y3oubii

[y3oubii]

the world without you

gojo satoru x fem reader!!

after the shibuya incident, gojo returns from the prison realm a fractured man—too late to stop the destruction, too late to hold onto what he loved. you, no longer the same person he left behind, keeps him at a distance with walls of silence and grief. but gojo has never been good at letting go. he keeps showing up, uninvited, unwelcome, hoping for forgiveness in a world that no longer feels like his.

cw: heavy emotional turmoil, discussions of trauma and isolation, miscommunication, abandonment issues, crying, breakdowns, intimate arguments, bittersweet affection, no happy ending

it starts like all terrible things do—with silence.

not the kind that comes from peace or understanding, but the kind that wedges itself between two people who used to know each other by heart.

he stands on your porch with hands buried in the pockets of his coat, a colder man than you remember. you watch him through the peephole and debate not opening the door. in another life, he’d have let himself in. in this one, he doesn’t even knock twice.

you let him in anyway.

“you changed your locks,” he says, stepping into your apartment like it’s a memory. like it’s something he left behind and expected to find untouched.

“you were gone,” you reply, voice level, eyes distant.

he closes the door with a soft click and doesn’t argue.

he looks the same. tall and impossibly beautiful in a way that hurts to witness. white hair still tousled, lips still bitten pink from stress. but there’s something missing now—something in his eyes that used to burn bright. it’s gone, and in its place is a quiet ache that mirrors your own.

you don’t hug him. he doesn’t expect you to.

you make tea. you don’t ask if he wants any, but you pour him a cup anyway. it sits untouched between you both, the steam curling like breath too soft to be heard. it’s been weeks since he was released. weeks of radio silence on your end. you hadn’t gone to see him. not at the school. not at the hospital. not even at the funeral.

you sip your tea and finally say it.

“why are you here, satoru?”

he flinches.

you never used to call him that.

back then, before everything burned, it was easier.

you were just you, and he was just him. a man too loud, too smug, too quick with a grin that made your insides unravel. he was chaos and sugar in human form. he laughed too hard, lived too fast, and loved like the world owed him eternity.

but even gods fall.

and gojo satoru? he fell hard.

you’d loved him once. maybe still did. you were stupid about it. reckless. the kind of love that made people break things just to see how far the cracks would spread. he made you feel like you could survive anything.

until he didn’t.

until the night he left and never came back.

you look at him now, across your kitchen table, and all you can think is:

you left me here.

you try not to let it slip out, but it does—croaked and broken, voice trembling in ways you hate.

“i waited for you.”

he closes his eyes.

you hate how soft his voice is. “i know.”

you wait for more. for an apology. for an excuse. for something. but all he gives you is silence. again. the kind that kills things.

you slam the tea cup down harder than you need to.

“you don’t get to do this. you don’t get to walk back into my life and look at me like i’m something you miss.”

he opens his eyes. they’re red-rimmed and dull.

“but i do.”

you stand, back rigid. “you don’t.”

he doesn’t argue. just looks at you like you’re air he hasn’t breathed in years.

you hate him for it. and god, you hate yourself more—for the way your heart clenches at the sight of him. for the way your hands shake when you set the cup down. for the way you still remember what it felt like to have his arms around you at night.

he hasn’t even touched you. not once. not even his fingers grazing yours when he took the tea.

maybe that’s what hurts the most.

you turn your back to him.

“you shouldn’t have come.”

his voice is quiet. “i had nowhere else to go.”

you press your palms against the counter, trying not to fall apart.

“don’t say that like it makes this okay."

“i’m not trying to make it okay.”

he stands behind you now, and you feel the weight of him in the room. not touching. just there. like a shadow you can’t shake. like the ghost of something you used to believe in.

he whispers, “i don’t know how to live in a world without you in it.”

you swallow the sob rising in your throat.

you turn to face him. not because you want to. but because you have to. because he’s always had that pull on you, like gravity, like something you can’t ignore.

he looks like he might cry. he never used to cry. not even when people died. not even when the world ended.

but now? now he looks at you like you’re the last thing holding him together.

you shake your head. “you left me here. alone. do you know what that did to me?”

“i didn’t have a choice—”

“you always have a choice. you chose them. you chose to be a martyr. you chose to throw yourself into hell and forget that people were waiting for you to come back.”

his hands are fists at his sides. he doesn’t speak.

you step forward, and suddenly your voice is breaking, and you’re sobbing, and you’re hitting his chest with weak fists like the hurt has nowhere else to go.

“i begged for you. every day. i begged for someone to bring you back.”

he lets you hit him. lets you fall apart in his arms. lets your anger spill out in cracked gasps and tear-streaked words that don’t make sense.

when your fists finally fall limp, he wraps his arms around you. not tightly. not possessively. just enough to hold you together.

you cry into his shoulder, and for a second, you remember what it was like to love him.

just for a second.

he sleeps on your couch that night.

you leave a blanket out for him. don’t say goodnight.

he watches you disappear down the hallway and tells himself that was enough.

he’s wrong.

in the morning, he’s gone.

not because he wanted to leave.

but because he knew you weren’t ready to let him stay.

there’s a note on your kitchen counter. just his name, signed in black ink. nothing else. like if he writes too much, he’ll fall apart again.

you sit on the couch he slept on. hold the blanket he used. it smells like him. clean and warm and distant.

you close your eyes.

and for the first time since he came back, you let yourself admit it.

you still love him.

but it’s not enough. not anymore.

not after what it cost you to live in the world without him in it.

felt like i was being too nice lately..so some angst. nothing too bad. i hope this was enjoyable and thank yewww for reading <3

masterlist

[y3oubii]

the lights we leave on

steve rogers x fem reader !!

after the dust settles and the world moves on from the battles and the farewells, steve rogers chooses something quieter—an apartment near brooklyn and a woman who makes him feel like he still belongs in the world. one night, after a long day, he comes home to the softest moment he’s ever lived through: music playing, dinner cooking, and you waiting with a smile. what follows is the kind of love story that never makes headlines—one stitched into quiet nights, gentle hands, and the slow dance between two people who choose each other again and again.

cw: none — this is pure fluff and tenderness

the first thing he notices when he pushes the door open is the light. not the overhead kind—no, you never leave those on unless you’re reading or looking for something. the glow tonight comes from the small lamp near the bookshelf in the corner of the living room, its shade casting a golden halo across the hardwood floor. it pools at the toes of his boots, stretching out like an invitation. the door clicks softly behind him, and the weight of the day drops from his shoulders before he even sets down the shield.

he exhales through his nose, slowly. quietly. the hallway behind him is full of city noise—horns, voices, wind—but in here, it’s just music.

soft, crackly, old. something from a time he almost remembers. a woman’s voice drifting low and slow over gentle piano keys, the kind of song made for twilight hours and open windows.

the apartment smells like rosemary and butter. something’s simmering.

steve doesn’t call out right away. he’s learned, over the past year, to let things happen gently. so instead of speaking, he moves carefully—placing the shield in its spot behind the armchair, shrugging off his coat and scarf and laying them over the back of the couch like you always tell him not to, though you never seem to really mind.

his eyes scan the room. it’s changed so much from the first time he stepped into it—back when it was just yours, and he was still trying to figure out how to walk through the world without a mission, a title, or a uniform. now there are sketches tacked to the walls, books stacked in uneven piles, throw blankets draped over chair backs. a polaroid of the two of you stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a tiny apple pie.

this place is alive. this place is his.

you’re in the kitchen.

he sees you before you see him—moving around the small space like you belong there, barefoot, hips swaying slightly to the music. you’ve got a wooden spoon in one hand and the edge of your shirt clutched in the other to avoid getting anything on it. it’s one of his shirts, of course. soft cotton, faded navy, a little too big on you, the sleeves rolled up past your elbows. your hair is pulled back, a few strands falling loose, and your face is half-lit by the stovetop light.

he watches you for a long moment, letting it settle in his chest. this ache. this awe.

you hum along to the music, lips moving gently. steve could stand in this doorway and watch you forever.

and he probably would—if you didn’t turn just then, glancing over your shoulder with a grin already forming.

“you’re home,” you say, like it’s the best thing that happened all day. like it always is.

he smiles, soft and crooked, stepping into the kitchen. “didn’t wanna miss dinner.”

you set the spoon down and turn to face him fully. “you’re right on time.”

he pulls you into him without another word. one hand warm and broad against the small of your back, the other cupping your jaw as he presses a kiss to your forehead. then your nose. then finally, your lips. it’s slow, gentle, so unhurried. like he has all the time in the world to memorize how it feels to come home to you.

when he pulls back, your hand’s resting over his heart. “bad day?” you ask.

“long,” he murmurs.

you nod. “well. it’s over now. and i made that pasta you like.”

he leans his forehead against yours, eyes closed. “you’re too good to me.”

“you bring me flowers when you run errands. i think we’re even.”

he chuckles softly and lets himself sway, just a little, in time with the music that’s still playing. you tilt your head, smiling up at him.

“are we dancing?” you ask.

he doesn’t answer with words. just nudges his nose against yours and moves his hand to your waist, guiding you gently into a slow spin, right there between the counter and the table. the pasta simmers behind you, the record hums on, and your arms loop up around his neck like they were always meant to.

he’s not a great dancer. you know that. but he wants to be, when you look at him like this. like he’s not captain america, not a man out of time. just your guy, here, swaying in the kitchen with you in his arms.

you hum under your breath and lay your head on his chest. “you smell like winter.”

he smiles into your hair. “and you smell like garlic and rosemary.”

you make a little sound. “how romantic.”

“extremely.”

a soft laugh bubbles out of you, and he feels it in his ribs. the song changes. he doesn’t let go. neither do you.

after a minute, you tilt your face up to him, fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck. “did you know i used to daydream about this?”

“dancing in the kitchen?”

“well, yes, but no!” you smile, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone. “you! this. us.”

he looks at you like he’s still trying to believe you’re real.

he cups your face in both hands, thumbs brushing along your jaw like you’re made of something sacred.

“you saved me,” he whispers.

you frown, softly. “steve—”

“you did. i didn’t know how to live in this world, not after everything. didn’t think i could. and then there you were. you weren’t loud. you weren’t flashy. you just… stayed. let me rest. let me figure it out. you gave me space to breathe again.”

your throat tightens. you wrap your arms tighter around his middle, resting your cheek against his shoulder.

“i didn’t do anything special,” you murmur.

he kisses the top of your head, slow and sure. “you loved me.”

the music winds down into silence. the record clicks, then resets. you don’t let go.

eventually, the pasta boils over a little, and you both start laughing. he grabs the wooden spoon, you grab the towels, and the moment bursts like a bubble—only to be replaced by a hundred more like it.

you eat curled together on the couch, legs tangled, bowls balanced on your knees. he tells you about the people he saw today, and you listen, stroking your thumb over his knuckles. you tell him about the new project you’re starting, and he listens like it’s the most important thing in the world.

later, he does the dishes while you hum from the bathroom, brushing your teeth. he leaves the porch light on even though you always forget to turn it off. you fold his sweater over the chair where he’ll see it in the morning. he leaves your mug by the kettle so it’s ready for tea tomorrow.

you crawl into bed, cold feet on his calves, and he grumbles like he doesn’t love it.

he falls asleep with his fingers in your hair, your breath warm on his chest.

and the city spins on. the world forgets them again.

but in this tiny apartment, lit by soft lamp glow and warmed by leftover pasta and quiet music and the way your bodies curve into one another like matched pieces—

the lights stay on.

and love stays soft.

and nothing hurts.

not for a while.

sighhh theres just something about imagining dancing with your significant other, in the middle of the kitchen, with music fading into the background. at least to me! this was purely self indulgent. i hope this was enjoyable and thank yewww so much for reading, loves.

masterlist

[y3oubii]

this isn't a request or anything but your page is so underrated like I've been reading your fics for the past 20 minutes and your writing is AMAZING.

THANK YOUU OMGG I LOVE YOU!!! this genuinely means so much to me. i definitely try really hard to make sure they're well written so seeing that they come off as that means everything. and thank you for taking the time to send this!! i’m so glad you’ve been enjoying my fics. your support seriously made my day 💗

[y3oubii]

feedback

musician!choso kamo x groupie!fem reader !!

your first mistake was showing up to a grimy little underground venue on a thursday night. your second was locking eyes with choso kamo while he stood beneath a flickering red light, guitar slung low on his hips and eyes like smoke. he doesn’t know your name yet, but you’ve been front row at three of his sets and haven’t missed a single lyric. and even though you pretend not to notice him watching you every time the lights dim—he does. because choso kamo is quiet. but he remembers. and he wants you to remember him, too.

cw: slow burn, emotional yearning, explicit language, suggestive content (eventually), reader plays hard to get, mutual pining, smoking/alcohol (minor), light angst, late-night tension, crowd mentions, obsessive thoughts, slightly possessive behavior (non-toxic), tension-filled touching, mention of past relationships, band lifestyle (touring, backstage scenes)

pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3 (you're here!!)

the hotel is quieter than usual.

no afterparty. no noise bleeding under the doors. no distractions.

just a hallway humming with fluorescent buzz, thin carpets, and walls too beige for the kind of tension curling in your chest.

choso’s door is three steps ahead of you.

you shouldn’t be here.

you both know that.

but you followed him out of the venue anyway.

close behind, close enough to brush shoulders in the elevator. close enough to hear the uneven beat of his breath.

neither of you has said a word since the show ended.

he unlocks the door. steps inside. doesn’t turn around.

but he holds it open—silent invitation.

you cross the threshold like it’s a cliff.

the room is dim. one lamp on. tv off.

the air smells like clean sheets, cigarette smoke, and the faint tang of guitar strings.

he shrugs off his hoodie, tosses it on the chair.

you recognize it. the same one he gave you. the same one you still keep balled up at the bottom of your bed.

he sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers threaded in his hair.

you don’t move at first. just watch him.

he’s quiet like he always is.

but it’s a charged kind of quiet.

like the silence after a scream.

“you shouldn’t have sent me that demo,” you say finally.

his voice is low. raw. “i had to.”

“why?”

he lifts his head.

his eyes are dark, tired, unguarded.

haunted.

“because it’s you. all of it. every line. every note.”

your heart stutters.

“that wasn’t a love song,” you say.

he shakes his head. “no.”

“then what was it?”

his hands flex in his lap. “a warning.”

you take a step closer.

your voice is quieter now. “for me or for you?”

his gaze cuts to you—sharp. trembling.

“both.”

you stand between his knees now.

his breath hitches.

your legs are bare. your hands are clenched. your whole body’s screaming at you to do something reckless.

but neither of you moves.

not yet.

“you scare the shit out of me,” he says suddenly.

you blink.

“what?”

his voice cracks.

“you make me write songs i don’t know how to finish.”

and fuck.

fuck.

you reach for him.

just your fingertips, light against his jaw. just enough for him to flinch—not away, but into the touch. like he’s wanted it longer than he knows how to admit.

he looks up at you, breathing heavy. “if i touch you right now, i’m not stopping.”

your heart climbs into your throat.

“then don’t touch me yet.”

his brows pinch. “what?”

“just—let me stay here for a second.”

your hand lingers on his face. thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.

his lips part.

but you don’t kiss him.

you won’t.

not until he knows.

“this isn’t a game,” you whisper. “i’m not another song you forget how to end.”

he shakes his head. slow. solemn. “you’re the only one i need to end right.”

you lean in—so close your breath grazes his lips.

he tenses. waits.

but you pull back.

just an inch.

just enough.

you sleep on top of the covers that night.

fully clothed. curled into opposite sides of the bed like a storm might roll through the sheets if either of you dares to move.

you don’t touch.

but in the dark, he whispers,

“can i write about this?”

you whisper back,

“only if it ruins you a little.”

and he smiles.

the morning is too bright.

sunlight slices through the cheap hotel curtains and carves sharp shapes on the bedspread. your eyes burn. not from the light—no, from the fact that you didn’t sleep. not really. not with him breathing so close. not with your body aware of every shift, every turn of his in the sheets.

you’d stayed on your side.

so had he.

but neither of you meant it.

the distance between you felt like a line drawn in sand—fragile, temporary, one that would be wiped away the moment one of you moved.

you think maybe he almost did.

at 3:42 a.m.

you’d felt it—his hand twitch, the sheets shift, the brief warmth of him reaching toward your side of the bed before he froze, stopped himself.

and now the sun is rising, and the silence is louder than ever.

you sit up first.

rub the sleep from your face. reach for your phone. check the time.

he shifts beside you.

you feel the movement before you hear his voice, low and rough with sleep.

“…did you dream?”

you blink.

“what?”

he’s on his side now, head propped up, one arm tucked beneath his cheek.

“you were breathing hard,” he says. “like you were running from something.”

you exhale.

your voice is flat. “maybe i was."

a beat of silence.

then—

“were you running from me?”

you look at him.

really look at him.

his eyes are softer now. no stage lights. no noise. just a boy in a band too good at hiding feelings and too bad at letting go.

