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swordsandholly · 5 months

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Double Date - Double Down

NSFW | MDNI

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem!plus size!reader

Word count: 4.9k

Summary: When you get a call in the middle of the afternoon from your friend begging you to fill an empty spot on a double date your initial instinct is a hard no. After all, no one wants to go on a blind double date and be surprised by the fat friend. It doesn’t help that this Simon guy is stupid fucking hot and obviously doesn’t like you - if his lack of talking is anything to go by.

A/N: Just a fun little oneshot I used as a warmup between working on chapters of future multi chapter projects.

“I said *no*.” You snap, angrily folding the washcloth in your hands.

Your friend splutters from the other side of the phone, the desperation in her voice only growing now that she’s on her fourth ask. “*Pleeeaase*! Steph backed out last minute and no one else is free-“

“How do you know I’m free?”

“You just said you were!”

You huff. She’s got you there. When she first called, you admitted you didn’t have anything going on but that was *before* she told you the plan for the night. Before she mentioned that her very, very conventionally hot military boyfriend wanted to do a little double date with his friend and one of hers. Plus, you take a least a little offense to being second choice. Really, last choice, it seems.

“Cass, you can’t just set up a blind date and take your fat friend. That’s not-“

“You’re not fat, love. You’re beautiful.” Her words drip with turned honey. You make a gagging face to yourself in the mirror. “You just need more confidence!”

You sigh loudly, pinching the bridge of your nose. You could try, for the millionth time, to explain to her the nuanced ins and outs of dating as a fat woman. The rules and stats that could rival even the most complex rpg… or you could be petty. It takes less time to be petty. “If I go, you’re paying for my drinks.”

“Johnny’s friend will probably-“

“Yeah, and when he leaves you’re paying for my tab.”

“He won’t-“

“We got a deal?”

She clicks her tongue. “*Fiiiine*.”

At least you can get wasted for free either way. A small consolation. She texts you the time and location, barely leaving you with enough time to shower and turn yourself into something presentable. Not that you really care. It’s going to be shit either way, most likely. Staring yourself down in the mirror, you suppose you could at least try to look somewhat attractive. If you’re about to get rejected (or possibly shouted at, you’ll never forget *that* horrendous interaction) you might as well feel your best.

The pub is small as you push through the front door. Casual. A couple pool tables, some darts, a large bar and few booths with stools on the outer side. You scan the room, searching for Cass’s familiar face.

“Over here!” Cass waves with a wide arc at you, a grin plastered from ear to ear. At least she’s having fun.

You take a long breath, bracing yourself for whatever is about to happen. Cass introduces you to her boyfriend - who is somehow even hotter in person. You can see why she’s so smitten with him. Johnny looks you up and down as he shakes your hand. He doesn’t comment, or make a face, or really react in any particular way, but you can feel a shift. Something in his eyes…

Maybe it’s just your imagination. You’ve always been a little over sensitive.

“Si will be back in a sec. Stepped over tae get a drink.” He flashes a grin.

You hum, quietly folding your hand as Cass pushes a cocktail for you that she preemptively ordered. Criticize her as much as you like, she knows her mixes.

“There he is.” Johnny grins, turning slightly.

You follow his gaze, heart sinking as your eyes settle on the man approaching your table. He’s massive. Tall and wide. Total brick shithouse. His face is mostly covered by a black surgical mask. A few years ago you might have questioned it but at this point you couldn’t care less, especially when his dark eyes meet yours, small flecks of gold honey catching the low bar lights. Barely styled tufts of blonde hair stick up from his head. They look like they might curl if he let it grow a little longer.

All in all, wayyyy out of your league.

He settles into his seat with all the confidence of any military man - back ramrod straight. He extends a large hand. “Simon Riley.”

You murmur your name, somewhat enthralled by the half lidded, almost bored look in his eyes. Now that he’s closer you notice a large scar splitting his left eyebrow and light, newly forming crows feet in the corners of his eyes.

“S-so you’re military, too?” You stutter, eyes trained on his the massive hand holding his glass. It’s nicely vascular, his nails are well groomed but it also looks like he could snap you in half with it.

Not that that’s entirely a bad thing - whatever that may or may not say about you.

He nods. “I’m a Lieutenant.”

“Oh! Officer position. So you’re smart, then?” You try to be charming, to give him a sweet smile and keep your body language open.

“Enough.” He deadpans. It takes a few beats for you to realize he’s not going to say anything else.

“Uh…” You squirm awkwardly under his gaze. It’s intense - his dark eyes nearly black in the low light of the bar. “I do hair.”

Conversation is slow, to say the least. The longest answer he gives you is maybe five words. He only flips up the mask long enough to take a sip of his drink every so often. You start to talk less, opting toward a group conversation in which Johnny takes the lead, which he is obviously very good at. He regales you and Cass with a few stories of his and Simon’s adventures. Some funny, some brave, some worrying. He’s setting the man up to be a god, nearly, but Simon himself just shakes his head and insists Johnny is exaggerating.

You wonder what he sees in Simon. Alternatively, you wonder what *you’re* supposed to see in Simon. Besides his good looks, of course. He’s… bland. Obviously bored if his constant glances toward the exits and rhythmic, occasional tapping on the corner of the table are anything to go by.

“Want tae go dance, lovie?” You overhear Johnny as he leans in toward Cass.

She glances at you, then Simon, then back to you before nodding enthusiastically. “We’ll give you two some time *alone*.”

In any other situation, you’d probably beg her to stay in desperation for a conversation buffer. Here and now, though, you’re grateful. You can finally let this poor guy off the hook. You wait until they’re gone; fully out of earshot before turning to the man in front of you.

“I…uh… look…” You chew your lip, glancing between him and your folded hands on the table. “Sorry… I know I’m probably not what, uh, what you expected… I get it if you want to leave. It’s - you don’t have to stay, or whatever. Don’t have to be polite…”

He cocks an eyebrow, eyes boring through your skull. “Why would I want to leave?”

“I know what I look like. You don’t have to be nice.”

His raised brow turns into a slight frown. “I think you’re quite pretty.”

You scoff - blushing despite yourself. “Again, you don’t have to be nice.”

“Do I seem like the type to just be nice?”

You continue to gnaw at your lip. He’s got you there. Simon definietly doesn’t come off as the type to bow to polite society. “You’ve barely talked to me.”

He stares for a moment. It’s his turn to avert his eyes, swirling around the whiskey in his glass awkwardly. Almost bashfully. “It’s not you. I’m… not great in public… especially in crowds…”

Oh.

*Oh*.

You’ve completely misjudged him, haven’t you? Shit. He’s just a big awkward lug isn’t he?You sigh, rubbing your temple. “Oh God, *I’m* the asshole, aren’t I?”

He chuckles, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I’m sorry it’s just…” you scrub a hand over your face. “Most men don’t really want to be surprised with a fat girl on a blind date. Guess I assumed the worst.”

Simon hums. A low vibration that settles into your bones. He gets up, sliding into the booth side of the table beside you - his massive frame pushing into your space. He smells like spices. Cinnamon and pepper. A little hint of leather and tobacco underneath. It’s heady, and some primal part of your mind wishes you could roll around in it like a dog.

“Some men might like a waifish little thing, that’s their business, but personally…” He leans in, a large hand resting on your wide thigh. “Yeah. I like somethin’ I can get a proper handful of.”

“*Oh*.” You squeak, back stiff. Was that what you saw in Johnny’s face before? Approval?

“‘Ere’s a thought - we go back to mine. S’quiet. Can talk more freely. See where the night goes, hm?”

You smile hesitantly, finally looking up to meet his gaze. It’s honest. Kind. Dark pools of sincerity. It’s against your better judgement. Impractical. Out of character. Even so, you allow yourself to surrender with a warmth in your cheeks and a small nod.

“I’ll get an Uber.” He pulls out his phone, tapping away. “Five minutes out.”

“Want to wait outside?” You offer, nodding toward the front entrance. Simon just nods, following you out close behind. Neither of you say much of anything while you wait, but you watch him out of the corner of your eye. He taps on his leg a few times in much the same way as he did on the table.

He dutifully opens the car door for you, letting you slide in before climbing in beside you, long legs slightly cramped in the small sedan.

“You don’t live on base?” You ask as the Uber drives away from the infamous military housing. You’d been there once or twice - a while ago when you were younger and messier.

“S’too loud.” He shrugs. “Too crowded.”

“Well, at least you’re consistent.” You smile.

Simon hums, resting his hand on your thigh once again. It’s casual, not too high up or too much pressure. Not presumptuous.

“How’d Johnny get you out there in the first place? If you’re so *averse*.” You tilt your head.

He shrugs, “Was supposed to be another Sergeant we work with but I guess he cancelled. No one else was free.”

“Ah, so we’re both last choices, then.”

“Yeah?”

“Made Cass promise me free drinks if I came.”

“Smart girl.” He chuckles, holding out a hand to help you up out of the car upon your arrival. His hand is warm when you take it, and a small part of you feels disappointed when he lets go.

The building is small. Old. All red brick with a thirty year old intercom and an elevator that you’re pretty sure hasn’t been inspected since the place was built. About halfway down the hall, you start to second guess yourself. You don’t know a thing about this guy - you don’t know what’s going to happen as soon as you get on the other side of his door. His weird, bright red door. Wait - why is this whole floor covered in red doors?

“Alright?” He grunts, back turned to you as he wrestles with the lock.

“Uh - why is your floor color themed?”

Simon laughs, wide shoulders shaking with the movement. It’s a low sound, something that vibrates in his chest. Makes you want to press your ear to it, see how it feels. If it will reverberate into your bones as well. “The old lady that owns the building is a bit… unique. Likes to talk about colors and karma and destiny stuff.”

“Ah.” You nod, as if that makes any sense at all. “So you’re red?”

“Apparently.”

His apartment is actually quite homey, as you step into it. From a stiff military man like him you expected something akin to an ikea floor model. Instead it’s furnished with a well worn, green couch. A large TV with an extremely up-to date surround sound system and an entertainment center filled to the brim with CDs sits against the wall. A few movie posters fill the walls. All horror classics - you count three of the scream movies. The first two final destination. There are condensation rings on the coffee table.

Behind you, you hear the door lock and unlock three times, but you don’t pay it much mind.

“Want a drink?” Simon asks, already popping open a decanter full of something gold on a small drink cart beside the kitchen island.

“Sure.” The agreement is automatic - blurted out before you can second guess taking a drink from a total stranger.

You watch a little too closely as he takes off his light jacket, exposing his strong arms and a half sleeve tattoo. It’s a bit tacky, all skulls and military symbols. The black ink has been sun worn over time. The motif of a young getting his first tattoo after enlisting. He settles down on the couch with the decanter and two glasses, patting the spot beside him. You plop down. It’s pretty comfortable, honestly.

His fingers loop into the mask’s straps. You find yourself watching with wide eyes and bated breath as he removes it. His nose is crooked - broken more than a couple times, you think. There’s a scar running from his nose to upper lip that could only come from a cleft palette. It’s charming, in a way. When he turns toward you, you notice a patch on the side of his face that looks like a rather large burn all the way down to his sharp jaw. The roughness of him works, somehow. The scars and tattoos and choppy hair all coming together to create the visage of a life hard lived.

“You’re really pretty…” the words slip from your tongue before you can stop them.

Simon splutters out a laugh, the slightest hint of color appearing across his cheeks. “Didn’t take you for a flatterer.”

“I’m not.” You huff before nodding toward the posters. “Horror fan?”

He hums, passing you a glass. “Are you a fan? Of horror, I mean.”

“Found footage!” You grin a little too excited. “It’s the best genre.”

“Terrible taste.” He scoffs.

“Wrong! Found footage can be anything you want it to be - slasher, thriller, mystery, mocumentary. Anything.”

“Which makes them messy.” He argues. “Anyone can make one.”

“Yeah! Theres so many hidden gems out there.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Oh, I’ll put you on them. We just need to get you a good one.”

“Askin’ me on a second date already, love?”

“Oh, fuck off.” You shove at his shoulder. He was right, it is so much easier to talk freely out of the bar. Away from everyone and everything. His posture is far more relaxed, laid back into the couch with his hips canted forward rather than stiff as a board.

“We could watch one now?” He offers. If you were more sober, you might have heard the twinge of pleading in his voice. As it stands you’ve already drained the glass he gave you and are perfectly buzzed enough to be ignorant to the subtler parts of communication.

How convenient.

“Okay.” You whisper.

After a bit of debating back and forth you settle on Hell House. After all, it’s been your tried and true method for getting anyone and everyone into the genre. You don’t notice it, at first, but you slowly begin to scoot closer to him as you fold your knees up on the couch. Eventually, tucking yourself under his arm sling across the back cushions. Between him and the drinks - which you’re pretty sure is a rather fancy bourbon - you feel what could only be described as snuggly. Limbs loose and pliant, smile easy and words flowing as you cheer and jeer at the characters together.

At some point, Simon’s dark eyes meet between yours. You lean in, so does he. Inch by inch until your lips meet. It’s tentative, at first. Testing the waters. His lips are soft and move expertly against yours. You part for him has his tongue darts across your lower lip.

It’s easier than it usually is for you. Easy to let him pull you over his lap. To rest your hands on his broad shoulders as you take each other in. Normally, you’re not a person for one night stands. A commitment kind of gal. You can’t exactly say no, though, when you have a beautiful man’s hands traveling over your body like it’s the only thing in the world worth paying attention to right now.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to grunt, “Bedroom?”

“*Yes*.” You gasp between kisses.

Suddenly those large hands grasp under your ass as you’re hauled up. You grapple to hold onto the back of his neck, keeping your weight forward.

“Simon!”

“Yes, love?” He asks as if he didn’t just life you like a sack of potatoes.

“A-aren't I heavy?” You question as he makes his way through the apartment, peppering kisses over your neck and jaw.

“No.” He replies bluntly. Like what you asked was stupid.

You’re placed on a bed with all the gentleness of a rare china plate- one hand cradling your upper back and the other tucked under your thighs. There isn’t any time to take in the room before Simon is kissing you again but you do count approximately five pillows and zero navy sheets.

That shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

Simon leans in close, nose ever so slightly bumping yours. “Before we keep going, I want to establish a rule. Red light means stop. At any time, for any reason.”

You can’t help but smile. “Okay.”

“Say it back, doll.”

“Red light means stop.” You reach up and cup his face. So handsome. So warm.

“Good girl.” He murmurs. “Let’s get these off, hm?” Simon pulls your clothes off deftly - dragging those rough palms over your skin as he moves and kneading at the plushness of your hips appreciatively.

You reach up to tug at his shirt. “S’not fair if I’m the only one naked.”

Simon chuckles and hastily sits back to yank the shirt over his head, giving a lovely show in the process. You think this what people mean when they talk about an Adonis. There’s a comfortable soft layer of his strong abdomen. Something you want to sink your teeth into. Your fingers trace each dip and curve of his muscles, the lovely shape of his pectorals, the raised scars littering his body. Floral shapes from bullets along with slashes and smaller jabs. A particularly nasty one runs down his side, coving his ribs. A burn, you think.

“You’re beautiful.” You murmur. Definitely out of your fucking league. You move to sit up, reaching for his waistband.

His hand pushes your shoulder back on the bed. “Let me take care of you tonight, bird.”

Your face warms. Simon kisses your cheek, continuing down to your chest and taking one of your nipples in his mouth. Gently sucking and nipping at it while flicking the other with his hand. A shameful whimper escapes your throat.

Simon leans up to murmur in your ear, “What do you want, sweet girl?”

“Want you to fuck me…” You murmur, embarrassment making you want to close your legs. His solid hips block you.

“Oh, I will, but first I want those beautiful thighs wrapped around my head.” Simon continues to place kisses down your body, over your stomach, stopping right at your panty line and tracing along it with rough fingers. His arms circle your thighs and in one swift motion your hips teeter on the edge of the bed, Simon kneeling between them. His fingers hook in the waistband of your underwear.

“W-wait…” You sit up on your elbows.

He freezes, looking up at you.

“I, uh, I haven’t exactly *landscaped* in a while… wasn’t really planning-“

Simon huffs out a laugh. “I’m a grown man, love. You think a little bush is gonna scare me off?”

All thoughts related to anything within the proximity of embarrassment come to an instant halt as Simon’s lips wrap around your clit- sucking and nipping and lapping like a man starved. Like he’d die without it. A low groan rumbles through his throat.

“F-fuck!” You gasp, whimpers and moans interrupting any chance you may have at putting words together.

“Taste so fucking good, princess.” He mumbles against you. A shaky moan rattles through you as he pushes a thick finger in, working it gently. His other than grips your hip tightly, pinning you in place. The pet-name sends a shiver down your spine - leaving you rolling your hips and clenching on the finger inside you.

“Fuck, Si…” You gasp, tangling your fingers in his hair.

“I can tell your close, baby.” Simon groans. “Cum for me. Come on, be a good girl and cum all over my fucking tongue.”

The bastard knows the power he has in that voice. He *has* to. That baritone gravel sinks in your veins and all you can do is whimper. Panting pathetically the closer you get. His fingers curl up and your back arches harshly as your climax washes over you. Your legs tremble as he works you through it; stopping just shy of pushing you too far.

“Hey!” You gasp indignantly as a jolt shoots up your spine as he settles a final, harsh suck on your clit.

Simon taps your hip, climbing back over you as you scoot up on the bed. He carelessly kicks off his pants as he goes, toeing them off before settling between your legs. Those dark eyes rake over you leisurely - taking in every inch. Every curve and dip and flaw categorically. He sucks in a breath and sighs. “Bloody ‘ell, look at you… so fuckin’ pretty.”

Your face heats and you look away. “Who’s the flatterer now?”

“Not me. Just bein’ honest.” He places a quick kiss to your soft jawline before reaching over to dig through his nightstand drawer. You don’t miss the gold foil of the condom wrapper.

You can’t stop yourself from licking your lips as he pulls off his boxer briefs. Simon is uncut, already ruddy and leaking and just begging for your mouth. Maybe next time, though. He’s already slipped on the condom, carefully hooking one of your legs over his shoulder and the other around his hip. The man has a laser-focus to him, you’ll give him that.

“Still want t’ keep goin’?” He mumbles, eyes locked on his cock as is drags between your folds.

“*Please*.” You whine pathetically. Simon’s chuckle turns into a gasp as he presses in. It’s achingly slow and you roll your hips in demand for more.

Simon lets out a low groan as his hips meet yours. The stretch is perfect - just enough to feel completely full without pushing you too far. As though your bodies were made to slot together just so. Your head falls back, chest heaving as you beg him to move, to fuck you, just *please* for the love of god-

“Needy little thing.” He gives you a sloppy smile before setting a brutal pace. You find yourself clawing at his back, clinging to him as your back arches and the most obscene sounds are systematically torn from your throat. The angle he has your hips placed causes his cock to bully that sensitive spot inside you - dragging over it with every thrust.

Simon leans toward, bracing himself on his forearms and pinning you under him as he fucks into you. “So fuckin’ good f’me. Knew you would be. So soft and sweet and goddamn *pretty*.”

“*Fuck, Simon*.” You gasp, nose bumping against his as your lips intertwine. Breaths and moans intermingle as you both chase that edge. There’s nothing else, in this moment, just you and Simon and the sounds only he has ever managed to pull from you.

Your orgasm hits you like a train. Out of nowhere and all at once, tensing every muscle into a trembling mess as you clamp down around his cock. Simon sinks his teeth into your neck as his own climax takes him, cradling you close and moaning out your name so muddled you almost miss it.

For a few moments, you stay frozen in place trying to catch your breath as you come down. Your limbs feel like jelly when you finally try to move, body limp and pliable. It almost feels like a loss as he pushes off of you, leaving you open and vulnerable to the cool night air while he ties off the condom.

“Be right back.” He murmurs, slowly climbing off you and heading for an attached bathroom off to the left.

You let your eyes slipped closed only to jump and shoot back open as a dap rag drags between your thighs. A little yelp escapes you as the rough material drags across your oversensitive clit. Simon chuckles at you, tossing the rag back somewhere in the bathroom before crawling into the bed beside you. It’s so easy to curl into his chest and let those strong arms encircle you.

“Have fun, love?” Simon murmurs into your hair.

You just hum happily, smiling against his hard chest.

“Good.”

It’s just as easy as the rest of it to fall asleep like that. To seek out the warmth of his body in your satiated haze and press into him, allowing the night and rhythmic beating of his heart to overtake you. You feel four small taps between your shoulder blades just before tipping over the edge into comfortable nothing.

You wake slowly to an empty bed. The light from the window above you streams in - bathing the room in a light golden tone. It’s cozy. The blankets seem to pull you in, keeping you snugly in place. Distantly, you hear the sound of pots and pans clinking.

Shockingly, you’re not hungover. Well, not much at least. There’s a slight twinge in your head and a not unpleasant soreness in your hips. You dig around, finding your clothes strewn across the room haphazardly. Your underwear are nowhere to be found and you eventually give up with a shrug. They weren’t one of your best pairs anyway.

When you come out of the bedroom, you pause. Simon stands in the kitchen, working on something over the stove wearing only a pair of sweatpants. They hang loosely around his hips, showing off the rises and dips of his strong muscles and well defined waist. This scene somehow feels too intimate despite your activities the night before.

“Perfect timing.” Simon turns, placing a plate down on the kitchen island. The omelette before you looks immaculate, all the way down to a light garnish on top.

Your eyes turn to saucers. “You…you made me breakfast?”

“Course.” He nods sharply as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. As if *not* doing so would be some sort of affront. Either you’re still asleep and this is all a dream or you stumbled upon the perfect man through pure happenstance.

He turns the stove off and on and off twice before standing at the counter across from you while you sit on one of the stools at the island. It’s a comfortable silence as you both eat. Simon keeps glancing up at you as if waiting for your disapproval. Boyish, somehow, despite the size and breadth of him.

It’s perfect. The eggs practically melt in your mouth and the goat cheese and vegetables taste fresh. You can’t help but him happily as you eat.

By the time you’re done, you think you might be a little in love.

Maybe you should text Cass and thank her or something. Maybe a gift basket. “Oh. My phone’s dead.”

“Didn’t charge it before y’left last night?” Simon cocks an eyebrow, chewing on his last bite.

You snort. “It was last minute, remember?”

“What if I’d been some sort of psycho? What was your plan?” He grins as he takes your empty plate. If you were a more impulsive woman you may have gone so far as to lick the damn thing.

“Are you a psycho?”

“Not generally, no.”

“Well then, nothing to worry about.” You grin, watching a little too happily as he rinses down the dishes and loads the dishwasher.

Simon just scoffs at you.

You glance at the time above the stove, disappointment settling deep in your chest. “Shit. I should get going.”

“I’ll get you a cab.” Simon offers automatically, reaching for his phone.

You shift side to side, twiddling your thumbs. “Y’know… we never finished the movie…”

Simon cocks and eyebrow. From the pleased smirk on his face you can tell he knows what you’re implying. He still patiently waits for you to say it out loud.

“Would, uh, would you want to exchange numbers? Maybe… meet up… again…?” Your voice is more timid than you’d like. This fear of rejection is new. Being rejected is nothing new for you, so why does it suddenly feel so high stakes with this one guy you barely know?

You don’t miss the way his eyes light up ever so slightly at the question. “I’d love to.”

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eupheme · 18 days

Note

Logan with a softie that he's trying to win over after the events of deadpool and wolverine pleaseee. Maybe she was someone really important to him back in his world but not in her world, thankyouuuu💖

oh 🥺💖 this is so sweet, I love this! this turned into a soft little thing about logan being your seat partner on your morning commute? (because wade made him get a job and there’s no way they can afford a car) - I hope you like it!

— right beside me

logan howlett x f!reader | 600 words | fluff

On the crowded bus, he meets your eyes. He knows you - met you at the apartment a couple days ago. A friend of Wade’s, a mutant like him. Works downtown, near the factory he picks up shifts at - just enough to cover some of the rent.

