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seumyo · 16 hours ago

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a softie for sentimentality, bakugou katsuki.

Bakugou wears a bracelet. You’ve known about it for as long as you could remember, but only decided to acknowledge it now that you’re in your third year at UA, two weeks before graduation.

It wasn’t flashy or adorned with any kind of logo—just a simple, sturdy piece of metal with a stainless clasp that he seemed to wear all the time. You tilted your head as you studied it.

“You’ve had that bracelet for as long as I can remember,” you said, sitting down on his study chair. It’s a privilege to even set foot inside of his room without immediately being told (yelled) off, really.

Bakugou looked up from his book and glanced at you. “Yeah, and?”

“Is there, like, a story behind it?”

“No story,” he said with a shrug, but you weren’t entirely convinced.

“Really? That’s so bland. I thought there’d be like a gut-wrenching or life-changing story for it.”

He sat up from his bed with a huff, his eyes narrowing at you. “It’s just somethin’ I wear. What’s it to you?”

You raised your hands in mock surrender, a playful smile on your lips. “Alright, Mr. Mysterious. Keep your secrets.”

“Fuck off, dipshit.”

“Again with that! Why can’t you be nicer now that we’re graduating?”

“Shut up,” he grumbled.

But the conversation stuck to you.

It’s the day of graduation when you presented him with a small, handmade box. It was simple, made of sturdy cardboard decorated with his signature colors and an orange ribbon to match. Bakugou rose a brow.

“What’s this for?” He asks, holding it up like the box might explode at any given moment, though there was no bite to it.

“A box.”

“No shit,” he scoffs, “what’s in it?”

“Open it to find out!�� You egged him on.

Bakugou sighs, opening the box with a focused pout. He went quiet when he saw what was inside.

“Ta-da! A bracelet,” you said, smiling. “For you. Thought you could use something new to switch things up.”

He held the stringed bracelet in his hand, looking at the material as if it would erupt in flames if he glared hard enough. It was a stark contrast to his metal one—brightly colored warm complementary beads with little charms that somehow still managed to feel like him. There was a red charm shaped like an explosion, a black bead with a skull design, and a small silver charm with an engraved kanji for “strength.”

“I’m not wearing this,” he said flatly.

It’s like your cartoonish heart balloon had suddenly been popped with a prickly needle.

“What? Why not? It’s cool!” you argued. “I even made it myself to really match you!”

“It’s not my style.”

“Sure it is. Look, it’s got black, silver, and even a little red—it screams Bakugou Katsuki.”

“I didn’t get you anythin’ as a parting gift,” he tells you.

“Don’t worry about it! It’s fine,” you replied, waving your hand in dismissal. “Just thought this’ll go with your metal bracelet.”

He nodded, though there was a somewhat frustrated pout on his expression, muttering something under his breath a soft “thanks,” and placed the gift back in the box, never actually letting you see him wearing it during that moment.

Years later, during a photoshoot for the yearly hero gala, Bakugou stood in front of the camera in his full Dynamight suit. The photographer adjusted the lights, snapping rapid shots as Bakugou struck his signature confident poses.

“Hold still,” the stylist said, adjusting his gauntlet slightly. Her eyes flicked to his wrist, and she paused. “Oh, that’s cute. Is that handmade?”

Bakugou blinked, following her gaze. Wrapped around his wrist, right next to his ever-present metal bracelet, was the colorful string bracelet you had made him all those years ago.

He stiffened slightly, but instead of taking it off, he shrugged. “Yeah. What about it?”

The stylist smiled warmly. “It’s a nice touch. Makes you seem... approachable. And quite frankly, it matches your suit.”

Bakugou snorted. “Whatever. Let’s get this over with.”

When the photos surfaced online, fans quickly noticed the bracelet. Social media practically exploded that day.

Is Dynamight wearing a friendship bracelet??

A HANDMADE BRACELET ON DYNAMIGHT??

Guys, he’s worn this thing for YEARS. Check the old pictures! 🙂‍↔️

You, of course, caught wind of the news—because honestly, who wouldn’t when it took all social media platforms by storm? You saw the posts one evening while scrolling through your phone. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw the photos. It was unmistakable—the bracelet you had made all those years ago.

Long after your UA days were behind you and your lives had taken you and Bakugou down different paths, the all-too-familiar bracelet made you smile sadly—more nostalgic happiness than actual sadness, really.

You stared at the screen, sighing quietly. You thought back to the last time you’d spoken, to the unspoken decision that had pulled you in different directions. You never thought something as small as a bracelet would still mean anything to him.

You didn’t even think you’d live to see the day he wears it, much less keep it after the years.

But there it was, bright and unapologetic on his wrist, a subtle reminder of a bond that hadn’t completely faded with time.

Somewhere across the city, Bakugou stood on a rooftop, the evening wind tugging at his hero uniform. He glanced down at the bracelet on his wrist, running his thumb over the frayed edges of the string. He smirked to himself, a quiet acknowledgment of the past and the person who’d given it to him.

“Guess you were right,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the wind. “It does scream Bakugou Katsuki.”

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shellxrls · 10 months ago

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to me jj feels like that bsf that acts like he’s more yk? he’s super touchy feely, and it’s insanely casual too. to the point where you don’t question it. but he does that thing where he steps behind you and air humps you, and that’s when you have to consider if he’s just a pervert, or into you.

… or the secret third thing (both)

the way this prompt made me nut wtf .

─── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ───

no but he’s so fucking raunchy ab this shit it’s obscene, sneaking up behind you when you’re digging through a drawer at the chateau searching for some miscellaneous item.

the rest of pogues silently observe as jj puts a finger over his own mouth and signals for them to be quiet, traipsing up until he was right behind you and placing his hands to hover over your ass, bent frame causing your backside to stick up in the air.

still completely soundless, he begins to feign humping the air surrounding your back, thrusting his hips as his expressions contort into pictures of pornographic perversity, eyebrows drawn tight and eyes rolling into the back of his skull.

john b eventually walks in to break it up, deciding it to be less than tasteful to let jj continue massacring the picture of innocence you seemed to be (despite the fact that were supposedly unaware of his depraved air-humping performance).

“alright jj c’mon, leave her alone man,” john b gestures at jj disapprovingly.

jj backs off as you lift your head, letting out a cluelessly pitched, “huh?” into the air as you notice jj standing right behind you, invading every sort of personal boundary.

jj shrugs at john b, stepping away from you in defeat, but not before leaning down so he was breathing onto your face, murmuring “don’t pretend you weren’t watching me through the glass cupcake,” before gesturing nonchantly towards the patio door opposite to where you were both standing.

he backs off further and smirks watching you go flush in embarrassment, calling out a teasing “just saying,” and running backwards to join the rest of the pogues outside.

─── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ───

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diejager · 1 year ago

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@warenai gave me the juiciest idea.

Draw Cw: smut, porn, prostitution, P in V, creampie, jealousy, handjob, mating press, voyeurism, tell me if I missed any.

part 2

There was a silent understanding between the three of them after that whole fiasco, Ghost and Soap demanding answers from their captain on their own time. Ghost confronted Price in his office that night, body still hot and bothered from your live but wracked with cold sweat from finding out that Price was your third, highest donator. Price hadn’t expected him, neither did Price expect him to find out about his little secret, the thing he spent his money on, but when Soap stopped him outside of the base, he wasn’t surprised then. Ghost had told him about everything, how both he and Soap were members of your OnlyFans, devoted and loyal, only using the site to watch you.

Whether it bothered Gaz that they kept having silent conversations through side glances and open staring, he hadn’t voiced his confusion or curiosity, he stayed outside of this struggle to catch your attention. For all they knew, only the three of them knew you and enjoyed the content, spending their nights jerking off at your sweet voice and beautiful body dressed in all kinds of things. Gaz seemed none the wiser, acting as he usually did, smiling gently, taking care of his strict skin routine, trimming his moustache and caring for his favourite cap.

Yet, he seemed so energetic today, exhuming happiness and giddiness while the others looked dejected, shoulders slumped lower and sighing disappointedly. It was suspicious, for Gaz to act out of character, especially after your announcement of an anonymous winner of your draw, choosing at random one of your patrons to host a live with, letting them fuck you as they dreamed to. Unfortunately, you hadn’t told the public to protect the winner’s identity until the live, you would contact them directly for a day and time.

They seethed in silence, a storm of jealousy stewing in their guts while Gaz smiled and laughed to his phone, eyes glued to his screen and fingers tipping away as if he was in a rush to answer the person he was messaging. It went on like this for a while, a week before Gaz asked for a few days of leave, packing his rucksack with clothes and toiletries with the prettiest and newest clothes he had. Soap had teased him about leaving and dressing pretty for a date, that he’d been texting the girl who caught his heart for a wile now.

