Ven

20🕯 won't apologise for my reblogs😶‍🌫️

[venis-stuff]

in desperate search for a parkner fic

Tony told Peter that he wanted him to meet someone (Harley) but Peter misunderstood and thought Tony was talking about the VEHICLE. A HARLEY. and he walks into the lab saying something like;

"omg mr stark you need to let me ride the harley"

and then realises. harley is a person. it's funny and awkward. help me FIND IT PLEASE>?!

[sufferingbooknerd]

Joel and Ellie’s home btw…

This is what Ellie, a child who grew up in an orphanage/millitary school before meeting Joel, was able to call home…

Joel finding or making an E for Ellie’s room? How just from a set design perspective you can tell Joel made such an effort for this house to be theirs 😭

[bigtiddythanos]

(i wish i was) bruiseless 🌹 (john walker x reader)

part 2 of civilian life 🎖️

summary: when some of the thunderbolts get bored and nosy about where bucky spends his evenings away from the watchtower, fate just so happens to lead walker right back to you.

warnings: hurt/comfort, brief depiction of self harm, violence & mild gore (john hurts himself in a dream but Not In The Way You Think, reader discretion advised!), more tooth rotting fluff, secrets revealed, cringe wingmanning from the other thunderbolts (mainly alexei but hey at least he's trying okay), reader is now canonically from texas and bisexual (sorry not sorry), deeply sad blip-related lore drops, classic trauma bonding for john & reader

words: 15.5k

a/n: *david lynch voice* AND IF YOU CAN BELIEVE IT!!! IT IS WALKER WEDNESDAY ONCE AGAIN!!! also, oh my god?? an actual update to a series??? WRITTEN IN A DECENT AMOUNT OF TIME???? anyways, please enjoy this juicy addition to what is now officially the civ life series!! i hope i can keep this steam up bc the ideas i have for this are so exciting, but also MAN superman sure is calling my name as a muse lowkey...but hey, why not both at the same time, am i right fellas? 😏 (also for my tumblr readers, i apologize for the formatting on the texting portions, but they're short n sweet so it shouldn't be that big of an issue hopefully ;w; feel free to hop over to ao3 for better formatting lol)

playlist album pairing 🍷: my soft machine by arlo parks ❤️‍🩹 (had this on repeat while i was writing the bulk of this chapter and its such a beautiful and poetic piece of art to listen to fr)

click here to read on ao3!

If there was one thing that was irritating about chronic nightmares, it was the inconsistency of it all that Walker hated the most. At least if he had the same dream haunting him over and over, maybe he could remember it more clearly and really think about what it meant. Start really making progress towards his own healing in some way, any way really. 

But as he wanders through the blank and labyrinthian halls of his dreams tonight, he might've wished that he wasn't so stupid to ask for it.

It takes him a minute to register the smaller things - the color of the wall changing, the various blurred photos and decorations hanging nearby, the layout of the doors and the wood grain in the floor.  As he steps into the next room, it feels like a rock sinks into the pit of his stomach as he realizes he's watching himself from the outside again, back in his own lackluster recreation of the first shame room he stumbled into in the Void.

"You don't like the way that I do it, then you can do it yourself, 'kay?"

He watches as he towers over his wife, storming out of the room to leave her and their son in the fallout of his selfish rage. He can't stand it, being practically shoved into the metaphorical mirror, the shallowness of his actions cutting deep like broken glass from it. His hands tighten into fists, brushing past Olivia and his son as he begins to go after himself.

"Hey, asshole!"

He calls out not knowing if he'd get some kind of response, but to his miserable surprise, the memory of him actually stops in his tracks, slowly looking back over his shoulder at John. He swallows back against a lump forming in his throat, straightening up as he stands in the doorway, hand hovering over his gun. "Don't. Fucking. Move."

The phantom in front of him chuckles, turning around and raising his hands to face John head on. "Oh, so we're some sort of good guy now huh, here to swoop in and save the day?" He throws back, the venom in his voice practically reverberating through the room. "That's rich, coming from you."

"Shut up." John growls, putting a hand on his gun despite the slight tremor moving through his arm. "You don't get to talk to my family like that."

"But we already did, dumbass." The shadowy reflection of him scoffs, John almost wincing at the sheer entitlement racking every word. "What do you think this is, a time machine? Some magical wizard shit that can just turn back the clock and fix all your problems, right all your wrongs?" He laughs, John's eyes stinging with the formation of furious tears, his jaw practically locked in place, the noise of his grinding teeth reverberating in his own skull. "This is more than just your punishment - our punishment. This is who. We. Are."

"Fuck you." John's breath is uneasy as his grit-fueled reply cuts through the air like a knife, pulling out his gun and cocking back the hammer with no remorse left in his heart. "We're- I'm better than this now. I'm not like this anymore. I'm-"

"A fuck up? A bad soldier? A man who can't put down his pride for anyone, for anything, for even a single god damn second of his worthless fucking life?"

The silence that falls between them is deafening, but short lived - his son's cry from the next room hits him like a sonic strike to his heart, Olivia's gentle cooing easily drowned out by it as she sweeps him into her arms.

"...I'll tell you what I am." John swallows, his voice cracking as he answers. "I'm a god damn hero."

John moves to strike his reflection with the butt of his gun, but he easily steps out of the way, an eerily cocky grin plastered on his face. He looks him up and down, grabbing John's wrist on his next swing and holding the gun in place before he can react.

"Go ahead, try it. See what happens." The shadow goads, smiling coyly as he presses his forehead against the barrel of the gun. "I know you've been itchin' to do it anyways."

Walker was no stranger to being on both sides of the gun in nearly an endless myriad of scenarios, but for the first time in a long time, he hesitated as his finger hovered over the trigger. To his own horror though, John somehow feels the shot long before he even thinks of taking it.

A muffled silence rings in his ears, the world growing muted in color and sound as he starts stumbling back, feeling something small and hard and fast burrowing through the front of his own head. As he collapses, falling in slow motion as his back hits the floor, he feels every violent, painful millimeter as it propels itself through the relatively thin wall of his skull, through the flesh and fluids of his brain. He feels the room begin to shrink into shadow, his vision blurring and his panicked heart rate stumbling to a slow thud, he gives into two words that stumble across his mind.

…Fucking finally.

John wakes with a start, bolting upright as he looks around frantically, hands quickly running from the back of his skull to his forehead, wiping away what was thankfully just sweat. He tries to calm his shaky breaths with deeper ones, steadying himself as he leans forward, holding his face in his hands. His head throbs for a moment, another fragment of the nightmare still clinging to his conscious mind. 

He was still in his lonely bachelor pad of an apartment, but in the last few days had finally made some headway in packing some things away to move over to the Watchtower. It was still a hot mess, but it looked less so when half of it was all shoved away haphazardly in boxes he was sure to unpack later on. Before he knew it, a week had flown by since your fateful meeting without too much thought, or at least without the room to have one in his busy schedule. Nonstop mandatory media training sessions, press conferences, fittings for his shiny 'New Avengers' look that honestly wasn't that different to begin with, even handshakes with government officials he knew were more than happy back when he was stripped of his rank and title, grimacing through standard procedures and appearances to just get it all over with. He didn't just tolerate it, he fucking despised it, getting a creeping deja vu from all the showponying he did as the ‘official’ Captain America. It almost made him wonder, was this all he was meant to be, some awful fate he was just cruelly resigned to, or worse, destined for? Was he meant to exist only to be a perfectly polished government pawn, doing their dirty work and only ever getting the short end of the stick?

Through deep breaths, he tries to bring himself back like pulling a suture taught, closing the wound best he could to deal with it some other time. With another sleepless night clearly fated for him, he contemplates going on another jog before remembering something. 

He grabs his phone off the nightstand, the screen nearly flashbanging him before he was able to turn down the brightness, blinking blearily as he navigated to his contacts app. He hadn't contacted you since that day, not because he didn't want to necessarily, but because a) he was just too damn busy, and b) he wasn't even sure of what to say to you. He didn't know why he wasn't sure, because surely a simple 'Hey' or something would suffice…right?

John spends a few moments staring at the screen, typing and deleting a few different cold opens before finally hitting send.

3:24 AM

> Hey

> It’s John 

> From the mugging thing

His face scrunches at the sheer awkwardness of the last line, and decides to clarify:

> Not the guy who mugged you, the guy who beat the shit out of them

He takes a beat to blink, then groans, holding his phone against his forehead.

"Jesus, what the fuck am I doing?" He mutters under his breath, slapping his phone screen-side down on the nightstand in regret before hiding his face in his hands again. 

Instead of just waiting around like a nervous teen waiting for a call on the family landline, John decides that he'd actually use this time wisely to get ready for the jog he was inevitably going to need. Maybe he'd just leave his phone entirely behind, or throw it into some kind of lock box or even under the mattress for fucks sake, just to get away from the childish embarrassment setting fire to his face as he got ready for the day. 

He decides to slip on an olive green Army branded sweatshirt over one of his gym shirts and basic gray sweatpants, and as he heads to the bathroom to clean himself up a bit, his phone buzzes on the nightstand and clatters to the floor from the sudden movement. He lets out a quick "Ah shit-" before hurriedly walking back over, snatching his phone off the ground before seeing his newest notifications.

3:34 AM

well well well 😏 <

i was wondering when you were gonna text me! <

sorry it took me so long to reply, just got home from a shift actually <

Ah, makes sense. He nods to himself as he types up his response.

> No worries. Sorry it took me so long to reach out.

> Do you always work this late?

it depends if im a closer or not tbh, but usually i am for the extra cash <

gotta love new york prices lmao <

He chuckles, but as he's about to type up a somewhat witty response, you hit him with a question he wasn't expecting to try and answer this early in the morning.

…actually, i meant to ask: what do you do for work anyway? <

He sucks in a deep breath through his teeth, puffing it out as he tries his best to think on his feet. Is now really the time to tell them that he's an Avenger for crying out loud? Would they even believe him if he did?

He sighs, typing out an extremely simplified answer that would hopefully keep his cover up believable for now.

> It's…complicated

> Let's just call it a security gig

oooooh, is it all secret and n stuff? <

orrrrrr maybe you're actually the little fbi agent lurking in my phone tracking my every move 👀 <

He chuckles to himself, sitting down on his bed as he decides to play into it.

> That's classified

I KNEW IT <

jk jk, but fair enough. <

so, what finally gotchu to text me then? <

Now that was the million dollar question buzzing in Walker's mind, really. He looks away from his phone for a moment, pressing his lips into a fine line - why did he text you? He honestly probably could've reached out to any of the other Thunderbolts, but even if they responded, he wasn't sure exactly how helpful they would be. It surely wasn't because, even in just the past few days, the thought of you and the sunrise you both sat through had been lingering in his mind for reasons he couldn't quite explain. The way your smile beamed against the shining sun and gradient of colors spreading across the horizon, the way you laughed like you always just heard the funniest thing in the world, the way you looked at him like he wasn't the complete disgrace of a man he thought he was…

> You said to text if I needed a jogging buddy

> So

wow man <

really turning up the charm at this hour huh <

> Oh shut up

LOL <

normally id love to, but this shift really knocked me out tonight tbh 😭<

i had to slice so much god damn citrus, i never want to see a lemon again in my entire life <

> Fair enough

> I'll let you get some sleep then

Walker almost resigns the idea of seeing you again completely for the evening, slipping on his socks and lacing up his shoes before he hears his phone buzz a few times again.

wait!! <

i may not be in the mood now but…if you wanted to swing by the bar later in the day? <

im working another shift and i might actually get out at a decent hour for once <

A pause, and while Walker thinks of how to reply, another message follows faster than he expected:

unless ofc its totally not your scene, we can always jog another time or something <

He can't help but smile, imagining you skiddishly typing out another message like how you nervously ran your mouth when you spoke a little too off the dome. Much to his own surprise though as he stares down his own keyboard, Walker swallows back a lump nervously gathering in his throat. He begins to type something, then deletes it, rephrasing it, feeling good enough to hit send after a minute or two of consideration that was probably far too serious for such a simple series of texts.

> No, I'd love to swing by I've been meaning to come by anyways

> Could use the drink too lol

> Would around 8 or 9 be a good time to stop by?

that would be great! might be a bit busy but im legally entitled to a break or two <

i can pencil you in for my lunch break lol <

> Don't you mean dinner break?

yeah yeah whatever man, time is a social construct anyways <

ill see you tonight!! <

or, tomorrow, i guess? <

oh and have a good jog, don't get mugged 👍<

> I'll try my best

> Now go get some shut eye

Walker smiles to himself as he slides his phone back into his pocket, his head feeling a bit clearer and his heart a bit lighter as he heads out the door of his apartment and into the city, jogging out into the night.