Knew you from before, too. The curve of your smile had hit him like a ton of bricks - a perfect, mirror image.

It still startles him now, even as his feet take him down the aisle. Folding himself in, when you pat the spot next to you.

Would prefer to walk, if he could.

But the city is too loud - too crowded. Sets his teeth on edge, and at least this early the bus is usually quiet. Easy enough to get on, slip off early and finish the last few blocks on foot.

“Work, huh?” You beam - rearranging your things, as he fills the seat next to you, “Guess some things are the same for all of us, aren’t they?”

Some things are.

And when you’re there again, two days later, it gives him something to look forward to. Likes the way your face changes - brightening - when you see him. The way you leave a spot for him each time.

And as the days pass, Logan starts getting off at right stop - instead of before. The extra fifteen minutes with you is worth it - your voice layers with the hum of the bus. Calming.

Gets restless on the days he doesn’t see you, though he pretends it doesn’t.

He tells you, some days after. Feels wrong not to. Something hushed and halted, in-between stops. A little gasp when you realize that Other-You knows him. Soaking in the stripped-down details like flowers in rain.

“I knew there was something.” You smile, your shoulder bumping his. It arcs through him like lightning, even through the worn flannel, “You just have a feeling when you meet someone, you know?”

He does.

You tell him things too, as the days pass. Filling the minutes as the city zips by around them and the sun fully rises.

Little things. Gossip from your job - catching him up on stories about people he’ll never meet. How you’re looking forward to autumn, all the frilly drinks you want to try. Vacations you’d like to take, someday.

He answers your questions his job. Others about Wade, when you pick up that he’s slow to answer ones about himself. Something bristling until he catches the way you listen - that soft focus, hanging on his every word.

The beast settles, then.

He gets you one of those drinks, the day that summer fades into fall. The spice prickles at his nose, sweet and cloying as it melds with the sugary foam.

It’s worth it, to see the way you light up. At him, and it sends something twisting in his chest. The gasp, when he passes the cup over - his name scrawled across the lid.

“You remembered!” You beam, taking it from him. A happy sigh, as you take a sip, “Thank you, Logan. You didn’t have to do that.”

He hums, brushing off your praise. Letting it settle beneath his skin, soft and glowing.

Something meaningful in the way your shoulder fully presses against his, now. The soft glances from under your eyelashes, when you think he’s not looking.

Maybe he’ll tell you someday. When he’s ready.

He remembers everything about you.

thanks for reading! 💖

#I was feeling like - soft forced proximity?? as the vibe 💖#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #requests #anons #eupheme answers

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rosiesmuts · 8 months

Text

Odd Atelier

BLACKPINK Jennie

Words: 4,000

Tags: 🍑

A/N: Happy Birthday Jennie

Probably the greatest birthday cake in existence. It's not the traditional kind in the very least. It's one that can't be shared among family and friends; can't be used for gifts or congratulations.

Outside of the walls of Jennie's bedroom is evidence of a party. Traces of her most loved ones that celebrated her 27 years on this Earth: balloons are floating around, streamers cover every room, empty pizza boxes and discarded plastic cups are everywhere. But now they're all gone—the only thing left is this magnificent birthday cake presented just for you.

Jennie Fucking Kim on all fours, her ass in the air, her winking starfish slathered in saliva. It's what she deserves—a fitting gift that honors the birthday girl perfectly. And you are the lucky gift giver. Slobbering over the woman that appears on billboards, magazine covers, red carpets and anywhere else hot women go. It's been thirty minutes of pure unadulterated feasting and Jennie's getting lightheaded because of it—her ass and pussy have been utterly adored by your lips and tongue.

So good. There's a fine art to eating ass—especially one that belongs to Jennie. Your face, chin, and entire jaw are a mess, so are the sheets under her knees. You can only imagine how thoroughly debased your upper lip must look right now.

It makes you throb. Having Jennie in this position. Her entire back is sweaty and arched like a cat. She keeps shaking because her legs feel like jello. You grip her right cheek with a tight palm, tug it a little before lapping at it once more. You reach her quivering ringed hole and lick the velvety skin with an aggressive flat tongue that makes Jennie mewl as your chin gets pushed against her cunt.

You can't help but plant another soft kiss over the rim, humming contentedly at how incredibly warm it feels. How inviting it is. And while it has been truly mind-blowing—to feast and devour the pussy and ass of a globally acclaimed woman… you've noticed a certain desire in the last five minutes.

Jennie Fucking Kim. World famous idol. Begging for everything while her face is smothered into a pillow. A pathetic, needy woman. Just for you.

Now she wants more than just your tongue. It's her birthday. She has presents waiting to be opened.

"Oh please..." Jennie whimpers. Her eyes are half-closed as if she was lost in a trance, only roused when your thumb slowly pokes the pucker. Your tongue on her cheeks, spreading saliva everywhere, getting her as wet as possible for what comes next.

You start to prod Jennie's puckered backdoor, teasingly sliding between her jiggling cheeks—earning you another moan. This would make one hell of a documentary if she was ever caught like this. Probably cause an outrage, too. Imagine the look on those thirsty fans of hers seeing their godly idol just... ruined. Debased. Mired in sex. It doesn't matter, of course, whether her fans would find her reprehensible for it. They don't matter now that she's on her hands and knees. Vulnerable in a way nobody should ever be vulnerable—not her. Especially not Jennie. But she is.

"Mmm..." There goes another sigh. A sigh of relief when a thumb presses against her crinkled rose. Slowly, lovingly, sinking into the deep confines of her forbidden place.

Her hips jump and you force her back down. You love her sounds; the soft sighs, and gasps. How can you not? Right now she's giving a little show, she loves the attention. Looking over her shoulder with an infectious grin on her face—an encouraging smirk, showing you that she's waiting on something a little more exciting. A lot more exciting. You raise your eyebrows in response. She purses her lips in answer.

Oh.

Of course.

"You ready birthday girl? Any ideas on what your present should be?" You lean back, pulling out a bottle of lube from her bedside table. Lathering the entirety of her asshole with it. She looks so damn gorgeous with her toned back in an upward arc and a sexy face contorted in an expression of pure want and lust.

"Surprise me..." Her response is a seductive purr.

The invitation is too hard to resist—especially since Jennie's arching back pushes her hips out and back, effectively shaking her ass side-to-side with a delighted chuckle.

"...OH!" The tip teases her entrance, making her entire body spasm before you're actually able to penetrate. Her backside is soaked, but there are some resistances as your shaft pushes, pushes, pushes… finally stopping only once the ridge of your head pops through.

Fuck, it's tight. Damn it all to hell and heaven, how is her ass always this tight?

There goes another delirious sigh. Hitched. Croaky. Slightly high-pitched. Another wonderful sound coming from a woman that sounds like an angel, looks like one, and sings like one. There are few things Jennie can't do; she's too talented. Too beautiful. An exquisite blend of form and function, pleasure and pain—both which she endures on a daily basis. All because she was made to be looked at by everyone, but never touched. To inspire all, but not to interact. Except tonight.

Tonight it's all about Jennie. The birthday girl always gets her wish.

Jennie clenches hard the further your cock invades. It feels absolutely electric—every last bit of it. The way her body stretches is nothing short of spectacular.

"Ah fuck! P-please. Slow..." She grits her teeth, digging her nails into her pillows, no doubt. She's trembling all over. It's hard for her to take, but she also knows that the pain will eventually make way for a sensational bliss. It always does. Her slim defined back is lightly coated in sweat.

"Slow enough?" You rub your fingers into her backside. A warm up of sorts before grabbing the cheeks with enough vigor to leave marks. Pulling and squeezing the soft flesh of her backside apart, lewdly examining where the two of you are conjoined, and with a sinister chuckle, give an experimental pump.

"FUCK!" She starts to shake uncontrollably and tries her best to remain steadfast, "Keep going..." It comes out as a pant. She's enjoying it, after all. Enjoys the little hurt it brings—gets off on the little sting you're able to provide.

Little by little, you push into Jennie's perfect heart-shaped butt. Into her ass that's incredibly hot and constricting—almost impossible to breathe whenever her body coils tightly around your hard-on.

"Yes!" She tosses her hair, biting into the sheets when your hips meet her ass with an audible slap.

You hold still for a moment. Rocking back and forth a little bit as the tight heat wraps you in pure silk. Almost overwhelming, considering just how tight she is. All you have to do is sit and savor the feeling while Jennie's chest drops onto the bed.

She's panting, heaving even, but she wiggles her hips in an attempt to get accustomed to your presence. Another meek sound of frustration is heard, causing you to release an amused breath as you stroke her back. When she looks over her shoulders—there's a wild gleam in her dark eyes. It's almost magical. "Fuck my ass like you hate me..."

And without further prompt, you pull out halfway before snapping your waist into her with all the force you can muster. That single action elicits a choked cry from her throat and then another and another.

You let it loose. Go all out. Use every ounce of strength and force until the two of you are shuddering and yelling, the obscene sounds of sweat and bodies mingle with moans and groans. It's so dirty; so filthy, yet Jennie absolutely loves it. In spite of everything she does for a living, her actual sexual appetite is simply unbridled.

Pulling her arms towards you, you gather both wrists within your right hand and pin them firmly against her lower back. Using it as leverage to ram yourself into her at an almost unnatural pace, watching in utter fascination at the way her back muscles shift and move, all to keep herself from tumbling face-first against the bed.

All the while, she's groaning. Slurring words incomprehensibly, asking for a little bit of pain—which you gladly deliver. Each slap is perfectly timed, enough to turn her flesh pink and vibrate from the impact, but not hard enough to do real harm. Just like that, Jennie is thrashing on top of her pillow, pushing back in an attempt to relieve the sting before grinding and rubbing against you. The little shit always craves more.

It's hard to imagine who's getting the better present here. For her, it could be the rough anal fuck she's been wanting for some time now. It's all she asked for all week—and for you, it was getting the chance to savagely pillage and conquer the ass of the hottest girl on Earth.

"F-fuck! I'm gonna-ah..."

Those words ring around your ears as they get muffled with her bedsheets.

"You're gonna what?" You pause to lean forward and growl into the shell of her ears. Tugging her arms and forcing her to arch her spine further until her back is kissing the skin of your stomach, causing her to hiss in satisfaction, "You're gonna cum like a filthy slut with her ass being reamed?"

"Yes!"

The thirty or so minutes of foreplay have certainly paid off. She started already wound up tight, and now her body is practically trembling, eager to let loose. It's impossible to prolong the pleasure for long; with a little more adjustment to the angle and speed, Jennie finally sings and wails—shaking and writhing her body on the verge of a world shattering climax.

Jennie Fucking Kim owns one beautiful little fuckhole and it squeezes every last bit of vitality from you, almost as if her ass was trying to strangle every last bit of life you had. Your entire frame trembles as her snug, grasping hotness envelops you in a hot prison and attempts to rip you off. For the duration of her climax, her hands scramble to grab anything and everything they can: her own hair, the sheets—the world, perhaps. There's a little bit of everything happening at that exact instant and you're almost too afraid to move from fear of losing such a heavenly sensation.

But of course, you move.

It's her birthday after all, she needs a few good spanks to feel fully appreciated. To let her ride out this intensity, her entire body jittering in pure elation. And you grant it to her. Delivering more spanks to her beautiful ass, reddening them further, adding to that warmth and almost euphoria-like state the superstar is experiencing.

Her pussy quakes and flutters. The feeling of cumming by butt alone is so much greater than it normally would've been. The tension was much more powerful, stronger in a way and almost addicting, despite the slight twinge in her cheeks and the noticeable bite of pain.

For a moment, everything is lost.

"So sensitive... C-can barely think straight..." Her head sways limply. You'd almost feel bad, if not for her pleased giggles and blissful sigh.

Jennie lies limply, spent beyond measure, all to satisfy her desires. You have to roll the idol on to her back as it seemed her strength has suddenly left her. All to ensure she doesn't completely collapse and possibly ruin this fun party for the both of you.

She's glistening in a thick sheen of sweat and her smile has never looked so brilliant and inviting.

"You're beautiful Jennie..."

"Funny that your greatest compliments come when you're fucking my ass." A sly giggle is shared. She raises a leg and holds it against her chest while the other one is casually parted open.

"What can I say? I'm a man of refined taste." You take the sight of her body in—of the woman splayed on her back like this; naked and satisfied, slick and supple skin glistening in a heavy sweat. The sticky fluids around her folds are starting to coat her ass as well and you can't help but smile to yourself in triumph. "Shame it's over already." You know exactly what to say. How to challenge her. And of course she's not gonna refuse. It's Jennie. Of course she has a few more tricks up her sleeves.

"Nope, this is just the beginning..." She smirks. The life returns to the doe-eyed beauty and the glint in her dark irises becomes nothing short of wicked. It's time for Jennie to stop being the submissive little bitch and take charge. To show that her famous curves are hers to own. Her beautiful body and devious mind is hers and only hers to use as she sees fit. You watch as she leans forward and puts both her palms on your chest—forcefully pushing you down to her bed and straddling you, grinding that beautiful ass over your stomach and making your unreleased cock twitch with need.

It's only 11pm and Jennie still has an hour left to celebrate her 27th birthday... and she intends on spending all that time savoring that delicious ache in her ass.

Happy birthday to her. Happy birthday to you.

"There's no time for a rest, right now I'm gonna ride you."

No complaints.

Absolutely none.

There isn't any way to decline Jennie. Not when it involves your cock and her ass.

After all, it's Jennie's night—the night she turns you into a quivering mess, the night when she puts you under her spell—and makes you fall harder than before. She turns up the heat—another degree hotter when she's at her sexiest, at her most mischievous and dominant.

Jennie winks. Her favorite, trademark move as her face glimmers under the twinkling lights. Her lips are slightly parted in that signature Jennie Kim pout and she's now putting her assets into a display of sorts; rolling her body slowly in an almost rhythmic motion. This dance, a teaser, and one that her fans would pay a premium to see, makes its way on stage: you.

Her toned lithe waist, the little things on her chest, and that godforsaken smile. So tight and perfect. Hot and inviting, and you just need to feel that intense grip around your shaft once more. There's no safe words here—not like Jennie will ever let you use them anyway. Her small frame begins to writhe to its own imaginary beat, shimming and shaking with purpose. The gentle rise and fall of her chest is hypnotic. A sway. Back and forth.

You want her. Badly. She holds your cock in her dainty palm and teases it over and over.

"This is for me and my birthday... Any objections?" Her smile becomes impossibly bigger. Playful and inebriating and there is only one answer that fits the occasion.

"No." Internally you're dying. She keeps pressing it against her starfish, but never quite giving in, only smearing the precum over the orifice.

She smiles in amusement, "Good." She leans forward, capturing your mouth with an affectionate peck on the lips. "Just a little longer. Wanna see how long you can wait."

And so the torture begins. The heat, the haze, and the melody of a sex-drunk woman.

A world-renowned dancer who shakes her hips as she rolls forward, running a finger against your pecs. She brings your hands up to do the same, telling you to caress every nook and curve of her. Make her feel that irresistible electricity that shoots straight down her spine when she's with you. To feel how soft her skin is and how malleable her beautiful little breasts are. She gasps with glee, giggling away in genuine amusement.

She rises from your grasp—her tantalizing curves a testament to her dedication, her passion. You swallow dryly as a drop of saliva drips off the corner of your lips. Such a lewd display has you seeing stars. Your jaw slacks and your eyes focus entirely on her figure—all its stunning contours, lines and edges.

"You really love my ass." A cute puff escapes her. A tinkling laughter before she fulfills out every one of your shared desires.

The snug fit is inevitable—after an incredible amount of teasing from your lovely playmate, she has finally chosen to go for it. Her back is arched upwards and she bites her lower lips when your rod enters her still raw hole—though there's a tiny bit of pain that never bothered her before.

"Shit..." Jennie holds your arm tightly for a moment. That is, before an unholy mixture of delight, satisfaction, and searing arousal overtakes her mind. This moment of weakness doesn't last for long and she immediately repurposes it. She bounces and grinds—each move has her inner walls massage your cock. You're in bliss. Everything that the star does is magical and you're so utterly infatuated. So hypnotized by the look of absolute indulgence. She's an elegant song, and a masterpiece to behold. The sweat pooling between her breasts only enhances her grace, a little bead trickles down her navel. She throws her head, luscious raven hair falls everywhere, and her eyes are squeezed shut, a guttural moan when she sits completely flush.

She rests for a second, catching her breath, still smiling all the while. Even at rest, she's mesmerizing. You notice how she holds your hands firm, fingers intertwined, she won't let you escape. You never wanted to.

The adorable whimpers of happiness are back as she looks up at the ceiling, rocking her hips lightly—teasing you, coaxing you for even more. With one smooth move she's rising and falling, faster, and faster still, going for a solid tempo that sees her hips pounding incessantly against yours.

"Fuck." a choked cry is pulled out of you, "this feels amazing."

"Oh yeah, you really like me fucking my own ass?" Her smug little comment is punctuated by a grunt and another hearty slap to her juicy cheeks. Jennie laughs in her unique sing-song way—breathy sighs and delicious whines. She bounces. And she bounces and bounces—both her beautiful tits, her raven-haired head, and that irresistible heart-shaped ass, too.

Jennie raises and falls on your length and her heavy breathing fills the air alongside her impassioned, sexy cries. She works so hard on top of you and pulls out all the stops: shaking her ass side-to-side, clamping down as she draws to the head of your dick, relaxing on the way down again. Jennie is a performer after all, and she can really put on a show.

She arches her spine back and traces a finger along her untouched flower. Teasing herself. That part of Jennie will be left alone, at least for right now, this is an anal adventure, and so her pleasure from that particular place will have to wait until later. The teasing is deliberate, playful, and a way of providing more stimulation to her greedy bum. It is enough to make her squeak in desperation. The urge to touch herself is overbearing, and only increased when you reach up and pinch the tiny nubs on her chest.

Her expression melts at the assault—completely uninhibited, free, and not afraid of getting messy. There's no one here to judge her. No one except the lucky, blessed spectator below and her own greedy one track mind focused on pleasure. On indulgence. Complete self-gratification.

The strain is showing. Her pace slows as her tired legs from exertion. And now you're the one showing her pity, running a palm over the damp hair sticking to her back, down to the subtle dimples above her ass. She sighs sweetly in response and then draws close, clutching onto your arms.

"Do something for me?" She asks cutely.

You smile in response, nodding your approval. Jennie relinquishes control, simply lays on your chest, awaiting for the moment your hips thrust in and out of her.

"Happy birthday," Your first kiss is to her cheek then your lips hover against her ear, "and to many more to come, Miss Jennie Kim."

Your next movement has her clamp a hand over her mouth in order to smother a lustful gasp. A roll of your hips followed by an upward pump. There is absolutely nothing that beats that first initial snap of the waist. Another after. You use one hand to steady her in her current prone position. The other one is at work, roughly pawing at her ass and smacking at the red cheeks, accenting each new powerful snap of your waist.

"Harder..." Jennie slurs with delirious elation.

You're not sure which one she's referring to, so you offer her both: pumping harder and faster as requested while striking her ass with enough force that the echoes reverberate across her bedroom.

"Fuu-ah... FUCK!"

For a moment, you're startled by her reaction. By how intensely her asshole grips, how hard she pants, how quickly she is cumming without warning. So much buildup and yet that's all it takes. Your chest tightens and you grit your teeth, fighting off the climax that threatens to shoot straight into her backdoor. But she's begging you, practically urging you, to fill that lewd forbidden place with everything that you got.

"You should feel lucky you know," Jennie moans between bounces. "If I let you cum inside, and believe me you'll be allowed to cum inside. You'll be the luckiest man in the world."

Fuck... No kidding. You already feel like the luckiest man alive at this very second.

But your legs are growing weaker, the knot forming at the base of your stomach tightens with each passing moment. The immense pleasure burning through you with each new throb. It's hard to stave off the inevitable release that is boiling just at the threshold.

You take a deep breath. Close your eyes and pray. It's the only way to stay sane—you have to remain in control for just a minute more.

"Go ahead. Be the luckiest man in the world."

Jennie offers permission. There is no denying her this time. And you'll do everything to ensure this birthday will be unforgettable—and you're ready to take that first step.

The idea of an impending explosion is intimidating, the reality even more so. Your body seems to go haywire—like a machine whose sole function is to thrust deep inside Jennie, causing her to spasm, her muscles to quake. Jennie moans. Louder and louder. Less controlled, less sensual. More animalistic and filled with need. Desperate sounds that don't stop spilling out of her the more you shove your hips into hers.

Over an hour of buildup all comes down to one single moment. An unceremonial release, both from Jennie and you. This climax, stronger than any, stronger than all the others. Your last ounce of strength goes to pin Jennie back against your lap, just as you unleash torrential floods of seed—soaking her, coating every part of her ass that is available and then some. At the same time, Jennie lets loose with an unrestrained series of whimpers and lets the warmth from deep inside her wash over. Let it run out between your tightly squeezed bodies.

A myriad of sensations hit the two of you like a tsunami: your entire frame erupts with sensation, shivers and shudders from the pleasure and euphoria. All around, your senses go out of focus, the room begins to spin, but not in that nauseous way—a heavenly sort of thing, and when Jennie purrs out your name in pure satisfaction, your pulse spikes. The hazy heady rush and feeling of ecstasy hits a crescendo, the pinnacle of satisfaction.

The breaths are still coming hard and fast. Hearts beating frantically. What started out slow is ending with a flourish.

She still has some time left to her special day but everyone involved in the intimate celebration is completely spent. Utterly exhausted, but content.

Jennie rolls off your body, uses whatever strength she has left to nuzzle against the crook of your neck, "Best birthday ever..." She presses an appreciative kiss against your sweaty, heated temple.

And that, to you, is a win—one that surpasses all the awards she has already achieved.

#blackpink smut #blackpink jennie smut #jennie smut #male reader

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yoongiseesawmp3 · 7 months

Text

u got it bad - san (m)

summary: baseball player!san x reporter!reader. you've been covering your local team for years. the players, the coaches, everybody knows you. except for newbie choi san. he just joined the team, but he knows you from somewhere...maybe the bar last night?

word count: 14.5k

warnings: lots of baseball jargon, afab reader, sex (some protected some not), thigh riding, oral (barely. m receiving tho), a little cockwarming

masterlist

you love your job. as a kid, you always dreamed of working here, walking into this stadium every day, and doing what you loved most. granted, back then you were imagining yourself as one of the players, but oh well. a girl can still dream, right?

you landed the job as sideline reporter for your favorite baseball team right out of college. they wanted someone willing to stick around for a while, and you recall telling them in your interview, "if i start working here, you'll never be able to get rid of me." they loved it, and they loved that you were a hometown supporter. it made your stories more meaningful, gave you a point of view that fans could appreciate. you were able to write touching pieces on the players, give the season the dramatic arc on camera that it deserved, and you treated everyone at the team with respect. that respect went both ways, with the players, coaches, front office staff...everyone knew who you were and included you as if you were a part of the team.

you had to work hard for that respect. it didn't take long for you to prove yourself, but it did take several sleepless nights and countless overtime hours to become the reporter you are. you know everything about this team, and that's what makes you so good.

because you know eveything, you obviously know that they're close to signing star right fielder choi san. you've heard talk that it's basically done, he flew in this morning and is set to sign his contract first thing tomorrow. of course, you had memorized his past work jumping around the league as soon as the rumors started. it was your job, after all, to know these things. you knew he was great on the field, that was easy, but everyone loved him in the dugout. he's the kind of player that remembers everyone's names, brings gifts for the team around the holidays, asks about your family when he sees you. he's a stand up guy, you hear.

you've also heard that he likes to play the field outside of the stadium, if you catch my drift. he's very popular with the ladies in whatever city he deems to call home for that season, and as you walk through your favorite bar outside the stadium, you can tell the women here already know choi san is close by.

one thing you do not know is that san is in this bar, right now. yes, he's signing his contract tomorrow, but he wanted to visit the stadium today, when it was still quiet. he likes getting the feel of a team before he joins, so he wandered around the empty stadium a few times before coming here to clear his head. upon entering, he sees his face plastered on all the tvs as espn does a deep dive into what his move here might mean. he thought he was screwed, that people would immediately notice him, but so far so good. he's got a nondescript cap on and dark sweats, so he hopes his booth in the corner is enough to keep him hidden while he has a celebratory pint. he doesn't report to training until day after tomorrow, so he thought he could treat himself tonight.

as he sits and drinks, soaking in the atmosphere, he has to laugh. he wants to stay hidden, but really, with his likeness and his entire career plastered on every screen above the bar, you'd think someone would know. at least look at him and make a comment about the resemblance. but it doesn't seem like anyone here knows a thing.

except you. as you sit at the bar, swirling the straw in your glass, you take a look around. there's some regulars that smile and wave, but for the most part it's not that busy. maybe that's what makes him stand out more. your eyes fall on choi san, all star right fielder and the newest member of your team, trying to hide in the corner. but his sharp eyes and broad shoulders alert you immediately that the subject of all your recent studies is here. and he's staring at you. you stare back, and he quirks an eyebrow, almost like a challenge.

you take the bait and make your way to his table.

