katsuki bakugo x fem reader, i know it’s warmer now but I think about him quite often
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i imagine katsuki’s cheeks are tinted red in the winter wind. you can see his figure from your position as a passenger through the mirror and his hands are in the pockets of his jacket while he waits for the gas to pump.
a car comes into the lot and its a chance as he turns his head. you’re not stupid to think you can sneak up on him but he’s told you about the fucking cold he hates, dulling his senses and whatnot.
you’re not successful but in hurried steps you’re tackling him lightly, earning a chuckle combined with a groan.
“—fuck.”
you melt into him, circle his waist from under his open jacket and kiss the spot of where his heart is before he’s talking again.
“i said to stay inside.” he mutters no longer rigid, and lays his cheek on a side of your head. you’re wrapped in his jacket before you know, deep in his warmth before you can say.
“came to give you some love; you look lonely.”
he hums while he rocks with you feebly in place. “sounds like something a villain would say.”
you stick your tongue at him. “that’s exactly what this is. i’m here to avenge myself.”
“oh shit,” he mutters, glancing at the numbers on screen. he thinks about the promise he sealed with a kiss in the car last—the one where he would come back bearing chocolate in exchange that you stay in the car. you nuzzle further into him as the first snow of the year falls. it's crisp, coming down light as feather.
katsuki goes quiet. really quiet.
you feel it in the way his chest rises deeper beneath your cheek, in the way his hand spreads over your back like he’s trying to keep every part of you close at once. the cold turns the tips of his ears red but he stays there anyway, lets snow gather over his shoulders while you're impossibly close.
“baby,” he murmurs after a second, his voice roughened by the cold.
you hum.
“look at me.”
you tilt your head up slowly and immediately regret it because his expression makes your stomach flip. softened in that way he only gets when nobody’s around to see it. eyes heavy on yours while snow catches in his lashes.
his thumb brushes under your eye, slow. “there.”
“what?” you smile a little.
“couldn’t see your face.”
your heart hurts stupidly over something so small.
katsuki kisses you slow.
it’s the kind that steals thought from your head immediately. warm despite the cold biting at your cheeks. his hand settles at the side of your neck while yours bunch tighter into his hoodie.
he groans softly when you kiss him back harder, then he deepens it without hesitation, mouth lingering against yours until you’re dizzy enough to forget where you are completely.
the pump clicks. neither of you move.
another second passes before he breaks away just enough to breathe. forehead pressed to yours, lips still brushing yours when he talks.
Normal groceries like milk or bread or whatever running out is whatever. Just anotha day. But when stuff like salt or cooking oil or rice runs out it feels like You’re supposed to be here for me and you’re leaving. You’re just like everyone else
🃁 Mark Grayson x fem!reader (both implied to be college-aged or older)
🃁 synopsis: Mark Grayson is really bad at geography, but he’s a quick study when it comes to learning your weak spots.
🃁 cw/word count: fluff, super brief angst, makeout sessions, lots of talk about Mark's puppy dog eyes, references Science Dog. 1.7k+ words
🃁 h's correspondence: where I once had a brain that could do math and stuff, I now have an undeniable urge to write invincible fics (this is not a complaint)
When you open your window to let Mark inside, he’s already talking. His apologies and his excuses run together, your name discernable every few words.
“Mark,” you call, leaning back on your bed. “Did you get lost on the way over here again?”
He tenses, then exhales when he sees your smile. “Maybe,” he admits softly.
“Where were you coming from?”
“Uh, somewhere that started with a C or a K.” He nods once, then adds, “It was hot.”
“How did you pass any geography class?” you wonder.
“It- it’s not that bad.” He moves toward you, running his fingers along your arm as he looks down at you. “I mean, I’m not helpless.”
“Mark, sweetheart, you know I like you, but you can’t even tell me what continent you were on,” you murmur, lifting a hand to capture his. “Luckily, I’m not in this purely for your directional capabilities.”
Mark hums, watching you trace his fingers. He swallows, fails to speak twice, then asks, “Why are you in this?”
You sigh, tugging his arm gently. “You’re so cute.”
“Thanks.”
Laughing, you stand, keeping your hand in Mark’s. “What are we doing? You’re late enough that pretty much everything is closed, but we can watch a movie or order something.”
“Sorry,” he offers. “I could go get something?”
“You don’t have to make up for being late with authentic foreign cuisine,” you remind him. “You’ll be late, I get it. Saving the world takes precedence over rewatching Magnum P.I.”
Mark narrows his eyes, his fingers tightening around your palms. “You started without me,” he accuses.
You don’t bother denying it, pressing a kiss to his chin before you say, “Just one episode.”
“You mean the two-part premiere?”
“Okay, two episodes. You went to Hawaii last month and didn’t even bring me back a shell.”
Mark considers your argument, then tips his head and fixes those irresistible brown eyes on you. “Even?” he asks.
“Even.”
Mark leads you to your living room, more comfortable in your space than you thought he would be. The first time he came over, he kept his hands in his pockets and looked like he thought you were going to dump him every time he took a breath.
“You never answered the question,” Mark remembers as he opens the fridge.
“Because you’re smart enough to figure it out on your own,” you murmur.
Mark gives you a look that makes you second guess if that’s true.
For all the little kisses you’ve given Mark, he’s never kissed you back. He’ll trail off mid-sentence when you kiss his jaw, freeze when your lips find his bicep, and hide against you when you kiss him in public. Though you can’t decipher whether or not it’s because the affection is too much for him or if he’s holding himself back from taking something more, you enjoy it.
“Mark,” you begin, flipping through his back issues of Science Dog.
“Yes?” he asks, scrolling in search of a movie William recommended.
“Are you happy?”
Mark drops the remote, unflinching when it crashes to the floor. He turns toward you, staring at your back.
“Uh,” he mumbles. “That depends on what you say next.”
“No, not like that,” you explain, still looking away from him. “It’s just. We hang out all the time, and you- you get me. But you never... you know.”
You shrug as you say you know, and Mark’s mind goes into overdrive. His eyes trace your body while he tries to determine what exactly he is supposed to know.
“If you want me to stop, just tell me, Mark,” you continue. “I’ll understand.”
“Stop what?” he questions softly.
Sighing, you close the comic you’d been perusing and move to Mark’s side. “The affection,” you respond. “Say the word, and I’ll keep my hands to myself.”
“No!” Mark exclaims, reaching out for you. He catches your arm and pulls you forward to stand between his legs. “I don’t want that.”
“Okay,” you soothe. “You never initiate anything, so I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t pushing you.”
Mark tips his chin up, his eyes glassy and round as his thumb traces circles against your arms. He drops his hand, tracing your veins like he’s trying to get absorbed into your bloodstream. You soften when he blinks slowly, his eyes one of your many weaknesses.
He shakes his head, arguing, “I don’t know my own strength sometimes and when- when I get emotional, it’s so hard to control everything.”
After lifting your free hand, you push your fingers through Mark’s hair. “I trust you,” you repeat.
Mark closes his eyes and leans forward until his head is against your stomach. He sighs, shuddering when he exhales. “You smell good,” he says against you.
“Thanks,” you reply through a laugh. “Did you find the movie?”
“I… got distracted.”
He wraps his arms around your hips, and you get distracted too.
You’re waiting at Mark’s back door, absentmindedly examining your nails. A strong gust of wind draws your attention upward to Invincible, who has a broken goggle revealing one of his eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes.
Pushing to your feet, you smile and wave a hand. “It’s fine. I ordered pizza like five minutes ago, so it’ll be here soon.”
Mark nods, dragging his fingers across your back as he unlocks the door and lets you in. You drop your bag behind the door and exchange your shoes for the Science Dog slippers Mark claimed to have ‘accidentally ordered in the wrong size,’ though you’re fairly certain he got them for you.
“I’ll be right back,” Mark says. He returns less than fifteen seconds later looking far softer than when he arrived. “Thanks for getting dinner.”
“I think I’m going to make you give me a manicure as payment,” you muse.
“Sure,” Mark agrees without hesitation.
You hum, dropping your elbows to the counter. “I’m thinking something artsy and unique. Maybe yellow and blue.”
“That’d look nice,” Mark agrees, watching your lips.
“You know, as my boyfriend, you have certain privileges.”
Mark blinks rapidly, then meets your gaze. His head tips to the side like a confused puppy before he inquires, “What?”
You take two steps forward, close enough that you can see his individual eyelashes. “Kiss me.”
“Yes,” Mark responds quickly, nodding as his hands flex at your sides. “Absolutely, I do want to do that. Uh, where? Like- like a friendly, on the cheek thing or-”
“Oh my gosh,” you breathe out before cupping both sides of his jaw and kissing him.
Mark’s eyes snap closed the moment your lips meet his, his arms winding around your waist to pull you flush against him. He takes control quickly, moving against you like he’s an expert in you despite never having been here before. It’s unfair really.
When you separate, you panting for air and Mark smiling like he just discovered his new favorite thing, you realize that Mark may not have been completely unfounded in his worries about losing control while kissing you. Your legs have turned to jelly, your mind gone fuzzy. Mark says something, so you nod, but you’re only thinking of how perfect he is. Mark steps around you, then returns with the pizza you ordered.
“You can do that whenever you want,” you tell Mark. “And you’re still doing my nails.”
Mark smiles, murmuring, “Okay.”
Strolling through the comic bookstore, you scan the shelves for something Mark might enjoy. The bell over the door chimes behind you, prompting the man at the counter to greet the new customer. You step closer to a display, tapping the spine of a compendium.
Before you can decide if it’s worth looking at, someone wraps their arms around your waist and presses their chest to your back. Their lips find your neck, pressing a long kiss below your ear before brushing over the point where your neck meets your shoulder.
“Mark,” you breathe out, leaning into him as your eyes close.
He says your name, matching your tone, and asks, “What are you doing here?”
“None of your business,” you reply, your voice soft as you press your weight into him. “You’re getting too good at that.”
Mark laughs against your shoulder, then reminds you, “Boyfriend privileges.”
It took Mark less than a month to find your weakest spots. Now that he trusts himself to be affectionate toward you, he knows exactly where to kiss, how to hold you, what to whisper, to make you unravel in his hands. Hence, why you’ve made efforts to remind him that you held that power first.
“That’s a dumb hero name,” you grumble. “Why would you just add man to the end?”
Mark doesn’t look up from your arm to agree, “Exactly!”
You shift, pressing your chest to his side and spreading your hand over his chest. He takes a deep breath, then wraps an arm around your waist to keep you close. When you kiss his jaw, he swallows.
“Mark?”
“Yeah?” he answers, dropping his chin to see you.
“I love you.”
Mark doesn’t give you a chance to see his reaction. Instead, he pulls you upward to lay on top of him, holds your chin, and kisses you. You hum into the kiss, holding his shoulders.
“We should go somewhere,” he suggests. “Let’s go get dessert.”
You’ve yet to go on a long flight with him, yet you smile and nod. “What were you thinking? Crème Brule? Macarons?”
“Both,” he answers, standing without releasing you. He moves toward the door, then slows. “Uh… where can we get that?”
You drop your forehead against his shoulder and groan, then laugh. “France, mon amour.”