As Walker goes about his day at the Watchtower, he really only has two things on his mind: he wonders if all this nonsense really was better or worse than the press he had to do as Captain America, and he hopes you were getting enough rest as he mulled over your mildly insane working hours in his head. Honestly, it was the only thing that kept him itching for his phone since he knew you were asleep, but he still couldn't help but feel weirdly nervous about this whole thing. It wasn't like he didn't have friends…okay, maybe he didn't have a lot of friends, but can you blame the guy? He wasn't entirely new to the area, but living in such a massive city plus being a famously infamous superhero didn't mean friends came easily. Technically the Thunderbolts were sort of his friends, all trauma bonded together whether he liked it or not, but he could only handle so much of them - especially when he was practically locked in a room with them 24/7 for this whole New Avengers marketing escapade.

When a marketing specialist rambled on for a bit too long in today's media training, or when he was waiting in the wings of some promotional photoshoot for God knows what, his mind couldn't help but wonder how he'd tackle seeing you again, working out some lines to fall back on in his head. "Nice to see you're still in one piece." "I'll be sure to savor every sip of this thank you beer, trust me." "So, how's not getting mugged been?"

It was only when Yelena or some other member of the Avengers nudged his shoulder that he snapped back to attention, nodding with a passable smile and trying his best to listen before his thoughts started drifting all over again.

As the day winded down, John was finally able to slip out of his tactical gear, freshening up in his room and coming back out to the main hub in some pretty basic civilian clothes - a long sleeved dark blue henley, some dark jeans and some Chelsea boots, carrying a tan jacket over his arm for the brisker evening weather. The rest of the Thunderbolts were just as if not more comfortable, especially since most of them had now fully moved into the Watchtower despite the remaining renovations that needed to be completed. He couldn't blame then really, especially when the place was giving them a break from paying New York levels of rent.

John looks around the room and is about to head off towards your bar, but he notices something - or rather, the lack of it. 

"Where's Bucky?"

"Oh, he left like, 10 minutes ago I think?" Bob pipes up from his chair near the window. Despite not being roped into all the press work they were doing, due to the unsure status of his powers, he was still sticking around the tower so they could keep a watchful eye on him.

Alexei hums curiously from behind the bar, picking out a liquor to wind down with for the day. "That is the third time this week he's left early." He turns toward the large bench like couch where Yelena and Ava were lounging. "He never tells us where he goes either, is it not mysterious? I mean, I get he is Winter Soldier, disappearing is impressive skill he has, but…still."

"Well, it's probably better that we have lives outside of all this anyways." John pipes up, gesturing vaguely around the room. "It'd be a good idea to take a page out of his book."

"Says the guy who barely leaves the Tower to begin with." Ava jabs back. "You get here at ungodly hours in the morning, and you're usually the last to leave." She makes herself more comfortable on the couch, clearly trying to catch a peek at the tablet Yelena was holding. Yelena gently nudges her away, scooting over like a child working on a secret project on the playground. Ava just shrugs, going back to minding her business like always.

"We should just leave Bucky be," Walker clarifies, "That's all I'm saying."

"He's right." Yelena agrees, throwing what looked like a map from the screen of her tablet onto a larger monitor nearby. "It’s not like he’s on some secret mission anyways. He's just heading south towards East Village."

Everyone's eyes turn to the screen, practically hypnotized as a little red blip was slowly moving over what most of them recognized as a subway track, one that seemed to lead straight to where Yelena said he was going. 

"...What?" Yelena asks, feeling everyone's eyes drill into her as she looks up from her screen. "I figured out a way to track his phone, so we can see where he goes."

Walker blinks. "I'm sorry, how long have you been able to do this?"

"As of…two minutes ago, since I finally figured out how to breach the signal on his phone." She admits with a shrug. "He has that thing locked up tight."

“Doesn't that mean we shouldn't be actively tracking his location?" Walker argues. "If he finds out-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, but I just got bored during all of those meetings, you know." Yelena shrugs off, waving away John's worries with her hand. "I had to do something useful with my time."

"Lena, my sweet úmnička!" Alexei moves towards her to try and give her a bear hug, but she holds up a hand to stop his advances. He pauses, nods and claps his hands together with gusto. "Come on Bob, we are going right now!" 

Yelena rolls her eyes. "Alexei, the whole reason I bugged him was for the exact opposite reason, now we can just see where he goes from here." 

"See?" Walker points out. "Besides, I think he wants to be alone, Alexei."

"But we are team! We can not just let ourselves isolate like this." Alexei defends rather innocently, straightening up as his voice booms a bit louder. "I am going after him. Who is with me?!"

Bob looks around the room before raising his hand slowly. "I mean, I've got nothing better to do-"

"No, no," John protests, pointing to Bob while actively stepping in Alexei's path, "You guys are not following Bucky-"

"What is all this talk of following, ah? We just want to see where he goes, not track his every move."

"That's what following is, Alexei."

"I mean," Bob pipes up, "Aren't you curious though Walker? Even just a little bit?"

John's jaw tightens, lips pressing into a fine line as he watches the dot moving across the screen again. It looked like they were going to head towards where he needed to be anyways, so, in the worst case scenario, he can easily dip out of their silly escapade and try to find his way back to the bar you told him you worked at.

"...Fine." John concedes. "But the minute we find out where he goes, we leave and separate like nothing happened." He starts turning towards the elevator, but turns back - "And not a word of this gets to Bucky, or I'm telling him about the tracker first thing tomorrow."

"So much for being a team." Yelena mutters under her breath.

"Just because you worked for the government doesn't mean you have to be a rotten snitch, Walker." Ava calls out.

"Wh- I am not-" John groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We ALL work for the government now, you realize that, right?"

"Well, yeah, but you've worked for them the longest, Mr. 'Official Captain America'."

Alexei pulls his hand across his lips, then raises it like a boy scout taking an oath. "My lips are sealed Captain, I promise."

John groans again as he gets a not-so reassuring pat on the shoulder from Alexei, letting the newly formed dynamic duo of him and Bob walk past as they make their way to the elevator. 

John shoots a glance towards Yelena and Ava on the nearby couch. "Did I mention that I hate you guys? Like, so much."

"Love you too, Walker." Yelena jabs without looking up from her screen, both her and Ava teasingly waving him off as John reluctantly turns to follow. "Have fun with babysitting duty!"

John manages to squeeze into the elevator doors just before they close, sandwiching his broad shoulders between an excited Alexei and a contented Bob. As the doors slide shut and they begin their descent to street level, Alexei is practically beaming, his gold tooth shining like his soul in the warmer lighting. "This is going to be great adventure, ah?" He gasps, grasping both John and Bob by the shoulder and turning them to face him. "This is boys night now! What is that phrase they use online so much - 'just guys being dudes', ah?" He laughs gleefully, and Bob chuckles lightly at his infectious enthusiasm, while John looks back towards the doors with a dead-eyed stare. "This will be a night for the history books, you will see."

As they make their way to ground level and start walking out of the building, John trying to keep pace with Alexei and Bob to not let them out of his sight, he trails just behind him as he pulls out his phone to shoot you a text, just in case.

> Might be running a little late. 

> Something came up at work, but I'm doing my best to get it sorted.

When he looks up, he finds them descending into a nearby subway entrance, and he makes his best effort to catch up to them before they get too far ahead. Together they weave through crowds of nightly commuters and casual travelers, cramming themselves onto the next train that would take them where they needed to go. Bob and Alexei somehow got seats, leaving John to stand across from them, grasping onto a subway strap to keep his leverage - he still wasn't quite used to the lurching of the trains, despite how long he’d been in New York at this point. 

As he's standing, making sure he wasn't gripping the strap too hard given his super strength, he feels his phone buzz in his back pocket. He figured it would take a bit for you to reply since you were working anyways, but he can't help but smile a little as he pulls out his phone to read your texts.

no worries! thanks for the heads up :) <

its actually little slower tonight so no stress on beating someone to a bar seat <

or, beating someone out of one, lol <

He chuckles, and while it's hard to hear over the ambiance of the train speeding through the underground, John looks up from putting his phone away to see Bob looking at him quizzically.

"What?" John prods. "Too late to back out now, if that's what you're thinking."

Bob opens his mouth to speak, but slowly shuts it as he shifts a bit in his seat. "...Nothing." Bob replies, looking away and shrugging.

John scoffs. "That's what I thought."

It was a surprisingly slow night at The Library, but given it was a weekday you don't mind in the slightest as you tend to some of your regulars with relative ease. The bar was stocked, the drinks were flowing, and the music was decently picked out via the fancy touchscreen 'jukebox' the place had recently upgraded to. Despite the more chill atmosphere though, it didn't stop your heart from skipping a beat nearly every time someone opened the door to the bar, the little jingling of the entry bell setting your stomach ablaze with each tinny ding. 

You knew that John wasn't coming right when he said he would thanks to his text, but still, you couldn’t help but be just a little bit nervous about tonight. You also couldn’t help how his handsome mug had started to permeate your thoughts more and more the longer he went without shooting you a text. In the days since your exciting rescue, you were simultaneously having dreams about your sweat suit savior while also letting your worst assumptions take hold as to why he hadn't contacted you yet. Had you prodded too much into his divorce? Did he realize that you were too eager or too excitable for his morning jogs? Was he whisked away by those same muggers who might've been a part of a bigger criminal ring in NYC? The more unfortunate possibilities were almost endless, or at least seemed like it according to your admittedly overactive imagination.

It wasn't until he texted you out of the blue just as you were closing down the bar last night that your fears were finally vanquished, your heart nearly bursting from your chest when you saw the notification. You made sure to get your closing work done before giddily replying on your commute home, grinning all the way back to your door to get the best sleep of your damn life. Now though, as you watched the clock tick down to around the time you thought he’d arrive, you almost wondered if you made a mistake, or worse-

"You expecting someone?"

The Winter Soldier's voice pulls you from your anxious thoughts like a camera lens shifting focus, causing you to clear your throat as you reach for your bottle opener. You were cracking open a cold beer for one of favorite and probably most famous regulars at the bar, his signature metal arm covertly hidden by his leather jacket and a simple leather glove. You joked once that he was stealing his look from Luke Skywalker, but upon realizing he didn't know who that was, you added it to your running mental list of References That Bucky Won't Understand, But Should.

"Other than you? For once, yeah." You quip with a smile. "There's a cute guy I met who said he was gonna stop by tonight, so I'm a little antsy I guess." You look Bucky up and down. "You think it'd get easier as you get older, right?"

He replies with a simple shrug. "Who's to say?"

"Gee, I wonder." You dryly crack back, but your face immediately lights up. "Oh! Guess what I remembered today?" You ask with a smile as you push the freshly cracked bottle towards him. 

Bucky gives you a look. "That it's my birthday?"

You roll your eyes. "Nice try, but that does weirdly factor into what I was gonna tell you."

Bucky's face sours for a moment. "How the hell does my birthday factor into anything?"

You smile, opening up something on your phone before handing it to him. "Remember how I told you I had to drop out of school because of the Blip?"

He nods, hesitating to look at the screen. "Yeah, and?"

You nod toward your phone. "That was the last essay I wrote before everything went to shit."

He looks down at your screen, squinting slightly as he reads what looked like the title page of a document aloud to himself. "...Governing The Ungovernable: An Argument Against the Sokovia Accords."

You practically beam with fondness over your own admittedly well-written title. "I wrote that paper in one of my history classes, and since you were unintentionally a key part of that legislation, I ended up writing a little about you."

Bucky scrolls through the document a bit before looking back up at you. "Ten pages?"

You shrug. "The minimum was…six, I think? But when your history professor asks for receipts of how the government sucks at taking care of its people, I'm more than happy to provide." You look off into the distance for a moment. "Probably why he gave me a B-, fuckin' asshole."

"So, does this mean you think superheroes take better care of people than elected officials?"

"Not exactly, but seeing as your tenure as a congressman lasted as long as my last relationship, I think you know damn well that there's some rightful nuance to that argument."

Bucky sighs, resigning to taking a sip of his beer before handing your phone back. "Touché."

You catch the small clattered ring from the bell hanging above the bar door, hearing a small bit of conversation as a gaggle of heavier footsteps followed. "C'mon guys, this is like, the fifth place we've checked, we should just-"

You wipe off your hands on your bar towel and turn to greet the newcomers, but stop in your tracks when you recognize a familiar head of tousled reddish-blonde hair. Your grin grows wider as your heart soars in your chest, but it falters slightly with curiosity as you notice there were two other ruggedly handsome strangers with him. 

“Well howdy stranger!” You call out from the bar, that familiar face swerving on his heel to see your curious smile. “Figured I’d run into you eventually.”

You notice one of his friends, a large man taking up 90% of the doorframe, looks at John, then at you, then back at John. "You know this beautiful creature Walker?"

"What?!" John deflects, turning to face his friend. "No! I mean, yes, but-"

"Do you know them or do you not? It is simple question, really."

"Uh, guys-" The slightly shorter brunette interjects, nudging the big guy and nodding to something just over John's shoulder. Of course, they all see Bucky staring absolute daggers into them like a disappointed father, but he turns back to you when he realizes something.

"Wait, how do you know those guys?"

"Huh? Oh, I don't know all of them, just the cute blondie in the front - he's the one I was waiting on." You lean over and mention with a grin, looking over and vaguely gesturing to John. "He's also the guy that beat the shit out of those muggers I told you about a few days ago."