"anyone sittin' here?" you ask in a slight southern accent, and san smiles. it's been a while since he played in the south. he forgot how charming it can be. maybe he'll catch himself a southern belle while he's here.

"saved it for you," he smirks, and you hum as you sit across from him. he sees your almost empty glass and states, "looks like you need another."

"ah, i probably shouldn't," you shake your head. "got an early morning."

"me too," san nods, that smirk still comfortably on his face. "so what's your name, beautiful?"

"y/n," you reply. you try not to let your heart flutter at the nickname, or the way he's staring at you, but it's hard. "yours?"

"san," he says simply. "you from here, y/n?"

"born and raised," you answer. "you new to the city?"

"you could say that," he sighs. "just moved here for work, but i've visited a couple times."

"how are you likin' it so far?"

"to be honest?" he makes a face. "it's kind of boring."

"excuse me?" you're taken aback. you don't take kindly to people badmouthing your hometown, and you don't like the mischievous spark in san's eyes as he continues.

"well, girl as pretty as you not taking me up on my offer of another round, that's no fun is it?" he teases.

"ahah," you laugh halfheartedly. "sure, i can see why that would upset you."

"i'm not upset, doll, just disappointed."

"well, hate to disappoint you further, but i really do have an early morning," you say as you start to rise. "just saw a stranger sittin' all by his lonesome and thought i would say hi."

"i'm glad you did," san raises his glass to you. "maybe i'll see you around?"

"maybe," you shrug, trying to bite back a smile. "nice meeting you san."

you feel his eyes on you as you return your glass to the bar, waving goodbye to the bartender before you head to the door. you turn before you leave, meeting san's eyes across the room, and you just smile to yourself as you step outside.

san is the first one in the clubhouse the next day. he loves the smell of an empty locker room, untainted by the man stench that inevitably comes with a roomful of athletes. he smiles warmly as he walks in and sees his locker decorated in welcome. he's looking through all the gifts, some regulation equipment he asked for and some just goodies from the team, as the players start slowly arriving.

the first to arrive is jongho. he's the catcher, and san finds it easy to talk to him. he seems quiet, but most catchers are the stoic type, so maybe jongho will open up to him in time. the next guy in has the opposite issue. wooyoung, the shortstop, immediately claps san into a hug, babbling a mile a minute about how great it's gonna be to have him on the team.

san gets stuck talking to wooyoung for a while, which he doesn't mind. they get along quickly, but as they talk the rest of the team trickles in. hongjoong, the second baseman, waves to san from across the room. seonghwa, the left fielder, carefully places his things into the locker next to san's, then gives san a wordless handshake and a warm smile. yunho, the first baseman, is spread out at the locker to san's right. mingi, the third baseman, is next to him. wooyoung finally leaves for his locker next to hongjoong, and next to him is yeosang, the center fielder. pitchers must not report today, because san scans the room and counts eight.

he checks the time and notices he's almost late for his press conference, so he gets to work getting dressed before someone appears at his side to escort him down the hall. she works in media relations and gives him the run down of the conference, explaining that the coach will do a quick intro before san comes up to say a few words. they'll shake hands, he'll sign his contract, and then take a few questions before reporting to more press stuff. nothing he hasn't done before, but san still brushes his sweaty hands on his pants to calm his nerves as they enter.

san hears the chatter of the press die down as their eyes fall on him. it's a big room, lots of reporters and cameras, and he smiles and waves as he gets ushered to the side of the makeshift stage in the front. the coach steps up then, welcoming everyone and giving a bit of insight on why they wanted to sign san. this team desperately needed a right fielder, so in all the negotiations it was basically just their operations team begging san to come play for them. the coach paints it a different way, and san does his best to grab onto a few phrases so he can sprinkle them into his own speech. the coach calls him up and san takes a seat next to him, falling smoothly into his regular "happy to be here, excited at the opportunity" spiel. he scans the room and recognizes a few faces, so he gets more comfortable as he goes on.

"i think at the end of the day, i'm looking for a team that i can be with for a long time," san starts to conclude. "and so far, i'm really liking it here. maybe this will be that team."

he goes through the motions of signing, shaking hands, posing for pictures, and then settles back into his seat for the question portion. at his other teams, he's been allowed to pick the press he talks to, so he scans the room for familiar faces, but media relations steps in and starts calling names. the first one takes him by surprise, and a smile grows on his face as he sees who steps up.

"y/f/n, local news," you smile back at san as the recognition crosses his features. "you said you're liking the city so far? can i ask what makes you think this team, this franchise, will be the one to make you stay?"

"you were at the bar last night," he responds, and you feel yourself blush. a chuckle ripples through the crowd of reporters as san goes on. "sorry, just. this is a surprise, is all."

"i agree," you quip back. "because yesterday you told me you didn't like this city. so i'm just wondering what made you change your mind."

"honestly? the people," he answers sincerely, holding your gaze. "it's hard to explain, but things feel...different here. i've never been with a team where the players are so welcoming, the staff is so kind, and the reporters are hanging out at local bars after hours." another laugh. "so i think this franchise might have more of the culture i've been missing from those other teams i've played for. that answer your question, y/n?"

"yep," you give him a satisfied nod. "happy to have you here, san."

"happy to be here," he smiles, and you swear the lights from all the cameras make his teeth sparkle. he keeps staring at you as media relations calls for the next question, and only when his attention is no longer on you do you realize that your heart is beating too fast.

today's only a press day for the boys, there's no actual training that needs to happen, but that doesn't mean the clubhouse is calm. no, actually, there's more people here than there will be for the rest of the season, what with all the camera crews and a few stylists running around. oh, and the fact that everyone who works here wants to get a peek at choi san. he left the press conference and saw a group down the hall, staring and whispering. san wasn't sure which way to go to find the locker room, so he approaches the group with a smile. turns out it's front office staff, part timers, anyone who works here that needed to see san with their own eyes to believe he's really playing here. he's charming as ever, learning everyone's names, signing things, taking pictures. he even stands by happily as an older woman calls her grandsons, and they laugh together as the little boys squeal in excitement.

san stays until everyone has what they wanted, which must have taken a while, because he sees the press trickling out toward the exit. he keeps his eyes peeled for one person in particular, and when you pass through the doors and turn san's way, he smiles. you stop, eyes focused on the notebook you're furiously scribbling in, so you don't see him. that won't do, san thinks, so walks over and stops in front of you with a sigh.

"what do you want san," you ask it as a statement, eyes not moving from your notes.

"how'd you know it was me?"

"i know everything," you look up then, meeting his smile with one of your own. "and you've got cleats on, so i knew it wasn't anybody from your fan club coming to ask for my notes."

"my fan club?" he laughs, but you can tell it boosts his ego. "i think they're just fans of the team."

"are you always like this?" you ask thoughtfully, and san says he doesn't know what you're talking about. "you're not cocky, but you're humble, and you're cocky about being humble. does that make sense?" you stop to scribble that down, and san tries again to see what else you've written. you catch him this time, tugging the notes just out of his line of sight. "don't you have pictures to take?"

"how'd you-"

"i told you, i know everything," you joke again, taking a moment to stuff your pen back in your bag. that leaves your notebook unattended, and san snatches it, running a few steps down the hall with evil glee. you stomp after him and fail in grabbing it from his eager hands.

"hey, this is good," san reads, his eyes scanning the paper. "you write all your stuff by hand?"

"depends," you shrug. "i started getting bored at the end of that talk and i needed to organize my thoughts."

"oh i can tell you were bored," san smirks, his eyes flicking to you. "i like the doodle of me."

"that doodle could be of anybody," you say as you finally snatch your notebook back. you put it securely in your bag as san continues to look smug.

"i think it was a doodle of me," he says as he starts walking away. "if you ever want me to sit for another portrait, you know where to find me, doll."

"where ya goin'?" you ask him, and he stops. he looks down the hall in front of him back towards you with his thumb pointing behind him.

"to the locker room?"

"that's this way dummy," you point, and you're pleased to see his ears turn red as he corrects his steps. you're heading to the exit, so you walk in the same direction briefly. san slows his steps to keep up with you, and he's so close that his hand keeps brushing yours.

"looks like this is where i leave ya, doll," he sighs, and you wave as you keep walking. "i'll see you soon?"

"you'd like that wouldn't you?" you turn around with a smirk, watching san as you push through the doors to the parking lot. "bye san."

san loves the first practice of the season. he loves the feeling of walking onto a brand new field, seeing the empty stadium ahead. at his his other teams, he's had to make this walk alone, his former teammates usually more reserved or too good to talk to him. not here, though. as he takes the field, he finds himself engrossed in a deep argument with jongho and wooyoung about the best world series team of all time, and san feels giddy. he feels like he did when he was a kid, playing ball with his friends, and it's only the first day of practice! imagine what an entire season here would be like. every day, san is thankful he made this move.

another reason for san to be happy he's here is, well, you. working with the press at other teams wasn't exactly a thrill, but rather a part of the job he had to get through. here he's eager to give a statement, always willing to join a press conference, just to have the chance of messing with you.

as he makes the long walk to the outfield for warm ups, san sees someone by the visitor's dugout who's not in uniform. he squints a little in the early morning sun and sees that it's a woman, but assumes it's someone from the front office. he keeps walking, but a laugh echoes out and san turns back to this mystery woman.

"y/n?" he shouts, holding his glove over his eyes to see if that'll block out the sun. sure enough, you turn from your talk with the managers to send him a wave, and that giddy feeling san had walking onto the field is back. "what are you doing here?"

"my job!" you shout back, and with that you go back to work. one of the coaches jogs by san then, tossing a baseball in his direction.

"stop shoutin', son," he says. "go throw that in left field. seonghwa will take you through the warm ups, then we'll come together for drills."

"yes sir," san nods, jogging over to his teammate. he steals one last glance at you, and he swears the sunlight makes you glow.

san is exhausted after practice. he knew playing for this team would challenge him, but damn. he's sore and it's only the first day! he's still catching his breath as the team mills about around him, and yunho smirks as he alerts the boys to san's condition.

"i think we wore the superstar out," yunho laughs, and san throws one of his sweaty towels at him. yunho screams and tosses it back, but mingi jumps in to grab it. "what the hell are you doing?"

"this is a sweaty towel used by the choi san," mingi says with importance. "do you know how much i could sell this for?"

"guys, come on," san laughs, snatching the towel back. "i'm not a superstar."

"says the superstar," wooyoung mumbles, and san contemplates throwing the towel again but decides not to, mingi is still close by.

"no, we get it," hongjoong assures him. "just because the press is saying that doesn't mean it's true. you're a part of the team, so you're a team player, right san?"

"yes, exactly-"

"please, i hope everybody is decent!" a familiar voice shouts from the doorway, and san smiles when he finds you standing there. you've got your notebook over your eyes to hide any naked players, but a quick sweep tells san that everyone is dressed for the most part.

"wait, wait!" jongho shouts as he fights to put a clean shirt on. some of the boys chuckle at him while san says, "dude, she's probably seen a guy shirtless before."

"but she's a lady, san," jongho insists. "it's not polite. and i don't like to have my nips out when i'm giving quotes."

"that's why he's my favorite," you say, finally risking a peek. "all good?"

to be honest, san is a little shocked you're here. it's kind of odd for a reporter to be in the locker room after a regular practice, but he trusts this team and how they run things. most importantly, he trusts you. but his shock holds true as you greet the team while making your way straight toward him.

"aw, she's just here for superstar," mingi pouts, and you make him hush.

"i have to publish my story on him today and need to check quotes," you explain. "i'm coming for you next, mingi."

as mingi celebrates, you surprise san further by walking right up to him and taking the seat by his locker. you're flipping through your notebook as he watches you, and after a few seconds you look at him then pat the bench next to you.

"come on, get cozy," you tell him. "you spoke too fast yesterday and i didn't catch all of your answers."

"because you were too busy doodling?" san teases, taking a seat exceptionally close to you.

"that was after you," you explain, but san sees your ears turn red. "can you look through this and tell me if anything rings a bell?"

"y/n, you may be good at your job, but you have shit handwriting," san says after staring at the page long enough for your chicken scratch to make his head hurt. some of the boys near him laugh, and yunho pops his head in to take a look.

"oh yeah that's illegible," yunho confirms. "cute drawing of san, though."

"go away yunho."

"yes ma'am."

you're able to piece together what san said in the press conference, so once you're satisfied you take a moment to type up the changes into your phone. you send the story off to your editor, but then start working through who else you need to talk to today. san is watching all of this, and when your eyebrows furrow in concentration, he leans in.

"i know what you're thinking," he whispers, and you have to shake from your concentration to look him in his sneaky eyes.

"what?"

"i said i know what you're thinking," he repeats with a shrug. when you don't respond, he keeps going. "i bet you're wondering, hm, is san free tonight? well, i am."

"i can't use that for my story," you tell him, and he bumps his shoulder into yours.

"this is when you say if you're free."

"is it?" you ask, gathering your things so you can move on to the next player. "i'm not quite sure about that yet."

"whatever, doll," san smiles. "you know where to find me."

you did know where to find him. you knew he would be at the bar tonight. you knew he wasn't supposed to be there, and you knew you shouldn't go looking for him but you couldn't help yourself. after all, you've got to take yourself out for a drink - you filed your first story of the season today. you deserve to celebrate!

as soon as you walk in you can tell it's a mad house. the bar is packed, and it reminds you of how busy it gets after a game. you wonder if it's just preseason excitement that has so many people here, but you don't wonder long. you're here for a drink, so you squeeze between two guys at the bar and wave the bartender down. everyone here knows you, so you get to cut the line.

"hey y/n," he smiles as he walks up. "want your regular?"

"yeah, but top shelf tonight," you tell him. "finished my first story of the season today."

"is it any good? maybe i'll read this one," the bartender jokes as he gets to work.

"i didn't know you could read," you tease, and you smile when he tosses his head back in a laugh. the sound draws someone's attention, but you're too busy flirting with the bartender to notice.

"and to think i was gonna pay your tab myself," he shakes his head.

"put whatever she gets on mine," someone says at your side, and you physically jump when you recognize who it is.

"san?"

"told you to come find me, doll, why are you surprised i'm here?" he smirks. you can tell he's wearing league issued workout clothes, but to the regulars in the bar he's just some dude in sweats. he's got a ball cap pulled low over his eyes, and if he didn't have such striking features you'd say he was blending in pretty well. "i thought we were getting a drink together."

"are we?" you ask. "because i don't recall you actually asking me." san dips his head, knowing that you caught him in a lie.

"can i get whatever she's drinking?" san asks the bartender as he finally places your drink down, and your mouth hangs open in surprise.

"what's this sparkly shit for?" you ask, flicking at the gold pompom on the toothpick poking out of your cup. there's also swirls of gold in your drink, and the bartender shrugs.

"you said you were celebratin'," he explains. "wanted to make sure the drink rose to the occasion."

"well thank you," you say as you lift the drink to your lips, mostly to hide your blush. san is watching this interaction next to you, doing a horrible job of hiding his disgust.

"here's your drink man," the bartender says, plopping a cup down in front of san. "her's was on the house. i added yours to your tab."

"how generous," san smiles, tipping his cup toward the bartender as he walks away. san turns to you slowly, and says, "he's nice."

"you shouldn't be here."

"why, am i interrupting your date?" san quips.

"no," you roll your eyes. "you shouldn't be seen here. lots of fans, you'll probably get stopped for pictures, autographs, kissing babies..."

"they don't let babies into bars, y/n," san smirks at you. "but thanks for looking out for me."

"isn't against team rules for you to go out during the preseason anyway?" you ask, knowing full well it is.

"i don't like following rules," san shrugs.

"oh so that's why you've played for six different teams in five years?" it's your turn to quip, and san whistles.

"you got me there, ace," he sighs. "so what's this about you celebrating tonight?"

"that's nothing," you try to brush it off. "i sent in that story about you, remember? well, it got approved, so i have a tradition of taking myself out for a drink here when my first story of the season is filed."

"taking yourself out?" san shakes his head. "no, no no no. that won't do. i'm getting you another drink, unless your boyfriend tries to pay for it again, and then we're going out."

"you have to report to practice at 7am," you remind him, and he groans, dropping his head on your shoulder.

"you knowing everything about the team is totally ruining my game."

"aw, you did a fine job of that yourself," you coo, patting his cheek. you cup his chin and pull him back up, and you hide a smile when you notice the blush on his cheeks. "maybe you can owe me? take me out for real?"

"i'd like that," san nods.

"i knew you would," you tease, and san reaches an arm out to pull you into his side. he over calculates and accidentally smacks the guy behind you, who turns around in a drunken haze ready to fight.

"what the-" he starts, anger in his swimming eyes. when they land on san, you both see recognition take over his features in slow motion. "holy shit y'all! it's choi san!"

"come on," you grab san's arm, tugging him in the opposite direction. you think there's an entrance out the back, so hopefully the two of you can squeeze through the masses before too many people catch on. as you drag san behind you, you hear the bar goers talking about the star in their midst. some drunk lady grabs sans arm and won't let go, and he won't shake her off like you tell him to. you get caught, the exit you were hoping for just in the distance. people start crowding around san, trying to wedge between you, but he won't let go of your hand. he finishes signing a bar napkin for a guy who definitely used a fake to get in here, and then you're pulling san along again. the crowd is starting to push, and they're all drunk. and rowdy. and loud.

"aw, look, he's already got himself a bitch!" someone shouts, watching you cling onto san as you push him toward the exit. he stops cold, looking around for the drunken idiot. he reinforces his idiocy by stepping forward, slurring his words as he says, "didn't take you long, son-" *hiccup* "always got sluts lookin' for ya-" *hiccup* "she's a pretty one too-"

before you register what he's doing, san shakes you off of his arm. he steps closer to the man, and you feel yourself calling his name, but in the chaos even you can't hear yourself. san pulls his arm back and clocks the man in the face, splattering blood from his now probably broken nose.

"SAN!" you shout, yanking him back toward you. "let's GO."

adrenaline and shock give you the strength to drag a stunned san out of the bar, but it's so packed there were people in the alley already. they weren't aware of what went on inside, so you're able to tug san around the corner. you rush him toward the parking deck, and thank your lucky stars you moved your car from the employee lot earlier. you shove san into your passenger seat, slamming the door shut so you can rush to the driver's side. as you start the car, you look to the side and see san sinking further into the seat.

"i fucked up," he whispers. you hear a quiver in his voice, but you don't press him. "fuck. i'm gonna get kicked off the team. am i gonna get arrested?"

"you won't get kicked off the team," you tell him softly. "and i'll call the bartender in a minute, explain it to him. just pray that asshole you punched doesn't press charges."

"y/n, i'm so sorry," san says, looking to you with a scared look in his eyes. "i just. i couldn't let him talk to you like that."

"thank you san," you say sincerely. "let me see your hand."

"no, it's fine," he insists, but when you touch it he flinches.

"fuck san, how are you gonna play tomorrow?"

"i'm so losing my job," he shakes his head, sitting up like he's going to leave.

"whoa, where are you going?"

"i have to go apologize," he says, trying to open the door but struggling to do it with his hurt hand. "shit, i have to pay for our drinks, and my car! i need to-"

"san," you say sternly, and he looks to you again with those sad eyes. "i'll fix it. ok? do you trust me?"

"yes," he nods vigorously.

"good," you nod back. "can you buckle your seatbelt or do i have to do that too?"

"where are we going?" san asks after securing his seatbelt. it's a good thing he did, because you whip your car out of its spot so fast his body slams against the strap. "seriously road runner, where are you taking me?"

"we need to fix your hand," you tell him. "i live close by, so i'll fix you up and then in an hour or two i'll bring you back for your car."

"thank you," san says. "you're saving my ass."

"just be really good this season, ok?" you ask him. "it'd be fun to watch my team win for once."

"anything for you, ace."

a few minutes later, you've got a sheepish all-star perched on the edge of your tub as you stand over him and wipe the blood from his hand. you already sent a text to the bartender, so that's cleared up. apparently, san was doing everyone a favor by punching that guy. no one likes him, so san's not in any trouble with the bar. chances are the guy won't press charges either, he tends to start shit around town so the cops wouldn't necessarily be on his side.

the main issue now is the team. there's pictures and videos floating around, and you were right, san wasn't supposed to be out tonight. he's got a missed call from hongjoong already, and you're helping san figure out what to say to the coaches now.

"just own up to it," you tell him. "they'll appreciate the honesty. and tell them you beat that guy up because he was being mean to me, that'll help your case too."

"no," san shakes your head. "i'm not bringing you into this. i don't want to hurt your reputation."

"do it," you shrug. "i was there. i was part of it. if you don't tell them now, i will tomorrow when i do their preseason interviews."

"are you sure?"

"yep," you reply. "it'll help take some of the heat off of you. sources tell me not everyone is sold on you yet, but if they know you were defending my honor it'll get you some respect in the clubhouse."

"do you have blackmail on all these guys?" san jokes as he tries to focus on typing a text with one hand. you're done wiping the blood from his knuckles, and you've found a small cut on his hand that you need to cover. you step away for a second to bend down in front of your sink, searching through the cabinet below. san tries to hide that he's staring, but he does a poor job. he watches still as you stand up and tear open a bandaid, but he scoffs when he sees what's on it. "you are not making me wear a hello kitty bandaid."

"so you want to get infected?" you ask as you put the bandaid on him anyway. you trace your thumb over it softly, making sure it's laying flat, but you realize how tender this moment is. you're holding san's bruised hand in yours, standing so close to him that your legs are between his spread ones. you take a step back, but san uses his free hand to grab you by the waist.

"where you going, doll?" he whispers, looking up at you softly.

"you need an ice pack," you whisper back.

"you're not gonna kiss it to make it better?" he pouts, and you laugh to hide the way your heart skipped a beat.

"that doesn't work you know," you say as you bring his hand to your lips regardless. you place a delicate kiss to his soft skin, holding eye contact with him to watch his reaction.

"you're right, that didn't work," he sighs, and you start to let go. "maybe this will?" he asks, bringing you closer before cupping your face and pulling you down to his lips. he kisses you once, separating from you with a satisfied look on his face. "there. i'm all good now."

"nice," you squeak. "was this all an elaborate ploy to make me kiss you? because you could've just asked."

"really?" san asks gleefully. "will you kiss me?"

"just did."

"again," he pouts, and you lean down to kiss him quickly. he uses both his hands to hold you in place, his lips caressing yours as he lets out a quiet hum. he pulls back just to lean his forehead against yours and says, "yeah, that's got healing power baby."