They forgot about Gaz after he left, happy for him and curious but not involving themselves into his business, until they got opened up your live after they got the notification about it starting in a few minutes. The watched you smile, wave at the camera, manicured nails gleaming under the soft, yellow light of a hotel room. You changed the location of stage, a comfortable looking hotel room with a queen bed and silken sheets. The highlight of this live - like every other - was you, dressed in a pretty, satin shirt fitting your dark navy teddy, the same shade under warm lights.

You sat on the bed, legs open and flashing the dark patch of your underwear, darkened with slick from earlier foreplay with your guest —the lucky bastard. You made the same introduction, a smile and wave, followed by welcoming them with your stage name, but this time, you reached out for someone off screen, fingers locking with a caramel one, thick fingers with calloused pads, the person who won the draw was lean but still muscular, his arms and thighs curved and abdomen hard. He wore a familiar mask —a skull painted balaclava.

“This is GazCan,” you pulled the man down to him hands and knees, pressing kisses against his gleaming chest, lips wandering up his throat and he’s masked cheek, “He won this year’s draw.”

They knew the balaclava, how could they not when they wore it before as a team, one singular squad fighting towards one goal — it was the Ghost team mask. This was no coincidence, it all fit in with their situation: Gaz had been overly enthusiastic and happy for a week, his sudden ask for days-worth leave and all the neatly folded clothes and skin care.

This winner was Gaz. They were watching Gaz finger you, pumping two of his fingers into your slick cunt, drooling over his palm for everyone to see and hear, the lewd and wet sound of his hand. They watched Gaz fuck you raw, folding you in half, knees to your ears and feet dangling over his shoulders as he snapped his hips, pounding you into the hotel bed and whispering filthy things into your ear. Your swollen folds puffing around his cock, hair trimmed and clean, veins bulging out as he drove in, were in full view of the camera, letting them watch how well Gaz was breeding you.

They boiled with jealousy, being forced to watch one of them feel you, taste you, fuck you. Gaz made you sign for them, mewls and keens rising high from how well he pleasured you, the pointed tip of his cock hitting your spongy cervix and veins rubbing against your g-spot. He was a mix of gentle sex and domination, keeping his hands on you and bending you to his liking, manhandling you to fit his wild fantasies and you liked it.

Despite seeing someone they knew fuck you, that didn’t stop them from coming, spreading their cum over their cock and jerking out the rest of it against their bed and desk. It drove them wild thinking that they could’ve been the one filling you up with their load rather than Gaz, his white jizz bubbling out of your twitching cunny and rolling down your perky rim.

“GazCan, is it, sergeant?” Price cock his brow, lip pursed and arms crossed, he looked so stern as he stared Gaz down.

“Captain,” Gaz smiled back, shamelessly comfortable with his date being shared in the briefing room, then he turned to Ghost, “Ghostie,” and to Soap, “SexiSoap, not exactly subtle.”

Part 4

Tag list: @warenai @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @cutiecusp @ladyof-themoon @yourdaydreamerfan

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lanabuckybarnes · 7 months ago

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Might have re-watched Captain America: Winter Soldier again 🫣....and it's just something about the way he says "You're my misson." All I know is this gives off HUGE smutty vibes. I love your written so I just knew I had to ask you!

Ohh nonnie the way he growls it as well (panties soaked)

18+ MINORS DNI, DUB/NON CON THEMES AHEAD

His metal hand pressed against your throat, you should’ve passed out ages ago but he wasn’t squeezing enough to hurt. He was keeping you in place.

You don’t know how you ended up on Hydra’s watchlist. You were a regular person, a security expert who woke up at 6am every morning, showered and got ready for the long hours at the office.

Your boss had some new clientele. They were in the market for top-notch security and they’d chosen the company you worked for, and your boss had chosen you to be part of the team. You learned quickly that they were a very secretive group, you only ever met the messengers and even then they blanked every other word you spoke besides a polite hello.

It was one boring day, completely uneventful, the usual in your office. You were working on the can’t security side of the project when your screen went black, then a logo appeared—an octopus? Weird.

“Hey Jim come look at this” you notified your cubicle neighbour who peaked over the barrier. Just as he did mountains of files filtered onto your screen, many of them in Russian it looked like but one thing was for certain. You definitely shouldn’t have seen it.

That night after packing up and heading downstairs you noticed Jim still at the revolving doors.

“Hey, you alright?” You asked, he looked pale, if you were in an old house you were sure you would’ve mistook him for a ghost.

“T-the—“ he cleared his throat before his brown eyes bore into yours. They looked dead, it shook you to your core. “The logo, on your computer…I searched it up and…”

Your jaw dropped to the floor when you digested the content on his phone. Hydra. Your new clients were Hydra and you’d accidentally seen all their files.

—

You jumped from your dreamless sleep at the sound of your landline. Checking your clock lets you know it was well past midnight, who on earth would be calling at this time?

“H-hello?” You rasped, eyes shutting by the second.

The frantic voice spoke your name. It was Jim and by his tone, he was panicking.

“Jim? Jim, are you alright?” You pressed, holding the phone closer to your ear.

“T-they’re here, listen to me whatever you do, do not open your door. Find a weapon and hide…oh god…Do not op—“ BANG!!

You let out a shriek at the sound, Jim’s side turning eerily quiet. Then your door knocked.

Once.

Twice.

Your door was gone before it could be knocked for a third time. Kicked so hard it hit the opposite wall, you screamed, dropping the phone from your ear and falling to the ground like you were made of jelly.

Tears flowed freely down your face as the huge body stalked forth, his arm glistening under the dim light you kept on at all times. A mask sat upon his face obscuring his emotions from you but you were certain he was enjoying the torture he was putting you through.

His heavy boots stopped just in front of your knees, his metal hand grasped at your throat squeezing until your vision spotted, until you garbled pleas up at him. Only then did he pull you up, your toes pointing to reach the floor, you were trying desperately to relieve some of the pressure around your throat.

You should’ve died a long time ago, his brain screamed at him to fulfil his mission, put a bullet in your skull and be done. But the more he looked at you the more he wanted.

The spaghetti straps of your nightgown had slipped down off your shoulders, catching in the crooks of your elbows but not before giving him a delicious tease of your bust.

He wanted more.

He raised his flesh hand, hooking a long thick index finger into the material before ripping it from your body in one fell swoop. You yelled and struggled against his grasp but a harsh squeeze of your trachea had any fight dying quickly.

He let his knuckles trace the swell of your tits, pinching a nipple in between his fingers, smirking darkly under the mask as you squirmed.

You look cute all scared of him; wide-eyed and chest heaving, your tummy sucking in to get away from his hand as it trailed down to your cotton panties.

A dark chuckle escaped him as he felt along your gusset.

“You’re wet”

You shook your head, eyes darting anywhere but him, your thighs squeezing his hand and keeping it pressed firmly against your mound.

He ripped the panties from your body as well, running two fingers through your folds and bringing them up to your face. Absolutely soaked.

“Wet” he spoke matter-of-factly before pushing his hand back down there; fingers plucking your hard little clit effortlessly until you were crying out.

“W-why are you doing this” you moaned, head hitting off the wall with a bang as you sucked in air greedily.

“You’re my mission” he growled back, fingers stretching you out until your brain turned to mush.

He coaxed four orgasms out of you that night. His mask, thrown to the floor so he could kiss you sloppily before leaving.

He returned night after night, Hydra sending him to complete his task but he’d do the same again, play with you, eat you out until you were a writhing mess—all dumb and thinking of nothing but him.

You were his mission. For days, months, years. You were his.

—

I pulled this outta my ass but I hope it was up to your standard nonnie 🤭🤭

Also thank you so much, it’s nice to know some people enjoy reading the poo I write.