Bucky's brow crinkles. "That guy?" He unsubtly points to John. "That guy's the one that saved you? The asshole 'on your left' guy?"

"Yeah?" You answer, but the snoop inside you picks up on the slight concern in his tone. "Do you know those guys?"

Before he can answer, a large hand seemingly appears out of nowhere and clasps Bucky's shoulder, the small group of men having made their way across the room to you. "There you are, Winter Soldier!" He cheers, and you swear if it wasn't for the visible tattoos, vivid Russian accent and being about 20 years too young, the guy would probably make a decently convincing mall Santa. "Drinking alone without your friends, ah?"

John and the other mystery man scooch in a bit closer, John giving you a small nod though notably avoiding your gaze as he reaches for the larger man's arm. "Alexei, c'mon, let's just go-"

"Who are your friends?" You interject with a smile, keeping your eyes set on John.

"Oh, they're not-"

"You do not know who we are?" The redwood tree of a man apparently named Alexei is quick to chime in, and you can see the palpable regret coalesce on John's face.

You give Alexei a once over, tilting your head in slight confusion. "...Should I?"

"'Should I-', are you hearing this nonsense?" He asks John as he lightly taps his shoulder, Bucky resigning himself to silently hold his forehead in his hand. 

"These are my…" He clears his throat, wondering if he can save even a scrap of his short-lived anonymity. "Coworkers, you could say."

"COWORKERS?" Alexei exclaims, turning a few heads as his brashness cuts through the mellow ambiance of the bar. "We are more than 'coworkers', we are teammates! Brothers in arms, valiant warriors on the front line of justice!"

Your brow scrunches significantly, looking over at John for some kind of reassurance that this was just an act of some kind, but he's too busy hiding his face in his hands, leaning on them with his elbows supporting him on the bar top. Your gaze shifts over to Bucky, and you jab a thumb in Alexei's direction. "Is he being for real right now?"

Bucky sighs, lifting his head and meeting your eyes, his gaze as flat as a sheet of paper and his tone as dead as a doornail. He introduces you to them, stating your name before gesturing with his concealed metal hand, "Meet Earth's new mightiest heroes. Or, most of them, at least."

Your eyes go wide, almost too wide, watching as Alexei strikes a proud superhero pose, and the shy brunette gives you a little wave. You blink, then stifle a laugh, only for it to start spilling out of you like water from a hose. You nearly have to take a knee behind the bar to catch yourself, not laughing at them necessarily, but just at the absolute absurdity of it all. "Wait...You guys are the Avengers?"

"YES!" Alexei declares like it was the first right thing you've said all day, seeming to take your laughing fit as a nervous reaction while extending his hand to you. "The Red Guardian, at your service."

You nod slowly, taking his hand and shaking it firmly. In your avoidance of the news recently, or at least news involving that piece of shit of a CIA director that you hated, you'd only heard bits and pieces about this whole New Avengers initiative. You knew it was a wildcard thrown out in the aftermath of the blackout from nearly a month ago, and Bucky just happened to become a more frequent regular than in his newbie congressman days as of a few weeks ago, remembering he offhandedly mentioned that he’d just 'moved back to the area.’

You take a breath, biting your lip as you try to pull scraps of headlines from your memory. "Okay, so you're obviously the Winter Soldier," You sort out, pointing towards Bucky, "And if you're the big Russian guy-"

"The Red Guardian."

"Right, sorry." You sweep your point to the left, easing to a halt on Bob and John. "What does that make you guys?"

"O-oh, I'm Bob." The cute brunette introduces himself as he half-raises his hand. "I-I'm not really part of the team, but, uh, I'm with them."

You nod slowly, turning your gaze towards John, who was just finally starting to come out of his shell as his hands dropped from his face and onto the counter. "So, that means…"

John swallows. "Uh…I'm-"

"Oh for crying out loud, he is John Walker!" Alexei exclaims, grabbing John by the shoulders and shaking him encouragingly. "The Official Captain America?"

The boisterous announcement actually turns a few more heads at the bar, though certainly with more faces of what could be closest to confusion, or maybe even disgust. For the first time in a long time, John wishes he could be like Ghost and just vanish into thin air without anyone noticing, even if it was just for a minute.

"...It's U.S. Agent, actually." He clarifies, clearing his throat as he straightens himself up, but the bright red in his cheeks gives him away clear as day. "But, yes. I was," He throws a cutting glance towards Alexei before his eyes found you again to finish his half-introduction, half-confession, "The official Captain America…briefly."

You slowly nod, pressing your lips into a fine line as you take in that absolute assload of information. John swears he feels phantom sweat start to bead on his forehead as you give him a once over, feeling like someone looking between his likeness and a god damn wanted poster. His stomach starts to churn. What did you already know about him, now that you know who he is? How much did you see when it all happened? Even though it was just a few years ago now, it felt far more like the morning news than ancient history for John.

Surprisingly though, you start to smile, acting like a radiant beam to banish his swelling anxieties as you look back over towards Bucky. "So that makes me, what, the official bartender of the Avengers now?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself." Bucky warns with a finger wag, but you can tell he's somewhat relieved as his shoulders drop slightly. "Though sometimes I do wish you were behind our bar back at HQ." You can't help but beam at his soft spot for you, but Bucky puts up a pointed finger. "Sometimes."

"First of all, thanks for choosing this little hole in the wall instead of whatever weird luxury bar you have at your fancy shmancy headquarters." You note with a smile. "Second, shucks, I'm sure the boss would let you borrow me for an evening or two. Hell, I'd probably have to stop him from plastering the fact all over the the fuckin' windows."

"Exactly." Bucky agrees. "So I'm not gonna do that."

You shrug, turning back to the so-called New Avengers now standing across from your bar. "Well, since you're here, I might as well do my damn job." You clear your throat, wiping down the bar with the towel before tossing it back to its rightful place on your shoulder. "Welcome to The Library. What can I get started for ya?"

The trio in front of you looks a bit baffled despite knowing exactly what type of establishment they just wandered into. Looking between themselves before looking back at you, Alexei is the first to speak. "What would you recommend?"

"Well, what do you usually like to drink?"

Alexei smiles, a gold tooth glinting in the light. "Only the finest Russian vodka."

Should've seen that one coming. "Well, we don't really have that, but we do have some of the finest vodka from my home state." You fish out a bottle of what almost looks like sour mix, but the label on the front of the bottle reveals it to be some lime-flavored Deep Eddy's. You pour out a shot into a fresh rocks glass, but when you look back at Alexei, you decide to make it a double on the fly, the pastel green liquor flowing with ease. You plop the glass down and nudge it towards the edge of the counter, nodding towards it. "See if that strikes your fancy."

Alexei grins wider somehow, taking the glass in his broad hand and throwing the liquor back like it was nothing. He lets out a refreshed 'ahh', turning the glass over in his hand before laughing heartily. "This is not vodka, no- this is juice! That is simply juice, I- let me see that."

He gestures for the bottle, and you shrug as you hand it to him, watching as he holds it to his face and squints to read the finer print of the alcohol content. After a moment, he looks back at you. "I will take the whole bottle."

You sputter out a laugh. "I appreciate the enthusiasm bud, but I'd need to ask my boss if that's okay. We don't exactly do bottle service here."

Alexei nods, placing the bottle back on the counter for you to put back behind the bar. "Very well. Let your boss man know there is no risk with me taking it - I could easily drink everyone in this establishment under the table in a matter of minutes."

"Sure bud." You reply dryly, but your smile was sincere as you take back the bottle and nod to the rest of the boys swarming your bar. "Make yourselves comfortable gents, I'll be right back."

You go down the bar to check on your other patrons, pouring a few refills and making some more drinks before walking back by to make your way to your boss in some hideaway office. Bob had taken the open seat next to Bucky, with John beside him and Alexei towering over from behind, seemingly content to stand.

Bucky is the first to break the blossoming awkward silence between the rest of the Avengers. "Alright, who did it?"

All three of them stare at Bucky blankly. "...Did what?" John asks, shifting in his seat.

His expression flattens. "Which one of you tracked me here."

Alexei and John break into respective nervous babbles of excuses before Bob's sincerity cuts through them - "Yelena did. She said she was able to crack your phone's signal, or, something."

Bucky raises a hand to gesture to Bob. "See, was that so hard?" Bucky asks. "Now, my next question-" He pointedly turns to stare right at John, "How the hell do you know my bartender, Walker?"

"I was wondering same thing!" Alexei points out, "The minute we walk into this place he acts like blushing bride from movie or something."

"Jesus- They're just an acquaintance-"

"They seem more than acquaintance to me-"

"Oh, can it, Alexei!" John barks back, but he quickly sighs, patting Alexei's arm apologetically. "...I'm sorry, let me start over - I met them on a jog, okay?" He clarifies. "They were about to get mugged, so I beat up the guys that were gonna mug them, y'know, like an Avenger would, and we're…sort of jogging buddies now. Simple as that."

Alexei's brow furrows. "Is there specific way the Avengers beat up muggers?"'

"I usually just run like hell." Bob pipes up. "Works pretty good most of the time."

"No, I'm just saying that- Wait," He looks back at Alexei, "Have you had to beat up muggers? Like, recently?"

As they descend into their own annoying bickering, Bucky, like the old man he was, just sat back and watched as he nursed the rest of his still-cold beer. The world was definitely doomed with these schmucks as the Avengers, including himself.

"Good news boys!" You pipe up as you walk back to the bar, scattering their heated discussions to the wind. "Boss said I can give you a round on the house." You glance over at the self-proclaimed heroes sitting across your bar. "But this is a one time thing, alright? Don't expect to get free booze every time you save the world."

Alexei gestures to the bottle, and you puff out a laugh. "So, I already gave you your shot, but you can in fact keep the bottle, as long as you're willing to pay for it." You clarify, popping off the pourer before handing him the bottle, earning an eager fist pump from Alexei. "He caught a glimpse of you on the news and knew from the second he saw you that you could handle your liquor."

"Your boss is smart man." Alexei affirms with a grin.

You smile back, whipping out a fresh shot glass and turning towards Bob. "What about you cutie? Whatcha drinkin?"

Bob looked at you and blinked, looking around and behind him before realizing you were actually talking to him. "Oh! Uh," he clears his throat, glancing over at the wall of liquor behind you, "Tequila, please."

John's brow crinkled, leaning over to Bucky from behind Bob's chair while you were distracted. Cutie? He mouthed wordlessly, and Bucky just shrugged.

After salting the rim of Bob's glass and pouring the shot, you turn towards John with a smile. "And what about you handsome?"

John could feel the rest of the guy's eyes almost burn into him, an embarrassing flush starting to crawl up the back of his neck. "Uhm, whatever Bob's having."

"Can do." You reply with a cheeky smile, prepping and pouring another shot and dressing them both with limes before turning back to your favorite regular. "And for you, Mr. Barnes?"

Bucky hesitates, but with the help of some goading noises from Alexei, he just huffs as he pushes his now-finished beer bottle to the side. "Just a whiskey, neat, please." He requests. "You know damn well I'm too old for shots."

"Fair enough." You admit, pouring up a glass of Barnes' preferred whiskey before pulling out one last shot glass. "Hey, big guy! Mind pouring me a shot of that before you make out with the bottle?"

Alexei nods, rather sloppily but wholeheartedly pouring your own shot into your glass before taking the bottle back. You raise your tiny glass to the men in front of you, prompting them to do the same with their respective drinks of choice. 

"To friendship." You cheer, teasing Bucky with a glance and a smirk. He rolls his eyes, the rest of them repeating it back to you as you all tap the table with your glasses and shoot back your respective liquor, including Bucky despite his previous statement. This elicits a cheer from Alexei, moving to bear hug Bucky from behind as Bob laughs, scooting closer to them and thankfully giving you and John a scarce moment of semi-privacy.

"I go on my break in like, 10 minutes, if you still wanna talk." You lean over and mention softly with a gentle smile. "Don't worry about these guys, we can go sit at one of the tables or something."

John nods, popping his lime into his mouth to keep him from saying something stupid.

"Hey boys!" You suddenly speak up, moving over slightly to face the gaggle of men at the end of your bar. "Y'know, we have some pool tables in the back. I know some of our other regulars would love to face off against some fresh meat."

Alexei laughs, taking a swig from his newly-claimed bottle as he points at you. "I like you, bartender." He clasps Bob on the shoulder. "Come Bob, we must destroy these 'regulars' and show them how the Avengers play, ah?" Bob sheepishly laughs, nodding and starting to walk off, but not without giving you a little wave goodbye. Now it was just Bucky and John, a single empty bar stool separating the two.

"You really shouldn't have given him that bottle." Bucky pipes up.

You shrug. "Hey, one less bottle my boss has to tell me to push. Although, I would've liked to cook up a fun little cocktail on the menu next week with it." You look back over at John, giving him a once over before smiling. "Speaking of - you want anything else to sip on?"

John's lime was now discarded into his shot glass, pushing it towards you. "Yeah. Probably."