"you still need ice," you tell him, stepping back before he can grab onto you again. "come on. maybe we can kiss some more in my kitchen?"

san ends up sleeping on your couch. he wouldn't let you leave after fixing up his hand, insisting that you've done enough for him tonight. he'll deal with his car in the morning. you tried giving him the bed, but it barely worked. he wouldn't even let you finish your sentence before he started covering his ears and shaking his head. you gave him an innocent kiss goodnight after setting him up with more pillows and blankets than one guy needs, and you both went to sleep.

except, he wasn't there when you got up. you set your alarm earlier than you planned, but even then you walk into your living room to find all the pillows stacked and blankets neatly folded. the only sign that san was here. well, that and the breakfast he ordered that waits for you on your kitchen table.

san had to be the first one at practice, so he couldn't wait for you to wake up. he also couldn't burden you more than he already has, so he woke before dawn and got to work. his hand feels fine, not great, but he thinks he can get through practice. he's rehearsed what he's going to say to the coaches, the team, the press, and he hopes it's enough.

most of your work for the day will take place in a smaller media room that's been set up for your one-on-one interviews with the coaching staff. that means you have no reason to linger outside the locker room, hoping to see san and check that he's ok. you distract yourself by going over the notes for the first interview, and before you know it, there's a knock at the door. it's the pitching coach, one of your favorite people on the team. he pokes his head in and smiles, so you welcome him as you dive into the same spiel you always do for these interviews. you're a pro, and the guys know what they're doing too, so it should be easy going. but as soon as you sit down to start, the coach stares at you with a look that's up to no good.

"so you were out with san last night," he states.

"i wasn't out with him," you explain. "we happened to be at the same bar."

"i heard he wrecked his hand defending you," the coach continues.

"he wrecked it?" you ask, more concern in your voice than you probably needed. "will he be able to play?"

"he'll play just fine," he nods. "don't you worry. we all heard what happened. shoot, some of the coaches and me were sending the videos back and forth last night. i tell you what, the boy's an idiot, but we've let men get by with worse. like i said, don't you worry."

"good," you breathe in relief. "then should we get started?"

it was a long day, after an incredibly long night, so when it's time for you to leave you're exhausted. you've been all over the place today, trying to keep up with your schedule, tracking people down for interviews, and you misplaced your notebook at least four times. you can't wait to get home, shower, and immediately go to sleep, but as you approach your car you realize you've lost your keys.

"shit," you hiss, dumping most of your bag out onto the hood of your car. you're mining through all your junk, wondering if it's too late to head back inside.

"hey," san says from behind you, and you jump.

"jesus!" you whip around to stare at him. "you scared me!"

"sorry ace," he smiles sheepishly. "thought you heard me coming."

"obviously not!" you screech, your heart still racing. "what's up?"

"looking for these?" he asks, dangling your keychain in front of you.

"oh my god you're a life saver," you sigh in relief, taking the keys from him gratefully. "how did you know these were mine?"

"i recognized them from last night," he shrugs. "and from the mascot keychain. i remember someone saying they had a childhood obsession with phil the bucket?"

"stop paying so much attention to me, could you?" you ask as you start shoveling your things back into your purse.

"here, let me help," san says as he joins you. he holds your purse open as you slide its contents back inside. "i owe you from last night, so consider this my starting point."

"the starting point?" you smile at him, and he nods.

"yep," he says nonchalantly. "first i found your keys, now the bag thing, and next, i don't know, maybe i take you to dinner?"

"hm, tonight?" you ask, and he nods again. "i have plans."

"then cancel them," san replies. you can tell he's joking by the glimmer of mischief in his eyes, but you know he really wants you to say yes.

"where would we go?"

"somewhere nice so i can spoil you," san says simply, closing your purse and walking to the driver's side of your car. "can i pick you up in thirty?"

"thirty minutes isn't enough time to get ready for a date, san," you frown.

"yeah, but any longer and i'll miss you too much," he pouts. you cup his chin and bring that pout to your lips, kissing him softly before you pull away.

"did that buy me another thirty?"

"twenty," he replies. "maybe twenty five if you promise to wear something sexy."

"deal."

as promised, san is outside your building exactly fifty five minutes later. you worried that not having his number and vice versa would make it hard to coordinate, but you're surprised when you check your phone and find that he texted you.

"i'm outside, ace," his text reads. no 'this is san' or anything to identify himself. you know it's him, so you tell him you're coming out.

you worry briefly you won't know which car is his, but as soon as you step outside you let out a soft laugh. of course he's got the most expensive car here, and of course he's leaned against the passenger door waiting for you. he lets out a low whistle as you approach, and you could act coy, but the reporter in you has to ask, "how'd you get my number, san?"

"i'm not giving up my source," he smiles smugly, opening the door for you. "you look incredible."

"it's nice seeing you in something other than baseball clothes for once," you reply. you take his hand and let him help you into the car, watching intently as he crosses the front to reach the driver's side. you're turned to him when he sits, and ask, "seriously. was it hongjoong? one of the coaches? you know they'll be on your ass if they find out you took me on a date."

"i'm not telling," san smirks again. "you gonna buckle your seatbelt or you need me to do it for you?"

"why, you a bad driver or something?" you tease.

"says the woman who gave me whiplash last night."

"i was trying to make a quick getaway before you got stormed by adoring fans again," you remind him.

"always looking out for me," he shakes his head. "i think someone has a crush." you don't respond, instead looking out the window to hide your smile. "you not saying anything isn't helping your case."

"no comment?" you reply, feeling proud at the blush on san's cheeks when you turn back to him. "so where's the superstar taking me?"

"san, the very nice young man you agreed to go out with, is taking you to one of his favorite restaurants," he replies.

"you've lived here like a week, how do you already have a favorite restaurant?"

"there was a place in one of the cities i used to play in, i went there every week," he explains as he drives. you catch yourself staring, but he doesn't seem to mind, so you continue. "the nicest staff. best food. always packed. then one day, it's gone. the owner and his wife moved so they could be closer to their daughter while she was at school, and they ended up here. he gave me a call as soon as my trade was final." you guess a couple places it could be, but they're all wrong. "so ms. know it all doesn't actually know it all?"

"don't call me that," you groan. "there's plenty i don't know."

"enlighten me, ace."

"i can't do math to save my life," you admit, and that gets a laugh out of san. "i don't know how to fold a fitted sheet. and don't tell anyone, but that new stat all the baseball pundits are talking about? it makes no sense to me."

"oh, that's easy," san says, and he falls into a comfortable conversation about baseball. you always wanted this from the guys you date, but despite your work, most guys assume that you don't know anything about sports because you're a woman. you're grateful that you don't feel that way around san, and you start to relax a little bit. you're not on a date with superstar outfielder choi san, you remind yourself. just san. just a, what did he say, a very nice young man?

that niceness continues when he parks his car, rushing to your door to get it for you. he takes your hand to help you out and doesn't let go as you walk in, and you're genuinely shocked that you haven't heard of this place before. it's fabulous, beautiful inside and out, and as soon as you walk in you're hearing san's name called. but this time it's not a fanatic, just a kind looking man and his wife.

"sannie!" she exclaims, pulling him into a soft hug. "oh, it's so nice to see you again. we were so happy when we heard you were coming here. i think it'll be good for you."

"me too," san agrees. he turns to the man then, the owner, and they exchange a manly handshake and similar pleasantries before he turns to you. "this is y/n, by the way. star reporter, loved by all-"

"and way out of your league," the owner winks at you. you feel yourself blush as san agrees, and then he's escorting you to your table. as you walk through the restaurant you notice it's surprisingly empty. didn't san say their last place was always full?

the owner helps you with your seat as his wife explains the specials, but you don't see a menu anywhere. you look at san quizzically and he gives you a look that says he'll explain shortly. after some more kindness, the owner and his wife are gone, and you get a chance to really take this place in.

"if you're wondering where the menu is," san starts, "they won't give us one. they never let me order when i come here, they just decide for me. and it's the best food i've ever had, each time."

"can't wait," you smile at him. "is this place as popular as their last one, you think?"

"i know it is," san nods. "that's why i booked it just for us."

"what?"

"i told them i was bringing a date and they offered to stay open late for us," he shrugs. "i hope that's not weird?"

"no," you reply. "i'm sure they're used to it by now."

"used to what?"

"you bringing dates here," you answer. "i can't be the only lucky lady you've done this with."

"well consider yourself lucky, ace," he says. "you're different."

"like can't be seen in public with me different?" you tease. "san, i'm flattered."

"no ace," he laughs. "i wanted this to be special, but if you want a crowd i can call the team-"

"no," you cut him off, grabbing his hand that's laid out on the table. "i like this. it's nice."

"told you i was gonna spoil you, doll," san smiles. "get used to it."

"should i?" you challenge, but san just continues smiling as a waiter brings by your drinks. you feel your walls falling more and more as the night goes on, as you and san eat some of the best food you've ever had. he's fun to be around, you think. maybe you'll give him more of a chance than you were expecting.

"so. i have a question," san says after the plates from your meal are cleared. you're waiting for dessert, but you're not sure you can eat much more.

"shoot," you tell him. "i ask you plenty, so ask away."

"in the locker room, yesterday i think? you said jongho was your favorite," he finishes with a pout.

"that's not a question," you laugh. "you'd be a shitty reporter."

"compared to you, everyone is," san replies. "but i meant, why is he your favorite? were you serious or just joking?"

"if i had to pick a favorite," you start, "i think it would be jongho. i've always liked catchers, so that works in his favor. he's fun to watch, and a lot of fun to work with."

"you have a thing for catchers?" san teases. "why?"

"not a thing," you say, wishing you could kick him underneath the table. "but maybe? i don't know. catchers do have really nice thighs."

"and outfielders?" san tries.

"never stood out to me," you reply. "it's either catchers or third basemen." you start to explain how your favorite player of all time, the one who got you into baseball, played third base, and you don't worry about sounding too much like a fangirl. you admit to the jerseys, the baseball card collection, all of it, and when you finish you look up to find san watching you with an amused look on his face. "what? too much?"

"no," he shakes his head. "i'm just thinking how good you'd look in one of my jerseys."

"try playing third," you tease. "maybe i'll buy one."

dessert comes then, and your focus turns to the amazing food again. maybe it was just you, but you felt a sort of...tension when you were talking just now. you weren't planning on sleeping with san, really ever, but that look in his eyes when he thought about you in his jersey, maybe the date won't end here.

after another visit from the owner and his wife, and plenty of take out to last you a few days, you're walking back to san's car. there's a chill in the air, so you gravitate to him for warmth. his arm circles around your waist, pulling you to his side, and he squeezes your hip. you feel goosebumps erupt on your skin, and you wonder again where the night might be going.

ever the gentleman, san helps you back into your seat and places your food carefully in the back. you're looking at him now in a new light, imagining how his hands would feel on your hips without a layer of clothes separating your skin from his. you're so caught up in your thoughts that you don't notice san has taken his seat, or that he said something to you. you ask him to repeat it, and he has a happy look on his face as he says, "thanks for going out with me, doll."

"thanks for asking," you reply. "i had a great time."

"good," he nods with finality, starting the car without another word. he doesn't even look at you again until he gets close to your building, and all those thoughts of what would happen next have left your mind. whatever vibe you caught from him in the restaurant was gone, he obviously wasn't planning on coming up to your apartment after this. your suspicions were confirmed when he pulls up to your door, turning to you with that same sappy look. "i had a great time tonight, y/n. thank you."

"yeah, sure," you mewl, gathering your things. "um, the food-"

"take all of it," san insists, twisting back to grab the bags. "this isn't exactly on my in-season diet, so i'm not sure how much i could sneak before the dietician clocks me for it."

"right, thanks," you nod, laden down with bags as you struggle to open your door. "well, thanks."

"you said that already ace."

"right," you repeat. "um, so, see you at work i guess?"

"looking forward to it," he smiles softly. "text me when you get in?"

"right," you say again, stepping out of his car without looking back.

the season starts shortly after your date with san, so you're too busy with work to think about it.

except that's a lie, you can't stop thinking about it. how could san be so flirty, act so into you, and then end the night without so much as a kiss goodbye? you don't want it to, but it's bothering you.

you don't have a reason to see him, at work or otherwise, until the first day of the season. you're set up in the dock next to the home dugout so you can get updates or a quick interview for the broadcast. you see san for the first time in days then, sitting there with your notebook and a headset, as he takes the field for warmups. it might be your mind playing tricks on you, but you swear san looks for you as he waits for seonghwa. as soon as his eyes find yours he turns around, jogging to the outfield after. you shake it off and get to work, checking your notes to make sure you've got the info right for the game. san will be the leadoff hitter, and you feel a pit of excitement in your stomach at the thought of watching him play. just from watching him in practice you know he's good, but he's electric when there's a real win on the line. still, you don't let your thoughts linger on him too long. you've got a job to do.

the game runs like clockwork, and the team easily knocks down three outs to switch sides. you don't look up when they walk to the dugout, afraid of catching san's eyes again. you don't look up until you hear the announcer call san's name, watching his back as he walks to the plate. through your headset, you can hear the commentators upstairs in the press box listing off his accomplishments at past teams, painting him in this otherworldly light. he's a superstar for a reason, his stats show that, and the way they're talking about him upstairs shows that everyone is captivated by him.

the pitcher, not intimidated by the silver slugger he's facing, sets up his first pitch. it's a curveball, somewhere in the 80 mph range, and it looks like it's gonna be a ball. but san is confident, his stance strong, his shoulders poised just so, and you watch in amazement as he rears back and completely shreds it. the ball is gone before anyone knows what's happening, and your eyes stay locked on san as he rounds the bases. when he approaches first, he looks directly at you, pointing in your direction as he turns at the bag. your heart is racing, you notice, and you shake off your surprise so you can describe the hit in your already cramped notes.

the rest of the game is exciting, but nothing matches san's leadoff homer. you could tell that lit the team up, an enthusiasm in every at bat, every play. your team wins, by a lot, and you go through the motions of finding players and coaches to interview for the post-game show as fans file out and the grounds crew comes in. the one person you're hoping to snag is nowhere to be seen, though.

by the time you're done with your work on the field, the post-game conference is already over. you're not sure if san gave a quote there and that's why you missed him on the field, but you don't care. the team won't mind, so you make your way to the locker room to find the man who's been running laps through your head all day.

san knows as soon as you enter the locker room that you're looking for him. he's showered and dressed in his outside clothes, his jersey neatly folded on the bench beside him as you approach.

"hey ace," he greets you. "some game huh?"

"it was good," you nod. "nice hit."

"glad you liked it," he replies cockily. "did it for you."

"can i quote you on that?" you ask, and san chuckles.

"come on doll, why the cold shoulder? i did what you asked, i helped your team win. figured that would get me on your good side."

"i just need a quote about that hit," you stand your ground. "i'm risking my innocence the longer i stay here, so if you could just say something arrogant on the record, i'll be on my way."

san can tell something is up, so he returns your formality with some of his own. you're in and out in less than five minutes, heading to the press room to collect your thoughts before you shoot your editor a text about your incoming story. as you stand there typing, you hear someone come up behind you so you start walking toward the exit.

"y/n, wait," san calls, and you want to walk faster. you want to leave and not look back, but he adds a quiet, "please." and you take a deep breath before you turn.

"what's up?" you ask. "i've got a deadline."

"you left this," san says simply, offering you the folded jersey from his locker. "i...whatever. it was my jersey from this game. i want you to have it."

"what?" you're shocked, aware of how much it costs for a player to give away a game worn jersey. it may not be much to san in the long run, but still. it softens your heart and you take it wordlessly, searching for something to say in thanks.

"well," san sighs. "see you tomorrow."

"san, wait!" you call before he can get too far. he looks back at you hopefully, and you jog to catch up with him. "why..." as you trail off, you look up to him and find an unreadable look on his face. "sorry for being a dick earlier, i just-"

"no worries," he shakes his head. "i get it, the season changes things, so-"

"did you take me out the other night to pay me back for helping you at the bar?" you ask what you've been wondering for a few days now. "because, i don't know. i thought we...or i, um, i felt...something. and when you dropped me off, it was like you changed."

"changed how?"

"before that, i thought you were into me," you try to say nonchalantly. "but after..."

"you think i'm not into you now?" he asks sadly, and you nod. "check your facts, ace. i think it's the opposite."

"well i wasn't sure-"

"you want me to prove it?" san asks, taking a step closer to you. "or you got a story you need to get back to?"

"i have time," you whisper, looking in his eyes. they're darker, more serious, a little hooded. that tension you felt the other night is back, and it takes your breath away briefly.

"come with me," san's tugging your hand, dragging you along behind him as he leads you outside. a quick scan of the parking lot tells him you're alone, so he rushes you to his car. again, he helps you in, rushing to toss his things in the back. you're sitting there, his jersey gripped in one hand and your notebook in the other. when he opens his door, you mumble something about your stuff, but he cuts you off. "you can get it tomorrow, ace. i'm taking you home now."

"but my keys-"

"i'm taking you to my place," he cuts you off again, looking to you as he starts the car. "there a problem?

"no," you reply meekly, and san is satisfied. he drives like a madman to his place, not far from the stadium. he parks in the deck below, bringing you with him to an elevator close by. he punches the button to his floor before he pounces, cupping your face to crash his lips into yours.

"can't believe you thought i didn't want you," he grumbles, dragging his hands to your neck, down your arms, to grip your waist. "ridiculous." he kisses you again, pulling you by the waist out of the elevator into his hallway. he only detaches from you to find his keys, hands steady as he undoes the lock. he pulls you inside and doesn't give you a chance to look around, capturing your lips in a kiss again. you finally drop your stupid notebook, embarrassed that you've been holding onto it this whole time. you start to let go of his jersey too, but he stops you. "what are you doing, ace? told you i've been thinking about you wearing my jersey."

"what-"

"put it on, baby," he coaxes you, his hands guiding yours. "let's get you out of this librarian dress and into something a little sexier."

"san, slow down," you say breathlessly, following him into his apartment. he collapses on the couch, watching you with that same fire in his eyes from earlier. "what now?"

"change," he replies. "put the jersey on."

"not fair," you pout. "i'm gonna be naked and i don't even get to see you shirtless?"

san tears his shirt off in record time, sitting back with a challenging look on his face.

"your turn, doll."

with shaky hands, you undo the zipper to your dress, letting it fall as san lets out a hiss of air. you slide your arms into the jersey, amazed that it still smells like his cologne after a game in the sun. you kind of flop your arms out after that, like a 'what now?' and san pats his thigh.

"sit," he commands.

"what?"

"you ask a lot of questions."

"it's my job," you quip back, and san lets his head fall back in a laugh.

"you said you had a thing for thighs, baby. figured you'd be jumping at the chance to ride mine."

spurred on by adrenaline and the growing pit of excitement in your stomach, you do as he says, straddling his thigh as you drape your arms over his broad shoulders.

"what now?" you whisper into his ear, nipping just beneath it to drive him insane. his hands return to your waist, and whispering into your ear, he says, "ride me, doll."

you grind against his thigh, sucking in a breath at the friction. you take it at your own pace, going slow so you don't overwhelm your senses. san's warm skin under your hands, his scent surrounding you, it's intoxicating. you let your hips move on their own accord, picking up speed as the pressure in your core builds. you let out a breathy moan when he bounces his leg, and his grip on your waist tightens.

"how's it feel, baby?" he asks, watching you intently.

"good, san, feels good."

"then go faster," he smirks. "might feel even better." you do, gasping as a hand leaves your waist to trace over your bra. his hand dips beneath the fabric, pulling a breast free before moving to the next cup to do the same. both of his hands find your chest, tweaking your nipples as he watches you unravel above him. "how's it feel now?"

"i'm close," you whine, hips jerking as your core gets too sensitive. you try to stand, to move things along, but san grabs onto your ass and guides you against his thigh.

"if you're close then why are you running away?" he chuckles. "show me how good it feels, ace."

"fuck," you whisper, grinding against him harder. "i'm almost there, but i-i can't, san, need more. need your fingers."

"you do?" he pouts. "i don't think you've earned it."

"i have," you whine, squeezing his thigh between yours. "fuck. if you don't do it i will."

"show me," he challenges, and you stand before he can stop you. you take your panties off, tossing them somewhere before sitting back down on his thigh. you cry out at the new contact, your arousal ruining his pants. you look down and see just how much you're dripping onto his leg, moaning as san guides you faster. you pop two fingers into your mouth and then reach down to rub your clit, crying out as you come.

"fuck, san," you moan, hips sputtering over him as you chase your high. "jesus." you let your head fall to his shoulder, your hand stilling at your core as you catch your breath.

"so dirty, baby," he whispers, brushing your hair away from your neck to trail kisses across your skin. his jersey has fallen from your shoulder, so he takes his time leaving a mark on the exposed skin as you come down. "you look real good in my jersey, making yourself feel good like that."

"what now?" you ask again, nipping at his ear.

"you ready so soon?" he asks. "so eager."

"i'm afraid you're gonna come in your pants," you whisper in his ear. "don't wanna ruin the fun before it even starts."

you shriek then, feeling san lift you like it's nothing. he kicks his bedroom door open before dropping you on the bed, taking a minute to admire you splayed out on his sheets as he undoes his pants. you're still breathless, watching him undress, and you feel your breath catch when he pulls his cock free.

"what, don't think you can handle it?" san asks, tearing a condom packet open with his teeth. "gotta say, i'd be disappointed."

"try me."

san crawls over you next, trapping your hands in his as he drags them above your head. he holds them in place as he guides his cock to your core, slapping it against your clit teasingly. you moan, hips bucking to chase the feeling. he keeps teasing you though, coating his cock in your arousal.

"so wet for me, baby," he groans. "are you like this when i play?"

"no," you grit your teeth. "san, please-"

"please what, baby?" he asks, stopping completely. his tip is pressed to your entrance, but he's not moving, and you squirm beneath him. "use your words, pretty girl. you get this wet when you see me?"

"when i think about fucking you, yeah," you respond honestly.

"and how often is that? just ballpark."

"sometimes."

"every day?" he asks, pressing his tip past your walls. he won't give you more than that, so you whimper, and he smirks. "tell me."

"since we kissed," you admit, wishing you could hide your blushing cheeks.

"aw, baby's been desperate that long?" he tsks. "i'm sorry, doll. didn't know you wanted me that bad."

"just fuck me, san."

"ask me."

"huh?"

"ask me how often i think about fucking you," he replies with a shit eating grin.

"how often?"

he thrusts into you, pulling a moan from deep within your chest. he leans down and kisses you, biting your bottom lip with his teeth as he pulls away. then he whispers, thrusting with each word, "every single day."

he keeps thrusting into you, capturing your lips in another searing kiss. you moan into his mouth, whining his name, and you twist away long enough to ask, "let go of my hands. wanna touch you."

he lets you go, and your hands grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. he groans, egging you on, and you drag your nails down his back as you say, "your shoulders."

"what?"

"your shoulders. they drive me insane," you admit. "catchers have nice thighs, sure, but, fuck, you're built like a god."

"a god?" he smiles, and you can tell you're gonna regret saying that. "what else drives you insane?"

"hm, everything about you?" you reply. "you're infuriating."

"and you're close already," he smirks. "i can feel you clenching around me, baby. this feels good too?"

"so good," you nod. "can i come?"

"wait," he hisses, pulling out as you whine. "patience, baby. wanna try something else."

you let san move you how he wants, sitting up further on his bed as he props your legs open. he slides his hands beneath your legs, almost folding you in half as he cups your head. he moves you so you can see your dripping pussy, shining in the low light of his room.

"help me out, ace," he says, and with shaky hands you guide him back to your entrance. he thrusts, both of you watching as he enters you, and you moan in sync as he thrusts all the way in. he stills for a moment, loving the way you clench around him, and he speeds up, fucking you so fast you can't catch your breath. "shit. look at you, taking me so well."

"can i come now?" you whine, but he shakes his head again. "san!"

