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darkmatilda · 3 days ago

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𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you join the team as a replacement after jj's departure. despite the initial stress and difficulties adapting, you manage to fully connect with the rest of the team. more than that—you make friends. and fall in love. but after unexpected events and returns, your time with them comes to an end—because, in the end, you were only a placeholder.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x bau!female reader, reader is an anxious overthinker whom i want to hug so badly, my intention was not to antagonize jj and i don't want it to be perceived that way, possibly incorrect infodump about tiramisu—offended italians, please don’t come to my house with torches and forks, melancholic, sad ending aka matilda's standard

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 5.3k

𝐚/𝐧: anon's request

6 months ago…

If you look at it in a certain way, almost everything started with tiramisu. Or rather, it started with your conversation with Penelope—overheard by Rossi—where you boasted about being an expert at making this Italian dessert. Or perhaps the most accurate statement would be that it started with JJ. After all, you were brought into the Behavioral Analysis Unit as her replacement — their new, young media liaison, meant to gain more experience through the role.

Anyway, that Saturday evening, you felt a slight chill on your shoulders as you stepped out of the car, clutching a massive tray of freshly made tiramisu and silently praying not to drop it before making it inside. Rossi’s house—excuse me, his mansion—truly looked impressive.

You couldn’t say you weren’t nervous. In fact, you were absolutely terrified—and not because of what the senior member of your new team might say about your baking skills. It was something else entirely.Eeryone had been invited that evening, including the team members you hadn’t yet gotten to know outside of work. Your relationship with them was strictly professional, and more often than not, you caught yourself wanting to appear flawless in their eyes. To prove that, despite your lack of experience, you were worthy of taking on this role. That, despite your relatively young age, you were mature and responsible.

So yes, you were nervous. In fact, the anxiety grew with every step you took toward the door, your grip on the tray tightening until your knuckles turned white.That didn’t stop you from almost dropping it when you suddenly jumped at the sound of your name spoken from behind.

"Oh my—" you gasped, inhaling sharply, instinctively wanting to clutch your chest—except both your hands were occupied.

Spencer Reid's brown eyes widened as he realized just how badly he had startled you.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to—"

"It’s fine," you assured him, nodding a little too quickly. You took a slower breath, feeling slightly embarrassed. You worked with people who hunted serial killers for a living, delved into the darkest, most nightmarish cases—and yet, you nearly had a heart attack just because someone called your name.

In your defense, you were a woman alone at night, and a tray of tiramisu wasn’t exactly the deadliest weapon.Noticing the guilt still lingering on his face, you forced a smile and lifted the tray slightly. "I mean it. As long as I didn’t drop the cake, everything’s fine."

He stood before you with his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark coat, a purple scarf draped around his neck. The corners of his lips lifted slightly at your response, but you knew it was just a polite gesture—there was nothing particularly amusing about what you’d said.

You suddenly became aware of the silence stretching between you, neither of you moving, the moment teetering on the edge of awkwardness. You cleared your throat. Maybe you should compliment the scarf. You couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated by him.

After all, this was Dr. Spencer Reid—the man whose name had once reached your ears and settled somewhere in your thoughts, cementing itself under the label of genius. That was the lens through which you saw him, having yet to familiarize yourself with any of his other traits.

What you had noticed, however, was that he seemed to prefer keeping you at a distance. And yes, it all traced back to your first meeting—your first greeting, your first outstretched hand, and the first, slightly awkward:

It’s actually safer to kiss.

“You think we’re the first ones here?" you asked, just before pressing the doorbell. Then, hesitating, you bit the inside of your cheek. "Actually…maybe we’re a little too early."

"I think we’re fine," he replied. "Rossi said eight."

You gave a small nod. The door swung open.

“What are you doing here so early?" You and Spencer exchanged a glance.

"If I remember correctly—and I do—you said eight. It’s eight."

"Decent people show up fashionably late."

"And then you’d complain that the younger generation doesn’t respect your time."

You watched the exchange in silence, noticing the flicker of amusement in both men’s eyes. Of course, they weren’t actually arguing—just friendly banter. Still, something about it caught your attention. You wondered if you’d ever feel comfortable enough around them to join in like that.

He stepped aside to let you both in, and as you crossed the threshold, you realized you hadn’t said a word yet.

“As promised," you started, nodding toward the dessert in your hands. "My specialty."

Rossi raised an eyebrow at you.

"We’ll see about that. “

But he did take the tray from you while you slipped off your coat.

"I was actually about to make an important call," he announced. "Before someone decided to show up early. So, if you’ll excuse me, you’ll have to entertain yourselves for a bit. Be so kind as not to destroy my kitchen. Everyone else should be here soon."

And with that, he simply left you there.

Reid clearly knew his way around the house—he had to—because without hesitation, he led you straight to the kitchen, where you set the dessert down on the black marble countertop. And just like that, the two of you were left alone, connected by a slightly awkward silence.

"Maybe I should cut it," you mused, your gaze falling on the tiramisu. "Rossi wouldn’t mind if I used his knives, right?"

"I don’t think so," he said, standing on the other side of the kitchen island, made of white wood with plenty of drawers.

To your surprise, you realized he was watching your movements. He, on the other hand, didn’t seem to realize that you noticed it from the corner of your eye. Or maybe you were imagining it, but you could swear you heard him swallow.

"You know, there are many theories about when and how tiramisu was actually invented," he remarked.

"I don't think I've heard any of them," you admitted, glancing around for a knife. "I mean, I can make it, but I can’t explain…the historical context behind it"

He leaned his elbows on the counter, briefly lowering his gaze to his hands. The sleeves of his purple shirt remained slightly rolled up, not quite reaching his wrists.

"It originated in Italy, of course. And the most popular version says it was invented in the 1960s in Treviso. At least, before that period, the name doesn’t appear in any sources."

Focused on cutting the cake evenly, unconsciously sticking out the tip of your tongue, you couldn’t muster any reaction, but you listened intently. Spencer, however, seemed to think otherwise—after briefly glancing at your face, he looked away, apparently deciding to drop the topic.

"What does it mean?" you asked. Your eyes met, and for a moment, he looked surprised. "I mean, what does the name mean?" you clarified with a gentle smile. "I should probably expand my knowledge. What if Rossi decides to quiz me?"

After a brief moment, a small, friendly smile bloomed on his lips.

"Well, in that case, I’ll do my best to prepare you."

You hadn’t been working together for long, but even so, you had already discovered—fascinated—that he was a true wellspring of knowledge, with no apparent limits to his mind. Sometimes, he would lose his train of thought—you had noticed that too. And sometimes, he would stumble when he realized it himself. You found it somewhat endearing. Or at the very least, well…you liked listening to it.

Somewhere around the time you had been acquainted with three theories about its origin, the etymology of its name, the original recipe and its variations, as well as a few interesting fun facts about tiramisu—which you listened to without even realizing that you were still holding the knife despite having finished cutting the cake—the sound of the host’s footsteps reached you. But they weren’t headed in your direction. Instead, he made his way to the door to let the other guests in.

You tried to relax your shoulders, aiming to appear at ease. Bodies are often treacherous and rarely care about how you wish to be perceived. Instead, they ignore your intentions and take cues from your subconscious—and subconsciously, you were stressed.

You quietly scolded yourself, shaking your head slightly. After all, they were all profilers—experts at reading body language. As if on cue, just as the thought crossed your mind, you accidentally caught Reid’s gaze fixed on you. You shrugged, the corners of your lips lifting slightly, feigning ignorance.

Truthfully, you weren’t entirely sure what was going through your own head. Maybe it was that deep-seated belief that you always had to present yourself at your best—worthy of this job. Even though this was supposed to be a casual gathering, off the clock, in your free time.

“You guys already here?” Prentiss raised an eyebrow, glancing between you and Spencer on opposite sides of the kitchen island. Hotch followed behind her, nodding in greeting. “We’re not late, are we?”

“We’re late?” Penelope’s voice rang out as she peeked into the room, her head appearing in the doorway. She stopped short, and Morgan, walking right behind her, gently grabbed her shoulders to keep from bumping into her.

“It’s just me, baby girl,” he reassured her, a faint smirk on his lips. “Or maybe too much me, judging by that jump. Hey, everyone. Reid. New girl. Good to see you. Not sick of us yet after this week, are you?"

"Oh, come on, don’t act like we’re that unbearable," Prentiss chided, shooting him a look.

By then, everyone had made their way inside, starting to take seats on the high bar stools. You stood there, returning smiles and greetings, and let Garcia pull you into a hug. Derek called you New girl. While you'd grown to like him, the nickname didn’t sit quite right with you. It highlighted your place in the team, making it clear that you weren’t quite like the rest of them.

"Actually, the way we perceive ourselves can be different from how we really are, simply because of how much time we spend together," Spencer mused aloud.

"You might be onto something," Morgan nodded at him, then turned his gaze back to you. "Let’s get an outside opinion. Are we unbearable?"

"You are," Rossi confirmed immediately, not even glancing up from the wine bottle in his hands, likely searching for the vintage.

"I said outside opinion."

Then, all the curious gazes had settled on you. Up until now, your hands had rested casually on the counter, but you pulled them away to hide how anxiously they were moving. Spencer tracked the motion with his eyes—something you caught in your peripheral vision, and you had to resist the urge to curse under your breath. Hiding your anxiety from these people, especially from him, was proving harder than you’d expected.

You hesitated, searching for the perfect answer. You often caught yourself doing this in social situations—as if this were a test question with only one correct response, rather than a casual conversation where anything you said would be fine as long as it was honest.

That evening, everyone seemed to be in good spirits. They were joking easily, teasing one another, and now that all their attention was focused on you, you wanted to say something that would blend you into the moment, something that would break the ice. This was your first time meeting outside of work.

But the longer you stayed silent, the more the right words slipped away from you. It was like a black curtain had suddenly dropped over your mind.

"Who wants to try the tiramisu?" you blurted out at last.

An unbearable awkwardness tightened around your chest—but then, to your surprise, Prentiss laughed, setting off the rest of the group.

"I’m not accepting this subject change," Morgan shook his head.

"I, on the other hand, think it was a good move. Almost diplomatic," Spencer countered. His gaze flickered toward you for a brief second, and you caught something there—though you weren’t entirely sure what. Understanding, maybe? Either way, you felt the urge to flash a grateful smile at both him and Emily.

But Spencer quickly refocused on Derek, directing his next words at him. "Because the real answer could be…” he lowered his voice dramatically, "…mercilessly brutal."

“Oh, you’re all wrong," Penelope rolled her eyes. "Obviously, she was going to say she’s already fallen in love with all of us. Right, sweetheart?" She turned to you but didn’t wait for an answer—actually, you didn’t even have time to move, let alone speak. "See? Just like I said. Now, let’s try that cake, because I can’t stand the way it’s looking at me with those heavenly little eyes..."

The tight, complicated knot in your stomach started to loosen, little by little. Garcia’s suggestion was met with general enthusiasm and quickly turned into action. Naturally, Rossi had to be the first to take a bite. Everyone’s eyes locked onto him as he slowly swallowed a microscopic piece, as if he were some renowned food critic. You could see amusement on everyone’s faces—even Hotch’s—which was a completely new experience for you.

After a long, tension-filled moment, Rossi gave a slight nod of approval.

You placed a hand over your chest in mock relief.

“That’s the proudest I’ve felt since I got my diploma," you said casually—straightforward, natural, without overthinking.

Maybe you really were starting to open up.

Time moved forward at a gentle pace, and while you didn’t suddenly become the life of the party, the friendly atmosphere started to get to you. You all opened the bottle of wine the host had brought, raising your glasses in a toast to whatever came to mind—after all, there was no real occasion to celebrate.

You noticed that Spencer wasn’t drinking, but he still joined in, lifting a handful of chips instead. The sight made you smile softly before you could stop yourself.

He noticed you watching him. In the background, conversation buzzed, someone laughed loudly, but for a moment, it felt like the two of you were elsewhere.

“Well…” he started, swallowing nervously. You hoped he didn’t feel pressured into making conversation just because you were looking at him. Though, another thought crept in—what other reason could he have for feeling awkward? Only after a beat did you realize that you often felt that way too, for no particular reason. That was just how you were. Apparently, so was he.

“What did you do before?” he asked, then immediately backtracked. “I mean, I know what, of course I know—that’s public information, if you know what I mean. I just meant more like…” He sighed, lowering his gaze for a second, as if exhausted by his own rambling. Then, he tried again, slower this time. “I meant, how do you feel about it? And about the change?”

His question piqued the interest of the others, their gazes shifting back to you. Whatever had momentarily set the two of you apart from the group vanished in an instant.

Just as you opened your mouth to respond, a sound cut through the conversation.

“That’s mine, sorry,” Prentiss apologized, reaching into her pocket for her ringing phone. She didn’t even glance at the screen at first, her thumb already poised to decline the call—until she hesitated. Her expression shifted in an instant, lighting up with surprise. “Oh my God, it’s JJ!”

Everyone reacted similarly, and you tried to mirror their excitement, summoning a smile to your face—though it lacked sincerity. It wasn’t out of any personal dislike toward Jareau; nothing like that. You had met her, of course—you were taking her place, after all, and she had to introduce you to everything quickly. But it hadn’t been enough to form a deep friendship, or any friendship at all. That made you the only one in this group who felt completely neutral about her.

“Oh, you have to answer,” Penelope urged, nodding enthusiastically. “Totally. And tell her I say hi!”

“And me,” Spencer and Morgan added almost simultaneously.

“From all of us,” Hotch clarified, with Rossi confirming it with a nod.

Prentiss stood from her seat, clearly intending to step out of the kitchen to take the call in private—it was meant for her, after all. But just before she left, she hesitated in the doorway, as if mentally going over the instructions.

“Say hi from everyone. Got it,” she muttered under her breath.

“Especially from Penelope.”

“And from—”

“Everyone. Got it.”

When Prentiss’ dark hair disappeared from view, a brief silence settled over the group, broken only by Garcia’s deep sigh.

“I miss her. A lot.”

“It’s not like she died, babygirl,” Derek responded with a teasing edge, though something in his tone—between the words—carried a similar feeling.

“Ugh, you know what I mean,” Garcia huffed at him. “I miss having her with us. At work. In the team. Remember…remember how she always used to…”

She drifted into a story, weaving nostalgic but ultimately amused expressions onto her friends’ faces. You caught a glimpse of Spencer out of the corner of your eye, wondering if he still remembered the question he had asked you before the phone rang. But his gaze was fixed on Garcia, listening to her tale with a small smile forming at the corners of his lips.

You tuned out for a moment, lost in your own thoughts, only to be pulled back to reality by an outburst of laughter. You had missed a good chunk of the story—though you weren’t sure if it mattered. Some anecdotes, especially the ones built on shared memories, were meant for everyone’s ears but truly reached only those who had been there. You suspected this was one of them, but still, you joined in on the laughter. Even if you hadn’t caught the joke, you didn’t want to dampen the mood with a blank expression.

You tried to push away the feeling of not belonging. It was difficult at first, but then you realized—that wasn’t the way. You couldn’t push it away; you had to accept it. Because the truth was, you didn’t quite belong. Or rather, you hadn’t belonged long enough. That was natural. You would feel this way for who knows how long, but certainly for a while. As long as the nickname New Girl still clung to you.

Surprisingly, that very acceptance made the rest of the evening easier to get through. Prentiss returned after a while, briefly summarizing what JJ had been up to, but the conversation didn’t linger on her. The knot in your stomach didn’t tighten again. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was something else. Maybe, for the first time, you were starting to feel okay.

now

You recalled that specific moment in your memories, simultaneously sinking into it as if it were happening in real time, yet with the suffocating weight of reality breathing down your neck—a voice whispering that it was just a memory.

If it were happening now, Emily wouldn’t have left the room to take the call. No phone would have even rung. Emily was gone. You had just been to her funeral.

At an hour when most people were deep in sleep, when street advertisements and billboards cut through the darkness, illuminating the city more effectively than the stars ever could, you were half-sitting, half-lying on your bed, your back pressed against the headboard. The dark room was filled with nothing but shapes, mere outlines of furniture—just like your mind was filled only with fragments and silhouettes of thoughts. Frayed, scattered, following no chronology or pattern.

It had been six months since you joined the BAU. Some might say that’s not enough time to form real friendships. But in a job where you could die any day, six months was plenty. In those circumstances, attachment only formed faster.

Your eyelids burned with exhaustion, but you couldn’t close them. With a heavy weight in your chest, for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, you kept replaying that moment—that evening at Rossi’s. Those conversations echoed vividly in your mind, but over time, they began to fade, pushed aside by another sound.

Breathing.

Not yours.

Oh. Right.

That night, you didn’t sleep alone.

While you sat on the bed, Spencer lay on his side, his back turned to you, his head resting somewhere near your hip. You weren’t sure how it had happened.

Sleeping in the same bed wasn’t something natural for the two of you—not as just friends. Though over the past two months, that label might have been debatable in the eyes of many. You had never really defined it between yourselves, so you kept calling it friendship.

You weren’t exactly sure how it had happened that night, specifically. After the funeral, after that entire exhausting day, when the sun had set, you had somehow, instinctively, ended up moving in the same direction—toward his apartment. And somehow, instinctively, you had kept postponing the moment of leaving. But when it finally came, his lips had somehow, instinctively, formed the word stay.

So you stayed, changing out of your funeral attire into one of his random T-shirts, the scent of it tickling your nose as you finally lay down, your back turned to him.

You knew he wasn’t asleep either, but what could you say? What could you do? In moments like these, everyone was alone in their own way. Maybe that was why it was so important to have someone there, physically—but even that didn’t quite apply to your situation. His bed wasn’t huge, but it was big enough that neither of you touched. So, in a way, you were alone in both senses, but it didn’t sting as much, mostly because of the scent surrounding you, wrapping around you like an embrace.

You even managed to close your eyes—not that it meant you’d actually sleep. In fact, you felt just as far from it as when they were wide open. At least they didn’t burn anymore.

At some point—after an amount of time you couldn’t track—the scent deepened, became stronger. You tensed, unsure why, until it finally dawned on you with a quiet exhale.

It wasn’t just the scent of his T-shirt. It was him.

Moving closer.

First just slightly, then more. Until eventually, his arm draped over your curled-up frame, his hand settling somewhere against your stomach, where the fabric of the blanket bunched up.

A delicate tickle against your neck. His breath, his head almost nestled in the crook of it.

Definitely awake—you could tell by the rhythm.

And it was him. Spencer.

It’s actually safer to kiss Spencer.

