take you to heaven, my dove.”

You feel beads loop around your neck.

“This is how I want to bless my crucifix, my dear. Please help me cleanse it.”

He leads his cock back inside you, but not without one more thing.

He takes the rosary beads hung around the nape of your neck and pulls it towards him. Once hanging at the lowest parts of your chest, the beads now restrict your delicate neck while the crucifix dangles back and forth under the neck cartilage. You hear Father Sanji shuffle his hands, then the pop of a bottle before feeling cool, crisp water pour down on the rosary beads on your back. You’ve been in the church long enough to know he’s using holy water to cleanse his beads. 

“Be my good girl.” 

His cockhead slops into you in rough thrusts that completely lift your feet off the ground. You sputter from the speed, rolling your eyes like it was a need like his pace was a necessity . Now, your mind and body can only think about him. 

“So-so close. Please keep going, Father. Kiss me more.”

"Oh, you are... You want this so bad, don't you, my child?"

You mewl endless ministrations on his cock. You could only piece together fragments of consent through the endless punishment of pulsations.

“It’s your time, my dear.”

His pace is sloppy, and his veiny cock sloshes into you, but he still treats you with beautiful touches across your glistened skin. For his rosary latches onto your small neck, restricting the carotid arteries and making your feet curl, his other hand rubs up and down your back. 

Between your cries, his voice rings throughout the cathedral walls. It's paired with his large hand sliding down to connect to that swollen bud under your skirt. The pull of the rosary makes your back arch more into him, pushing him deeper and deeper into the coils inside of your quivering core.

“Sing for me.”

His finger flicked you right then like it was the first domino to start an avalanche.

“ Cum. ”

You can’t keep track of the time throughout your orgasm that you end up crying and moaning on Father Sanji’s dick. He pounds into you and stimulates your pink bud, prolonging your orgasm and causing you to writhe on the altar. Your vision is impossibly blurred with the stars in your head, and you can only hear the noises coming out of your body. The way your body and mind are animalistic in their release can only show the divinity of your wish being granted. 

Your nails claw at the wood of the altar so hard that your knuckles stain white, now wet from the holy water cascading down your body. The tirade of waves doesn’t stop until Sanji pulls out of you, which makes your pussy twitch from the quick emptiness. You hear Father Sanji groan behind you, pumping his cock into his hand a few times until he himself releases onto your back. The ropes of white hot cum dance with the holy water kissing the rosary beads, pooling down the crevice of your back. You let it sit like that while taking a moment to bask in the afterglow. 

When Father Sanji lets you off the altar, you realize that the pool of holy water that once rested under your head isn’t just holy water; it’s your drool. You blush in embarrassment; your body was too overstimulated, letting more than just your cum stain the altar.

"I do hope this was worth it. That I did what you wanted." He takes out a cloth and gently rubs the fluids off your skin.

“Father, I-“

“Please, if we have been drawn like this, you shouldn't need to call me honorifics behind closed doors.” He softly smiles. 

“Thank you, Sanji. My wish has been fulfilled, and I see why God brought me to you tonight.” You giggle.

“Lord, grant us strength that our paths come across each other and do this again. Make sure to attend the service tomorrow, and I will properly thank you for your visit tonight.” He playfully taps your ass, now half covered by your skirt.

You smile at him, still covered by the fluid the priest has gifted you and the long rosary beads draped over your chest. 

It is finished.

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