"wait for me, baby," he insists, thrusting faster. you can barely take it, but then his hips jerk, and you know he's close. "now, come on my cock, fuck-"

"san, oh my god," you cry out, bucking forward until your forehead is pressed against his, watching as you come around him. you feel him come with you, and you stay trapped in his hold as he slows down. he kisses you softly before he lets go, his hands carding through your hair as he helps you lay down.

"be right back," he whispers, kissing your forehead before he disappears. he comes back with water and a wet washcloth, handing you the cool glass as he cleans you up. you hand it back to him when he's done so he can take a sip, and then he leaves again to toss the condom. he collapses back into bed when he returns, immediately pulling you into his chest as he nuzzles his head into your neck. "can't believe you'd think i didn't want you, doll."

"this might be the first time anyone's proved me wrong," you tease, yelping when you feel him bite your skin. "mean!" he moves to lay his chin on your chest, looking up at you with warmth in his eyes. you brush some of his sweaty hair from his forehead as he speaks.

"do you wanna stay the night?" he asks. "please say yes. but if you don't want to, give me a minute and i can drive you home. but i really want you to stay."

"i'll stay," you nod, cupping his cheek as you stare at him. "you're really handsome, you know?"

"am i?" he smiles. "tell me more."

"that's all you get," you say as you flick his nose, and he scoots up the bed to lay his head next to yours. you're both quiet for a minute, thoughts flooding your head. you don't realize you're frowning until san whines.

"what's that face for?" he pouts, propping himself up on his arm as he stares down at you. "you want to go home."

"no, i'm just thinking," you pout back.

"about?"

"what will the team say if they see our walk of shame?"

"about time," he replies, kissing you before he lays back down. "i talk about you all the time, so i'm sure they'll be thrilled to know i finally got some."

"you're sick," you giggle, pinching him. "but maybe you should go in first. just to be safe."

"whatever you want ace," he hums, looking at you again. "you gonna sleep in my jersey, or can i give you another shirt to wear?"

despite your exhaustion from your night with san, you still had a story to write. it wasn't yet midnight, so after san gave you a shirt to sleep in you stayed up, furiously typing on your phone to get the story done in time. you thought san had fallen asleep beside you, his quiet breathing providing a sort of metronome to keep you focused. but as you got to a certain point in your story, you realized you need your notebook. you can't remember where it might be, so you try to quietly slip out of bed and go looking.

"come back to bed," san grumbles, making you jump.

"i thought you were asleep," you whisper, looking at him from the doorway. the sheets have pooled around his waist, and his chest is flushed. you wish you could just lay down with him, rest your head on his warm chest, and fall into the deepest sleep. but you've never filed a story late, and you're not interested in doing so tonight.

"i'm not going to sleep till you do," he answers, rubbing his eyes. he pulls the sheets away and slides out of bed himself, shuffling toward the door after you.

"what are you doing?" you ask, taking a step back.

"if you leave me alone in here i might die," he says seriously. "you looking for your notebook? i put it on my coffee table," he explains, placing his hand at the small of your back while he guides you through his apartment. you barely have a second to grab it from the table before san is pulling you down onto the couch with him, locking you in his hold on his lap.

"um, san?" you ask. "i need my arms." he groans as he loosens his grip, and you try to scoot over to take up the ample space left on the couch.

"uh uh," he shakes his head, looking at you with sleepy eyes. "you're staying right here until you finish."

"but you'll distract me," you pout, which san tries to kiss away.

"distract you, or motivate you to hurry up so we can go to sleep?"

"fine," you sigh, getting comfortable in his lap as you prop your notebook open on his chest. "keep that there for me."

"yes ma'am," he mumbles, closing his eyes as you work. you flip through a few pages and find what you were looking for, trying to concentrate on transcribing the quote, but it's hard. you're not comfortable, so you keep shifting. san's hands tighten around you, but you ignore it. just a few more minutes and you'll be done, but damn, is your leg cramping? you try to move again, but end up yelping when you feel san pinch your thighs. "baby," he whines. "stop moving. i'm getting hard."

"jesus, really?" you ask, shifting again to see for yourself. "oh hello there."

"stop," san chuckles, looking at you with hooded eyes. "are you almost done?"

"i've got a few more sentences, then i need to proofread it," you reply. "so kinda."

"alright," he nods. "keep working, ace." so you do, reading back a few lines to catch your train of thought. you frown though, feeling san's hands trail up your thighs to play with the material of your panties.

"san, stop," you tell him. "you're being a distraction."

"ah, no i'm not," he says, cupping you in his hold as he sits forward. he fidgets with something for a minute before resting back against the cushions, and you gasp when you feel his cock against you. "i'm motivating you, remember?"

"san, what are you doing-"

"just keep working baby," he coos, pulling your panties to the side before sliding his cock through your folds. "want you to sit on it until you finish."

"funny," you twist his nipple, and he hisses.

"ah, no pun intended," he smiles, "but happy coincidence. come on, i'm bored, and if i don't do this i'll fall asleep."

"then sleep! i won't be able to focus with you...in me."

"try," san kisses you, sitting back with a smirk. "i believe in you baby. now keep working."

you look at the time and groan, because you don't have time to argue with him. you watch as he lifts your hips and sinks into you, letting out a shaky breath once your hips are slotted against his. he keeps his eyes on you, taking in every wince, every jolt, every bite of your lip to stop from whimpering. you feel so full, and san is so warm, and you can't focus but you're almost done-

"read the story to me," san says next, breaking through your thoughts once again.

"hold on," you say, completing the final sentence before you scroll back to the top. "on the record i think you're insane."

"that's a weird way to start an article about baseball," san smirks, so you roll your hips to get him to shut up. you start reading your story, and he listens like he's hooked on every word. at the first mention of his name, he lifts you up slightly before bringing your hips back down and you stutter on your words. "come on ace, keep reading."

"fuck you," you breathe out.

"you are," he smirks again, and you grit your teeth as you continue. you speed through the story, but san keeps slowly fucking you as you go. you find a typo and he stills while you fix it, but as you get to the end he picks up speed. when you finally read the last word, you place a hand on his chest and he stops again.

"let me send this to my editor, please, and then you can keep defiling me," you beg.

"i learn so many new words being around you," san jokes, but you're not listening. you manage to send the story at 11:59 exactly, and you toss your phone away before grabbing onto san's shoulders.

"you need a hobby or something," you get out between moans as he starts fucking you again. "fuck. feel so full, san."

"yeah?" he sighs. "you feel incredible. so tight, so warm for me."

"shit, you're not wearing a condom," you realize. "get out."

"hold on," he whines. "i'll pull out. just give me a minute. are you close?"

"very confident in your skills," you point out. "we haven't been fucking that long."

"but i can feel you dripping around me," he says, pinching your hips. "feel you squeezing me. i know you're loving this baby."

"i'm almost there," you fess up, rolling your hips against him to get some more friction. he brings a hand around to your core, his thumb tracing over your clit so teasingly it's driving you insane. you collapse in his hold, your head resting against his shoulder as you let out breathy moans. he slows down, just to tease you more, and you bite his shoulder.

"ow!"

"keep going," you groan against his skin. "gonna come, fuck-" and you feel your high crash into you, hips jerking against san's as you come. you're quick to hop off of him, which he protests, but you sit before him on your knees as you stroke his cock. he's got to be close, so you bring his tip to your lips to suck him into your mouth. he lets go almost immediately, gasping above you as he comes into your mouth. as soon as he's done, he pulls you off of him with a huff.

"show me, doll," he rasps, and you stick your tongue out to show him his release. you swallow most of it, some drips sneaking past your lips so you sit up and wipe them off on the edge of his boxers, still caught around his knees. "hey!"

"you can deal," you tell him, standing with his help. your legs are shaky, and the exhaustion is really hitting you now. "come on, let's go to bed before you keep us up all night."

for the next week or so, you and san fall into a habit of going home with each other after each game. the first two series of the season are at home, so it makes things easy for you. you don't have to talk about what you are to san or vice versa, it's just understood that any free time you have will be spent with each other.

you're getting nervous, though, because the first away series is this weekend. you're strictly a local reporter, so you don't travel with the team. you'll report solely based on what the broadcast team on site is saying, or by bugging the team with phone calls. a little piece of you is nervous that san will fall back into his superstar ways, because he did have a reputation before coming here for having...friends...in every city. you try to push that feeling away for now, but it keeps nagging you at the worst times.

like now, san has cornered you in the clubhouse, kissing you in between questions for your next story and all you can think about is the trip this weekend. you're trying to focus on the story, really. the team is on an unbeaten streak, and some of the guys have cited san as the reason for that. word around the team is that his energy and passion for the game has made them better. you're trying to get something heartfelt out of him, but he's distracted.

"baby, i'm doing some of my best work here," he mumbles against your lips. "can't the questions wait?"

"i'm on a deadline san, you know that," you say as you put your hand on his chest and push back. "two more questions, and then i'm all yours."

"fine," he sighs, taking a step back. his hands stay on your waist as you talk, his thumbs rubbing your skin beneath your shirt. you're able to get what you need, so you stop the recording on your phone and put it away.

"you know, if anyone ever hears those, i'd be fired," you tell him as you drape your arms over his shoulders.

"good thing i'm loaded," san smirks. "i can buy their silence and you can keep your job."

"you know i used to be a clean reporter?" you pinch his neck. "you're really blurring my ethical lines here."

"i won't tell if you don't," he whispers, kissing you again. you stay like that, lips locked together, until a buzzing in san's pocket interrupts you. "ah, i should get that."

"who's calling? you don't have friends," you tease him, your uneasy mind wondering if it's one of his usuals from out of state.

"it's the equipment team," he explains, "they've never packed my stuff for an away trip before so they want to confirm before they ship out."

san answers the call, but keeps a protective arm hooked around you so you can't leave. you distract yourself with a stray thread on his shirt as he talks, and when he hangs up he places his hand over yours.

"whatcha thinking about, ace?"

"when do you leave for the series this weekend?" you ask nonchalantly, avoiding his gaze.

"day after tomorrow," he replies. "i figured we'd get an off day here, but they want us to come in for an extra practice to stay sharp."

"gotta keep that win streak going on the road," you tell him. "like you promised."

"exactly," he smiles. "so when will you leave?"

"huh?"

"for the series," san asks in an equally confused tone. "you're coming with us, right?"

"i don't travel with the team," you shake your head. "so i'll be here, wasting away."

"aw, you're gonna miss me," san coos, pulling you into his side as he walks you down the hall. "guess i gotta fit in as much y/n time as i can before i go."

"seems like it," you give him a tightlipped smile before pulling away. "i gotta go back out to the field, i'm doing a report in a few minutes. so i'll text you when i'm done?"

"sure," he nods, kissing your forehead before you go.

you went back to your apartment at the end of the day, tired and mind racing. you're not even dating san, why are you so concerned about what he might get up to on this road trip? you try to busy yourself until san comes by with dinner, so you're in the middle of washing dishes when there's a knock at your door. you let san in, stepping to the side in your small entryway to let him through. it leaves him standing incredibly close to you as you close the door, but once the space is cleared he stays where he is.

"you can come in, weirdo," you laugh. "do you need me to move?"

"no hug? no kiss?" he complains, pouting his lips as if waiting for a smooch.

"my hands are wet," you say as you hold them up, "so no hug, but-" you stand on your toes and aim a kiss perfectly on top of lips, spinning around quickly after to go back to the kitchen. "put everything on the coffee table, i'll get plates."

you walk into your living room to find a feast laid out for you. how'd you miss san carrying in so much food? you place plates down for you both, sitting next to san so your thighs touch. he piles food on your plate as you tell him about the rest of your day, but when he keeps going you make him stop.

"do you think i never eat?" you laugh. "why the mountain of food?"

"i'll be out of town for a while," he shrugs. "gotta make sure you're taken care of before i go."

"right," you nod. "thank you, but this is plenty."

"want me to feed it to you?" he asks with a sappy look on his face, but you know he's serious.

"i'll kick you out if you even try."

"then what about you feeding me?"

"are you excited for the first road trip of the year?" you change the subject.

"i am," he says slowly. "not much to see there, though, so it'll be a boring trip. especially if you're not coming..."

"can't," you remind him. "the big man won't allow it."

"but let's say, i don't know, a player on the team had an extra ticket to the game...then what?"

"huh?" you look at him confused. "what are you saying?"

"if i told you i got you a ticket to the game, would you come?" he asks sincerely. he grabs your hand and squeezes, saying, "i need my good luck charm there."

"san, i don't know," you shake your head. "how would i get there? where would i stay?"

"you could travel with the other wives and girlfriends," he answers. "apparently it's a whole big trip, they do this every year for the first away series."

"but i'm not a wife or a girlfriend," you tell him. "i'm a reporter."

"then why don't you leave the notebook at home and just come to the game as my girlfriend?"

"your girlfriend?" you smile. "i think i can do that."

#san #choi san #ateez #choi san fic #choi san smut #choi san fluff #choi san imagine #choi san one shot #san fic #san x reader #ateez x reader #san smut #san imagine #san one shot #ateez smut #san fluff #ateez fluff #ateez fanfic #ateez one shot

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marionthegeek · 10 months

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Stede is in the Gravy Basket, Izzy is Alive

The season 2 finale of Our Flag Means Death is odd. It hits weird. I think I know why. And this is going to sound bananas, but give me a chance to explain. Maybe you’ll agree.

It has a huge tonal shift. It seems to speedrun Stede and Ed’s romance. It feels like we’ve missed out on something from the end of episode 7. The fight scenes and pirate plans are nonsensical, even for OFMD. And most egregiously, a prominent character is killed off in a way that feels disingenuous to his story arc, just for starters.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. We need to go back to the beginning of season 2. The season opens with Stede looking more piratey than ever. Beard, sash, earring… oh he’s his own fantasy of a real proper pirate. He’s clashing swords with Izzy Hands and demanding to know where Ed is. He’s dreaming. In the dream he kills Izzy. He and Ed run into each other’s arms while screaming each other’s names. They crash into the surf. Ed says “I knew you’d find me, Babe. I knew you’d find me, Love.” Stede keeps asking if they’re good. Ed dodges the question. Then Ed asked about the smell. Stede wakes up in a crowded room with farting and shushing roommates.

At first I thought the finale was supposed to be just a “satisfying” mirror to Stede’s dream. Stede and Ed call each other’s names and run into each other’s arms in a display that resembles a more grown up version of Stede’s dream fantasy. There’s some wild sword fighting not unlike Stede’s dream duel with Izzy. And Izzy dies.

It does mirror, but I didn’t find it satisfying. All of the characters except Stede feel flattened. Stede gets to make the heroic plan (that we never even hear) while there’s at least five pirates with better skill sets for it in the room. Ed, as Blackbeard, was described last season as “History’s greatest tactician”; Zheng Yi Sao conquered China; Jackie just took out a room full of British soldiers. Izzy and Auntie are right there. You could make arguments that Jim or Frenchie, or pretty much anyone could make a better plan. Then Stede says “It’s only suicide if we die,” which is horrible considering the plan gets Izzy killed.

Stede’s really the only person in that room who thinks Stede should be making the plans. So I got to thinking, what if it's not just mirroring the dream? What if it is a dream? Last shot of episode 7 is an incoming cannonball. Maybe he’s unconscious.

Huge shout out to @Arty_Sunflowers on twitter (I’m not calling it X, fuck Musk) for pointing out that that isn’t the only episode that ends with a cannonball. Episode 2 ends with Jim swinging a cannonball down at Ed’s head. Stede’s not just dreaming, he’s in the Gravy Basket!!!! (Stede even screams “Oh my God!” at the end of episode 7 in the same tone he screams “Oh my God, I don’t want to die.” in s1e9.

Stede’s hopes, dreams, and insecurities shape everything in the finale. And it helps explain the absurdities in the episode when you remember that Stede is living out pulp adventure and romance novels in his head. (He even looks like someone on the cover of one in his episode 1 dream.) But Stede can’t be dead, you say. He’s literally the main character. Well, Ed was dead for a whole episode. Let’s take a closer look.

I could and probably will do another essay on Lucius as a POV character and Ed’s mental health and how the threads they seemed to have dropped aren’t as dropped as they appear. But all of that hinges on me proving the Stede is in the Gravy Basket theory. So for this essay I’m focusing on that.

So for starters we’ve got the cannonball scenes. They’re eerily similar even if the method of cannonball propulsion is different. We don’t know Ed is dead and in the Gravy Basket for about half of episode 3. Neither does he. It makes logical sense you can be there without realizing it for a while. Buttons even said Ed didn’t know whether he was in the Gravy Basket or not in episode 4. It definitely messes with your reality.

One of Ed’s issues is self hate. He manifests Hornigold as his companion. Stede is desperate to be a good pirate and have people be proud of him. And he lives in his fantasies a lot. So his dream shapes his experience. There’s a whole bit about Zheng needing “soft” and Auntie saying she’s proud of her. That isn’t their issue. It’s discordant with the show previously. But it is Stede’s issue. He’s manifesting.

When we first see Stede and Zheng in episode 8, they’re in a familiar spot for Stede, the bridge from episode 1. But why are they alone? When we last see Stede and Zheng in episode 7, several characters are within 5 to 10 feet of them. Did none of them decide to escape with Stede? Izzy, Lucius, and Jim are closest. But we know Pete was there begging Stede to stay down during his fight with Zheng. Archie was definitely in the bar. That's why Jim entered the fight. So why is it only Stede and Zheng at the bridge? Because, going back to rescue others fits into Stede's hero fantasies.

Zheng and Stede also argue about who pulled who to safety and how they got there. Stede waxes poetic about being a failure his whole life, but things always seem to work out for him. He’s such a main character mediocre white guy in this scene. He saves Zheng from two random soldiers, then she has to save him from them. Then they fight a bunch more soldiers on the beach until Blackbeard manifests in full leather from the ocean. It looks cool. But it's absurd, even for OFMD.

Speaking of Ed, he begins the episode waxing poetic about nature and calling fishermen simple. Those things are more Stede than Ed. Pop pop tells Ed, “You have no skills” which is something Izzy said to Stede in episode 5. He also tells Ed, “If you were ever good at something, go do that, you bum.” If Stede’s insecurities could be distilled into one sentence, it would probably be that. (He also talks about being like a wave. I’m not 100% sure it's a The Good Place joke, but it would be thematically appropriate.)

Pop pop also tells Ed he “ruined dinner.” Back in season 1, in Stede’s flashbacks to life with Mary and the kids, Stede thinks he’s ruined dinner. But remember, we also see another version of the scene where Stede is laughing with Mary and the kids. Stede isn’t exactly a reliable narrator. Even in his own head.

Despite it being beyond unlikely, Ed finds soldiers reading one of Stede’s letters. I know physics in this show is sketchy, but this seems like a good time to point out no one found the red silk. Stede wants Ed to read a letter and for it to fix everything between them. The letter, plus Stede being in danger, make Ed swim out, find his leathers, and emerge from the sea with them on, while the music is the Swede’s solo from Stede’s fuckery in s1e6. Stede wants to be rescued by his handsome pirate in leather, again, just like a pulp adventure romance novel. Little chance of Ed swimming out and finding his kit. Even less of him getting leather pants on under the water.

Back to the beach… for some reason two squads of soldiers are wandering around out on an empty beach. A visually incredible fight scene occurs. It honestly reminds me of Pete’s story in s1e2, including flips. Ed and Stede yell each other’s names exactly as in the dream. Like I’m pretty sure they used the same audio track. The same song (I Love My Baby, Nina Simone) starts playing. Ed says “I love you.” Stede says “I know.” (We’ll come back to the Han Solo joke in a minute.) They have a bit more absurd fighting then Ed, Stede, and Zheng sit on the beach complimenting each other. And Ed calls Stede “babe”. He’s never done that outside of Stede’s dream and this moment. He’s called him mate a couple of times. Babe is exclusively in Stede’s head.

Back in the Republic of Pirates, the crew are locked in a cell that is actually the “vista suite” at Spanish Jackie’s. Izzy gets a heroic entrance. It’s as cool as Stede thinks Izzy is. And he gives a speech that sounds like what he probably told Stede to get him to relinquish the suit in episode 5. Piracy is about belonging to something. You can’t ignore the wishes of the crew. Izzy also knows details about Captain Kidd and Pinocchio. Not impossible, but not exactly Izzy’s wheelhouse. It is Stede’s though. He’s obsessed with pirate tales and he read Pinocchio to the crew.

Stede, Ed, and Zheng show up just as Jackie has poisoned a bunch of soldiers. Stede makes a plan, despite everyone else being more qualified. Everyone disguises themselves as soldiers. Now we’ve seen the crew of the Revenge wear disguises. They never do the weird free styling they do here. Only Stede actually looks like a British officer. Zheng at least wears the disguise properly. Suddenly Ed has a multi gun bandolier like Blackbeard in the books. Pete ripped the arms off. Izzy is still wearing his vest. Doesn’t make sense if we’re going for stealth. Neither does not checking hostage Ricky for weapons or putting Izzy and his wooden leg at the front of the group.

If I'm right, Stede wouldn't know Ricky was behind the explosions. However, Ricky is basically evil Stede. He's Stede's perfect foil. All of this is reflecting Stede's psyche. So, of course, it's Ricky.

Izzy gets shot and says quite a lot of nonsense in his death scene. “They love you, Ed.” Um, 3 of them were going to leave like five minutes ago. Ed has made some progress with the crew, but we’re not at “they love you Ed”. The only person who thinks the crew loves Ed is Stede. Stede who weeps for Izzy while most of the crew aren’t showing much emotion. Stede can barely deal with his own big feelings. His fantasy doesn’t give the crew room to have them. Also, given the rest of the season, having Jim just let Ed be the person cradling Izzy doesn’t fit. The crew is also pretty stony at Izzy’s funeral.

I feel like it should be noted the last shot of Izzy in episode 7, he’s got one are around Jim and a hand on Lucius’s shoulder. He sat in Wee John’s lap in episode 6. Reactions to his death don’t make sense.

Also, Izzy’s terrible grave marker is very … Stede. He’d think it was a brilliant idea.

I didn't understand at first why Izzy had to die, even in Stede's dream world. Stede clearly likes him a lot better now. Why kill him? Well, it's because we're supposed to think Buttons is there to go to the Gravy Basket for Izzy. When actually he's already arrived in the Gravy Basket and he's there for Stede. Also, mentors die in pulp adventure novels. Stede sees Izzy as a mentor.

They go aboard the Revenge for Lucius and Pete’s wedding. It’s cute that the crew performs the ceremony, but I’d venture a guess that’s because Stede doesn’t know a captain should do it if it's legally binding. Stede does love the romance of it all. The sudden uptick in monogamy is also very Stede. He barely understands monogamous relationships. Polyamory is beyond him.

Then Stede and Ed, who earlier told Zheng they’d help hunt Ricky, go back to the island where Izzy is buried to start an inn in a run down shack. Stede knows Ed wants to do this because Ed told the (Taika’s) kids that they ran an inn. We hear Ed ask “Jesus, what is that smell?” Now, at first, I thought Izzy, because Ed “knows the smell of my rotting first mate”. But what was the last thing to happen in Stede’s dream? A fart joke.

Last scene is Buttons landing on Izzy’s grave. To retrieve Izzy from the Gravy Basket? No, Izzy’s not dead. He’s with Jim and Lucius, probably watching over Stede’s corpse. Buttons is there to retrieve Stede.

This theory fixes the plot holes and dropped threads problem. We’re coming back to them next season. Ed's amends making should be far from over. And we see several moments during the season where he acknowledged that. And yet here on the island they've set up a horror movie and called it a happy ending. Well, Stede is the type of boss who thinks things are fixed with a pizza (Calypso) party. In Stede's mind, this is a happy ending. But really Ed is still off finding himself, Stede is (temporarily) dead, and Izzy (who is not dead!) is probably guarding Stede's corpse.

They haven't resolved the domestic violence thread, but they haven't dropped it, either. Izzy is alive. Stede and Ed aren't together (yet). There's still time.