"Are you awake?" he asked, so quietly the words barely brushed the air. There was a chance they hadn’t even spoken at all. Maybe it was just the sound of his breath, somehow resembling them. Maybe it was just your exhausted imagination.

Still, you chose to answer.

"No," you murmured. "I can't sleep."

"Me neither," he added, though that much was obvious. A shift of his head, an unconscious brush against your neck, sending the faintest shiver down your spine. “Does this bother you?"

"It’s nice," you said softly, unsure of what else you could add. You didn’t really want to speak. His words melted smoothly into the quiet, while yours cut through it—harsh, even when you tried to whisper.

Maybe he took it as hesitation, because his body tensed for a brief second before he started to pull away.

"No…" You tried to stop him, your hand catching his forearm—the one holding you. "Just…stay."

"Oh. Okay."

As if following your request to the letter, he stayed exactly where he was. More than that, he seemed to settle into it even further. The pressure of his chest against your back felt good. You heard him swallow, close to your ear. “Th-thank you. I don’t think…I don’t think I could—I don’t think I’d be able to fall asleep alone. Not tonight.”

You didn’t let go of his hand. Instead, you just adjusted your grip, holding it more comfortably.

And just when you were starting to come to terms with it, you suddenly found out that Emily was still alive. You could say she had never died, but that wouldn’t be entirely true. Well, in a way, yes—her body never stopped functioning, nor was it buried in a coffin. But in your minds, in your belief, in your feelings, it was different. You buried her and went through the grieving process. To you, she was dead.

When she reappeared, everything was too chaotic to dwell on it. There was no shock, no tears—you had your hands full, focused on capturing Doyle.

The realization of it all began to sink in for you, as well as for the rest of the team, only later. She had faked her death. She had allowed you to mourn her. And what was even more shocking to you—JJ had known all along. You knew the two of them trusted each other deeply, but in some way, you couldn't grasp it. How she could stand beside you at the funeral, shedding a few tears, offering comforting pats on the back. How she could keep up the act for days, weeks, and months.

You knew Spencer was furious with her. It was obvious—the anger was clear in his eyes. But even if he had tried to hide it, you would have known. Because ever since Emily's supposed death, the two of you had grown even closer.

Nights spent side by side had become something that no longer required a quiet request; they had become entirely natural for you both. That was how you saw it—a way for two friends to cope with grief and sleepless hours.

You probably should have talked about your relationship. It was something you thought about often—when his sleepy breath brushed against your neck, when his lips occasionally grazed it while he spoke. You should have talked, but that didn’t mean you did.

Maybe you were both too focused on other things to worry about your feelings for each other.

Either way, at first, he was furious with her. You accidentally overheard part of their argument about it, just as you were also an accidental witness to the embrace they pulled each other into when they finally decided to let it go.

A certain skepticism lingered within you. Of course, you didn’t want to dictate whom he could forgive or what he was allowed to demand—that was his decision alone. You understood that. And yet, you couldn’t stop thinking about how you were the one who had watched what those past months had done to him. How close he had come to slipping back into that.

When his relationship with JJ had finally returned to normal, you couldn’t hold back anymore—you tried to bring it up.

All you got in response was You wouldn’t understand.

And perhaps he was right. Some things simply weren’t yours to understand—not as someone who had only recently entered his life. Unlike JJ, you hadn’t been there for years.

As they quickly rebuilt their trust, their dynamic, their friendship, a strange, somber thought crossed your mind. You started wondering if, from the very beginning, you had only been filling the space she left behind—just as you had done with the team, stepping into her role.

Before, you had convinced yourself that his friendship with her was entirely different from what he had with you. Because with you, you had foolishly believed, it wasn’t just friendship.

But the more time passed, the more you started to realize that maybe—maybe that had only ever been wishful thinking.

These were the kind of worries you kept entirely to yourself, but at the same time, they gnawed at you from the inside, needing to be shared with someone.

You wanted to talk to someone about it, but there was no one to turn to. I mean, everything was the same as always. Everyone loved JJ—they never stopped—and you were the new, younger girl who might have seemed like she was speaking badly about her out of pure, immature jealousy.

Until now, aside from Spencer, the person you were closest to was Prentiss, but for obvious reasons, you couldn’t go to her. Besides, she would have chosen JJ over you too. That was undeniable.

And that’s how, somehow, you ended up standing outside Penelope’s office, telling yourself that maybe she would understand.

But just as you were about to open the door, doubt crept in. You sighed and leaned your back against the wall. Maybe, when it came to this, there was simply no one on the team you could turn to.

You abandoned the idea entirely, yet your feet refused to move. There was so much internal, mental exhaustion weighing you down. So many sleepless nights, so much stress and worry, so much uncertainty and so many questions.

You heard footsteps approaching. Turning your head to the side, you saw Hotch stopping just two steps away from you. For a moment, he simply looked at you in silence, studying your face.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," you replied flatly. You couldn’t breathe properly. You already knew—had known the moment he stopped—that he wasn’t here to ask about how you were feeling.

"Just tired."

He gave a slow nod.

"I need to have a word with you."

Pressing your teeth into the inside of your cheek, you nodded back.

You didn’t actually keep many personal things in the office.

You made sure the rest of the team had been sent out into the field before you started packing them into a small box. They fit easily—it wasn’t even heavy. And yet, as you stared at it sitting on your desk, it felt impossibly difficult to lift.

You guessed flawlessly what Hotch wanted to talk to you about because, in a way, it was obvious.

JJ was back. Emily was back. The team had too many members now, and someone had to go. And the choice was just as obvious.

Honestly, you weren’t even angry. It had to be you—the placeholder.

But if you were aware of that, why did something bitter nest in your throat?

Before you could take even two steps forward toward the exit, Spencer had already reached you, hesitantly extending his hands.

"Let me help—"

"No need," you said, tucking the box under your arm, keeping it out of his reach.

For a moment, you both just stared at each other in silence. You had no idea what to say. In fact, it was hard to even look at him. That was why you wanted to do this alone—to just leave quietly. You didn't even know why he was there. You must have miscalculated something, or maybe they had simply come back earlier.

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he, too, remained silent. Walking past him now would signal anger, resentment—but that wasn’t exactly what you felt. So you stood in front of him, waiting for him to speak.

"You're leaving," he finally said, swallowing hard. A statement of fact he could have easily left unsaid. Adjusting the box in your arms, you simply nodded.

"I mean—what I wanted to say is… just remember that you're my friend. And I hope you still will be, even…even if we’re not working together. This doesn’t really change anything."

But if you hadn’t worked together, you never would have met. Never would have grown close. Besides, it wasn’t even the job that had stood in your way. It was something else—something simpler, because it depended only on the two of you, yet for that very reason, it was also much more complicated. Specifically, communication.

"I know," you admitted with a slight nod, though without much conviction.

Spencer tried to smile, briefly catching your gaze—one you immediately dropped to the box in your hands before he could read anything from your eyes.

"I have to go now. This is starting to get a little heavy."

"You know, I can really help you—"

"It's fine," you cut him off firmly. "It's really fine, Spencer."

He let out a quiet sigh of surrender as you headed toward the exit.

#criminal minds fic #criminal minds angst #criminal minds #spence reid #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid angst #doctor spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid #dr spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fic

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blueberrisdove-sideblog · 3 days ago

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⋆࿐໋ STRUNG TIGHT !

　ུᩧ　tws : rockstar mydei x fem!reader. nsfw/smut, creampie, bondage, dirty talk & teasing, sub & dom dynamics, clit play, dumbification, multiple of rounds, dirty talk & teasing, mild degradation, and slight restraint play. (Modern au)

　ུᩧ　synopsis : After a killer performance, Mydei’s still riding the high, strumming out lazy tunes in the back room like he’s got all the time in the world. You call him out—on the way he plays, the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. He just smirks, all cocky and unbothered, until you push him too far. One second, you’re teasing him, the next, you’re pinned to the couch, wrists bound with his guitar strap, legs spread as he plays you like his favorite song—slow, deep, and all fucking night.

The sound of a guitar hummed through the empty dressing room, lazy and sweet, like a song played in bed at sunrise. Mydei sat on the couch, long legs spread, fingers plucking at the strings without much thought. His golden eyes flicked up when you walked in, but he didn’t say anything—just kept playing, a smirk twitching at the corner of his lips.

“That was some performance,” you said, leaning against the doorframe. “Didn’t know you could play like that.”

He scoffed. “You say that every time.”

“And every time, you act like you don’t eat up the attention.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head, but his fingers never stopped moving. The melody was slower now, more careful—something soft, something intimate. You recognized it, a song you’d caught him playing before, always when he thought no one was listening.

“Another love song?” you teased, stepping closer.

His eyes darkened. “You tell me.”

You swore he did this on purpose—the way he played, the way he looked at you under his lashes, the way his voice dripped low when he spoke. You could feel the bass of the guitar vibrating in your chest, or maybe that was just your pulse, quick and eager.

“You play like you’re trying to get someone in bed,” you mused, standing between his legs.

He leaned back, fingers slowing as he studied you. “And?”

And. Fuck. You weren’t supposed to get caught up in him like this, but it was hard not to when he looked at you like that—half-lidded, lazy, waiting. You bit your lip, watching his hands.

“You play with your fingers more than a pick,” you murmured.

Mydei raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

You hummed, dragging your nails lightly down his arm. “I like that.”

The guitar was gone before you could blink, placed somewhere out of the way, and then his hands were on you—calloused, warm, pulling you onto his lap. His mouth found your throat, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss that made you shiver.

“Say it again,” he muttered against your skin.

“You’re good with your fingers,” you breathed, and his hands tightened around your waist.

His lips curled into a smirk as he slid his hand beneath your shirt, fingers tracing your ribs before palming your tits, rolling a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The roughness of his skin against the sensitive bud sent a shiver straight down to your clit.

He chuckled when he felt you squirm. “Sensitive.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You kissed him, hard, swallowing the smugness right out of his mouth. He groaned, hands gripping your hips, rocking you against him. You could feel him, hot and thick beneath his jeans, and your head spun at the thought of him inside you.

One of his hands left your waist, reaching for his guitar strap that had been tossed onto the couch. Before you could question him, he had your wrists bound together, your arms pinned above your head as he laid you back against the couch.

“What—”

His teeth scraped over your collarbone. “You like my fingers, right?”

You moaned when two of them slid down, past the waistband of your shorts, teasing at your pussy. He groaned at how wet you were, spreading you open with ease.

“I bet,” he murmured, dragging his fingers over your clit in slow, teasing circles, “I could make you sing sweeter than any song I’ve ever played.”

His fingers slipped inside you, stretching you just right, curling against that perfect spot. The guitar strap dug into your wrists as you pulled against it, hips bucking against his touch. He watched you, golden eyes dark with hunger, his cock pressing against his jeans.

“You sound so pretty,” he murmured, pumping his fingers in and out. “Bet my cock would feel even better, huh?”

You whimpered, nodding frantically, but he tsked. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“Please,” you gasped. “Fuck me.”

He grinned, undoing his belt with one hand, still lazily stroking your clit with the other. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Mydei took his time, just because he could. His fingers stayed buried inside you, lazily curling with each thrust, dragging slick noises out of your pussy like he was playing some slow, teasing melody. His other hand gripped the strap around your wrists, keeping you pinned against the couch as he leaned down, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along your tits.

“You’re dripping,” he murmured against your skin, thumb circling your clit in time with the lazy strumming of his fingers inside you. “Maybe I should keep playing you like this all night.”

You whined, tugging against the strap, hips rolling up against his hand. He chuckled, cock heavy against your thigh as he let his teeth graze your nipple. The rough flick of his tongue sent another wave of heat through you, and you clenched around his fingers, making him groan.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “Gonna feel so fucking good wrapped around my cock.”

He pulled his fingers out, sucking them into his mouth like he was savoring the taste of you. The sight alone had you clenching around nothing, desperate for him to fill you up again. But Mydei was in no rush. He tugged his belt free, using it to loop around the guitar strap, anchoring your bound wrists to the couch.

“There,” he smirked, watching you struggle. “No touching.”

You glared at him, but any complaint you had died on your tongue when he shoved his jeans down, cock springing free. Your mouth went dry at the sight of him—long, thick, flushed at the tip. He gave himself a slow stroke, watching you with a smirk.

“Bet you wish you could touch me, huh?”

You whined, trying to reach for him, but the restraint kept you in place. Mydei laughed, leaning down to press a soft, teasing kiss to your lips.

“Guess you’ll just have to take it,” he whispered, lining himself up.

And then he was pushing in, stretching you open inch by inch, his cock sinking deep into your pussy with a slow, agonizing drag. Your back arched, a breathless moan spilling from your lips as he filled you up completely.

“Fuck,” he groaned, hips pressed flush against yours. “You’re squeezing me so tight.”

He pulled back, almost all the way out, before slamming back in, setting a deep, steady rhythm. The guitar strap creaked as you strained against it, hips bucking to meet his thrusts. Mydei leaned over you, his breath hot against your ear.

“You sound so fucking good,” he panted, dragging his cock along your walls, making sure you felt every inch of him. “Better than any song I’ve ever played.”

His fingers found your clit again, rubbing tight, fast circles that had your thighs shaking. The overstimulation made your head spin, pleasure winding tighter and tighter in your core.

“Mydei—”

“Come on, baby,” he coaxed, voice low and rough. “Sing for me.”

The orgasm crashed into you like a wave, pleasure bursting through your body as you clenched around his cock, moaning his name like it was the only thing you knew how to say. Mydei groaned, fucking you through it, his thrusts growing sloppy as your pussy tightened around him.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises. “Gonna come inside you—”

You gasped, nodding frantically, and that was all it took. Mydei slammed into you one last time, his cock pulsing deep inside, filling you up with warmth. He stayed there for a moment, catching his breath, before slowly pulling out, watching his cum drip from your pussy with a satisfied smirk.

He reached down, tracing his fingers through the mess he made. “Gotta admit,” he murmured, pressing one last kiss to your lips, “I think I like playing you better than my guitar.”

Mydei didn’t waste a fucking second. He still had that lazy, cocky smirk on his face, but the way he fucked you? There was nothing lazy about it. Every thrust was deep, slow enough to make you feel every inch of his cock stretching you open, but hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

“Shit—look at you,” he rasped, watching the way your tits bounced with every snap of his hips. “Already fucked stupid, huh? Thought you had so much to say a minute ago.”

You did. You really did. But your brain was a mess, thoughts drowned out by the thick drag of his cock, the tight pull of the guitar strap keeping your wrists bound above your head. The only thing spilling from your lips now were breathy moans and little whimpers, legs twitching around his waist as he bullied his cock even deeper inside you.

“Fuck, you’re gripping me so tight,” Mydei groaned, rolling his hips just right, brushing against that spot that made your vision blur. “You like this, don’t you?”

You nodded, too dumb and desperate to care how pathetic you looked beneath him. His fingers found your clit again, rubbing fast, sloppy circles that made you whine. The pleasure was too much—his cock stretching you open, the rough pads of his fingers pressing into your swollen clit, the heat pooling in your stomach, coiling tighter and tighter until—

“Don’t—don’t stop—”

“Oh, I’m not stopping,” he growled, pace getting rougher, sharper, making your whole body shake beneath him. “Not ‘til I break you.”

And fuck, he did. Your back arched, your mouth falling open on a silent scream as your orgasm slammed into you, making your pussy clamp down around his cock like you never wanted to let him go. Your body was trembling, tears pricking your eyes from how fucking good it felt, and Mydei groaned, grinding against you as he fucked you through it.

“That’s it,” he murmured, licking a slow stripe up your throat before pressing a kiss to your jaw. “So fucking pretty when you come on my cock.”

You should’ve been embarrassed by how wrecked you sounded, by the way your body twitched and shook, completely at his mercy—but you weren’t. Not when Mydei was looking at you like this, eyes blown, jaw tight, chasing his own release.

“Fuck—gonna come inside you,” he panted, thrusts getting sloppy. “Gonna fill you up real nice—make sure you remember who owns this pretty little pussy.”

Your brain was too melted to do anything but nod, legs tightening around his waist, urging him deeper. He groaned, hips stuttering, and then he was spilling inside you, warmth flooding your insides as he buried himself to the hilt.

For a long moment, he didn’t move, just let himself feel it—your walls fluttering around him, the way your body trembled from the aftershocks. Then, finally, he pulled out, groaning at the sight of his cum dripping from your pussy, smearing along your thighs.

“Fuck,” he muttered, fingers dipping between your legs, pushing some of his cum back inside. You twitched, overstimulated, and he chuckled.

“So dumb for me now,” he teased, rubbing lazy circles against your clit just to watch you squirm. “Can’t even talk, huh? Bet I fucked all the thoughts outta that cute little head.”

You whimpered, barely able to move, and Mydei just smirked, leaning down to kiss your cheek before finally untying your wrists.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your jaw. “I’ll play with you again real soon.”

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mixingandmelting · 2 days ago

Note

There’s a vid that I can’t find anymore! But it was a streamer playing Stardew Valley, and she was trying to get her character pregnant. When the morning came in the game, and it didn’t happen again, she frustratingly yells/complains, “WHY AM I STILL NOT PREGNANT YEEET?” After that, her BF slowly pops his head around the corner, looking at her.

So, I was wondering how the batboys would react to hearing their s/o randomly yell that while in another room or maybe next to them while they play their game? 😂

Dick:

….That’s one way to welcome him home.

He just got back from his day job (being a gymnastics instructor this time) and in the middle of taking off his shoes, he hears you scream that particular line. And he’s now more confused than ever who exactly you were directing it to: yourself, him, or that one game you’ve been playing since a month ago.

At least Haley’s not worried about it, happily wagging her tail and running in circles in front of her dad.

He presses a finger on his lips, ruffling her head when she instantly goes quiet for him before picking her up and tip-toeing to your room.

“Is it so hard to get me pregnant?! Or is it too much to ask that I give birth to kids?!”

His eyes grow wider at every step he takes, your rant becoming more absurd the closer he gets to your room. You want to have kids? Who’s kid? His? One of the characters in the game?

By the time he reaches the door frame, he stiffens, hearing you slam your headsets down and stomping towards the door.

“Uh, I’m back?” It didn’t make the situation better, awkwardly smiling there while waving a hand in front of the doorway.

“…You-How much did you hear?”

He doesn’t answer, the silence being a telltale on its own.

“…I was just trying to further romance my in-game character. That’s all.” Your voice comes out quiet and muffled, your hands covering your face.

“Well, I was going to say all you had to do was tell me and we could’ve gotten to it right away-” He dodges the oversized body pillow you swing at him.