“no,” you say. “i was running toward something.”

his throat bobs.

and neither of you speaks again until you’re dressed, shoes on, standing awkwardly near the door like this thing between you is too big to pack.

you open the door.

he stops you with a hand on your wrist.

not gripping. not pulling. just holding.

“come to the show tonight,” he says. “please.”

your voice catches in your throat.

“i haven’t missed one.”

“i know.” he looks down at your wrist, then back at you. “but this one’s different.”

you nod.

and leave before you can ask what that means.

that night — venue: basement bar, sold out

the room is buzzing.

electric. tense. packed shoulder to shoulder with bodies that don’t know they’re about to witness something private.

you can feel it in the air.

choso’s been quiet all night.

barely spoke to yuji. didn’t let maki into the green room. refused to rehearse the new song.

you’re pressed up against the side of the stage when the lights go low. the first two songs are old favorites—static bleed, nervewire—loud and raw, like muscle memory.

but then the lights drop to just one spotlight.

and he steps up to the mic alone.

guitar slung low.

hood up.

eyes closed.

he speaks into the mic, voice tight.

“this one’s not on the record.”

the crowd quiets.

“it’s not finished. but… the person it’s about knows the ending already.”

and then he starts to play.

you know it from the first chord.

it’s your song.

the demo. the one he played over the phone. but it’s fuller now. rawer. and the lyrics—god, the lyrics—

“you’re a bruise i press just to feel again

you’re the breath i hold when i want to drown

you’re the silence between my sentences

you’re the only one who sticks around.”

your knees nearly give out.

you grip the edge of the stage like it’ll keep you from crumbling.

he doesn’t look at you.

but you know the song is yours.

the way his voice breaks on the third verse. the way his fingers tremble when he strums the chorus.

the crowd is silent.

when he finishes, he doesn’t bow. doesn’t smile.

just looks out at the sea of faces, straight through them—straight to you.

and then he says into the mic:

“that was the warning.”

after the set, you don’t wait for him backstage.

you’re already in the alley when he finds you, breathless, sweaty, eyes still burning from what you just heard.

he stops a few feet away.

his voice is hoarse. broken.

“you heard it?”

you nod. “every word.”

he doesn’t move. doesn’t push.

“did you mean what you said?” you ask.

he stares at you like he’s drowning.

“i never mean anything more than i do when i sing.”

you step forward.

this time, you’re the one who reaches.

hand curling into his shirt. fist pressed against his chest like you’re checking if that song lives there still.

“then why didn’t you kiss me?” you whisper.

his voice is airless. “because i want to do it right.”

you look at him.

look through him.

“then do it right.”

he does.

god, he does.

his hands cup your face so gently it hurts. his mouth hovers over yours, breath trembling, body held taut like he’s been holding this in for years.

and when he finally kisses you—

it’s not fireworks.

it’s release.

like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. like a song that’s been stuck in your throat for too long.

his lips are soft. slow. reverent.

like he’s apologizing for every second he made you wait.

like he’s promising never to stop writing.

he doesn’t let go of you for a long time.

not after the kiss. not after the taste of you is already fading from his mouth.

not even when the alley grows colder and the weight of what just happened settles over both of you like dust after a collapse.

your fingers are curled into the hem of his shirt, fists pressed tight like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you blink.

he won’t.

he won’t.

not now.

not after that.

the walk back to the hotel is quiet.

he doesn’t reach for your hand, and you don’t offer it—but you walk close, steps in sync, like your bodies have learned each other’s rhythm by accident.

he opens the door for you.

doesn’t say anything when you follow him inside.

you sit on opposite ends of the bed again, but this time, there’s no distance.

just silence—comfortable, almost holy.

his voice finally breaks it, soft and hoarse.

“i thought if i kissed you, it’d ruin it.”

you glance over.

he’s staring at the floor, hands between his knees. his shoulders tense.

“i’ve never wanted something this bad and not touched it,” he continues. “not wanted to ruin it, just—needed it too much. like if i did the wrong thing, you’d stop looking at me the way you do.”

you bite the inside of your cheek.

“…how do i look at you?”

he lifts his head.

and god, the ache in his eyes. like someone who’s starved for warmth and just now realized how close the fire is.

“like you hear something no one else hears.”

your chest tightens.

you crawl across the bed, slow and quiet, until your knees are tucked beneath you and your hand is on his.

“you don’t ruin things, choso.”

his throat works. “i have. i do. i will.”

“not this.”

he looks up, and you let your fingers slide between his—careful, slow.

he lets you. grips back, tight.

“you didn’t kiss me because you were scared of breaking it,” you say. “but you kissed me because you knew it could break you.”

his lashes flutter. his breath stutters.

and when he whispers, “yeah,”

it’s not fear.

it’s relief.

that night, you sleep the way you haven’t since you met him.

in his arms. skin warm against skin. clothes on. legs tangled.

there’s nothing sexual in it.

not yet.

not tonight.

tonight, he holds you like a lyric.

like a verse he needs to memorize before it’s gone.

like you’re the sound that keeps him from falling asleep in silence.

and when he breathes into your hair, he whispers,

“please don’t leave when this ends.”

you wake to the sound of soft guitar strings.

he’s on the floor, knees bent, back against the bed, hair tied up messily with a chord from his amp.

you sit up slowly, blanket slipping off your shoulders.

he doesn’t look at you, but his voice reaches.

“i didn’t think i’d write again after last year.”

you blink the sleep from your eyes. “what happened last year?”

his fingers still.

“…i broke something. someone.”

the room holds the breath between you.

you slide to the edge of the bed, feet touching the floor near his.

“do you regret it?”

he shakes his head.

“i regret not trying harder. not slowing down. not listening.”

he strums once—soft. minor key. aching.

“that’s why i listen to you.”

your voice is small. “you do?”

“every time you’re near, i hear things sharper. the buzz in the room. the tension in the air. the way you hum when you think no one’s listening.”

your chest aches.

he finally looks up at you, and his voice cracks:

“you make me feel like music again.”

that night, he plays your song again at the show.

this time, he names it.

“this one’s called feedback. it’s the sound you get when the mic’s too close to the amp—loud, ugly, dangerous. but sometimes, it’s the only way to know something’s really alive.”

and then he plays it.

with full band.

with new chords.

with new lyrics.

“she burns where she stands

but i keep chasing the heat

even when it scars me—

i’d rather be hurt than incomplete.”

the crowd screams.

you don’t.

you just cry, silently, because he’s never sung so loudly in his life.

you don’t go back inside right away.

not after the show, not after the noise. not after that song.

you just… stand.

on the hotel balcony.

wrapped in the hotel’s stolen robe and your own stunned silence, hands curled around a mug of something warm you’re not really drinking.

the night is thick with city air—warm, metallic, laced with old rain and something newer. softer.

he’s behind you.

you don’t hear him at first, but you feel him.

the soft tread of socked feet on cracked tile, the shift in air pressure, the quietest breath in the dark.

“you okay?” he asks.

you nod, though your throat is still full.

he steps beside you, hoodie sleeves pushed up, wrists pale in the moonlight. his hair’s down now—half-dried from the shower, curling at the ends.

you glance at him.

he’s looking up. at nothing. maybe at the stars.

“you didn’t have to name it after me,” you say.

he glances down.

“i didn’t name it after you.”

you frown.

he takes a breath, voice low.

“i named it because of you.”

and god.

that wrecks you more than the song ever did.

he sits beside you, on the old patio chair with peeling paint. you stay standing. it feels easier that way—easier not to fall into him when your ribs are still buzzing from everything he gave you on stage.

your voice is soft. careful.

“you ever think about what this is gonna look like when it’s not in the dark?”

he looks up. “what do you mean?”

“this.” you gesture between you. “us. offstage. in daylight. without an encore to drown out the quiet.”

he watches you for a long second. doesn’t speak.

and then, finally:

“every day.”

your lips part, but no words come out.

he rubs a thumb along his knuckles, quiet.

“i’ve been trying to figure out how to keep this real when everything around me feels… temporary.”

you exhale, chest tight.

“it doesn’t have to be temporary.”

his eyes flick to yours.

and then he whispers, almost like he’s afraid saying it will break it:

“you’re the only thing that doesn’t feel like a phase.”

you finally sit.

not next to him.

on him.

you climb into his lap without a word, blanket still draped around your shoulders, and tuck your knees to either side of his hips.

he goes still.

his hands hover for a second—then land. light on your thighs. steady. grounding.

you rest your forehead to his.

“you know i’m not going anywhere, right?”

his breath catches.

you nod, just barely, brushing your nose against his.

“you don’t have to rush,” you murmur. “you don’t have to call it love. not yet. but i need to know you’re not just singing at me.”

his hands tighten on your legs. not possessive. not desperate.

present.

“i’m not,” he breathes. “i’ve never meant anything more.”

you don’t kiss.

not tonight.

instead, he presses his lips to your collarbone. slow. reverent. like a bow after a final set.

you bury your fingers in his hair.

and for a long time, you just sit there.

his chest against yours. your breath warming his shoulder.

no music. no noise. no crowd.

just heartbeats.

and the soft hum of two people learning how to stay.

i think the end of this lil mini fic is nearing, maybe 1-2 more parts. im not positive yett heheh. i hope you enjoyed and thank yewww for reading!!

masterlist

[y3oubii]

was reading a dream fic that someone rebloggled so idk i was feeling silly and went to their blog to see if they reblogged any others...i saw one of MY fics on there which is so crazy to me bcs wdym you like my writing?? wdym yk who i am?? 🤭🤭 idk i just thought that was cray

[y3oubii]

slow mornings w/ shouta

shouta aizawa x fem reader !!

on a rare day off, shouta aizawa and you share a slow, quiet morning wrapped in each other’s warmth. from tangled sheets to stolen pancakes and soft naps on the couch, your love unfolds in small, domestic rituals—gentle touches, shared silence, and whispered confessions. built on years of survival and quiet sacrifice, your bond is steady and healing.

cw: none (just tooth-rotting sweetness and some bare chest moments)

you wake to warmth.

not just the cozy kind—the kind that’s settled deep in your bones, that wraps around your skin and softens every edge of you from the inside out.

there’s sunlight creeping in through the slats of the blinds. soft, golden, lazy light that paints the bedroom in long stretches of morning. the comforter is tangled around your legs, pushed low, but you’re still warm—because of the man curled around you like he’s never going to let go.

shouta.

he’s asleep still, or at least he’s trying to be. you can tell by the way his breathing slows every time you shift slightly. like he’s trying to convince himself not to wake up. not to let the day in.

you smile into the pillow.

his arm is slung around your waist, hand splayed over your stomach. his chest is warm against your back, bare skin smooth with heat. he runs hotter than you—it’s something you learned early, how his body radiates heat like a furnace. a side effect of years in the underground, maybe. a body trained to survive cold nights, sudden danger.

but here, now, he uses that warmth for something else. he holds you with it.

you wriggle gently, just enough to hear the low rumble of protest from behind you.

“mmnn. five more minutes.”

his voice is gravel. thick with sleep. it curls over your shoulder like smoke.

you laugh, soft and sleepy. “we’ve already had ten.”

he shifts, and you feel it—the weight of his head pressing into the crook of your neck, the way he nuzzles, breath warm and steady against your skin.

“i’m off today,” he mumbles. “doesn’t count.”

your smile deepens. “i know. that’s why i made us coffee.”

his hand tightens on your waist. “traitor.”

“i didn’t drink it without you,” you tease.

he sighs. but there’s no real weight to it. his arm tightens again, and then his mouth is against your shoulder—pressing a slow, barely-there kiss into the soft curve where your collar meets your neck.

you close your eyes.

it’s always like this on his days off.

slow. quiet. sacred.

you learned early on that shouta’s love language isn’t loud. it’s not explosive or grand or covered in ribbon. it’s quiet. lived-in. in the way he makes space for you in his closet, in the way he replaces your toothpaste without being asked, in the way he holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring him.

you turn over slowly, shifting to face him.

his hair is down, spilling across the pillow like black silk. his eyes are barely open—just the faintest glint of dark grey peeking through his lashes. and even still, he looks so beautiful.

not in the polished way. not in the glamorous, untouchable way. no. shouta is beautiful like dusk. like a thunderstorm in the distance. like safety.

he blinks slowly, eyes focused on you.

you reach up and brush the hair from his forehead. “hi.”

he grunts, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “hi.”

you lean forward and kiss him.

not with urgency. not with heat.

just a soft brush of lips. a good morning in kiss form.

his hand finds your hip beneath the sheets, fingers brushing skin. “how long’ve you been awake?”

“just a little while.”

“and you stayed?”

you nod.

his hand smooths over your hip. “thank you.”

your chest tightens. “you don’t have to thank me for that.”

he doesn’t answer, but he kisses you again.

and you let it linger.

breakfast takes a while to happen.

because neither of you want to get out of bed, not really. shouta insists on wrapping himself around you every time you try. he hooks a leg over yours, presses his face to your stomach, tugs the blankets back up like you’re both teenagers skipping school.

but eventually—when your stomach growls loud enough for both of you to hear—you manage to bribe him out with the promise of pancakes.

he wears his flannel pajama pants and nothing else. you wear one of his old black t-shirts, stretched soft with age. you’re barefoot. the floor is cold. the house is quiet except for the creaks of old wood and the birds outside the window.

he makes the coffee.

you make the batter.

you move like a team—comfortable, familiar, efficient. he kisses your temple when he passes behind you, murmurs low compliments about how good it smells, rests his hand on your lower back while you pour batter into the pan.

he flips the pancakes. you plate them. he steals a bite before sitting. you glare. he smirks.

you eat in the sun-drenched kitchen nook, shoulders brushing. no music. just clinking silverware and soft sighs and the sound of coffee being sipped slow.

“i think the cats are planning a coup,” he says, eyes trained on the hallway where your two furballs sit watching.

you grin. “they don’t like that you’re home. they had the bed all to themselves for weeks.”

he raises an eyebrow. “they can deal.”

you laugh. “god, you’re such a dad.”

he hums. “only to them.”

but the way he looks at you—gentle, focused, quietly in awe—makes something flutter behind your ribs.

you eat the rest of your pancakes with your knee pressed to his.

the rest of the day unfolds like a dream.

you clean together—well, you try to. shouta keeps getting distracted. folding towels turns into you getting tackled onto the bed. vacuuming turns into a wrestling match for the remote. dishes become a shared effort of sudsy water, squeaky clean glassware, and soap bubbles stuck in his hair.

he naps on the couch with his head in your lap. you run your fingers through his hair, feel the slow rise and fall of his chest, watch the lines in his face ease.

he murmurs your name once in his sleep.

you almost cry.

he wakes up slowly, blinking up at you like you hung the moon.

you kiss his forehead and whisper, “i love you.”

he says it back like it’s the first thing he’s ever believed in.

that night, you light a candle and settle into bed early.

he showers first. you hear the water run, hear the familiar rhythm of his steps, the soft creak of the faucet.

when he returns, his hair is damp. his skin is warm from the water. he wears clean sweatpants and another old shirt that smells like laundry detergent and home.

you scoot over.

he slides in beside you.

you both sigh in unison.

you read for a little while. he scrolls through his phone. he holds your hand the entire time.

at some point, you turn to him and ask, “do you ever wish we met earlier?”

he pauses.

sets his phone down. turns toward you.

his thumb brushes your knuckles. “no. not really.”

you blink. “no?”

he shakes his head, slow. “if we met earlier… i wouldn’t have been ready. i wouldn’t have known how to love you the way you deserve.”

your breath catches.

“but now,” he adds, voice low, sure, soft, “i do.”

you press your face into his chest. he pulls you close. your heart threatens to burst.

because you understand.

you understand that all of this—the slowness, the softness, the warmth—only exists because of the pain that came before it. because he survived it. because you did.

you fall asleep in his arms, breath slow, heart full.

and in the dark, he whispers your name again.

not because he’s dreaming.

but because it’s the most sacred thing he knows how to say.

been in not such a great mental place lately so i wanted to right something cute :( i hope this was enjoyable! i love writing for him. thank yewww for reading hehe.

masterlist

[y3oubii]

feedback

musician!choso kamo x groupie!fem reader !!

your first mistake was showing up to a grimy little underground venue on a thursday night. your second was locking eyes with choso kamo while he stood beneath a flickering red light, guitar slung low on his hips and eyes like smoke. he doesn’t know your name yet, but you’ve been front row at three of his sets and haven’t missed a single lyric. and even though you pretend not to notice him watching you every time the lights dim—he does. because choso kamo is quiet. but he remembers. and he wants you to remember him, too.

cw: slow burn, emotional yearning, explicit language, suggestive content (eventually), reader plays hard to get, mutual pining, smoking/alcohol (minor), light angst, late-night tension, crowd mentions, obsessive thoughts, slightly possessive behavior (non-toxic), tension-filled touching, mention of past relationships, band lifestyle (touring, backstage scenes)

a/n: format is really different compared to the first part, but im just trying stuff out so bare with me 😞

pt. 1, pt. 2 (you're here!!), pt. 3

you don’t say anything when he shows up late.

the venue’s already buzzing, sticky with anticipation and stale beer, and the crowd hums like it’s holding its breath. you’re tucked into the far corner backstage, half-lit by a red exit sign, watching him like he hasn’t been haunting your head for two weeks.

he looks exhausted. hoodie slung low over his head, eyes shadowed and unfocused, jaw clenched like he hasn’t slept right in days.

you should ignore him.

you tell yourself to.

but when his gaze lands on you—

when he holds it—

you feel that ache in your throat again. the one only he seems to leave behind.

he doesn’t speak. just steps toward you, slow like he’s still unsure. like you might vanish again.

you don’t.

you let him stand beside you in the dark.

he doesn’t look at you, but you hear it—low and rough in his voice.