You can't help but laugh, taking some small steps towards him before leaning in closer, crossing your arms as you prop yourself against the bar. "Let me guess." Your eyes shamelessly rake up and down from the top of his head to the middle of his torso, partially to try and get a read on him, but also partially as an excuse to ogle - this was the first time you've seen him outside of some variation of sweats, after all, and he looked pretty damn good. "You seem like a Michelob guy, beer wise, or maybe Corona? Definitely a tequila guy for your liquor, although you also look like you'd enjoy a nice bourbon every once in a while, let's say…at least 6 years old?"

John chuckles. "Do you interrogate all your customers like this?"

"Only the ones I can read like a book." You tease with a growing smile. "Any of my shots hit?"

He tilts his head, pondering over your choices before looking back at you. "...Surprisingly, yeah."

You straighten up proudly, pumping your fists in excitement. "I knew it! God, I love it when I'm right."

John smiles, leaning a bit closer as he crosses his arms on the bar top. "Is it my turn to guess then?"

"Oh, you wish." You joke with a smile. "My preferences change, like, every week I work here practically. But there are a few favorites I tend to stick to."

"Hit me with one then." He suggests. "Can't go wrong with an expert opinion."

You can't help but grin a bit wider. "Okay, but don't laugh at me or make any silly faces while I'm making it." You note as you grab your trusty shakers. "You're in my house now, bud."

For the first time all evening, John starts to fully step into his smile, chuckling and grinning sheepishly as he watches you work. You pour some of your favorite bourbon and some Luxardo liqueur into your shaker, along with a small glug of a special bottle of simple syrup you were saving for a rainy day, some whole cinnamon sticks visible through the glass. You also dash in a bit of two separate bitters, an orange one and a maple one, then top it with ice before you slam the two tins together and start to shake it all up with one hand. "I'm usually a sweeter cocktail kinda person, but I feel like this will be more up your alley." You note as you separate the shakers with a sharp hit of your palm, removing the top and finding your strainer and a suitable vessel for your creation. You settle on a nice rocks glass, pouring out the amber-colored concoction into it with a bit of a flourish, raising your arm a little higher to help it aerate it one last time. You put down your shaker and rummage around your bar for a minute, finding your jar of Luxardo cherries and stabbing one onto a toothpick, balancing it on the edge of the glass before sliding it in front of John. "Bon appétit."

John raises his brows, giving you a small appreciative tilt of his head before taking the drink in his hand, eyeing it over. "You got a name for this thing?"

You hum as you start cleaning your shakers. "Not officially, but…" You ponder a few names that pop into your mind - Sultry Sundown, Bonfire Lover, Hot 'n Heavy - but you didn't want to come off too strong despite the amazing backlog of names. You figured those were the liquor speaking up while it was still settling in your gut. "How about, 'Better Than Fireball'?"

John laughs, and you grin like a damn fool as he raises his glass to you. "Cheers to that." He agrees with a smile, taking a small sip before looking it over again, licking his lips. "...Wow. That's-" He smiles, tilting the glass towards you but careful not to spill, "That's incredible."

"I know." You reply with a confident grin, beaming as you wipe your hands on the bar towel and put it down where it belongs behind the bar, your eyes floating to a nearby clock just over your esteemed guest's head. "Now, while you enjoy that, I'm gonna go grab some food and come back for my break. Just pick any table you fancy." You walk down the bar, checking in with your other patrons one last time before walking out from behind it, going to let your boss know that he had to man the fort for the next chunk of your shift - and ask if he wanted anything from the diner down the road too, of course.

John's practically grinning from ear to ear as he watches you walk away, only for his face to drop back to something less eager when he meets Bucky’s steely gaze. "...What?"

Bucky rolls his eyes, digging into his pocket and dropping a cool $50 on the counter, weighing it down with his now empty glass. "Tell 'em to put the bottle on my tab, and to keep the change." He says to John, rising from his seat and patting his shoulder before making his way out of the bar.

After making your way back with a bag of to-go containers in tow, you spot John's handsome mug now sitting at a lonesome little table in a more open area of the bar. He smiles and gives you a little wave as you pass to give your boss his share of food, and you thank whatever higher power above that you can brush off the burning in your cheeks to the cold cutting winds outside. Eventually you emerge from the back of the bar with your own small to-go box in hand, making your way back across the room as you plop down across from your handsome, official hero.

“So, you now have my legally obligated attention for the next-" You fish out your phone from your back pocket to check the time before sliding it back, "30-ish minutes?"

John’s brows raise as he smirks, almost like it’s a challenge. "I'll try and make it worth your while then."

You smile, and somehow have the will power to crack open your container and shove a fry in your mouth instead of saying,You already have just by showing up.

Instead, you just gesture to the humble box of fries beside you, pushing it a little closer to him. "Here, try some."

"No thanks." He graciously declines, still holding onto his drink from earlier that was now about half empty, but his brow furrows slightly. "Is that all you're gonna eat?"

"Probably." You say off hand, but when the concern on John's face is just detectable enough, you correct yourself. "Oh! Don't worry, I also had a really good protein shake from this smoothie place a few blocks over earlier. I appreciate the concern though."

You nudge the to-go container just a touch closer to him, but he holds up his hand, shoving it back to your side of the table. "Well, it's your 'legally obligated' dinner, so you should eat up while you can."

You smile, picking up a fry and waving it in front of him like an extension of your hand. "C'mon man, it's just one fry. I'm not gonna miss it." You can't help but smirk a little at another assumption that pops into your head - "Unless you're one of those dudes that lives off unseasoned chicken and broccoli for every meal to 'meet their macros' or whatever."

"What? No, God no, why the fuck would I do that to myself?"

You shrug. "I dunno. Some people cook for just straight efficiency I guess. Gotta give them at least a little props for sticking to it though."

"I guess so."

A small silence lingers between you two as you munch on your fries and he sips his drink, and you figure now is as good of a time as ever to ask the most uncomfortable question of the evening.

"So…that's what you meant by classified?" You ask. "The Avengers thing, I mean."

"…Yeah, guess you could say that." John quietly admitted. "I-I wasn't trying not to tell you, I just-"

"No, no, it's okay!" You immediately reassure. "I wouldn't throw that shit around lightly-" You pause, raising your brows to think about the prospect. "Okay, maybe in the rare instance of, like, getting a reservation somewhere fancy or something, but still, I get it. Or at least, I can try to understand it." You offer a kind smile, hoping to melt away any lingering anxieties he might've had about it. "No hard feelings, really."

"Oh…well, cool." He nods, then chuckles to himself. "Glad we got that out of the way."

"Mmm...Not quite," You hint, "I don't want to pry too much, but I'm still curious about a few things, if that's okay."

John surprisingly shrugs, likely figuring you'd have questions in the wake of all this scathingly new information. "Yeah, of course. Ask away."

Despite half expecting him to answer most of your questions with some form of 'That's classified' again, you purse your lips as your mind starts to wander into the details. "So, since you're a part of the Avengers, and are the Captain America guy from a few years ago, that also means that you're a super soldier, right?"

From the slight surprise on John's face, you weren't sure what kind of questions he was expecting off the bat, but he answers short and sweet despite the momentary shock. "Yep."

"Huh." Regardless of how your brain was still processing all the heavier implications of what that meant all at once, you suddenly have to hold back a laugh just trying to get your next sentence out. "Guess that explains why you can jump so high."

John can't help but sputter a laugh, and you quickly follow suit by letting your stifled one turn loose. "Yeah, that's…one of the perks for sure." He jokes with a smile.

You both laugh for a little bit, settling into the natural rhythm of your conversation much more easily now that it was just the two of you, even if you were still in a somewhat crowded bar with his friends lingering in the background. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I promise I'm taking this seriously. I just joke a lot to ease the tension, it's like a coping mechanism thing."

"Oh really?" He asks, but he says it like he already knew it.

"Shut up! Don't act like it's not helping anyways." You lightly throw back with a grin. "And I can guarantee that no one else in the history of the universe has ever thought, 'Oh, sick, a super soldier! That means he could probably jump super high! Let's get him to the NBA for fucks sake so the Nicks can finally win a championship!'"

John and you start laughing a bit harder. "I don't know how good I'd be on the Nicks," He admits, "But the Giants? Now that's fair game."

"Ah, so you're a football guy?"

He smirks and gestures to himself, and you can't help but smile as the swagger you caught a glimpse of during your rescue starts to naturally come back to him before your very eyes. "High school state football champ, back to back to back."

"Wow. Good to know you totally would've bullied the fuck out of me in high school then."

John frowns at your playful sucker punch. "I wasn't a bully, I was just…a sportier guy, y'know?"

"I don't mean you'd be a dick necessarily," You quickly correct, "Just that I probably would've bullied myself in high school, I was a super mega dork back then. Some might even say I still am."

"Well, if we're being honest," John admits with a more sheepish grin, "I used to collect Captain America comics back in the day, so, I was still kind of a dork too."

It was almost like you could feel your heart melting into goo in your chest. "The football champ by day, secret nerd by night huh?" You tease with a shit eating grin. "What's next, were you also juggling being the student council president? Running for prom king? Being voted 'most likely to go pro' in your year book?"

"Funny story, actually-"

Meanwhile, Alexei frowns as he catches nosy glimpses from the pool tables, brow furrowing as he leans to the side while holding his pool stick and nudges Bob's shoulder. He nods towards your table just ahead, watching keenly as you and John continue your conversation. "What is wrong with Walker's face?"

Bob looks confused, eyes following Alexei's gaze until he notices Walker's expression. "I think he's smiling, but like…genuinely."

After taking a moment for the gears to start turning in his head, Alexei slowly grins, his golden crowns glinting in the fluorescent light flickering over the pool table. "I see what is happening here." He says with a wise nod, looking toward Bob's now confused expression and back to John and you chatting. "He is finally getting over that silly divorce he is always moping about."

Bob gives Alexei a questionable look. "But, doesn't he still wear his ring and everything?"

Alexei shakes his head. "Maybe it is now just fashion statement. Or something to keep all the desperate women that flock to him at bay." He laughs. "I know I had to do similar thing back in Russia in my prime."

Bob just nods along, but he smiles a little at the scene unfolding in front of them. "He does seem…happier, at least."

Alexei hums to himself, his lone brain cell clearly working overtime as he looks around the bar. If Walker truly had the hots for you, he wanted to help him secure a date at whatever the cost, which he conveniently found the literal price tag on the screen of the jukebox nearby. He turns back to Bob, eyes widening with excitement, the light bulb over the pool table flickering like the imaginary one above his head. "I have an idea." 

Without an explanation, Alexei marches over to the new fancy jukebox on the wall, Bob wandering over with him in curious tow. "We must help set the mood Bob, it is key for getting the ladies to love you." He pokes at the screen of the device, but hesitates. "...How do I get song to play."

"I think you just search for the one you want." Bob points out, reaching from behind to tap on a tab on the screen that clearly said Search. "Are you sure about this though? I mean, we don't even know if-"

"Do not worry Bob," Alexei reassures, "I have had many, many lovers, and I know the signs when I see them, alright? I am practically expert at this." 

"Oh, uh…whatever you say man." Bob agrees as he cautiously watches the jukebox screen over Alexei's shoulder. He watches as he types in an incredibly recognizable tune, one he maybe didn't exactly see as the best song to help wingman someone to, but who was he to doubt the clear and confident expertise of the Red Guardian?

After choosing the perfect song, Alexei looks back at his beloved comrade, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Bob, my dearest friend…I need to borrow $2, in the name of love."

In the meantime, you and John's laughter starts to die down a bit as he finishes his story, now seeming to turn the tables to open the floor back up to you. "So, is Bucky a friend of yours?"

"Friend might be a stretch, but, sorta?" You decide to clarify. "He just comes here often enough to know my name and like my service. Always leaves a big tip but never sticks around for me to say thank you, though I'd probably be tired of the endless platitudes too if I was a superhero. I just try to treat him like any other shmuck that walks through these doors, and I guess he appreciates that in his own broody way.”

"That sounds like Bucky." John agrees with a nod. "Does he even talk that much when he's here?"

"Not really, but he seems like he's just here for a break." You acknowledge with a smirk. "You guys must give him a lot to drink about though with how often he wanders in here."

John sighs. "Some of us more than others." He remarks, glancing over at Alexei only to see him looking in his direction already. Alexei gives him a nod and a big thumbs up, John's brow scrunching in response.

"Actually, speaking of Bucky, that reminds me," You ponder, snatching back John's attention as his face softens, "You're not from New York, right? I know Bucky is from Brooklyn, but you don't really give off New Yorker vibes."

"And what are New Yorker vibes, exactly?"

You hum in thought as you ponder your made up credentials. "Guarded, broody, doesn't smile at every stranger they see, is an expert at ignoring things, that type of vibe."

John almost pouts for a moment. "I can be guarded and…stuff, but I'm actually from Georgia originally." He admits, taking another sip of his drink before clarifying. "Not Atlanta, just some smaller town outside of it you've probably never heard of."