Mark nods, though you know he has no idea where France is. You’ll have to tell him to fly until he sees the Eiffel Tower — but not the one in Vegas. He’s made that mistake once before, and his dad was ready and willing to tell the story regardless of Mark’s embarrassment.
“You going to talk like that the whole time?” Mark questions.
“In French?” you clarify. “Doubtful. Why, you like it?”
Mark launches into the sky, patting your hip when you tighten your arms and legs around him. “Something like that,” he admits to the stars.
|| satoru gojo x reader || E (18+) || foreplay, smut, & hurt/comfort || wc: 6.1k || ao3 ||
Even sorcerers make time for 'simple' trysts— Satoru Gojo is no exception.
minors, antis, and ageless blogs dni
a/n: oooh man it's the gojo smut 👀 i set out to write some pwp and it became this piece!!! oh to explore intimacy with such a guy!! thank you to the lovely cielo for beta reading 💕 enjoy!!! 💌
CW: soft smut, hurt/comfort, panic/anxiety attacks, intimacy issues/discussion around intimacy, a wittle angst if you squint, cheeky satoru
“Can I take this off?”
You tug at the elastic of his eye mask. It’s silken under your fingers and feels a little too tight under his ears.
Satoru sucks in a breath and chews his lip. You watch his expression shift, the skin of his cheeks drawing up to crinkle his hidden eyes. You draw shapes over his temple, trying to calm down his rabbit’s heart.
You know this is a lot for Satoru. You can feel it. Your fingertips are pressed to his skin, top. him. Satoru Gojo, strongest, is letting you touch him. The divine layer around him is gone and replaced by this. Warmth. From void to heat.
There’s a subtle shift of his thighs under yours as he muses over your question.
“You don’t have to, “ You assure him, setting your arms over his shoulder. “This all must be… a lot.”
If he’s more comfortable covered, you’re content with that. The expectation to bear oneself in such a way is new for Satoru. Self-imposed expectations, you’re almost sure will crush him as they have before.
You truly want nothing but him, in whatever way he allows you close. If he lets you close.
It’s only the second time you’d been perched in his lap like this, the second time his infinity has been lowered for the sake of intimacy. You wonder, quietly, how long it’s been since he’s shared the heat of human touch. You consider yourself lucky to have the opportunity to know the feel and firmness of his skin. You get to be close to him. It’s such a novel thing, really, but it feels a bit sacred with him.
(The dance prior had been a rite. A ritual to open a space between the two of you, one that could be inhabited by both of you. It was a careful back and forth, smoldering embers and climbing flames that stretched with crooning words and easily seen through lies.)
(You are a good dancer, and you reap a god for it.)
“Nah, it’s fine,” Satoru’s pinched expression falls away. He’s still strained, feigning, as he pulls the silk away from his eyes and over the top of his head. Gossamer hair falls flat, laying gently over his forehead and just barely covering his undercut. You don’t meet his gaze yet. You instead inspect the curve of his jaw to his ear, tracing a fingertip over the bone.
He’s beautiful, you think.
Before you’d met Gojo, you’d heard him described as such. An earthen god with beauty to match it. Atrocious personality, but nice to look at. The rumors weren’t… wrong. Satoru found a way to be both cloying and avoidant while remaining one of the most breathtaking people you’d ever seen. The high praise he receives isn’t in jest.
You adore him, you think. You can’t ever let him know— not to your feeling’s true extent. He’d never let you live it down.
His palm, large and warm, cups your chin and turns you toward him. He knocks his forehead against yours. It’s a bit clammy.
(A spark of pride warms your belly. His infinity has only been off for a few minutes. The room is temperate. The sheen on his forehead is from him reacting to you. Getting a rise, even if only bodily, from Gojo Satoru is exhilarating.)
But Gojo knows exhilarating, doesn’t he? He knows combat and strife, but it’s tenderness that's foreign to him.
If you were in his place, you may have broken a sweat too.
You keep your eyes lowered. You can feel him, looking into and through you. You’re still fully clothed, not bare in the slightest, but Satoru still strips you in a way beyond cloth. The only skin-to-skin contact you have is through your light touches around his neck and the point where your foreheads meet.
It still feels like a lot.
“You can touch me more, ‘ya know,” Satoru prods you, grabbing your wrist and placing your hand on the back of his neck. “I like when you do. Have you done this before?”
You sniffle a snort, “You’re toying with me now? Getting impatient?”
Satoru hums, and shrugs, “With you? I always am.”
Oh, god, what an admission. To be wanted in such a way by anyone, let alone Gojo. It makes your gut twist with something equally sweet and sour. There’s something to it— you’re not used to it. You’re not used to it. You’re not used to accepting someone’s desire for you. To be perched in someone’s lap, someone you equally desire? Feels like a new experience, even if you had been in this position at some other point.
“Needy,” You grin, and finally look at him.
Satoru, you realize, hasn’t taken his eyes off you. You’re not sure what he’s seeing (the way your cursed energy is melting in pools, the rapid beat of your heart, the tremor in your hands—), but you assume it’s all. You’re at his mercy, in that way. There’s nothing you can hide from him and it's daunting. You’re at such a disadvantage in knowing, but it’s familiar.
Satoru’s pretty. Especially pretty in his face. Everyone talks about Gojo Satoru’s fabled crystalline eyes, but they really don’t do it justice. You don’t want to stare too much, but it’s the first up-close look you’ve gotten at him, and you’re enraptured. For most of your trysts, Gojo kept his blindfold on for ease. You were never afforded the chance to ogle. His eyes cut, blue topaz, set in a human skull. You swear they refract light from the inside.
“Go on, stare some more,” Satoru grins, sitting back against the cushions. “I’ve got all day.”
You raise an eyebrow, sitting back on your haunches in his lap, balancing with a hand on his chest, “I’m happy to. You’re beautiful.”
Satoru whistles, “Buttering me up? You’re sweet.”
“Oh, fuck off,” You say with no edge. You flash him a smile. “You knew that already. You couldn’t keep your size ego without knowing you’re stunning.”
Satoru doesn’t reply for a moment. He licks his lips, chews on the bottom one for a moment. You almost open your mouth to redact a word or two. You are being presumptuous, and perhaps a bit mean. Who knows, maybe Satoru actually has no idea—
“It’s different, since it’s you,” Satoru says, settling his big hand on one of your hips.
There’s a wealth of unspoken secrets in such a phrase. Satoru’s built too guarded to show you them, and you half-doubt he ever will. You’ll have to settle for your own conjecture. You’ll have to settle for the way such admission makes your heart pound. You’ll have to settle for how his words are followed by a soft squeeze of your ribs in his warm palm.
To be special to someone, someone who seems so above such connections— it makes your insides melt down your spine.
You kiss him, to let him know you heard him. You lean forward suddenly, half-tipping over into his lap. It brings you chest to chest, where Satoru easily wraps an arm around your waist, tucking you close, holding you there without give.
And you kiss him like you’ve wanted to for god knows how long.
It’s not like the chaste touches you’ve had in the past. It’s nothing like the hungry looks you’ve caught Gojo flashing you from across campus. It’s neither entirely carnal, nor pure. It makes your insides, from your brain to your toes, turn to mush.
You press into him, winding a hand into his hair.
Satoru holds you steadfast. The grip he has around your waist is unwavering and keeps you chest to chest. You can feel his expand against your own, even the pounding of his heart in an earthly rhythm.
(As much as you claim to know Satoru, it still shocks you, occasionally, how human he is. His heart beats, thumps and thuds when touched like something fragile and precious. It’s endearing, in a way.)
You cup a hand over his chin and stroke your thumb against the sharp line of his jaw. You curl your nails behind his ear, and nearly die when you feel Satoru shudder beneath you. The half-moan he hums into your mouth has your thighs clenching around his own.
Satoru is nothing if not competitive, even knowing he will always win. A loss is a feint with him, and you forget this in the moment.
He breaks the kiss, only to trail his lips down your neck, deftly unbuttoning your top and sliding it down your shoulders. It settles against your biceps as Satoru lays kiss after kiss against your skin.
“You’re so,” He says, suddenly. “So—”
He cuts himself off and smothers his face into your neck. It takes you a moment to realize he’s pouting. His grip on you gets tighter, and there’s not a smidge of space between you two.
It’s overwhelming, maybe.
You’re not used to this. Your mutual lifestyle rarely left time for things like this, and when they were shared, it was quick and quiet. There simply isn’t enough time of respite for a sorcerer to be so indulgent. There are lives, people— souls left out in the cold if you’re too selfish about this.
For that reason, you wonder if Satoru has much experience at all.
You know his history, his place, his status (even in this position, the miasmatic knowledge of such things will not leave you.) You can’t decipher whether such things would make him more or less likely to experience physical intimacy. You’ve heard rumors, sure, but you don’t think Satoru has the room in his schedule to be as much of a slut as whispers would have you believe.
Regardless, you feel special, getting to be so close to him. You covet him too much, probably. It’s been drilled into your head since birth, so you can’t fault yourself too much.
“You’re thinking so hard,” Satoru kisses your neck again. “Your cursed energy’s going crazy. What’s on your mind?”
You pause.
“... You.” You answer honestly.
“Oh, wow, me? I’m flattered.” He noses up to your jaw and nips, before grabbing your face in one large hand and dragging you together again. “But, I’d prefer if you were here with me, right now. Think you can manage? I’ll make it easy.”
“I’ll try,” You say, letting Satoru kiss over cheeks.
Satoru hums, “You will. You’ll stay here, with me.”
...
He does make it easy, notably.
Satoru drags you close as can be and devours you— there’s no other word for it. He kisses and kisses and kisses until you feel saliva dribble from the corners of your lips. He nips at your bottom lip and tugs more than once. It hurts in a good way. It’s the kind of pain that you want more of.
Satoru must understand, because he bites your lip and you swear he must bust it to bleeding. You nearly thank him as sparks of pain mix with heat and pleasure like its own heady drug.
Your grapple onto his shoulders, encouraging him to shrug off his uniform top. It’s shed easily, quickly and he’s down to a tight white shirt that leaves little to the imagination. You run your hands up and down his chest, unabashedly feeling him up. Who knew Satoru was so broad? (tits) Shoulders too. Satoru towered over nearly everyone he met, but he never struck you as anything other than a beanpole.
But now? You can feel the muscle on him. You can feel it tensing and relaxing in rhythm as he massages the meat above your hips. You can feel him and how strong he is.
It’s exhilarating. You want to drown in him.
“You’re excited,” Satoru breaks away to tease.
You hum, kissing the corner of his mouth, “So are you.”
That much is obvious. You’ve skillfully been ignoring how hard Satoru is against your inner thigh, even through his trousers. It’s taken a fair amount of willpower to not grind in his lap senselessly.
Satoru’s grip slips lower, cupping your ass and dragging you down against his clothed cock. He nips at your jaw, up to your ear, and dares to whisper, “I want to feel you.”
You swallow, thick and hard, and Satoru belts out a laugh. You slap his chest for it, hoping the dark of the room distracts from the heat in your cheeks. You know Satoru must notice how your hands tremble as you grab his shoulders and grind down into his lap. You bow your head, hiding in the crook of his neck and fucking take.