Likes, Reblogs and Asks are always appreciated ❤️❤️

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thatneoncrisis · 11 days ago

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could you explain your reasoning for butch harrow? im asking this in a way a student asks a master

ok so. up top: do i think harrow is butch in canon? no. god no. absolutely not. secret third category of person. not butch or femme shes just like A Guy who really fucking likes black

however i do think that between those two ends of a nebulous spectrum, being butch would be way more comfortable for her than femme, if we think of it in the most traditional sense for both sides. there are literally exceptions to every rule femmes can have short hair and wear pants, butches can have long hair and wear makeup yadda yadda. but the way she interacts with certain elements of her presentation in canon just felt to ME, PERSONALLY, that being traditionally feminine would freak her the fuck out

ive seen people compare her compulsion to wear the skull paint to a need to wear makeup and i. very much disagree. id see it more as like, an overtly religious thing, like a nuns habit or a hijab, its modesty and how she shows respect for her god, also routine, its as natural as putting on pants for her. and also frankly if it was an analog for traditional makeup that would be uuuuh awful. like I genuinely feel terrible for women who cannot even leave the house without foundation or contouring or whatever i dont know shit about makeup but holy fuck. if shes femme in that analog id be shaking her by the shoulders GIRL. YOU HAVE GOT TO BE A NAKED ANIMAL

another thing is her hair. so many people read her having short hair and immediately went to a bob or a pixie cut. and between tamsyns inconsistent description of the length of her hair in book one (saying its stuck to her face with sweat despite them being there for like, a month) and the htn cover being The best image we have of her, i understand that conclusion. but in the beginning of gtn its said its close cropped, tamsyn said on her blog post describing all the characters its "cut short (as benefits someone in a monestary)" which is a very interesting choice of words tbh. like im sute she didnt mean harrow is completely bald in the middle with a ring of hair but that Is the monk haircut. and then finally harrow says to gideon outright "i wont cut you bald-even though your hair is ridiculous- because I know you wont shave it every day" which i always took to mean being shaved down to the scalp is just how the ninth is traditionally. in harrow the ninth its said "occasionally ticklish rasps at your ears or forehead would frighten you numb before you realized ut was your own hair" indicating that she is not used to that length at all. also theres the fact that ianthe made her hair grow faster particularly to fuck with her. in short harrows haircut is shitty and utilitarian and any fussing with it has only been described in relation to her direct discomfort

finally theres that goddamn dress scene. why did ianthe put her in that stupid fucking thing. humilation tactic (im exaggerating but it basically was explicitly and exclusively for ianthes own amusement). shes such a simple girl, she just wanted something that could cover her up. its not impossible to have a longsleeved formless dress, but beyond my own opinion that i think harrow would have been uncomfortable in anything, i think the fact this like, explicit symbol of femininity is used to further degrade her in some sense in a room full of people who font reapect her feels like. intentional on the authors end. it quite literally just isnt her, its not even a true black its like a deep midnight blue. you get the pretty woman makeover scene but harrow comes out of it more miserable and resigned than ever. augustines approval means nothing. she looks in the mirror and sees her mother, a woman she appears to not have a single fond memory about. its all very sad

tldr when i talk about butch harrow its less about her "being butch" and more about how unfemme i think she is. also i want more butch4butch dykes i think gideon and camilla should teach her how to tie a tie.

#asks #Anonymous #is this anything. at all #but for aerious i need more tiny little freaks to be butch #i know you people love your muscle mommys but i need something else. or ill die

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ataraxiaspainting · 3 months ago

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Morningstar's Road.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader x Yan Feitan.

Synopsis: Your routine is average, to say the least. But due to Chrollo’s orders, Feitan cannot snatch you up yet – so he simply mirrors your behaviors instead for self-satisfaction. His boss does so too.

Warnings: Yandere themes, stalking, kidnapping, a few suggestive actions, manipulation, some descriptions anxiety/depression for the reader, animal death, and violence/some gore.

Word Count: 4.4k.

*~*~*~*

Feitan is so close to you that he can just about hear your beating heart. He could only see the back of your head, hair loose and surely will be knotted by the morning sun, but he can smell you whenever he is this close.

You always smell so nice, but for some reason, you smell even better – of that floral-scented oil you put on your neck and wrists before you go to bed. Maybe you added extra because it is the weekend.

You are on your right side – the fetal position was always your favorite – and hugging a plush that resembles your childhood cat. This was typical behavior for you; you had cried for days when your older sister called to say he had passed from old age. You weren’t weeping anymore, but you were when you saw the stuffed animal near the window of that dollar store you pass by daily on your way to work. You named it Silky, the same as the real thing, and tuck it in whenever you are in and out of bed. Feitan somewhat wished he could get the same treatment, to be in your arms as you sleep and to feel just a hint of your comforting warmth.

Feitan brought his own blanket.

It isn’t pastel pink like your sheets or your pillowcases or your pajamas and it has holes from moths and years of being stretched as he grew and his fights came to have higher and higher stakes.

If he had recalled correctly the bloodstains from the first time he was stabbed were just under the giant white skull pattern, although since most of the blanket is black it wouldn’t show even in the brightest of lights.

If he had recalled correctly the bloodstains from the first time it was stolen are still there too; on the bottom right corner.

“This type of nen won’t last forever, Fei.”

Feitan turns his neck, his bandana doing little to hide the slight scowl on his face. “I know.”

“Now, now… I never said you did not.” Chrollo responds while giving a small smile, still having the Bandit’s Secret in his right hand while your diary is held in his left. He turns to the next page while Feitan goes back to snuggling up beside you.

If Chrollo had a third arm, he could have the rest of your coffee you didn’t finish and left in your fridge. There is a lipstick stain, the color of that tint you often sport when in your office space. A light taffy color, he muses.

Very fitting.

“I simply wanted you not to fall asleep too slow or too deep, we do have to leave by dawn after all.”

Feitan said no answer. Chrollo is used to that – a little too used to it, maybe, but Feitan has always stood out from fellow people from Meteor City even by the Phantom Troupe’s standards.

“Same oil?” He asks, and on cue, Feitan gives a loud sniffing sound.

“Yes.”

“Cute.”

Around your waist Feitan’s left arm lays, and his right hand holds the blanket tighter than a noose.

If Chrollo were to guess, if Feitan had a third arm he would put two of its fingers on your lips to feel how soft they were. Chrollo had done so before, but his friend hadn’t. He almost chuckles at the irony. The member of the Troupe the most intimate when it comes to matters of anatomy and torture felt that his fingertips having pink on them was a line he could not cross. It’s almost funny in a way. It’s adorable.

“Boss.”

“Hm?”

“For just a while,” Feitan starts. His tone is shy, like a little boy about to ask his classmate crush for their hand in marriage. “Can you read it to me?”

“‘It’?” Chrollo teases slightly, yet he knows what Feitan is talking about.

“The thing in your hand.”

“‘Thing’?”

Feitan huffs a bit and follows it up with a sigh.

“The… diary. Please.”

*~*~*~*

I think I’m getting worse and wondering if I have ever been happy with myself.

There is this girl that sits at the desk across from mine, Lyra is her name, and I don’t hate her by any means.

I just wish I was her, you know? She gets along with everyone in our office, Her hair is always nice. She has only been here since February and has already been promoted to the status it took me three years to get.

Don’t get me wrong, she is incredibly nice and I always have a few laughs with her from time to time. Maybe it’s just my insecurities getting to me.

I wonder if sometimes she has similar thoughts when with other people, or even me if that were possible. I know she has a habit of procrastination and has a record of not handing in her work until a few days or weeks later – those are qualities I don’t have, but maybe she doesn’t feel anything negative about herself.

I’m known as the quiet and sweet girl at my job.

I’ve always had a bone to pick with the title, in a way. All my life that is what I was labeled as. People come to me for advice, and it does make me feel good, but I wish I could be a jokester like Lyra too.

That’s all I have… at least for now, I guess. I’m going to drink tea with honey and go to bed.

May 8th

*~*~*~*

The duo entered through the front door this time. You were gone tonight, as evidenced by the messy pile of umbrellas and house shoes that flooded the entrance, so they could break in without much sneaking around. They know where you headed to – and for now, Chrollo orders Feitan not to slit the man’s throat and gouge out his eyes. Your boyfriend, the only one of your past romantic interests not yet dead. Francis.

He’s quite the simple fellow as Chrollo had noted. Feitan was only focusing on where his organs started and ended when they both saw you with him near midnight months before.

“Not yet.”

Chrollo turns his head and looks down at Feitan as they walk down the hall.

“I know you’re still thinking about it, but your actions may cause our plan to fail.”

No verbal response, though Chrollo notices how Feitan’s steps get slightly louder.

“Fine.”

“Are you saying you’re fine? Or are you still agreeing to not go haywire on the man yet?”

“New one.”

“Hm?”

“New word.” Feitan’s nails retract slightly from your walls as he rolls his eyes. “Hay… wire.”

His hand stops at a photo of your dead cat framed on the wall – he’s a kitten in this one, with his first collar and teenager you hugging him – but your face is cropped out.

He moves the hand away from it for just a few steps. Chrollo finds it polite of him – as polite as Feitan can be with others, anyway.

At the same time, they consider bringing the photos you took off your walls and onto whatever penthouse walls Chrollo has rented out for the next few months or so. It would be cute seeing smiling pictures of you all over, especially since you’ll be switching locations soon enough, and in turn, that expression will soon enough become rare.

But when Chrollo thinks about the idea further, a problem arises. Your photos aren’t focused on you. They’re focused on your friends and family. You are always in the corner or hidden behind someone else. It’s of your own volition. Chrollo is sure of it. Perhaps he can get Shalnark to work his magic on them and ignore the teasing. Feitan would do nothing more than threaten to bash in his teeth, as with friends he is nothing more than a ‘grumpy wet cat’ – those are Shalnark and Uvogin’s own words. Not Chrollo’s.

“No.”

“Hm?”