Your eyes practically glimmer with excitement at the new information, but you do your best to play it cool. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I’m from Texas. Could be a lot worse.”

John's brow raises as he looks to the side for a moment, as if pondering something before nodding with a newfound understanding. "That explains a lot."

You tilt your head to the side. "Like what?"

"Like, how you're so nice all the time." He plainly points out. "Southern hospitality and all that."

"Well I could say the same for you, Mr. Georgia Peach."

"Okay then," He pauses, trying a bit too hard to recall something he probably learned more than two decades ago at this point. "Texas…Armadillo."

You laugh so hard it takes you a minute to recover, even drawing out a snort or two. "Okay, now I'm definitely making Georgia Peach your nickname in my phone."

"Oh god, please don't-"

"Nope, too late." You tease as you pull out your phone out of your pocket. "Flows way better than Texas Armadillo, that's for sure."

"You're just lucky I like 'damsel in distress' so much." He teases. "And that I suck at coming up with names."

"Aw, don't sell yourself short. I mean, you have U.S. Agent-"

You cut yourself off mid sentence as the world's most infamous saxophone solo blasts through the bar's speakers, puffing out your cheeks in a pathetic attempt to hold back your sputtering laughter as you immediately recognize George Michael's Careless Whisper. "Oh my fucking God, are you serious right now-"

You turn around in your chair as both you and John try to find the culprit, only to find Alexei staring gleefully back at you both. He was still across at the pool tables, just wagging his eyebrows stupidly and swaying to the beat of the music, even mouthing along to the lyrics and vaguely gesturing to your table like some ridiculous one man show. Bob just gives a smaller thumbs up from beside him, though Alexei grabs him by the shoulder as he pulls him close and starts to use his vodka bottle as a makeshift microphone.

You slowly turn back to face John. "...Do they know we literally just met a week ago?"

"No, they don't." John replies flatly, but you notice his cheeks are just a touch redder than they were before. "I'm sorry, they're being fucking assholes."

"It's fine, I'd honestly do the exact same thing if it was one of my friends. Can't go wrong with a classic either." You admit with a smile, going back to poking at your fries. "So, does that mean they know about…" 

"Oh, well," He clears his throat, shifting in his seat. "Bucky told them, actually, but, yeah." 

"Wait, Bucky told them? Like, just casually, or was it a real family meeting type of thing?"

John thinks back briefly to being tied up in that random abandoned gas station, Bucky offhandedly airing out his dirty laundry in front of his future team members. "...More casually."

"Well, maybe it was a good thing." You tried to assure him, a blush now starting to creep up your cheeks. "Not gonna lie, after we talked, I was wondering if you had a solid support system to fall back on. I haven't been divorced, obviously, but I know what it's like to spiral with no one to help pull you out of it." You look back at Alexei and Bob still jamming out to the song behind you, smiling softly as you glance back at John. "This is just how they're showing they care, that's all."

John catches another glance of his two goofball teammates just behind you, recalling what you said to him back on that park bench -

I like to think I can tell when someone actually cares.

Just for a moment, Walker almost believes he's finally learning how to tell too.

The revelation is cut short rather unceremoniously though when your boss calls out your name from behind the bar, causing you to realize a few decently-sized groups of people had wandered their way into the building during your conversation. "Shit- just a minute!" You call out, sealing up your leftover fries and tapping on the table, looking back at John. "Hey, uhm…would you maybe wanna stop by in a couple of hours when I close?" You decide to ask, internally cringing at how sheepish your voice suddenly came out. "Then maybe we could just keep talking like normal people instead of jogging at 3 AM like weirdos."

John blinks, looking between you at your boss at the bar. "Oh, uh, yeah! That would be…nice." A pause. "Wait, do you mean like, just coming back to chat, or…"

You raise your brows, a mischievous smirk rising on your lips as you dramatically place a hand over your chest. "Are you asking if you can take me home, Mister Walker?"

You thought his face was red before, but watching the cherry red hue grow somehow even more prominent made your heart soar in your chest as he tried to stammer out a response. "Wh- well, yeah, but not like-"

"I'm just fucking with you." You tease, rising from your chair. "Try and come back around two-ish, that's usually when we start to close up."

John opens his mouth to say something, but closes it as he just nods with a soft smile, knowing when he's beat. "I'll be there."

You flash him one last grin before turning and walking back to the bar, taking your rightful place as you sling your bar towel over your shoulder and start taking fresh orders from the gaggle of newcomers. John's gaze lingers as he watches you work for a moment before turning back to Alexei, who was boisterously laughing at his apparently clear romantic success. You're welcome! He mouths, even giving John a slight bow.

Walker just rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath as he stands up and realizes he has to eventually corral these two back to the Tower somehow. "Fuckin' assholes…"

After watching Walker rally his mischievous troops out of the bar and continuing with your shift, you finally turn off the lights and wave goodbye to your boss at 2:17 AM - just a bit off from when you wanted to leave, but a notably faster close than usual thanks to the mostly slower evening you had. You shove some well earned cash tips into your wallet before stuffing it into the bulkier tote bag you'd brought with you, slipping it over the shoulder of your oversized hoodie to brace for the cooler weather waiting for you outside.

As you step outside into the chilly atmosphere of the city, you're greeted by a charmingly familiar figure leaning on the wall nearby, his handsome face lit up by the light of his phone as he was mindlessly scrolling through something. As you walk closer, your shoes scuffing along the pavement beneath you, the small noise catches his attention, getting him to turn to you and smile softly as he slides his phone back in his pocket.

"Ready to go?"

"Yep! Got my stuff and everything, and had a pretty smooth close too." You note with a smile. "Thanks again for doing this, by the way."

John just shrugs, standing up straight and starting to walk towards you. "Just want to make sure you don't get mugged again."

"Oh, so you're my personal body guard now?"

"I didn't say that." 

"No, but you meant it." You teased, now walking alongside him as you subtly guided the way. "I could see it in your eyes."

"Whatever." He replies, playfully nudging your shoulder. "Just lead the way."

You wander down the street together until you find the subway line you always take, descending the stairs as you continue your more casual prodding of each other's pasts. Turns out there's a difference between winning a state football championship and a national football championship, one where Walker's school was apparently too small to compete at during his time there. John in turn learned that there actually was a good place to get a decent sweet tea in New York, despite his rougher and more brief research had indicated. He tried his best to convince you that he does in fact season his meals properly, and you told him about how much you missed the messy mixed genre of food that was Tex Mex - though he did make a face when you mentioned your craving for an ungodly loaded chile relleno from a specific place you used to love as a kid.

Making your way through the turnstiles and onto the subway itself, you were genuinely thankful for the extra protection of having John at your side. While you made this trek often enough on your own at this point, it was nice for once to noticeably not drown out catcalls or crazy meanderings with your earbuds or a good book you often threw into your tote. 

After maneuvering onto your second train route of the night to truly start the final stretch home, you can't help but smile as a specific stop comes up next on the intercom. "C'mon, we're getting off here."

John looks up at a map of the subway nearby, his brow furrowing as he vaguely recalls where he walked you to last time. "Isn't it a bit early? We could wait for the next-"

"Just trust me." You reassure, rising from your seat and grabbing onto a rail above you for support, the train slowly pulling into the station. "Plus…I'm not ready to go home. Not yet anyways."

As you ascend from the underground, you both start to get a bearing of your surroundings, recognizing the large paved path that led into the only unexpected greenery to be found downtown - you were back in Central Park all over again.

Next thing you knew, you were practically dragging John by the sleeve of his jacket to join you on a wide stretch of open grass you'd meandered towards as you walked through the park. "Come on! When was the last time you took a moment to just lay on the ground and look at the sky?"

"Last week actually. Pretty sure you were there for it."

You roll your eyes at his snide remark. "That was for the sunrise, which is a completely different type of vibe than this."

"Well, then, last time I looked at the stars was when I could actually see them," He comments, fairly pointing out the apparent light pollution of the city surrounding you, "And not have to check if I was accidentally laying in dog shit."

You purse your lips. "Okay, fair. But still, where's your sense of whimsy, huh?"

John frowns. "Who said I had one?"

"Said the guy who said he won his state football championships three times in a row."

John crosses his arms. "That's not whimsy, that's just…winning."

"Then what's it called when you let yourself just enjoy the moment?" You point out. "When you felt yourself getting hoisted up by your team after the winning touchdown, or dumping that big thing of Gatorade on your coach, or…whatever else football guys do to celebrate."

He chuckles, looking off into the distance and nodding. "We did have a pretty sick pizza party after."

"See! That's whimsy baby!" You point out with a smile as you plop down on the ground, patting a clear spot of grass next to you. "Now, get your whimsy lackin' ass over here."

You feel the cool grass gently press into your back despite the layers, and it doesn't take much for John to lay beside you, adjusting his broad shoulders against the slight uneven ruts in the dirt. It was…nice. Grounding, even. Both your eyes can't help but stare straight up at the sky, and despite the ugly light pollution of one of the biggest metropolises in the world surrounding you, you could still make out one or two twinkles of stars in the distance.

While you couldn't help but let a giddy smile take over your face, John's mind was already wandering elsewhere as he watched the sky above him. 

"...Hey." He starts, but hesitates, the words tripping in his throat as he presses his lips into a fine line. "How much do you actually know about me?"

"...You mean like, what I've heard?" You can't help but let a smirk sneak up on your face. "That depends - is this more of an ego thing, or-"

"No, no, it's not that. I just-" He takes a beat, catching his breath as if he was sorting out the anxious thoughts buzzing in his mind, projecting them all outward with a single exhale. "I want to know what you know about me. Like, you know about the New Avengers thing, and that other stuff about Bucky, and the Captain America thing, so…"

Your brow scrunches as you think, puffing out a sigh as you do your best to seriously remember. "Well…I remember hearing about the whole Captain America rebrand and being pissed as fuck about it - no offense." 

He shrugs. "None taken."

"And then, well," You hesitate, and John feels a pit start to form in his stomach. "There was that whole…thing. Where you, uhm. Y'know…"

A heavy silence hangs in the air. 

"...Yeah."

"And…I remember thinking three things, actually." You start to gesture more actively with your hands as you speak, practically poking at the old bandaged wound of a memory in his mind. "One, 'this is why those fucking idiots in power should've just let Steve Roger's legacy rest.' and two…fuck man, just, 'Everybody is suffering here - the refugees who blipped back, the people who weren't blipped getting forced out of their homes - and these fucking assholes in power think that sending in some-" You hesitate, holding your tongue when you remember who you're speaking to, "Some guys decked out in the Stars and Stripes is going to fix everything?'"

John feels his heart clench in his chest, swallowing back the faint bite of bile forming in the back of his throat as he tries to keep listening. "And the third thing?"

You sigh, taking a beat to bring your thoughts back to center. "That man didn't have to die, and neither did your friend. Same for those people in that warehouse that got blown up too, just - what I'm trying to say is, none of this would've happened if the idiots higher on the food chain even considered for a second the real, human impact all of this would have: reinstating Captain America, the GRC initiative, even just thinking about why the Flag Smashers were even formed in the first place, everything." You notice John glancing over, but he stays on his back, shifting on the ground slightly as you finish your thought. "If you pin so many desperate people in a corner like that, they're going to snarl and snap and bite, and you can't get mad when they do one of the only things they could actually manage in order to get themselves out of it - even if it's extreme, even if it hurts people."

It was John's turn to bite his tongue now, admittedly trying and somewhat failing to take all of your points in stride, like he was chewing on a tough steak. Two things were immediately obvious to him - one, you weren't there in the middle of it all, and thank goodness for that, and two, you weren't even remotely close to his position in the chaos of it all. He can't help but clench his fists at his sides, feeling his nails dig into his palms as he imagines the emboldened headlines you must've read, the constant coverage on the news, the horrible and tragically rightful outcries you must've heard-

Yet somehow, despite all this, you were still here. You were laying next to him, an innocent lamb in the sights of the bloodied, battered wolf.

Like a sudden shooting star firing across your mind, you turn your head to look at him, and a pointed question slips past your lips without hesitation.

"Did you get blipped?"

He just lays there for a moment, and you almost wonder if he was trying to remember if he really was dusted or not. In reality, he was just glad there was something else to talk about. "No…I was one of the lucky ones, I guess." He admits, meeting your gaze with cautious curiosity. "Were you?"

"Nope. Same as you." Your mouth stays open, but your voice hesitates to finish your statement. "...But, the rest of my family was."

John's eyes widen. "Oh, shit."

"Yeah, no shit!" You point out with a laugh. "Not that I had much family to begin with, mind you. I know it was 'half of the universe' or whatever, but some people definitely got more than half of their lives fucked up." You shake your head, turning your gaze back to the stars above you. "'Rebalancing the universe', my ass. What a stupid fucking asshole."

John can't help but chuckle at you cursing out a dead alien to the stars above, but his mind still lingers on the unsaid details. "So…how'd you make ends meet?" He asks innocently enough, and to sweeten the pot, he decides to offer up something of his own while you think; "I was lucky enough to have Olivia, my wife-" He catches himself, even though it still stings, "Ex-wife - through all that, but, still."