It’s shameless, really.
There are still several layers of clothing between you, yet it feels like so much. Maybe you’re touch-starved, maybe you’re enthralled with the idea of Satoru Gojo and his cock being interested in you, maybe— it just feels good and you’re chasing the feelings.
Satoru bucks his hips up while holding yours down, letting your circle and grind on him to your heart’s content. Little whines drip from his lips, huffs of breath barely loud enough for you to hear but god, you feel weak for them. The sounds meld with your own. You scratch at his shoulders, cursing under your breath.
Satoru drags you up by your scruff to kiss you, mumbling against your lips, “‘Think you soaked through your panties.”
He confirms this by slipping a hand down your front. Satoru cups your cunt, feels you, and curses under his breath. You don’t have time to process how he’s touching you more gently than you imagined, more carefully, maybe even tenderly— before he’s winding a hand in the hair at the base of your skull and hauling you back.
You’re forced to keep your back arched. You’re bare. Your shirt pools around your waist and one of the straps of your bra slips down your shoulder. It’s obscene, you feel filthy despite being covered to some degree. You’ve probably got the front of Satoru’s trousers filthy—
Satoru pulls you from your thoughts.
He cups your jaw with his free hand and runs his fingers up and down the planes of your face. Cheeks, jaw— down the bridge of your nose before pressing his thumb to your lips.
He’s a difficult person to make eye contact with. He’s infamous for it. It’s rare anyone actually has the opportunity to meet his gaze, but even when folks do, it’s hard to meet him on his level. Satoru doesn’t need to look at you in such a way to really see you. For him, you imagine direct eye contact must be like a dance, a challenge, and a way to make people squirm under the weight of an immeasurably powerful being.
You force yourself to look at him and find Satoru looking back at you. He’s tracing your features, up and down, taking you in a way that looks more human than any other way you’ve seen him look.
“... You okay?” You ask, softly, words slurred by the thumb Satoru has yet to remove from your lips.
He hums, musing, before fully pressing into your mouth, down onto your tongue. You let him, and suck and nip at his thumb.
“I’m great,” Satoru says. “Basking, a little bit.”
He has a dopey smile on his face as he switches from his thumb to his ring and forefinger. You stay relaxed as he presses further and further back to your throat. He only stops when the tips of his fingers meet soft flesh and your gag around him.
“You’re so good,” Satoru preens, nearly pulling his fingers from your mouth, before pressing them forward once more. “You’re precious.”
He says ‘precious’ like it's endearing and demeaning, and for some reason, it turns you on even more. You whine around his fingers and struggle for friction against his lap. Satoru clicks his tongue.
“So needy,” He grins, letting go of your hair in favor of undoing the buckle and zipper of his trouser, rubbing himself over his boxer briefs. He continues to fuck your mouth, smile getting wider when spit dribbles from the corners of your mouth and slips down your chin.
You slowly sink closer, holding yourself up by your thighs and sheer willpower. You are needy— you desperately want to be in Satoru’s lap. You want to be sitting on his cock until the sun rises and sets again. You can see in the dim light that Satoru’s bulge is not small, rather large perhaps, even against his hand.
You swallow. The thought of stretching around Satoru’s cock’s girth has you clenching around nothing and moaning around his fingers. You get impatient.
You fumble your grip against Satoru’s chest and reach downward. You get as far as his waistband before Satoru shoos you with a laugh, giving you a particularly hard thrust to the back of your throat. You choke.
“Let me take my time,” Satoru hums. He pulls his fingers from your mouth, letting tendrils of thick drool connect from your lips to his fingers. “I want to savor this.”
And the fucking bastard shamelessly pressing his fingers into his own mouth, sucking your saliva from them while not breaking from your gaze.
“Y-You’re a menace,” Your voice lacks any bite as you speak.
“I’m sure I am,” Satoru looks so smitten as he palms his cock, pulling at the zipper of your uniform skirt with his free hand. You wriggle out of it and it's discarded somewhere beyond your comprehension.
Satoru uses one deft hand to finish off the buttons of your shirt, peeling it away until you’re skin and heat in his lap. You hold onto a shred of modesty in just panties and a bra. Satoru ogles you all the same, chewing his lip as he traces your figure up and down, and up and down once more.
Despite your last two garments, you feel naked.
You can’t help it— you feel shy, even. You wrap your arms around your middle and avert your eyes down to his chest. You can feel that Satoru’s going to say something about it, prod you for being bashful when you’re going to be open for him in moments, more than likely. You distract him by grabbing the bottom hem of his shirt, tugging until he peels it off.
“I can’t tell if you’re eager or dreading this,” Satoru laughs, but the end of the sound is rotten. It makes something in you shrivel and twitch. “Enlighten me?”
“I...” Your voice dies in your chest and you take a shaky breath.
You grab his hands and hold them in your own.
For someone whose hands never actually touch their opponent, Satoru’s are worn. There are calluses around his fingernails. Worn, dry skin on his palms and knuckles that you run your own scarred flesh against. His hands are warm and a bit clammy, which makes him feel a little more human.
“It’s been a while,” You murmur. “It’s scary to be so bare around someone.”
You refuse to look at him for a moment.
Satoru hums, adjusting his grip so his palms cup your own, “It is.”
Of course, Satoru gets it.
“I want it. You—” You hiss out a breath between your teeth as Satoru’s grip trails higher, squeezing on his way. “But, I can’t shake the feeling that being so close to someone won’t result in some tragedy.”
Satoru is silent after you speak. His eyes shine glassy and glazed, fixed somewhere else beyond the room. You don’t attempt to pull him back, not yet. He keeps massaging you, hands finding purchase on your hips.
You suppose Satoru must be familiar with this distinct feeling as well. You both deal in tragedies. Your profession demands it, and so it is. You must purge away that which is addled in suffering, you must go hand-to-hand with grime and hate and everything rotten with the world, so that there’s, perhaps, a chance for someone, somewhere to rest easier.
The thing you are closest to is tragedy. You spar with suffering and feel it in your open palms every day.
It makes sense you’d anticipate closeness, regardless of its intention or context, as something to be wary of. Frightening, if you really got down to it. Terrified that pleasurable touch is a farce, and that the next moment you’ll be faced with your guts on the floor, and something in you wounded beyond repair.
“Satoru?” You say his name softly, tugging his face to your chest. His cheek rests against your sternum and his warm breath fans over your skin. “You there?”
“Yeah,” He answers immediately, nuzzling into the heat of you. “You’re better with words than you give yourself credit for, probably.”
You don’t get a chance to reply or process Satoru’s confession. He startles you when he shifts his grip under your thighs and hefts you up. He stands, adjusting you, and whisks you off to a bedroom nearby.
The room you’re brought to is dimly lit, enough that the shadows obscure any of the decor. There’s only a small lamp atop a dresser that gives off the barest bit of warm light. Hardly enough to make out any of the furnishings. You have to rely on feeling as you are set on the bed with a gentle bounce, and pushed into the sheets. They’re cool and buttery beneath you. The mattress is harder than you would expect from someone with Satoru’s tastes.
Any other thought you could have is quickly chased away by Satoru. He’s up over you within moments, settling over your hips and kissing you harder than before.
He’s handsy, feeling and squeezing anywhere he can get a hold of. No part of you is spared from the heat of his palms and strength of his grip. He’s a bit more forceful, a bit bolder, now that you’re laid out underneath him. He’s big. Broad in the shoulders and narrow in the waist and easily keeps you down and pliant.
You meet him where you can. You wind a hand into his hair, tug him closer and try to drink him. It’s a sloppy thing, messier than you’d ever admit. And you like it. The spit pooling out of the corner of your lips and the desperate little noises you exchange warm your guts in a way that feels foreign and welcome all the same.
“Satoru,” You say his name like a smothered prayer, caught between half-breaths. He outright moans when you call to him.
“Fuck, you sound so pretty saying that,” Satoru pulls away to drop his hand to your collarbone.
You run a hand down the nape of his neck, squeezing, “Your ego is showing, be careful, Satoru.”
He makes a choked sound and chomps down on your collarbone. You squeak and slap at his shoulders. Your scolding doesn’t deter him, if anything it eggs him on. His lips trail lower, deftly removing any remaining fabric as he does.
You claw at him, trying to drag him into your skin. You want to mix together, dissolve into a puddle, and never be anything but that. It’s indulgent to think about, and you can’t help the giddy sound that bursts from your lips as Satoru brushes past a particularly sensitive spot on your navel.
“That’s a cute sound,” He peaks up from his lashes, long and silver and he looks fucking angelic. You drop your head to the pillows, steeling yourself as he works. You adjust your leg over his shoulder, tucking him between your thighs and Satoru makes a contented sound that has you thrumming from the inside out.
The heat of Satoru seeps into your skin, making you pliable beneath him. Satoru lies half off the bed and his lower half slips to the floor below. He drags you by your calves. You yelp, grabbing the sheets and regarding him with wide eyes.
Even kneeling on the bed, Satoru is tall. The figure of him sends something stirring in you, some feeling that’s both intimidating and lust, rolling into something hot on the back of your tongue. Satoru tilts his head with a smile that gleams, adjusting you as he pleases. You let him, let him, let him—
He props your hips up with a pillow, leaving you off-kilter and exposed to the cold air of the room. He works off the rest of your uniform skirt, leaving your panties and knee-highs intact. Satoru seems to settle, eyeing your clothed sex with that same smile. He traces a nonsense pattern over your hips, teasing with the tip of his finger.
Blood rushes to your skull and you feel woozy with it. With him. It’s so much. You feel exposed like this. He has hardly touched your cunt, only prodded the parts he could lavish, goading you on. You should’ve met him more, he can’t—
You shoot up, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, “I’m sorry—”
Satoru pauses, raising an eyebrow and withdrawing.
“Sorry? For what?” He retains an air of mischief to his voice, but it feels hollow. You feel a ringing start in your ears.
You’re scared.
You’re scared.
It’s too close.
You twitch. Your impulse is to grab a weapon, wind up with cursed energy, and punch. The urge claws up your chest in the form of breaths that catch in your nose too fast. Sweat beads on your forehead and you make a tiny, dying sound.
You feel Satoru’s cursed energy crackle and it makes the hairs on the back of your neck raise. You scramble upright on the bed, away, away.
It’s instinct, really.
Your heart pounds, the feeling of violence so thick in your blood that it clouds your vision. You’re nothing but a specter, why would you bother with physical pleasures? You feel foolish and you clutch at your throat.
“Woah, woah there,” Satoru puts his hand up, still kneeling. His brow creases with concern. Gone is the desire and mischief. Caring. Satoru Gojo cares about you, about the way you’re sure he can see how your body and cursed energy are spasming. You’re scared, you’re scared—
This is it, isn’t it? Why you so rarely indulge in the carnal. It tastes bitter. Its bile, rising from your gut and you have to swallow to keep from drowning in it. It’s a fear that’s so fucking hard to place, hard to verbalize, certainly to someone outside of your profession. Even to another sorcerer, you’re not entirely sure you could force yourself to put into words the tangled, horrific feeling that you can’t seem to escape in these moments.