“I’ll cut ‘em,” Feitan suggests while putting his sharp nails on your bedroom’s door frame.

“How do you intend to do so when there’s near nothing to cut out?” Chrollo asks. Feitan goes silent until he sits on your bed.

It’s still unmade. You must have ignored that chore list of yours again and opted to work extra hours instead.

Chrollo sits down at the small part of your room that is clean; your desk. It’s mainly used for just reading and video games, hence why the only two things not neatly in piles are a book and your computer. Shalnark told them both the password, but neither of them had decided to tread into that territory for multiple reasons. Firstly, neither of them knows a single thing about the internet and simulations. Secondly, Shalnark can just get whatever information they need without them looking inside it themselves anyway. Thirdly, they already know you enjoy wholesome things on there – the opposite of what you’re reading, if the books on your unfinished read pile mean anything to Chrollo – so there is no point in venturing for unneeded facts about you.

You’ll surely tell them yourself one day.

Eventually. In maybe weeks. Months. Years.

Eventually.

It’ll feel like forever and a day if you decide not to talk to either of them. Chrollo and Feitan have agreed without any argument that if you want something, you will ask them. Nicely, of course.

Broken fingers aren’t necessarily something people flaunt.

You wouldn’t brag about being forced onto a lap for hours out on a balcony either.

You’ll eventually tell them. You have to. For your sake.

Eventually. Nothing lasts forever, after all.

“Fei. I promise you that this will be worth the wait.”

Feitan shakes his head, scoffing. “Will it? It would have been easier to just grab her and run.”

“I know,” Chrollo leans in a little, putting his elbows on his thighs. “I know. But you’ll lament it. I would have too if I had agreed with you to go down that route.”

A stare is the response.

It isn’t anger, Chrollo knows that much.

No.

In all the years Chrollo has known Feitan, Feitan has never gone back on his loyalty to him and the Troupe.

But. But.

Chrollo hasn’t ever seen him have such a concurrence when there is still such division in his eyes.

“Are you sad?” He asks.

“No,” Feitan replies, looking at your cat plush instead of his leader of the full moon outside.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

*~*~*~*

Francis lives outside the city in a farmhouse. It’s up a tall hill with no pathway aside from little rectangular stones here and there – and if you ignore the animals and their housing, people would think that the place is deserted.

Feitan and Chrollo make their way to the white picket fence surrounding the chicken coop. They continue to bite down into the soil for worms or leftover grain. All female. Only three were brown; the others were smaller in frame and white.

“I’ve heard his eggs go for high prices in markets,” Chrollo grins a little. “Maybe I’ll raise some chickens of my own in my later years.”

Feitan raises an eyebrow at him.

“I was joking, Fei.” He clarifies.

“Ah.”

Feitan continues to walk with his hands still stuffed into his coat pockets.

Chrollo looks at the farmhouse up at the top of the hillside. The lights are still on, meaning you were most likely still up and about in there.

The rooster resting on top of the mailbox makes eye contact with him for a few moments.

“Don’t scream,” Chrollo murmurs, his words sweet as sugar.

“What?” Feitan asks, not even bothering to turn around.

“I’m talking to the rooster.”

“[First]’s rubbing off on you too much.” His friend rolls his eyes and makes sure not to step on a twig.

“Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed how these animals look at us.”

“They’re animals now. What came before… that doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Maybe to you – but I find it intriguing.”

“Talk later,” Putting his hand on the fence gate that leads to Francis’ garden, Feitan turns his head for just a moment. “Near. Quiet. Look.”

For once, Chrollo is the one that does the nodding.

The gate gives off a little squeak as it is opened. It reminds them of Francis’ prized pet pig Annie – though she is only allowed to be inside.

There are all sorts of vegetables and some fruits back here. Cucumbers, chili peppers, watermelons, corn, tomatoes, peaches, pears. They’re all in pristine condition, and so are the flowers growing in pots near the far-off window sills.

Feitan considers giving you the daisies.

Chrollo considers giving you the marigolds.

They both look at the pig’s head hastily buried under the soil, her ears still popping out and facing the moon. Despite the interment being new, perhaps even being dug today, flies have already spread to the top part of the head and ears. They’re happy you didn’t see her because that would be quite an awful gift from your boyfriend.

Francis is probably happy too, not that they care.

From what Shalnark was able to gather from someone who barely has any social life, Francis moved here from another country about four years ago. He acquired this farm and its land almost immediately afterward.

From a lottery, Shalnark had explained to them. Or an inheritance. Either way, man’s life is going pretty dang good. Too good, actually, because my senses are tingling too much.

Shalnark was right in that regard. Francis may adopt animals from time to time from farmers’ markets, but a majority of them suddenly appear a few days or weeks apart. There were three white chickens he had purchased. Then after a month or so, there were twelve. The three brown ones came all at once one day.

“Where’s Annie?” They hear you ask as you open one of the windows to get some fresh air. “She usually runs to the door to see me…”

Using hatsu to conceal their presence, the pair aren’t detected among the plants.

“She ran away.”

Feitan almost snickers at your boyfriend’s answer, looking down at the flies and corpse rotting beneath his feet. He didn’t mind the smell of rotting flesh – he has almost always enjoyed it since he was in his teenage years.

Chrollo’s feet don’t dig into the soil – he has opted to instead stand on the few pieces of stone that are by the cucumber plants. He makes a note to go to the laundromat after this; even though it has already been the third time in a row this week alone.

If he can convince Feitan, they’ll steal some things from your place to wash up too – Francis has always been touchy, after all.

“That’s weird,” You say worriedly, not looking into the garden anymore but instead inside; to Annie’s little bed huddled next to the window. “Did you leave the gate open?”

“Yes, I’m still rather upset about it but I’m sure she’ll be found soon.”

Soon. Chrollo grins a bit as he closes his eyes, imagining the moment he’ll save you from this man. Soon isn’t enough. No. This…

This is the moment.

This is the day.

This is the time.

“Feitan.”

“Hm?”

Francis will die today. Or tomorrow maybe, Chrollo isn’t completely sure.

“Don’t make it too bloody,” He instructs, getting off the stones and onto the dirty tiles of the garden’s path to the back door. “I’ll focus on her. We’ll leave the others alone.”

“Fine.”

“Thank you, Feitan.”

Feitan looks confused for a moment. If Chrollo were someone who hadn’t grown up beside him, he wouldn’t have noticed the small millisecond of his friend showing emotion. ‘For what?’ He wants to ask.

Chrollo knows it. He knows it so he answers the silent question. “For being more vulnerable with her and I. [First] seems to have rubbed off on you too much too, huh?”

“I don’t like your jokes,” Feitan replies as he stuffs his pockets even more – perhaps to hide his balled-up fists. Whether they were made from the hatred of Francis or the annoyance of everything else is up to interpretation. No one will be getting an answer anyway, even Feitan himself. “You’re very happy lately.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Chrollo’s grin widens just a smidge more. “We’re about to rescue a princess.”

From that look, he knows Feitan agrees with his reasoning and is happy as well.

*~*~*~*

“You’re beautiful, darling.”

You’re laid out on Francis’ bed. It’s rather large for a room this size, but it is comfortable to undress on. You picked a periwinkle blue dress today with buttons on only its top front side. Francis wanted to help but you declined. You don’t decline a lot of things, especially when it comes to him. Francis is annoyed by that but he tries not to let it show. He hides a lot of things from you.

“Thank you.” You sheepishly smile, a light flush on your cheeks as you start to undo your buttons.

“Of course,” You’re his favorite by far. You aren’t stuck up or are with him just for his money. You’re so nice to him. You’re so sweet to him. “I wouldn’t lie to you, honey.”

You aren’t like those whores, those sluts, those fucking cheap little bitches.

“I’ll take it slow since it’s your first time and all.” He promises.

You look up at him.

Your frown is just barely noticeable – but noticeable enough for him to see.

“What’s wrong?” Francis asks.

“Lyra’s still missing… I’m worried.”

“Why?” Francis asks, getting more annoyed the more time you spend covered up. “Why are you so worried about her right now? It’s not the time for that.”

“I don’t know,” You look at the open window, cool air still blowing in along with the slight scent of flowers. “I really don’t, I just… have suddenly gotten a little sad just now.”

You’re shivering a little.

“Ah, you must be cold.” He deflects. Having only his shirt on now, he walks up to the windowsill and looks at the vegetable patch. With both hands, he pulls the window closed. “Better?”

You must not have heard him, because you keep playing with your buttons instead of being fully undressed already.

“Could you…”

Ah. You did hear him, but you seem concerned for something else. That’s fine, as long as you aren’t playing with him and will soon attempt to run away.

“Close the curtain? Please? I’d really… appreciate it.”

“Sure,” Francis replies, his smile returning to his face. “Anything for you. Just get comfortable, pumpkin.”