"Hey, at least you had someone with you from the beginning."

"True." John admits. "Between that and having friends still at a military compound nearby, I was lucky that we got off pretty easy. I tried my best to help where I could - sorting out missing persons, distributing supplies - but…we were still just civilians at the end of the day."

That seems to crack the code to more of your own backstory, but it wasn't like you weren't going to tell him anyways at this point. You practically knew all his secrets since his dirty laundry was so public and so messy, so you attempt to even out the phantom score hanging above your conversation. 

"Well, as far as how I got through it all, I was crashing with my parents when it all went to shit. One second they were there, then the next…poof." You puff out your cheeks, flaring out your hand for dramatics. "I just remember that…God, I couldn't stop crying. Pretty sure I wept for an entire fucking day when it happened." 

John's expression softens, turning on his side as he listens, propping himself up on his arm as you continue. "Thankfully some of the neighbors that also didn't get blipped came to check on me and realized I was alone, and if they hadn't come…" Your face flattens for a moment, and John's suddenly reminded of how he felt in his first shame room, staring down the hole of the elevator shaft in that damn vault. He looks away, as if facing your wounds would somehow reopen his own.

"...I don't know what would've happened." You finally pipe up, doing your best to shrug off what you knew would have with a weak smile. "Actually, we even held a little barbecue in the cul-de-sac down the street a few weeks later, to try and lift everyone's spirits 'n stuff. I almost set someone's lawn on fire trying to light the grill, it was a whole thing."

You're both smiling again, and it feels good to recall the light in the darkness, just like the scarcely glimmering stars staring down from the washed out void-like sky above you. "I remember when my friend Lemar and I helped organize getting our favorite bar up and running after the people that ran it were dusted. Nearly electrocuted myself trying to rewire the power to the back up generator." He gestures to his hair, even ruffling it up a bit. "Looked like Doc Brown the night we got everything up and running, but it was totally worth it."

You can't help but giggle at the adorable image conjured in your head of John's hair sticking up on end, behind the bar pouring taps out of fresh kegs they somehow scrounged up from some supply truck. "That kinda reminds me of when I went into town for the first time," You start to recall, "And there were all those military deployments to distribute aid and supplies, and some people who volunteered to help out like you did. I was grabbing some stuff that they were rationing out and…" You can't help but smile as a familiar face flashes behind your eyes - John would know that look anywhere. "I met someone there."

He chuckles. "Found true love in the apocalypse, huh?"

"Oh, shut up." You throw back at him with a light punch to his shoulder before continuing. "We grew up in the same school and stuff, but we weren't friends or anything. Just aware of each other's existences. She told me about how she got engaged literally days before the damn blip, which, Jesus Christ man, what do you even say to that?" 

"I mean, it's a great opener if you want someone to know you're single." John points out.

You roll your eyes, trying to keep your story on track. "So, I told her about my parents, we became friends and got closer, and…eventually, after a while, we realized that we liked each other a bit more than we thought. Then, I started volunteering and helping out where I could, but I also started finally doing what I wanted, what I actually wanted - dyeing my hair, getting tattoos, not shying away from laughing too loud or being too brash. Hell, I even shaved my head once. I mean, when it's the fucking end of the world, what else is there to do? Sit around and be miserable until you're dead and gone like you never existed in the first place?" You cross your arms over your chest. "Might as well have been dusted if that's how you're going to live your life." 

"God, you're so insightful it almost hurts, y'know that?" John jokes, but then shrugs, "Though, the biggest thing I probably did besides the bar thing was help my friend form a mini flag football bracket to help pass the time." That draws another laugh out of you, though John's smile fades a little as he's hit with another, more prickly question. "So…what happened when they all came back?"

"...Well." You take a deep breath, readying yourself for the flurry of blows to come. "First, the girl I was in love with for the past few years went running back to her fiance like nothing happened." You could've sworn John's eyes nearly popped out of his skull, but you tried to continue casually nonetheless. "Then my parents, they, uhm…" 

You trip on your explanation, the sadness of it all finally starting to seep through the cracks of that optimistic mask you wore so well. "That took a bit longer. They realized that I wasn't the same little pushover they knew and loved, and they fucking despised me for it." You try to laugh, but a crack in your voice breaks it in two, a familiar scratching feeling clawing its way up your throat. "When they saw what I did to myself - their words, not mine - they couldn't believe I had the fucking audacity to build a life for myself from the crumbling fucking ashes of everything that happened." You try to blink away the tears, fighting them off with the bleak comedy you always fell back on. "So, naturally, I took my new found five years of wisdom and told them to fuck off, and a I floated around the U.S. for a bit till I ended up here."

John chews on his bottom lip for a moment. "...I'm sorry."

You puff out a weak laugh, sniffling a little bit as you try to pull yourself together. "It's- I mean, it's not okay, it's the furthest fucking thing from okay, but-" You turn to lay on your side, smiling at John. "We all went through some shit during that time. Plus, it got me here, and that's not nothing." You note with a smile. "I've got a roof over my head, and I make a surprisingly decent living doing something I don't totally hate all the time. I have friends, and hobbies, and a whole life I've built for myself from the ground up." You tuck your arm under your head, clearing your throat as you try to calm yourself, absentmindedly plucking at the grass beside you with your free hand. "Did it suck to get here? Abso-fucking-lutely…but it's mine, and no one can take that away from me."

John nods, rolling back to stare up at the sky again as he mutters under his breath. "Damn right."

The silence settles in again, comfortable but still dense, like a weighted blanket despite all the horrors those memories of the Blip carried for everyone. In this moment, John Walker saw himself as what he really was trying so hard to be - just another person building his life from the ground up like everybody else, except for the obvious stipulation of all the superhero laden circumstances that surrounded him. A clean slate was all he ever wanted, now more than ever, but no matter what, he still felt like there was just a part of his ledger that was permanently stained. The blood was spilled, the scar was formed, and the wound was healed but in all the wrong places, like crooked seams of healed-over bone. 

Still, a washed ledger is better than what he had before. Maybe gratefulness is what would save him from his own demise again - at the very least, it wouldn't hurt.

"Hey...Thanks." He quietly croaks out. "For treating me like a normal person, I mean. I…really needed this. I think."

The silence lingers as he waits for a response, but after a minute or two his brow furrows, turning his head to look over - only to find you slightly curled up on your side, sound asleep.

He can't help but let out a little chuckle to himself, turning on his side to get a better look at you. Despite the tiny voice in the back of his mind noting it might be kinda weird, Walker can't help but take in the peaceful expression on your sleeping face. Your breathing was shallow but steady, your cheek held by your own hand so your head didn't lay weirdly on the lumpy surface beneath you. Ignoring the obnoxious light pollution in favor of moonlight pouring down from above, you almost looked like a sleeping princess in a fairy tale. He slowly starts extending his arm, hesitating slightly before still committing to reaching out, his calloused hand just barely brushing against your cheek…

"Hey," He opts to gently grab your shoulder instead, shaking it lightly. "Hey, wake up."

"Huh?" You groan, your grogginess clear as day as you try to blink the bleariness away, letting out a large yawn as you rub your eyes. "Shit, did I fall asleep?"

"A little, yeah." John confirms with a smile. "What, is it past your bed time?"

"Oh, shut up." You sleepily jab back, yawning again as you do your best to rise from your spot on the ground. "But, yeah, probably…" You sit up begrudgingly, muttering something John just barely catches through your rougher, groggier tone. "I wish you could just carry me or something…" 

John does his best to brush off the flare of bashfulness that overcomes him for a moment, exchanging it for a gentle jab instead. "Hey, I wasn't the one who wanted to get off the train early." He teases with a laugh, rising from his own spot on the grass before offering you a hand. 

"C'mon. Let's get you home."

thanks for reading!! shout out to my lovely friends @fairyysoup & @dearwalker for being sick ass beta readers on this especially with such short notice lol also just as a little treat and i wanted to write it but cut it for the sake of length/time, i like to imagine while the boys were out, yelena and ava had a fun girls night where they watched the entire paddington trilogy to 'see what the hype was about' only to bawl like absolute babies over it. john then comes back to the tower after taking reader home to find them crashed out on the couch under some blankets in some cute pjs 🥹💕 maybe i'll write their girls night in as an interlude someday but who knows! consider supporting by sharing and reblogging or dropping a comment here or on ao3 🥰🥰🥰

[venis-stuff]

Bob: That’s- fuck, that’s Valentina! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, she’s coming up the path!

Ava: Oh my god that actually is Valentina as well…

Valentina: knock knock

Bucky: Don’t answer it

Alexei: Of course I’m gonna answer it.

John: WHY?

Alexei: Cause I don’t know who it is

Yelena: IT’S FUCKING VALENTINA

Alexei: It might not be.

[mayebeobsessed]

When bob turns void it’s cause he LITERATELY DIES (both times, medical study and kill switch)

Bob turns sentry after outside forces coax him into that mindset and those actions- AND last he remembers he was just shot several (probably hundred) times.

Bob will not randomly sentry/void. The team does not walk on eggshells around him. He does not threaten sentry/void, they do not cater to the possibility of sentry/void. He is hella resilient and does not void out at a break up or argument (we literately see him be normal in the vault)

They care about him. They love him. They don’t treat him poorly. But he’s not a time bomb, nor a weapon, or a naive child, and certainly is not intentionally evil one wrong word away

[dearwalker]

Come right on me … I mean camaraderie - John Walker x reader

━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━

Word count: 3.5k

Description: You can't help the inappropriate thoughts that come out of your mouth during a mission, and John has to teach you a lesson, or multiple, about it.

“Holy shit, come right on me” You mumbled under your breath. His head snapped at you. No. There’s no way his hearing caught that.

Tags/warnings: smut, fem!reader is a horny menace, dominant John, long buildup, sex, overstimulation.

Note: This has Sabrina Carpenter levels of bluntness about being horny that's how I feel about this man. Kicked my feet while writing this. Enjoy 🫶🏼

Masterlist

It wasn’t your fault, really.

It wasn’t your fault that John Walker was a goddamn idiot. Or that he was also so painfully hot you’d been waking up to drenched panties after dreams where he made you his in the most filthy ways you could imagine.

It wasn’t your fault your brain crafted entire scenarios while you slept, where he was all over you, handsy, desperate, soaked in sweat.

And it really wasn’t your fault that Bucky kept pairing you up with him for missions. You were sure Yelena had something to do with that targeted sabotage.

You were down so bad for him, all the man had to do was exist. The way he led in front of you, the way he threw around orders under pressure, the particular way he had to shove targets against walls … your mind didn’t even try to behave anymore.

This morning, you’d woken up panting, sheets damp in a sweaty mess, mind adjusting to the fact that his head was between your legs only in your dream and not in reality.

How sad.

And now here you were, paired with him again in some random warehouse lab, Yelena and Bucky waiting back on the jet while you did your part of the mission.

“Did you get it?” His voice came in a growl through your comm, you could hear his grunts as he cleared your extraction route, and holy shit, why did that do things to you?

It. Wasn’t. Your. Fault.

You tucked the vial into your pocket, trying to focus. You cleared your throat before speaking.

“Package secured. I’m on my way to you.”

But before you could turn, a yelp went through the comm when a rough hand grabbed your shoulder and slammed you to the floor. You barely had time to gasp before a body pinned you down, heavy and aggressive, and a cold blade pressed against your throat.

You barely caught the attacker’s fist mid air, fighting the strength he was pushing down with, when a gloved hand stopped him. The man cried in pain when John twisted his arm away from your face. The next thing you knew, he went flying across room.

John had yanked him off you, throwing him away with a snarl that made your blood burn. He let his shield fall to the ground, before he stomped towards the guy, grabbed him by the collar, and smashed his fist into his face.

“So you like hitting pretty girls, huh?” He barked, punching again.

You watched from your spot on the floor, thoughts derailing from the moment he spoke. You bit your lip as he lifted the man to shove him into the wall. Those arms, those grunts … god.

Why on earth was that so hot?

"Holy shit, come right on me." You mumbled under your breath, weren’t even thinking as the words came out of your mouth.

His head snapped at you, instantly dropping the body of the man.

Your eyes went wide. No. There's no fucking way his hearing caught that.

He stared at you with furrowed brows and a hint of disbelief. Sweat clung to his hairline, making disheveled strands stick to his forehead, chest rising and falling under the weight of adrenaline.

That image wasn't helping at all.

"What?” He asked, voice coming out rougher than he intended.

Shit. Say … anything.

“I mean ... camaraderie! Y-yeah. Thanks for that." You blurted, pointing awkwardly at the half conscious guy on the floor like that explained anything.

He nodded hesitantly, squinting at you like he was trying to decide whether you were insane or he was.

In three long strides he walked over, standing over you offering his gloved hand. You took it, and in one swift motion he pulled you up, straight into him. His other hand landed firmly on the curve of your back, pressing you tightly against him.

Your uneven breathing hit his neck, barely reaching his jawline.

"That can be arranged." He mumbled, eyes dropping, just for a second, to your lips.