It pulls you. Tugs you. It’s going to tear you apart—
Satoru says your name, sharp and clear, and it brings you back to the room. You’re in Satoru’s low-light bedroom, probably. The sheets are soft. Satoru smells good. There’s a dead stick of incense on a holder on the dresser.
Satoru grabs your cheeks in his hands and drags you nose to nose. You feel the heat pouring off of him.
And you look at him.
“There you are,” Satoru says with an edge of relief you’ve never heard from him. “I lost you for a sec there. Take some breaths with me, ‘kay?”
“S-Sure, yeah,” You reach for Satoru’s wrist without thinking and hold. You ground yourself on the feeling of his pulse and bone.
Satoru counts in little murmurs, coaching you through a few moments of deep breathing. The first ones wrack through you, dragging out sounds you wish you could’ve quieted. Satoru doesn’t seem to mind. He keeps your attention, expression schooled open and inviting, and doesn’t waver until you’ve settled.
“There we go, back down to earth,” Satoru lets out a sigh. Perhaps, of relief, even.
You expect Satoru to pull back and create distance in some way. The necessity for closeness has passed and there’s no reason for him to linger—
(You forget, so easily, that you’re in the exchange of desire. You’re tender in a dance of skinship that you’ve never left, not even for a moment.)
Satoru shifts, dragging you up and pressing you against his chest. You’re both so bare— you’d forgotten. The sudden amount of skin-to-skin contact, superheated and sensitive, makes you jolt. Satoru shushes you, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you flush against him.
You don’t say anything for a while. You deflate from rigid to slack over some length of time you’re too fuzzy to measure. Satoru is mostly quiet. He only hums in what you can only assume to be approval, with each chest-heaving exhale that leaves you more relaxed against him.
It’s easier to bend now. The heat of the situation has dissipated, and the post-adrenal haze makes it easy to crash. You can feel embarrassed about it later. You’re lulled by bugs that sing night songs in the estate’s courtyard, and the gurgling of the stream that cuts through the property.
“... You know, it happens to everyone,” Satoru says nonchalantly. He hooks his chain over the top of your head. “I don’t know a single sorcerer I’ve consistently fucked who hasn’t melted down at least once.”
“... How many sorcerers is that?” You surely must validate his data, see if he’s pulling your leg out of pity.
He laughs, “Is that a roundabout way of asking for my body count? You dog.”
You snort and shake your head, “No, I’m asking seriously.”
“More than a handful, less than a dozen,” Satoru answers after a moment of thought. “It’s normal, though. I have my moments too.”
He doesn’t elaborate, just squeezes you.
You haven’t bedded too many of your colleagues, and even when you had, you hadn’t thought too much about their potential panic (you were too busy quelling your own enough to enjoy physical release.)
Like all things of this nature, your dance is mutual.
“Huh,” You lean up to look at him, craning your neck. “Comforting. Glad to know the strongest sorcerer in the world cries during sex sometimes.”
He gives you a look, “Hey, I never said that—”
You lean away from him, cupping your hands around your mouth, “Hey world! Did you hear that ‘World’s Strongest Sorcerer’, ‘Well-est Endow-ed’, Gojo Satoru cries during—”
He jabs at your sides and you sputter around your words.
“Oh, sweetheart, you’re in for it—”
And Satoru sets upon you, your ribs and sides and tummy with the tips of his fingers in what can only be called a minor war crime. You snort and gasp between giggling fits and streams of ‘no, no— Satoruuuuu!’s. He relents, eventually. Satoru goes from tickling to petting you as you catch your breath.
“Asshole.” You huff without any bite.
He kisses your temple, “You started it.”
“Maybe, perhaps.” You jab your elbow into his ribs. You preen at the little ‘oof’ of air Satoru lets out. Victory.
“Do you want to continue? Or is the mood totally ruined.” You ask matter-of-factly.
You’re still shaken, just a little. But you wouldn’t mind trying again. The silliness of things worked away some of your latent tension. You’re not boneless, but you wouldn’t mind being, you know, bone in if that’s what things led to.
“The mood’s not ruined,” Satoru squeezes your hips and you shift higher in his lap. “I’d love to see where things go, if anywhere, if you want to continue.”
You adjust, sitting up over his hips.
“I want to try, even if we have to stop again.”
And in the low light of the bedroom, you come nose to nose with Satoru Gojo yet again. You’re level.
“Perfect, sweetheart,” and he thumbs over your bottom lip before kissing you so soft and gently, it almost cracks your chest in two.
...
Your night continues until it becomes a dawn, and then a morning.
It’s not a seamless tryst, surely, but your stumbles and brief panics are quelled now that Satoru knows what to look for, and you’re more vigilant of the things that will send you spiraling.
(Satoru says your cursed energy begins to curl around your chest and climbs to your throat in little wisps. You avoid your middle being exposed and vulnerable.)
Satoru holds his own— very well, in more ways than one. His own hiccups in intimacy aren’t panic, like your own, but rather awe. He has moments where he looms above you, eyes glassy and almost unfocused, where you can tell he’s somewhere else. He doesn’t seem scared, just slower, more out of body than the strongest allows himself to be.
(It’s reverence, really. He touches you in those moments like you’re a sculpture at a shrine, a sacred thing to pray to.)
He takes his time. You take yours. It’s a mutual crawl, but a pleasant one. Satoru stretches you open on his fingers, one after another until you swear the fucker is prepping you to take his fucking fist and not his cock.
(“I’m just being thorough!” There’s a playful lilt to his voice. “— Didn’t you already call me ‘well-endowed’?”)
You try on top of him, first. When Satoru finally considers you prepped ‘enough’ that you could fit his cock into your cunt, you straddle his lap, brace yourself over his navel, and try—
(He’s too big. He’s too fucking big.)
Even sinking down with the help of gravity, and the incessant need to be filled and fucked and anything other than teased, it hurts. It’s a tight fit, and you only get halfway impaled on his cock before the angle and pressure have you tipping off of his lap and away in defeat.
(Then, Satoru makes you come at least three more times— you start to lose count after that. You’re more pliable, soaked through and fucked out without even being properly filled. Satoru easily shifts you onto your stomach and lifts your hip with a pillow or two.)
When Satoru takes you like that, you know you won’t be able to walk for a half day. His rhythm starts slow, to give you time to adjust, wriggle about, and find whatever angle satisfies both your cunt and your bent spine.
(It’s good, it’s sooooo good—)
Satoru comes inside you, which is fine. Unplanned, but fine. You prepped for such a possibility prior. You’re only half-lucid when Satoru’s pace shudders, and he fucks you with a few short thrusts before spilling into your cunt.
(You can’t remember the last time someone came inside you. Even when he pulls out, and flops next to you, you still feel full of him.)
Satoru gets clingier after that. Less wordy, less mouthy (well, in the traditional sense of the word.) He tugs you to his chest, lets his refractory period pass, before fucking you slow and hard, back to chest.
The rest of the night passes much the same way.
You’re liquid, by the end of it. You’ve only taken a break or two, mostly to gulp down water, or sit up briefly and kinesthetically reorient yourself as the bodily force of Satoru Gojo’s fucking you rewired your brainstem, maybe.
When there are threads of hot, gold light spilling in from his bedroom window, you’re only half aware and a quarter awake. Almost dreaming.
Later, steeped in grief, you’ll remember this morning. You’ll remember the exact hue of the sun rays, the smell and thread count of the sheets, and him— Satoru. Who looks equally as wrung out, tired, but sated. He looks content and you’ll be forever grateful you burned the image of him like this into your mind. You’ll savor in the worst of times. In your grief.
Satoru’s moving around, somewhere. Maybe in the bathroom? At some point, you’re lifted carried there yourself, and literally set on the toilet— (“You’ll thank me for this when you don’t get a UTI.”)
Satoru helps you back to bed after, now laid with fresh sheets and linens. It’s cool when you flop face first and take a whiff of whatever detergent he uses. It’s fresh, if not a bit minty. Maybe eucalyptus or tea tree? Some scent that clears your sinuses and skull enough to regard Satoru outside of a sleepy or lust-filled haze.
“Busy tomorrow, I’m assuming?” Today, you silently add. You know his answer before he speaks.
“Yup!” There’s a hollow echo of cheer to it. “Don’t worry about that now, though. We’ll rest, and get something sweet for breakfast in a few hours.”
“... Sure, sure,” You nod into the buttery sheets. You know he’ll treat you to something decadent.
You crawl up toward the headboard, closer to Satoru, until you’re snug against his side. You wrap yourself around him shamelessly, and let his easy chuckle that follows be the last thing you hear as you slack and fall asleep.
can u imagine frank accidentally telling your coworkers that you're dating :p like maybe they ask him to hang and he's like "no i have a date" and they start to interrogate him and he accidentally gives up too much information and they're like "omg r u dating reader?????" and he's just 😦 meanwhile reader is just standing there like "omg what an idiot i love him" p.s your works are so super cute i live for them :D
your idea is so cute!!! i hope you like this little drabble. cw: secret relationship
Sometimes you weren't even sure how Frank had gotten the reputation of being a smart guy.
Because for once, it certainly wasn't his primary characteristic. Not with the way his mouth seemed to run completely independent of his brain the second someone asked him a direct question.
You loved him, you really did, but god, the man could be an absolute idiot.
So when you were standing around the nurses station, leaning against the counter as you glanced down at Samira and chitchatted with her while snacking on a muesli bar, you certainly didn't expect all of this to unravel within five minutes.
First, Frank came up next to you at the station, because of course he did.
Despite dating in secret, he simply couldn't stop being close to you. Every break, he found his way to wherever you were standing, so you didn't move when he purposefully pushed his shoulder against yours.
"So what are you going to do?" you asked Samira, taking another bite of your muesli bar. The chocolate was slightly melted from being in your pocket, perfect.
Samira sighed, finally glancing up at you as she finished typing her report. "I think I'll just go home. I don't really feel like going out if you're not coming." You watched her shoulders slump just a little. "I'll miss you though," she added, and you could tell she meant it.
"Mhm. Sorry. Busy," you said, offering her a soft smile, wordlessly saying I love you and you're my friend, I just don't have time tonight. "I'll come with next time."
And that's when Frank finally perked up.
He'd been standing there quietly, well, quietly for Frank, his shoulder still pressed against yours, pretending to scroll through something on his phone. But the second you mentioned not being available, his head lifted. "Go where?"
Before Samira or you could reply, Mateo settled next to Frank. "Bar," Mateo said, and he sounded so excited you could practically see him vibrating. "New place. Freshly opened."
Whitaker came along then, nodding as he walked up, as if confirming that yes, he was coming along too. He settled into a chair next to Samira.
Mateo kept talking, his hands moving as he described the place. "Cheap," he said, holding up one finger. "And big," he added another. "Like, actually big. Not one of those places that says they're big but then you show up and it's basically a closet with a bar in it." He nudged Frank's shoulder, grinning. "You should come along."
Frank was already shaking his head before Mateo even finished the sentence, his hair flopping slightly with the motion. "Can't. Got a date."