The wicked thing came all at once before either of you could blink. Shards of glass flew into Francis and into the bedroom walls. Francis screams as his bleeding hands are quick to go to his eyes, his fingers attempting to get the glass shards out of them before his vision is gone for good. In front of you was a stranger in a suit – he pushed you out of the way in a fraction of a second and onto the floor. The bed had shielded you and him.

“Are you alright?”

You’re too shocked for words, peeking from behind the bed to where Francis is still screaming.

In front of him was a man in all black stepping on the back of his head with one of his feet. The soles of his boots seemed lodged into Francis’ scalp, and it takes you a moment to realize why. There were spikes on them; not that you could see them much because of how hidden they seemed to be right now. They’re silver judging by the color of their slight sparkle, but the rusted kind. No. Maybe that’s just the bloodstains.

The feeling in your chest is so horrible like you’re very sick. There’s pressure on your heart. It’s strangling you, despite the taller stranger’s grasp on your shoulders being so pleasant. So tender.

“What are you doing?” You screech. The sound doesn’t make either of the intruders flinch. Francis does instead. “Let go of him!”

The shorter man doesn’t look at you, opting to wedge the spikes of his shoes further into Francis’ brain. You try to get up but the man in the suit pulls you back down, shushing you as you protest and cry. “Don’t… it’ll be over soon. I told him to be gentle, you see.”

“Gentle?” You repeat.

��Yes, my dear.” One of his hands rises from your shoulders to where your eyes are. You struggle some more and the stranger whispers something in your ear. “Behave – I can always tell Feitan to torture him the amount he deserves if I wanted to. I know he wants to.”

You deflate and your eyes are forced shut by his palm. “Please stop… I don’t know what we did, just please-”

“You didn’t do anything,” The other man – Feitan if the taller man had named him right and he wasn’t just some assassin he hired; he said his name so tenderly too like he is an old friend – interrupts you. “He did.”

You feel like you’re about to throw up all the wonderful food you just ate. Chicken pot pie, beef tenderloin, roasted pork belly – it all feels like it is about to release from your throat and onto the wooden planked floor below.

“Oh dear,” Another hand covers your nose and mouth. Instead of blood you now smell cologne – sandalwood and amber. “Can you please hurry up, Fei? She looks like she’s about to collapse.”

*~*~*~*

“It’s a wonderful time to be alive,” Chrollo says as he puts the key into his car’s lock. It’s embedded with little multicolored jewels – he had commissioned some artist to customize it for him a week or so ago while Feitan went into your home on his own. “Or at least a wonderful night. Wouldn’t you say so?”

You’re in the passenger seat. You fell unconscious after Francis’ barely alive body got its fingers broken one by one. Some of his blood got on your skirt, but Chrollo is sure that the laundromat will fix that just like the workers will fix his clothes. As long as he pays them enough or threatens them enough. The latter would be more fun for Feitan but the former would let him be seen as a kind patron. Whichever way the coin flips.

He doesn’t blame you for fainting. If he hadn’t been born in Meteor City and hadn’t been raised in a constant state of fear and a constant battle for power over others, he would most likely do the same.

Feitan is in the back, silent. His hands now have gloves on them and are now brushing through your hair.

“Should we make the pit stop or go straight?” After the second question, the car’s lights turn on.

“Bed.”

The car starts moving into the barren street.

“Alright,” Chrollo chuckles a little at the insistence in Feitan’s tone. “We can get some of [First]’s clothes tomorrow then. She’ll probably sleep throughout the day.”

He doesn’t explain why because they both already know the reason. There is a short chain attached to the main bed. Depending on your behavior early on, it will either lengthen or become briefer.

There are also some syringes in the mirror vanity that Feitan asked him over and over to keep in case of an emergency. He doubts there will be any real threat where they would have to use them.

Feitan doesn’t. Feitan doesn’t doubt many things.

“Blankets too.”

Feitan doesn’t ask for many things either, much less demand them.

“Ah,” Chrollo makes the left turn as his fingers tap on the steering wheel. It’s a song you enjoy listening to on your avenue home. He knows you aren’t listening to it but that doesn’t matter right now. He’ll continue to do so until your mind associates the tune with small controlled adventures to and fro and not you having a life of your own. “All of them?”

“Yes. Please.”

“You don’t say that word very often,” He teases, looking at the flat glass mirror overhead.

“Hmph.”

Putting his hand on your thigh, Chrollo continues to drive while still glancing upward now and then.

*~*~*~*

Your heartbeat has calmed down. Feitan is now able to look at your face as you sleep.

You look at peace now. When he had placed you on the bed, your eyebrows furrowed for a moment – perhaps your subconscious being afraid – or disgusted – by him.

The flowery scent of your perfume vanished long ago and has been replaced by a stinging one. Feitan doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind a lot of things when it comes to you.

Unlike the bodies of those who have died by his hands, Feitan places the white blanket on top of you gently like you would shatter if he was just a tad bit rougher.

Well… Body bags don’t really count as blankets, do they? They are meant to be ripped open and stuffed full of parts no wandering soul hopes to find.

Chrollo decides to break the silence. “After she adjusts a little, we’ll leave. Or you can stay if you want. I can carry her things on my own.”

Feitan turns to look at him.

“Pictures.”

Chrollo sighs. “Alright. But we’ll get Shal to edit them. No cutting.”

“...Tch. Fine. Silky too.” A thumb is pressed against your lips. After it is lifted, there is a light pink that covers its print.

“It’s a pretty color, isn’t it?” Chrollo muses, hanging his suit jacket on the edge of his sofa as he holds his book. “I’ll try to get the same shade for her when she runs out of it. Though I suspect it will be a while before then, huh?”

“It’s fine,” Feitan states, rubbing his thumb against your lips more. “She will always be pretty to me.”

“Never took you for the romantic type, Fei.”

“Hmph.”

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sweet-as-an-angel · 1 year ago

Text

Miguel’s Reaction to You Taking Him to Watch The Barbie Movie

Warnings: Mainly Just Miguel Being Defensive, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Miguel Secretly Being a Barbie Girl, No Pronouns Used for Reader Except ‘You’.

Miguel loves you. So, so much. And he would move Heaven and Earth to ensure even an ounce of your happiness.

However, he is 100% convinced that this excursion, this ‘girls’ day out’, will be anything more than a mind-numbing jaunt to the cinema.

At first.

He can’t deny that his heart sank and all enthusiasm he held for your date drained from his body the second you said the words ‘Barbie’ and ‘Movie’ in the same sentence.

But alas, he swallowed his dismay and took you out, plastering on a thin smile while he thought of a million and one things you could both be doing besides watching this masterclass in colour theory.

Sat beside you, packed in on either side by yourself and the many other attendees, waiting for the film to begin, Miguel can feel his patience trying to escape, trying to convince him to run, to get out while you still can!

Because of his heightened senses, he can hear every single word passing between the crowd. And with every mention of “Pink”, “Ryan Gosling,” and “Margot Robbie!” he can feel his mind numb.

The film starts. And for you, sending a watery smile your way, while your eyes sparkle with nostalgic wonder, he endures.

Five minutes in, Miguel is assaulted by pink. The very essence of the colour and all its vibrancy sends hot pink pain through his skull, his senses raw.

Quietly, he slips his sunglasses on.

This is going to be a long movie.

And, for the first quarter of the film, Miguel held that notion. Near and dear as if it were the antidote to the current situation.

Then, halfway in, the story started to intrigue him.

The colour scheme is…tolerable now. Even pleasing to the eye in some scenes.

And, dare he say, Miguel found the music to be catchy.

Two thirds in and he’s sat forward in his seat, hands clasped and his lips resting atop them. Not that you can see, but his eyes are blown wide, his mind arace with possible outcomes.

By the end of the film, Miguel’s holding your hand, forehead pressed to your shoulder, a single, silent tear illustrating his cheek.

“Miggy?” you say, leaning over to try and see his face. You recognised the singular jutting of his shoulders immediately. And, with a smile teetering on the edges of your lips, you try to console him.

“Mig–”

“S’nothing. M’fine,” His cut-off is blunt and non-negotiable. You drop the subject and escort him from the screening by his arm, the music bright as the credits roll. The dimness of the room gives way to light, gradually, slowly. The streak of Miguel’s tear glistens.

Miguel’s visceral reaction to Barbie’s movie doesn’t stop when you get home, by the way.

It actually gets worse.

If you’re lucky, you can catch Miguel reading articles on his phone, an unmistakably pink banner and the title of ‘Top 10 Things You Missed in The Barbie Movie!’ leaving little to the imagination.

Confronting him about it will lead you nowhere. Miguel will sooner shove his phone up his ass and pretend it never existed than admit that he is indeed curious as to what happened to that one background character who fell off a cliff in that one scene. Is she okay? Does anybody know where she is? Does her family know?