This also explains some of the freewheeling nonsense David Jenkins has been spouting in articles. Ed doesn’t see Izzy as a father figure and mentor, Stede does. Stede almost turned to mush when Izzy approved of him. And David is writing a three volume adventure novel. Han Solo (Stede) is in carbonate (the Gravy Basket). The perfect end to the second act. See, I told you we’d get back to the Han Solo joke.

I still have problems with the season. I really think they need a sensitivity reader. Even just implying a newly disabled character was fridged is certainly a choice. Especially given the amount of time devoted to how the character handled the disability. The DV scenes were brutal, as well as the suicide attempt, and the Human Puppet joke. I think they need someone trauma informed and disabled in the writer's room. (David Jenkins hit me up!)

Overall, I liked season 2. Especially once I realized Izzy wasn't dead. I'm looking forward to season 3, the conclusion of the Gentle Beard arc, and hopefully 6 seasons and a movie of Izzy (to be clear, he's not captain) and the kids sailing up and down the coast being gay and doing crimes, occasionally checking in with Stede and Ed.

Seriously, David, call me.

Historical Note: IRL Blackbeard died on November 22, 1718, killed in a naval battle off Ocracoke Island in North Carolina. IRL Stede Bonnet died December 10, 1718, hanged in Charles Town, South Carolina for piracy. IRL Israel “Izzy” Hands survives piracy, death date unknown. I know this show doesn’t actually care about historical accuracy, but this lends a little support for my Ed died, then Stede died, and Izzy isn’t dead theory.

#our flag means death #ofmd #izzy hands #stede bonnet #gravy basket #Izzy Hands lives #David Jenkins I just want to talk

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starqueensthings · 5 months

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We need to talk about Echo (and by talk I mean screm). S3 E13 + 14 Spoilers!

FRIENDS, I'M GOING TO EXPLODE. I need to talk about Echo for a minute. We need to talk about Echo for a minute, because he has spent the last two episodes in the absolute thralls of complete and total danger, and I personally don't feel like there's been enough of a celebratory uproar for me to be satisfied with the level of appreciation and love that man deserves. (Remember when Hunter ran face first into a colossal exhaust pipe and we all collectively lost our minds because it was so impressive and so sexy? Remember when Tech drove a speeder really fast through a tunnel and we all fainted? I'M A TECH GIRLY. IT WAS ME! I FAINTED!!) but, Y'ALL, Echo deserves that right now!! And for all eternity!!! Because he is wholly submurged in the harrowing potential of torture and execution, and he didn't even bat an eye to put himself there. My awe of him is all-consuming, so please forgive me if this rant reads as nothing but incoherent screaming.

Echo haters (first of all, we can't be friends....) come on this journey with me! Let's back pedal to the beginning of the last episode (13). He stole an imperial shuttle. Let me repeat, he stole an imperial shuttle. And not just an attack shuttle. Not just a lil one-pilot transport. Bro somehow stole a Rho-class medical transport, which is very large, obscenely conspicuous, and very easily tracked. And, to use his own words, it was "the best he could do on short notice." The man stole a shuttle on short notice. ON SHORT NOTICE? HELLO, HOW DID HE DO THAT. WHY AIN'T WE LOSING OUR COOL ABOUT IT.

Next stop on this I-love-Echo journey through my mind: not only did he provide his brothers transportation in the complete void of their own (RIP havoc bb), but he also came equipped with intel and clearance codes, and, as Rampart stated, those things change DAILY. Echo somehow procured top secret imperial clearance codes, and a fkn SHIP, within hours of the Batch requesting his help. Not to mention, the ship had yet to be reported missing (which means it was only-freshly commandeered), and the clearance codes worked. Of course they did. Echo never fails. Never doubt Echo. "Echo's on it."

Choochoo, next stop! Once they arrived on that station orbiting Coruscant, and made their way to the control room (lookin sexy as heck in his armour-au-noir), he broke imperial encryption, hacked into the Imperial database, almost instantly found them the location of a ship departing for the prison that holds their daughter Tantiss, AND THEN DIDN'T EVEN HESITATE TO CLIMB ABOARD AND STOW AWAY.

He didn't even remotely have a plan, or have time to make a plan. He didn't know who or what else would be on board that mysterious vessel. He didn't know where it was going other than the name of the fkn mountain (which has proven to be nothing but unhelpful thus far). He just ARC-troopered his way through that crowded hangar, dodging aggressive astromech's and inconsiderate loader droids, shirking from the perspective eyes of highly trained commandos, and snuck his way onto a heavily guarded, extremely unknown science vessel. Then, of course, he wasted no time, hacking into the ships control system (may I gently remind- there were at least three pilots and an officer prepping the ship for jump and closely watching all aspects of its controls), disabling the proximity sensors without being detected, and then seamlessly covered the troopers absence by pretending to be him (which we all know is what should have happened on Serenno but... hindsight is 20/20.)

So... SO.... now we're at Episode 14. Here we at fkn terrified station because HULLO ECHO IS ALONE ON A SCIENCE DIVISION TRANSPORT; we have literally seen them carry around Zilo beasts in that shit. What the heck else could be on there that they don't know about? Literally anything. Because THEY KNEW NOTHING before attaching themselves to it. Echo knew NOTHING before sneaking onto that thing and creepin' around. Thank heck he didnt come across a fkn fresh wave of slither vines ok?

NEXT, Echo shoots (not stuns- lol) a sassy fkn droid (they had it coming, not sorry), then another trooper. AND THEN discovered his only option for departing the ship once it enters atmosphere is going completely undercover, because (in true "we improvise everything" CF99 fashion that gives me heart burn just thinking about it), they had zero fkn plan to get off the ship. I will repeat: completely undercover. On Tantiss. COMPLETELY UNDERCOVER ON TANTISS. NO COMMS, NO BACK UP, NO RECON, NO PLAN, BARELY ANY GEAR, and I would just like to stress... no neuro brace. He left his neurobrace on that ship. Left it. LEFT IT AND TOOK A HAND INSTEAD. PLEASE FKN SEDATE ME.

We can't leave this station yet... This I-love-Echo train needs to linger at this point for a sec because I think it's lost on some people how wild this is. Echo without his neurobrace is huge. It's a bigger deal than Echo without his armour. Armour is, in the grand scheme of things, inconsequential (one can find more- see Howzer). Echo's neurobrace is not armour, it's a computer and it's so so so crucial to how his mind processes information and events. Don't forget, the Technounion HIJACKED HIS BRAIN. They took every memory from him and manipulated it for their gain. Pruned it, tweaked it, blanched it, poached it, turned it into scrambled eggs, and then fkn ate it up and used it to defeat their enemies (Echo's family- I'm sobbing). They implanted him with an unfathomable amount of information; they changed the way the neurons in his brain fire in relation to stimuli. That neurobrace is so so critical for him. Now, we know he can operate well enough without it, we saw it in the last episode of the TBB arc in season 7 of Clone Wars, but... please.... to what extent? We don't know what an extended time without that neurobrace looks like for him... especially when all other aspects compliing his surroundings foreign, unknown, and dangerous, and that scares me.

AND NOW HE'S ABOUT TO RUN AMOK IN TANTISS with Emerie who, (I'm sorry) is wishy-washy as heck (who are you loyal to!!!!! What is your history!!! Are you trustworthy and what are you looking to gain!!!), trying to adopt a collection of Jedi children whove spent maker-knows how long playing space tetris, WHILST ALSO ATTEMPTING TO LOCATE AND ESCAPE WITH HIS BROTHERS UNDER THE EYE OF THE GALAXY'S SECOND MOST DANGEROUS MAN.

So yes, short of d-d-d-di... can't say it... short of THE WORST CASE, Echo has made the ultimate sacrifice to save not only Omega who is literally the only person we've seen able to make him truly laugh, but all the clone brothers that he's been desperately trying to locate and rescue. His bravery and determination are literally unrivalled, and he did it while feasting on nothing but humble pie because that man wouldn't know arrogance if it danced naked under his perfect nose.

Okay so welcome, we've finally pulled into I-Love-Echo station. Before departing the ride, please stand and do a hip hip hurray for the miracle that is Echo, including but not limited to, everything he's done, is doing, and is willing to do for other people.

#starqueensemotionalbreaksdowns lol #long post #the bad batch #tbb #bad batch #tbb spoilers #the bad batch spoilers #the bad batch season 3 #the bad batch season 3 spoilers #bad batch season 3 #bad batch spoilers #bad batch season 3 spoilers #tbb season 3 #tbb season 3 spoilers #starqueensedits #tbb echo #echo tbb #bad batch echo #echo bad batch

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s4lv4tions · 1 year

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numerology; nsfw

pairing; gojo satoru x reader / gojo satoru x geto suguru (past) / geto suguru x reader (past) summary; numerology — the belief in an occult, divine or mystical relationship between a number and one or more coinciding events. or: trying to move on. wc; 13.4k cw; death, angst, requited unrequited love, violence, smut (at the very end, but mentions throughout), canon divergence, spoilers for manga an; if you think you've read this before, you probably have! i posted this on my old tumblr a year or so ago, and it's still available on my ao3. this version is slightly updated and edited, but still diverges from canon as it was created at the start of the culling games arc :)

The first time you bathe with Satoru, he cries.

You don't notice at first; he's quiet — abnormally so —, and his face remains pristine, unchanged. The only hint you get is a small, barely audible sniffle that stops as quickly as it starts — and you think he wants it that way. You don't think he's ever cried in front of anyone.

That's why you don't say anything. Just continue washing the suds from his hair, and pretend that the tears rolling down his cheeks are beads of water dripping from his hair — but you take extra care to massage the conditioner in, and peck his cheek as you finger-comb through silky, cloud-white strands.

It occurs to you afterwards — as he lounges on your bed, scrolling through channels with a wayward hand planted on his stomach — that perhaps, it's the first time somebody has taken care of him. The first time ever, or just the first time since… since…

Geto Suguru's face smiles up at you from your vanity — a tiny polaroid, his face no bigger than the nail of your thumb. Beside him, Satoru grins, cheeky and bright-eyed — you don't think he's ever been any different —, and in the corner, the smudge of your thumb covers the lens. You don’t have to lift the photo and check the back to know what’s written there, in your scratchy, looping scrawl; the strongest, 2006.

"Lord of the Rings?" Satoru calls, carefree as ever. A yawn catches in his throat, and his fingers slip underneath his shirt to scratch absentmindedly at his chest. "Ooh, haven't seen this one yet…"

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

It was a better time. Less pain. Less responsibility. Less death — or maybe the same amount, just shielded by the blinding cover of childhood inexperience. Suguru was still alive and burning bright, Satoru was happy (happier. He didn't cry in the bath, at least). Shoko didn’t self-medicate as intensively as she does now. The days were spent in childish ignorance and stupid indulgence, and even when things seemed their darkest, you never lost hope.

(It probably says a lot about you that, if given the chance, you wouldn't return. Whether that's because of what you know is bound to happen, and the pain is too much to experience again, or because you're so utterly pathetic that you'll take sadness and grief and a tiny shred of affection over… whatever it is you were back then, you don't know. A smudge in the corner of a picture of the jujutsu world's greatest.)

Suguru's eyes seem to burn into you. You turn the picture over, and rejoin Satoru on your bed.

"It's been two years."

Satoru doesn't like to talk after sex. Not in any way that's really meaningful, you mean, nothing that lets you in. He loves jokes, empty small talk, work politics. Chatter that's deep enough to show he cares a little without bearing any part of himself — your injury healed up? When was the last time you had a break? There's a new teppanyaki place in Shinjuku, I'll treat you. Don't work yourself too hard, you'll put me out of business!

If you're being honest, you didn't go into this expecting anything more than a person to scratch an itch with.

You're already friends — though, you're not sure friends totally encapsulates what Satoru is to you, romantic or platonic. You've been friends since you were 12. Satoru, Suguru, you — and then Shoko, when you all met in your first year at Jujutsu Tech. That's how it's always been.

You swear sometimes you know him better than yourself. You swear sometimes it's his voice you think with. Is that what "friends" encompasses? Somehow, it doesn't seem enough.

Whatever. The point is that your relationship with Satoru is already strong; foundations tall and proud and unshakeable. You didn't start fucking Satoru in the hopes of forming a relationship — one was already there.

It's just... Satoru is young, yes, and he enjoys flirting, but (contrary to common belief) he's not all that keen to sleep with the first person who's willing. You don’t say this with the belief that you’re special. It’s just that with work, and especially with — y'know, his… romantic history, Satoru hasn’t found the time or will to just sleep around. At least, according to him.

Sheer willpower isn't enough to make those urges go away, though, and… well, you had them too, and you were willing, and he trusts you. And you'll take anything he'll give you, really, even if it's just scraps. Even if sometimes it makes you feel worse.

Today's one of those days.

You feel sick, after. Not because of him — because of yourself. Your polaroid of Getou and any other photo he's in has been turned over, anything that could remind you of him tucked away, but — but he's everywhere today, everywhere, and you'd fucked Satoru despite it. And Satoru is covered in memories of Getou, of course. Every freckle, every shifting of muscle, every jut of bone — did Getou touch him here? Caress every bit of him he could get his hands on? Tangle his hands in his snow-white hair, breathe against his collarbone?

When you came, you cried. Pretended it was just because it was so intense, but behind your eyelids, dark, cat-like eyes stared back.

"Hm?" Satoru hums as if he didn't hear you, eyes fixed on the TV. Dumb doesn't suit him — it's honestly a bit of an insult for him to even try it. Like you didn't sense the stiffness of his limbs the second he'd stepped inside, or the crumbling edge of his smile, or the way he'd forced you to love him harder — pull his hair harder, scratch his back deeper, his Infinity turned off and his skin yours for the marking.

Satoru's mannerisms are scribed into your brain. You catch yourself emulating them, sometimes; hands waving, head tilting, grin wide and posture open. You wear it like an oversized coat, an ill-fitting costume, and sometimes you wish you could stop taking on pieces of him. The more you take, the more you must throw away — and it's Suguru that your memory discards. You find yourself forgetting how he hummed when he woke up from a nap, or filled his cheeks with food like a hamster; how he scrunched his face up when he laughed, pretty all the while…

The point is that even with his incredible knowledge, his awesome strength, the sheer holiness of his existence — you know Satoru. And the fact that he came to you today isn't mere coincidence.

You decide to come out with it. You've tiptoed around it for 24 months, give or take, had a shockingly brief mourning period before the jujutsu world forced you along, and… even with what he did, Suguru deserves better. "Suguru died today."

A beat of silence. Then:

"Mm, I guess he did."

You'd spent the day staring out at the grey sky, the miserable sight of soaked pavement. Grey, grey, grey. Concrete jungle. Heavy rain clouds and an ocean of multicoloured umbrellas, bobbing and rolling to destinations unknown. You hadn't said it aloud; hadn't even thought of it, specifically. The knowledge of it had just sat over your head like a thick, sweltering fog — and if you know Satoru at all, you know that he'd done the same. Maybe he hid it better.

You don't have to look now to know that his lips are pressed thin. You find the sudden thought of looking him in the eyes daunting, anyways, so you turn onto your side, back facing him, and pick mindlessly at the sheets. You don't want to see what his reaction will be when you say—

"Did you know that I loved him — back then?"

You don't want to see the shock, or the confusion — and you'd rather not see a lack of them, either. What's worse, you wonder — him knowing and loving Suguru too, or not knowing and loving him?

"...Yes."

You screw your eyes shut and try to will away the sudden surge of cold, like a sharpened dagger to your chest.

(It turns out that knowing is much more painful.)

Suguru Geto had been the apple of your eye ever since you'd met. 11 and gangly and stupid in a way that all children were always stupid, Suguru had been a bit kinder than his white-haired counterpart. Satoru, being Satoru Gojo, had grown up with no fear of authority, no mindfulness for his less-powerful peers as anything more than people who existed around him. You and Suguru were allowed the title of friends, but very few were. Anyway — he grew out of that mindset, of course, but your fondness for Suguru stayed.

(Though they'd always seemed to be on another level than you — not even just in terms of power, but… just caught up in each other, always. Suguru had only ever wanted Satoru. And vice versa.)

And then Suguru changed. Right under your nose, he changed, and his sudden quietness made sense. His fatigue. The way his hands would always shake when swallowing an exorcised curse, always had since you were kids, and then suddenly they were ingested with a scary calm. Nobody understands the taste of curses. Not even you, not even when he’d explained it in sickening detail.

You sigh, then. Tired and lethargic and not from physically straining yourself for an hour. This is bone-deep, soul-weary. It's been held in for 730 days, or maybe more. Maybe you've carried it with you since birth. "I never apologised."

"For what?" Satoru asks — and he laughs, jolly, and the sound fits awkwardly in his throat. A clear attempt at feigning indifference, but he's a bad liar. He always has been, because he's never needed to lie. Perks of being the strongest, you guess. You can just come out and say shit — and if you can't, not saying anything technically isn’t lying.

"I hated you, after," you confess. You dig your thumbnail hard intoyour pinky finger, taking momentary refuge in the sharp shock of pain. "I couldn't stand to look at you. When I did, I saw… I saw what you did. What you had, and what you had thrown away. I blamed you for Suguru. I blamed everyone except Suguru."

Another snicker, a bit too humourless. "You can't stand to look at me now."

"I…" You don't know what to say to that.

Truth is, you don't want to see his face. Contorted in pity, or disgust, or sadness for you. You've gotten used to living in his shadow — most everyone has — but that doesn’t ease the ever-present blanket of insecurity that you carry around your shoulders. It doesn’t dull the ache of inferiority you’ve been housing in your chest from the moment you were saddled with your technique. As you aged, you got better at hiding it, and you generally prefer your self-pity to go unnoticed, but Satoru—

He could always read you like a book. And you hated it. You hated being pitied by someone who was as powerful as him — someone as close to God as one could get. It was demeaning. Patronising. It makes you feel like a child again, bowing your head as your mother makes excuses for you.

You shift over — onto your back, and then onto your other side — and you look at him. You force yourself. Blankets pooled around his waist, his skin so pale it could be translucent, eyes icy blue and framed with fluffy white.

"You were forced to do it," you murmur. Your eyes remain trained on his chin — his are much too bright, much too all-seeing for comfort. "If you hadn't, he would've gotten worse. He never would have stopped. You knew that, you always did. It… took me a while to come to terms with it."

Satoru sighs. Then, he slumps down so that — like you — his head rests flat on the pillow, and his body arcs towards yours. He's forced himself into your sights again, in a way that’s gentle, but not so much that you wouldn't be able to figure out what he's doing: forcing you to face him.

"Would it have made you feel better," Satoru begins, reaching forward to brush his fingers against your chin, "if you were there when I did it?"

Would it have?

Would it have given you closure? Would you no longer spend your nights wondering what he'd looked like, what his last words were, his last thoughts? If he had spittled and roared in anger, if he had wept in fear, if he had attempted a smile, a joke? If he thought of you, or if you were just another insignificant blip in his radar?

In your mind, Suguru exists as his 17 year old self — smiling and mischievous, polite yet humorous. He puts extra broccoli on your plate and gently berates you to eat more. He tells you that you're a precious part of the team, that none of them would be who they are without you. He calls you crybaby because you always wear your heart on your sleeve, and tells you not to worry about things you cannot change.

Change what you can. Forget the rest and leave it to me, crybaby.

The bubbling hatred that had festered inside him has no place in your head. You want him to stay as he is, your Suguru that was never yours, shining like gold in your mind.

"No. He hated me at the end, I think," you say quietly. For a second, you dare to meet his eyes — bright and pointed in how they stare at you. You know he can see the tears that have begun to burn in your waterline, the way you ball your fists so hard you dig half-moon into your skin. He doesn’t need to be blessed with the Six Eyes to see.

"I wasn't interested in changing the world like he was, even with my Technique. That made him despise me, I think."

Satoru stares for a few more seconds. You wonder what he's thinking about. A second in your time is a lifetime in Satoru's; he must be thinking hard.

But he blinks, at last; sighs so deeply that his chest caves in with it, before he winds an arm around your waist and pulls you close, bare chest to bare chest, only atomic space between you.

There's nothing sexual about it. You're nothing but bones and skin and blood, here. He moulds your head to his shoulder with one large hand and cocoons you in his embrace, warm. Protected. You're not sure who the action is meant to comfort.

And just when you think the conversation is over — just when minutes have passed with nothing but the sound of the TV between you both — he speaks.

"Suguru could never hate you. Trust me."

You don't want to know what that means. You're only beginning to get over it, two years later.

Satoru is holding three onigiri in one hand, and two Starbucks' cups in the other — extra sugar, extra cream, extra ice, extra unicorn-marketing, just the way you both like it.

"There she is!" Is the first thing he says as he meets you just outside the metro, grinning.

It's sweltering hot today — the sun had risen early and would surely set late, and Satoru seems to be taking advantage of it. Gone is his Jujutsu Tech uniform and thick blindfold, but he's stuck with the all-black theme like he usually does — black jeans, black linen shirt, black socks and shoes. Even the frames of his sunglasses are black.

(Handsome. He's handsome. He's always been handsome — years later, you'd think you'd stop feeling the effects of it.)

Lucky for him. You're not, y'know, the strongest sorcerer in the last century, so there's no leeway for you — and even in your summer uniform, the skirt and short-sleeved blouse, you're sweating. Your only respite is that the combined force of you and Satoru will mean this mission is going to be a breeze.

Satoru tsks. "Took your time. I almost ate your onigiri."

A man nearby jogs past, clearly in a rush, and Satoru has to step closer to you to avoid him. He could've stayed still. He wouldn't have touched him, anyway, with his Limitless.

"And you would've had to buy another, genius."

A pout. "You only love me for my bank account, don't you?"

(He's joking. It's a joke.

But your hand shakes — a miniscule tremor — as you reach out to take one of the cups, and you know he sees it because he's Satoru and he sees everything. You turn away as quickly as you can, setting off in the direction of whatever place it is you're here for, and pretend that the fact that he can say it so casually doesn't kinda fucking hurt.

(He could never say it like that with Suguru — so bluntly, so crassly. Not without softened eyes and softened smiles and a gentle tilt of his head — those are mannerisms reserved only for him, never to be seen again. Instead, you get snickers and digs in the arm and teasing pulls of your hair. Of course it’s a joke. That’s all you are.

Perhaps you should just be grateful for what you get. Perhaps you should try to stop comparing yourself to a man you once loved. Perhaps you should try to stop comparing yourself to a dead man. Perhaps, in the end, you just love the pain of it all.))

"Yeah," you reply, taking a large, sugary sip. "And don't you forget it, either."

Satoru catches up to you quickly, effortlessly; his arm flops around your shoulder as he tugs you in the opposite direction, chastising you for going the wrong way — but it stays there long after it needs to.

Itadori Yuuji — Sukuna's dead-but-not-really vessel — thinks your cursed technique is powerful. He thinks it’s amazing that you can use reverse cursed technique — you must be really powerful, right? Gojo-sensei says you’re special grade. He also thinks you're very pretty. He tells you this over his fourth grilled pork belly wrap — this one bursting at the seams with kimchi, garlic, and roasted sesame seeds.

He doesn't say it in a flirtatious way — it's just an observation to him, simple and blunt, and you figure he has about as much of a filter as Satoru does.

"O-oh," you say, metal tongs frozen over the sizzling meat. "Thank you, Yuuji."

You had briefly met him for the first time before his death — Nobara, too. Megumi, the third piece of the golden trio, has been something of a little brother ever since Satoru had taken him in, and you know him well enough to know that Yuuji's death (or lack thereof) is weighing on him terribly.

(There are too many parallels you could make. Suguru and Satoru. Haibara and Nanami.)

Hiding it does make you feel guilty. To experience that grief, that loss — even if it will soon go away when Yuuji rejoins jujutsu society — isn’t something to take lightly. But Yuuji needs a guide that isn’t completely off the rails. Satoru and you balance each other out, and balance seems to be something Yuuji needs.