Both Whitaker and Samira's heads shot up from behind their computers, even yours snapped to your left side, your muesli bar frozen halfway to your mouth.
Stupid, wonderful, absolutely moronic Frank.
"You have a date?" Samira asked, and her voice was dripping with genuine disbelief. Not because Frank couldn't get a date, he was annoyingly handsome, and he knew it, but because Frank had never once mentioned dating anyone.
Frank met her eyes, and you could see the exact moment he realized he'd made a mistake. "Uh. Yeah," he said, and his voice cracked slightly.
"With who?" Whitaker asked, perking up in his chair.
"None of your business," Frank said, already backpedaling. His shoulder pressed harder against yours.
"You finally ask someone out?" Mateo said, grinning now. "Is it someone from here?"
Frank shot him a look.
Meanwhile, Samira tilted her head, leaning back in her chair, her smile was knowing and it made your stomach drop. "Where are you taking her?" she asked.
Frank blinked. "A restaurant," he said, clearly thinking that was a safe answer.
"Which one?" Samira asked, and her voice was too sweet. "'Cause the one on Seventh Street closes at 8." She said it like she was trying to be helpful, but you'd worked with Samira long enough to know that wasn't all.
"Yeah, I know," Frank said, and you could hear him scrambling. "We're going to the one on the other side of town."
He brushed his shoulder against yours again, a nervous habit, you realized. He'd been doing it more and more lately, whenever he felt cornered.
"That's expensive," Whitaker chipped in, ever helpful.
You had to suppress a smile, because even though he was currently digging himself into a hole the size of the Grand Canyon, he'd said such a sweet thing.
Mateo and Samira met each other's eyes and a whole conversation passed between them in that single glance. "You sure you're going to make it?" Mateo asked, and there was something almost pitying in his voice now. "It's a long way until there."
"No, we'll make it," Frank said, and he sounded almost confident again. "We're both done with our shift at 7, so we'll be fine."
And that's when everyone fell silent.
"Shift?" Whitaker asked slowly, drawing the word.
Frank startled, his whole body jerking slightly against yours. He looked at Whitaker like he'd forgotten the kid was even there.
"So it is someone here," Samira said, and her grin was massive now, predatory even. She leaned forward, elbows on the counter, chin in her hands. "What department? ER? Pediatrics?"
Frank stared at her. "Uh," he said, brilliantly.
"My god," Samira continued, pretending to be shocked, one hand pressing dramatically against her chest. "Have you told HR yet?"
Frank's eyes went wide. "Of course we have," he said, and his voice was a little too fast. "Robby would kill us if we didn't." He mumbled the last part.
Samira's eyes glittered. She leaned back again, crossing her arms, and you could see her setting up for the kill shot. "How does that even work out?" she asked, and her voice was dangerously sweet again.
Her eyes randomly shot to you and you startled, nearly dropping your muesli bar.
"I mean, you both work day shift," she said, and her gaze stayed on you for just a second too long before sliding back to Frank.
Mateo let out a chuckle, finally catching on to what she was doing. His grin widened as he watched Frank squirm.
"So?" Frank said, eyebrows climbing up his forehead in genuine confusion.
"HR didn't force you to take night shift?" Mateo asked, tilting his head.
"Well, they tried," Frank said, and you could hear him relaxing slightly, thinking he was on safe ground. "But she doesn't like working nights. Says it makes her too sleepy." He shook his head, almost fond. "And they don't have her favorite muesli bar at night because Shen eats them all."
Frank kept talking, because Frank could never tell when to stop. "Now can you stop?" he asked, finally sounding annoyed. "Can't even have a little privacy around here." He shook his head, turning slightly to look at the others and then he saw everyone staring. At you.
You were standing there with your muesli bar, frozen mid bite, as you glared at him.
"Seriously?" you sighed.
His face cycled through about five different expressions in three seconds, confusion, realization, horror, guilt, more horror, the dawning understanding that he had just outed both of you in front of your friends.
You sighed again and dropped the muesli bar from your mouth. You turned to the three people staring at you with open mouths. Mateo's jaw had actually dropped, Whitaker looked like someone had just told him Santa wasn't real and Samira was grinning widely, mostly proud of herself for being the one to expose you
"Yes," you said, and your voice was steady even though your heart was pounding. "We're going on a date. No, it's not our first. Yes, we're dating."
You smiled awkwardly, because what else could you do, grabbed Frank's arm, and left quickly.
You could hear Samira's laughter echoing down the hall, could hear Mateo saying something you couldn't quite catch, could hear Whitaker's confused "wait, what?" trailing after you.
barely proofread. established relationship. written with infinite loop!verse reader in mind, but can be read stand alone, especially i because i think they'd hate to be perceived too.
You roll over, turning your back to Gojo. He whines out your name but you ignore him. Dumb pricks like him do not get attention at bedtime.
Doesn't stop him from trying though.
He whimpers like a kicked puppy but you remain steadfast. You're used to these tactics of his— you can ignore them. Gojo should realize that too.
And he does, because he changes them.
You feel him scooch closer to you, the warmth rippling off his body calling to you like a siren song. It's hard, but you do not lean into him; you won't give him the satisfaction.
Then you realize Gojo has gone silent and in your experience that is never a good sign. You don't say anything. You don't budge.
Everything is completely still.
And then it's not.
Your entire body tenses up when you feel Gojo's hand at your back, sliding your shirt up as high as your stillness will allow. He cannot seriously be—
The bed groans as Gojo moves closer, his hand keeping your shirt secure as he approaches you. A shiver wracks your entire body when you feel the searing heat of his lips against your skin. You try not to move, try not to show that his actions are having an immediate effect.
He pulls away for a split second before going for another one, kissing a spot just beneath the first one. Gojo's other hand finds your waist, his fingers gripping you tightly, almost desperately, as he presses his mouth to your skin again.
With each kiss he moves lower and lower and lower still.
Your heart is beating wildly in your chest. It's so hard to stay still, but you must, you must, you must.
And then Gojo's mouth kisses the band of your pajama bottoms. He drags the hand on your waist down to your hip, fingertips dancing over the section of skin just above your pants. He traces the edge of them, before his fingers slide under to—
You can't take it any more.
You start to roll away but he's faster, grabbing you and flipping you around so that you're facing him. Gojo's legs tangle around yours as he yanks you close, arms winding around your form, trapping you in.
"Dammit!" you hiss.
"Got you now!" he gloats, cheeky, every bit of sensuality abandoned and thrown to the wayside now that he’s got you in his grasp.
Defiant, you flail around, trying to free yourself but it only results in Gojo's grip going tighter and eventually you give up and go completely still as if that'll get him to loosen his grip.
It doesn't.
"...so, how long are you gonna play dead for?" Gojo finally asks. He sounds amused, but there's something else in his tone— faint but enough to put you on edge. There's no doubt that he's planning something.
You don't want to, but you should say something; who knows what Gojo will do if you don't. Intent on feeding him some smart-ass remark, you tilt your head up only to find you've played right into his hands.
As soon as you move, so does Gojo, closing the distance between you to press his forehead to yours, angled so his lips are just hovering over yours.
You freeze. Gojo's breath is sweet, almost intoxicating, and suddenly you are at war with yourself. Instinct bids you move in closer, hungry and desperate for a taste of him, but your mind keeps you still, knowing that he's insatiable. You'd be going for just a taste but he would be consuming you whole.
"You alive in there?" he murmurs and the phantom touch of his lips makes it hard to focus. "Or do you need me to bring you back to the land of the living?"
Yes. No. Both words, both answers duke it out on the tip of your tongue and you don't know which one will come out on top.
Does it even matter? You know the real winner here will be Satoru Gojo like always.
The thought of it burns you a little. You hate letting him win and that's enough to give one side the edge it needs. "No."
He chuckles and you can tell he's not surprised in the slightest. "Oh yeah? Prove it."
You know what he's trying to get you to do, in fact he couldn't be more obvious. Truthfully, there's a part of you that wants it too—to feel his lips on yours, on you, breaths mingling as you grasp at him, fingers tangling in his hair while he tugs at your clothes, desperate for as much skin on skin contact as possible.
But there's another part of you that wants to deny him. It's the force of habit, really, the denial almost ingrained in your soul, hard-written into your body like your cursed technique. There's no reason to deny him anymore, not when you've become intimate like this and yet…
You cannot help it.
You wish you could take a third option.
(You wish you were more honest.)
There's little else you can do like this, angled and positioned for the kiss that Gojo has cornered you into. You feel his lips shift as he exhales, as if his grin is widening, as if he knows that you're realizing how inevitable the kiss is. That makes you only want to fight it more.
You just don’t know how.
“You know,” Gojo murmurs after a couple moments of silence and inaction on your part. “You’re not doing a good job at proving that you don’t need me to give you the kiss of life.”
“Shut up,” you grumble. “The fact that I’m responding should be enough for you.”
Gojo hums, making it look like he’s considering what you’ve said. You know better though, especially when he says, “...nah.”
“You are so…” you trail off as Gojo moves impossibly closer, his lips are feather light against yours and any normal person would probably consider this a kiss.
Not Gojo, though.
"So… what?" he probes. "Cool? Awesome? Irresistible?"
"None of the above."
Gojo’s arms and hands shift, his grip clearly loosening. For a split second, you consider taking the chance to see if you can free yourself from him, but you’re no fool; you know better— this is just preemptive positioning for whatever he has planned.
This is checkmate, then.
Gojo chuckles and you wonder if maybe he can read your mind as he says, his mouth hot on yours, voice a low timbre that stirs something deep in the pit of your stomach, “Guess I better prove it then.”
notes: uh. see i have this thing where sometimes i get inspired by objects. or food. that's what happened. sorry, revealing the reader from this fic verse went to the kyoto school. that's because i'm biased myself lmao. i also looked up if there was a beard papa's in dotonbori. and i guess there really is. who woulda thought.
contains: sexual innuendo (licking stuff off fingers, thinking about licking/sucking on fingers)
wc: 1.6k (why is it this long???)
“Oh, hey, hey!”
Gojo’s excited voice reminds you of an hyperactive child, loud and fast. When you think about it, you don’t think there’s really not much of a difference; he's pretty much a gigantic child.
You’d been sent out to Osaka on a mission, and Gojo, for what you can only assume was his own amusement, decided to accompany you. As annoying as it was to have him tag along, his presence made the mission infinitely easier.
Though, you really could have handled it all by yourself.
With the mission all taken care of, Gojo’s taken it upon himself to drag you around Dotonbori like you’re a couple of tourists, eating through the street food the district has to offer. You’d never admit it to him, but you don’t mind it all that much; the food in Osaka is pretty good after all. Then again, as a Kyoto school alum, you might be biased.
You look over to see what it is that’s caught Gojo’s attention and you see him pointing at a Beard Papa’s— a cream puff chain. It's nothing too special; they have locations in Tokyo too, but it's not like you should expect Gojo's indomitable sweet tooth to care.
“We should go get some!” he demands, practically pulling you by the arm toward the storefront. You know when Gojo says ‘we’ he’s really just talking about himself. It’s fine though, you’re not all that hungry after all the other things he’s convinced you to eat.