The fact that you find his curiosity (empathy) endearing, ‘Aww’ing at him and pinching his cheeks, makes him ever the more secretive.

Just about secretive enough to keep his volume to a minimum when he’s singing; tunes which you know are from the soundtrack.

“I’m a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world~”

“Babe, what was th–”

“Nothing.” He’s blunt, but there is haste to his tone. Shame, even.

Occasionally, you’ll see him eyeing up Barbie-themed merch when you’re out shopping. But he never makes a move to purchase any. Not for himself, anyway.

He’ll buy you said merch – anything that catches your eye, your fancy. Even if it is a shirt ten sizes too big.

“Babe,” you say, pinching the shirt up at your shoulders, the fabric in enough excess to cause the neck to expose most of your chest. “I may be wrong here, but I’m fairly certain only you would be able to fit in this shirt.”

“Oh, well, guess I’ll just have to take it off your hands, then,” he says, his elation barely concealed behind his faux-disappointment. As if him doing so is a chore – that he’s doing you the favour by taking the garment whose shoulders could only fit his insane proportions.

Please just buy him the merch. Any shame he may feel upon initially receiving it will fade when he realises – when you reinforce – how his liking of Barbie is “Adorable, yes. But uplifting; it’s so relieving to see that you’ve found something you actually like that isn’t to do with the Spiderverse!”

“It’s actually called the–”

“Yeah, I don’t care, Babe.”

His favourite present you ever got him was a brightly-coloured exercise suit Barbie and Ken wore in the movie. He had to turn away, the fabric neon in his periphery, tears filling his eyes and balling in his throat when he saw that you’d bought a matching one.

“So we can fight crime in style!”

Miguel’s watery smile twitched, faltered. His Brow furrowed.

“Wait, what’s that supposed to mean?” he said. “You don’t think my suit’s fashionable?”

The way your face drained was enough to spark laughter in Miguel’s chest. His only line of defence against the tears that pricked his throat, played him like an instrument, with you as the orchestra’s master.

While he can’t wear the suit out on superhero duty, he does keep the headband on beneath the suit.

A reminder of you when he’s throwing himself at every threat, every monster, every evil, the band a halo hugged to his skin; a slim substitute for your warm touch, your scent, but a reminder all the same.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterpost

Yandere Masterlist Juicy Original Content <3

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stsgooo · 11 months ago

Text

Love, Hate, Love.

✩࿐ summary: shoko reminisces.

warning(s): death, description of gore, angst, hurt no comfort, depression, bit of a character study(?), sad yuri. wc; 3.2k

pairing(s): ieiri shoko/fem!gojo!reader.

a/n: this is kinda messy, but i love shoko and wanted to write something for her so :3 excuse anything that just

SHOKO STARED DOWN AT THE BODY OF ITADORI YUJI AND SHE FELT AN ARRAY OF EMOTIONS.

Disdain. Anger. Frustration. Confusion. Exhaustion. Slight, slight sadness. Emptiness.

She didn’t know Itadori Yuji well. She had only met him for a few minutes when he was passed out and thrown onto one of the many medical bay beds by Gojo. Had patched up the rather small cuts and bruises, listened as the tall teacher described the King of Curses. Then sent him on his way.

Shoko hadn’t seen Itadori again until he was a corpse on her table.

It wasn’t that Shoko was sadden by this strange boy’s loss. Not entirely. She had no attachments or thoughts on the boy. Even when he had gotten everyone talking.

No, it was more about what Itadori Yuji represented in that moment.

Death was a common thing to happen within their world. Every day it was something new. Whether it be non-sorcerer, sorcerer, or a random animal, there was death to be following. Random at most, but there were few instances where it was intentional. Where the grapevine of gossip lead to something catastrophic. That it lead to the death of a young sorcerer with great potential.

Itadori hadn’t been the first to die. And he certainly wasn’t the last.

No. No, Shoko could recall her first vividly.

First, it had been Yomada Han in their first year. A third year that had been the last of his class. He’d run into a trouble, died messily. It’d been the first time she dissected a body. The first time she threw up over it too. It’d been the first time she had a cigarette too.

He’d been sent off to slaughter because of his hand in some clan mess. They thought it was justification enough for his murder death.

Dissecting and seeing death got a little easier from then. Shoko didn’t throw up anymore. She didn’t get angry or question why someone was on her slab. It was just what happened. She came to accept it.

The second had been… well, Gojo Y/N.

Shoko was still unclear on what exactly happened that day. She can just recall the dread and sickness that flushed over her when she saw her sprawled out on the cot. The way Gojo’s voice shook and pleaded with her— desperately trying to appease to Shoko’s good side as if she hadn’t wanted to save her. As if that’s the only thing Shoko wanted to do.

She’d seen a lot by then. Geto’s chest wide open, the insides of various students and curses, bloody limbs. But she had never seen something quite like that.

It was so surreal to have been speaking to someone a day before, smiling and laughing, sharing touches and secrets. Then have half of their brains scattered on your table the next.

Still and silent. The entire time she had been still and silent.

It was all so sickening.

Shoko hadn’t even been able to take a step towards her before she was throwing up the food she’d consumed in the last 24 hours. Tears flushing down her cheeks and bile rising in her throat. Brains trailed into the room and blood dripped from the end of the table onto the ground like a leaky faucet.

She was sick. She was sick. Shoko couldn’t stop being sick.

Then, she hadn’t been sure what to do as the white haired boy pleaded and cried. As his twin remained limp in his hold. Shoko had just watched with trembling lips, shaking hands pressed against her mouth.

She was dead before she was even found.

Shoko had concluded such during the autopsy. As she pushed tears away behind her protective goggles, cutting into her… her….(what? Her friend? Her friend.) As she cut into her friend’s bones and body. Gojo Y/N had been dead the moment the curse made contact and dealt the blow. The moment her skull cracked open and her brain turned to mush, she was gone.

At least, that’s what she reassured Gojo and Geto (and herself) with.

"They said it was a Grade Two," Gojo had said in a whisper, slumped in his seat, eyes uncharacteristically vacant as he stared at the ground. A hollowness that embraced them all was evident and clear. "They sent her with Nanami and Haibara because it was a Grade Two. So why are they both dead? Why is my sister dead? Why was it a fucking Local Deity? It was a Special Grade!"

Gojo had broken down then. A mess of rage full tears as he uttered on about how it was a mistake. One that costed his other half, since birth, to die. It was surreal to see the Strongest reduced to this. A bumbling mess. While he tried to piece together the puzzle of death. As he questioned the justification behind his sister’s death.

Shoko had wished she was afforded the same.

"Satoru," Geto had whispered, oddly blank and hollow himself. As he always had been back then. For a year he’d been a husk of who he once was. Body always tense, always frail and alert. Tired and withering. "You know how she is… was. She would’ve tried saving Haibara no matter the grade."

Haibara had been the third.

He held out longer than her. Given that she’d jumped in front of the curse to save him. Still, he’d been split in half. Nanami only retrieving his upper half with a pale face and hollow eyes. Still, he died.

What was the point of her dying if the one she saved died too?

Shoko wasn’t sure

And neither was Gojo.

"Yeah, and now there two dead sorcerers!" Gojo had shot from his chair. Fast enough that it bounced off the wall and made a horrible sound throughout the empty hallway. Shoko could recall the way she flinched back the moment she felt Gojo's technique fire up. A barrier between him and the people he cared about. An unrelenting and unchecked power that kept his rage contained. "W-Who even cares about Haibara—?"

"Satoru." Geto's tone had darkened considerably. His face shadowed under the flickering fluorescent lights. Any other time Shoko would've ran away. She would've made some comment about them being annoying trash, then stalk off with her in her shadow.

Not now. Not ever again.

Gojo's face crumbled, he grew desperate at Geto's call, "I... Why does it have to be her?" His eyes split to Shoko, narrowed and angry. "I thought you could do something."

Shoko, taken aback, had tensed. "Half of her brain—"

"You love her, right?" Gojo had continued, ruthlessly, "Right?"

A nod.

"Then you should've saved her!"

"Satoru!" Geto's hand wrapped around Gojo's arm, pulling him away. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"I'm wrong?"

"Yes!"

"What the fuck do you know, Suguru?"

"What do I know? I know that you're..."

Their voices had faded away as Shoko stared endlessly at Gojo's previous spot. A well of tears collecting in her eyes as her hands buried deep within her pockets, clenched and shaking. Her technique was great, it was amazing. She'd done a lot even before she was 18.

So why couldn't she save her?

It stuck around with her for a long time. Well after Gojo had stomped off with tears flowing down his face. Well after Geto had conjured up the last bits of his fake kindness and apologized, tried to comfort Shoko. Well after she was alone in her dorm, holding onto the pieces of her that were suddenly all Shoko had left.