“didn’t think you’d be here.”

you shrug, eyes still on the crowd. “thought i’d see what you’d play if you thought i wasn’t watching.”

that gets a flicker from him. a breath of a smirk. but his voice stays hushed.

“nothing worth hearing.”

and something about the way he says it—like a confession, like a curse—makes you turn to face him fully.

you say nothing.

but you reach out and fix the strap of his guitar.

his breath stutters.

just once.

the show is loud.

chaotic.

his voice is raw, splintering against the chords like it’s been scraped across gravel, and it feels different tonight. like he’s singing at you. for you. like the words mean something they didn’t mean before.

when he plays buried static, he doesn’t look away from the corner where you’re standing.

and this time—you don’t, either.

after the set, it’s quiet backstage.

no one’s around. just you and him. both of you buzzing.

you sit beside him on the couch again. but this time, your thigh touches his.

he doesn’t move away.

the air is warm, heavy, humming with something unspoken.

you speak first.

“you ever gonna write a song about me?”

he doesn’t even hesitate.

“already did.”

the words land like thunder. and you feel your pulse jump in your neck, a wild beat that has nothing to do with the music.

you turn to look at him.

his eyes are darker than usual, rimmed with sweat and smeared eyeliner. his lips part slightly, like he’s about to say more—but then he just looks at you. like you’re a melody he can’t figure out. like he’s scared he’ll ruin it if he tries to play it too fast.

“which one?” you ask, voice barely audible.

he swallows.

“not done yet.”

he walks you to your car that night. doesn’t ask if he can. just does.

the alley is quiet, humming with soft city noise—dripping gutters, neon signs, the low hum of late traffic.

he stops beside your door and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, looking everywhere but at you.

you stand close. too close.

“you gonna let me hear it?” you ask, almost playful.

he doesn’t answer right away. just stares down at his boots. when he finally speaks, it’s quiet. honest.

“not until it sounds like you.”

you don’t know what to say to that.

so you don’t.

you step forward—closer—and gently reach up to brush his hair away from his eyes. his breath catches.

your fingers barely graze his skin, but it’s enough.

enough to make his head tilt just slightly. enough to make his lips part. enough to pull the silence so taut between you it could snap.

but you don’t kiss him. not yet.

you just whisper:

“then keep writing.”

and leave him standing in the dark with his heart echoing louder than his amps ever could.

you leave him breathless in the alley that night, your touch still burning into his skin long after the sound of your footsteps fades. he doesn’t sleep. doesn’t even try. he sits in the back of the van with his guitar in his lap and the city bleeding into dawn, fingers tracing chords he hasn’t named yet—chords that sound like the way you looked at him.

you’re in his head now.

worse—you’re under it. like feedback hum in his bloodstream. like melody he can’t forget.

he wants to hear your voice again.

so he calls.

two days later, 11:54 p.m.

caller ID: choso kamo

you stare at the screen for a moment too long before answering.

“…didn’t think you’d actually call.”

his voice is low. rough. not quite tired. “couldn’t sleep.”

you slide further into your sheets, twirling the cord of your earbuds.

“so you called me?”

“wanted to hear what your voice sounds like when you’re not teasing me.”

that stops you cold for a breath.

your voice softens.

“…and what do you think it sounds like?”

there’s a pause.

then—

“like i’m close to something i don’t deserve.”

and fuck.

fuck, that gets you.

the way he says it. the weight of it.

you let the silence stretch, long and warm, until your breath steadies and you whisper:

“maybe you deserve more than you think.”

he doesn’t respond.

but you hear the way his breath hitches. hear the quiet strum of guitar strings behind his back, muted and delicate.

“play something,” you say.

he does.

it’s rough. unfinished. barely even a song.

but it’s for you.

you know it is.

his fingers stumble once or twice. his voice is low and half-whispered. but the ache in the chords—god, it feels like fingertips pressed into your ribs.

he doesn’t sing any lyrics. not yet.

but the melody says enough.

you don’t realize you’re crying until it drips into your mouth.

“choso…” you whisper.

he stops playing.

you press your hand to your heart, like you can hold the sound in your chest before it fades.

“that’s me, isn’t it?”

he breathes in like it hurts. “yeah.”

you close your eyes.

“keep going.”

he plays until the line cuts out.

no goodbye. no goodnight.

just the slow fade of his song in your ear as you fall asleep with your phone clutched to your chest and the thought of him, alone in a dark room, singing something that sounds like want.

the next time you see each other, you pretend you’re not different.

you lean on the amp. you watch the show. you wear that same coy smile when his eyes meet yours.

but he knows.

he knows now what your voice sounds like with sleep tangled in it.

he knows what it does to him when you cry quietly over a song he barely knows how to finish.

and you know.

you know his music isn’t just loud anymore.

it’s personal.

you’re personal.

but neither of you says it.

not yet.

after the show, it rains.

you’re soaked through again, eyeliner smudged, hair curling from the damp. and he’s still on stage, coiling wires, watching you from the corner of his eye like you might disappear again.

you don’t.

you walk straight toward him, step up onto the edge of the stage, and lean in close enough to smell the rain on his skin.

“that song you played at the end?”

he nods. “yeah?”

you look up at him, water dripping down your temple.

“i want to hear the rest of it. the lyrics.”

he swallows.

“you’re not ready.”

“no,” you say, voice calm. steady. “you’re not.”

and then you hop down off the stage, leaving puddles where your boots had been, and disappear into the night again.

he sends you the demo at 2:17 a.m.

no message. just the audio file.

you listen to it six times before sunrise.

his voice cracks on the bridge.

the lyrics are raw, ugly, real.

“if i touch you, i’ll unravel—

so i keep my hands in my pockets,

and bleed where no one sees.”

you don’t text back.

you don’t know how to.

but you show up at the next show.

and you stand at the side of the stage instead of the crowd.

and when his eyes meet yours during the final chorus—

you nod.

just once.

and that’s enough to make him sing like it’s killing him.

im obsessed with choso lately ohmggg idk hahshdhshah. ill make another part sometime soon :) i hope this was enjoyable and thank yewww for reading hehe

masterlist

[y3oubii]

on stream

streamer!gojo satoru x fem reader !!

gojo’s your annoyingly hot, impossibly loud, overly flirty college boyfriend. he’s got thousands of eyes glued to him every night while he streams, and lately, it seems he’s forgotten he has someone at home watching too. but tonight, you’re going to remind him, who he belongs to, who gets to hear those pretty little moans, and what happens when you’re left all alone. what you don’t expect… is just how viral it’ll all become.

cw: 18+, smut, explicit content, graphic sexual descriptions, language, possessive dynamics, college au, modern au, streamer au, public teasing, blowjob under the desk, orgasm denial, begging, dom!reader, sub!gojo, degradation praise mix, exhibitionism (unintentional), power play, throatfucking, ruined orgasm, overstimulation, rough sex, desperate sex, stream caught them, social media fallout

you were patient. you really were.

you’d watched him every night from the bed, curled in one of his oversized hoodies, staring past the soft blue glow of his dual monitors as gojo’s voice bounced off the walls of your shared apartment. loud, flirty, smug — all charm, no shame — his streamer persona was addictive to everyone watching. but to you, the performance had gotten a little too consistent.

because lately, he’d been giving all his attention to them.

every night, it was the same: dinner half-eaten, cuddles postponed, kisses dodged with a quick, “baby, just one more round, promise.” his long fingers danced over his keyboard, headset balanced in that perfect white hair of his, mouth curling into that devil-may-care smirk as chat spammed hearts and thirst.

and all you could do was sit there.

watch.

ache.

until tonight.

because tonight, you weren’t going to let him ignore you.

tonight, you were going to ruin him.

you pad across the floor barefoot, the hem of your little sleep shirt riding high as you approach from behind. he doesn’t notice, too locked in, babbling some cocky shit to chat about his kill streak. he’s got thousands watching, and he’s oblivious to the real danger crawling toward him.

your eyes lock on his lap. he’s wearing grey sweats. perfect.

“yeah, nah, they couldn’t even touch me,” gojo brags into the mic, cocky little laugh tumbling out of his mouth. his tone is bright, playful, but you can see the faint tension in his shoulders. he’s been sitting here for hours. hard to say if it’s from the game or from neglecting the only thing that makes him beg.

you.

you slip between his legs, slowly, deliberately, careful not to bump the desk. your nails trail up his calves, and he freezes. there’s the tiniest hitch in his voice, the sound of uncertainty.

“uh… hang on,” he murmurs, leaning slightly to mute the mic. “babe, what are you—”

but you don’t answer.

you just push his knees wider, settling between them as you press your palm over the slight tent in his pants, slow and warm. he twitches beneath the fabric, already half-hard, already yours.

he stifles a groan.

“fuck.”

then chat hears a noise — a little muffled gasp from him — and they immediately light up:

“yo gojo you good??”

“chat he’s turning red lmao”

“what’s going on under that desk 👀”

“don’t tell me his girl’s down there rn 💀💀💀”

you smile against his waistband, fingers teasing up his length. he tries so hard to keep talking, to keep his voice steady, but you’re already slipping his cock out, flushed and thick and aching for attention.

he’s gorgeous like this. flushed. overwhelmed. trying not to squirm.

you drag your tongue up the base, slow and sinful, before wrapping your lips around the head and sucking hard.

he chokes.

“y—yeah, chat, uh…” he scrambles for a cover-up, already breathless. “sorry, mic issue—my headset’s, uh, acting up.”

your nails press into his thighs and he flinches. he’s gripping the armrests now, knuckles white. you bob your head once, twice, letting spit drip as you suck him down, your tongue curling underneath.

he’s trying not to moan. you can feel it.

but the viewers can hear it anyway, the strained breaths, the clipped little gasps, the faint whine that slips out when you flatten your tongue along the vein and hollow your cheeks.

“HE’S GETTING HEAD ON STREAM I KNEW IT”

“someone clip this rn”

“gojo we can HEAR you crying bro 😭”

“he’s trying so hard to pretend he’s fine 💀”

“his soul leaving his body as we speak”

“ngh—h-hey, babe, babe—” he hisses in a whisper, reaching down to touch your hair, desperate. “please, l-let me just end stream real quick, just gimme a second—”

you pull off with a wet pop, lips glistening, looking up at him with narrowed eyes.

“no.”

his pupils blow wide.

you jerk him slowly with your hand, watching him twitch, already so close, and then you stop. right at the edge. just… stop.

he bites his lip, muffling a groan.

“p-please,” he pants, eyes glassy, hips twitching as you lean in again. “please don’t—”

but you’re already back down on him, sucking slow and deep, building it up again.

again.

again.

and again.

only to stop right before he cums.

he’s sobbing by the fourth time.

“fuck—fuck, please, baby, please,” he chokes, tears welling at the corners of his eyes. he can’t even think straight, let alone play. his game character is getting annihilated on screen while his real body is falling apart.

“oh he’s definitely crying now”

“someone help this man 😭”

“chat, it’s over for him. it’s BEEN over.”

“he’s begging her. on STREAM. in 4K.”

“you forgot who you belong to,” you murmur under your breath, breath hot against the wet, leaking tip of his cock. he jerks, whimpering.

“you forgot how good this mouth is, baby.”

“how cruel i can be.”

and he’s begging now, full voice, whispering broken pleas between clenched teeth.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry, please, i’ll pay attention, i’ll make it up to you, please, just—please let me cum, please, i need it, i need your mouth, your tongue, i’m—fuck, i’m gonna—”

you wrap your lips around him and take him deep, one final time, and this time, you don’t stop.

he breaks.

his body tenses and he moans, loud and unfiltered, as his hips thrust up and he cums hard, thick down your throat, his whole body shaking from the force of it.

you swallow every drop.

then slowly, you rise from beneath the desk.

he’s wrecked. cheeks flushed, hair stuck to his forehead, sweat clinging to his temples. he looks at you like you’re a god.

he fumbles to click end stream, hand trembling.

and fails.

because the stream didn’t end.

and the moment you drag him to bed — throw him down, climb on top of him, tell him he doesn’t get to rest until you’re satisfied — everyone sees it.

the gasp.

the stretch of his throat as you take him in your mouth again.

his broken, sobbing moans of, “please—please, i’m sorry, i won’t ignore you again—”

his whimper when you choke him lightly and growl, “you don’t cum until i say so.”

and the second viral wave begins.

you knew the moment you finished sucking him off once more that something was wrong.

not because of what you’d just done — you’d do it again in a heartbeat — but because as gojo lay beneath you, trembling and slick with sweat, body still pulsing from the way you’d just ridden him until he begged for mercy, his eyes weren’t on you.

they were on the screen.

frozen.

horrified.

“baby,” he croaks, voice raw and cracked. “baby, the—stream…”

you blink.

you whip your head to the monitor.

and there it is — a glowing red dot in the corner. the chat, still active. the viewer count—spiking.

you didn’t just ruin him in private.

you ruined him in front of fifty thousand people.

gojo lets out a weak, strangled sound. somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

“oh my god.”

“it didn’t end.”

“it didn’t fucking end—”

his head flops back against the pillow, hand dragging down his face. he’s bright red, drenched in sweat, legs still trembling under you, his cock twitching helplessly from the overstimulation. his voice is nothing but wreckage, he’d screamed when he came the second time, fully on camera.

and you?

you just smile.

“good,” you purr, leaning down to lick the sweat from his neck. “maybe now they’ll know how fucking loud you can be when you’re not pretending to be someone else.”

he moans. full body.

“CLIP IT CLIP IT CLIP IT”

“i KNEW this man was a moaner”

“does she do custom orders bc holy shit”

“mom pick me up i’m scared”

“GOJO IS GETTING BREED-FUCKED ON LIVE”

“im not even mad. i’m jealous.”

“the little whimpers??? the B E G G I N G??? sir 😭”

“babe,” gojo whines, eyes glossy, cheeks flushed. “i’m—i’m gonna die.”

“no you’re not,” you murmur, brushing the hair off his forehead as you straddle him again, nails dragging down his chest. “but you are gonna give me another round.”

he chokes.

“wha—i just—y-you already—”

“i don’t care,” you whisper against his lips. “you don’t get to come on my tongue and act like the show’s over.”

you grip him — half-hard, leaking, still sensitive — and stroke slowly, just to hear the broken moan fall out of his mouth.

his back arches.

“ah—fuck, please, it’s too much—!”

“you should’ve thought about that before you ignored me all week,” you hiss.

he tries to sit up, to speak, to say something that might salvage even an ounce of pride, but you shove him back down with one hand on his chest.

“don’t make me gag you with your own mic, satoru.”

he whines — whimpers — cock twitching under your grip.

and that’s when you know.

he loves this.

he’s melting under the weight of it — the humiliation, the exposure, the punishment — the helplessness. his whole body is yours now, reduced to nothing but a writhing mess of nerves and need.

and the world is watching.

you slide down and take him into your mouth again.

he screams.

“ah—n-no, no, i can’t—’m too sensitive, please, baby, p-please—”

you pin his hips with your forearm and throat him.

he wails.

“SHE’S DEVOURING HIM 😭😭😭”

“someone get this man water and a prayer”

“i don’t think he’s walking tomorrow”

“chat. we are witnessing the fall of a god”

“nah she’s facefucking HIM?? this is biblical”

“SATORU MOANED LIKE A BITCH IN HEAT 💀💀💀”

you pull off with spit dripping down your chin.

his cock flops back against his stomach, angry red, twitching, still hard. tears leak from the corners of his eyes.

“please,” he begs, “please, lemme cum, lemme cum, i’ll do anything—”

“you don’t get to cum until i say.”

he sobs.

his voice is hoarse now, raw from all the pleading, the gasps, the frantic stuttering apologies between each orgasm. he’s so fucked-out he’s shaking. his whole body feels like it’s been left out in the rain and dragged back in through fire.

and he’s still hard.

still throbbing.

you lean in close, brush your mouth over his ear.

“you know what you are, satoru?”

he sniffles. blinks up at you, dazed.

“…a toy.”

you slide down onto his cock in one stroke and ride him.

his head snaps back and he lets out a broken shout.

you don’t even try to be quiet.

you bounce on him like you own him, because you do, every wet slap of skin echoing across the mic. he’s incoherent now, gone, crying your name, mumbling things like i’m yours and don’t stop and i’ll be good, i swear—

the stream is exploding.