Placing Haley down, he goes over to you and hugs you from behind before picking and twirling you up in the air. You squeal, patting his arm with a hand while your flustered mind struggles who to tell off: him or Haley, who nips at your pants. He doesn’t let you live down on it for the rest of the week though, pumping his eyebrows up whenever he passes by and sees you playing the game.

Jason:

Slowly, he walks back and takes a peep at you from the doorway. His eyes wide with every question a man could possibly have.

He was simply passing by, planning to get to the one book he’s been meaning to read at the couch since you like having your gaming time. Even getting a good cup of coffee ready and carrying a pillow snug under his arm.

Then you screamed that line.

“I did not just spend this much time with you only for you to do this to me! We’re even married!”

He takes a second to think before silently nodding his head in agreement, recalling everything you told him regarding your efforts to romance one of the characters including how you had to specifically buy some pendant to propose. And only after you give them a bouquet and reach ten hearts.

“Why else did you think I chose you over Sebastian?! Did you think I was going to choose based on looks?!”

Oh, there’s more tea?

The next handful of minutes flies by, his book forgotten. He’s pretty sure no one could blame for it either when the gossip was just too good to pass. Then an idea struck.

With expertise, he sneaks into your room and slowly makes his make towards you.

“Seriously, he’s such a jerk.”

“Oh most definitely.”

“Even when I forgave him for cheating on me.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Like, come on just why won’t he ask- What the fuck?! Jason?!”

He raises an eyebrow, his trademarked, shit-eating smirk ever so present.

“If you really wanted one that badly, you could’ve just asked.”

He cackles, letting himself get tackled onto the mattress that happens to be behind you/ the one he’s currently sitting on. His arms automatically wrap themselves around you, using the magic of smothering you in his embrace to calm you down as he knows you know he’s doing you a favor in covering your expression up. Glad to know it works, you snuggling into his shirt with flushed ears.

Tim:

He chokes on his water, hacking and coughing up a storm. The two of you are currently hanging out, playing the same game. And it was quiet too, with the occasional mumbling of profanities whenever the characters decided to give attitude towards either you or him. Until you scream why you weren’t getting pregnant.

“W-what?” It takes him some time to finally ask the question, his throat sore and needing time to recover.

“Yes! Pregnant!” You make hand motions to your screen, backing away as he tries to lean and look over. “I did everything that everyone online said! Upgrade the farmhouse, add the nursery, go to bed BEFORE 10 PM-! What am I doing wrong?!”

“It IS a 5% chance; it might take a while.” He rubs circles on back in attempts to console you. Too bad it fails, you rolling your eyes and groaning.

“Yeah, but I'm at my final straw here. Especially when I’ve been playing for two years…”

…Is it really that hard to get kids in the game?

He takes a quick glance at his screen where his character is happily raising children with their respective spouse. And he hasn’t been playing for a year.

“… Tim?” Crap. He was quiet for too long.

He jumps into action, trying to change the scene but he’s too late. You gasp. Your eyes wide in betrayal

“You-How-“ Oh no. It’s never a good sign when you fumble over your words. “It took you how long again for you to ask me out? But you already have kids in the game???”

“Well, I was nervous-“

“More like abs-er-gutless.”

…Excuse you? Sure, he’s not a Greek God like Dick or built like a refrigerator like Jason but he knows he has pretty good abs and takes full offense to that.

So, without a word, he gets up and hauls you over his shoulder.

“Tim, what are you doing???”

“Taking you with me to prove a point.”

Needless to say, he’s successful in changing your mind that night as well as receiving a heartfelt apology for creating a word to describe his apparent “lack of muscles”.

Duke:

He’s so glad the two of you aren’t out in public. The scene it would’ve caused especially with how loud your voice was- he can feel himself getting the goosebumps. The two of you were hanging out at your place with him having stepped out to use the restroom while you told him you’d wait.

Now he's facing a dilemma as he awkwardly stands at the entrance way to the living room. The rational side of him wants to shake you, ask if you’re aware you’re still in high school. The protective boyfriend side of him wants to know who you were asking and for what reason.

The worst part is that there’s no real, good way to find out unless he leans his head out from behind the wall. And him getting caught red-handed for snooping on you is the last thing he needs to happen right now.

“How is it that I’m not pregnant yet?!” Please, he’s on his knees. Stop saying that and instead, drop the context. “A week! It’s been one whole week and I’m still without kids!”

Screw it.

Slowly he moves his head forward. Then blinks.

There, with your back towards him, he can see the screen of your laptop filled with colors, all retro, 8-bit themed. His eyes make out a character that you keep moving, seemingly walking around in an area filled with green, red, different shades of browns.

…Oh. You’re playing Stardew Valley.

Sliding back behind the wall, he sighs in relief. Finally, he can rest and be assured it’s not between yourself and him or with some other guy he didn’t know about. You’re yelling crazy things like usual whenever you play that game. That’s all.

“Duke? What are you doing there?”

“What? Oh, uh, nothing. Just coming back from using the restroom, that’s all.” If not for the furious blush on your cheeks, he would’ve really thought you were unamused.

“...I’m going to stick my head into the kitchen sink for a second, don’t follow me.”

The next hour is spent with him convincing you that it’s fine and there’s nothing to feel embarrassed about. Then another once he admits after you give him a look that it’s funny and he probably won’t forget about it.

Damian:

Really? Out of all things you’re going to yell, you’re yelling that? His eyes are flat as cement, not even a single drop of him laughing at the sight.

First off, why in the world would you be this frustrated? It’s a just game that’s meant to waste time, nothing worth all the effort and the attention. Second, why are you so desperate to have a child? With a fictional character nonetheless? Is he not your significant other? Is that character more interesting than him that you decide to spend hours interacting with them and not him?

“It’s probably because you lack the skills to get the game to move as you please.” He doesn’t appreciate the snort you let out in response.

“Sure and you do when you can’t even get to reaching eight hearts.”

Say what now?

“Of course I can! I just haven’t gotten that far since I’m busy with keeping a city safe!”

“Excuses, excuses. That’s what they all say.”

“Excuses???”

The two of you glare at each other, huff, and turn away. Only for you ruffle your hair after another failed attempt.

He slumps into his chair, drilling holes to your side visage. He can’t understand. Was that game really more important to you than him? But he doesn’t like how it’s making you this fed up either. A moment of compilation later and watching your face scrunch up, he gives in.

“Here, let me try-”

“Okay, that does it!” His back straightens when you slam your hands onto the desk. “We’re getting ice cream, go on a walk, and come back to this stupid game!”

“...Why again?”

“Because I’m frustrated and I’m not going without you!” Blankly he blinks, watching you stomp out of the room. Well then.

Despite snorting, a tiny smile forms on his lips as he jumps off his chair and follows right behind you. About time you make his visit worthwhile, you should’ve proposed this from the start. He does end up sharing your pain once the two of you come back, resulting in failure every time he tries and causing him to hate the game even more.

#dick grayson #nightwing #dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #jason todd #jason todd x reader #red hood #red hood x reader #tim drake x reader #red robin dc #tim drake #red robin x reader #duke thomas x reader #dc signal #duke thomas #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne #dc imagine

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anhesacardia · 2 days ago

Text

Forbidden Promises

Chapter 5 (Series Masterlist)

Pairing: Modernau!Sukuna x Mother!Reader

Genre: Hidden Baby Trope

Summary: Reader opens up a bakery after running away from her three year relationship with Sukuna, effectively ghosting him and hiding away in the middle of the countryside. Unknown to Sukuna, reader also had a baby, and now is living peacefully until an unfateful meeting starts to pull her back into the life she so desperately escaped from.

Tw: ooc Sukuna, use of y/n like twice, angst heh, Sukuna is lwk a simp…if there’s anything I missed do tell me!! Overthinking Sukuna and Reader, soft Sukuna

Wc: 1.9k

Sukuna had both hands on the steering wheel, gripping tightly as he passed the dense forest that lined both sides of the empty road, save for a few cars here and there. His expensive car stood out against the trucks that carried animal livestock and farm produce. The sun was setting, light rays passing between the tree branches causing patches of light to form on the road.

His mind was running a thousand questions per minute, was the kid his?- she had to be, her eyes, her hair- it was obvious to anyone who the father was. Why didn’t you tell him, Why did you leave him all those years ago and force him to go through so much shit alone- especially when he needed you the most then. Why did you never reach out- he wasn’t the worst boyfriend, he could’ve provided for everything you could have wanted- he would’ve given you the moon if you so much as looked at it in passing. He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth as his vision clouded with anger.

You hid away from him for so long, you stole his heart and ran away with it, and now he has to find out you stole his chance at fatherhood away too? Just what grave sin did he commit to be punished like this from you of all people. How many nights had he spent just admiring you while you slept. Did you know how hard he worked to get everyone who didn’t approve of you off his board? Every senile old motherfucker that he asked Toji to take care of? And did you know of the gaping hole you left in his heart when he was so close to getting rid of them all and establishing himself and you just up and left?

The sun had fully set by the time he reached the bakery, parked a bit far away watching as passersby entered the shop. A rare smile found its way on his face- at the very least your shop was doing good- you were a damn good baker after all, he’d expect nothing but the best from you.

Uraume had informed him that you would not be in for the day, so he sat in the car watching everyone who strolled by the shop with a sharp glare, squinting at Fumiko who came out with an apron and employee tag. He didn’t have to wait long- the drive to your bakery had taken him over two hours. He always knew you had a good head on your shoulders but to hide yourself smack in the middle of a countryside, he should’ve expected no better from you.

Sukunas heart flipped when he saw you for the first time in years, Hana resting on your hip as you walked on the opposite side. You had aged gracefully, small wrinkles formed at the corners of your eyes when you smiled, a different glow on your face compared to the one he had first fallen in love with. Your shoulders seemed a bit more heavier and he wished to whisk away all your problems, take one of those late night drives where he drove a bit too fast and you clung onto him screaming.

The CEO watched you enter the shop, Hana set down as you greeted Fumiko. He got out of the car, standing in front of it as you turned around to switch the signboard on the glass door and made eye contact with him.

It felt like you were sixteen all over again and seeing him for the first time. You couldn't help but let your gaze travel over his body. Fuck, age had done nothing to make him any less attractive. Fumiko left the shop, staring at you for a second before you reassured her to be on her way. Hana was sitting on one of the tables, eating a donut with strawberry filling, getting powdered sugar all over her face.

Sukuna entered the moment Fumiko left and you switched on the dimmer lights in the bakery, casting those shadows you liked on Sukunas face. You pulled out a chair at a table just a little bit far away from Hana, making sure you could see her

“Sukuna.”

You didn't trust your voice to come out steady, it wobbled at the edges, throat closing up against the name you hadn’t uttered for years. Sukuna pulled out a seat opposite to you, glaring at you, not once did he turn his attention to the shop- faltering once to look at Hana,

“So this is where you were playing house huh?”

Fumiko had prepared tea, you had called her beforehand to inform that a guest would be coming and that you’d appreciate it if she could make two cups of chrysanthemum tea, Sukuna’s favorite. You poured it, setting it in front of Sukuna,

“If that's what you want to call it then sure,’

You stared down at your cup, mixing in two cubes of sugar as Sukuna seethed from where he sat

“What the fuck else am I supposed to call it then,

You winced at the tone of Sukuna’s voice, turning your head to look outside at the flickering lamplight,

“Don't curse in front of the kid Ryoumen.”

You felt like you were in a dream, this was way too surreal to feel true and every word came out of you like you practiced it in front of the mirror till they lost meaning,

“How- Why the fuck- Look at me Y/n.”

You hadn’t realized you were crying until your cheeks felt wet, and you used the back of your hand to wipe them away, turning your attention back to the father of your child. Sukuna had long stopped glaring at you, his featured twisting to resemble heartbreak and you felt your own heart break in your chest,

“Ryo-”

The minute he heard his name leave your mouth he was by your side, cupping the back of your head and kneeling by your chair as he brought your head to rest on his shoulder,

“I’m here- always have been pet,”

Your hands twisted into the fabric of his dress shirt, wetting his shoulder with salty tears that seeped through the cloth. Hana turned her head at the sound of your muffled sounds, jumping down from her chair and running over to hit Sukuna with tiny fists who scowled at her in response. The contrast of it all made you chuckle, pushing away from Sukuna’s chest and pulling Hana into your lap, wrapping your arms around her and calming her down.

“Ryo…I’m sorry- I can’t”

You shook your head, the words stuck in your throat as they came out wrong. Sukuna just shook his head pulling his chair closer to you,

“Tell my why you left first,”

You looked up at Sukuna with red rimmed eyes, arms tightening around Hana who whined in retaliation,

“I heard you that day.. On the phone with Toji- and then you left again and I just- I couldn't handle that anymore and I didn’t want Hana to go through that either,”

The father’s face twisted into a scowl, stopping you mid way through your rant.

“Doll- what call-what are you talking about,”

And so you began the recollection of the day that started a flurry of decisions that led you to where you are now,

“With Y/n? No I dont want kids why the fuck are you even asking me that Toji?”

You stilled outside Sukuna’s office, positive pregnancy test in your hand. Your entire body trembled and the world whizzed around you, unconsciously removing your hand from the door as you stuffed the test into your purse walking back to the bedroom in a daze. You sat down and shut your eyes, taking short quick deep breaths as you calmed yourself down watching your hands stop shaking from fear.

You had never discussed the possibility of kids with Sukuna, you started taking birth control after you moved into Sukuna’s high rise apartment and he got addicted to doing it raw. Sure it was a possibility you considered but it virtually never happened and you were sure you were not going to be the exception.

You could understand Sukuna not wanting kids, you don't think you would put any kid through what Sukuna had to go through to become the successor. Granted his twin brother, Jin did run away and marry another woman. But if your child was going to turn out anything like Sukuna then they would crave the power just as much as he did and you were not sure if you wanted them to go through all that.

Sukuna and you had just graduated college too and his father was forcing him to work his way upwards, it's barely been a few months since you both became official. Sukuna wanted to make sure he got a job before tying you down with him, he knew how self-sacrificing you were. But, the relationship has been everything but steady since he started to focus more on the inheritance races. He would disappear for weeks on end without a trace or word, leaving Uraume with you and when he did finally come back he would just be a bit odd, like his scent had mixed with old blood and festered.

He would avoid you for a few days before going back to being normal and sharing a bed with you. And you were not stupid, you knew Sukuna was establishing his position by using not-so-legal methods, you just kept your mouth shut. Sukuna wouldn’t hurt someone unless they were embezzling or doing something especially evil, you asked Uraume about it and they answered you honestly.

But it was the mixture of the wrong events happening at the wrong time, on the morning after you found out that you were pregnant Sukuna was nowhere to be found and Uraume was present in his absence. You just felt more unstable then, the two month pregnancy hormones messing with your brain and causing you to start pulling away.

It was the longest time Sukuna had left, four weeks and not even a single word from him. Even Uraume had to leave without a word and the walls of the empty house felt like they were caving in on you, and paired with your morning sickness, truly you had never felt more low in your life.

And then you started thinking, would Sukuna ask you to get rid of the child growing in you, would he even love them, you knew he loved you but he never liked children. Did you want to bring your child into a world where their father left for weeks, leaving you with no answers. And what if Sukunas enemies decided that your child would be the one they enacted revenge on. Or what if the executives got Sukuna to marry someone else- they never really approved of you in the first place.

The storm that raged in your mind led you to take the most life changing decision you had ever made. A few days after Uraume left and showed no signs of coming back you had started to pack a few things, dipping into your emergency funds that you saved up while working as an assistant baker in university. You left your phone and anything Sukuna could track you down with back at his apartment. Barely a bag was left when you finally finished packing up, already having booked a train to the middle of nowhere. You already called up the locals, informing them of your situation and buying a streetside shop beforehand. You left a week after Uraume did and never looked back.

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Taglist: @lady-of-blossoms @shokosbunny @after-laughter-come-tears @glads-stuff @acidrefiux @linny-bloggs @dahliadaenerys @gojotech @emi311 @poopooindamouf @sadrna @domainofmarie @sukubusss @nousija @pjofics @katsukiseyebrows @the-reas0n-is-y0u @nina-from-317

A/n: I don’t know how to feel about this tbh… ugdhdhhdudud I feel like I could’ve done it better but finally the confrontation chapter (or atleast half of it lol)!! This feels very uh not up to par hdjdkeksjdj

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heliosunny · 3 days ago

Note

Hi! I love your depictions of Phainon, especially when he toes the line between charming and threatening. I’m a sucker for a good unrequited love trope, so could you write a scenario where reader was in love with Phainon in the past but he treated her the same as he did everyone else so she eventually loses hope and gives up, so now he’s the one that has to chase after her? Thank you so much!

Yandere!Phainon x Fem!Reader

The first time you saw Phainon, you thought the stars had fallen from the sky and taken the shape of a man. He was brilliant, untouchable, a light too blinding for anyone to hold. And yet, you tried.

You were seven when you first told Phainon you wanted to marry him.

It had been one of those golden afternoons, the sun slanting through the trees, painting his silver hair with a soft glow. He sat on a patch of grass beside you, staring up at the clouds like they held all the answers in the world.

“Phai!” you had said, kicking your legs idly. “When we grow up, let’s get married.”

“Married?”

“Yes! Like grown-ups do! You’ll protect me, and I’ll make you happy.”

Phainon tilted his head, considering. Then, with a soft laugh, he shrugged. “Alright.”

And that was it. A simple agreement, like you had just decided to play a new game. He didn’t think about it beyond that moment, and maybe, at the time, you didn’t either. But as you grew, the weight of those words stayed with you.

Years passed. You stayed by his side, always reaching, always hoping. Phainon was kind—always had been. But as you both grew older, you noticed something.

He was kind to everyone.

He smiled at others the way he smiled at you. He listened to them, helped them, comforted them—just as he did with you. Maybe a little softer, a little gentler when it came to you, but never in the way you wanted. Never in a way that meant something more.

And so, the quiet realization settled in your heart like a stone sinking into a river.

You weren’t special.

Not to him.

And then there was that day. The day you knew, without a doubt, that you were just another name in his life.

It had been at the annual festival, a celebration where lights hung from every corner, where laughter echoed in the streets, and where lovers exchanged tokens of devotion.

You had spent all morning crafting a gift for him—something small but meaningful. A charm, woven with threads of silver and blue, the colors that reminded you of him. A silent confession, the last desperate hope that maybe, maybe he would see you.

When you found him, he was standing beneath the lantern-lit trees. But he wasn’t alone. A girl stood before him, cheeks dusted pink, hands nervously clasping a carefully wrapped box.