Death was sudden. It was the last curtain call. In their line of work, there was usually no time for goodbyes or last words. Much like this situation. It was inevitable and everyone would meet their making sooner or later— it was only a matter of when. It was better to accept you wouldn't get nice little bows in at the end of your life instead of constantly thinking about it.

Still, Shoko had wondered if there was a possibility she could've saved her. Wondered what she would've said in her last moments if she had the chance to say goodbye.

It was a bad downward spiral to commit herself to. Especially when she was alone in the dark, laying in her bed, staring endlessly at the ceiling above.

It was flat-out dangerous to wonder when she was wrist deep in her chest cavity.

Shoko was best for it. Allegedly. She was the best bet to tell them all exactly what happened to her technique and body as she died.

Originally, Shoko had been tempted to just write that Gojo Y/N lost her brain. What else was there to report? What else could her family possibly want to know?

But then bitter curiosity got the best of her. She needed to know everything. She didn't even care about what the Gojo's wanted to know. Shoko herself had to know if her soul— if the technique just... vanished.

She wasn't really sure what she expected when she stood over her in the morgue. How she would possibly cut her open and scoop out her organs as if she hadn't been speaking to her two days ago. Had been engaged in conversations. Blushing when their hands brushed against one another. As if she hadn't—

"Shoko, what do you want while we're gone?" She had stopped by before they were to be sent off, lightly sprinkled white H/C hair. Expression light, but serious, as it usually was. "Treats, shirt, another body for you to pick around in? Ew, by the way."

Usually, a girl wouldn't think anything of it. But Shoko, elbow deep within a curse, blushed like she was an elementary girl. "Sorry"

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, smile small yet tender, "So? What does sweet, sweet Shoko-chan want as a souvenir?"

Shoko always had a hard time believing Y/N was a Gojo. Especially the same product line of Gojo Satoru, who was just... the opposite of her. This girl was intelligent and kind, beautiful and timid. Self-aware, selfless, and She wasn't anything like the boy she shared the womb with, or birthday, or name. A twin. Same blood, same name, everything them. But so distinctly different.

"I'm not really interested in anything." Shoko had replied with a tilt of her lips and a shrug of her shoulders, pulling away from the curse corpse to face her fully.

Y/N's eyebrows raised, "Really? You're not interested in a single thing?"

"Not really," She walked closer, "What did the others get?"

"Oh, uh, I'm not entirely sure—"

"Gojo-senpai!" Haibara had barreled around the corner, loud and grinning, his hair flopping as he bounced around. "Geto-senpai would like something sweet for himself and your brother!"

She had released a bitter sound, fond and amused, but bitter all the same, "Of course he'd be thinking about Satoru." She turned back to Shoko with a small tilt of her lips. "You sure you don't want anything, Shoko?"

Shoko wondered if things would be different if she said anything else than what she had. If she asked for some ridiculous sweet or a stupid shirt, would things have ended differently? If she kept her around for a little longer, would someone realize the misclassification of the curse? Could Shoko have done something?

Who knows. All she said was, "Just come back. That's enough for me."

Her face had scrunched up, a light laugh leaving her as she turned, waving a hand, "Just for you, Shoko! See you around."

It wasn't anything special. Her goodbye had been a teasing promise. A nonchalant wave. Nothing special. Another day. It wasn't anything special.

So why did it have to be the last?

The autopsy ended abruptly. As Shoko held onto a trash bin, sobbing and throwing up the little food she had in the past two days, Yaga put it in the hands of someone much older. Much more detatched.

Gojo Y/N had died almost instantly. Before she could even activate her technique.

That sparked up a chatter at her funeral.

If the affair wasn't sickening and horribly in the first place, the conversation that took place most certainly was.

The people that attended outside of Shoko and Geto where just some old clan members either from the "Big Three" or some lowly ones. They all kind of just loitered around as they ate food and conversated. Nothing exciting, nothing entirely too telling of their grief either.

She couldn't ever recall Gojo or Y/N talking much about the other clans. If only to drag them through the mud, express their great distaste, or general displeasure. Shoko just knew that an occasion like this, filled with old people and terribly traditional things, was something that the girl nor her brother wanted. She knew that they all like the Gojo's about as much as the Gojo's liked them. Which was not very much.

It was only as Shoko was using the bathroom that she overheard what they truly thought.

"I heard that she didn't even have the time to activate her technique before it killed her."

"It's not like her technique would've done much against a Special Grade anyway. The Six Eyes got all the potential. If anything, that boy that got killed alongside her had more skill."

"I thought she had some type of power?"

"That's just a lie the family put out to calm their egos. They gave birth to the Six Eyes while giving birth to a useless girl right after."

"Poor thing."

"I wouldn't worry. The girl was a bit airheaded, she probably didn't even know she was boring."

It took everything in Shoko not to snap. To not ruin their gossip with her petulant cries of anger. It was just wrong. What they thought of her. There's never been something so wrong.

Y/n was different and amazing, magnificent and interesting. She was strong in ways that Gojo wasn't. She could hold her own. She was intelligent on things outside of jujutsu just as much as she was in things regarding jujutsu. Shoko wasn't sure where they got their information but it was wrong. It'd always been wrong.

Seven days later, Geto killed an entire village.

Thought about her and Haibara the whole time. The mountain of bodies that came with being a sorcerer. Killed 112 people just because he was angry and sad. At least, that's what Geto had said to her.

Shoko wished she could've destroy a whole village in her grief.

Those are all the things Shoko thought as she slips on her gloves, glancing back at where Gojo and Ijichi were standing in the corner.

"Hey, you guys, I'm gonna get started," Shoko says flatly, with her usual detachment. It'd been years since she felt uncomfortable or disgusted with this job. Just a normal routine now. "You gonna just sit there and watch?"

She snaps her glove into place at the same time Ijichi's face visibly pales and his jaw drops, Gojo's own face screwing up into something akin to shock. She was about to ask what was wrong, but—

"Whoa! Full frontal!"

Shoko whirls around to look at Itadori Yuji who looks, shockingly, fine.

Well, Shoko's never had someone come back to life in her morgue before. (No matter how much she's begged.)

She tugs down her mask, staring at the boy with disappointment, "Well, this is too bad."

Itadori blinks, a faint blush on his cheeks, "Um... who are you?"

"Yuji!" Gojo stands, a beaming grin on his lips as he walks forward, hand extended. "Welcome back!"

The teen lets out a loud laugh, clapping his hand against his teacher's for a loud slap that almost makes Shoko wince.

"I'm back!" Itadori cheers, smiling back.

"You sure are!" Gojo then tucks his hands into his jacket, turning around to face Shoko and Ijichi. "Hey, can I speak to you outside for a minute? Ijichi, get Yuji something to change into."

"O-Of course, Gojo-san!"

Shoko doesn't even dignify Gojo a response, lazily making her way out of the room with bored eyes. There went an afternoon of digging through Sukuna's vessel's organs and finding out what made him so different from the others. What allowed him to inhabit the King of Curses while so many others had died trying. It would make for perfect research. Fun and interesting.

But the kid just had to wake up. From death.

(She tired to ignore how many times she'd imagined her waking up on her table too.)

"Ugh, now I have to go back and change the report." Shoko utters bitterly once the two adults are outside.

"No, leave it as is." Shoko snaps her eyes to Gojo, who keeps his carefree smile on his face. "Before he's targeted again, I'd like to at least give Yuji some basic training. Please leave him listed as deceased in the report."

Shoko frowns, tucking her hands into her pockets, "Then Yuji will have to go into hiding for good."

"Nah, I'll have him ready in time for the Goodwill Event."

The Goodwill Event. Now, that was something she wasn't entirely concerned with. Something she didn't think Gojo was either.

"Why?" Shoko utters.

"Easy. I refuse to keep that kid from losing the best years of his life. Not just him, but everyone."

The way he says it is tender and true. Said with his heart and his soul. Despite how childish Gojo has always been, he's been terribly aware of when kids should be kids. Something he'd been keenly aware of when he was a kid himself.

Gojo suddenly tilts his head, smile distant and incredibly sad, "Not to mention... he kind of reminds me of Y/N, y'know?"

Shoko's steps falter. They've never really engaged in a conversation about her before. Never really a chance or reason to. Shoko figured they always had their own thoughts and opinions about what happened. Their own grief pushed down to be ignored. Never addressed.

But he—

"Bit of an airhead, but he means well. Smart when it calls for it. Wants to do the right thing no matter if it's his life on the line." Gojo stops a few feet ahead of Shoko, back stiff and, unfortunately, unreadable to her. "I wonder what she'd think of all this."

Shoko draws in a breath, inching closer to lean on the railing overlooking the courtyard. "She'd be disgusted to learn you're a teacher."

"Disgusted?" Gojo repeats with a pout. Shoko just knows that his eyes are narrowed behind his blindfold. "And she wouldn't judge you for cheating your way through med school?"