He reminds you terribly of Satoru when he was younger. Maybe that's why you have such a fond spot for him — he's too goofy and well-meaning and genuine to dislike.

"Why are you acting surprised?" Gripes Satoru, chewing with his mouth open. "I tell you that all the time."

Your eyes narrow. You place a perfectly cooked slice of marinated beef on his plate. "You're you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He whines. "We're best friends, crybaby!"

"You don't say I'm powerful. You say I'm helpful. There's a difference. And don’t call me that."

"Is there?" Satoru asks, turning to Yuuji for guidance. The teen boy shrugs, preoccupied by assembling his newest monstrosity. "I call you pretty, too."

"Yeah, when—"

When you're eight inches deep in me, face buried in my neck, trying to get yourself off. Your cheeks flush with warmth at the thought, and you shut your mouth. Yuuji doesn't notice your slip up, busy as he is; Satoru does completely, and fixes you with a grin so sharp that you vow to not give him any more meat until Yuuji is completely full.

"It's not the same," you say, voice final. It's a lighthearted lunch. You don't want to ruin it by getting touchy over semantics, and that's exactly what'll happen if you keep going. "You say it to reward me. Like tossing a dog a bone."

You reach for the scissors to snip the meat into little pieces — and in doing so, you miss the brief frown that presses against Satoru's brow.

Neither of you say anything more on the matter.

Satoru has known you for five years when he realises that he resents you. Not completely, and not for one particular or solid reason, either. He prefers not to think about it, in any case, because you're one of his closest friends — and even at 17, he knows that that's hard to come by. Especially as the Strongest.

Satoru stares up at his ceiling; stares at the miniature striations only he can see, the starburst-shaped gyrations of clay used to finish it off.

Tonight, he's thinking about it. And many other things.

He hates that you're so hesitant about everything — he hates that you believe yourself so weak that you have to tiptoe. You, with your reverse cursed technique — which is a feat in and of itself — that could transcend time and space, just like he could. A technique passed down for hundreds and hundreds of years, accumulating power all the while…

(Your technique has lots of rules and regulations, of course. A handicap, and he understands it frustrates you, but his own frustration eclipses his understanding. Why should someone so strong feel anything but their own strength?)

He hates that you curl in on yourself when you're sad, or lonely, or angry. He hates that you wear your heart on your sleeve — he's never allowed himself to, not fully. He can't, never fully, because there are people who are watching him, people who hate him, people who want him dead. He can joke. He can make his political desires clear — but he can’t love like he wants to, and God forbid he cries.

He hates that you close your eyes and bask when it's sunny, like a cat in a sunspot; hates that you remember that he doesn't like chicken wings and prefers thighs; he especially hates that you watch over Suguru like it's your job, when Suguru doesn't need it.

And some part of Satoru hates Suguru, too. It was strange for him to come to terms with it, fond of him as he is, but as he grows Satoru realises that there's no love of his that isn't closely affiliated with hate. It makes the love all the more strong.

Satoru, for one, dislikes how polite Suguru is, even when he doesn't need to be. He hates that Suguru becomes a straight-faced, unfeeling thing when he's upset, and tries to hide it — the emptiness in his eyes unsettles him like nothing else.

Most of all, above all, Satoru hates that Suguru loves you, crybaby, and is too pussy to do shit about it. Satoru doesn't understand why, anyways, because he'd made it clear that if he wanted, Suguru could have you both and Satoru wouldn't care. Usually, the thought would offend him. How can you love someone when you already love me? When you've already sworn yourself to me? You already have the strongest, who else do you need?

But… he doesn't know. He kinda understands. You're precious to him, too, after all, sunflower soaking up the sun.

Like he said: there's no love of his that isn’t closely affiliated with hate.

Six and a half hours after the hours-long meeting that followed the ruined School Goodwill Event, you find yourselves in a diner somewhere in Harajuku. It’s one of those weird fusion places, loaning ornamentation and tokens from classic American diners, serving omurice with fries, sushi with mashed potatoes, with a cute little mascot that looks like Elvis. It’s loud enough and bright enough to make you feel timeless. It's a sensation you can appreciate.

Something’s been telling you that time’s ticking, and you’re not quite sure what it is. Trauma, probably. Anxiety. The fact that curses have been banding together, learning spoken language, amassing power — planning an attack on Jujutsu Tech, gaining intelligence, gaining anger.

Satoru doesn’t say it — doesn’t want to say it — but you think it’s unnerved him, too. The last time outsiders entered school grounds was… two years ago, wasn’t it? It’s crazy. Everything always seems to lead back to Suguru.

The attack has fueled something in both of you, anyways; something that makes you both stay up instead of knocking out like you usually do; something that makes you both hungry and restless and liable to travel across Tokyo past midnight. By public transport, no less. No warping or high-speed flying for you, tonight.

But you appreciate it. And you think that Satoru is taking things slow for the same reasons you want to — to take things in, to appreciate what you never think to appreciate. To admire the mundane, even for a little while. Satoru’s less emotionally attached to the jujutsu-less aspects of life than you are — bullet trains and waiting in line and standing on the train platform, escalators and traffic — but he enjoys them all the same when he has time to. And it’s not often The Strongest gets to experience pure, genuine normality, too, so maybe sitting in this gaudy diner and watching the world pass you by is a luxury he rarely affords himself.

He orders the most complicated drink they have — a sakura-caramel milkshake topped with whipped cream, glacé cherries, and an entire slice of cheesecake. He’s down to the last dregs of melting cream within 10 minutes, swiping fries from your plate between sips, ignoring your chides of rotten teeth and high blood sugar.

Blindfold swapped for glasses. Strands of hair drifting down against his forehead.

You’re always reminded at the worst times of how handsome he is. It’s not like it’s a secret, or he’s unaware of it — and he takes pride in his looks, if his extensive skincare shelf and general attitude is anything to go by — but he puts much more stock in his strength, in his usefulness to others, his intelligence. The things he can provide for others. Not many people realise that.

Maybe you shouldn’t act so high and mighty. It’s not like you don’t appreciate his appearance as much as the next person — hell, half the time you’re trying to stop it from distracting you — but maybe you get a pass. Y’know, as a person who actually has reason to marvel over the stretch of his neck and the flush of his cheeks and how his lips go the prettiest pink when you kiss him. Or the cords of muscle along his arms; the slender-yet-thick bands of muscle of his chest and legs. The large, veiny expanse of hand — slim, delicate fingers wrapped around a paper straw…

"Are you gonna eat those?" Says Satoru, slurping obnoxiously. “Haven't eaten since dinner."

You push the basket across the table, uncharacteristically void of argument. "Go crazy."

Satoru sets his empty glass aside, but the straw remains in one hand. The other he uses to pluck up fries, 4 or 5 at a time, his gaze suddenly fixed on you as he chews nonchalantly.

"Y'know," he says, licking salt from his fingertips, jabbing the straw in your direction, "I can always tell when you're horny."

"Excuse me?"

"You squirm," Satoru continues — matter-of-fact, casual, as if he's talking about the weather. "And you get quiet.”

“I’m a quiet person,” you snap, nails pressing against your palms under the table. “Sorry I know when to shut the fuck up—”

“And then you get flustered. And when you’re flustered, or embarrassed, you get angry.” He raises his hand — signals the cute waitress for another basket of fries, and leans back with his arms splayed along the back of the booth. “Don’t look so surprised! How long have we known each other?”

If you were a better person, you’d probably admit that yes, he’s right. You do get quiet when you’re horny, and you do get angry when you’re flustered — if you were a worse person, though, you’d remark on how you're the first person he crawls to when he’s sad, or overwhelmed. How getting you into bed and losing yourselves in each other is a sort of therapy for him. How he always tries to distract you with cheeky grins and sly, flirty comments, but then afterwards he cries in the bath as you clean him up.

You don't say that, obviously. Seems like a pretty shitty thing to bring up today of all days. He'd probably deny it anyways, but you don't think it's a coincidence that the attack has left him restless and he obviously wants to take you home.

The new fries are delivered to the table, but he looks right past them. He bows his head slightly, glasses slipping a little further down his nose so that his white-framed eyes peek over the top of them.

"Let's warp home," Satoru says — and oh. There's that voice. That drop in tone, that lack of boisterous humour he always employs. It's soft enough to have goosebumps rising on the back of your arms, smooth enough to have you squirming — yes, squirming, you admit it — in your seat. "Alright?"

"Yes." And it's embarrassingly breathless, and embarrassingly quick, but Satoru doesn't tease you. Just smiles, raises a hand for the bill, and watches you all the while.

You count seven stitches in the forehead of Geto Suguru.

Count, because it's all you can do. Everything else is lost to you.

Breathing.

Standing.

It feels like even your heart has stalled. Because—

Because—

Because Geto Suguru is dead. Dead, in the ground, no longer breathing, no longer living. Satoru had killed him. Satoru had demolished him.

The lips of the Geto in front of you twist — a sickening, stomach-turning imitation of the smile you once adored. On his face it's a sneer, a mockery. Your Suguru did not smile like this when you knew him.

"Hello," he greets pleasantly. His arms are hidden within the sleeves of his yukata. Hair down. Suguru always tended to wear his hair up, unless he was fresh out of the shower. Unless he was upset. It was too much hassle to take care of. You know when he took over the Time Vessel Association and donned the gojo-kesa he began wearing it down. "_____ _____, yes?"

You can't answer. Your ears are ringing. Your stomach gives a worrying lurch that winds up your throat — you think you're going to be sick.

How? Why? Who — who is this in front of you? Because it's not Geto, not Suguru — and you don't say that because of longing or a pathetic desire for ignorance. This thing feels wrong. Inherently, blasphemously wrong. Looking at him for too long makes your cursed energy prickle. Seeing Suguru's image painted in such slimy, rancid energy has you gasping for breath.

Satoru, your mind whispers. Satoru needs to know.

He should. He needs to. But this pseudo-Geto does not look friendly in the slightest, and you are isolated.

Looking back, it had seemed fine to go alone to exorcise curses in the belly of Tokyo's metro. Taking old service tunnels and eventually entering abandoned tracks hadn't felt scary. You're a semi-special grade sorcerer with years of experience under your belt and a powerful cursed technique that could get you out of most, if not all, pinches, restrictions and regulations be damned.

"I'm sure you're very confused. I apologise, really…"

The reality of the situation hits you. Maybe hit is the wrong word — it doesn’t come as a bloody, stinging smack in the face. It’s a trickle of ice-cold water down the nape of your neck, drawing dread from your head all the way into the pit of your stomach. You don't think this is a pinch you'll come out of — at least not battered half to death, especially when a silver-haired curse decorated with stitches steps out from behind pseudo-Geto. The curse Kento had fought. The one that he said to look out for. Patchwork.

Immediately, you know fighting isn't an option. But what else is there to do, in the face of pseudo-Geto and his silver-haired, sentient curse? Your technique may not be limitless in your possession, but in theirs? If they did to you what they did to so many others — transfiguring you past the point of recognition, stealing your body and technique, desecrating your corpse with cursed energy…

"I can feel it from here," titters the curse excitedly. "So warm… I have to have it! Her soul, I have to have it!"

Fuck.

You could try to escape, but you wouldn't have enough time to run past them and through the winding corridors of the underground, even while distracting them with your cursed technique. They'd catch you within seconds. You’re sure they have curses lurking around waiting to thwart you, too.

You could burst directly into the layers of concrete and metal above — use your technique to revert them back millions and millions and years to their very first forms, atoms and subatomic particles, and then rebuild them up as an ascending platform — but that would take too much time, and you'd be completely defenceless while you did. Not to mention the toll it'd take on you.

(Not to mention the fact that you'd be bursting into the public eye from a giant crater in the ground.)

"I'm sure you know what I'm going to do," continues pseudo-Geto, amiable. "I would ask you to join us, but I know that is impossible. Therefore, there is only one course of action."

Can't fight. Can't escape. Can't get answers. Can't stay clueless. How contradictory.

You're not dying, that's all you know. And if you have to do the one thing you never wanted to do, then so be it. Anything is better than death. Death is not an escape, in this scenario — it’s a guarantee of imprisonment.

"It's a shame," pseudo-Geto sighs, bloodlust swelling. "Such a waste of a good technique."

You make a Binding Vow with yourself within seconds.

Using a magnitude of cursed energy usually out of your reach, your entire body will be reduced to atoms — intangible, untrappable, unkillable — for as long as it takes to retreat to safety. In return, you will be unable to think, unable to move according to your own will, only a mere pawn to entropy as the rest of the galaxy is — high risk, high reward.

There are many things that could go wrong.

In reducing yourself to essentially nothing, in splitting your cursed energy into billions of particles, you could reach a state of such low cursed energy concentration that you are, for all terms and purposes, considered dead. In doing so, your Binding Vow could break, and you would be unable to return to living.

Or you could float for days, weeks, years — safety is subjective, subjective is dangerous when it comes to contracts, and you can only hope that your own understanding of it sets the standard.

It's either this, this fleeting, terrifying chance, or death. With one, you can return to your school, your students, your Satoru — you can tell them what happened. You can bring justice to whoever has disturbed Suguru from his slumber. With the other — nothing. Just plain, utter nothingness forever and ever.

(You know which you'd rather.)

The last thing you recall, in spotty haziness, is the heart-stopping sight of Suguru surging towards you, eyes bloodthirsty, face contorted in malice.

The last thing you hope is that Satoru isn't too upset about the risk you've taken.

Eight days after your solo mission, you resurface — a discombobulated, stumbling mess on the outskirts of Shibuya, eyes glazed and mouth stuttering over syllables. A nearby Window calls the college within seconds, and Gojo is there just as soon — hands shaking when he grasps your arm and turns you to face him, fingers trembling when he cups your cheeks and brushes them under your eyes.

It’s you. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you, and he can breathe, he can fucking breathe, his chest is lighter than it’s been for those entire 8 days — all the while, he burns with an anger so intense it hurts. And Satoru is no stranger to anger, of course — knows it as intimately as he knows himself — but he's not sure if he can remember the last time it had rendered him breathless, trembling. Bloodthirsty.

It's not the time to think about it. Not when you're shaking in his arms, so frail and weak everywhere except your hands — no, your hands remain strong, fingers digging into his clothes and skin. He turns off his Infinity. The sting of your touch grounds him.

Shoko is already waiting in the clinic for him — she’d been preparing ever since the call first came in. The students (the ones on campus, at least) crowd together at a distance, buzzing anxiously as Satoru disappears swiftly into the depths of the infirmary with you in his arms.

Bad things happen often. Too often. Satoru isn’t sure whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing that they haven’t gotten used to it yet.

“Gibberish,” Satoru answers when Shoko asks if you’ve said anything competent since he picked you up. “Just gibberish.”

Shoko is poking and prodding you with the usual doctor's shit — stethoscopes and thermometers and that blood pressure band that goes around your arm — and you just lay there and take it. Head rocking side to side, limbs trembling, mouth lolling open, and Satoru's trying not to lose his head because what good is taking your temperature? Do you look like you have a fucking cold? Is the way your eyes focus and unfocus normal? The way you can’t string together two syllables that make fucking sense?

But even with how he can see your cells malfunctioning all over your body, Shoko knows more about this shit than him. So he sits pretty on her swivelling chair, twisting back and forth, body the image of boredom but mind anything but. Time and time again, he’s reminded of how unprejudiced tragedy is — how it leaves no hint, no mark of itself, no time to prepare for the toll of it all.

Satoru had greeted you briefly before you’d left. Said something about getting lunch together, that you better be careful because you were treating him — the same shit he said time and time again, his real plea hidden within the folds and twists of his jokes and quips. Be careful. Don’t die. I can’t lose you. You’re precious to me.

You’ll be okay. You have to be — he won’t allow anything otherwise. But if he’d known last week that you’d end up like this, would he have said those things out loud? He doesn’t think so. He’s cowardly in that way.

A few moments later, Shoko straightens up. Immediately reaches into the pocket of her lab coat and pulls out a cigarette and a rusting lighter, and is puffing out clouds of bitter air just seconds later.

Shit. That’s not a good sign.

Shoko sighs. Rubs at her dark undereye circles and only makes them worse, taps her cigarette so that the ash falls to the floor. “I know what it is.”

Well fucking tell him instead of keeping it in!

“Oh?” Satoru says instead, leaning forward onto his knees. “What is it, then?”

“She used her technique on herself.”

“She does that all the time to heal."

“She didn’t heal herself,” Shoko snaps — and Satoru remembers that he’s not the only person you’re important to. That while he and Suguru had gotten ahead of themselves being the strongest, they’d left you and Shoko to stroll humbly along your own paths. The only girls in their year. The only person Shoko could fully confide in, really — at least in Tokyo —, the only person who had bothered to check up on her when she drank too much, smoked too much. Even if Shoko hated it.

Shoko is upset. Satoru doesn't what to do with it.

(Alcohol — she likes alcohol. Satoru reminds himself to pick up the most expensive bottle of the stuff the next time he's out.)

(No. She’s trying not to drink so much, isn’t she?)

(Whatever. Life is short.)

“She dissipated herself.”

Satoru knows about your technique intimately enough that it immediately gives him pause — but he runs over the details in his head, just in case, as if it isn’t already imprinted on the flesh of his skull.

Your cursed technique allows you to disassemble items down to their most basic units — subatomic particles — while your reverse cursed technique allows you to reassemble them. Items can be reassembled into their previous form, or to another related form, but you cannot exceed the item’s natural entropy threshold. If you do, the item cannot be reverted back to a physical state, and you will bear the brunt of the resulting shift in energy.

It's a finicky technique. Finicky and fickle and the risks tend to outweigh the rewards — but you'd always used it so elegantly, so gracefully. Even when you doubted yourself, you had a handle on it. Satoru admired that about you.

("You don't say I'm powerful. You say I'm helpful. There's a difference."

You'd said that to him once, when he brought you and Yuuji to lunch. You'd acted like it didn't bother you but he could tell it did — he didn't need his Six Eyes to notice how your nose twitched and your eyes narrowed, displeased.

But Satoru believes in two types of helpfulness.

The kind he is — powerful, needed, a force to be reckoned with. Someone that keeps things afloat, that acts as a beacon in the dark.

Then there's the other kind. The usefulness of pawns, of bait. Necessary, but not fundamental. Desired, sure, but rarely crucial.

You've always been the first. Always. You and him and Suguru and Shoko, always. Even he could admit that.)

You disassembled yourself into atoms. Into nothingness. You lost your mind, your body, your energy, everything—

Satoru sighs. He's been doing that a lot today.

“I didn’t know she could do that,” Satoru says. His throat is covered in a layer of sawdust. He can’t remember the last time he had to actually focus on not throwing up. “Why would she do that?”

“She talked about it, before,” Shoko says. She leans against the bed you’re laying on, gazing over her shoulder — and the way she looks at you turns his stomach, the upturn of her brows, the sad downturn of her mouth. It’s as if you’re already dead. As if she’s looking at a living corpse. “Just… as a theory. A last resort to help her get away, if needed, but��”

“But what?”

“She knew she didn’t have the power for it,” Shoko mutters. Breathes another puff of cigarette smoke. “If she tried, she'd end up just… fading away. In breaking herself up, she'd negate the cursed energy that gives her the power to put herself together.

"And the side effects would be… well, you can see that for yourself. Stupid, so fucking stupid…”

“Well, obviously she has the power for it,” Satoru murmurs. “Or made the power for it.”

“A binding vow?”

Satoru shrugs. Clenches his jaw, watching as you scratch at the faux-leather underneath you. “It'd make sense. Explains how she put herself back together."

(But for what? What could have driven you to such lengths?

A curse like Jogo wouldn't be all too difficult for you to defeat.

So who…?)

Shoko hums. She stares into space for a moment, eyes unfocused, and for a moment Satoru sees her younger self — the one who just started smoking, just started drinking, who carried the weight of all the people she healed (and those she'd failed to) tucked in her pocket. The Shoko that would make sarcastic quips and humble them when they needed humbling, but humour them when she knew the outcome would be funny.

A time when they had very little responsibility. Even him, shackled with it since birth. Comparing his duty from then to now is like comparing a boulder to the weight of the world.

He feels very old, suddenly, at 28.

"There's nothing I can do for her," Shoko says, softly. Regretfully. "If she did make a binding vow, I can only assume she made a condition about returning to normal. If so…"

Satoru can’t do anything about it, basically, she explains. Your condition is one that will only heal with time, patience, and the odd boost from Shoko’s technique. Maybe, she says — she's still unsure about that last bit.

It sickens him. It festers as a deep, curdling annoyance in his bones, his uselessness. It’s a sensation he had only felt once before, standing before the slumped-over body of Geto Suguru. Nothing he could do for him except put him out of his misery, and even then that felt like a cop-out.

So… he can't go directly after the thing that had forced your hand, because they had left no trace. He can't heal you, either. He can't take care of you while your body repairs itself, while your supposed binding vow returns you to your rightful state — that duty will fall to Shoko, or one of her interns.

He can do nothing. And Satoru is nothing if he cannot be of use.

Nine months after the events of the culling games, Satoru enters your room to see you sitting up — eyes wide, eyes seeing, and it only takes you fixing him with a single look to know that you're okay.

(Subjectively. Relatively.)

Suguru Getou — Kenjaku — is finally dead — exorcised. He’s not sure which is the right word to use. All of his allies, killed or exorcised too. Nanami, murdered. Nobara, comatose. Yaga, dead. Inumaki, Maki, Okkotsu, maimed; the great houses of sorcery destroyed and rebuilt in the image of Satoru’s will.

Itadori Yuuji — dead. Sukuna Ryomen — exorcised.

Adding up the gains, subtracting the losses, carrying the ones… Both sides seem to have lost pretty evenly. And he should be happy about it, too; things could have turned out much worse. And they would have, too, if he hadn’t pushed himself out of his pouting and escaped the prison realm — a feat that was half out of spite and half concern for the outside world, and maybe a little curiosity. Rage. Longing to see the bastard who’d stolen Suguru’s face and body, who dared to reanimate him and rouse him from peace — longing to slaughter the thing that had rendered you bedridden and half-mad for months.

He had been the one to kill Kenjaku. It only felt right to be the one to do so — he’d killed Suguru, after all; had been the one to leave him defenceless and open to manipulation. If Suguru hadn’t been dead, Kenjaku wouldn’t have been able to steal his body.

Of course, Satoru ignored the fact that the very last rotten, desperate dregs of Suguru would have enjoyed Kenjaku’s plan — it was the only way he was able to keep his eyes open when he blasted his brain to bits. It was hard enough the first time.

All of these things sit on his tongue, bitter and souring and curdling — every detail of the battle, of the culling games, the colleagues and peers and students he’d held in his arms, the ones he’d comforted as they slipped away, the ones he’d reassured and promised.

(Pink, blood-covered hair; a smile that never dimmed, a nervous murmur (“It’s okay, Gojo-sensei. I know what I got into.”). The shaky laugh that had followed.)

Satoru’s hands tremble at his sides.

Your eyes are wet with tears when you look at him.

“How long has it been?” You croak — voice dry and cracked with disuse, whining in some parts, low and wheezing in others. Bone-deep, the fear in your voice, and for good reason — things had already been at a boiling point when you’d been taken down. Everything had moved past you. “Satoru—?”

Another selfish decision on his part: he doesn’t tell you. At least, not now, when the words threaten to vomit out of his mouth, when the pain is suddenly too fresh and too raw.

(For one strange, too-long second, he’s reminded of his mother — weak, presence-less, powerless as she was. Empty-eyed and unhappy. She was hardly even a mother with the amount of governesses he had.

Somehow, though, every problem would seem worse when her eyes were upon him; every cut and bruise was more painful; every slight against him a grave insult; every mistake a cause for self-pity and temper tantrums — and none of it mattered, as long as she took him into her arms.

A rarity, yes, but… maybe one of the only fond memories he has of his childhood in the Gojo household.