You were sure your brain just short circuited. Of course he heard your horny ass.

"John–"

Before you could say anything to defend whatever was left of your dignity, voices echoed from the hallway, and in a second, he spun you both behind a column, pressing you harshly against the wall. His palm instinctively covered your mouth, eyes locked on the entrance.

“Shh,” he whispered, breath warm against your forehead. “Be quiet.”

The agents continued their way down the hall without noticing you were in the room, and John's posture relaxed slightly.

Yours didn't.

Being pinned against a wall, trapped by his larger frame of broad shoulders, feeling every ridge of his suit on your chest and something very solid pressing against your belt.

This. This is what dreams are made of.

You instinctively raised your knee, just enough to rub softly against the bulge in his suit. He sucked in a sharp breath, head jerking in your direction, hand still covering your mouth.

You noticed the way his entire body tensed up again.

You brought your knee back down, slowly, and he looked like it physically pained him not to grab it back and rub against him one more time. His hand dropped from your mouth, and the smirk on your lips said everything.

You rose up on your toes, drawing your lips close to his ear.

"I bet it's even better than in my head." You teased, barely nibbling the edge of his ear.

You gasped when he pushed you tighter into the wall, jaw clenching with his fingers digging deeper onto your waist.

He was so so done for.

"Walker? Walker, come in." The comms static pierced through the tension, Yelena's voice breaking the silence. "Did you get it? We need to go. Now."

He hesitated for a second, hands twitching like he wasn’t ready to let your body go yet.

He wasn’t sure if he could trust his voice, and to be honest neither did you. He took a shaky breath, cleared his throat, and backed up a step.

"Y-yeah," he said, turning from you. His voice cracked slightly, so he cleared his throat again, and you bit your lip to keep from laughing."We got it. We’re heading to the jet now."

By the time he turned back around, you were already walking out, casually ahead of him like you hadn’t just driven him to the edge of self control.

The ride back to the watchtower was tense. You took the seat farthest from John, clearly not because you wanted to. No, you wanted to crawl into his lap and beg him to continue what you’d started, but self preservation said maybe don’t ride him in front of coworkers.

Considering Yelena and Bucky had been throwing knowing glances at you the whole time.

This was your fault after all.

Not being able to control your dirty thoughts, showing up all flustered and justifying it on almost getting sliced, pretending you could fool two polygraph detectors.

Whatever.

All you needed was a warm shower and to give yourself a little love to drown those inappropriate thoughts of yours about John.

Respectfully, of course.

You made your way across the hallway towards your room, thinking about getting that shower head as soon as you could between your thighs, when a door openned and a hand grabbed you, shoving you inside that room.

The door to John's room slammed shut behind you with a solid thud. Before you could even turn around, he had you pressed up against it, hands holding his weight on the door, each placed next to your head.

"You don't get to do that shit, sweetheart" He groaned, standing close to your face. "You don't say those things to me in the middle of a mission and pretend I’ll just forget about it."

You breathe loudly, chest rising up and down, trying to wrap your head aground the fact that he had you caged in his room. You tilt your head to the side, might as well enjoy it.

"God forbid I have fantasies." You tease, without missing a bit.

Your knee went up to do the same thing you did earlier, but he took one hand off the door to stop it before it could reach his crotch, and let out a bitter laugh.

"You think you’re the only one who fantasizes? You think I don’t dream with that dirty pretty mouth of yours?"

Your breath hitched. His hands traveled to your waist, rough and possessive, thumbs digging into your hips like he was grounding himself, like the last part of him was barely holding back.

His lips brushed your neck, not kissing, just hovering. Teasing . He pulled back, just enough to make you chase the contact, and that smug little smirk flickered on his lips.

He began guiding you away from the door, never splitting your bodies apart.

"You've been distracting me since day one" he muttered, backing you up until your legs hit the bed. "Wearing that tight suit and those damn lips. Always mouthing shit off, making me want to shut you up."

You whimpered, eyes dropping to the floor.

He tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him.

"Oh, so now you're shy?" He teased, making a tsk tsk sound. "I want you to look at me now, when you talk like that."

His hands found the zipper of your suit, with a darkened look he stares at you for a moment, waiting for approval.

And fuck your heart was pounding. You needed someone to pinch you to make sure this wasn't a dream.

You nodded immediately, maybe a little too eager.

He chuckled at your desperation, taking his sweet time to take your one piece suit off, making sure he enjoyed every time your breath hitched when he grazed your skin. He dragged the fabric down, leaving you only in underwear.

As soon as the suit hit the floor, he pressed you down onto the mattress with one hand on your chest.

"You wanna tease me? Say filthy shit in the middle of a fight? Rub your knee against me like that?" His hand slid up your thigh, slowly claiming what’s always been his in your wildest dreams. "You don't get to walk away to find relief on your own."

Your breath stuttered, your hands instinctively went to the zipper of his suit, but he caught your wrists.

"John, come on–"

"No, you have to be patient like I’ve been" he said, dipping his head down to brush his lips across your collarbone. "I tried to be good. Tried to respect the mission."

He lifted his head, eyes locked on yours. "But you decided to be a brat and got me all worked up. Now I get to take my time with you."

He pulled himself back from your body, finally reaching for the top of his suit, messily dismantling it away to throw it off the bed.

You barely had time to breathe before he was on you again, kissing you hard, devouring you. His hands held your jaw, fingers rough and urgent, like he needed to keep you under him forever.

You gasped against his mouth, and that's when it slipped out.

"Been so wet all day since I woke up–“

He froze, immediately pulling back, eyes narrowed at you. "What was that?"

"N-nothing." You stuttered, too quick to be believable. He chuckled.

"No, go ahead sweetheart" he said, thumb dragging across your bottom lip. "Keep talking. You got so much to say, right?"

You opened your mouth but nothing more than a gasp came out when he pushed his hand between your thighs, grinding up against the wet spot on your panties.

"God dammit" he muttered, his fingers painfully grazing the fabric, barely touching it. "This all for me?"

You moaned, nodding. "Been saving it since the morning."

His cock twitched inside his pants at your confession. He softly slapped over your wet panties, making you jolt. "Always have something to say, don't you?" He slapped again when you nodded, harder this time, his fingers getting wet through the fabric.

He brought his fingers to his lips, and without hesitation, teased. "Tastes better than in my head."

"Fuck" you whined, head dropping to the bed. "This is so much worse now."

You were doomed. You were never coming back from this, from his touch.

From all of him.

He bitterly laughed. "You think this is hard for you?"

His hands found your hips, gripping tight. He rolled them up against his own, letting you feel how hard he was.

"I've had to walk around with this for weeks because of you. Every time you stretch, every time you bend over, every time you moan in your room–"

Your head snapped up to look at him, and his smirk deepened.

"Yeah, my room is next to yours. You think I don't hear you? Late at night, thinking you're being quiet?" He was so arrogantly casual about it, like it was something he'd wanted to confess for a long time.

That he heard you every time. A nasty little secret of yours he's kept locked for too long.

"You touch yourself thinking about me, sweetheart?" he asked, voice full of cockiness. "Bet you taste your own fingers after you're done, pretending it's me."

You wanted to yell at him and tell him he was so full of himself. But damn, he was right, all you wanted was to be full of him too.

Your hips jerked against him, your patience was running short. He hissed at your move, like the contact short circuited something in his brain.

"No shame either, didn't even try to deny it." He continued.

"That’s nothing" You shake your head teasingly. "You should hear the things that go through my head. You'd never look at me the same again."

He shook his head amused.

"Poor thing, can't even shut up about how bad she wants it."

You whined, the pool between your thighs starting to ache by the lack of his touch.

You tugged at his tactical pants. "Take them off, right now."

"Impatient" he scolded.

"I've been patient for months" you snapped, squirming under him. "You just never listened."

"Oh, I’m listening now" he growled. "I just have to be sure you can take it."

You reached up to run your hands across his chest, fingers tracing down his abdomen.

“I'll take it" you blurted, fingers dipping low enough to make him groan. "All of it."

He grinned, before fumbling with his pants, cursing when they got slightly stuck, ripping them down fast enough to make you laugh, until your eyes landed on him. On him.

"Oh my god." you breathed.

Shit. It was better than in your head.

Thick, swollen. Absolutely perfect.

He grinned. This is a sight he had only seen in dreams before. You laying on his bed, mouth parted open at the sight of his cock, ready to let him ruin you.

His mouth was on yours again, rough and needy this time, hands everywhere, yanking off the last pieces of fabric from your body like he'd earned it.

And boy, he had.

He lined himself up, dragging the hard tip through your slick entrance, teasing. But you saw it in his face, the way his jaw was clenched, like he was barely holding on.

"You sure, baby?" he asked. "I need you to say it."

You prompted yourself up by your shoulders, grabbing his face, beard tickling your fingers. "Make my fantasies come true, John."

That was all it took for him to push himself in, teasingly slow, beautifully thick, stretching you in the most delicious, overwhelming way. You moaned his name, head falling back on the mattress.

"Shit, so tight" he groaned, barely moving as your walls got used to him. "You're perfect. Fuck, you're perfect"

He couldn’t wait any longer. With no warning he was pounding into you like he meant it. Like a man who’d been dreaming about it for too long and finally got permission to ruin you.

He caged you against his body, his large hands gripped your hips so tight you'd definitely have marks.

You couldn't stop moaning, couldn't even form words. You were just a string of gasps, whimpers, and his name over and over like it was the only thing left in your brain.

"Fucking hell," he groaned, watching your face contort with every thrust. "Such a pretty little mess aren’t you?."

Your nails dragged down his back, trying to keep yourself grounded. But he was hitting that sweet spot with every thrust.

"Harder" you begged in the haze. "Please –fuck, please don't stop."

He growled. Like full on growled. He increased his speed, abusing of his enhanced strength. Your mouth dropped open in a cry, so perfectly wrecked he couldn't help the grin on his face.

"You gonna come for me, baby?" He grunted, feeling that familiar clench around his cock.

You just nodded, biting your lip. But he wasn't having that, he wanted to hear you. He leaned down, teeth grazing your ear.

"Then say it. Say what you say when you think I'm not listening"

Your brain scrambled. "W-what?"

"You know what, say it" he demanded. "Come right on me, wasn't it?"

You gasped, eyes wide as he continued to rearrange your entire system.

"Say it, sweetheart. Or I stop." He threatened, but you shook your head immediately.

You whined, thighs shaking around his waist. "Come ...fuck ... come right on you–"

You got the words mixed up, your brain completely fogged by the pleasure.

"There she is" he groaned, dragging your hips up for a better angle. "There's my filthy girl."

His praise sent your body over the edge, coming so hard it punched the air out of your lungs. And hell, he felt it. Every spasm. Every clench. He swore loud and shoved in deeper, chasing his own high.

"Where did you say you want it, baby? Say it one more time for me.” He panted, losing his rhythm, hips jerking erratically.

"Cum right on m-me" you blurted the right words this time, even while still trembling under him.

He slammed into you once, twice, before pulling out to spill all over your stomach you with a ragged growl, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, hips twitching as he emptied himself on your skin.

For a moment there was just your ragged breathing, and that slick, milky warmth dripping down your abdomen. Half his body weight rested on you, as he breathed on your neck.

"Holy shit" You mumbled, gasping, when he placed a kiss on your shoulder.

Only a few seconds passed.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was moving up again, feeling his hard dick against your stomach like he didn't just fill you up.

Your eyes fluttered open, confusion clouding your post orgasm haze.

"Wait, John" you panted, "you're still...?"

"Oh, baby" he chucked, flipping you over to press your chest to the mattress. He dragged your ass back to him, slow and possessive. "We're not done yet."

You gasped as he slid back in with one deep thrust, your body was too sensitive, walls fluttering around him as he groaned, gripping your hips tight to steady himself.

"You don't get to talk like that" he said, something darker in his voice now. "Say that filthy shit. Look at me the way you do, like you're ready to drop to your knees in the middle of a mission–"

"J-John" you whimpered, he felt even bigger than before.

"–and expect me to stop after one round?"

He started to move. Long, slow strokes that made your toes curl. Your face pressed to the sheets, moaning like you didn't care if your teammates heard.

"John … it's too good, too much..."

By this point you weren’t thinking clearly anymore, words coming out slurred.

"You can take it" He pushed himself harder. "You told me you could, sweetheart."

You whimpered into the pillow, your body trembling. Every thrust hit deeper, harder, somehow better than before. Pleasure curling up your spine, threatening to drag you over the edge again.

“You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me” he muttered, leaning in closer, his voice brushing the back of your neck. “Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s the whole fucking point.”

You were so close. The overstimulation was making you see stars, enough to make you cry out his name again and again.

"So good for me. Could stay inside you all night." He praised, grunting, his hands roaming your back.

Your body crashed out again, louder this time, absolutely zero control over it, your orgasm ripping through you so hard your vision went white.

He lost it.

You cried out his name one last time as you felt him come again, body twitching while this time he filled you up, muttering curses into your back like he was trying to bury them in your skin.