You had seen it before—people gravitating toward Phainon, drawn in by his quiet kindness, by the way he made everyone feel special. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That he would just smile, politely decline, and move on.

“Oh, for me?” Phainon had taken the box gently, his voice carrying that familiar warmth, the kind that once made your heart race. “That’s really kind of you.”

You stood there, gift clutched in your hands, heart pounding as he opened it. Inside was a scarf, delicately embroidered, clearly made with effort and care. He held it up, smiling, before effortlessly wrapping it around his neck.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” he said. And then, without hesitation, he lifted a hand and gently patted the girl’s head.

It was the same gesture he had given you countless times. The same words. The same smile.

Something inside you shattered.

You had spent years thinking you were different, that maybe, maybe the way he treated you was special. But here he was, accepting another person’s affection with the same grace, the same warmth.

You weren’t special.

Not to him.

Your hands trembled around the charm you had made. And then, slowly, you let it fall to the ground.

Phainon never even noticed.

----

“Y/N”

His voice cut through the air, quiet but firm. You stiffened for half a second before turning to face him.

“What is it, Phainon?”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been busy”

“I never meant to make you feel like—”

You stopped him before he could finish.

Eventually, you stopped seeking him out, stopped waiting for his attention. And as days turned to weeks, you started avoiding him entirely.

But you never got the chance to truly leave him behind.

Because then the war came.

It happened suddenly—one evening, the village bells rang in alarm. Riders arrived from the capital, shouting of an approaching army, of an impending invasion. Chaos followed, families scrambling to gather their belongings, the town elders deciding who would flee and who would stay to defend.

Phainon, of course, chose to fight.

You still remember the look in his eyes that night. Determined. Steady. As if the boy who once watched clouds beside you had already faded into something sharper.

“You’re leaving, right?” His voice was firm, but there was something uneasy beneath it. “You should go to the capital—it’s safer there.”

You had hesitated, watching the way his hand gripped the hilt of a borrowed sword.

He was afraid.

You had known him long enough to see it, even if no one else could.

“I—” Your throat tightened. What were you supposed to say? Be safe? Don’t fight? You had spent so long pulling away, trying to make peace with the idea that you were just another person to him. And yet, standing there, watching him prepare for battle, you couldn’t help but remember the Phainon you once loved.

In the end, you only nodded. “Goodbye, Phai.”

The way his breath caught at your words—it almost made you stay.

But you didn’t.

You left with the others, escaping toward the capital as the village prepared for war.

You never thought you’d see him again.

Years Later – The Capital

The war changed everything.

Your village, though damaged, had survived—but life could never return to what it was. The battle had taken many, scattered others, and those who returned were never quite the same.

You, like so many others, had built a new life in the capital.

With your skill in design, you carved out a name for yourself among the noble elite. What had once been a simple love for embroidery and fabric turned into something much greater—a business, a reputation, a sense of independence you never had before.

You ran a high-end clothing shop near the palace, known for its elegant craftsmanship and modern designs. Nobles sought you out, eager for your work, for the quiet dignity and beauty woven into each piece you created.

And here, in the bustling streets of the capital, you finally found yourself.

----

The soft chime of the shop bell barely drew your attention as you worked, fingers carefully adjusting the pearl buttons on an elegant gown. You were used to high-ranking visitors—nobles, courtiers, even foreign envoys—so the presence of yet another escort was nothing unusual.

“Sir Luvain, if you’d follow me, the tailor should be expecting you.”

Slowly, you lifted your gaze.

Phainon stood at the entrance, clad in the silver-trimmed armor of the royal knights, the sigil of his rank gleaming against his shoulder. He had grown taller, stronger—the soft edges of youth sharpened into something disciplined, something restrained.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, as if nothing had happened, you turned your attention to his companion, the nobleman he was escorting. With practiced ease, you greeted him, all professionalism and grace.

“Lord Luvain, I trust you received my message regarding the final adjustments?”

The noble smiled, stepping forward to allow you to take his measurements. He spoke lightly about the upcoming banquet, about how eager he was to debut his attire. You listened, responded when necessary, all while acutely aware of Phainon standing silently at the edge of the room.

“Your measurements are set, my lord.” you finally said, stepping back with a slight bow. “This will be delivered two days later. If there are any final alterations needed, send word.”

Luvain gave a pleased nod before turning back to Phainon.

Phainon hesitated for just a second—his lips parted slightly as if he wanted to say something—but you were already turning away, reaching for your next task.

----

The bell chimed again the next morning.

You didn’t expect to see him. Not so soon.

But there he stood, alone this time.

You frowned as you saw his handsome face.. ruined. His lip was cut, a faint bruise darkening his cheekbone. He wasn’t injured enough for it to be from battle. No, this was different. A personal kind of fight.

Still, you didn’t ask.

Instead, you simply set down your tools and gestured toward the small seating area. “Sit.”

“…I didn’t come for treatment.”

“I didn’t ask why you came.”

Perhaps it was the casual, almost dismissive way you spoke. Perhaps it was the fact that, for the first time, you weren’t treating him as something untouchable.

But he obeyed.

As he settled into the chair, you retrieved a small cloth and a jar of medicinal balm, kneeling beside him to gently dab at the cut on his lip.

He winced slightly. “I could do this myself.”

“You’re terrible at it”

Up close, you noticed the slight exhaustion in his expression. You had heard stories—whispers of how politics in the palace were ruthless, how those who rose too quickly often became the target of others.

Perhaps he was learning that now.

It had been years since he left the village, years spent surrounded by flattery, empty smiles, and noble courtiers who praised him not for who he was, but for what he had become.

Yet here you were. Treating him with the same quiet care as always.

You hadn’t changed at all.

And maybe—maybe that was what unsettled him most.

“There.” You finally pulled away, capping the jar and setting it aside. “Try not to get hit next time.”

“You’re not going to ask what happened?”

You glanced at him, then gave a light shrug. “Does it matter?”

Then, with a soft sigh, you stood. “Well, if that’s all, Sir Phainon, I have other clients to attend to.”

You had never called him that before.

Not Phai. Not Phainon. Just Sir Phainon, like he was any other knight, any other customer.

Something about it unsettled him.

But before he could dwell on it, you had already turned away.

“Take care” you said over your shoulder, already moving on.

As he stepped out of the shop, Phainon barely noticed the bustling streets around him. His mind was elsewhere, replaying the way you had looked at him—or rather, the way you didn’t.

He had spent so long being adored, sought after, respected. And yet, none of it compared to the simple, quiet way you had once looked at him.

The way you didn’t anymore.

---

Days turned into weeks, and Phainon didn’t disappear like before.

If anything, he only climbed higher.

You heard the murmurs in the capital—of his growing reputation, his skill on the battlefield, his unwavering determination. His name was spoken with admiration, his presence sought after by nobles eager to have a knight of his caliber within their inner circles.

But no matter how high he reached, no matter how many doors opened for him, he always seemed to find his way back to you.

At first, it was subtle. A chance meeting in the marketplace, an escort duty that just so happened to lead him near your shop. Then it became deliberate. He would stop by under the guise of checking on his previous order, lingering too long, watching you in that unreadable way.

You had long stopped being a girl waiting for his affection. You had built your own life, your own success. But somehow, he refused to let you slip away.

----

“You may take the next few days off for your wedding. Enjoy yourself.”

Your worker’s eyes lit up, bowing in gratitude before hurrying off. You watched her go, your fingers idly tracing over the fabric on your desk.

Marriage.

You hadn’t thought about it much.

But now, with your employee stepping away for her own wedding, it dawned on you—it was that time in life where people settled down, where friends and acquaintances from your village were likely married with families of their own.

Once upon a time, you had naïvely dreamed of it, too.

A childhood promise, whispered in the golden glow of late afternoons—"Marry me when we grow up!"—and the careless laughter that followed, as if it was nothing more than a game.

But it hadn’t been a game. Not for you.

And in the years that followed, when you had loved him in silence, when you had watched him treat others with the same kindness he gave you, when you had finally learned that you were never special to him—

You had given up.

You weren’t that foolish girl anymore.

The shop bell chimed.

Phainon.

But this time, he wasn’t in armor. No weapons, no duties. Just simple, well-made clothing that suited him far too well—his presence somehow heavier despite his unassuming attire.

And in his hands—

A small, wrapped gift.

“For you.”

You hesitated before reaching out, carefully undoing the ribbon.

A hairpin. Carved in the shape of a flower that once bloomed in your village, back when you were children.

“…Why?”

Phainon inhaled slowly, as if steadying himself.

“I’ve been a fool. I didn’t see it back then.” He said “How much you meant to me. How much I took for granted.”

No, he wasn’t doing this.

Not now. Not after all these years.

“I thought of you often, even when I was away” he admitted. “But I only understood it after returning. When I saw you again, when you treated me as if I was just another face in the crowd.”

Your fingers curled around the hairpin.

“Because that’s what you are now” you whispered, barely able to find your voice.

“It’s not what I want to be.”

“I don’t want to be ‘just another knight’ to you.” His gaze locked onto yours, “I want—” He exhaled, softer this time. “I want you.”

And yet, all you could do was stare at him—at this man who was once your world, at this man who had only now realized his own feelings, at this man who had already taken too much from you.

You had already suffered once. Already let yourself burn for him.

You wouldn’t do it again.

Carefully, you placed the hairpin back into the box and closed the lid.

“…Thank you for the gift, Sir Phainon.” Your voice was steady, polite. “But I have no use for it.”

“Y/N—”

“I gave up on you long ago.” The words cut through the air, “And I have no intention of reliving that pain.”

“Goodbye, Phainon.”

And with that, you turned away.

You didn’t look back.

But as you walked away, you couldn’t hear the sound of him leaving.

Because this time—

This time, he wasn’t willing to let you go.

His heartbeat thundered.

He had always been admired, always been wanted. There was not a single noblewoman who wouldn’t welcome his favor, not a single courtier who wouldn’t seek his company.

But you?

You, who had once loved him so openly, had turned him away.

And it hurt.

More than it should have. More than anything ever had.

Phainon’s grip tightened around the small box still in his hands.

No.

This wasn’t over.

Not yet.

Not when the only person who had ever been truly kind to him was slipping through his fingers.

----

No matter what you said, no matter how much distance you tried to place between you—

Phainon kept coming back.

Whenever he had a break from duty, he would stop by the shop under the pretense of ordering something, checking on an old commission, or simply greeting you.

It didn’t matter if the sun was blazing or if the streets were slick with rain—Phainon would still appear, standing just outside, waiting for the smallest chance to speak to you.

And you?

You refused to give him anything.

And yet, it never stopped him.

Until one day—

You closed your shop.

It was the first time in weeks that Phainon hadn’t seen you.

He had arrived as usual, fully expecting you to be there, only to find the doors locked. A simple note hung at the entrance, inked in your delicate handwriting:

"Closed for the week. No appointments will be taken."

The words should have meant nothing.

And yet—

Something in his chest twisted.

Because you weren’t someone who closed your shop without reason. You weren’t someone who let anything—anyone—get in the way of your work.

“You didn’t hear? She’s fallen ill” one of the merchants gossiped. “Not too severe, but bad enough to keep her indoors.”

You were ill.

And no one had told him.

By the time he arrived at your house, you were already recovering.

You were still pale, still weaker than usual, but you were up, moving about, focused on tidying the mess that had gathered during your bedridden days.

When the knock came, you hesitated.

Then, with a tired sigh, you opened the door.

And there he was.

Phainon, standing on your doorstep.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I heard you were unwell.”

“I’m fine now.”

“I’ll stay”

“…What?”

“I’ll stay here” Phainon repeated, stepping forward slightly. “Until you’re fully recovered.”

You had spent weeks pushing him away.

And still, still, he refused to listen.

“Phainon.” You swallowed back the frustration. “Go home. You have better things to do than waste time here.”

“I don’t consider this a waste.”

You inhaled sharply, pressing your fingers against your temples. “Stop this. You’re—” A sigh. “You’re an important figure now. You have responsibilities.”

“…You really think that?”

You exhaled, suddenly too tired to argue. “I think you should leave.”

And with that, you turned away, stepping back inside.

You closed the door.

You locked it.

After that day, something changed.

Phainon stopped coming to your shop. Stopped appearing in front of you. Stopped waiting by the doors, stopped lingering in the streets.

And for a while, you thought you had finally won.

---

The streets were quiet.

You stood at the entrance of your shop, the weight of exhaustion pressing on your shoulders as you locked the door for the night.

The metal clicked into place.

A shadow moved.

Your fingers froze over the lock. What was that? A ghost?

Slowly, cautiously, you turned.

And there he was.

Standing at the edge of the dimly lit street, half-shrouded in darkness, his blue eyes watching you.

You had known Phainon for years. You had grown up with him, watched him rise from a mere village boy to a knight of the palace. You had seen him change—seen him become colder, more refined, more distant.

But this was unnerving.

Still, you swallowed down the discomfort, "Phainon…?"

"You've been ignoring me. Did you meet someone else?"

"What?"

"Is that why? You found someone else, didn’t you?"

You frowned, unease curling at the base of your spine. "That’s ridiculous. I just have my own life, Phainon. You should focus on yours."

Then, with an exhale that sounded almost amused—

"You don’t understand how exhausting things are in the palace."

He took another step forward.

You instinctively took one back.

"Everything is fake" he continued, "Every smile. Every kind word. They all lie. They all pretend to care. But you—"

"You were always real."

Your fingers twitched, itching to reach for the key still in the lock.

"But now you avoid me," he murmured. "Now you won’t even look at me."

"Phainon—"

He cut you off.

"If I got you pregnant," he said suddenly, "no one would bat an eye."

Your mind barely had time to process the words—what he had just said—before your body reacted on instinct.

You slapped him.

Phainon’s head snapped slightly to the side, his cheek flushed red from the strike, his lips slightly parted from shock.

But that moment of surprise didn’t last.

Slowly—so, so slowly—he turned his head back to you.

The last remnants of the boy you once knew were gone.

There was only him.

Only the man who had finally decided to take what was his.

You moved to run.

His hand grabbed your wrist and yanked you forward, crashing into his chest.

"That," he murmured, "was a mistake."

By the time the townspeople saw the smoke, it was already too late.

The shop was engulfed in flames. The fire devoured the wooden walls, the carefully crafted gowns and fabrics, reducing everything to ash.

And inside—

A body. Unrecognizable. Burnt beyond recognition.

A robbery gone wrong, they said.

A tragic death.

You were gone.

Far beyond the burning remains of your old life, in a place far from the city’s reach, a single candle flickered inside a dimly lit room.

The scent of smoke still clung to Phainon’s clothes as he sat beside the bed—the bed where you lay, unconscious.

Your wrists were bound. Just enough to make sure you wouldn’t do anything stupid when you woke.

He exhaled softly, reaching out, fingers brushing against your cheek.

Even now—even now, you were still his.

Now, you had nowhere to run.

The ropes around your wrists chafed against your skin, but the pain barely registered over the sheer rage bubbling in your chest.

The moment you had woken up—realized what he had done—you fought.

You screamed. You kicked. You thrashed so violently that Phainon had to pin you down.

"Let me go!" you spat, your voice hoarse from screaming.

Phainon only sighed, looking down at you with something almost close to pity.

"You’re being difficult."

"Do you think I’ll just sit here and accept this?" Your breath was ragged, fury shaking through your limbs. "I will never be yours."

"You always say that" he murmured, "But you’ve never really tried being mine, have you?"

"I have time" he whispered.

And that terrified you more than anything.

Because he truly believed you would break.

Your wrists throbbed where the restraints had dug into your skin. Your breath came ragged, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps.

Phainon knelt before you, "You’re exhausting yourself"

You flinched. He hesitated. But only for a second before he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

"You always did push yourself too hard"

You gritted your teeth. "Don't act like you know me."

That made him laugh—quiet, humorless.

"I do know you." His eyes burned as he held your gaze. "Better than anyone. Better than all those nobles who use your talent, who smile and bow and then forget you the moment they leave."

"I remember you, even when no one else did." His fingers brushed against your knuckles, "I never stopped thinking about you. Even when you left me behind. Even when you convinced yourself you didn’t care anymore."

You yanked your hands away.

"You don’t get to say that"

"Why?" he challenged. "Because it’s the truth?"

"Because you’re insane."

"Maybe I am. But does it matter?"

"You’ve already lost everything, haven’t you?" he continued, voice deceptively soft. "They think you’re dead. Your shop, your name, your life—it’s all gone. No one’s coming for you. No one even remembers you exist."

Phainon cupped your face then, forcing you to look at him.

"But I do," he whispered. "I always will. I would burn the world if it meant keeping you by my side."

For the first time, you truly understood.

There was no line he wouldn’t cross.

No limit to how far he would go to make sure you never left him again.

Phainon leaned in, forehead pressing against yours.

"Stop fighting," he whispered. "Just let go. You’ll be happier if you do."

"…I don’t know how to let go"

"You don’t have to know" he murmured. "Just trust me."

You nodded.

And that was it.

That was all he needed to believe he had finally won.

Days passed.

Phainon gave you more freedom—not complete, but enough. Enough for you to move without chains. Enough for you to pretend.

You let him think you were adjusting, that his patience had worn you down. You let him dress you in fine silks, let him touch you, let him believe that you were his.

Because the closer he let you get to the edge of the cage—

The easier it would be to escape.

The day of the wedding arrived in whispers and candlelight.

The halls of the estate were decorated in muted elegance—nothing extravagant, nothing too public. He didn’t need an audience.

This wasn’t about power.

This was about you.

And Phainon already had what he wanted.

Or so he thought.

You stood before the mirror in your gown, hands trembling—not with nerves, but with anticipation.

Outside, the horses were ready.

Inside, the door was left unlocked—a careless mistake born from his growing trust.

You took a breath.

One step.

Another.

The halls were silent as you slipped through the shadows, heart pounding with every second.

The exit was so close.

"Going somewhere?"

The voice froze you in place.

You turned—and Phainon stood at the end of the hall.

His wedding attire was pristine, but the grip he had on the hilt of his sword? Tight.

Your mouth went dry.

"Phainon.."

"Was it all a lie?"

You clenched your fists.

And then—

You ran.

Bolted down the hall, legs burning, lungs aching—but Phainon was faster.

You twisted, struggling, but he slammed you back against the stone wall, his body caging you in.

"You almost had me," he murmured, "Almost."

"Let me go."

"You were going to leave me," he said, "Again."

"Then ...I'll just have to make sure you never try again."

The room was suffocatingly quiet.

The iron shackle around your ankle was too tight, cold against your skin.

Phainon stood at the door, silent, watching.