"She would, but I wouldn't care." Shoko rolls her eyes.

Gojo presses his lips together, leaning on the railing next to her, "I don't think I would either... as long as she was here."

Shoko tenses and her eyes grow distant as she watches leaves twirl and fall in the distance. Her ears begin to ring and she thinks, for one single moment, that Gojo is right. If she just had her right next to her. Breathing, talking— living. Then Shoko might be one of the happiest people alive. She wouldn't care about any of this. She wouldn't worry about anyone leaving or dying. She would just—

What was the point of think about something not possible?

11 years. They needed to let go already.

"I'll make sure Itadori is, in all the official ways, dead." Shoko pushes away from the railing and begins to make her way back to her office (ignoring the soft snort Gojo gave). "Make sure he doesn't die again before you can train him."

"I'll do my absolute best."

11 years. What's a few more minutes with her memory.

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deliciousbasementtrash · 1 year ago

Text

Playing Nurse for the Batfam

Summary: you are a nurse working for Gotham General Hospital. On your way home from work, you encounter an injured superhero. You have seen his secret identity. Now what will he do about it?

Pairing: Slowburn Jason Todd x reader, (maybe a why choose with Dick Grayson as well?? Idk tell me what you guys want)

Warning: Adult language, verbal abuse, parental abuse, severe injuries

Word Count: 1.5k

Note: These characters are not my own they belong to DC. The only character that is 'mine' is the reader. I am going to be as nondescript as possible for the reader as well for physical attributes. This is a continuation series; I’m not sure how long it will be. Also for some reason, my replies to comments are not showing up. I’m not ignoring your comments Tumblr won’t let me respond :( But please, please comment I live for it

Part One: Is that Trash or a Man?

There is calm chaos when working in the emergency room. You get used to the cacophony of beeps and alarms. Of moans, crying, screaming, and arguing. You get used to being on your feet all day and moving from task to task, from patient to patient. You get used to it because there is no other option. People need care and they need it now. You either step the fuck up or switch to a different unit. Or move to a calmer, cleaner, less crime-filled city. Calm wasn’t really my vibe. Maybe externally that’s what I portrayed, but internally my mind craves the chaos of the ER. It craves the chaos of Gotham. And the Gotham ER was an entirely different beast.

I finished nursing school about a year ago. A lot of my peers used it as an out. They went to more stable cities in New Jersey that had better funding and less chance of getting knifed in the staff parking lot. I was one of the only ones that stayed. I definitely was the only one that worked in the hospital. I couldn’t deny the demand for nurses was high, and the paychecks were even higher at Gotham General Hospital. And maybe some small pathetic part of my brain wanted to make the world a better place. I wanted Gotham to be a better place. Every day I worked. I convinced myself that how matter how shitty it got; I was making a difference. Even if it was only a handful of people in the grand scheme of things.

I could convince myself that I mattered. That everyone mattered. That these people deserve more. They deserve better; they deserve a second, third, fourth, fifth chance. If I stopped trying to convince myself of that I know I would give up entirely. Seeing gunshot wounds, stabbings, overdoses, mutilations, burns, crushings, poisonings, beatings, day after day is a lot like erosion of the soul. Little by little it wears you down. You become jaded and jagged with time. Empathy becomes blame. Hope becomes desolate. Love becomes anger. The only thing you can do is gaslight yourself into thinking you’re making a big enough difference. That you’re helping enough people. After all, the brain can’t tell the difference between truth and irony. You tell yourself so many lies, you can start to believe them, right?

Gotham City: 16 Years Ago

“Dad, when is mom coming home?” My small voice asked. I was scared to make Dad yell at me again. I didn’t like it when I made him yell.

“She’s got stage four fucking cancer she is coming out of the hospital in a body bag, y/n.”

I fought the tears that burned behind my eyes. Dad would get even angrier if he saw them. It was stupid of me to even ask.

I felt him turn to me. His eyes bored into my skull. Quickly, I looked down at his feet.

“Have you tried again?” He asked. His tone clipped. I knew he expected a timely answer.

Involuntarily, my fingers ruthlessly picked the skin around my nails. The sting was grounding in a way.

“No, sir. Well yes, I have tried, but I… I failed,” the last word felt like a hot poker being placed through my throat.

“Look at me.” Breathing became difficult, but I looked up at my father. He leaned his face close to mine. I could smell Jack wafting off him. “What good are you? What good is having healing powers if you can’t heal your sick mother?”

The simple hangnail became a chunk of missing skin. I lowered my head. Fighting back tears.

“Sir,” my traitorous voice wobbled as I tried not to cry, “I keep trying but… I don’t think my power is that strong. I can close cuts, fix broken bones, but tumors are… hard.”

My father tilted his head back and laughed. Hard. He grabbed my wrist as quickly as a viper, “If I could put your mother’s cancer in you I would. You’re about as useful as a wet match in a dark cave.”

I couldn’t help the tears that fell down my cheek. It felt like I was involuntarily waving a white flag.

Gotham City: Present Day

I had to be stealthy with my gift. I couldn’t heal every one of the patients to full health right away. That would lead to suspicion. But if I could help it I could stop the major damage. I would heal internal organs. Replenish blood. Reduce ten fractures to two or one. It all depended on timing and if people were watching me.

I was walking home from the hospital. I only lived about three blocks away. I got off shift at around 20:49. I didn’t start my next stretch for another three days. And I was milking my walk home. Stopping to smell the roses or whatever. That is normally not a very smart thing to do in Gotham at night, especially as a woman. But part of me didn’t care.

Earlier, I looked at my phone and frowned when I realized the date.

Thursday, May 19th.

My mom died 16 years ago today. Waves of emotion flooded my senses. Anger at myself for not remembering. Sadness that she had been gone more of my life than she had been in it. Restlessness for what my father might do or say. Some years he likes to reach out. Others he doesn’t. But most of all I was feeling reckless. Like I wanted someone to give me a reason. Obviously, I would only hurt someone to defend myself or others. But there was so much anger living in my body, part of me hoped some idiot would try something with me tonight.

So, I walked home. Slowly.

Normally, you keep your head down and you keep moving. You don’t look or gawk. You listen out of necessity. I was listening just because I could. It was the normal stuff. Men smoking cigarettes and catcalling. Women were offering their nightly services. Random people either praising or damning superheroes. Drug deals. Graffiti artists. Fights. And of course, people who simply were walking home from work. Gotham had range and was never boring that’s for sure.

But something picked up on the very edge of my senses. Despite my better logic, I turned toward the very quiet sound. It could have just been rats, but it sounded so familiar. It sounded like a death rattle. The thing you hear just before shit hits the fan and the patient codes.

Without thinking I ran down the alley toward the sound. At first, it was nothing. Just trash and rats. But then I saw it. He almost blended perfectly in with the shiny black garbage bags. His cape was the same color but reflected the light less.

“Sir? Sir, are you alright?” I walked hesitantly forward, grabbing my pepper spray just in case.

The man did not answer, he only garbled and coughed. My work brain took over my fear. Instantly I rolled the man over and began assessing him. I suppressed a gasp when I rolled him over and a familiar cowl mask came into view. It was cracked down the middle. His face was bleeding from an unknown location. His breathing was labored and staggered.

Calmly, I closed my eyes and pressed my hands against his chest.

Oh yeah. Batman was dying. He had several broken ribs. A pneumothorax. A bruised liver, kidney, and pancreas. His cardiac output was a joke. The man had no perfusion.

I didn’t think. I didn’t hold back like I do at the hospital. I just healed. And healed. And healed. I healed him down to his bone-on-bone knees, sprained ankle, and fractured wrist.

God, this guy had a lot of injuries.

I was close to passing out by the time I was done. I had done too much, ate, and slept too little. My powers were demanding when it came to energy. If I didn’t eat or sleep within 30 minutes I was about to pass out next to bat boy himself.

I gave him one last assessment. After double-checking that he would live and that I didn’t miss anything I finally looked at his face again.

This time I gasped. Batman was the billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne? I shook my head like I was clearing cobwebs. I didn’t have time to dwell on it. Much like Batman, I didn’t want people to know what I could do. The last time people knew…

Just as I turned and took a few steps I rolled my eyes at my nagging thoughts.

What if someone sees him before he wakes up?

Reaching into my tote bag I pulled out a black medical mask. I not so gracefully MacGyvered it across his exposed face so that it was covered. And with that, I made my way home.

My cat, Hashbrown, eagerly greeted me at the door. I nearly fell asleep locking it. I bent down to pick her up and gave her a kiss on her perfect little cat head. I ripped my gross work scrubs off, threw them in the wash, and crashed on the couch in my underwear before my brain could process what happened.

I healed Batman.

I healed… Bruce Wayne?

Part Two, Part Three

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