“the way he just cried when she said he’s her toy 😭”

“she’s USING him. as she should.”

“gojo’s humiliation kink jumped out”

“not him moaning like a hentai girl”

“my fbi agent can’t look me in the eye rn”

“gonna fill me up again, baby?” you coo sweetly. “gonna give me everything?”

he nods violently, shaking.

“yes—yes, anything you want, all of it, i’m yours, please let me cum—”

“then beg.”

and he does.

like a prayer. like he’s repenting. like you’re the only thing he’s ever believed in.

when he cums again, it’s ruined, you pull off and jerk him through it, watching the way his whole body spasms under you. it paints your chest, your throat, your cheeks. he sobs. chokes. claws at the sheets.

you kiss the corner of his wet eyes, whispering,

“that’s for ignoring me.”

finally, finally, you reach over and end the stream.

and the silence after? deafening.

gojo lays there for a long, long time.

then, softly:

“…i’m trending, aren’t i?”

you check your phone.

“…number one.”

he moans into the pillow.

you smirk.

“next time you ignore me for a game, satoru—i’m inviting your fans to watch in person.”

his cock twitches.

and that’s how you know—

you’ll be doing this again.

oh gojo how i love thee. as always, hope you enjoyed and thank yewww for reading!! 🥰

masterlist

[y3oubii]

gravity

ushijima wakatoshi x fem reader !!

you didn’t expect your life to intersect with ushijima wakatoshi’s. he’s a star athlete, a quiet titan in the world of pro volleyball; you’re a freelance writer trying to outrun burnout in a sleepy little town. but when a misdelivered package pulls you into his orbit, something unexpected begins. a quiet companionship. a deepening trust. and a pull you can’t explain, only feel, like gravity.

cw: emotional repression, mentions of anxiety and burnout, lots of internal monologue, kinda slow build

you move into the apartment in early april, when the spring rains still cling to the pavement like regret. the air smells like wet earth, old concrete, and uncertainty.

you’re supposed to be taking a break. getting away. not writing. not working.

but it’s only day four and your hands are already itching for something that makes sense. and nothing—nothing—makes sense right now.

the first time you see him, it’s at your door.

he’s standing there with a cardboard box in his arms, held like it’s weightless. his shoulders are broad enough to block most of the doorway, and his eyes—green, unreadable—scan your face like he’s cataloging you for future reference.

“this was delivered to me by mistake,” he says.

his voice is low. level. not cold, exactly, but restrained. practiced.

you blink, reaching for the box. your fingers brush his for a second, and it’s enough to make your heart stutter for no good reason.

“thank you,” you say, suddenly aware of how messy your hair is, how you’re still in socks, how you didn’t expect a six-foot-three stranger with arms like marble statues to show up at your door today.

he nods once. “i’m ushijima wakatoshi. i live next door.”

your breath catches. the name is vaguely familiar—sports news? volleyball?

“oh. i’m—” you offer your name, awkwardly. “just moved in.”

“i know,” he says simply. “i heard the furniture.”

and just like that, he’s gone.

it becomes a pattern.

you see him in passing. in the hallway. in the shared mail room. taking out the trash at the exact same time every saturday.

he’s quiet. not unfriendly, but not… casual, either. he moves with purpose. his eyes are always thoughtful, watchful, like he’s not fully in the present but somewhere three steps ahead.

it’s strange, how you begin to look forward to those quiet glimpses. how his silence starts to feel companionable.

one day, you find a tupperware container at your door. rice, grilled vegetables, a perfectly boiled egg.

there’s no note. just the food.

you knock on his door ten minutes later.

he answers with his hair still damp from a shower, a towel around his neck, expression unreadable.

“was this you?” you ask, holding up the container.

“yes,” he says. “i made too much.”

a pause.

“…thank you. it was really good.”

he nods once, like he already knew it would be.

“you seemed like someone who forgets to eat when they’re working.”

you blink.

“how do you know i’m working?”

“you type loudly."

you should be annoyed. maybe even creeped out.

but instead, you laugh.

and for the first time since you moved in, he almost smiles.

over time, the silence between you becomes softer.

you exchange meals sometimes. you fall into the habit of grocery shopping on the same day. once, you find yourself walking back from the station together after a long day in the city, your arms full of bookshop bags, his holding a small box of protein bars and a bottle of soy sauce.

“you don’t talk much,” you say lightly.

“people say that.”

“why?”

“i only say what matters.”

it sounds blunt. but there’s no arrogance in it. just truth.

“and what matters to you?”

he glances at you. and there’s something in his eyes that makes your breath catch, like he’s trying to decide if you’re ready for the answer.

“…connection,” he says finally. “real ones.”

you don’t say anything for a while.

but that night, when you can’t sleep, you find yourself standing by your window, watching the light from his apartment flicker off.

you start noticing things.

the way he makes his tea slowly, almost meditatively. the way he always checks the expiration date on dairy, even when he buys it fresh. the tiny scar under his chin. the way he stands completely still when he’s listening to you, so still it’s almost disarming.

he asks questions, sometimes. always thoughtful. never intrusive.

you realize, one day, that you haven’t felt this calm in months.

and it’s him.

his steadiness.

his presence.

you’re sitting on your small balcony one evening when he brings over a second chair without asking.

just sets it down beside you.

sits.

you don’t say anything. neither does he.

but for a long time, you just watch the sunset in silence, breathing in the same air.

it shifts one night in june.

you’re both returning from a nearby market. he’s carrying your heavier bag, despite your protests.

you fumble your keys. your fingers graze his when he hands them to you.

and you both pause.

the air stills.

you look up.

his face is close. closer than it’s ever been. his expression is unreadable, but his eyes, his eyes are heavy with something.

“what is this?” you whisper.

“i don’t know,” he says.

but the way he looks at you says otherwise.

you open the door.

he doesn’t follow.

not yet.

but his gaze lingers.

and your heartbeat doesn’t slow until long after he’s gone.

you don’t sleep much that night.

his eyes haunt you, not in a sharp, painful way, but like a melody you can’t forget the shape of. soft and echoing. something unfinished.

you tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything.

that people look at each other like that sometimes.

that ushijima wakatoshi is just kind.

reserved. thoughtful. steady.

you’ve never known what he looks like when he’s in love.

you’ve never known what he looks like when he wants.

but something in your chest—the part that thrums when you hear his knock, that quiets when he speaks—tells you you’re getting closer.

you see him the next morning. not by accident this time.

he’s waiting outside your building, arms crossed, wearing a dark sweatshirt with the sleeves shoved up to his forearms, and a soft gray cap tugged low over his brow. it shouldn’t make your heart thump. but it does.

“you wanted to go to that flea market on the west side,” he says simply. “i thought you might want company.”

you stare at him for a moment. “i didn’t say that out loud.”

he shrugs. “you bookmarked the flyer on your counter. i saw it when you offered me tea last week.”

you should be unnerved. but you’re not.

you feel seen.

you feel like someone’s been listening, even when you weren’t speaking.

and so you nod, tug your sweater tighter around yourself, and go.

the market is small, tucked into the edge of a park and filled with mismatched tables, quiet conversations, the scent of fresh mochi and old paper.

you buy a tiny, cracked teacup with blue inked petals curling along the inside. he tells you it suits you.

“why?”

“because it’s gentle. and doesn’t need to be perfect to be worth keeping.”

your chest tightens.

you watch him linger at a vendor selling hand-woven scarves. his fingers run over the fabric slowly, almost reverently.

you wonder what it would feel like to be touched like that.

he cooks for you again that night.

he doesn’t ask. he just knocks—once—and when you open the door, he’s holding a bowl of simmered vegetables and grilled mackerel and that same quiet presence that’s becoming a balm.

you eat together on the floor. no music. no show. just quiet.

you tell him about your writing.

he listens like it matters.

not like it’s impressive. not like he’s waiting to speak.

just… listens.

“i used to think,” you say, poking at a piece of daikon, “that love was supposed to be dramatic. loud. chaotic. like all those stories about heartbreak and grand gestures. but lately i think it’s just… being known. without needing to explain yourself.”

you don’t look at him when you say it.

but you feel the shift.

slow. deliberate.

when he speaks, his voice is low.

“i’ve never been good with words. not when it comes to… feelings.”

you look up.

he’s staring at the wall, not at you.

but his fingers—resting near yours—twitch like they’re thinking about reaching.

“i care about you,” he says.

you breathe in too sharply.

he flinches, as if worried he’s ruined something.

“i don’t know how to… show it. not in the way people expect. but i think about you. every day.”

you blink. hard.

he finally looks at you.

and this time, you let your fingers brush his.

“you’re already showing it,” you whisper.

his breath catches.

and that’s when it shifts.

you don’t kiss him that night.

you don’t sleep with him.

you don’t ask for anything.

instead, you fall asleep on the couch beside him. your legs tangled under a shared blanket. your head tucked against his shoulder. your hand resting quietly on his.

he doesn’t move for hours.

just breathes.

you wake up at three a.m., hazy and warm, to find him still there, watching the moonlight spill across your carpet.

his gaze shifts when you stir.

“are you okay?”

you nod.

he doesn’t ask to stay.

but he doesn’t leave either.

and you don’t stop him.

the first time he touches you without hesitation, it’s your hands.

you’re rinsing vegetables at the sink. he’s peeling an apple behind you. you drop something—reach to grab it—and your fingers graze.

but this time, he doesn’t pull away.

his hand closes over yours.

big. warm. calloused from years of practice.

you freeze.

so does he.

but he doesn’t let go.

“your hands are cold,” he murmurs.

you look at him.

and he’s looking back.

like you’re something to study. to understand.

like you’re something he wants to keep.

you don’t say a word. just turn your hand so your palm presses into his.

and his thumb moves once—just once—against your skin.

and in that small, quiet motion, a dam breaks.

the kiss doesn’t come in a storm.

it’s not feverish. or rushed.

it comes weeks later, after a long walk home in the rain. after you lend him a dry shirt and he stands in your kitchen, hair damp and eyes soft.

you say something—small, meaningless, about the weather—

and he’s just there.

his hand on your cheek.

his breath against your mouth.

his eyes searching yours, silently asking.

you nod.

and then his lips are on yours, tentative. warm. so gentle it nearly undoes you.

he kisses you like you’re made of something rare. like he’s never wanted anything so much in his life but is still afraid to want too hard.

and when he pulls back, you chase him. fingers curling into his shirt. mouth finding his again.

it’s soft.

and then not.

when it deepens, he sighs against your tongue like he’s never been allowed to need anything before.

and when he finally pulls back, foreheads touching, he whispers your name like a prayer.

“are you sure?”

“yes,” you breathe. “i’ve never been more sure.”

you don’t know how to define what’s happening between you and ushijima. there’s no conversation, no labels, no announcement. he doesn’t text you good morning or send you photos of his meals. he doesn’t call you baby or love. he doesn’t kiss you in public.

and yet, he’s always there.

you wake up to quiet knocks and warm tupperware. you find your groceries rearranged in your fridge after he visits, like he’s trying to make your life easier without asking for praise. your keys are never missing anymore because he hung a hook by your door when you weren’t looking.

and when he does touch you, your back as you pass him in the hall, your knee under the dinner table, your temple as you rest on his chest, it’s not accidental.

it’s intentional.

anchored.

real.

you think about that a lot. how ushijima isn’t interested in gestures that mean nothing.

he only gives you the things that matter.

and so you try to do the same.

he doesn’t know what to do with mess. emotional mess, that is.

he listens, of course. always. but when you talk about your fears, your burnout, your guilt over slowing down your career… he gets quiet in a way that makes you ache.

it’s not avoidance.

it’s processing.

“i don’t know how to fix things like that,” he admits one night, voice low, after you confess you haven’t written anything in weeks. “but i can sit with you until it stops hurting so much.”

and he does.

you sit on your balcony in the fading twilight, knees pulled to your chest, his body radiating heat beside you.

you fall asleep there.

when you wake up in your bed the next morning, tucked under your softest blanket, there’s a folded piece of paper on your nightstand.

you open it.

his handwriting is neat. serious.

“you don’t need to make something to be worth something.”

it’s not poetry. it’s not even grammatically graceful.

but you cry anyway.

because it’s him.

because it’s enough.

your editor calls.

a new assignment. high-paying. high profile. travel included. the kind of opportunity you used to ache for.

you don’t say yes right away.

instead, you tell ushijima.

you half expect him to pull away. to assume this is temporary, that he was always just a layover between cities. a placeholder for the next version of your life.

but he doesn’t flinch.

he listens.

and then he says, “you should go. if it’s what you want.”

you blink.

“just like that?”

he nods.

“but—what about us?”

he’s silent for a long moment. then: “i want to see you again. i don’t want this to end. but i would rather you leave knowing i supported you than stay and resent me.”

you stare at him.

and for the first time, it hits you, this isn’t a man who’s afraid of losing you.

it’s a man who trusts you to come back.

the days away are long. busy. full of noise.

but every night, without fail, there’s a message from him.

never dramatic. never clingy.

just…

“are you warm tonight?”

“i made curry. it reminded me of the first one we shared.”

“i saw a bird with a broken wing. it flew anyway. i thought you’d like that.”

they’re short. simple.

but they build a bridge between your beds. your cities. your silences.

and slowly, without realizing, you start writing again.

not for work.

not for anyone else.

just little pieces. vignettes. phrases and thoughts and tiny truths scribbled into a notebook he gave you before you left.

you write about his hands.

you write about his quiet strength.

you write about the way he makes you feel safe enough to come apart.

you return two weeks later.

not with a suitcase full of regrets or a career-changing article.

just… yourself.

and when you knock on his door—late, impulsive, heart in your throat—he answers like he was waiting the whole time.

he doesn’t ask questions.

he just opens the door.

and opens his arms.

and when you press your face into his chest and whisper “i missed you,” he holds you like he’ll never let you forget what it means to be held.

you fall into a rhythm.

you learn that he grinds his teeth when he’s focused. that he listens to cello music when he’s stressed. that he has an old, beaten-up copy of the little prince on his shelf that he won’t let anyone borrow but will read aloud if you ask him nicely.

he learns that you hum when you’re anxious. that your favorite scent is cardamom and that rainy mornings make you cry for reasons you still don’t fully understand.

and one night, when your fingers tremble after a bad dream, he simply cups your hand in his and murmurs, “you’re here.”

you kiss him slow. unhurried. like you have all the time in the world.

because you do.

i love himm, hes so sweetie. i hope you enjoyed and thank yewww for reading!!!

masterlist

[y3oubii]

blowback

katsuki bakugou x fem reader !!

all you did was read a post. a stupid, unholy thread calculating bakugou’s dick size. but now every time he opens his mouth, all you can think about is what’s hiding in those pants. and worse, what it would do to you. he doesn’t know about the thread. or the math. or the 3 a.m. orgasm you gave yourself just thinking about what might be between his legs. but now you’ve been staring too long. flinching too fast. and bakugou’s not stupid. he knows what you want. he knows exactly how to give it to you.

cw: aged up, smut, sexual fantasy, obsessive thoughts, cock size obsession, filthy mental imagery, degradation kink, bakugou being terrifyingly hot by accident, dom!bakugou, size kink, fingering, semi-public setting, power play, humiliation kink, obsession, rough tone, explicit sexual content, dirty talk, rough sex, forced creampie, power imbalance, semi-public sex, cockwarming, overstimulation, reader crying, possessiveness, reader is down bad and lowk a perv...

you hated him before.

like, actually hated him.

loud. rude. always yelling. always sweating testosterone like it was a weapon. the kind of guy you’d cross the room to avoid because you just knew he’d say something nasty if you looked too long.

but then you saw the post.

“scientifically breaking down bakugou katsuki’s dick size"

you thought it’d be a joke. maybe a few memes. an exaggerated screencap. but no.

they had charts. scale references. math.

and now you’re fucked.

because someone, somewhere, ran the numbers and said his dick is over 11 inches. and not even just length. it was wide. thick. veiny. the kind of cock you train for. the kind of cock that makes you cry while he calls you a “fuckin’ mess.”

and suddenly, bakugou wasn’t just some loudmouth asshole anymore.

he was walking destruction in gray sweatpants.

now every time you see him—shoulders rolled back, mouth open, voice sharp enough to make the air vibrate—you feel your thighs clench. he doesn’t even do anything. he just exists. a low growl of a man in a fitted black tee, neck veins visible, arms flexing whenever he even thinks too hard.

and you can’t stop imagining it.

you imagine him grabbing you by the hips, growling when you flinch. saying “you said you wanted it—take it then.”

you imagine your legs shaking as you try to get all the way down. your hand pressed to his chest, begging him to slow down.

you imagine him laughing. breathless. cock stretching you open like it belongs there. like it owns you.

you imagine it, and you fuck yourself to the thought of it.

quiet. messy. humiliating.

and the next time you see him in the gym, hair damp, tank clinging to his back, he glances your way.

he smirks.

you know he doesn’t know.

but god, you wonder what would happen if he did.

you didn’t think he’d notice.

he was always loud, always angry, too distracted with explosions and shouting and winning. there’s no way he saw the way you’d been avoiding eye contact. flinching when he rolled his sleeves up. going stiff when he adjusted his waistband mid-workout and that fucking outline twitched against his thigh.

but you underestimated him.

because bakugou katsuki notices everything.

especially when you’re acting weird around him.

he corners you after your last lecture of the day. the hallway’s quiet. the rest of the students have already cleared out. you’re still gathering your things when a large shadow blocks the light above you, and a hand slams into the wall behind you.

your breath stutters.

he leans in, shoulder tense, eyes narrow. he’s too close. too hot. there’s something in his expression that’s not quite anger.