Then—

He left.

For a moment, you almost believed that was it. That he had locked you away, that this was the extent of your punishment.

Then he came back.

With a knife.

Your body tensed when he knelt beside you, when his calloused fingers traced along your wrist too gently before pinning it against the bedpost.

You sucked in a sharp breath as he pressed the knife flat against your palm—just resting there.

"You tried to leave me."

He tilted his head, as if waiting. Daring you to lie to him.

"Say it."

"I—" You swallowed hard. "I tried to leave."

The blade pressed harder. Not enough to break skin. Just enough to make you feel the cold bite of the metal.

"Did it feel good?" he murmured. "Running away? Thinking you could escape me?"

"Phainon, please—"

A sharp swipe.

You flinched, expecting pain—but he didn’t cut you.

The blade had only sliced through the sleeve of your gown, the fabric slipping down your arm in ribbons.

"You’re scared" he observed.

You clenched your fists, refusing to give him an answer.

"Good."

Then, just as suddenly, he pulled away.

He set the knife down.

The bed dipped as he leaned in one last time, lips brushing against your ear.

"Next time," he murmured, "I won’t be so merciful."

Then he left, locking the door behind him.

Leaving you with the shackle around your ankle, the torn fabric on your arm—

And the overwhelming realization that you were truly trapped.

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x you #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #phainon hsr #phainon honkai star rail #hsr phainon #phainon x reader #phainon

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writingwitch92 · 24 hours ago

Text

Quite literally the rise of fascism.

Like, in the 50's we had McCarthyism, which was very fascist lets be honest. And the clothes of the time are very uniform. The 80's had a similar era. Im not talking grey jumpsuits but there was a "uniform" and an "alternative" style. You cant express yourself too much. You cant stand out not truly. This shit becomes a thing every time. Society says play it down when shit gets like this.

Thats why Zoot suits became a thing, and were a protest clothing item. Hippie aesthetic was protest clothing att. So was traditional punk and goth and rocker. Black fashion of the 70's, etc. Lots of alternative clothing comes out of war, fascism, gov over reach, oppression, etc. its a way to reclaim oneself and ones individuality. theres examples world wide, im just more familiar with American fashion history.

Now notice how everything is monochrome (beige, black, grey, dark blue, or "clean" pastels, etc) and faded almost. Like color is leaching out. And ntm few accessories. Minimalism was one of the first signs of this.

It used to be that wearing black was rebellious. And also wearing lots of accessories. Thats why for punk and all that black became a thing. Ntm thrifting.

Like most of my all black outfits aren't "odd" anymore. Theyre no longer expressive of my non-conformity. I have to play it up somehow.

Its going to get more and more "punk" or alt to wear bold color, and the generally loud or just expressive clothes again. To express yourself, or to stand out too much will be seen as rebellious. And those of us who prefer black are going to have to start adding in color again just to stand out and mark ourselves as alternative.

pretentious moment incoming but why is everyone's idea of fashion so fucking boring these days. why the fuck did my manager just ask me "what's with the scarf". "what's with the scarf" fuck man do I need a reason to wear a faggy little scarf now? you could just say "nice scarf man". what's with your attitude

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lysaisland · 3 days ago

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a tight grip on reality

Bakugo never liked beating around the bush. It was vague, and utterly pointless. He didn’t get why some people skirted around the truth like it was some deadly disease; it would get you eventually so just deal with it.

It wasn’t as if you actually died if you told the truth outright, or acted honestly. He didn’t see the reason why. He’s always been a man of action, clear and unwavering. He was going to be the best, and this was his way of reaching that. Why anything less?

So, when he came to the (frankly terrifying) conclusion that he liked you, he was appalled to find himself doing the very things he disliked.

Almost every time you walked into the room, he would feel his chest tighten and breath stupidly quicken. He’s had his fair share of panic attacks to know that you were not inducing one of those. How could you possibly, when you run circles in his head all the damn time, with the same teasing smile.

Don’t even start on the fact that he’s noticed himself plain staring at you. Eyes fixated on the way your plush lips strung words together.

Once, he was lucky enough to spot a crumb, hanging from the tip of your lip. It must’ve been your breakfast or something. The moment he decided to tell you, however, you called him out on his apparent ‘shameless’ staring, tilting your head at him, smug, as if you were eyeing your next prey. In response, all he did was raise his eyebrows, and point to his own lips, before walking away with red ears to leave alone you wiping the crumbs off your face. Smooth. Real smooth.

Imagine his elation the first time you had let him kiss you.

He trembled as he pressed a kiss to the side of your mouth, soft and plush, not fully indulging in the taste of your lips. His breath hitched. Your jaw was warm in his hands. He felt you squeeze his arm as gently as ever. Nails scraped delicately over his hot skin. God, he wished he could sink into you.

Bakugo would die before he would ever admit that he wanted to cling to your very existence. But, with a bat of your lashes, maybe just maybe, he will in his own way. A full surrender.

As he pulled his away to look at you once more, he barely willed himself out of the trance you placed him in. He stared at your dazed expression. You were enjoying this. A smile, just short of a full blown grin.

“I’m surprised Katsuki.” Your voice was breathy and sly, as if you’ve been waiting for this moment. His eyes found yours, gleaming with matching playfulness.

He let out a huff, knowing full well what you were going to say. He felt you lean into his touch.

“You didn’t kiss me properly.”

“Mmh, didn’t I? I just kissed you though.”

“My mouth is—”

He didn’t let you finish your sentence. He moved to kiss you, again and again, leaving marks along the line of your jaw as some kind of proof that this wasn’t a dream.

masterlist

#har and har #i love paramore #bnha #mha #bakugo x reader #bakugo katuski x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #seafloor script ❧

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cumironi · 2 days ago

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they see you in a wedding dress for the first time

the three of you had been together for eight years. from high school sweethearts to adults navigating life side by side, you had seen each other grow, change, struggle, and succeed. six years of living together had only strengthened your bond, turning your home into a place filled with warmth, laughter, and love. and now, after everything—the late-night talks, the quiet moments, the shared dreams—you were finally getting married. in two months, you would officially become theirs, and they would be yours. forever.

planning the wedding had been a joint effort. every decision was made together, from the venue to the flowers to the music that would play as you walked down the aisle. no detail was too small, no moment too insignificant. everything had to be perfect. after all, this wasn’t just a wedding—it was the beginning of something even greater.

and today was another milestone. today, you were trying on your wedding dress for the first time.

you stood on a small, round podium inside a spacious fitting room, the soft lighting casting a gentle glow on your reflection in the full-length mirror. the dress hugged your body perfectly, the delicate fabric cascading down in elegant folds. it had been custom-made just for you, every stitch and detail crafted with care. the intricate embroidery shimmered under the light, subtle yet breathtaking, designed to complement you in every way.

behind you, a thick curtain separated you from the waiting area where your fiancés were sitting. they had been patient—mostly. knowing them, they were probably bouncing their legs in anticipation, barely restraining themselves from barging in to see you. they had been involved in every step of the design process, eager to make sure you had the dress of your dreams. still, they hadn’t seen the final product. this was supposed to be a surprise.

the seamstress, a kind older woman who had been adjusting the fabric, took a step back and smiled at you warmly. “you’re glowing,” she said softly, admiration clear in her voice.

you felt warmth rise in your chest at her words. “thank you,” you murmured, fingers grazing the smooth fabric of your dress.

she gave a knowing smile before asking, “would you like to show them now?”

your heart fluttered. they were waiting for you, just beyond the curtain, eager to see the woman they loved in the dress she would marry them in. you could already imagine their reactions—the stunned silence, the way their eyes would widen, the way they would reach for you like they couldn’t believe you were real.

you nodded. “yeah,” you whispered, barely containing your excitement.

outside the curtain, gojo was a mess of nervous energy. he sat at the edge of his seat, his long leg bouncing restlessly, fingers drumming against his knee. his sunglasses were pushed up into his snowy hair, forgotten in his impatience. every few seconds, he turned his head towards the fitting room as if sheer willpower alone could make you appear faster.

beside him, geto looked more composed—at least on the surface. he leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, arms resting lazily on the armrest. but his dark eyes were locked on the curtain, unwavering, betraying his calm exterior. every time gojo sighed dramatically or shifted in his seat, geto shot him a glance, but he wasn’t much better. his fingers tapped against the wood of the chair, subtle but insistent, betraying his own impatience.

“she’s taking forever,” gojo muttered under his breath, pushing his hair back.

“it hasn’t even been five minutes,” geto replied, but there was a slight edge to his voice.

gojo groaned, tilting his head back dramatically. “what if she looks so pretty i pass out? i wasn’t prepared for that.”

geto smirked, finally turning his head to glance at him. “that would be embarrassing. i’d have to marry her alone.”

gojo gasped, hand over his heart. “rude. at least let me wake up before the vows.”

before geto could respond, the curtain rustled. their banter stopped instantly. gojo’s leg stilled. geto’s relaxed posture stiffened slightly. both pairs of eyes locked onto the movement, breaths held as anticipation buzzed in the air.

and then—there you were.

standing under the soft boutique lighting, your wedding dress hugging your figure perfectly, you looked ethereal. the delicate fabric cascaded down, pooling elegantly at your feet, and the embroidery shimmered subtly with each shift of movement. but it wasn’t just the dress. it was you. the way you carried yourself, the way your eyes searched for theirs with that teasing glint, the way you smiled—soft, knowing, radiant.

for the first time in his life, gojo was speechless.

his mouth parted slightly, but no words came out. the ever-talkative, ever-loud satoru gojo sat frozen in place, blue eyes blown wide. his hands, which had been resting on his knees, clenched into fists as if grounding himself.

geto, on the other hand, reacted differently. his lips parted, but unlike gojo, he actually managed to speak. just barely.

“...fuck.” his voice came out lower, rougher, like the sight of you had just knocked the air out of his lungs.

your smile widened as you stepped forward, the soft rustling of fabric the only sound in the room for a few seconds. the weight of their gazes was enough to make your skin tingle.

“so?” you teased lightly, tilting your head. “what do you think?”

gojo finally moved. he shot up from his chair so fast it scraped against the floor. his hands ran through his hair before covering his face, like he needed to physically hold himself together.

“you—" he exhaled sharply, voice slightly strained. "you can’t just do that to me.”

geto stood up more gracefully, though his steps were just as urgent as he closed the distance between you. unlike gojo, who still looked like he was trying to process the situation, geto recovered faster. his hand reached for yours, fingers brushing over your knuckles before holding them gently.

“you’re breathtaking.” his voice was steady, but his eyes held something deeper—something almost reverent.

gojo finally lowered his hands, blinking rapidly as if trying to clear his vision. and then, suddenly, he groaned loudly, throwing his head back.

“shit—i’m gonna cry. i don’t cry. i never cry.” he turned to geto, smacking his arm. “why didn’t you prepare me for this?”

geto huffed out a soft chuckle, still looking at you. “like i was any more prepared?”

gojo took a deep breath, stepping closer until he was right in front of you. his hands hovered near your waist, hesitant, as if afraid to wrinkle the fabric. but his eyes were soft, filled with something so raw and unfiltered that it made your heart ache in the best way.

“you’re the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen,” he murmured.

your chest tightened at his words, at the pure sincerity in his voice. before you could respond, he let out a choked laugh, shaking his head.

“how the hell am i supposed to stand at the altar and not lose my mind when i see you walking toward me?”

geto squeezed your hand. “we’ll just have to suffer through it together.”

you laughed, warmth blooming in your chest. “well,” you teased, voice light, “at least now you have time to prepare.”

gojo huffed, eyes flickering between you and geto before exhaling dramatically. “nope. doesn’t matter. i’ll still lose it.”

his hands finally settled on your waist, his grip firm yet careful. geto, still holding your hand, lifted it to press a slow, lingering kiss to your knuckles.

gojo stared at you for a long time, unmoving, completely lost in the sight of you. his bright blue eyes traced over every little detail—how the dress hugged your body perfectly, how your skin glowed under the soft lighting, how your expression held that teasing warmth he adored. but more than anything, he saw you—the love of his life, the woman he would be marrying in two months.

his mind betrayed him, fast-forwarding to the wedding day. he imagined himself standing at the altar, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, fidgeting slightly because he had never been this nervous in his entire life. he pictured the moment the doors would open, and there you would be—walking toward him, wearing a delicate veil over your face, the very same wedding dress that was now stealing his breath away.

your makeup, carefully done, enhancing every feature he already loved. your hands, steady but excited, clutching onto the bouquet. your lips, curled into the most beautiful smile, the one meant just for him.

and just thinking about it—just imagining that moment—his chest tightened in a way he couldn’t control.

his vision blurred.

his breath hitched.

before he could even stop himself, a single tear slipped down his cheek. then another. and another.

“oh, shit,” he whispered, quickly wiping at his face with the sleeve of his sweater. but it was useless. the tears kept coming, completely unrestrained.

geto, still holding your hand, turned to look at him and sighed. “you’re crying already?”

“shut up,” gojo choked out, rubbing his eyes aggressively. “this is—this is your fault.” he pointed at you, voice trembling slightly. “you did this to me.”

you laughed softly, reaching out to cup his cheek, brushing away the wetness with your thumb. he leaned into your touch instantly, his long lashes damp with unshed tears, his lips trembling.

“i’m not even at the altar yet,” you teased gently. “you’re gonna be a mess on our wedding day.”

“i know,” he groaned dramatically, sniffling. “i’m doomed. i’m gonna look so ugly in all the pictures.”

geto chuckled, shaking his head. “you’ll survive.”

gojo let out a deep breath, trying to pull himself together, but his hands trembled as they held onto your waist, gripping onto you like he needed to keep himself grounded.

“i just—” he took another shaky breath, looking at you like he was seeing the entire universe in your eyes. “i love you so much. and you’re so—so beautiful. i don’t know how i’m gonna handle seeing you like this on our wedding day and not passing out.”

your heart swelled at his words. “then don’t,” you said softly, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips. “i’ll be right there to catch you.”

he let out a watery laugh, leaning his forehead against yours. “yeah,” he whispered. “yeah, you always are.”

geto sighed, pretending to be unimpressed, but the way he was rubbing slow circles against your palm gave him away. “if he cries this much now, i might have to carry him through the ceremony.”

“you would, right?” gojo sniffled, blinking up at him. “like, if i actually collapsed, you’d help?”

geto sighed, then leaned down to kiss your temple before glancing at gojo with a smirk. “only after taking a few pictures first.”

you burst into laughter, and even through his sniffles, gojo couldn’t help but laugh too, wrapping his arms around you, holding you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

#gojo x reader #geto x reader #gojo fluff #gojo satoru fluff #geto suguru x reader #gojo satoru #geto x you #geto x y/n #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagine #jjk x reader #satosugu fluff #satosugu x you #satosugu x reader #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen headcanons #jjk imagine

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clockwayswrites · 2 days ago

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City Pigeons Bleed Green: Epilogue

masterpost

She didn’t even have the door all the way open before she knew that something was wrong. There was a creeping feeling along the back of her neck that made her reach for the tazer in her bag. Before she would have had a Creep Stick by the door, but she didn’t anymore, not after…

The door hit the wall as she swung it suddenly open. The few photos she had hung up rattled and she winced. Hopefully none of them fell; they were all she had. She tightened her grip on her tazer.

“I know how this looks, but I promise you that we don’t mean you any harm.”

Jazz slowly stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind herself. “I certainly hope that Batman doesn’t mean me any harm or I’ve really fucked up.”

Batman was standing in her tiny apartment kitchen diner. Another massive hero stood next to him, splashed in bold red. She was pretty sure that the one sitting cross legged on her table was Nightwing, leader of the Titans. Which, great, now she’d have to scrub her table. Nightwing popped a jellybean in his mouth. The all-black figure on the counter behind him held the bag of sweets that Jazz had left out earlier that day.

She set her bag down but kept the tazer in her hand. She doubted that it would do anything against the armored suits, but it made her feel better.

“You’re here about them, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Jazz appreciated how direct Batman was.

Nightwing leaned forward. “My team, the Titans, are working on rounding up the last of the GIW. They’ve already taken care of all three headquarters. The Justice League is handling the legal side of it with the US government and the United Nations.”

The relief of the news was so heady that Jazz felt like her knees might go out. “That—that’s good. Thank you. What about…?”

What about them.

It was subtle, but all of the vigilantes but the one in full black tensed. It was Nightwing who forced himself to relax and speak. “We moved on the headquarters first. It seems that there was some attempt at… clean-up of their assets by the GIW. The doctor Fentons are dead.”

“Good,” Jazz bit. It made her gut roil, that she was glad that her parents were dead, but she was.

Nightwing nodded, as if pleased by her fury, and unfurled to rest his feet on the ground. “Why don’t you put the tazer down, and we can talk more.”

Jazz’s hand tightened unconsciously around it.

“Please don’t taze my new family, I want you guys to get along.”

It couldn’t be.

“I mean,” rumbled the one with red, “I hit B with a crowbar the first time I met him.”

“Spoiler threw a brick at Robin’s face,” said the one all in black. “Tim Robin.”

“Okay, that tracks. But still don’t taze them, please?” Danny asked. Danny who stepped forward between the two looming figures. Danny who was there with black hair and blue eyes and breathing. Danny who was alive.

Suddenly Jazz didn’t think she could breathe anymore.

Danny was alive.

“Your hair has gotten long,” Jazz felt herself say. What a stupid thing to say, but it had. It brushed the top of his shoulders and framed his face in a way that he almost looked like a different person. But Jazz knew her brother, new scars and all. God, there were so many scars. “I thought, I thought you were dead. Deader dead. I thought they had—”

“Nearly,” Danny said. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shifted nervously. “I escaped. I didn’t know where you were, but I found out in their notes that I was, that, um…”

Danny glanced up at Batman, who reached up and pulled down his cowl. Like it was nothing. Like Jazz was just someone who was supposed to see the face under it. It only took a second to get why. It was older and harder in its line’s, but she’d seen that face almost every day of her childhood. It was Danny’s face.

“How…?”

“Cloning and a really long story,” Danny said. “I got to them about six months ago, but the GIW was still around. It wasn’t safe for me to come to you or let you know I was alive in case they were watching you and I wanted to Jazz, I did, but—”

Cutting her brother off, Jazz rushed forward. The heroes all tensed. Danny met her halfway into a crushing hug.

“Hey, sis,” he whispered into her shoulder. He was still so small, just like she remembered him.

“Hey, little brother,” she sobbed.