Then, the warm buttery scent of freshly baked pastries fills your nostrils and you decide that maybe you’ve got room for just one cream puff.
You wait behind Gojo as he puts his order in for some ridiculous number of mini-cream puffs, but when he’s done he turns to you and tilts his head. “What do you want?”
Stunned, you stare at him. You’d fully expected to foot the bill for your own cream puff— he hadn’t covered anything else you’d eaten today so why now all of a sudden?
Sensing your hesitation, he smiles at you, but you can’t help but be suspicious of the random act of generosity. You know he can tell because his expression quickly changes to a pout. “What’s with that face?”
“I can pay for myself,” you say.
The smile’s back now, playful and amused. “I know, but just let me treat you this once, okay?”
You frown. Still not convinced.
“Or, you can just let me order for you. That could be fun! Let’s see…” Gojo whirls around to look at the menu, his expression suddenly devious. As wary as you are concerning Gojo’s intentions here, you know it’s a dangerous play putting your fate in his hands, especially when sweets are involved. “Maybe another two dozen…”
You absolutely cannot eat that many cream puffs. Granted, Gojo probably could eat whatever you don’t, but…
“Okay, okay, I’ll order!” you relent, shooting Gojo a quick glare. As usual, he’s completely unfazed, that stupid smile back on his dumb face. “I’ll get a creme brulee cream puff.”
“Just one?” the kid at the register asks, glancing at Gojo. The sheer size of his order probably conditioned them to think you’d have the same sized appetite.
“Just one,” you echo, confirming the order.
The kid nods and Gojo moves in to pay for everything on his card. You step off to the side and not too long after Gojo joins you, a yellow box filled with his cream puffs in one hand, and a small paper pouch containing yours in the other.
“Here you go!” he says cheerfully, plopping the cream puff into your hand.
You stare down at it, still warm, and then you look at Gojo. His attention is clearly on you, expectant and waiting. “You know you didn’t have to…”
He shrugs, opening the box with his now free hand and tosses one of the cream puffs into his massive mouth. “It’s fine.”
You scowl. “I don’t want to owe you.”
Gojo stops and gapes at you, before saying, sounding completely and utterly scandalized, “Is our friendship really so transactional? I thought you liked me!”
“Shut up!” you hiss. “You know what I mean!”
“Oh… So you do like me! I knew it!”
Gojo’s selective hearing has you seeing red and it takes all your self control to not waste the cream puff he bought you by throwing it at his face. “I didn’t say that!”
“You didn’t not say it.”
“Gojo…” You raise a hand and press your fingers to your temple, hoping to stave off any Gojo induced headaches.
He laughs and says, his voice light. “It’s no big deal, you know, it’s just one cream puff.”
You sigh. He does have a point. Not like he’s breaking the bank over it. “...I guess.” Pause. “Thanks.”
He grins. “You better hurry up and eat that— it tastes best when the sugar on top is still warm.”
You nod and pull the paper back to take a bite. Unlike regular cream puffs, this one is collapsed, the pastry forming something akin to a bowl where all the cream filling sits. Over the top of the cream is a layer of hardened sugar, torched so it’s dark brown and caramelized. Looking at it now, there’s no way you’re going to be able to eat this without making a mess.
“If you’re too full from everything else, I’ll gladly eat it,” Gojo teases, reaching one hand toward your cream puff, his fingers wiggling menacingly like he’s going to steal it.
“Just give me a sec!” you snap, swatting at his hand. Might as well go for it. “Thanks again.”
You shove your face into the cream puff, the sugar top crunching as you bite down. As expected, it gets messy, and even with the paper packaging, you manage to get cream on your fingers. You consider taking a second to clean them off, but now that you’ve taken a bite, the cream puff’s structural integrity is quickly failing. If you don’t finish it fast, you’re going to have a larger mess on your hands.
Literally.
Hurriedly, you shove the rest of the cream puff in your mouth, ignoring how some of the filling smears across your cheek. Once the cream puff is gone, you crumple the wrapping in one hand and inspect the other. The mess isn’t as bad as you thought and you lick the remaining cream from the pads of your fingers. It’s a bit uncouth, but it’s not like Gojo will care.
At least, that’s what you think, but when you look at him, he’s clearly gawking at you through the material of his blindfold, his hand hovering awkwardly near his mouth like he’d just tossed in a cream puff, but hadn’t moved to grab another.
Confused, you tilt your head. “Gojo?”
The sound of your voice seems to startle him out of whatever daze he’s in and reaches toward you, his voice low as he smirks, “Missed some.”
Right. Your cheek. You quickly reach up and, with your thumb, wipe the cream toward your mouth. Your tongue darts out, swiping over your thumb as it laps up the remaining cream. For good measure, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.
Gojo’s hand drops to his side, limp. And though you can’t see it, you just know he’s staring again. Why? And why does it look like the tips of his ears are a little pink? Could it be that he’s… blushing?
Why?
“You… okay?” you ask tentatively.
“Yeah!” Gojo replies, and you think his voice actually sounds a little strained. “Totally okay!”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely!” he insists. “In fact, I’m so okay, that I’m going to share some of my cream puffs with you. Aren’t I so nice?”
“Gojo, I don’t actually— mmph!” you start, but he won’t hear any of it. He reaches into his box and shoves a cream puff straight into your mouth. It feels like it nearly explodes on contact, the sweet vanilla flavor coating your entire tongue.
“The cream puffs from here are so good, right?” he asks, his voice louder than usual. He’s not wrong, but you don’t know how he expects you to answer; your mouth is still kind of full.
Once you swallow, you try to speak. “Gojo, really, I—”
“Here! Have another!” he says, stuffing yet another cream puff in your mouth before you can even finish your sentence.
Now, he’s just being ridiculous. You quickly chew at it until it’s small enough for you to gulp down. This time you don’t even think about tasting it. He’s got another one prepped, ready to thrust it in your mouth, but you move out of the way. “Gojo, stop. I don’t want any more.”
His hand goes completely still. Disturbingly still, you realize. Gojo’s always moving, wiggling, fidgeting, as if he’s got too much energy for his stupidly large body to handle. To see him stop moving... It’s weird. It’s almost wrong.
You don’t know what comes over you, especially when you just said you didn’t want any more, but you lean forward and wrap your mouth around the cream puff he’s holding. The corners of your lips brush against his fingers and a strange feeling runs down your spine and straight to the deepest pit of your stomach. You think of trying to swallow the cream puff whole. You think of lingering there, letting your tongue trace the shape of his fingers. You think of—
You pull away from him, refusing to look him in the face as you finish this cream puff. Once you swallow, you say, quietly. “You’re right. They’re really good.”
Gojo is quiet. Oddly so. But then, he laughs, way too loud as he says, his voice still strained. “Told ya so.”
contents; okkotsu yuuta x gn!reader. aftercare scenario; suggestive, but sfw! bottom reader implied. hissy reader propaganda. yuuta is genetically incapable of not loving you to bits. plenty of animal & monster imagery; yuuta is scary in the weight of his devotion (as akutami ordained) wc; 2.4k
commissioned by @assmaster-8000 !! thank you for commissioning me .. ily…. it was an honour to write your sweet boy of all time …..
The ache between your thighs keeps you awake.
Vacantly, one faint corner of your mind protests; you probably should be sleeping right now. Tomorrow is a work day, and you had the misfortune of getting stuck with an early shift. Yuuta will without a doubt try to convince you to call in sick, velveteen and sure of himself, almost cloyingly sweet— a tone of voice he saves for when you're tangled up in bedsheets and he needs you home with him— but you're not going to listen. Twice in one month is two times too many. You can't keep letting him have his way just because he's charming in the morning, bleary streaks of sunshine ruffling the black locks of hair kissing your pillowcase, half-shut eyes that seem to see nothing but you and your slumber-worn features. Nope. No more.
Maybe you shouldn't have slept with him tonight. Maybe you need to get better at not needing him after long days. Or maybe he needs to get better at not indulging you so blindly.
Whatever the case, your shift starts in eight hours, and you're too sore to fall asleep. The moon has its crescented face pressed flush against the windows, intent on keeping light in. Your boyfriend is rummaging through the kitchen in search of something for you to eat, which means you're free to wince and whine and flex your calves as much as you'd like to, no use in pretending you weren’t just tenderized. The glass of water in your hand is almost empty; per his half-suggestion, half-instruction, you have to drink it all before he gets back with your food. He'll pout if you refuse him. You've done this song and dance before. Having sex with Okkotsu Yuuta is like signing up for a weekly subscription and clicking on the yearly payment plan on accident— you get more than you bargained for, and give more than you can handle.
He likes the routine of it.
(You'd be lying if you said you didn't, but that doesn't make it any less overwhelming. It shouldn't be, but it is. If you ever thought fucking him might tucker him out, you were sorely mistaken— the energy boost he gets after putting you through the mattress makes no sense, but it's a fact of life with him. One moment he's on top of you, slippery chest weighing you down, and the next he's hopping out of bed to stretch his limbs and ask if you're hungry.
When you first met, he called himself a monster. You've begun to think he was right about that. It's what kind of monster he is that he seems to have misunderstood.)
The door creaks, and a beautiful boy walks in, his quiet gaze catching yours across the room: a seamless kind of clicking together. Magnet eyes and magnet heartbeats. It responds when you catch sight of him, still disheveled, shoulders glistening with residues of sweat, but eyes bright and wide like a lion catching sight of a gizelle in the dark. Ba-dump, ba-dump. He's worn you down with his love, made your pulse his own. You can't look away from him. He's wearing nothing but boxer briefs and an old white shirt, no doubt the first article of clothing he saw when he dug through his closet— balancing a tray with three bowls placed atop of it, steam rising from the porcelain— a warm, hearty aroma wafting through the room.
"I made you miso soup with rice," he calls out softly, the dimples on either side of his lips catching moonlight through the window curtains. Dreamy cerulean hues. "And eggs. I wanted you to have some proper protein, but we're all out of beef..."
"We already had dinner, Yuuta."
"Huh? What's that got to do with anything?"
You squint at him. With thick blankets pooled atop your body and drawn up to your chin, it probably looks more comical than dubious. Your boyfriend tilts his head, clammy locks falling sideways. He doesn't look like he's even washed his face yet.
"… Nevermind," you sigh. "I don't need beef, is what I mean. I'm not that hungry."
"You're always hungry after we have sex," he shakes his head. Smiling sweetly, taking brisk steps towards you. Heat blooms across your collarbones, lips curling into a frown, thoughts louder than your voice. No, you don't. "Or are you going to tell me you could just go to sleep like this?"
"I could."
"Mhm." He downright giggles. Evil, evil man. Awful, charming man. He seats himself at your bedside, the tray kept steady on his lap, and leans forward to cup your cheek with the dip of his palm. When you give a pointed glare— mostly for show— his lips curl up like dragon flowers, threatening another bout of laughter. "You don't need anything, do you? Cutie."
"I-I don't," you protest. You've half the mind to shove at him, but your heart couldn't take that. You don't need anything, but there are some things you'd rather not go without. "You're acting like you broke my back. Literally. Cut it out."