“you got a problem with me?” he asks, voice low.

you blink up at him. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. your thighs clench instinctively.

his eyes flick downward, just for a split second.

“yeah. that’s what i thought.”

you swallow hard. “i don’t…”

“don���t lie,” he cuts in. “you’ve been lookin’ at me like you’ve seen me naked.”

your heart stops. your stomach twists.

you haven’t. but god, you’ve imagined it. again and again. imagined it so vividly you could sketch it. imagined how big he’d be. how thick. how angry he’d sound whispering filth into your ear while he fucked you open on his cock.

he leans closer. his breath hits your cheek.

“so?” he growls. “what the fuck did you see?”

you finally whisper it. “a post. on… twitter.”

his brow twitches. “what kind of post.”

you flush. “someone did the math.”

“the fuck kinda math?”

you stare at the floor. your voice is barely a breath. “about… how big your dick is.”

silence.

then—

he laughs.

not a soft laugh. not even a cocky laugh. it’s sharp, dark, jagged at the edges.

“that’s what’s got you actin’ like a scared little virgin?” he mutters. “some bullshit thread about how big i am?”

you bite your lip.

he presses closer. the hard heat of his body makes you dizzy. his mouth brushes your ear. “you wanna know if it’s true?”

you can barely nod.

his hand slides around your waist. huge, hot, firm. he drags you backward, away from the wall, toward a utility closet at the end of the hall. your body follows on instinct. breath caught in your throat.

the door shuts behind you with a click.

“you’re fuckin’ lucky i’m not pissed,” he growls, backing you up against the wall. “goin’ around actin’ all fucked up just ‘cause you read a thirst post.”

you gasp when his thigh slides between your legs. his hand catches your jaw. turns your face up.

“you coulda just asked.”

he grabs your wrist. pushes it down. right over the bulge in his pants.

hot. hard. heavy.

your knees buckle.

“go on,” he breathes. “feel it for yourself.”

your fingers tremble as they close around it. he doesn’t move. just watches you, smirking when you gasp at the weight.

“that enough math for you?” he whispers, voice molten.

you whimper. it’s all you can manage.

he lifts you like you weigh nothing, sits you on a shelf, and yanks your thighs open. one hand slides under your skirt. his fingers dip between your legs, and stop.

“fuck,” he hisses. “you’re wet already?”

you nod, breath hitching. “been thinking about it for days.”

he chuckles darkly.

“good.”

his fingers sink into you, thick, callused, stretching you open like he knows what’s coming next.

“you better get used to it,” he growls, pumping deep and slow. “’cause if you can’t take my fingers…”

his cock grinds against your thigh.

“…you’re sure as fuck not takin’ what’s under here.”

he told you to get used to it.

he gave you a warning, fingers deep in your cunt, wrist flexing as he curled them just right, thumb pressed cruelly against your clit until you were twitching on that storage shelf.

but you didn’t listen.

you begged.

“please,” you gasped, hips chasing every thrust. “want it—please, katsuki—”

he growled when you said his name. pulled his fingers out. made you look at them—soaked and shining—before he licked them clean right in front of you.

“you asked for it,” he muttered, unzipping his pants. “don’t fuckin’ whine now.”

and then you saw it.

and holy fuck.

the post didn’t lie.

thick. flushed. veined. massive. the kind of cock that makes your mouth go dry. your cunt clenched just from the sight of it.

and now, it’s pressed between your legs, thick head nudging against your entrance.

he drags the tip along your folds, watching you squirm. your fingers dig into his shoulders. your thighs shake already.

“so fuckin’ dramatic,” he murmurs. “you wanted this so bad—better take it.”

he pushes.

your breath catches.

“fuck—”

it burns. stretches. splits. he’s barely halfway in and your back’s already arching, jaw dropped in a silent cry.

“that’s it,” he growls, holding your hips still. “open up for me.”

you try, you really do. your body’s trembling, slick dripping down the backs of your thighs, but your walls clamp down hard around him and your eyes well with tears.

“p-promise i can—just—”

“don’t care,” he growls. “you wanted the truth? here it is.”

he slams in the rest of the way.

your scream is swallowed by his mouth as he kisses you, sloppy, angry, consuming. your body jolts. your nails rake down his back. your brain short-circuits.

he’s all the way in.

you feel him in your stomach.

he grins when you sob.

“told you,” he breathes, panting against your cheek. “told you i’d break you.”

and he does.

he pulls back just enough to make you cry again, and slams forward. the shelf shakes. your legs dangle uselessly. his name spills out of your mouth between gasps and curses and broken sobs.

he fucks you hard. slow. punishing. every thrust stretches you further. every snap of his hips punches breath from your lungs.

“shit, feel that?” he growls. “feel me fuckin’ rearranging you?”

you nod, desperate. delirious.

he grabs your jaw. “say it.”

“y-you’re—fucking me—too deep—katsuki—”

his growl is feral.

he keeps going.

you don’t know how long it lasts, just that your orgasm crashes into you without warning, that he keeps fucking you through it, that your body won’t stop shaking.

and then—

he groans, low and guttural, and you feel him pulse deep inside you.

hot.

thick.

filling you up until you’re full. until there’s nothing else but him.

he doesn’t pull out.

he presses his lips to your ear, breathless and vicious.

“next time,” he pants, “don’t fucking read about it.”

he thrusts once more, slow and deep, hips grinding against yours.

“just ask.”

you can’t breathe.

his cum is still inside you, thick and hot, slowly leaking from where his cock still stretches you open. you’re limp, legs twitching, mouth parted, eyes glazed. barely upright on the shelf.

but he hasn’t moved.

he’s still buried to the hilt.

and he’s still. so. fucking. hard.

you whimper.

“what?” he growls, voice rough against your skin. “you done already?”

you nod, numb. shaky.

he smirks against your neck.

“too bad.”

he rolls his hips.

you scream.

your body convulses around him—too raw, too full, too fucking sensitive—and he laughs. low. dark. like it turns him on even more.

“thought you wanted the full experience,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to drag his cock against every ruined inch of your walls. “don’t tell me you’re tapped out already.”

“i c-can’t—” you gasp, fingernails clawing at his shoulders. “katsuki, i—please—”

“you can. you will.”

he fucks into you again, slow, deep, heavy.

your head drops back. your moans are desperate. every thrust pushes your orgasm closer, blurring the edge between pleasure and pain. your cunt clutches him greedily, like it doesn’t care how overstimulated you are.

you’re drooling.

you don’t even notice.

his hands hold you open like you’re his toy—his mess—his little science experiment who thought she could handle it.

“look at you,” he growls. “you’re fuckin’ cryin’.”

you are.

you don’t know when it started, but tears are spilling down your cheeks. it only makes him fuck you harder. more deliberately.

“so cockdrunk you can’t even think straight. barely took half the fuckin’ thing earlier and now you’re sucking me in.”

you moan something incoherent. your brain is melting. your body is already close again and he knows it.

his hand moves between you. fingers rub fast, firm circles over your clit.

“that’s right,” he hisses. “cum again. wanna feel you fuckin’ soak me.”

“i—katsuki—i’m—i’m gonna—”

“do it.”

you break.

your orgasm hits you so violently you wail, legs locking around his waist, walls spasming around his cock, body shaking in his hands like a ragdoll. and still, he doesn’t stop.

you sob. drool. cling to him like it’ll make it easier to survive.

he buries his cock back inside and grinds deep.

“yeah, that’s right,” he whispers, almost smug. “you’ll be thinking about this next time you open that fuckin’ app.”

his lips drag along your ear.

“no thread could prepare you for this.”

lol i wrote this based off of this fuckass thing i saw 😭

anywaysss i hope this was enjoyable and thank yewww for reading!!!

masterlist

[y3oubii]

synopsis !! when a half-joking rumor about superman secretly dating daily planet reporter clark kent takes off, clark tries his best to ignore the headlines. and the commentary. and the theories. and the fact that it all kind of… makes sense.

a/n: not what i usually write but i was inspired by @wntryngs and their post!! :3

he should’ve known it would happen eventually.

in his defense, it wasn’t entirely his fault. it’s not like he meant to start a rumor. he wasn’t being strategic. he wasn’t being vain. he was just being clark. tired, sentimental, overworked clark kent, with a habit of losing track of where the cape ends and the keyboard begins.

but even he can admit now—sitting hunched at his desk at 8:34am, staring at the open Daily Planet site with a cold cup of coffee and a traitorous heartbeat—that yeah. okay. he maybe should’ve dialed it back.

because this headline?

“SUPERMAN IN LOVE? CITYWIDE RUMORS POINT TO LOCAL REPORTER”

paired with a painfully zoomed-in photo of him squinting up at the sky, coffee in hand, looking like he’s trying to mentally summon superman?

yeah. it’s bad.

no, it’s worse than bad. it’s tragically hilarious.

if he weren’t the subject of it, he’d be laughing. or maybe crying. or both.

instead, he just closes the tab with a weary sigh and resists the urge to chuck his laptop out the window.

the newsroom around him is already buzzing. he can feel the stares. not cruel, not mocking—just… charged. curious. amused. like everyone’s playing a game of connect-the-dots and he’s the only one pretending not to see the picture.

lois is the first to strike. of course she is.

she appears over the top of his cubicle like a shark circling blood, holding her phone up with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. the screen glows with a paused video, and clark knows—knows—what it is before she even says anything.

“morning, kent,” she says sweetly. “care to comment on your boyfriend?”

clark adjusts his glasses and pretends to mishear. “sorry?”

she presses play. the video starts with smoke and sirens and then it’s him, soaring through the haze with someone in his arms, saying—

“clark is a very dear… friend. and a journalist i trust to share nothing but the truth.”

clark winces.

“he paused after ‘dear,’” lois says, grinning. “he lingered. it was practically a sonnet.”

he buries his face in his hands.

jimmy strolls by and drops a bagel on his desk, looking far too pleased with himself.

“cheer up, lover boy. at least they didn’t pick one of the worse quotes. the internet’s already calling you ‘the poet of metropolis.’”

“i’m not dating superman,” clark says, voice muffled against his palms.

“sure,” jimmy replies. “and i’m not reposting this to my story.”

clark wants the earth to open up and swallow him whole.

the real problem isn’t the rumor. it’s not even the virality. the world always needs something to gossip about, and superman’s never been immune to that.

the real problem is that, technically, he did start it.

not deliberately. but emotionally? spiritually? semantically?

he reads back over his own articles and wants to die.

“he was strength made gentle—gravity reimagined as mercy.”

“he looked down on the city not with detachment, but with impossible care.”

“even at his most powerful, he never feels distant. it’s like he’s trying to meet you halfway.”

jesus christ, clark.

he scrolls faster. it only gets worse.

every article. every op-ed. every casual column about superman is written like a love letter from someone who has memorized the sound of his own heartbeat next to another man’s silence.

and sure, he can justify it. he’s writing superman. he’s building a relationship with the public. empathy sells. sincerity matters.

but no one else writes like that. not lois. not jimmy. not even the freelancers who get paid by the word.

because no one else is accidentally chronicling their own internal dialogue every time they come home at night and take off the red and blue.

he writes about superman like he’s trying to explain himself.

and now the world has picked up on it.

he tries to say no when perry calls him into the office.

tries to explain, calmly, rationally, that maybe the rumors will die down if they don’t acknowledge them. that feeding into speculation only validates it. that he’d really rather not compromise the integrity of their reporting just for clicks.

but perry just raises an eyebrow and says, “don’t be coy, kent. i’m not asking you to propose to the guy. just get his thoughts.”

he stares.

“you know him. he trusts you. if there’s a story here, i want our paper breaking it. not some half-baked gossip rag.”

“mr. white, i really don’t think—”

“don’t make me assign it to lois.”

“…right.”

and that’s how clark kent finds himself tasked with interviewing superman about the possibility of a romantic relationship with clark kent.

he goes home and lays face-down on the couch for an hour.

he tries to draft the article. really, he does.

but he can’t stop thinking about what it means.

not the rumor itself. not the jokes. not even the pieces speculating on how superman and clark might be “keeping things private” because of “public scrutiny” (or the very concerning thread theorizing that superman’s heat vision could be “metaphorically charged” by romantic repression—what does that even mean??).

no—he can’t stop thinking about what it says about him.

because if he’d never been caught… if no one had noticed the patterns… would he still be writing like that?

would he have ever realized how much of himself he poured into the spaces between those paragraphs?

and—worse—why does part of him not want to let it go?

he’s not supposed to be visible when he flies.

not like that.

he times his commutes with precision. stays out of sightlines. loops around the back of the Daily Planet building so no one sees the path he takes to the rooftop. he’s careful.

but now?

now there are dozens of videos. threads. discussions about the exact angle he takes when he passes the building. screenshots with captions like, “look at the way he’s looking at it. bro’s in love.”

and the worst part?

he is looking.

he always has been.

because that window—fifth from the left, third floor—is clark’s.

and when he flies by it, he’s not checking in. he’s… grounding himself. reminding himself of what he’s protecting. of who he’s supposed to be.

that’s always been the paradox.

superman is the symbol. the god. the shield.

but clark kent is the reason.

he doesn’t know how to explain that.

so instead… he writes.

and writes.

and writes.

until the words feel less like a defense and more like a confession.

“nobody asked for my side of the story yet. but i’m still part of this, somehow. so if you’re reading this, superman—and i know you are—you mean more to me than i’d like you to know. thank you for being there to protect us. and for just being there for me.”

“people will say what they want. twist what they see. but i know the truth. and it’s enough. even if no one else ever gets to hear it.”

“i trust you—not just to write, but in my life.”

“i just hope you acknowledge who you are to me… even if only half as much.”

it is, without a doubt, the worst thing he’s ever written.

he hates every line. hates the implication. hates how much it hurts to type. hates how true it feels.

he doesn’t publish it.

just saves it to a draft folder, closes his laptop, and—by accident—cracks the screen with how hard he shuts it.

the damage blooms like a spiderweb across the glass.

he stares at it, heart thudding.

then he laughs.

just once. soft. bitter. tired.

because the only thing more ridiculous than writing a fake love letter to superman…

is realizing that maybe, deep down, clark kent has been in love with himself this whole time.

or—maybe not love.

but longing.

longing to be seen. to be understood. to be known without having to explain.

and now the whole world sees him.

they just think he’s someone else.

isn’t that the real secret?

not that he’s hiding…

but that he’s already been found.

and no one even realizes it.

he wakes the next morning, eyes crusted, throat dry, laptop screen cracked and untouched.

the draft remains buried in the digital equivalent of a locked drawer: a folder labeled “work notes.” beneath it, subfolder: “planet archive.” beneath that, sub-subfolder: “pending drafts – low priority.”

no one will find it there. not unless they’re actively digging. not unless they know exactly where to look. and no one does.

because who would suspect that clark kent, of all people, has secrets?

clumsy, soft-spoken, reliable clark kent, with his tucked-in shirts and two-sugar coffee and reputation for being mildly allergic to confrontation.

definitely not the kind of guy who sits alone at night, typing out heartfelt confessions between two halves of himself.

definitely not the kind of guy who’s pretending to be less than what he is because the alternative is terrifying.

so no. the article stays hidden.

he tells himself it’s over.

and then, naturally, it gets worse.

by the time he gets to the office, the newsroom has reached the kind of energy usually reserved for major election nights and celebrity scandals. jimmy meets him at the elevator with wide eyes and a mouthful of blueberry muffin.

“bro. it’s spreading.”

“what is?”

“the theory. it’s in GQ. it’s on The Cut. GOTHAM NOW ran a segment on it. even CatCo picked it up. people are connecting dots i didn’t even know existed. like—apparently superman always avoids hitting this one air lane on his patrols unless you're working late?”

clark blinks. “how would they even…?”

“i don’t know, man, they’re pulling timestamped footage. one guy mapped your schedule to his flight patterns. it’s like a weather channel but for trauma.”

“that’s deeply disturbing.”