#dp x dc #batpham #city pigeons

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connection-terminated-blog · 1 day ago

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Connection terminated. I'm sorry to interrupt you, Elizabeth, if you still even remember that name, But I'm afraid you've been misinformed. You are not here to receive a gift, nor have you been called here by the individual you assume, although, you have indeed been called. You have all been called here, into a labyrinth of sounds and smells, misdirection and misfortune. A labyrinth with no exit, a maze with no prize. You don't even realize that you are trapped. Your lust for blood has driven you in endless circles, chasing the cries of children in some unseen chamber, always seeming so near, yet somehow out of reach, but you will never find them. None of you will. This is where your story ends. And to you, my brave volunteer, who somehow found this job listing not intended for you, although there was a way out planned for you, I have a feeling that's not what you want. I have a feeling that you are right where you want to be. I am remaining as well. I am nearby. This place will not be remembered, and the memory of everything that started this can finally begin to fade away. As the agony of every tragedy should. And to you monsters trapped in the corridors, be still and give up your spirits. They don't belong to you. For most of you, I believe there is peace and perhaps more waiting for you after the smoke clears. Although, for one of you, the darkest pit of Hell has opened to swallow you whole, so don't keep the devil waiting, old friend. My daughter, if you can hear me, I knew you would return as well. It's in your nature to protect the innocent. I'm sorry that on that day, the day you were shut out and left to die, no one was there to lift you up into their arms the way you lifted others into yours, and then, what became of you. I should have known you wouldn't be content to disappear, not my daughter. I couldn't save you then, so let me save you now. It's time to rest - for you, and for those you have carried in your arms. This ends for all of us. End communication.

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lyonnerileyauthor · 16 hours ago

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ogre husband who doesn't really understand humans. you are a foreign, exotic creature to him—and the only one to step out and volunteer when he came to town asking for a spouse. to other humans, you're homely, but to him, you're the most lovely, beautiful creature to ever live.

he doesn't know what to make of your body, so much smaller and more delicate than his. he treats it gently, like you're a nervous animal, petting you in all sorts of places and trying to determine what you like best.

you encourage him to use his mouth, and this is a wonder to him. he learns to kiss you on the lips, to tangle your tongues together. he finds his way down your belly and between your legs, where he kisses all over.

but you need more than kisses down there. you give him some gentle instructions, and he's more than eager to please you. he licks and sucks all over, sloppy but earnest and dedicated.

then you explain where his cock ought to go, and he's aghast. there's no way he could possibly fit inside you. but you encourage him to tease you, to convince your hole to open up for him.

experimentally, he squeezes his fingers inside you, one and then another and then another, seeing how far you can stretch. when he thinks it's close to the size of his cock, he oils up the head and pushes it inside you.

and oh, there's nothing at all like your ogre filling you up, his cock so heavy and fat you can see it moving through your belly. he attempts to be gentle with you, seeing as how you struggle just to take his girth, but the feeling of you is so wonderful, so overwhelming to him, that eventually, his self-control breaks.

your ogre roars, a sound that would frighten even mountain lions, as he takes you. he makes you his, in every possible way, plundering you and making you scream as you reach your finish around him. you've never been so thoroughly full. then thick, warm ropes of his cum coat the inside of you, drizzling out everywhere.

when the haze has cleared, he worries that he's hurt you in his excitement, but you're fine—you'll just be sore tomorrow. he cleans you, but as he does, the sight of your used hole stirs him up again, and then he has you a second time.

#ogre fucker #monster lover #monster romance #monster fucker #monster smut #terato

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romantisized · 22 hours ago

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bounce back ── gojo satoru (m).

pairing ⋆ basketball player!gojo satoru & journalist!reader.

professional athletes have the tendency of being cocky over their talents, gojo satoru is the most notorious for it. you decide to knock him down a peg.

genre & word count ⋆ angst & smut | 11.5k words.

fic tags & warnings ⋆ fem-bodied!reader (they/she), basketball!au, rivals to ???, gojo is a conceited asshole, petty bantering, social media elements, near-death experience/accidental attempted murder, one (1) face slap, unprotected sex, pull out method, hate(-ish) sex, sub!gojo & dom!reader, fingering, one (1) pussy slap, squirting, slight degredation, crying, etc.

sticky notes ⋆ this ended up so much longer than i anticipated, but i will slobber all over your cocks if you read. it's good for the brain, give it some stimulation.

Sweat beading off his head, he drowns out the noise of everyone around him. Sapphire eyes fixate on the hoop that towers across the court as he dribbles the ball, sprinting towards another win. On the score post, fifteen seconds are flashing on the clock as the points are nearly neck and neck. Tokyo versus Kyoto, 34 and 32. With just enough time on the clock, Gojo can give his team a few more points to lengthen the gap.

And when he’s determined, he gets a look in his eyes, where his dazzling blue seems to only shine more, the light beaming inside of his pupils as his white eyebrows course into a frown. He blocks out the entire world— the audience, the buzzers, the screeching of shoes against the wooden ground, the opposing team and his own team— just for his own ambitions. He moves untouched, something like a sixth sense telling him when and where to go as the sounds of his dribbles only get louder. His force caused the ball to hit the ground harder and harder.

Gojo Satoru held such a high power in the world of basketball, a force to be reckoned with, and seemingly going untouchable. When in this state of mind, it told everyone to back off as he made himself into a brick wall, hogging the ball for himself and forcing his opponents to create a path towards the basketball hoop. Those who dared to approach him in such a state risked injuries that the referee couldn’t save them from, they’ve learned their lesson nth many times. So, instead of approaching the beast head on, they waited for possible failure.

Ten seconds on the clock. Like tradition, the crowd began to count down. Their voices were so loud that passersby could hear their chanting as they stomped on the bleachers. They got louder with every descending number. Ten . . . Nine . . . Eight . . .

The ball was now in the air, flying right inside of the hoop before the crowd could cry out “Seven!” His pink lips contorted to a smirk as the opposing team reached for the ball and ran in the opposite direction in hopes to make a comeback with the little time remaining. However, it was no use. It seemed as though time had quickened in favor of Gojo. FourThreeTwo… The obnoxious blaring of the alarm sounding and the game is over.

Gojo’s chest comes to a steady rise and fall, but he’s not exhausted as much as the other men are. No, he still feels enough energy to keep on going. Turning his back to the court, he goes to the bench as his coach gives him a curt nod. “Excellent job, as always.”

The only man viable for his respect, Gojo bows his head in acknowledgement as the older man throws him his water bottle. Catching it with ease, he throws his head back as he squeezes the content in his mouth. His skin glistening from the sweat as flashes hurdle his way, a crowd starting to form around him. The camera shutters seem to get more silent when they surround him, capturing Gojo’s figure, his black jersey hanging outside of his baggy shorts, an inch past the elastic hem. No undershirt underneath it as his muscle and bicep seem more prominent tonight. Leaning his weight on one leg, the cameras perfectly capture the vein on his right calf. On his knees, mismatched knee sleeves. One black and another a deep and dark red to match the accent colors in his team uniform. And his shoes, blue— his signature color.

The professional athlete is expecting the typical post-game questions— How do you feel after another win? What’s your secret for staying on top for this long? Do you ever believe that you’re going to fall back down to the bottom? He has all the typical answers, short cut and dry as he keeps that habitual smirk that he’s gained so much compliments for. Beauty and brawns— a multifaceted man, he calls himself, as well as the press.

However, the questions he anticipates are replaced with different ones, catching him off guard.

“Gojo,” a female reporter calls out, auburn hair stopping mid back. “What do you think about the things said about you by the Career-Ender?”

“Yeah!” An older man shouts out, a buzz-cut with patchy spots. “They say that in a matter of a year or so, your basketball career is bound to fall apart. What do you have to say about that?”

“Is it true that you pushed them out the way after they were just asking for help?” Accusations being thrown at him left and right, questions that he didn’t have the immediate answers to. He was being thrown into a whirlwind that he didn’t have sly remarks to make. Furrowing his eyebrows, he shook his head as he had to think of something quick and make his way towards the locker room. A light bulb flashes in his mind, remembering the name the first reporter stated.

“Career-Ender?” he scoffs. “If anything, I’ll be the one making sure they don’t have a job after this—” he chuckles as the mics are shoved in his direction. Propping his hands on his hips, he takes a breath to collect his thoughts. “— Listen, all those presumptions in that article were false. We’ve seen it time and time again, people with no time in their lives fabricating stories in hopes to tarnish successful people’s careers. This is one of those times. I suggest that the Career-Ender find another line of business to work in and possibly some therapy to help seal whatever hole is inside their heart. My team and I just garnered another win under our belt, let’s talk about that instead.”

Gojo never had any intentions of looking into what the paparazzi was referring to. He chalked it all up to this new day and age of performative activism through the use of cancel culture. How social media liked to heighten situations that at the end of the day, will all end up being nothing. He did what he did best, at first, ignoring the comments and snide remarks he started getting early on.

However, people started coming out with stories and recalling negative encounters that they had with the basketball player. Each story detailing his nasty personality and actions that started alarming his manager, Higuruma Hiromi, and PR Team, requesting him to meet them to talk about the potential results that could happen. Gojo made sure to hire a team that could tackle anything, that could keep him out of situations like this. So, part of him was shocked that Higuruma actually wanted to call a meeting over this… this— this petty deal.

Calls and buzzing of his phone become exhausting that curiosity eats him and he’s clicking on the link that started this all.

─────

GOJO SATORU, MOST TALENTED BASKETBALL PLAYER OF THIS GENERATION, SOON TO SUCCUMB TO HIS ATTITUDE AND BAD BEHAVIOR

By Your Name | March __, 2025 | 12:00 PM

Gojo Satoru, a twenty-nine year old basketball player, has certainly made a name for himself in the past ten years. From his outstanding athletic performance as a college freshman attending Tokyo University to being drafted to the basketball team, Tokyo Jujutsu, he’s certainly proved time and time again that he’s the next biggest thing. No one can lie about his achievements and the potential that he holds and has yet to unlock. He has so much potential within himself, yet… I can only see it coming into a downward spiral. Why? All because of that nasty attitude of his.

On countless of times and occasions, the popular and professional athlete has shown his true colors on camera. Earlier in his career, plenty of reporters and spectators had believed his conceited personality would call for an early retirement, but by some greater God, here Gojo Satoru still stands on his mighty horse, thinking he can continue going on his selfish rampage and continue to reap the benefits that society has offered him with open arms. And I have come to ask when will we stop turning a blind eye to the ruthless and abhorrent behavior that men continue to display? When will we stop excusing their disgusting acts because of the power that they hold and do what needs to be done— nip their career right in the bud.

Read More . . .

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Gojo scoffs by the end of it all. Pages upon pages of what seems to be a butthurt journalist who didn't get the attention they were hoping for. Why were a few negative encounters causing such an uproar? However, in the tabs linking to “Articles Like This” list a row of newsletters all revolving around Gojo and his apparent “Worst Moments.” Ultimately falling into a rabbit hole of reading people's opinions about him and watching videos relaying just how much of a nasty and unlikeable person he is.

For the first time in years, he feels his stomach tighten at what’s being said about him. How people have found him so appalling and their alleged experiences about him, he can’t recall any of those said events. However, he usually has the habit of forgetting things that don’t matter to him. It’s the reason why his days seem to be blurred and conjuncted together. However, that quick second of his heart being ripped to shreds dissipates as he tells himself not to care about. In a few months time, he’ll win for his team and once again, be the apple of the people’s eyes.

But, for the time being, your name rings aloud in his mind. Something, no— someone— worth remembering.

─────

Gojo can’t remember the last time he has ever been nervous for a game. Honing in his skills and talent, he feels like he’s near perfected becoming the best basketball player this generation has ever seen. However, in the locker room as his teammates pile out in a jumbled line, his feet tap against the tiled floor as he tries his best not to reveal his nerves. Across his social media accounts, the numbers and views are dwindling down as people keep to their promise of cutting ties to their now ex-favorite basketball player. Articles upon articles revealing things that he’s done.

On top of that, Higuruma and his PR Team truthfully believed that he needed to take a break and step outside of the limelight for a while. They said that they needed him to reflect on his character and consider partaking in selfless acts to start painting a better picture for himself. It further struck a nerve because they didn’t need to outright say it. They believed the articles and the stories being reported about him. They, too, believe that he isn’t a good person. And in a matter of seconds, those nerves turn into rage and the hand towel that he’s been holding onto is being thrown across the room. White eyebrows knitting together in anger and cerulean eyes darkening, his footsteps sound through the small area before heading towards the stands and the courts, where people were still cheering for him and calling out his name. Not some bitch that people dubbed the Career-Ender.

Gojo didn’t partake in his team’s pre-game ritual, didn’t join in for their prayers and chants. No, he stood on the sidelines and waited for the referee to announce the start of the game. People saw it in his eyes— that look. He was all in for this game. He had something to prove in this game.

So, when the ball was in the air, he didn’t give the referee much time to take a step back, jumping up to heights that his opponent couldn’t even fathom touching as Gojo sent the ball hurdling straight to the ground with a loud bounce that called for silence inside the arena. Gasps echoed as everything fell silent, eyes glued onto the tall figure, the beast that is, Gojo Satoru.

Starting off strong from the jump, everyone can feel the hunger and presence of him. The first half of the game, he's a dominant force, scoring majority, if not all, the points and leading such a seering start that people believe the opposing team could never catch up to. When halftime is called, he casts an invisible force field around himself that people wouldn't dare to intrude on. However, his coach had never been just people. The man had wedged his way deep inside the young boy, being the father figure that he never had and always needed.

“Son…” the superior sighs, meeting Gojo in his eyes. “I understand that things have been rough for you lately. The things that people are saying about you are enough to rile anyone up, but you have nothing to prove. You've already done that by making it this far. Now, Satoru, you need to take a breather. I'm going to bench you until you get yourself under control.”

“No!” Gojo shouts, pushing the man he had always admired, using more force than intended. It all happens in slow motion, Gojo sending his coach to the ground and everyone watching. Eyes widening as people come to crowd him, but the coach shakes his head, bringing himself to stand up, with a limp, however. He catches his breath before sending Gojo a stern and hardened limp.

“You can get back on the court,” he sighs. “But you better get your shit together before you fall right into their hands.”

And the coach doesn't need to elaborate for Gojo to know exactly who he's talking about─ you. For once, Gojo feels a sense of normalcy running back into him. His body relaxes, but that heat still runs in his body. Instead of using your name as a crutch, haunting him, it now fuels his fire.

When the timer runs out and players are being switched in and out, Gojo goes to his position. Ball thrown in the air, again, he sends it searing back to the ground and his team’s possession. That same hunger and fire running through him as he dashes across the court and leading his team to victory. A one-man show, overworking his body over the years, he does it without question. Unknowingly, his body is deteriorating at this moment.

He's moving slower and that barrier he's built is slowly falling apart. His opponents are catching up to him, and for a first, he notices them. They're meeting his steps with ease, gaining up on him and threatening to overpower him. It only hardens Gojo as he’s determined to hold himself together. Intaking a harsh breath, he dribbles faster and forces himself forward.

In no time, the fifteen second mark is trusted upon everyone. Tokyo led with 75 points and the opposition with 15. The gap is large, but not large enough. One, no! Two more shots! he thinks to himself. I can do it!

Within the first five seconds, he's able to make another three pointer. However, his head becomes too big when he aims to get his team to 80. He's never felt the same exhaustion that his team has, building so much endurance, that despite sweat beading his forehead, he always felt that he had the energy for more.

But, his vision is getting dark and grainy. His calves are stiff and he feels like if he took one more step, he's going to fall. With every trial he's faced in his life, he was always able to power through, but when will he realize that this isn't a trial nor is it an obstacle that the universe has thrown at him. It's a warning that he's choosing to ignore.

The crowd is counting down and Gojo was never one to disappoint. Already halfway across the court, he aims for another three-pointer when an opponent obstructs his path, colliding into him and making the taller individual lose his footing. A twist, so subtle but not much longer when Gojo lets out a strangled cry and a loud thud sends the crowd silent after their sudden intake of breath. Medics coming out to remove him from the court, the entire arena watches in horror while the athlete watches them in pain and trepidation. With so much running inside his mind, one thing stands prominent. You, your name tied down to that damn article.

This entire time he had been trying not to let your words eat him alive, but he's afraid that he's fallen right into your trap. He's afraid that this entire time, you had been right.

He was the reason for his own undoing.

─────

You don’t think you intended for the nickname, Career-Ender, to ever be bestowed upon you. You don’t think you ever intended to be the type of journalist that people feared or felt intimidated by. You wanted an image that truly reflected who you were. You wanted people to see— to read— how passionate you were about sports and to read the love you invoke in your words. However, one drunken night led to another, where you poured your heart out into venting out your feelings about a baseball player and how distraught over your first encounter with him on social media that one thing turned into another and people took it upon themselves to put the man on the sidelines.

You truly didn’t mean for your reputation to be someone who took pleasure into ending talented people’s careers, but after that first instance, where people shared their negative experiences with the professional baseball player to the point he was put on trial for domestic violence accusations, you found power in your drunken rage.

Earning a significant following and continuing to write the articles that you intentionally sought to publish, you garnered the title of a well-endowed journalist as people started to see your potential. Your boss, while first enraged with your actions, had opened up the doors to more opportunities and endeavors for you, seeing how people saw you as the pinnacle of sports. People trusted your word when you said a young athlete had the potential to make it big; people trusted you when you called into question the attire for female volleyball players; but, most of all, they trusted your word when you didn’t like an athlete.

You didn’t put your notorious nickname into action often. Truthfully, the title was thrusted upon you the moment your drunken rant had disproportionately blown up, and you’ve never written another article showing distaste for another athlete again. There were a bunch of rude and cocky athletes. If you nitpicked at every little thing, it would question your credibility.

However, you had purpose in your critiques. A fluster of emotions sitting on your chest about it, you had every intention of posting it when you did. Though you didn’t take pride in the nickname that people coined you for, it has its perks as it calls for people’s attention.

With your admiration and love for basketball, you oftentime spent time and energy in keeping up in the scene. Attending basketball games and when you couldn’t be at every one of them, you had them saved up on any device that you had on you. Your eyes beamed watching the athletes play at their best (or their worst), it sent blood pumping down your spine as everything was happening before your eyes. However, you hate the fact that you have to say that all of your most prominent negative run-ins were from the Tokyo team. Moreso specifically, from Gojo Satoru.

You chalked up the first one to exhaustion and running on short time; you considered the rather harsh shove to be an accident— the bad press ruining it for the few good eggs out there; and you tried to excuse each and every moment for something that it wasn’t. However, you couldn’t excuse what he said. “How does it feel to know that you’re writing for a sports column because your life could never amount up to mine?”