He licks his lips absently. They're still rosy and swollen, a far cry from the chapped skin spring usually has him deal with, and his voice falls softer when they part. "… Well, you cried."
"Okay. I'll kill you."
"Baby," he croons. "I'm not trying to embarrass you—"
"If anything," your voice grows sharp, "aren't you more wrecked than I am?"
Pointedly, you look him up and down. Purple hickeys sucked into his skin. Check. Imprints of teeth like a wreath around his neck, evidence of your hunger for the places where he's most tender and you feel his pulse the clearest— check. Scratch-marks on his back? Probably. You'll check up on them tomorrow morning. He'd never bother with the bruise cream otherwise.
Sheepish laughter clouds his words, peach-fuzz dusting his cheeks. One of his slender hands go to cup the root of his throat, feeling for the bite marks. Shameless. "It's not that bad… I like it, actually."
"Oh, I know. I just don't think you should be fussing over me when you're the one who looks like he got jumped by a raccoon." You cross your arms over your chest, ignoring the very much still present ache between your legs. If he notices their trembling, it's game over. He won't be able to stop himself from massaging your calves. "We had sex. That's all. It wasn't even that inte—"
"Say 'aah,' honey."
… Suddenly a spoon is poised in front of you, and your boyfriend is wearing an innocent smile. Unbothered by anything you've said so far. That's not surprising, only frustrating. More frustrating is the fact that his feeble distraction actually works. He's scooped up a mouthful of homemade miso soup, a square of tofu sitting pretty and waiting on the cutlery. Despite your insistance that you don't need anything from him right now, that you'll be just fine without the five star meal he was hoping to magically throw together in the span of fifteen minutes, your stomach growls at the promise in front of you— drool pooling under your tongue. It's a struggle not to duck under the covers when the sound makes him beam. As you reach for the spoon held between his fingers, he tuts and pulls away.
Figures. Why did you even try?
"… Yuuta," you huff. "I can eat by myself."
"I know you can." He doesn't let go of it. Simply moves it back to where it was before you tried to turn the tables on a man this determined to spoil his partner, resting pointedly in front of your closed mouth. There's that look in his eye again: a hunter that just spotted its prey. Polished obsidian. Nothing you say or do will convince him to let you win this.
Reluctantly, your lips part. Curse your stomach.
"Good job," he croons, watching you chew on the silken tofu. It's not spoken with condescension, which somehow makes it worse. He scoops up a bite of rice next, blowing on it quietly before feeding it to you. The warmth of the meal settles in your chest like a heated blanket, your hunger growing with each bite. Curse Yuuta Okkotsu. As you eat what he's made you, you feel yourself being moulded into someone more pliant, a shadow of you that only comes out on these long nights, sneaking into his bed and your body like a monster under the floorboards when you're too weary to resist. Before daybreak, after dusk. Yuuta loves that monster. He wants nothing more than to feed into it. To feel its teeth under his greedy fingertips.
He's gross. You're gross for wanting it. You're both rotten and perfect for each other. That’s not something you should feel happy about.
"… There you go, pretty baby." He carefully places the tray and empty bowls on your nightstand, next to a short pile of unread books, a bookmark he made you in high school, the glass of water you'd been drinking from before. There's still the slightest layer of water pooling at the bottom— your stubborn, feeble resistance— but when Yuuta notices he only gives you an indulgent smile. "Was it tasty?"
You manage a nod, allowing your body to melt into the mattress. Limp as a noodle, toasted from top to bottom. "Thanks for the meal," you call out with your eyes closed, drowsy, softer than before. Softer than you meant to. The bed creaks, a kiss planted between your brows; he smells faintly of vanilla and sex, traces of sage from the cologne he likes to spray on his neck in the mornings before hectic work days. It's a scent that makes you feel at ease. He dips his head down to give a peck at your lips next, chaste and sugary, locks of his hair tickling the pulse-pocket at the base of your throat.
"You're welcome." He smiles against your skin. "Should we freshen up? Or do you want to sleep?"
"Sleep," you rasp. "I have work tomorrow."
… At that, a low, thoughtful noise coils in his throat. You can almost feel his Adam's apple bob under its vibrations. For a moment, all is quiet.
Then he whispers: ”Alright. Sleep it is."
Your body is still slick with sweat and fluids, but that doesn't bother you right now. You can take a shower in the morning without falling behind your schedule. Yuuta's compliance is suspicious, but you try not to pay it any mind. The ache is still there, but its begun to be dulled by the warmth of the meal and insistent tugs at your consciousness, pillowed under the weight of your exhaustion. It's only a matter of time before it overtakes you. Yuuta lowers the window-blinds before he slips beneath the covers, tangling your limbs together: exhaling a breath of relief, like this was the only thing missing. His leg under yours, his arm curled comfortably around your midriff. Tethered together like Tanabata-wishes on worn branches. He gives small, wet kisses to the apple of your cheek, knowing you're too fatigued to grumble about it.
"How are you feeling?" he whispers. "Sore?"
"… Just a little."
A soft, knowing sound. "Sorry. I missed you today, so I might have gotten carried away."
For a second, you think you'll laugh. This is what makes him so lethal. He doesn't realize what his voice does to you when it sounds like that, when it's saying things like that—
Your heart threads itself into a knot. Knocks against your trembling ribs. For a moment, being peeled open doesn't frighten you.
(For a moment, you think you'd let him unravel you however he likes, for however long he likes.
Just a moment; nothing more. If he weren’t kind, and didn’t love you, it would mean the end of you.)
"I'll massage your hips," he promises. Nosing at a tender spot below your jaw, a hound sniffing for buried weaponry. Surely, he should already feel satisfied. He got to break you open and stitch you back together again. Make love to you until your throat felt too rigid to make sound with, soundless tears dribbling down your cheeks, on your pillowcase, into his mouth. Your Yuuta is greedy. He's the greediest. That's the only reason you feel comfortable being greedy back. "Tomorrow. Or right now. You can sleep, I'll handle everything."
"I can handle myself," you protest, slurring your words. An ocean wave of slumber laps at your shaky legs, wades over your body, threatening to swallow you under. But you aren't afraid.
"I know you can."
Quiet breaths. Mingling pulses. Outside the walls of your apartment, unbeknownst to either one of you, the crescent moon succumbs to slivers of creaking dawn.
A kiss at your pulsepoint. It flutters beneath.
"I just don't think you should have to."
…
With what little remains of your willpower, you stifle a yawn, reaching over to wrap your arms around his neck. He's all too eager to make space for you. His body used to be eerily scrawny, but now there's more muscle mass to it. Enough for you to feel underneath the fabric, thrumming faintly, like a steady reminder of how strong he can be. How gentle he chooses to be.
There's no need to have your guard up. You know that's what he's saying, near constantly, without opening his mouth. You can close your eyes around me.
So you do.
"Yuuta," you call.
"Mhm?"
"You didn't eat anything."
Faintly, he chuckles. You can picture his smile in the dark of the room. As if your concern alone could fill his stomach, or soothe the ache in his lower abdomen. "I'm okay, baby. I'll eat something tomorrow."
"Promise?"
"… Yeah," he sighs. Wrapping you into him, pressed taut against his ribs, like even that isn't as close as he'd like you to be. If you fell asleep right now, you'd dream of it; dream a bird's dream, sitting pretty on a bone-white branch, next to a heart too big for his body. "I promise."
Yuuta is nothing if not meticulous. He's never broken a promise he made you. Intertwined pinkies mean more to him than written contracts.
So you believe him.
(His love is insurance. Reassurance. You fall asleep with it around you, inside of you; a quiet, mutual love. The trust that comes with it.
Tomorrow, you'll wake up past your bedtime, too late to catch your shift. The morning alarm you have set to ring isn't on: Yuuta's doing. Your compliance. You know you're losing one way or another, and he knows you'll let him win.
summary: Frank reminds you he's always there when things go wrong. What doesn't a kiss fix?!
warning: established relationship, reader's professional role is kept vague, pregnancy (not reader), violence and injury, typical hospital setting drama, brief implication of reader being shorter than frank, possible inaccurate hospital descriptions.
notes: Oh Frank Langdon... how you have cured my writers block. Also yes, I know this is kind of a cliche trope for medical drama fics. But I'm testing the waters while I work on a couple other things for Frank.
(And if this is terrible it's cause I wrote it during some downtime at work today lol)
It wasn't rare for you to feel uneasy with patients. There was always an underlying caution that had been ingrained into you since your first day working in the pitt. It's what came with the territory of emergency medicine- gun shot wounds and broken bones, skulls split wide open and flesh torn like paper.
You’d treated homeless men, members of gangs, a woman so high you were sure she was in another astral plane. A teen who had shouted horrendous things at you as you set their broken bone, a couple who threw an entire tray of scalpels at you.
Those you could handle. The danger was obvious. Duck and cover. Keep your distance, stay alert.
But this. This was different.
It was wringing fingers and sideways glances. Truth glistening in held back tears, suspicion written in clenched fists. A bad energy vibrating in the little room marked by a number thirteen.
It was too early for this.
“You okay?” You glance up from the computer you were typing at, Princess leaning over the nurses station. “I saw you make a face back there after leaving that father and daughter.”
“Uh, yeah.” You shake your head, trying to shrug off the feeling. “I just got a weird vibe. I don't know why.” Princess makes a face.
“Sometimes people are like that. Just know we're here if things start taking a turn.”
“I know.”
“If you want, I can send Langdon in with you. I’m sure he'd love to play hero." You pause, looking up at Princess. You make a face, the two of you laughing.
“It's just an ultrasound. She's probably got indigestion or something. Frank would claim it's boring.”
“Nothing's boring to him if you're involved.” You roll your eyes, grabbing your clipboard.
“What’d be boring?”
Speak of the devil.
You look up, Frank rounding Princess and leaning over the station’s counter, head low enough for you to crane your neck and kiss him. You don't, just roll your eyes. Robby had a strict policy against public displays of affection. One Frank loved to toe the line of. And one you constantly had to steer him clear of.
Frank frowns, a big pout as he drums the counter with his hands.
“What, no kiss for the Doc?”
“No. I'm busy.”
You did want to kiss him. Frank had a very compelling pout on his face and it was taking all of your energy to not simply lean into him and give a peck. Even a tiny one. But, you were a professional through and through.
Frank sighs, “Busy with something boring apparently. Come on let me spice it up, kiss me.”
Princess snorts, shaking her head.
“Your husband and his ego.” You give her a look.
“You're telling me.”
Frank crosses his arms, smiling in spite of the jab. You stand, letting Frank slide his hand along the curve of your shoulder as you gather your papers. He was reading your clipboard, an interested hum vibrating in his chest.
“Miss Francis, seventeen. Coming in with abdominal pain, cramping and nausea. Uh oh, we all know what that means.”
You give Frank a look as he grins, mouthing the diagnosis you refused to admit you'd been guessing as well.
Pregnant.
Princess shakes her head with a disapproving sigh. You roll your eyes.
“You don't know that. Not everyone was a sex heathen like you during high school.” Frank shrugs.
“Just saying. You saw her. Looks like she’s the popular type. Plenty of boyfriend opportunities. Dad looks strict enough to warrant the need to sneak around and be rebellious.”