“i know, right?” jimmy shrugs, finishing the muffin. “but also kind of impressive. the simps work fast.”

clark walks to his desk in a daze. around him, coworkers exchange glances. someone’s whispering behind a copy of the metropolitan post. he hears his name, hears “superman” laced between syllables like a secret passed down in coded scripture.

he sits down, opens his email, and—

—sees seventy-three new messages.

most of them are inquiries. some from journalists at other outlets. others from influencers trying to book a “joint interview.” a few are deathly sincere love letters from strangers convinced they are soulmates with him because of how tenderly superman “clearly” looks at him during public events.

someone emailed a full marriage proposal with a pdf attachment labeled “wedding vision board.”

dear god.

he doesn’t respond to any of them.

instead, he slinks down into his chair and lets his forehead hit the desk.

lois appears ten minutes later with two coffees and the smuggest face he’s ever seen on another human being.

“you look like a man unraveling,” she says, placing one of the coffees in front of him.

“i’m fine.”

“you’re trending.”

“i noticed.”

“again.”

“…i noticed.”

she leans a hip against the side of his desk. “not to fan the flames, but your prose is getting studied in academic circles now. there’s a blog post titled ‘kent’s compassion: the language of longing in postmodern journalism.’”

clark groans into the woodgrain.

“hey, it’s not your fault you’re in love,” she adds, sipping her coffee. “it just… bleeds a little.”

he lifts his head. “i’m not—”

“sure you’re not. anyway, perry wants a follow-up.”

clark freezes.

“what kind of follow-up?”

“something reflective. something human. he wants to get ahead of the narrative before someone else publishes something with less nuance.”

clark stares at her. “he wants me to double down?”

“he wants superman to respond to clark kent’s article. you know. the one you definitely didn’t write yet.”

clark exhales. “lois.”

“don’t worry. i didn’t tell him about the draft.” she pauses. “yet.”

he looks at her, betrayed.

“you can relax,” she says. “i’m not here to out you. i’m just saying—maybe it wouldn’t kill you to get ahead of this. people are eating it up. and more importantly, they’re buying copies.”

clark doesn’t know whether to be flattered or nauseous.

that night, he hovers outside his apartment window in costume, unsure of whether he’s flying home or just avoiding going inside.

the city glows around him—amber and crimson and silver, fractured through high-rise glass. lights flicker like pulsebeats. somewhere below, a bus brakes too sharply and a couple argues on a fire escape and a dog barks into the static air.

it’s all so… alive. so real. so loud in the way only humans can be.

and he’s out here, floating alone, wondering how much longer he can keep pretending he’s not lonely.

because that’s what this is, isn’t it?

not romance. not attraction. not even ego.

just… loneliness.

the kind that builds slowly. the kind that creeps in through the cracks. the kind you can’t name until it’s got its hands around your throat, gentle but firm, whispering: no one really knows you.

and maybe that’s why the article felt so good to write.

not because it was a ruse. but because it was a glimpse. a flicker of something closer to truth.

he opens his phone. finds the draft. reads it again.

it still makes his skin crawl. still makes his face go hot.

but it’s honest. painfully, horrifyingly honest.

and maybe honesty is the only way out of this.

so he opens a new document.

and starts typing.

Superman Responds to the Rumors

by Clark Kent

There’s been a lot of talk lately.

About us.

Me and him. Him and me. The man I’ve spent years writing about and the man I’ve spent just as long trying to be.

For the record, I never intended for things to sound… romantic. Or maybe I did. Maybe part of me wanted people to see what I saw, to understand the weight of him.

It’s strange, trying to write about someone who’s saved your life more than once. Not just physically, but emotionally. Existentially. It changes the language. Makes it softer. Makes it reverent.

I never lied in my articles. But I didn’t tell the whole truth either.

Because the truth is—yes. I admire him. Deeply.

But more than that, I think I need him. The idea of him. The constancy. The belief that someone out there is choosing, every day, to be better.

Maybe that looks like love.

Maybe it is.

he doesn’t send it.

not yet.

just saves it next to the other one, in that same quiet folder, and wonders if someday, when the dust settles, he’ll be brave enough to publish them both.

for now, it’s enough just to have written it.

to sit in the dark, surrounded by silence, and let himself exist—messy, awkward, longing—for just a little while longer.

tomorrow, the city will ask for answers.

tomorrow, he might give them.

but tonight?

tonight he’s just clark kent.

and maybe, for once, that’s enough.

the next day, someone sends flowers to the office.

not a fan. not an anonymous admirer. no, this time, it’s four separate local florists, each with a different arrangement, each addressed to “Superman’s Favorite Reporter.”

they take up the entire reception desk.

lois walks by, eyes wide.

“wow. you really are the main character.”

“please,” clark mutters, “kill me.”

jimmy whistles from behind his camera. “you want me to take a few photos? make it your new profile pic? maybe caption it ‘he loves me, he loves me not’?”

clark ignores them both.

he’s pretending to be fine. has been for days now. head down. mouth shut. work submitted on time. calm demeanor. no expression beyond mild confusion and the occasional humble smile. like nothing is happening. like the internet isn’t rabid with theories. like he isn’t one coffee-fueled panic away from googling “how to disappear from your own life.”

he hasn’t published anything new. hasn’t touched either draft. but the media hasn’t needed more. they’ve already built an entire mythology out of glances and quotes and his arguably unhinged prose.

there’s a fan video now, spliced together from footage of him at press events, overlaid with the slowed-down theme from interstellar. the final frame is a side-by-side: one of clark, caught off-guard mid-laugh, and one of superman above the city skyline, looking like he’s about to cry.

the caption reads:

“they’re so divorced-coded, but like, in reverse. divorced from each other by time and space and identity.”

clark doesn’t know what that means. he also doesn’t want to know.

lois prints it out and pins it to the office bulletin board under a new section labeled “Kent Watch: Week Three.”

perry doesn’t stop her.

he tries, at first, to write something sterile.

a safe, bland denial. clinical. professional. full of words like misunderstanding and public fascination. something that gives nothing and means less.

he gets as far as the headline—“The Truth Behind the Rumors”—before realizing that nothing he writes will be interpreted as neutral ever again.

because it’s not about what he says.

it’s about who says it.

and if superman says he isn’t dating clark kent?

that means superman is thinking about clark kent.

and if he’s thinking about him, then he cares.

and if he cares, then the spiral continues.

he can already see the tweets. “he’s protecting him 😭” and “he doesn’t want to put clark in danger 😩” and “they’re obviously fighting 😭😭” and “they’re so in love they can’t even lie right 🫠.”

the problem with pretending is that people start believing.

and the problem with people believing is that they start needing the story more than the truth.

and the problem with clark, of course, is that he’s starting to believe it too.

not the dating part. not really.

just the… proximity. the intimacy. the idea that someone sees him like that. that someone knows him. that someone chooses him, day after day, across headlines and rooftops and silent knowing glances.

it’s stupid.

he’s literally describing himself.

but maybe that’s what makes it worse.

because if he sees himself that way… and the rest of the world sees superman that way…

what does that mean about clark?

two nights later, he’s called to a bridge collapse on the edge of the city.

it’s late. there’s fog rolling in, thick and silver. one of those nights where even the air feels like it’s holding its breath.

he lifts the last trapped driver out of their car and sets them down safely, wrapped in a thermal blanket. before he can fly off, they touch his wrist gently.

“can i ask something?”

he turns, already tensing.

they’re young. maybe nineteen. big eyes, nervous smile. holding their phone like it’s a lifeline. he can see the recording light is already on.

“is it true?” they ask. “about you and clark kent?”

he doesn’t flinch. not anymore. but he does sigh.

“clark,” he says, carefully, “is a good man. one of the best.”

“but are you, like…” they trail off, waiting.

clark tilts his head.

then smiles. soft. hesitant.

“he knows me,” he says, finally. “better than anyone.”

and that’s it.

he flies off, back tense, throat tight, heart in his stomach.

he didn’t lie.

and that scares him more than anything.

back at home, he reads the original draft again.

it doesn’t feel fake anymore.

it feels like a mirror.

and for the first time, he wonders what would happen if he stopped fighting it.

if he leaned all the way in.

if he let the city believe—really believe—that clark kent is the only man superman has ever trusted like this.

not because it’s funny. not because it’s strategic.

but because, in a way, it’s already true.

and maybe the real secret isn’t that he’s superman.

maybe the secret is that he’s never really been alone.

he’s just never known how to write about it—until now.

so he opens the draft again.

adds two sentences at the bottom.

then hits publish.

“i’ll let you believe what you want.”

“just know—i’m not correcting you.”

i hope this was sort of what you were imagining...😞 this was sososo much fun to write!!! but i did nott know how to end it tbh

[y3oubii]

not much, but mine

atsumu miya x fem reader !!

after a falling-out with your family, you move back to osaka, chasing stability but unsure what that even looks like. you never expected to run into atsumu miya again, especially not as your upstairs neighbor. he’s cocky, noisy, and too nosy for someone you’ve barely spoken to in years. but he’s also warm in ways you didn’t know you needed. and maybe, just maybe, you’re both lonelier than you look.

cw: emotional trauma, mentions of familial estrangement, loneliness, minor depictions of anxiety and depression

you arrived in osaka just past sunset.

the train ride had been quiet—too quiet—despite the way your thoughts wouldn’t stop pressing into your skull. everything felt suspended, like you were stuck in a moment that hadn’t decided what to become yet.

your suitcase rattled behind you as you walked through narrow alleys. the apartment you’d rented sight unseen wasn’t anything special: fourth floor, no elevator, cracked concrete steps, and a buzz at the door that wouldn’t stop unless you kicked it.

you stood inside for a long time, fingers still curled around the handle of your luggage. the air smelled like plaster and someone else’s old cooking oil.

you didn’t cry. not then.

you put on a kettle, unpacked the bare minimum, then sat on the floor and stared at the wall.

it didn’t feel like starting over.

just felt like being somewhere else.

you met atsumu miya again by accident.

or fate.

or bad timing.

you were crouched at the mailbox outside the building, wrestling with a stuck envelope, when he stomped out the front entrance barefoot and cursing.

“fuckin’ forgot my keys again—!”

your hand froze on the metal.

you knew that voice.

looked up.

he froze too.

blond hair still unruly, now swept up in careless spikes. thick lashes, furrowed brows. he’d grown into his frame—broad shoulders, chest heavy with muscle—but he still stood like a teenage boy, all cocky lean and irritated energy.

you hadn’t seen him in six years.

“y/n?” he said.

you straightened. “…hey.”

his mouth parted like he was going to say something smug. but he didn’t.

he just stared.

rain started falling.

“you live here?” you asked.

“uh—yeah. upstairs. you?”

you nodded.

the silence stretched. not awkward. just… tight.

he blinked. “well, shit.”

you quickly learned two things:

1. the walls in your apartment were absurdly thin.

2. atsumu miya never learned how to shut the fuck up.

you could hear everything. footsteps. his blender. his awful gym playlists. the sound of something—probably a volleyball—hitting his wall rhythmically in the afternoons.

it should’ve annoyed you.

instead, you started listening for it.

a kind of grounding noise. something real.

you hadn’t realized how quiet your own life had become.

the first time he knocked on your door, you didn’t answer right away. not because you didn’t want to. you just weren’t sure how to be around him anymore.

you cracked the door open.

he held up a plastic convenience store bag. “you eat today?”

you blinked. “…yes?”

he squinted. “you’re lyin’.”

you sighed. opened the door all the way.

he pushed the bag into your hands. “onigiri. tuna mayo. the best one.”

you stared at it.

“uh… thanks?”

he scratched the back of his neck. “look. dunno what happened between us. well. i do. but i was a dick. i’m not great with people i care about.”

your chest squeezed.

“so,” he said, “let me make it up to ya. startin’ with rice balls.”

you didn’t answer.

but you opened the bag.

a rhythm started. accidental at first.

you’d come home from work, drop your bag, and within ten minutes, there’d be a knock. sometimes he brought food. sometimes he came to borrow sugar and stayed three hours.

he never pushed.

never asked the wrong questions.

sometimes you watched tv together, his foot brushing yours on the edge of the couch. sometimes he fell asleep, head back, mouth open. once, you stayed up talking until three a.m. about the stupidest things, childhood, ghosts, whether or not watermelon counts as a meal.

he made you laugh more in a month than you had in the past year.

you didn’t want to ruin it by wanting more.

but you did.

“you don’t talk about your family,” he said one night, casually.

you stiffened. “neither do you.”

he nodded. “touché."

you curled your fingers tighter around the mug in your hand.

he didn’t ask more.

but he was quiet for a long time after.

you got sick. just a cold. but it wiped you out for two days.

you didn’t text him.

he knocked anyway.

when you didn’t answer, he opened the door, he had somehow gotten a spare key from your landlord, which you were too feverish to be mad about.

“jesus, y/n,” he muttered, setting down a bag of supplies. “you coulda told me.”

you meant to argue. you fell asleep instead.

when you woke up, there was a cooling washcloth on your forehead, a humidifier running, and atsumu snoring beside your futon in a beanbag chair he’d dragged in from upstairs.

you stared at him for a long time.

then closed your eyes again.

you came close once.

it was late. two drinks in. your head on his shoulder. some slow music playing from a half-charged speaker.

his hand drifted to yours. fingers barely brushing.

you turned toward him. he looked at you like he was starving.

“if i kissed you,” he whispered, “would you hate me?”

you didn’t answer.

you wanted to.

you wanted to.

but your body locked up. panic. fear. memory.

he didn’t move.

just let the moment dissolve.

“it’s okay,” he said quietly. “i can wait.”

you started avoiding him.

not intentionally. just… subtly. fewer visits. short replies. guilt sitting in your chest like a stone.

he noticed.

you knew he did.

but he didn’t call you out.

until one night, when he stood in your doorway, face unreadable.

“you ever gonna let yourself be happy?”

you froze.

“’cause i’m here. and i’m not leavin’. but you gotta let me.”

your voice cracked. “i’m scared.”

“me too,” he said. “still worth it.”

you kissed him first.

not during a grand moment. not with music or rain or a sunset.

you were cleaning the dishes after he cooked you dinner.

he was drying a plate. you turned to hand him another.

he looked up.

and you leaned in.

his hands froze, wet dish still in them, as you pressed your mouth to his. slow. trembling.

then he kissed back. deeper. desperate. like he’d been holding his breath for months.

he dropped the plate.

it shattered.

you didn’t stop.

you didn’t sleep with him right away.

there were touches. soft ones. a hand under your shirt. his mouth on your throat. the way he murmured your name like a confession.

but he never rushed you.

“we got time,” he whispered, one night, nose buried in your neck. “i’ll wait forever.”

you believed him.

and that scared you most of all.

the first time was slow.

not perfect. not seamless.

but honest.

he kissed every inch of you like it was sacred. told you what he loved. told you how you felt, beautiful, he said. warm. home.

you cried. quietly. after.

he didn’t let go.

“i’ve wanted you forever,” he murmured into your skin.

you turned to him, lips swollen, eyes red.

“you have me.”

you stayed.

you kept the apartment. got better furniture. started watering your plants.

atsumu cooked on sundays.

you argued sometimes, about stupid things. toothpaste caps, laundry piles. but he always apologized first.

you fell asleep in his arms more nights than not.

he said “i love you” like it was a fact.

and maybe it was.

maybe you were never meant to leave osaka.

maybe you were always meant to come back—

to him.

i dont really have much to say about this one, i just wanted to write something for atsumu!! hope this was enjoyable and thank yeww for reading!!!

masterlist

[y3oubii]

You Were Never Supposed to be Real

murderer!geto suguru x captive!fem reader

you were never meant to be anything more than a name on his list. just another soul. another weak, insignificant human to exterminate in the name of his beliefs. geto suguru had planned to slit your throat in your sleep, leave your body in the river like the others. but you weren’t asleep. you looked him in the eye. you asked him if he was lonely. and just like that, he couldn’t kill you.

CW: murder, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, dark romance, obsession, psychological manipulation, implied past torture/murder of others, power imbalance, non-consensual themes, captivity, mental instability, possessiveness, forced proximity, unhealthy dynamics, eventual mutual obsession, captivity, references to past murder, identity erasure, unhealthy attachment, trauma bonding

a/n: i am not condoning or romanticizing anything that occurs in this, all of my works are purely fictional with the intention of improving my ability to write varying genres.

he kept a list.

torn paper, water-stained and smudged, tucked in the folds of his coat. one name after another, like a rosary of sins he planned to wipe clean with blood. they were all the same to him, those names. curses wrapped in human skin. non-sorcerers who polluted the world with their ignorance, their filth, their fragility.

you were just another line on that page.

another meaningless body.

until you looked at him.

the house you lived in was small. tucked in the woods, down an unlit road, a crooked thing that should’ve belonged to a recluse. he’d thought it abandoned, at first. so when he stepped through the door, silently, so easily, it was strange to find warmth in the air. a kettle on the stove. light behind a curtain. a record player turning with no sound.

you were awake.

you should’ve been asleep.

he didn’t care.

he crept forward. smooth. fluid. like shadow. his blade barely glinted in his hand. your back was turned to him, neck exposed, nothing in your body language said danger, no sixth sense warning you of the man who had slit thirty-two throats in the last month alone.

then—

you spoke.