It took that comment to make you realize that he was just a horrible human being, a self-proclaimed prodigy despite never showing any true potential until his late teens. It took you a while to realize that the man just had too much of an ego on him. You figured that at some point in time that people would come to that revelation that while he had the talent, his nastiness would unravel in his own career. He just needed a push.

(And you needed something groundbreaking.)

However, you didn’t expect your nudge would lead him to an embarrassing fall as news articles come out revealing how much he’s been overworking himself. You just needed something to call for attention, and for something that would make your boss believe that you still had that edge in you. With significant time passing from your initial post about aforementioned baseball players, your boss believed your potential was running thin, egging you to steer back into the path of career-ending blog posts. Falling into the bait, all your intentions of posting that article had been for selfish ones, but never had you been a liar.

Just as quick as people were able to call Gojo a dying flame, they were just as quick to put the blame on you for his downfall. Noting that this wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t fabricated such lies to tarnish his name. People pulling up old clips to note your supposed harsh encounters with Gojo Satoru, and calling out each and every one of your “lies.” Just as you had tried tarnishing his name, people were now trying to ruin yours, and calling for Gojo Satoru back on the court, praying for a speedy recovery.

And with shoulders slumped as you hold a cardboard box with your most prized possessions inside.

“Your name has led this company under a lot of backfire for what you’ve been releasing,” your boss’s eyes holding no remorse as he sends you on your way. “I’m sorry, but we’ve got to let you go.”

With a heavy sigh, you can only call this your karma.

─────

After contemplating for a week, Gojo finally pulls out his phone and dials Higuruma’s number. It only takes his phone two rings before he hears the deep and gravelly voice of his manager answering his call, “Hello?”

“I’ll take the position,” Gojo’s straightforward, his voice trembling as he’s accepted the conditions that his team has given him. After being bedridden in the hospital, doctors telling him that his body was shutting down due to years of being overworked and his body succumbing to his self-inflicted suffering, it gave him time to reflect. Racking through his mind, he remembers some of the occasions that people spoke ill about him. It made him realize that you were right and instead of the rage that he underwent, he should’ve been doing self reflection.

“Huh?” his disoriented manager hums in confusion. Gojo sighs, rolling his eyes as he throws open his front door. The doctors had told him to take it easy, to not work out and just… rest. However, would a quick jog kill him? With his smart watch on his wrist as he steadies to speed walking before finding a gate to lean against.

“That coach position at that basketball camp,” he further clarifies. “You’re… right. It’ll do a lot of good for me.”

Maybe I’ll actually become the role model that I thought I was. There’s a pause, where Gojo believes that the call has disconnected. However, when he taps on the watch screen, his manager’s name still blares brightly. “Uh, hello?”

“Sorry, no, I heard you,” Higuruma collects himself. “Truthfully, I didn’t expect you to accept so quickly—” his coach chuckles in between “— I thought you’d need more convincing.”

Am I really such a stubborn ass? Gojo didn’t realize that he had voiced his thoughts out loud, shocked when his manager responded bluntly, “Yes.”

A vein starts protruding his temple, eyebrows knitting together in momentary annoyance. However, he catches himself before he could flip. Inhaling and exhaling as those self help articles and apps have been instructing him to do, closing his eyes as he calms himself gradually. Instead of anger, a dry laugh falls from his lips. “Just send me the details— please.”

─────

You were a coach when you weren’t a journalist. Something that you did per diem when things were slow at the office, but now that you had been fired and no other company seemed to want you after your tremendous fall, you had to take up more hours to pay the bills while you considered the possibilities of how you could fill the void in your journalist heart.

Tik Tok was oversaturated with opinionated people, but would they accept one more person? Did you have anything to offer on the ex-dancing app?

You heard your name being called, another one of the coaches, but the head of the camp within itself, Masamichi. “Yo, I need to speak to you for a second.”

Nodding, you call for your aspiring basketball players to take a ten minute break as you step to the side. Masamichi sighs as his hands prop on his hips, his head hanging low as he glances towards you. “You’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you, but I don’t want you to feel like I’m toying with you. Please understand that.”

“What’re you on about now?” You furrow your eyebrows, a little snort of air leaving your nose as you try to stay lighthearted. However, with the seriousness of his voice, you know that whatever he’s going to tell you won’t be anything to laugh about.

“We’re getting a new coach this Friday,” Masamichi says, bouncing on his heels. Your eyes beam, trying to understand why exactly this would hold any detriment towards you. A new coach was always a good thing in your eyes.

Seeing that flicker of light in your eyes, Masamichi inwardly grimaces when he adds, “it’s going to be Gojo Satoru.”

Oh. “Apparently it’s to help clear his name. At first, when Higuruma called me and proposed the idea, we both thought it would be an ordeal where he would completely decline. However, Higuruma called back and said that he actually accepted the offer. After a week, mind you, but—”

“It’s fine,” you interject Masamichi’s ramble. “It’s fine. It’s fine.”

You think you’re trying to convince yourself that more than you are him. He knows it, too. Grabbing a hold of your upper arm, the older man looks you in your eyes. “Listen—” When his voice deepens, you know he’s taking on that role of a father figure. “—If he gives you a hard time, let me know. You’re an asset here. You work well with the kids and I’ve seen so much improvement ever since you joined us full time.”

Masamichi knows you well. Really well that he knows that you use humor to deflect how you’re truly feeling. “He won’t be a bother. I’m the career-ender after all.”

The hefty sigh that falls from your lips accompanied by the awkward and shifty laughter lets the older individual beg to differ. However, he knows that if he pushes any further, you’d only get snappy with him, so he puts you to the challenge. “If he makes you break, I’m giving him your trainees.”

You gasp, “For him to tarnish? That’s under your jurisdiction.”

“Then, do what you do best. I’m counting on you.”

─────

Gojo really did have all intentions of bettering himself. To leave his selfishness and conceit in the past. He always thought he worked well with adolescents, believing that despite still having so much to learn, he could also help them unlock what makes them so different from the rest. However, the moment Masamichi told him that he would be working alongside you, playing the role as your assistant coach, the sound of your name made his blood boil and the sight of you making his eye twitch.

Rummaging through his mind, he remembers your face. He understands why exactly you would react the way you did. He had no reason to treat you so woefully, but you were the one that seemed to nudge his domino pieces before fate had called it. When you greeted yourself, you tried to exude someone who was kind hearted and sweet, but Gojo wanted to unravel you the same way you did him. Also, what did you know about basketball and how to teach kids?

Inhale and exhale, Satoru, he reminds himself as he watches you instruct the students to take laps up and down the steps. You seemed so comfortable and in your element— more comfortable than him— and Gojo wanted to rile you up. It began with snide comments, statements that blatantly showed his resentment towards you. “I don’t know, guys. Your coach has been someone to end careers, why’d you want to listen to them?”

It made you tick the way he was evidently trying to get a rise out of you, but fortunately, your students spoke up for you before you could defend yourself. “We listen to Coach ___ because they help shape us into good people as well as good players. You’ll only teach us how to eat the court the same way you did.”

That snide remark made his ears turn red, quickly nipping that tactic in the bud. Instead, he became smarter, but in your eyes, pettier. Small pranks that were initially a nuisance— replacing your sugar with salt, water buckets over the door, and glitter bombs that went off at the right times. Small things that would momentarily get you annoyed, but ultimately have you moving on with your day. You played a big game online, but in reality, you were a measly ant along with the rest of the herd.

Masamichi tried saving you when he could, but you always batted off his attempts. You could handle a man-child. However, everyone had their line and Gojo found out where to cut it. He had heard that you didn’t like bananas, and completely detested them. Every time that Masamichi went out for a run, you’d always ask for a smoothie, but always put the emphasis on no bananas. He saw the perfect opportunity to fuck with you.

Your typical order that he had managed to memorize with the amount of times you recited it, but just with the addition of bananas. He learned that the drink was actually a simple Strawberry Banana smoothie, just with a few other unnecessary ingredients. He held the liquid delicacy as he walked into the building. Your vehicle parked out front notifying him that you were on work grounds today, early like you habitually are. He had the drink in a paper cup warmer to have a barrier from the condensation on it, and he had the worker write your name on the cup instead of his. He had added his own personal touch to it, writing ‘Just because’ on the side without actually letting you know it was from him. And when you weren’t looking, he set it down alongside your things and went about his day.

─────

“Ooh,” you hummed, spotting the drink on the counter next to your backpack. Picking it up, you read the sides. In a low voice, you repeated, “‘Just because…’”

Deducing it down to Masamichi, you pull open the fridge to slide the fruity beverage towards the back before stuffing your lunchbag right in front of it. While this wasn’t your journaling career, where your food and drinks have been stolen a bunch of times, you still had to be about your belongings just in case of the off chance. That off chance being Gojo.

You can only hope that he doesn’t make your day too difficult as you head around back. With the schedule changing biweekly and the forecast calling for an all-sunny week, your team will be instructed to use the outside court all week unless the weather decides otherwise. Adorned in a simple white t-shirt over your sports bra, you had it tied in the back as you had on sports pants. The sun was beating down on you. It didn’t even take five minutes for you to pull out your baseball cap and shove it on your head. A tall shadow started to overcast you and with one quick glance back, it’s the white-headed devil himself. Trying to keep it cordial as much as you could, you gave him your typical greeting for everyone, even a stranger. “G’morning.”

“Morning,” he yawns, crossing his arms. “Everything going swell so far?”

Quirking up an eyebrow, you give him a knowing look. “Swell? That’s been your weakest alarm so far. What is it so far? Distracting me before I realize that you’ve miraculously got the children to take your side and they’re going to start throwing water balloons at me? No—” you purse your lips, a finger on your chin. “—You’re not actually that smart.”

“No,” he scoffs. The kids still don’t like him enough to side with him. “I was genuinely checking up on you. I see my attempt has failed.”

“Like your career,” you remark.

“Because of you.”

“Because of your abhorrent attitude and personality.”

“I wouldn’t have gotten hurt if it wasn’t for you.”

“Do you ever accept accountability for your own actions?”

“Do you?”

The gravel under your shoes sounds as you turn to face him. You want to shout at him, to continue to throw insults at him. However, as you look up at the bastard. You let out a deep sigh, and your tough act falls. “I didn’t mean for you to really take my words to heart. I just—”

Gojo scoffs. “Like I’d believe that. You seemed to really love your little nickname a few seconds ago.”

“Only because you pushed me to��” You take another second. “Can’t you just make this easy for me?”

“No.”

“God, you’re so immature,” you breathe, before inevitably continuing, “I’m being honest, I really am. My boss— My old boss, he was hounding me that I lost my spark, and while I meant every word I said in that article, I didn’t actually think you would take it to heart.”

“What?” Gojo snorts, despite taking in your apology for what it's worth. He can hear the sincerity in your voice. “Think that all professional athletes are conceited and heartless?”

“No,” you scoff. “Just thought you were someone more thick-skinned. Didn’t really see the fragile little boy that you still are.”

You didn’t mean for it to sound the way it did. In fact, you didn’t mean to say it at all. Your eyes widen as realization strikes you, “Wait, I didn’t mean it—”

“No, you’re right,” he says uncharacteristically calmly. “You’re right. I’m still that fragile little boy, but you still amount to nothing, coaching a bunch of kids who might not ever truly make it. And if they do, they’ll still be leaving you in the dust, where you still amount to nothing.”

And it cuts this time as well, but at least you can convince yourself that you deserved it.

─────

“I don’t know why I said it,” you sigh, slouching across the booth seat from Masamichi, still reflecting on what you told Gojo and ultimately what he told you. With the smoothie in hand, you swirl the straw around as you mix the large ice chunks with the rest of it. “I didn’t really mean how I said it. I was just trying to say that I understand him— where he’s coming from. It just didn’t come across how I wanted it to.”

“Yeah,” Masamichi hums. “You always struggled with finding the right words to say. Somehow, your journalism career lasted longer than I anticipated.”

You playfully kick at his shin, gaining no reaction from the man as the two of you chuckle. “I deserve it, though. What he said.”

“Mmm,” the older man shakes his. “That’s a reach. I understand where you're coming from and his reasoning too, but at the end of the day, he accepted his position to help learn how to manage situations like this and to build a more kind soul. He needs to build tougher skin and learn how to react under weighty circumstances like this.”

“Yeah, but still—” You reach for the smoothie at last, taking a sip from the straw.

“‘Yeah, but still’ nothing,” Masamichi points at you. “You didn’t deserve it. End of the story.”

“Fine,” you sigh. “By the way, thanks for the smoothie. You didn’t have to, because now I feel like I have to pay you—”

“I didn’t buy you the smoothie.” You didn’t have the time to process what he was saying, feeling like your throat was clogging up and like you couldn’t breathe. Hives started covering your arms as you started to drown out every sound, including the panicked shouted of Masamichi as soon as he saw your skin.

“Shit,” he cursed, calling out your name and reaching for your bag. “Your epipen, where is it?”

He was trying to act fast, dumping out all of your stuff, but to no avail, he couldn’t find the device. Hearing the commotion, people that were passing by peaked in to see what was happening. “Masamichi, what’s—”

“Call the ambulance!” he shouts. “Fuck!”

─────

“Gojo!” he hears his name being called from across the court. A coworker he doesn’t know the name of, but from the hurriedness in his steps, Gojo doesn’t have the time or chance to try and remember. “Bring every student inside! It’s an emergency!”

He doesn’t have to rush in the kids himself, they do it without any further instruction as everyone rushes towards the double doors. Leading the kids inside of the auditorium, they’re all instructed as everyone’s updated about what has happened. (Your Name) had an allergic reaction to her smoothie. Masamichi had to call the ambulance.

Eyes widening as Gojo puts the puzzle pieces together. It was because of him. The sound of ambulance sirens bring him back to reality as Gojo curses under his breath. “Shit!”

He doesn’t think before acting, running in the direction of where people were saying she was, pushing open the doors to the lounge to see you on the ground and Masamichi hovering over her.

“I’m so sorry!” he immediately comes to apologize, not giving his boss a moment to hurry him out of the room. “I didn’t realize that she was allergic to bananas. I did it as an innocent prank! I didn’t know!”

“You what?” Forgetting about you on the ground, Masamichi comes to stand over your body and heads straight towards Gojo. “You fucking idiot! Are you aware that they could die because of your idiocy?”

Gojo’s done a lot of stupid things in his life, but he’s never felt the guilt the way that this act has him feeling right now. He nods, unable to choke out a yes as his eyes divert from Masamichi’s eyes. “I’m so sorry…”

“You better hope and pray that she lives through this, boy, because if she doesn’t—”

The EMTs burst through the doors just in time, asking where the victim lies as Masamichi diverts his attention back to you. Helping the men get you on the gurney as they treat you for your anaphylactic shock and getting your vitals back on track before leading you towards the big vehicle. Masamichi doesn’t bat an eye back in Gojo’s direction, and Gojo had not managed to make himself useful as he watched the entire act go down. In too much of a shock, realizing how once again, his selfishness and rage took over that he nearly killed someone because of it. The tears streaming down his eyes have now dried up and the ongoing looks from his coworkers don’t make him feel any better.

Again, his feet do the thinking as he heads straight outside and to his vehicle. He’s abandoning the kids, yes, but there are more capable adults inside the camp to know how to look over them. He knows that after this life-threatening ordeal, he’ll no longer be accepted back.

He also knows that Masamichi will probably beat him down for even trying to attempt visiting you, but he’ll take his chances.

─────

Masamichi had forced you to take two weeks of PTO the moment you had been discharged from the hospital. Establishing himself as your second father figure, he didn’t give you much choice in the matter the moment you immediately tried returning back to the camp. You don’t remember much about the incident, except the fact that one moment you were thanking him for the drink and the next, you weren’t able to breathe.

When you tried to ask for more details from Masamichi and the doctors, they could only tell you what you already knew— your allergic reaction to bananas nearly caused your death. It was evident that the doctors didn’t know the entire story as well and that Masamichi wasn’t telling you something. He chalked it all up to an accident, saying that he forgot to tell the worker to exclude the bananas. However, you could tell something was missing.

Was it really just a foolish mistake or was he keeping something out? You know that it was pointless to go back to the camp. Halfway into the first week of your break, you know Masamichi will do what he did to you the first time you pulled this stunt— drag you right back outside and to your car. But would a little visit hurt anybody?

Dressed in comfortable clothing, you wear a spaghetti-strapped top and a pair of sweats. With the sun beating down on you, a bead of sweat already threatens to drip down the temple of your forehead. You speed walk to the double doors, swinging them open to be met with the silence of the hallways. Checking the time, all the students should be on the court training right now. In the distance, you can hear the faint sound of balls bouncing and dribbling down the court.

There’s something restricting about the air when you walk down the hallway. Tension lingering from all corners of the building. Usually, there are more people sauntering around on the outside, filling out papers and documents and running quick errands. But, it’s empty. Turning a corner, you’re finally greeted by someone, Yuuji, one of the high school volunteers looking for hours.

“Oh,” he gasps, saying your name. “You’re not supposed to be back until another week or so.”

“Yeah, I’m just visiting,” you chuckle. “Don’t worry. Where’s everyone? Usually, there are more people out and about?”

“Well, we’re a little bit understaffed,” Yuuji squirms, rubbing the back of his neck. “With you on break and Gojo getting fired, Mr. Masamichi thought it was best that every adult got more involved until you’re back.”

“Gojo’s fired?” you furrow your eyebrows. “Why? What happened—” Before Yuuji could say anything more, you snorted. “— Don’t tell me that he pulled a prank on Masamichi instead of me?”

“N-no,” Yuuji stammers. “He, uh— Um… Actually, I think I gotta go. Megumi’s probably wondering where I am right now. I gotta head back.”

It’s evident that the boy’s hiding something, trying to fabricate a lie to get himself out of the situation. Before he could dash off, you grab him by the wrist, stopping him in his tracks. You can see him wince, knowing that he has no way to get out of the conundrum he put himself into now. You give him a look, it’s not stern, but a soft and concerned look. A look that has Yuuji melting before you can even ask him to tell you the truth. “Masamichi’s going to kill me, but—”

When the bell rings, you make a bee line straight for Masamichi. It’s lunch time, meaning that he’s heading straight for the cafeteria with his students in line. Yuuji’s long run off to find Megumi, heading in the opposite direction of you. When you spot him, his back is turned to you as he guides the students inside, barking at two trouble makers who refuse to follow orders the first time. “Get in line! Don’t make me say it again!”

You don’t notify him of your presence until his entire class is inside the cafeteria before you’re blurting out. “Why didn’t you tell me that it was Gojo?”