Satoru feels like a kid again — suddenly sniffling from a bruise he swore didn’t hurt, his mother ready to pat his head and baby him and coo his name. Satoru. Not Gojo-sama.)

He crosses the room and plants himself upon your bed and takes you into his arms for the first time in months, and—

And for the first time since Yuuji’s death, since Nanami’s, since Suguru’s, since your injuries—

He cries. Openly. Heaving, chest-wrecking sobs; red, wet nose and ugly whimpers. It’s overwhelming. It’s cathartic. It makes the pain worse, for a second, before it begins to taper out in a bruising wave; with it, he remembers his darling underclassmen who died, his colleagues that he’d wanted to live at least a few more years; he remembers that despite years of being told so, he’s not God — he couldn’t stop Yuuji’s death, or Suguru’s, or Toge losing his arms, or—

“Thirteen months,” he manages to get out. “Thirteen months — you couldn’t talk, or move properly, or—”

Satoru grabs handfuls of you — hair, waist, belly, it doesn’t matter. He can feel you beneath his skin. Rushing, pounding blood, cells, micromolecules — and he doesn’t need to, but he engages his Six Eyes for a moment — actually engages them, doesn’t let them run unconsciously in the background. It’s a comfort to let himself see each receptor interact with each signal on each plasma membrane, to let himself see the tissues that formed organs that formed organ systems forming you, breathing, living, sentient—

He kisses you — or you kiss him, he’s not sure — but it’s far more intimate, far more tender than any touch he’d delivered unto you; hands clutching the sides of your face, your fingers digging into his wrists. You’re crying, salt on his tongue — and he only knows they’re not his own tears because you give a great, shuddering sob when you part, trembling like a leaf in the wind.

“I had to,” you gasp, and he wants to tell you that he knows, he knows, he doesn’t blame you, sweet girl — did what you had to do to live, to survive— “I had to—”

“Only go where I can follow, okay?" His eyes are burning again, voice cracking with the promise, regardless of the fact that he’d rather you do it 100 times over than die. But it's the only way he can tell you he loves you without telling you he loves you, and he can't remember the last time he said the words aloud.

(He does. He remembers. And he remembers that Suguru wouldn't mind if he said it to you — that Suguru loved you as he loves you. And he remembers that Suguru is dead and doesn't have an opinion anymore, so it really doesn't matter, anyways.)

Satoru calls Shoko when he rights himself, barely pulling back from your embrace to text her something barely understandable and hurried. You don't say much while he does; still acclimating to being aware, being awake — he catches you with your eyes screwed shut and your nose buried in his jacket, fingers tight on his arms again. Grounding yourself. Reminding yourself that you're alive, and with him.

Shoko scolds you between rummaging around for a thermometer and scribbling your prescription in messy, barely legible cursive — calls you a dumb bitch for doing what you did, tells you that you owe her a bottle of wine and a trip to a fancy hot spring, and it all seems a little lighter.

(She cries a little — if the slight glassiness of her eyes can be considered crying. Satoru only teases her a bit for it, though you're quick to mention how he'd blubbered like a baby when he saw you, and he's humbled quickly.

It's the most normal he's felt in weeks.)

Shoko clears away after a few hours — gives you strict orders to rest, and sends him a knowing look that he's not all too sure of the meaning of.

"You look tired, Satoru," you finally say when you're alone again. Your smile is sad, knowing, and Satoru curses it all. You deserve a grace period, a moment of ignorance before the grief settles in. "What happened?"

But when have you ever wanted a moment of ignorance? When has he ever been able to hide the truth of things from you? When have you ever been anything but his equal, his confidant?

"Everything," Satoru says. A short, humourless laugh punctuates his single-worded sentence. "Everything, crybaby. Everything that we thought could happen, and everything we thought couldn't."

A flicker of a smile — uncomfortable, flat. Your eyes flicker down to the bland, starched sheets of the hospital bed. "Did you see him?"

He doesn't need you to elaborate. There's really only one person you both mean when you say him.

"Yes."

"Who was he?"

Satoru shifts in his seat. "An ancient sorcerer named Kenjaku. His cursed technique allowed him to transplant his brain between bodies and possess them."

"And he chose Suguru."

"Yes. And many others, too."

"And you killed him."

"Yes. For Suguru, and for you. But mostly for Suguru.”

“I’m glad,” you say, but your fingers twist the sheets tightly. “When I saw him, I was angry. So angry, I… I wanted to kill him. I knew I wasn’t strong enough, and I knew he would kill me, but for a second—”

He understands. God, does he understand. “You wanted to take the risk.” No matter the cost, no matter the damage to your own body. Anger like that consumes.

“I did.” You swallow. Your eyes meet his. “It was like… adding insult to injury. As if it’s not enough that Suguru is dead, but this — this Kenjaku has to puppeteer him too. Disturb his peace."

The wind rustles the trees outside. The late-afternoon gold of the sun settles along the horizon, a burning orange that stretches the shadows and warms the wind and turns the side of your face honey-soft and sad.

“But I realised that I was probably the first person he’d revealed himself to," you continue, "so I was the only one that could warn you."

Always thinking about the good of others. It was another thing he admired about you — Nanami, too. Satoru, for all his big talk about changing the world of jujutsu, about being better than those who came before him, is really quite selfish.

It's why his hands had trembled when he'd had to kill Yuuji. It's why he couldn't put Suguru in the ground the first time they met after he became a curse user. Even when he knows things are necessary, he tries his damnedest to hold on — just for the chance of it all. The chance that Suguru could change his mind. The chance that Sukuna could be removed from Yuuji without him needing to die.

"And…”

One snow-white brow raises. “And?”

“You’ve already lost too many people that you love,” you say simply, shrugging — like it's a simple fact, no need for experimentation, no need for an academic paper complete with its own abstract and footnotes. Like you've always known, in some little way, but you're only able to bring yourself to say it now.

And Satoru — well, it's no secret to him, is it? He's known it since he was 13, 14, 15 — had a bit of a buffering period, sure — and now here at 28, he knows it just as well. The point is that you're not supposed to know. Not while you're still healing from Suguru and… being attacked by fake-Suguru.

Regardless of what he knows and how long he's known it, Satoru feels his throat begin to close up, twisting and turning and holding his breath tight. He doesn’t like the feeling.

“Love?” He echoes. His voice has gotten a little empty. It's too soon for him to say it aloud, he thinks. It was okay when he whispered it in his head after making love to you; it was easy when he grinned at your scrunched up nose and scoffed comments and thought fuck, I love you. It was easy when he could pretend it was a simple, passing comment, a trick of the mind — but having it said as fact?

Not so simple. But you don’t need to know that. “Is that so?"

You don't seem to notice his momentary pause — a lifetime of rambling in his time, a second's hesitation in regular time — too busy staring at the space where his fingers stretch apart over the sheets. Just inches away from yours. "We're friends, aren't we?"

Oh.

"Oh." Satoru blinks back. "Oh, yeah. Best friends, you and I, crybaby."

"I know it's normal for us," you say, ploughing ahead, "to just lose and lose and keep losing, but… I'll be honest. I never fully got used to it, and I don't want to."

He wishes he could say the same, but he can't.

He understands, in some capacity. Nobody wants to see the people around them die, a continuous and vicious cycle. Nobody wants to get so used to loss that most funerals no longer hold any emotional significance. But getting used to it had saved him. Getting used to it helped him act without consequence, without remorse, and that's what the battlefield both needs and requires of him.

He could count on both hands the people he wants to save in this world — about half of them were dead, at this point. A lot of them died while he was imprisoned. Two, he had to kill himself. He swore he'd protect the rest with all Six Eyes, every non-existent boundary of his Limitless.

So Satoru doesn't care much about getting used to death and dying and loss and grief. As long as you're okay, he's okay. As long as his job as the Strongest is done, everything is as it should be.

He doesn't say that to you, of course. You'd probably curse him out and call him a heartless bastard. Instead, he nods, hums and agrees and tells you the names of those who died when you work up the courage to ask.

It's a long night. It's an even longer list.

10.

Shoko keeps you for observation for 10 days after you wake up — three days longer than necessary, but she won't hear it from him, no matter how many times he reminds her that technically she falsified her degree—

He's joking. Mostly.

Satoru volunteers himself to help you back home, taking with you the plastic bag filled with your cleaned sorcerer's garb and weapon. He carries it over his shoulder along with two teddy bears, a half-wilted bouquet of tulips and a half-eaten box of chocolates (all courtesy of the second years — except for the chocolates, which are half-eaten because of him). He winds his other arm around your waist even though you can walk perfectly fine, but — it's just in case. Purely precautionary. For once, you don’t argue about being babied.

In the midday sun outside, you tilt your head back and close your eyes and smile. For a moment, it's as if the sadness has melted away from you — the tears you shed over Yuuji, Nanami, Suguru. The tears you shed over him, and he wasn't even dead. Satoru is glad your eyes are closed — even beneath his sunglasses, it's painfully obvious that he's staring.

You decide to take the subway home — it's my first time outside in almost a year, you remind him, so he pushes down any arguments he might have and enjoys the too-cramped journey towards Akihabara. You’re both shoved standing together, between a panicked looking man holding a tray of coffee and a woman with her child hanging about her legs, your head bobbing against his chest as the train moves.

For a moment — as the train passes momentarily out of the underground and becomes encapsulated in light — it's easy to drown in the normalcy of it all. For a moment, he sees himself looking in as a stranger would. Here, he isn't the Six Eyes; just a simple man taking his girlfriend home, standing close on the train, wishing to be closer. Riding home to your shared apartment where he'll peel oranges and feed them to you, where he'll lay his head in your lap and hold your hands to his heart.

His nose wrinkles. He prefers reality, he thinks, where he can be powerful and have you by his side; where he can protect you, uphold peace, change the jujutsu world for the best — and then go home all the same, and have you to hold.

"What are you thinking about?" You mumble against his collar.

"Oranges," he replies.

"I don't have any at home," you say, "or if I did, they're rotted."

"Don't worry — we cleaned your kitchen up. Me and the kids." It was an afternoon of Yuuji attempting to shove rotting potatoes in Nobara's face. That was before Shibuya; before everything, really.

"Oh? You got your hands dirty?"

Satoru tries to not think about that same beaming, smiling Yuuji's last breaths. "Of course! This is me we're talking about, honey. I was front and centre."

You snort, soft against his neck. It's a wonder he went almost a year without you. "Housewife Satoru. I'll keep it in mind."

When you return to your apartment, you shower together for the first time in forever. He spends extra time and care massaging shampoo into your scalp, detangling each knot; spends extra time rinsing the suds out, tilting your head back with a gentle tap to your chin.

Steam clogs his mind. Almond shower oil and citrusy shampoo fog his senses. The realisation that you could have potentially been taken away from him sits heavy like a stone in his stomach — why it hadn't sunk in in the past, oh, 13 months or so, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he's terribly bad at caring for precious things — but if he could, if it's possible, he'll remould and reshape his hands, his heart, his mind, just for the chance—

"Satoru," you breathe against his lips, "Bow your head."

(Bow your head, you say. He'd kneel if you asked him to.)

You brush your hands through his hair; rinse him free of suds and bubbles and kiss his temples as you shut off the water. What is supposed to be healing for you is quickly becoming therapy for him — muscles relaxing, mind clearing of all responsibilities, mournings, obligations. All he knows are the soft, newly washed sheets beneath him and your nose in the crook of his neck.

It's a strange sensation, the lack of tension, his brain not working overtime. But hardly unwelcome.

11.

Satoru asks you if you saw anything when you were indisposed. Memories, flashbacks, prophecies? Blurry half-truths, nonsensical babbling? You tell him that you can't really remember — and you can't, not really, but you do remember one thing.

When you were 11, you met Satoru and Suguru for the first time. It's that memory that you can remember playing in your head, over and over and over again: Satoru and Suguru, scrawny and still-faced in their yukata.

Satoru was from a great, traditional house. Suguru was not, but upon discovery of his powers, was taken into unofficial custody of the higher-ups. In most circumstances, you wouldn’t have been allowed within two feet of them — but the elders had deemed your cursed technique a great gift, and so you were warily accepted into the upper echelons of jujutsu society, a stranger, a foreigner.

Introducing you to the most powerful sorcerers your age was nothing more than political play, of course. The adults followed behind as you walked through the grand grounds of the Gojo family — (maintained by a team of 12 gardeners, according to the Lady of the house) — muttering and scheming between themselves, making sure nothing would go awry.

Nothing did, of course. Satoru picked his nose and Suguru told him it was rude and they bickered for a while — Satoru bickered, Suguru replied calmly and quickly. Satoru asked you if your technique was good or bad ("No such thing," interjected Suguru) and whether or not you think you could beat him in a fight.

(That last question was to stroke his own ego, of course. Everyone knew he was the strongest sorcerer born in the last century.)

At some point, Satoru made you cry.

You can't remember what about, all these years later — you'd think you'd remember, considering the fact that you know the amount of gardeners employed by the Gojo estate — but you know that you had tried to stop it; fists balled, teeth gritted, full-body heaves. Crying was the last thing you had wanted to do. Crying meant weakness. Weakness meant being taken advantage of.

But you were so scared. It was all so alien. You wanted to go home, but home didn’t exist anymore. You wanted your mother, but your mother was long gone. All you had left were stone-faced adults that were only interested in your abilities.

Suguru had been confused at your reaction to what he took as a harmless quip — a little callous, as most children are — but he had reassured you nonetheless.

"Don’t cry. Satoru speaks before he thinks," he'd said, nudging your shoulder. "Sometimes you have to ignore him and he'll be so bored that he has to think."

"I can hear you," Gojo huffed. "I didn't mean to."

"See?" Suguru smiled. "Works like a charm."

Yes, Suguru had always been there to protect you. Emotionally, at least. He was willing to be kinder to people. More gentle, more forgiving. He'd believed that it was his duty as a sorcerer to protect those that couldn't protect themselves, and—

Well. That had changed, by the end, but having that memory replay in your head made you see the bigger picture of it all. Suguru's place in things. Your place in things.

You'd loved Suguru, no doubt. And you’ll probably always carry a piece of him with you — you'd hate to do otherwise. You’ll carry his kindness and his jokes and his catlike smile, all tucked away in bubble wrap somewhere in your chest cavity — but you will never disregard his wrongdoings. Since his death, you'd argued against the two sides of him; felt guilty for loving him after what he did, felt guilty for hating him after loving him and knowing him for as long as you did. Two halves of a whole. Darkness in light and light in darkness.

He was both of those things. You love him, but you don’t forgive him, and you probably never will. He will never again be the boy that comforted you after Satoru made you cry; he will never again be the boy who let you braid his hair back. He won't be the boy who slaughtered innocents, either — death's funny like that. Indiscriminately doing away with both the good and the bad.

And that's okay. Kenjaku is dead, after all, and Suguru can finally rest — and with him, your warring mind.

12.

Midnight strikes and you're still awake. You don’t even seem tired, and that's after a long shower and takeout and a movie. Usually you'd be a drooling mess by now, but tonight is different. Feels different. Satoru isn’t sure if it's just a year's worth of built up sexual tension or something else, but he feels it regardless.

He's flopped on his stomach, hair still damp; you're curled up in the shape of a C, skin reflecting the light of the TV. He might visit Nobara tomorrow. Megumi usually goes on Wednesdays, too — they could make a day out of it, and you could tag along, too. He's got a craving for the pistachio macarons they sell near—

"I'm in love with you," you announce.

Satoru doesn't bother asking you to repeat yourself because he knows he didn’t mishear. It isn't the knowing that shocks him — he's not stupid, and you wear your heart on your sleeve — it's the sudden, quick verbal affirmation of it that catches him off guard. After all, haven’t you two been putting this all off? Yearning for a dead man? Being pulled from two opposing poles?

He turns his head towards you, opens his mouth to ask you just that, and—

"After Suguru, I thought I'd never be happy again," you say, and you’re smiling like you didn't just say something inherently heartbreaking. But no, you look fond — content, even, blinking slowly at him. "And I thought I'd never feel for someone as strong as I did for him. But here I am: happy, and in love, and okay."

Satoru opens his mouth — then closes it quickly. For some reason, he remembers something Suguru said to you when you were younger: "Satoru speaks before he thinks." But he wants to think about this — about what he should say. How does he respond to you quite literally baring your heart to him? How does he tell you what he wants to tell you, what you deserve to hear? He's never been good with real, genuine words — emotional shit never came easy to him out loud. His thoughts are much more concise than his mouth is, but he guesses it's because it moves so fast in comparison.

Pity you can't read his mind. It'd make things much easier.

“You don’t have to say anything,” but he wants to, don't you know? "You don't have to pretend. It’s okay. I know that… maybe you don’t love me as much as you loved Suguru, but I know you love me in some way, at least—”

Satoru frowns — strings of ideas and thoughts bunching up and stopping short as your words register. “As much as I— hey, stop putting words in my mouth—"

"The truth is," you continue on, "I feel lighter than I have in years. I don't dread life so much anymore. I don't dread you anymore."

"You… dreaded me?"

You hum. Your legs stretch down, arms forward, face scrunched up in a passing yawn. "I'm not stupid to think you didn’t know how I felt, but… I hated that I was so obvious about it. Even when I was fighting with myself about it, I was obvious. It made me hate being around you, sometimes."

You sigh, then — not as heavy and melancholy as they used to be, no. This is a sigh of relief, of cathartic release.

Satoru blinks, and attempts to wade through the seventy-or-so compulsions telling him to make a joke, to laugh, to tease you. Maybe he should actually be serious for once. Say it straight and say it firm, so you can't take anything the wrong way. If there was ever a time for him to not beat around the bush…

"I've liked you since I was 17," he confesses, finally. "Me and Suguru, we were together, y’know, and we were happy. And Suguru loved you, and somewhere along the line I… began to do the same, but we were so young and then… Everything changed so fast. Everything broke so fast.”

Your fingers brush against his, and he breathes in a sigh. Your eyes are wide and watery, low light reflecting like glitter in your eyes.

"Sometimes, it keeps me up at night," Satoru says, laughing a pained sort of laugh. "Out of everything, that's what keeps me up — that we could've been happy together, all three of us. It never would’ve been enough to make him change, but…"

At least you would’ve known what it was like. To be happy together in that way. To be content. To find your places in the world, hand and hand. To know what it was like — even if Suguru’s fall from grace was inevitable — so you wouldn’t have to keep wondering until your untimely, gruesome, sorcerer-style deaths, or whatever.

Back then, Satoru didn’t understand why Suguru never told you how he felt. He couldn't understand how he could be content watching from afar, looking but never touching. What Satoru wanted, he learned to take; the Strongest didn’t need to ask for permission, only forgiveness.

He learned quickly that some things were better left unsaid. And now, 28 years old, half of his friends, students, colleagues dead — he understands even more.

He remembers how Yuuji had tried to stave off tears when he realised he had to die; remembers how his student’s throat had felt being crushed in his hands. He loved Yuuji like a little brother. Like a son, even. He was family. He was his student, and yet his death had been necessary, and Satoru battled with it. It allowed him to succeed in the mission he was born to complete. But he had given up Yuuji in return.

There is no curse more twisted than love.

Therein lays the problem, he supposes. The second you love someone, you run the risk of having them end up like Yuuji did. Like Suguru did. Like Nanami did. When you are burdened with incredible power like Satoru is — like Suguru was — you must be able to sacrifice for it. The closer that people are, the more likely they are to be caught in the crossfire, the more likely you are to be hurt. Suguru hoped to avoid that at all costs. It was easier to watch from afar, less painful.

Satoru is a tad more selfish. Which is bad, he knows, because he's too prepared to sacrifice. Even now. Even now, he knows that if caught between saving you and saving society, he would be forced to — to—

Satoru inhales. The only thing for it is to simply stop things from getting that far.

He could explain all this to you. He could talk circles around you about it, in fact, but the truth is that it's all conjecture. Suguru isn’t here to tell him why he did what he did. He can’t speak for him, no matter how well he knew him.

"I don't know why Suguru never told you," Satoru says instead. He folds his fingers tighter, taking yours in his grip as he does so. "Guess that's something he took with him to the grave."

"I've stopped wondering," you say. “I’ll never stop regretting, but I’ve stopped wondering. I can’t stay rooted in the past any more. It was doing more harm than good."

And you raise your interlocked hands — nestle them under your chin and screw your eyes shut, like you're wishing on the evening star, like he's something precious to be treasured. All of a sudden he's 17 and confused about why he can't stop staring at you. He doesn’t have Suguru to tease him about it, now.

“I’ll never forget him,” Satoru announces — a warning, or a reassurance, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s telling the truth and nothing but the truth, and whether or not you like his truth is not his concern. He respects you too much to lie about this to you.

Your lips twitch upwards, a phantom of a smile. “Neither will I. "

"I'll never forget you, either."

The smile grows, blooms, blossoms, until it stretches bright and full across your face. The first smile of yours he's seen in a while that wasn't at half-mast, or tinged with sadness, or pain, or fatigue.

"How lucky I am," you whisper, "to be known by you, Gojo Satoru."

It should be the other way around, he thinks.

(12.5.

It's the first time he makes love in years.

Satoru has always fucked you. Always. No matter how tired you both were, no matter how injured — he'd always force himself to be rougher, force his touches to not linger as much as he wanted them to.

If he felt too much, he'd crack a joke instead of drowning in it; if he felt his eyes beginning to burn he'd bury his nose in the crook of your neck and push it down. If he thought of long, dark hair and cat-like eyes, he'd tighten your grip in his hair and the shock of pain would clear his mind. He fucked quick, and when he was done he'd lay far away enough that he couldn't feel your skin against his.

Tonight, he lets himself love and be loved again.

You're on top of him, ass flush against his thighs, taking every inch he has to give you; his hands have found your jaw, thumbs brushing back and forth across your dewy, sweat-slick cheeks. One hand of yours clasps around his wrist; the other bands to his chest, nails digging red into his skin. Your cursed energy blooms, flushes, flourishes when he opens his eyes to look at you.

He sees every pore, every hair, every dimple, every broken capillary, every scratch and scrape. Every part of you, bending to him in some places, unfalteringly stubborn in others.

"Look at you," he mumbles, blinking dumbly. "So… pretty…"

You snort something like a laugh, and continue: up, down, up, down. Slow, grinding gyrations of your hips that make his head spin pleasantly; and with his Limitless nullified, he feels every inch of skin, every tensing of muscle, every scrape and press fully and completely. He’s never felt so engulfed in it before — the sensations of it all, the warmth, your scent, your weight above him.

He'd drown in you, if he could. Take you in his mouth and nose and ears and everywhere, until he's left gasping for air and grappling for something of substance. Maybe once upon a time he would keep those thoughts to himself, for whatever reason — but now he's allowed to be selfish in his affections, allowed to give more than surface-level compliments and vague declarations of love.

Between pleasure-ridden shudders and sloppy, wet kisses, he breathes:

"I want you everywhere," he says, "All the time. Over me, on me, in me—"

You raise a brow, impudent and teasing in a way that makes his abdomen tighten. "In you?"

And maybe he didn’t mean it in the way that you took it, but he plays along anyways, waggling his brows. "You heard me."

"You're terrible."

"I'm not joking," Satoru argues — but it’s hard to take him seriously when his voice quietens, when he arches up eagerly to meet your lips—

When his grip on your lower back becomes painfully tight, when his lips part in a moan and his eyes screw shut and he throws his head back, hips rutting up to meet yours, and—

His peak rises to greet him — and his heart swells all the while. He finds himself clawing for you as his orgasm builds, hands clambering against your back, your neck, your hair, until (with a great, shaking breath, may he add): "Fuck, I — mmf, I love you—"

It carries him off to a state of fuzzy, empty-minded ignorance — pleasure tightening his entire body, fizzling from the tips of his fingers to his curling toes. Your name on his tongue, slurred and mellifluous, his smile dizzy and drunk.

As you smile down at him, so unbearably fond, Satoru thinks that he doesn’t mind saying I love you aloud after all.)

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