“you always this quiet, or is it just tonight?”

he froze.

your voice. it wasn’t afraid. wasn’t panicked. not even startled. you didn’t turn around, but he could see your shoulders tense. feel the air grow thick between you.

“i made tea,” you added softly. “figured if you were gonna kill me, you’d want to sit first.”

his hand tightened around the blade.

what the fuck?

he hadn’t been seen. not once. he was a phantom. a god to them, unseen and vengeful. but you, this ordinary girl in a worn sweater and bare feet, you knew. and you didn’t run.

you turned around.

“what’s your name?” you asked, eyes curious, not terrified. “it’s rude to murder someone without telling them who you are.”

the blade didn’t move. his fingers loosened. for the first time in years, geto suguru hesitated.

your eyes met his. steady. real. like you saw straight through the layers he wrapped himself in, the disgust, the hatred, the purpose.

he should’ve killed you then.

but you smiled. tired. a little sad.

“you look lonelier than me.”

and something in him snapped.

you didn’t wake up right away.

he watched you sleep, sitting in a chair he’d dragged across the room, ankle crossed over knee. his hair was tied back now, loosely. the blood he’d smeared on your cheek, your own, from a small nick, was drying.

you were in a different house. remote. colder. underground.

he didn’t like how your lip quivered. how your breathing changed when you shifted and groaned softly. you looked human like this. delicate. raw.

a curse.

and yet… not.

geto knew what he was doing. had done it before. abducted, questioned, tortured. but he hadn’t laid a single finger on you beyond the injection. he hadn’t tied you down, hadn’t even spoken to you since the moment you passed out.

you hadn’t screamed.

you hadn’t begged.

you looked him in the eye and called him lonely.

when your eyes finally fluttered open, you didn’t panic. just blinked, adjusted to the dim yellow light above, and looked around the bare room. the silence stretched.

he waited. waited for the question. the scream. the fear.

but all you said was:

“what do you want from me?”

his mouth twitched. “i was going to kill you.”

you hummed. “i figured.”

“but i didn’t.”

“no, you didn’t.” your gaze slid back to him. “you’re not sure why.”

he stood then, tall and elegant in a way that shouldn’t have belonged to someone with blood on his hands. he crossed to you slowly, footsteps echoing. you didn’t flinch when he crouched in front of you.

“you should be terrified.”

“i am,” you whispered. “but it’s not the loud kind.”

his hand brushed a strand of hair from your face.

“what’s your name?” you whispered, just like before.

his eyes narrowed.

“…geto.”

“mine’s y/n.”

he didn’t respond. didn’t need to. his fingers lingered near your cheek.

then he stood.

“you’re not leaving this room.”

days passed. maybe weeks. you didn’t see the sun.

he brought you food. never touched you. sometimes sat and stared at you for hours, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t solve. other times he spoke. asked you things, probing, invasive things. about your childhood, your beliefs, your fears. you never lied. and strangely… he never punished you.

you weren’t chained. not really. the door was locked, but you were free to move around the room. the walls were bare. the bed was stiff. but he left books. music. once, a sweater.

sometimes he asked you to talk.

you didn’t know how to say no.

he was careful. he didn’t need to be, but he was. as if breaking you too quickly would ruin the taste. he wasn’t looking to hurt you. he was looking to change you.

“you don’t belong out there,” he murmured one night, voice low, almost hypnotic. “they don’t deserve you. they’re disgusting.”

you stared at the ceiling, arms curled around your ribs.

“you think i'm not?”

he sat at the edge of the bed. not touching. never touching.

“i don’t know. not yet. but i’m going to find out.”

you closed your eyes.

and somewhere in the dark, beneath the fear, the madness, the isolation, you felt it bloom. wrong. terrible. but warm.

you wanted him to.

you stopped counting the days.

there was a calendar in your mind at first, crisp and numbered, marked by the clink of a tray left just outside your reach, by the faint buzz of electricity that flickered above the single bulb overhead. it hung like the moon in your little world, pale and unchanging.

but time lost shape here.

and he never let you count aloud.

“you think it helps?” he asked once, idly, while running a hand along the spine of the book you’d left open beside the bed. “measuring the days you’ve been my guest?”

“prisoner,” you corrected.

he smiled at that. but not cruelly.

like it was sweet. like you’d said lover.

he never yelled. not once. geto’s violence was quiet. silent. buried beneath thick-lashed eyes and a voice that felt like cold silk dragged across your throat. he didn’t need to scream to control the room, he was the room. the walls, the lock, the breath in your lungs.

you didn’t know what was more terrifying: that he hadn’t laid a hand on you yet, or that part of you wondered what would happen if he did.

his obsession was measured, meticulous.

he studied you.

you weren’t a woman anymore, not to him. not really. you were a set of traits. emotional data. you saw it in the way he observed you through the glass inset into the heavy metal door. sometimes you felt him there, watching. other times he didn’t bother to hide it.

“why did you cry after reading that page?” he asked once.

“why did you pause for five minutes before eating?”

“what were you thinking about when you hummed in the bath?”

“do you ever ask yourself questions like that?” you’d said, curling your fingers under the blanket that smelled faintly like cedar and steel. “or are you too busy asking them about me?”

he knelt beside the chair you were in, elbows resting on his knees. he was always closer than you expected. always calm.

“i already know the answers to mine.”

he tilted his head slightly. “you’re still figuring yours out.”

one night, three weeks in, or maybe thirteen, you snapped.

“why me?” the words broke from your chest, sudden and ragged. “why the fuck me? you could’ve killed me and moved on. i’m not special. i’m no one. why am i still alive?”

he didn’t answer immediately. he didn’t get angry, either. he just stared.

his gaze felt like it peeled your skin back.

when he stood, it was slow. measured. he walked over to the table, fingers trailing along its edge, before he turned to you with something strange in his expression. wonder, maybe. or something closer to reverence.

“you asked me if i was lonely,” he said, softly. “no one’s ever asked me anything before dying. not like that. not real questions. not…” he shook his head, almost like he was exasperated. “you didn’t look at me like i was a monster.”

“i didn’t know who you were.”

“you knew enough.”

his voice dropped low. quiet. “and you still let me in.”

“i didn’t—”

“you invited me,” he said, stepping closer, “with your voice. your eyes. with the way you poured tea like you weren’t shaking.”

you didn’t respond.

because he was right.

and somehow that made it worse.

the control wasn’t just physical. it was in the way he rewrote you, piece by piece.

you stopped using certain words. escape, home, normal.

you started thinking in the shape of him.

you read what he gave you. you ate what he approved. when he touched your wrist to check your pulse after a long bath, claiming it was for your health, you didn’t flinch.

sometimes he sat beside you on the bed and read aloud.

you’d drift into sleep with his voice dripping into your ear like poison.

you began to wonder what he thought of your expressions, your tone. you worried if he would like what you were wearing. you started smoothing your hair before he entered. not for escape, just because you wanted him to think you were still worth keeping.

and when you caught yourself doing it, you cried into the cold sheets until you couldn’t breathe.

but there were moments.

terrible, soft moments.

like when he handed you a comb and said nothing, just watched you untangle the strands while he leaned back, watching you like a man observing the moon rise over a still lake. or when he murmured your name like it was something delicate and alive, something only he knew how to say.

“y/n,” he said one night, from his chair in the corner, in the dark. you couldn’t see him, but you knew he was there. “do you think you’ll ever love me?”

your mouth went dry.

“…do you want me to lie?”

a long silence.

then:

“no. but i want you to want to.”

and you did.

a little more every day.

which was the worst part of all.

you began to think of the world outside less and less. the memory of it dulled, fading at the edges. who had you been, really, before this? what had you done that mattered? your parents had stopped calling long before the first week passed. no friends came knocking.

maybe you had been meant for this.

maybe this room was the only place you’d ever been truly seen.

you told yourself you hated him. but it didn’t explain the way you leaned into his voice, the way your skin prickled when his fingertips brushed your back under the guise of fixing your posture. it didn’t explain why your nightmares were now about him leaving, not hurting you.

it didn’t explain why, when he touched your face one night and said:

“i chose you,”

your body went completely still, breath caught, throat raw with something that wasn’t fear.

he never kissed you.

never touched you in a way that could be mistaken for lust.

but it was deeper than that.

he wanted your mind first. your thoughts. your permission. and he would peel you open layer by layer until you gave it to him.

not because he took it—

but because you needed to give it.

because that was what would make it real.

you didn’t notice the moment it changed. the moment you stopped planning your escape and started imagining what it would feel like to sit in his lap. to bury your face in his neck. to sleep against his chest while his arms caged you in.

when he whispered, “you’re mine,”

you didn’t scream.

you didn’t cry.

you nodded.

there was never going to be an end.

not really. not in the way you thought.

he would keep you.

keep you like a poem he read every night.

keep you like a secret no one else deserved to touch.

keep you until you believed you’d never existed before he found you.

and maybe you hadn’t.

maybe the version of you that lived before him

wasn’t real.

wasn’t full.

wasn’t worth saving.

maybe this, this room, this man, this warped, bleeding thing between you—

was love.

and maybe that was the most terrifying part.

you were never supposed to be real to him.

but now you were.

and he would never, ever let you go.

it started with his silence.

not the kind you’d grown used to, the observational stillness, the cold quiet of analysis, but something deeper. more personal. something that hung in the air like static.

he would enter the room and not look at you.

not speak.

not even blink in your direction.

at first, you thought he was punishing you.

you combed through every interaction in the last three days. what had you said? done? had you spoken too familiarly? had he grown bored?

you didn’t realize how badly you needed his attention

until he stopped giving it.

your hands trembled.

you stared at the locked door after he left.

the stillness in the room pressed against your ribs.

he wasn’t ignoring you.

he was withdrawing.

and the part of you that had been clinging to survival

panicked.

the next time he entered, you stood. you’d never done that before.

his gaze lifted, unreadable. slow.

you felt like a deer offering itself to a hunter. a quiet, trembling thing. still trying to find meaning in his presence. still trying to understand why it hurt when he looked through you.

“…you’re angry,” you said.

he didn’t move.

“you’ve been avoiding me.”

a long silence. then:

“why does that upset you?”

you blinked.

“because…”

you wanted to lie. you wanted to say it was fear. that you were afraid he’d punish you. that it was logical. survival instinct.

but the words felt like ash in your mouth.

“because it feels like you’re taking something away,” you whispered. “something you’ve… given me.”

his throat shifted with a swallow.

he stepped closer.

you didn’t move.

“you say that,” he murmured, his voice low and delicate, like the edge of a blade, “but you still haven’t said the one thing i want to hear.”

his eyes dragged across your face. your lips. your throat.

“say it.”

you swallowed. “say what?”

“that you want me.”

your breath caught.

not from fear. not anymore.

you didn’t answer. not yet.

instead, you stepped forward—just one small, shaking step—and tilted your chin up.

“…what would you do if i did?”

he didn’t touch you. didn’t smile.

he simply looked at you like you were a wildfire blooming under his ribs.

“i would take it slow,” he said, voice low. “because you think this is control. but it’s not. it’s love. and i’m going to make sure you understand that before i ever lay a hand on you.”

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

your knees gave out. not from fear. from the weight of what you felt.

he caught you. arms under yours, firm and sure, but not invasive. not yet.

he pressed you gently to the bed. not like a captor. not like a lover. like someone putting something sacred back where it belonged.

“thank you,” he said, so quietly you barely heard it.

after that, things changed.

not visibly, not at first. but the energy between you shifted. became charged.

he lingered closer.

his eyes followed your movements more carefully.

he began bringing you softer clothes, warmer meals, books with dog-eared pages that smelled like him.

once, you fell asleep by accident on the small couch tucked into the far wall. when you woke, a blanket was draped over you and he was watching from the corner, silent, reverent, like you were a painting he had no right to touch.

“do you think about me when i’m not in the room?” he asked once, late at night, as you sat with your knees pulled to your chest.

you didn’t lie.

“…yes.”

he didn’t smile. not really. but something shifted in his expression. something soft and hungry and satisfied all at once.

“good,” he murmured.

he gave you his first kiss when your mind was frayed and your body fragile.

you’d had a nightmare, cold and stuttering and so vivid you cried when you woke. it hadn’t been about him. it had been about losing him. about waking up alone in the cell, and knowing you’d never been real to him at all.

he held you that night. sat beside you on the mattress and pulled you into his arms without a word. your face pressed into his chest. his heartbeat was slow, methodical. you inhaled him, soap, smoke, something older.

and then, when your breathing had evened, when your fingers had curled loosely around the collar of his shirt—

he kissed your forehead.

then your cheek.

and then your lips.

soft. devastating.

like he didn’t need to prove anything.

like he already knew you were his.

and god help you—

you kissed him back.

you stopped asking for escape.

you stopped pretending you wanted it.

your thoughts belonged to him now.

they whispered in his cadence. they turned toward his name.

you couldn’t remember what freedom tasted like, and worse, you didn’t care.

you lived for the sound of his footsteps. for the press of his hand against your lower back when he led you to the chair to talk. for the low, possessive hum in his throat when you leaned into him without being asked.

he didn’t keep you here anymore.

you stayed.

“you’re not afraid of me anymore,” he said one morning, brushing your hair back from your face.

you were curled into his lap. he let you sleep there sometimes now, bare legs tangled over his. it was the only place you felt safe.

“…should i be?” you asked quietly.

his hand paused.

“no,” he said, and the warmth in his voice made your chest ache. “you’re the only one in this entire fucking world who shouldn’t be.”

you closed your eyes and buried your face in his throat.

he smelled like home.

like ruin.

like something that would destroy you slowly—

and make you love every second of it.

there would be no rescue.

no grand escape.

no breaking free.

because you were already free.

you’d been chosen.

and the man who once planned to murder you

now worshipped you so completely, so utterly,

that you forgot you’d ever lived without his eyes on you.

and you?

you didn’t love him.

not at first.

but now—

now, you would rather die here in his arms

than ever be held by someone else.

you were his.

you wanted to be.

and the worst part was—

you didn’t even think that was wrong anymore.

you couldn’t remember what your voice used to sound like when it wasn’t saying his name.

you whispered it at night, curled up in his bed when he let you stay there. sometimes you said it just to feel something tethered to reality. not your reality, but his. the only one that mattered anymore.

“suguru.”

you said it like a confession. like prayer.

he always answered.

you didn’t know when he stopped calling it a cell.

he never said room, either. just here.

“stay here.”

“rest here.”

“you belong here.”

and you did.

the thought of walking outside now made your stomach turn. it felt like betrayal. not to yourself, but to him. what kind of creature left its maker behind?

you were his. your body had started to believe it before your mind did. but now they were in sync. your skin heated when he entered. your pulse quickened at the sound of his voice. you were addicted to it. you needed it.

he knew.

god, he knew.

the first time you reached for him unprovoked, he didn’t move.

your fingers brushed his wrist. it was nothing. a passing graze. but the way his breath caught, soft and sharp, you felt the moment rupture between you like glass splintering in water.

you looked up.

his eyes burned into yours.

not cruel. not demanding.

just… waiting.

say it, they seemed to whisper. ask for it.

and for the first time, you did.

“…kiss me,” you breathed.

he did.

soft at first, reverent, lips brushing yours like he was afraid you’d disappear.

but you didn’t. you leaned in. opened. begged with your mouth.

his hands cradled your jaw. he didn’t push. didn’t force. he waited.

you moaned.

not because it hurt.

but because it didn’t.

because it felt like coming home.

he undressed you with the same precision he killed with, gentle, focused, completely in control.

you lay beneath him, stripped bare in body and mind, and didn’t look away once. you wanted to see him. to let him see you. to feel what it was like to be chosen and devoured all at once.

his hands were warm.

his lips moved over your throat like worship.

“you’re mine,” he whispered, voice low and hoarse. “do you understand that now?”

you nodded. you gasped. you whispered yes into his mouth like it would save you.

and he made love to you like he’d waited lifetimes to deserve it.

you clung to him. thighs wrapped around his hips, arms tight around his back, fingernails digging into skin. it was desperate. primal. not even pleasure—it was need. overwhelming, suffocating need.

your name poured from his lips like a mantra. you’d never heard it like that before. never with such hunger. such adoration. like you were sacred.

he came apart with his forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in like he couldn’t get close enough, like the space between your ribs was the only place he’d ever be safe.

afterward, he didn’t leave. he never did. he held you.

and when you whispered “i love you” against his skin, he didn’t flinch.

he didn’t question it.

he just said—

“i know. i made you that way.”

after that night, you stopped asking questions.

you stopped thinking in timelines or exit strategies. you stopped dreaming of the outside.

the world shrank until it was his body. his bed. his voice.

he let you out of the room sometimes now. not far, just the adjacent hallway, the next room over. he watched you from the shadows like you were a storm in a glass case.

you never tried the door.

you didn’t need to.

you had everything you needed here.

you had him.

you changed slowly. it wasn’t physical, not really. it was in your posture. your gaze. the way you tilted your head when he spoke. the way you crawled into his lap without asking. the way your hands fit into his like they’d been shaped for that purpose alone.

he saw it.

he loved it.