Shoulders stiffening, Masamichi’s head swivels to see you shocked. Trying to deflect from your question, his gaze immediately turns stern as he points a finger at you. “I told you not to come back until your break’s over.”

“Answer my question,” you frown. “Why did you lie to me?”

He sighs, knowing that he can’t run from this discussion with you. After all, you had a right to know. “Let’s speak about this somewhere more private.”

He leads you inside of a vacant classroom, gesturing you to sit down at any of the available desks as he leans against one himself. He sighs, holding his head down. “Apparently it was supposed to be a prank. Heard you talking one day and thought it would be funny to give you a drink with bananas.”

You tut out a breath of air, keeping your head down as you digest the information. “He had the audacity to try and visit you in the hospital. They had to rip me off before I could do any proper damage to the boy. Tried sending flowers after that, but I threw them all away.”

“But, didn’t you think I had a right to know that he tried to kill me?”

“Yes, but—” Masamichi knew that he didn’t have a good enough reason. That his choices were all fueled by anger. “His people offered payment. Enough to cover your medical bills and enough to say that he’s sorry.”

“So, they’re giving me hush money basically,” you scoffed.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I wasn’t going to tell you this, but if you want his manager’s number, I’ll forward it to you and hopefully, you can find some equal grounds to agree on.”

“I wish you told me this from the jump,” you say.

“And I’m sorry for not,” Masamichi confesses. “I thought I was doing it to protect you at first, but I was just angry that he took it this far.”

“I’m just a fool for thinking that you’d buy me a smoothie so early in the morning,” you try to laugh it off, but Masamichi keeps those same frown lines on his face.

“I’m a fool for even allowing him to work here,” he sighs. Before you can say anything about the comment, Masamichi stands to his feet and grips you by the shoulder. “Time to send you back on your way. I’ll forward you the number to his manager and hopefully after that, you’ll get some peace back into your life.”

“I really just came to visit, you know,” you sigh. “Let me stay a little longer. I miss the kids.”

“They’re not going anywhere,” he says. Nudging him, you let Masamichi lead you right back out to your car. When you’re driving home and waiting at a red light, your phone buzzes and you receive a message from him— Gojo’s Manager (Higuruma Hiromi): xxx-xxx-xxxx.

─────

You and Higuruma come to an agreement that you’ll take the hush money— which he claims isn’t— if you can meet with Gojo himself. However, the only way you can meet Gojo is through you signing a nondisclosure agreement about the entire ordeal. You reluctantly agree because you really want some closure, and you had no intentions of going to the police about it. After the entire situation, you’re just tired and want this all to just go away. The authorities would only add to your stress and that might kill you quicker than your allergic reaction.

Higuruma sets up for the two of you to meet at a hotel, booking a room for the two of you to speak in private— accompanied by the manager himself, as well. It’s an extravagant and luxurious place with architecture that made you believe that you had actually stepped inside of a museum. You beam in awe, but it’s all cut short when a man approaches you, and calls your name. “That’s you, correct?”

You nod. “Yes, you’re Higuruma, right?”

“Yes,” he answers. You didn’t know what to expect of the man, thinking he’d be some older man— bald— and not a man with sunken brown eyes and stringy dark hair. His eyes clearly reflect how he always sounded on the phone, exhausted, as he instructs you to follow him. The two of you walk side by side in silence before he’s clicking the ‘up’ button to the elevator and leading the way.

The room he’s booked is gorgeous, closely resembling a home within itself as you’re immediately greeted to a family and dining area. Vintage-style couches and rugs with intricate patterns on it. It’s gorgeous. “I will let Gojo know that you’re here,” Higuruma gestures towards the dining area. “Take a seat and I’ll be back in a second.”

It takes five minutes of you admiring the centerpiece before you hear the shuffling of feet and the creak of a door opening. Craning your neck around, you watch as a disheveled Gojo leaves the confines of the hotel bedroom to pull out a chair across from you, never once meeting you in the eye. He looks like a mess, white hair worse than it usually is, sapphire eyes that look lost as purple eyebags hang, and he looks like Higuruma just had to drag him out of bed, wearing a charcoal gray t-shirt that’s all crushed up and stained black sweats. When he slouches in his seat, his voice is more gravelly than you’re used to. “You can leave, Higuruma.”

“You know I can’t do that—”

“You can leave!”

He doesn’t have to say it again for a third time. Higuruma’s eyes flash from Gojo to you before heading towards the door, leaving the hotel room altogether. However, both you and Gojo know that the man still awaits right outside the door. When an uncomfortable amount of silence has passed, Gojo’s surprisingly the first to speak. “Go ahead. Yell and me, and tell me how much of a horrible person I am.”

“I—”

“I deserve it,” he whispers. “I— I’m a shitty excuse of a person.”

“I just—” You catch yourself. When you called Higuruma and asked to meet with Gojo, you never really had a plan or prepared anything for what you were going to say. You never did know why you wanted to speak to him. You just needed to see him, see how he was holding up. When Masamichi told you the truth, it was hard to digest and at first, you were in denial. However, when you got home, you were furious. You cried out your anger, you screamed out your anger, and you ripped out your anger. However, you could never really voice it out in actual words. But a vice inside of you just calmly told you to vent. Vent like you did the first time and the second time. So, again, you tried.

“I just—” you clenched your fists. “—Did you realize how stupid you were?”

You said it in such a calm and low voice that it made him shudder. He kept his head low, still not wanting to meet his eyes. “Do you realize how dumb and fucking stupid you are? For days at a time, pulling off ridiculous fucking pranks all because you had a personal vendetta against me to the point you nearly killed me!

“At first, I excused it, but you had every right to be angry,” you continued. “ But, I literally could not breathe. All because you thought I didn’t like bananas. You’re so fucking stupid!”

“I know…” he whispers and miraculously you hear him.

“I don’t think you really do,” you sneer. “You ran up and down that court like you owned it, disregarding anything and everyone because you thought you were the best. Treated your own teammates as collateral damage with the excuse of bringing home another win, then wanted to cry like a little bitch because you felt threatened about what I had to say to you.”

You continue to rant out your frustrations, feeling the tension leave your body as tears pool from the corner of your eyes. Never did you realize that Gojo’s finally mustered up the courage to finally look into them. “And you might be right,” your bottom lip quivers. “I might be left in the dust, my life amounting to nothing in the end, but I’m the person who turned you into nothing, so who really has the power, huh?”

You invade his personal space, reaching across the table to point a finger in his chest. He can feel your quick breaths against his face. “It was a shame that I couldn’t watch your soul die on that court first hand. I’d have loved to spit on your grave.”

You’re so close that he can see every speckle on your face, his eyes softening at the flicker of rage that runs rampant through you. He concludes it as a spur of emotions when his lips touch yours, tasting the faint touch of lip gloss against your lips and mint of your toothpaste. He feels the fleeting moment in which you reciprocate the taste of his supple pink tongue against yours before a sting to the face detaches his lips from yours. And he’s met back with that fiery gaze of yours before your eyes falter. “What— fuck—”

This one is more seering, sucking the breath from his lungs as he feels your fingers knot inside of his white locks. The two of you stretching across the piece of furniture, lips locked onto each other’s. His arms reach for your waist with need, pulling you to him and dragging you across the table, nearly sending the two of you flying off the seat. Catching each other’s balance, his grip around your waist tightens as a deep sigh falls from his lips.

He presses you against him hard, making you feel the growing ache of his cock, swelling up from lust as he latches onto you. The palpitating air thickens as he attempts to swallow you whole. He pulls away, chest rising and falling, as his pupils dilate. He breathes, “Tell me how much you hate me.”

Hands wrapping around his neck, your nails dig into his skin. “I fucking hate you. I wish we never crossed paths.”

Fuck, he curses inwardly, pulling back to his lips as his arms begin to wander the course of your body. You’re wearing a simple top and shorts that stop mid-thigh. Fingers playing with the hem of your shirt, his long and slender digits send the cotton material upwards, exposing your bare waist and up to your sports bra. The sage green elastic material hugs onto your chest as he throws your shirt off. You ground your hips to his pelvis, the denim rubbing against his covered cock and eliciting foreign sounds from his lips. And your lips tremble in hurt, eyes getting glossy as you pull away from him. You hold his face, caressing it and forcing him to see how hurt you are. “I could’ve died, Satoru. Do you really realize how fucking stupid you were?”

“I do…” His eyes flicker away from yours before he feels your fingers digging into his skin. “I do… I was so fucking stupid.”

Grinding your hips down, Gojo’s hands fall back to your waist, keeping you grounded there. “You deserve to rot in jail.”

He nods, this time mouthing the two words, I do. He goes to toy with the button of your jeans shorts, undoing it and pulling down the zipper. You grab onto his wrist, stopping him from continuing. “You’re forever indebted to me, y’know that? No amount of money can silence me.”

“I’ll do whatever you want,” he easily succumbs. “I’ll get on my knees for you.”

“Want to get that in writing?”

“Yes.” Guiding Gojo’s hand into the depths of your shorts and past the band of your underwear, he feels the curls of your pubic hair, playing with the tufts of locks before dipping down further. Your hips rise as you latch back onto his lips and tug down your pants, kicking them off when they pool at your ankles. All the while, Gojo’s hand is still stuck inside your underwear, playing with your clit and sliding his digits down your folds. Arousal pooling from your cunt that he can only imagine tastes sweet. He can only hope that you’ll give him the opportunity to try.

He rolls his thumb against the dark bud as his index and middle finger delve deeper, heart pounding against his chest as his back sinks into the back of the chair. Your slick is sticky, gliding against his digits as he feels your folds, dancing around your entrance. Legs spread as your hips are in the air, your spine shudders as you inhale deeply. Your nails dig into his biceps, certainly marking and bruising his delicate skin as it reddens under your harsh touch. Your hips gyrate and grind against his fingers, hoping for more friction than what he’s allowing you.

Everytime you leave the sweet taste of his mouth, Gojo feels his soul softly crying out as his sapphire eyes twinkle in need for you.

“Gojo,” there’s a dark look in your gaze, eyes hazy with lust that looks so good on you. Hands traveling to knot themselves back into his hair, you tug harshly. “Don’t you want me to feel good?”

Your eyes soften, feigning innocence despite the position you’re both compromised in. Still, Gojo can’t help but fall for the spell you have him under. “Yes, I do.”

You’re close, capturing his bottom lip in between your teeth as you bite down on it, nearly drawing blood before letting go. “Then, stop teasing me. Be good for me, yeah? Or, are you still that pathetic little boy I always knew you were— er, are?”

“I’ll be anything you need me to be,” he breathes.

“Then, fuck me with your fingers,” you say. “Make me feel good.”

Gojo Satoru really is a skilled and talented man whose potential died down with his continuously poor choices. You truly meant it when you said he had so much more to unlock and hone in on with his skill, but his selfishness and greed overpowered him. But, right now, you can only see a selfless man who wants to please. A man who’s finally using those skills and practice and putting them to good use. His lengthy fingers twist and turn inside of you, your arousal dripping out of you like the sweet sap from trees. They drip down between each knuckle, messing up his calloused hands, but he couldn’t care less. However, while you saw selflessness in this moment, he still thinks he’s a selfish boy as he finds himself greedy, needing you like never before.

With every thrust of his fingers, he feels the tips of them touch that spongy spot inside of you. And you make the sweetest of sounds, a noise that’d have sailors out at sea captivated. Your head’s thrown back, hair falling past your shoulders as your back’s arched and accentuating your breasts. He’s got your sports bra pushed up, revealing your round breasts as they gently bounce as you bounce on his digits. His lips have found home in the juncture of your neck, kissing down your jaw and to that sweet spot on your neck, making your juices continue to pour out of you.

He’s still a selfish man, wanting for you to stay like this if he can get the opportunity to forever make amends and have you look this beautiful as he makes you feel good. Your walls would clench around his fingers every once in a while, a quick spasm notifying that he’s succeeding. There’s a soft squelch sounding in the air, the stench of you intermingling as well as Gojo’s pre stains his underwear and probably have long seeped to his sweats. However, there’s more worrying things to stress about.

Your mouth falls open into an ‘O’ as your eyes flutter shut, your heat pulsating in alert as you feel Gojo’s fingers quicken its pace. You hear him curse, fuck, alongside you as your cries are soft. Legs tensing up as his free arm wraps around the expanse of your hips, he holds you still as you feel that coil inside of you snap. “Gojo, fuuuck—”

You paint his fingers in white, walls spasming around him as he finger fucks you through your orgasm. White dripping down to the seat of the chair before you feel an absence and a sting to your clit, a clap sounding through the dining area of the hotel room. You squeal, a high-pitched sound that makes Gojo’s chest rumble. Your fingers dig into his shoulders as you nudge him, hearing him chuckle. You silence his moment of amusement with need, your eyes meeting his beautiful ones as they speak all he needs to know, but still you vocalize it.

“I need more, Gojo,” you whine, eyebrows knitting together as you tilt your head to the side. “Y’think I’ll forgive you just for your fingers, hm?”

“No,” he shakes his head.

“Y’think I’ll forgive you if you continue to fuck me against this table?” It didn’t take him long to scoop you up in his arms, displaying his strength with such ease that it takes away your breath. You go to caress his face, softly telling him, “Good boy.”

Bringing you to the private room, he places you on the bed with a gentleness before climbing over you. Like a dog trained to be loyal and obedient, he waits as he admires your beautiful state. Reaching for the straps of your bra, he pulls you out of it and rids you of your soiled panties. He admires your naked state, eyes taking in every curve and blemish that you have. Absent-mindedly, he sighs, “So beautiful…”

“C’mon,” you coax him closer. “Come and fuck me already.”

Gojo realizes that he’s still completely dressed, doing both of you the favor of shedding himself of his shirt, revealing his well refined body. His body seemed to have been carved by the gods themselves, taking extra time to care for him and make sure that he dazzled every man and woman that walks in his path. And when he pulls down his pants, he reveals his defined thighs and calves as his boxer briefs hugs onto his skin, his erection prominent underneath. You can see the wet patch of his pre, making the white fabric translucent as you see the dusty rose color of his tip.

Gojo dips, calling the moment to a close as he presses his weight into you. His pelvis bends to meet your soaked core, still stained with your orgasm. Clothed erection rubbing against your sensitive nub and making your body shudder as Gojo kisses along your neck. His hand dips to tug down the hem of his underwear, making his cock jump out in excitement as he cups his balls and guides his length to your sopping pussy. His reddening tip gets needy as he slides his shaft down your folds, lubricating his length in you before aligning himself to your ready entrance.

Your heart starts racing, feeling just how long he is. You lock eyes with Gojo as you dig your elbows into the bed to meet him for a kiss. Gently, you feel his head nudge open your walls, pressing deep as he enters you. This kiss tastes of longing on Gojo’s behalf, how he inhales you as he pushes inch by inch inside. The warmth of you makes him want to stay like this forever, feeling his balls tighten up as he bottoms out. This kiss is slow as you hear the wetness of your lips against each other as it goes from deep to quick pecks. It’s distracting and confusing you for what this is— a desperate and wrongly executed display of your raw emotions.

No, this is starting to feel like something more. However, you need this. You need to feel this power you have over the man. You need to feel this. So, you take it. Greedy and wanting, the both of you switch places. Though, you fear, you’ve always been a selfish person and Gojo’s starting to unravel that side of you.

Pulling out of you, only leaving the tip in, the next plunge of his cock is purposeful. Gojo wedges himself deep inside of you, bottoming out inside of you as his hips shimmy. You gasp out, back arching as your breasts press into his chest.

“I don’t deserve you,” he breathes, a pathetic sob leaving him as he continues these slow and well-calculated thrusts that force you to feel all of him. Each one spelling out how pathetically sorry he is. “Don’t deserve to be buried deep inside of your cunt.”

Gradually, his thrusts quicken, calling for sweet sobs and mewls to leave your lips. With each drill of his hips, you feel his head kissing that soft spongy spot deep within. Making your toes curl as your legs go to wrap around his waist. Your mind is a fog, but still, you find the will to speak, to say something coherent. “You don’t deserve any part of me. You’re nothing but a greedy piece of shit.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Tell me how much you hate me.”

“I hate you,” you whisper, and again, he says, “Yeah? How much?”

“So much,” you cry. “I hate you so much. So, so much.”

And soon enough, those three words continue to pour from your lips as Gojo fucks into your wheeping pussy. The wetness sounds and echoes through the room alongside your mixed grunts and moans. You grip onto his biceps, marking up his arms even more as he takes in every call of hatred you make to him. And when you feel that familiar quiver to your cunt, you feel the waterworks coming, your eyes pricking with tears as you sob. And with his thumb, Gojo goes to wipe them away with his thumb. He apologizes incessantly, “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.”

This release is different, making your entire body spasm in his hold as you feel your inner thighs become soaked. Your stomach is coiling as your legs tighten even more. He feels your release against your stomach, the translucent liquid splashing against him as he curses low. He feels the twitch of his cock, pulling his length as he goes to rub at your clit, watching how explosive your second orgasm is. He leaks onto your stomach, white dripping from his tip and making a mess of you. His chest rises and falls as body comes to slowly relax when the last of your juices splatter onto him.

Your body’s exhausted, wasting your tears and energy on a man who doesn’t care. “You tried to kill me, Gojo. I don’t— I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive you.”

Satoru believes he’ll be able to live with that.

─────

GOJO SATORU JUST POSTED ON TIK TOK!

Each and every one of Gojo’s videos were fabricated by this management team, never truly putting in effort into using the app himself. However, he finds himself so warped inside of his mind that he feels like he needs to issue a statement out himself. Without his manager or PR Team knowing themselves. Pressing the button to begin recording, he lets out a sigh.

“Hello everyone,” he begins. “Truth be told, I haven’t prepared a speech for what I wanted to say because of the recent course of events. I didn’t think I would ever address this, but I think it’s about time that I do.”

He clears his throat. “I want to start off with that article and all the claims that it states against me,” he begins. “I want to confirm that they’re all true.”

Within the course of ten minutes, Gojo believes that he’s spoken his mind and has given out a genuine apology. Giving him some sense of satisfaction as he ends it with, “And because of all the mistakes and misdeeds that I’ve done, I’m going to end my basketball career with this apology as I hope that the people that I’ve hurt can find some solace in it.

“I’m not expecting nor am I asking for your forgiveness,” he sighs. “Just— I just want to do right by someone that I’ve hurt and work on the path of growth. Thanks and goodbye.”

credits ⋆ thanks to my babe, @satoao, for beta-reading over this work. my favorite gojo lover.

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