Princess snorts. "Judge much?”
“I’m just saying,” he raises his hands defensively. You grab a fresh pair of gloves, rounding the station counter. “I’d bet twenty dollars she's pregnant.” Princess perks up at that, glancing at the two of you.
“Hey, I’ll take that bet.”
Frank nods, shaking her hand. You sigh.
“I am not betting on my patient. Now if you excuse me, I’ve got a young girl to take care of.” Frank sighs, reaching out and squeezing your hand as you pass by.
“‘Kay. Be careful.”
You give him a small smile, squeezing back.
“Always.”
You make your way to the small curtained room, waving hello to Collins and Robby who were discussing an amputee who'd come in that morning. You reach the curtain, glancing back at Princess, now exchanging money with Dana behind the station.
Frank was turned back to the screen displaying the incoming patients, clearly cherry picking his next case. You shake your head, ducking behind the curtain.
“Alright,” you smile politely, eyes darting between the girl on the examination table and the man beside her. “Sorry for the wait. We'll get this set up here and we should have a diagnosis and get you help with that pain.”
“Sure,” the man grunts, arms folded. “Just hurry it up. We’ve already been waiting for three hours. I got work and she's got to study for her exams.” The girl looks down at her hands, embarrassed.
You smile thinly.
“I’ll be as quick as I can. Miss Francis, do you mind laying down for me so we can take a peek at what's going on?” She nods, getting situated.
You move the wand over her gelled belly, apologizing for how cold it was. You frown, eye darting between the screen and her father. He was glowering at you. Like anything you said would just plummet his already broken mood.
Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Everything was in place, no oddity in her stomach lining or appendix or-
Oh.
You swallow thickly, moving the wand over the lower part of her abdomen, staring at the screen.
Frank was about to be twenty dollars richer.
You clear your throat, looking down at the girl, her arms wrapped around herself.
“Honey, do you remember when you said your last period was?”
“Um, I dunno. I lost track I think.”
“That's okay," you press your lips together, staring at the twelve week old fetus that told you exactly when she’d had her last period.
“Would you say about three months ago sounds right?”
“I- I dunno. Maybe,” she swallows nervously. You nod, glancing at her father. There was something dark brewing in his eyes, something that told you he already knew what was happening.
“What are you saying? She's pregnant?” He asks gruffly.
The girl blanches. You stand there, unsure if it would be wise to answer that question.
“Um, why don't I call my attending, see if he can get a better picture-”
The man curses, turning from the two of you, your words dying before you can reach the curtain. Your pulse rises, watching as the girl’s chest begins to heave, her eyes darting between you and her father. She was scared. Really scared.
“Daddy-”
“Don’t!” He roars, pushing against the cart by the wall. Tools clatter and you gasp as he grabs a fistful of his daughter's hair. “You slut! You slut!”
“Oh my- security!” You scream, throwing the curtain open. Dana looks up at you with horror from across the room, hand already reaching to call Ahmad.
You lunge towards the man, adrenaline coursing through you as you try to pry his hand off of the girl.
“I’m sorry!” She sobs, wailing as her father tugs her.
“You're too young. You can't- our whole future is on the line!”
“Sir, I need you to calm down. You're not helping-” he whirls around on you, anger glaring in his eyes.
“You have to be lying. Tell me you're lying!” He grips your scrubs, spit flying.
“Let go of me!”
He shoves you, turning back to his daughter as Robby enters the room. There's confusion and concern written on his face, shoulders tense as he takes in the distressing scene.
“Hey! What's going on?”
The man moves to lunge for his daughter and you reach out to grab his arm, Robby moving at the same time, voice calm as he tries to deescalate the situation. It doesn't work. The man’s elbow jerks back as he dodges Robby, the sharp edge smacking you straight in the face.
It's a blur as you stumble backwards, nose and lip stinging, tears welling up from the bright flashing pain. You fall to the floor, scrambling back on your hands to avoid the commotion of feet and hands. You groan as you hold your jaw, the metal tang of blood already filling your mouth.
Security finally arrives, tearing the man away from the girl, dragging him out, his cursing still echoing down the hall.
The girl is sobbing into Robby’s arms. Princess hurries in to help sooth her, Dana right behind, her voice in your ear as she crouches to check on you. You can't tell what she's saying, your head spinning, the girl's wails still ringing in your ear.
You're in shock, you think. Must be. Everything is suddenly too bright, too painful. Your nose feels like it's twice the size it should be, lip burning where it's been torn.
“Honey, can you move? How bad does it hurt?” Dana asks, her hands resting against you protectively.
You barely register the question, eyes darting to the open curtain as Frank comes running from somewhere in the pitt, a glove flying from his pocket, stethoscope bouncing against his chest.
“Hey,” he pants, crouching down beside you. You try not to cringe as his knees hit the floor with a painful sounding crunch. “Hey, oh man.”
Frank cups your face, failing to hold back a grimace as he takes in the damage. You lean into his touch, Dana still rubbing your back, like she was afraid to leave you.
“Is it bad?” You manage, blood slipping down your chin.
Frank makes a face, thumb stroking your cheek.
“It's not your best look.” You hum, letting Frank access you. Always a doctor. “That jerk split your lip. Gave you a bruised nose too- possibly a black eye.”
You give a pained groan as his fingers graze a tender spot of your cheek. He lets out a shaky breath, turning back to the pitt’s central hall, eyes darting around. You reach out, clinging to his scrubs when you see his low drawn brows, the pure anger clearly written on his face.
Frank turns, watching as you shake your head.
“Don't leave. Please.”
His eyes soften, holding your hand tightly as he shushes you.
“Hey, I’m not going anywhere. Not right now.”
“Don't worry hon,” Dana pats your shoulder and stands. “Me and Robby’ll give him hell for you.”
You hum, watching as she marches out to the nurses station. A woman on a mission.
Frank looks at you carefully as you lick your lip, flinching at the sting.
“Do you think you can stand?” You nod, letting him help you up. The poor girl was still sobbing on the bed, Princess holding her carefully, giving you a sympathetic look, already reading your mind.
“She'll be okay. I’ll finish taking care of her. You go get yourself cleaned up.”
“Okay,” you say quietly, letting Frank guide you out of the room and into the lounge room. Away from the loud chaos of the pitt. Just the two of you. His arm was wrapped around you protectively; like anyone who tried to approach you would have to physically tear him from you.
Not that you minded.
Frank pushes the door open, helping you into a chair carefully, his fingers working deftly on the emergency supply box on the wall. You huff as you pull out your phone, looking into the screens dark reflection at the mess of blood on your face.
You frown as you gently prod the yellow bruise already blooming along the side of your nose. Broken blood vessels and a deep purple bruise were also evident along the hollow of your under eye. And your lip-
You'd cringe but it hurt too much to move your lip. To smile even.
“Hey,” Frank says as he rolls a chair closer to you, gauze and a needle kit in his hand. “Don’t look at it. It’s not gonna help.”
You sigh, letting Frank turn your head as he sits, his blue eyes carefully inspecting the damage again.
“I don’t know what I was thinking. I shouldn’t have gone in there alone. I knew something was up, knew…” you trail off, swallowing thickly. Frank looks at you, for once just listening.
Not that he didn’t listen to you regularly; of course he did. You were his wife after all. One of the rare people he spared from his incessant teasing and strange nicknames.
You continue, “I should have had you come with me. Or Princess. Maybe she would have known how to have handled it better.”
“You did what you could,” Frank takes a wet towel and cleans the wound on your lip, apologizing when you flinch. “You got her help as quick as you could. Hell, I think you would have tackled the man if you could.” You snort and Frank smiles.
“Yeah. I might have. If I knew Robby wouldn't kill me with the paperwork he’d have to fill out with HR.” Frank laughs, telling you to hold still as he dabs antiseptic and a numbing agent on your lip. You do, fingers digging into your scrub pants when he carefully places a stitch in your torn lip.
“It’s small. Real small. You probably don’t really need the stitch, but just in case.”
You watch his fingers as they work, pressing a small clear bandage over the stitch, the sticky thing feeling weird on your numbed skin. You catch the glint of his wedding ring, the sight still causing your heart to skip a beat after all these years.
“Okay," Frank huffs, throwing his balled up gloves across the room and into the trash. "You know the drill, no touching your lip or rubbing or lipgloss-anything like that til it’s healed and the stitch dissolves.” You frown. He cocks his head, an amused smile on his face. “What?”
“So... no kissing?” He clicks his tongue, shrugging.
"Unfortunately no. think you can handle 48 hours without this?" He gestures to himself. You kick his shin lightly, eliciting a laugh from him as he rolls away, moving to wash his hands.
"You're the worst."
"Hey, you're the one who agreed to marry me. I thought you knew what you were signing up for."
You laugh, wincing with how tender your face still was. Frank looks over at you as he dries his hands, making sure you were okay. You look down at your hands, trying to ignore the slight flush on your cheeks.
"I just... maybe I'm regretting not kissing you earlier."
You glance up, Frank's eyebrows raised with a 'told you so' grin spreading across his face.
“Oh you do?”
Oh, you already regretted saying that.
“Okay-”
“I knew you were barley resisting me.”
“Oh my gosh, Princess was right,” You roll your eyes as Frank laughs, hiding behind your hands.
“My poor wife needs a kiss. Here, I’ll give you one. Let me kiss it better-”
“Frank!” you give him a look as he crouches in front of you, carefully moving your hands away from your face. “But I shouldn’t-”
He hushes you, cupping your jaw and pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your lip, avoiding the dark bruise forming and the stitch. You hum, leaning into his touch as he presses his lips softly against the bridge of your nose and your bruised eye. Your foreheads press together, resting gently against each other.
A rare calm in the emergency room. Under other circumstances you'd find it quite romantic.
Frank rests his hand on your thigh, rubbing a comforting circle with his thumb. “You sure you’re okay?” You nod.
“Always when you’re here.”
"Kay good. Cause Princess owes me twenty and I intend to collect." You hum.
"You better buy me a coffee later Doc." He stands, arms open with defensiveness.
"Don't I always treat you with my winnings?" You snort.
"Yes-"
"Alrighty then. Coffee in the AM. I don't think anyone's selling coffee after ten." You laugh, letting Frank pull you up out of the chair.
"It's a date."
He hums, hands resting on your waist for a moment too long.
"I love you."
You grin, standing on your tiptoes and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Frank smiles, thumb brushing against the fabric of your scrubs. You whisper it back, hand resting on his bicep.
"Love you too."
A throat clears from the entrance of the break room and the two of you freeze. You turn, looking back as Dr. Robby hangs in the doorway, an amused smile on his face.
"Everything alright in here?"
"Uh, yeah." Frank nods, patting your back and taking a step to the side.
"Yup. All good now."
"You sure?" You nod.
"Yeah. I'm fine. We'll be out there in a second."
"Okay," Robby says in a sing song voice. "Just don't do anything that'll make me have to call HR on the two of you again."
Frank rolls his eyes, already marching out of the room after Robby.
"That was one time. And it wasn't even that bad-"
"The two of you were in a storage closet."
"We were newly married-"
"God, that argument still doesn't help your case."
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