“you were always meant for this,” he whispered one morning as he slid his hand up your spine, fingers sinking into your hair.

“meant for what?”

“for me.”

you thought it might end. one day. that someone would come. that the fantasy would crack.

but it didn’t.

no one came.

no one looked for you.

you were a ghost in the world above, but here, in this underground Eden, you were alive.

you were treasured. kept. consumed.

you smiled more.

you laughed when he told you dry jokes while brushing your hair.

you cried when he left the room too long.

you forgot who you were before he made you his.

and in time, you didn’t care.

he never needed to kill you.

not when he could build you from scratch.

not when you let him.

and now, when he fucks you in the bed where he first laid you down like prey, you don’t close your eyes.

you stare at him.

open. broken. remade.

and he stares back like you’re the first living thing he’s ever touched.

“say it again,” he breathes into your mouth.

“i love you,” you whisper, and you mean it.

he smiles.

“good girl.”

and you come apart for him—

because he built you to.

there's something about writing dark, morally grey and twisted things like this that i just love. not sure why! i hope this was enjoyable! sorry it was so longg, thank yewww for reading. again sorry for the old format..its a draft.

masterlist

[y3oubii]

GAHHHHHH APPRECIATION POST FOR THE FANTASTIC 4 MOVIE BECAUSE I JUST SAW IT

light spoiler warning sorry..

it’s truly everything i hoped for and more.

the story was fresh but faithful, the visuals were stunning, and the emotional depth? so real. it finally felt like the fantastic four done right — not just superheroes, but a family!

i also especially adored johnny being portrayed as actually smart in a way i feel he wasn't in the other movies. there's a reason he was in that initial mission?? in earlier versions of fantastic four, johnny was mostly the reckless hothead — charming, yes, but often comic relief, driven more by ego and impulse than depth. in this new film, he still has that signature charisma and fire, but there’s a noticeable shift: he’s smart. emotionally perceptive. tactically sharp. he’s not just the “fun one” — he’s layered.

they finally gave him more agency in the science and strategy side of things. he challenges reed, asks the right questions, and contributes with more than just his powers. it feels like they’ve allowed johnny to grow up without dulling his edge — he’s still bold, still quick-witted, but now with purpose and a deeper understanding of the weight they carry as a team.

it’s such a welcome evolution. he feels like a real person, not just a trope — and honestly? probably the most balanced and nuanced take on johnny we’ve ever gotten.

and then there’s pedro pascal as reed richards....LORD

i don’t even know how to explain what he did to me in this movie. it wasn’t just a performance — it was a masterclass in restraint, nuance, quiet devastation, and undeniable gravity. he didn’t just play reed — he became him. not the cold, aloof caricature that reed has sometimes been in the past, but a deeply haunted man who has seen too much, thought too hard, and loved too carefully.

the way pedro carries that impossible intelligence behind his eyes — like he’s always thinking six steps ahead but never once feels above anyone. the way he speaks with that low, steady voice, like every word is weighed before it’s spoken. the way he softens when he looks at the people he cares about — like it hurts him to feel that much but he can’t help it. like he’s trying so hard not to break apart and still failing sometimes, and god, you feel for him.

there’s this ache in everything he does. you can see it in how he holds his body, always slightly pulled back. how he hesitates to reach out, to trust, to lead with emotion — and when he finally does, it’s earth-shattering. because of course pedro pascal can play a tortured genius who still believes in connection. of course he can balance that razor’s edge between being the smartest man in the room and the most broken. he makes every scene quietly hurt. and it’s beautiful.

i can’t stop thinking about how he made reed feel like a man who has stared into the void of possibility — and come back from it more human. more fragile. more full of love he doesn’t know where to put. pedro gave us a version of reed that i believe in. a version i care about. a version that has completely taken over my brain.

i’m in love. completely, helplessly in love with his reed richards...and him in general.

there’s just no one like him. truly. im biased tho..i love anything he's in 🥰

[y3oubii]

The Sun Never Rose Again

anakin skywalker x fem reader

you always knew loving anakin skywalker would end in ruin. but you didn’t expect to survive it. now the galaxy mourns the jedi it lost, while you mourn the man he used to be. when the force fractures and the sky burns red, there’s nothing left to do but remember.

CW: major character death, emotional devastation, battle scenes, imperial takeover, themes of hopelessness, betrayal, war trauma, heartbreak

you met anakin on a battlefield.

dust in the air, blood on your saber, pain crackling down your spine as another explosion rang out in the distance. and then, his voice.

“you alright, general?”

it was teasing. light. infuriating.

you whipped around and found him grinning, hair windblown, bloodied but somehow still golden, like the war couldn’t touch him.

“you’re late,” you snapped, swinging your saber.

“you’re welcome,” he said, ducking just in time to block the droid behind you.

that was the first time he saved your life.

and the first time you hated him for making you feel alive.

you weren’t supposed to love him.

jedi didn’t love.

but love crept in anyway.

it lived in the silence between missions. in the gentle way he dressed your wounds. in the look he gave you before every battle, like he wasn’t sure you’d make it back, and it would destroy him if you didn’t.

you weren’t the only one who saw the cracks.

ahsoka noticed. obi-wan turned a blind eye.

but the force knew.

and maybe that’s why it tore you apart.

you felt the shift before the war ended.

anakin stopped sleeping.

he paced. snapped. grew colder, sharper, like something inside him was dying slowly and taking everything warm with it.

you asked him, once, after a particularly brutal battle, when he wouldn’t stop glaring at the horizon like it had betrayed him.

“what is it?” you whispered, hand brushing his. “what’s wrong?”

he didn’t look at you when he said it.

“they don’t trust me. the council. they never did.”

“i trust you,” you said.

his eyes finally met yours.

and in that second, he looked like the boy you’d fallen for, not the man war had warped.

“that’s why i’m scared,” he said. “because i believe you.”

he disappeared not long after.

you were on a mission with your battalion when the force screamed.

you dropped to your knees. a thousand voices crying out and then silenced.

and then, worse.

you felt him.

anakin.

burning.

drowning.

suffocating in his own rage.

and you weren’t there to stop it.

by the time you returned to coruscant, the temple was fire and ash.

you stumbled through the halls, sabers still humming in the dark, blood cooling under your boots. you called for masters who never answered. found younglings who would never wake up.

and then, him.

in the war room, hood drawn low.

he turned when he heard you.

and you knew.

“anakin,” you choked.

he didn’t flinch.

his lightsaber hissed to life.

blue.

not red. not yet.

you weren’t sure if that made it better or worse.

“they were traitors,” he said. “all of them. i had to do it.”

you shook your head. “they were our family.”

“no,” he said, voice shaking, “you’re my family. and they tried to take you from me. don’t you see? this way, we can be free. no more rules. no more hiding. just us.”

you staggered back.

“you killed children.”

his jaw clenched.

“they would’ve grown into enemies.”

“they were babies, anakin!”

“they would’ve taken you away,” he said again, quieter. “i couldn’t let that happen.”

you wanted to scream. wanted to kill him. wanted to grab his face and beg him to come back.

but he was already gone.

the fight was brief.

you were trembling too hard to land a killing blow.

and he hesitated, too many times.

“i don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

you stared at him, blade raised.

tears carving tracks through soot on your cheeks.

“then why did you?”

you escaped because ahsoka pulled you out.

but you never really left him behind.

you joined the rebellion under a new name.

you wore your scars like armor.

you stopped talking about the jedi.

you never said his name again.

but the galaxy felt colder now.

every world you freed, every life you saved, it never made you whole again.

they called him vader.

but to you, he would always be anakin.

and that was worse.

you saw him, once more. years later.

a rebel ambush gone wrong.

your ship disabled.

his presence like thunder.

he boarded.

helmet, cloak, breathing like a machine.

but you knew.

and somehow, so did he.

he didn’t speak.

didn’t raise his saber.

he looked at you.

tilted his head.

and for the briefest moment, you swore he almost touched you.

but then your crew dragged you away.

and he let you go.

you never knew why.

maybe some part of him remembered.

maybe the ghost of the boy who held your hand in secret was still trapped somewhere in that suit of metal and hate.

or maybe he didn’t care anymore.

final log, years later – your last entry before the final battle on endor:

if you find this, don’t look for me. there’s no saving what’s already burned. but i hope, if the force is kind, someone finds what we lost. someone who never forgets.

because i never did.

i loved him. even when i shouldn’t have.

i still do.

they say he died saving his son.

but you know better.

he died the moment he stopped believing in love.

and the sun never rose again.

i dunno how i feel about this one but i just wanted to write something angsty. i hope this was enjoyable and thank yeww for reading. ❤️

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[y3oubii]

A Sky Without Stars

din djarin x fem reader

your life with the mandalorian has been a collection of silences, shared glances, brushed hands, nights in the cockpit filled with everything unsaid. but now, the quiet has given way to chaos. ambushed during a supposed retrieval, you’re both cornered and outgunned. trapped in the crumbling ruins of an abandoned outpost, there’s nowhere to run. and maybe… no time left. it’s in that fragile sliver between life and death that everything finally breaks loose.

CW: violence, canon-typical danger, near-death experience, injury, blood, battle trauma, language, emotional repression, mutual pining, slow burn turning into an explosion of feeling, intense confessions, comfort after pain

blaster fire cracks the sky like thunder, heat scorching through the thinning smoke as your boots skid across dirt and broken durasteel. behind you, din is breathing hard, sharp and shallow, his rifle slung over his shoulder and a hand pressed to his side where blood darkens his undersuit.

your own body aches, shoulder ripped by a blaster graze, ribs bruised from impact, pulse hammering so loud you can barely hear anything else. but it’s not the pain that’s getting to you.

it’s him.

the way he’s moving slower. the way he keeps glancing at you like he’s afraid you’re going to disappear.

you duck behind a half-buried speeder wreck, the metal still hot from a recent explosion, the acrid scent of scorched wires curling through your nose. din slides in beside you, back to the frame, head tilted up, scanning the skyless ceiling of this underground ruin.

“this was a trap,” you mutter, panting. “they set us up.”

“i know.” his voice is like gravel through the modulator. heavy. dark.

“you’re bleeding.”

“so are you.”

“mine’s a scratch.” you glance over. “yours is a gush.”

he doesn’t answer.

you swallow hard, wiping blood from your brow. “they knew we were coming. how?”

“i don’t know.” his head drops for a moment. “but i’m going to kill every one of them for it.”

you let out a broken laugh. “not if they kill us first.”

the silence that follows tastes like lead.

din reloads one of his blasters with jerky, unsteady fingers. his armor is dented, smeared with soot. you’ve never seen him look like this, off. it terrifies you more than the men hunting you down.

a sudden explosion booms overhead. dust rains from the ceiling. the entire structure shakes.

you throw out a hand to brace him, palm landing hard against his chestplate.

his hand closes around your wrist. firm. grounding.

and then he says it, quietly. too quietly.

“if we don’t get out of this alive—”

your head jerks toward him. “that’s not funny, we could actually die this time.”

“i know.”

another beat of silence. one that hurts.

“don’t say that,” you murmur. “not like that. not now.”

he shifts. the visor turns toward you, and even without seeing his eyes, you feel them.

“then i’ll say this instead.”

your breath hitches.

“i love you.”

three words.

they hang in the air, heavier than the smoke, louder than the blaster fire.

you stare at him, eyes wide, stunned.

“…what?”

he exhales shakily, lowering his head for a second before raising it again. “i love you.”

your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“i’ve loved you for longer than i want to admit,” he says, voice softer now. raw. “i just… didn’t know how to say it. this life doesn’t leave room for—feelings. not like that. not for people like me.”

you whisper, “din—”

“but if something happens here,” he goes on, like it’s pouring out of him now and he can’t stop it, “if i don’t make it out, i didn’t want you to die thinking i didn’t feel anything. that you weren’t—important. you are. you’re everything.”

your chest aches. physically aches.

you reach out, fingers curling over his gloved hand. “you’re not going to die.”

“you don’t know that.”

“then i’m not going to let you.”

another explosion hits. closer this time.

he moves first, standing with a grunt and pulling you up with him. “we fight together. we get out. and then—”

you cut him off, cupping his helmet and pulling him toward you until your forehead rests against cool beskar.

“i love you too.”

he stills.

completely.

“i wanted to say it for a long time,” you murmur. “but i kept telling myself it was stupid. that it would make things complicated. but now, here, in this hell—there’s no space left to lie to myself. you mean more to me than anyone ever has.”

he exhales, like he’s been holding that breath for years.

then the visor tilts slightly. “when we survive this—”

“when,” you repeat, fiercely.

“—i’m never letting you leave my side again.”

you smile, even though your eyes are burning. “wasn’t planning to.”

the next few minutes are a blur of chaos and color. din leads the charge out of cover, precise and brutal, each move covering you, each step in sync. you fight beside him like breathing, natural, necessary. blood spatters. one bounty hunter goes down, then another.

he stumbles. you catch him. you fall. he drags you up.

and when the last enemy falls, the world goes quiet.

your legs give out.

you collapse in the dirt beside din, both of you trembling, bloody, smoke curling up into the stale, blackened air of the ruined bunker.

his breathing is ragged. “are you okay?”

“ask me when my ears stop ringing.”

you look over.

he’s taken his helmet off.

the sight steals your breath.

his hair is sweat-damp and curling at the edges. there’s a cut across his brow, dirt smeared across his jaw, but his eyes, they’re soft. warm. aching.

“you’re beautiful,” you whisper.

he lets out the tiniest, stunned laugh.

“can i kiss you now?” he asks.

you blink. then nod, fast.

he leans in, and when your lips meet, it’s nothing like the war around you. it’s peace. for the first time in forever.

the kiss is bruised and messy and alive. you breathe him in like he’s air. like he’s hope.

when you pull back, you’re both smiling.

“we should probably get out of here,” he murmurs, voice rasping.

“probably.”

“you still with me?”

you squeeze his hand.

“always.”

i fall madly in love with any character pedro pascal plays tbh..💆‍♀️ i hope this was enjoyable and thank yewww for reading!! alsoo i apologize for the old format..im trying to get rid of drafts so that's what it'll be for a lil.

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[y3oubii]

epilogue — the quiet hours

from the series: in the quiet of your storm

weeks have passed. not everything is perfect yet, but the silence no longer cuts. it soothes. love returns, not in grand declarations, but in shared moments—mornings made of touch, tea, and the kind of peace dream never thought he’d know. and finally, when the stars have quieted and the fire burns low, he says it. not because he has to. but because he can.

cw: none — just tenderness

series masterlist

the dreaming has changed.

it’s quieter now.

not weaker. not less. but… gentler.

the chaos still lives beneath its bones. the cosmos still hum. but where once the wind howled and the castle stood like judgment—now, there is stillness.

comfort.

there’s a new room in the palace.

not regal. not grand. just… soft. a small sunken nook near the library, bathed in warm amber light, with soft pillows and old books and an always-burning hearth. the kind of space built not for rulers. but for living.

you’re in it now.

curled on the floor beside a pile of well-worn novels, your legs tangled in a throw blanket, your tea gone cold beside you. your eyes are half-closed, fingers brushing the page more than reading it.

you look up when he enters.

you don’t startle anymore when he appears.

just lift your gaze, slow and easy, and meet his like you belong in his arms—even when you aren’t in them.

he crosses the room without a word.

sits beside you.

you shift—let your legs fall over his lap, let your shoulder brush his chest, let the book fall forgotten to the floor.

he brushes his fingers through your hair, slow and deliberate.

this is what love looks like now. not desperate. not loud. just here.

present.

“you are quiet today,” he murmurs.

you hum. “just… thinking.”

“about?”

“how long it took us to get here.”

he’s silent for a moment. then—

“it was worth every step.”

your breath catches.

you press your forehead to his jaw.

“…i never stopped loving you,” you say softly.

his hand stills in your hair.

when he speaks, it’s not with sorrow. not regret. not apology.

it’s simple.

clear.

full.

“i love you.”

the world doesn’t change when he says it.

there’s no thunderclap. no cosmic shift.

but it feels like a door unlocking.

like you can finally exhale.

you pull back—look at him. really look.

and he looks at you.

like morning. like home.

“say it again,” you whisper.

he leans in.

kisses your temple.

kisses your cheek.

kisses your mouth, slow and warm and endless.

and then he says it again.

“i love you.”

you don’t cry.

not this time.

you just smile into his touch.

and whisper back:

“i love you more.”

that night, you sleep wrapped around each other in the quiet room by the fire. the stars blink gently outside the windows. the dreaming breathes easy around you.

and dream, for the first time in his long life, dreams with you.

now, officially, this is the end. im genuinely so overjoyed to have been able to finish this, accompanied by all the love and support granted to me. i hope you all and enjoyed and thank yewww so SOOO much for reading. thank you ❤️

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taglist: @snowtargaryen @villain-in-the-dark @hiraethmae @lazuliki