He stayed like that for a moment, buried deep with uneven breathing, chest on your back. You don’t know how long passed, until he pulled out slowly, a hiss catching in his throat as you whimpered softly under him.

"Sorry, sweetheart" he mumbled, his hand softly rubbing your back, "You okay?"

You nodded, completely blissed out. Couldn’t trust yourself to speak properly at this point.

He kissed the back of your neck, so soft, completely opposite to the way he just wrecked you. You couldn't hold your body up any longer, so he helped you flip around to rest your back on the mattress.

"Still breathing, baby?" he whispered, brushing your hair from your damp face.

You let out faint laugh, your vision finally coming back to normal. "Barely."

"Good, we were just getting started."

━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━

Part 2 Have you ever tried this one? 🖤

comments and reblogs save author’s lives, thank you so much for reading <3

[starrbishops]

⟡Guilty As Sin⟡

(John Walker x Reader)

Summary: You hate how attracted you are to Walker, and you pull away from him because of it. He notices. - ao3 version

Word Count: 3.8k

Notes: Post-Thunderbolts, reader is a New Avenger and is mentioned to have some kind of super abilites (not plot relevant but it's there), porn with some plot, just reader being horny and then getting to fuck this man, car sex!!!! p in v, fingering, unprotected sex (wrap it up folks) reader and John both bully each other during sex, John Walker's praise kink (when will it not make an appearance) Bucky and Bob appearance!

a/n: This one goes out to all my homies who hated John in TFATWS and feel conflicted about finding him really hot in Thunderbolts! I guess he's my boy now bc I was literally the second post on the Walker x Reader tag (????tf????) so here I am once again being horny on main with y'all.

Teasing Walker was practically a team bonding activity. Hell, even the man himself had grown used to it, took it as a show of affection from the other New Avengers. You were one of the main perpetrators of it. John had always pissed you off, from the minute you met in the vault. He’d grown on you significantly since then, although you’d never admit that, especially not to him.

You’d also never admit how down bad you were for him.

You weren’t really sure when it had started. He was an attractive guy, from an objective standpoint. They’d picked him to be Captain America for a reason, and one of those was that he looked damn good. Still, beyond the awareness he was handsome you’d never really thought of him in that way.

That is, until that day. You couldn’t find one of your knives, and you were sure Bucky had stolen it, so you’d ventured down to the training room to confront him. You opened the door, ready to start interrogating him when you were met with the sight of him and John, side by side, doing pull ups in the doorway to the equipment room. Bob stood next to them, counting off as they went. 

You’ve known Bucky for a long time. He’s like an older brother figure to you, someone you couldn’t see romantically if you tried. Seeing him shirtless has no effect on you, other than an instinctual ew. You’ve never seen John shirtless before.

And here you are, speechless, gawking at the guy who you once referred to as ‘Captain Crashout’. His biceps flexed with each lift, the muscle sinewy but hard-earned, gleaming with sweat. Broad shoulders, dabbled with old scars and freckles from too long in the sun. Your eyes fell to his abs, not as clean cut as Bob’s, but still very much there, pulled taut as he raised himself over and over. He was clad in a pair of old gym shorts, which had fallen a little lower than they started out, revealing the beginnings of a sharp v-line, and what you thought was just a smattering of blond hair trailing down.

And the sounds. John has always had a tic of snorting during battle. You call it his gorilla call that he makes when shit gets serious. The way he grunted as he pulled himself up, exerted but determined, gave you goosebumps the more you heard it.

Jesus fucking Christ, when did John get so hot?

He’s a supersoldier, of course. You know he’s strong. You interact with him almost everyday. You’ve seen him carry a crate the size of Yelena with ease. Yet somehow you’d never considered him hot before this. Never once have you looked at John Walker and felt this hot and sweaty all of a sudden, something in your stomach twisting with equal parts nerves and arousal.

You think you’re going insane.

After what feels like an eternity, John dropped, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Fine, you win Barnes.”

Bucky dropped as well, a smug look on his face. “Told you.”

“Hey, well you’re shorter than me, you have less to pull up.”

“By what, 3 inches?”

“3 inches where it counts.” Walker joked. Shit, now you’re thinking about this dick. Don’t look at his crotch. Do not look at his crotch-

“When’d you get here?” you snapped out of it at the sound of Bob’s voice, turning your attention to the other man. 

“Um, around 20?” you guessed, doing your best to keep your eyes off Walker. You blinked hard as you turned to Bucky. “Did you take my Bowie knife?”

He sighed as he toweled himself off. “Shit, yeah. It’s in my bag, I’ll get it.”

“Asshole.”

He just flipped you off as he walked off to the locker room. Bob trails behind him, announcing his need to pee, leaving you alone with Walker. 

You did your best to avoid eye contact, or any visual of him as he lowered himself onto the nearby bench ,grabbing his water bottle. You knew he has a habit of manspreading, which you often tease him about, but now it’s more annoying in that you’re trying desperately not to ogle him.

“Pretty good, huh?”

“What?” you blinked, looking over at his confused face.

“60 pull ups. Maybe not as good as Barnes,” he threw a jilted look at the locker room door, “but still, impressive, huh?”

“Yeah, I uh, guess so.” you stared at the space above his head, arms crossed, praying Bucky finds his damn bag and brings you your knife soon.

“You okay?” John questioned, standing up to approach you. You instinctually took a step back, causing him to stop. “Did I do something?’

“No! No, I’m fine, you didn’t do anything. Just feeling a little off today, maybe I’m getting sick.”

John nodded, unconvinced. “Uh huh.” He took another sip of his water, drawing your eyes to his strong forearms, solid and firm, leading to his large hands gripping the bottle. Were his hands always that big? It’s ridiculous. You wonder what they would feel like gripping your hips.

“Got it.” Thankfully, Bucky reentered, holding out your knife. You swiftly snatched it, stuttering out a thank you and goodbye before you practically ran out the door. John and Bucky just stood there, confused.

After that, you ran to your room, locked the door and screamed into a pillow like a middle school girl.

You know there’s nothing wrong with liking Walker. Sure, he’s real fucked up, but hell, you are too. You’re both trying to be better, all of you on the team are. Your present torment is self-inflicted, part of it being the sheer embarrassment. You can’t seem to let go of your ego, the little voice in your brain bullying you for wanting a man who carries around a shield shaped like a taco.

You’re being ridiculous. 

You’re held back by a fear of screwing things up with him yourself, and therefore for the entire team. You don’t want to ruin what you all have. You’ve all had hard pasts, never really having a group of people that you could rely on till now. You wouldn’t destroy that because you were so, so very horny for one of your teammates.

So you distance yourself. You try not to look him in the eye, lest you start imagining him with his shirt off again. You feel like an old Victorian man who forced ladies to hide their ankles; looking at any part of John makes you feel like you’re going to lose it then burst into flames. Once you went to ask him something and saw him in just a towel, and immediately turned heel and left. He plagues your mind, beyond just the thought of sex. The thought of him, holding you in his arms, whispering into your ear, smiling down at you. 

You do manage to forget how badly you want to fuck him when all of a sudden he’s hurling himself into danger, in front of a hail of bullets that his stupid shield barely covers.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you lecture him as the two of you climb back into the van. You’d been tasked with securing classified S.H.I.E.L.D files from a criminal organization planning to sell them. You’d managed to get them back, but not without a few scrapes and bruises. Honestly, you’re lucky neither of you died because of John’s recklessness, something you’ve told him multiple times now.

“I was thinking of what was best to keep us both safe.” he grumbles as he slams the driver’s door, turning the key in the ignition. “It was a tactical decision-”

“It was a tactical decision,” you mimic his deep voice. “You could’ve died! You’re lucky-”

“Lucky to be alive, I know, I know. What do you even care?” you turn to him, seeing the anger in his eyes, mixed with something else you can’t place.

“Why do I care? Because you’re my fucking friend, John, and I’d rather not see you filled with lead!” “Well, it doesn’t seem that way lately.” he scoffs, eyes moving back to the road.

“What did you say?”

“I’m saying, you’ve been acting crazy lately.” he slams a hand on the wheel. “One day, we’re friends, the next you act like I’m the dirt on your shoe. I-I don’t understand. What did I ever do to you?” he leans back in his seat, defeated. “You’re acting like you don’t care whether I live or die, so fine, if I die, what’s it to you?”

“John,” you sigh, trying to hold it together. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” he sits back up, angrier, more offended than upset. “I’m the one who’s being ridiculous? You’re the one being ridiculous! All this time-” 

He rambles on, leaving your anger at him to simmer in your chest. It mixes with guilt, of being cold to him, not telling him why. He somehow manages to look handsome like this, passionate, full of emotion. Still, you feel your stomach twist knowing you did this, that you hurt him like this. “John, look, I’m-”

“No, I’m not done!” he interrupts. He continues to rant, getting into specifics of your treatment, your apology dying in your throat. What would you even say? I’m sorry I was mean to you, it’s because you’re too fucking attractive and I don’t know how to handle it? 

You forget about all the reasons not to do this. You forget how annoying and brash he can be, all the embarrassing things he does you tease him for. You forget how screwed up you both are, about the team, about everything.

You just lean over the console, grab his face and smash your mouth to his.

He’s quiet, finally, still in shock of what is happening. The second his brain catches up to his body he’s gripping your shoulders, kissing you back with a force. It quickly turns open and messy, tongues desperate for each other as you act on months of frustration and feelings repressed.

You pull back when you run out of air, sliding back into your own seat as he does his. You sit, quiet, thinking about what you’ve done.

“Is that why?” His voice is hoarse from kissing.

You nod. “Yeah. That’s why.”

You’re both quiet again, reeling from your actions. He slowly unbuckles his seatbelt, climbs out of the car. You wonder if you’ve done something wrong, if maybe you misread him.

Then he’s opening your door, and before you can say anything he’s kissing you again, large hands cupping your face in them as he presses his lips to yours, hungry and needy.

He pulls away too quickly, looking at you with a ferocity in his eyes you’ve never seen before. “Do you want this?” he asks, voice low and warning.

“Yes.” you nod. “John I’ve wanted you so bad for-”

You’re both throwing yourselves into each other, not even bothering to finish talking. John’s wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you into him. You yelp as you quickly wrap your legs around him, clinging to him for dear life, still not breaking the kiss.

He kicks the car door shut and presses you up against it, tongue slithering along your bottom lip, asking permission. You give it, sliding your won against him, deepening the kiss. You feel a moan emanate from your throat as you do, feeling like you’re absorbing John into your very being.

He shifts one hand to holding you up as he fiddles with the backseat door, yanking at it unsuccessfully. He finally pulls back, much to your dismay, to pull the damn thing open properly.

“There you go.” you joke.

“Shut up.” he mutters, before pulling you back from the side of the car and gently carrying you into it, laying you on along the backseat.

“Take your clothes off.” he huffs, fiddling with his own as he climbs in, stripping himself of his weapons. You do the same, pulling off piece after piece of tactical gear. 

There’s kevlar everywhere, bulletproof vests thrown haphazardly in the trunk, knives discarded in the front seat. Somehow in a lust-induced craze, the two of you still manage to have some form of organization.

You’ve barely pulled off your shirt before you peer over at Walker, face turned red from exertion, cheat heaving with heavy breaths.

And god, you love looking at his chest. Your eyes meet his, flitting back down in silent communication. Without a word, he nods and you’re on his, straddling him as your hands run along his broad shoulders, teeth nipping at his neck before you kiss the small bites.

He groans, head falling to the crook of your neck as he takes you in, hands gripping your hips like you’ll vanish he doesn’t.

“God, so fucking pretty.” he mumbles, grabbing your chin to pull you back in for anther kiss. One hand trails down towards your arching core, tugging at your waistband. You quickly move to help pull them down, you and John struggling together until finally, the dreaded things are gone. 

He doesn’t bother dealing with your underwear, just pushing your panties aside as he brings a finger to your soaked cunt, you gasping at the sensation of his touch.

“So fuckin’ wet, too, shit.” He trails his digit alon you till he reaches your clit, flicking it, eliciting another sharp gasp from you. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

He brings two fingers to your hole, running them against your folds, coating them in your arousal as you groan. “Fucking hell, John, please.”

“You’re even mean when you’re horny.” he chuckles, you glaring down at him in return as you lower one hand to the bulge in his pants, squeezing it to a sharp inhale from John.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” you palm at his crotch as he tries to form some kind of words. Finally, he gives up, instead pushing his fingers into you, at last granting you the friction you’ve longed for. It’s so much better than those nights you’ve laid along in your bed, picturing him above you as you pleasured yourself on your own fingers. His are thick and calloused, and feel fucking incredible as you pushes in and out of you with ease, eyes never leaving your face.

“God you’re gorgeous,” he mumbles out, “so fuckin’ tight just on my fingers. Wanted this forever…”

“Please, John, need you too-”

“Gotta cum on my fingers before you can cum on my dick, baby.” you clench around him at the pet name, John smirking at the feeling as he quickly adds a third finger. Your nails dig into his bare shoulders as he moves within you, your head thrown back and eyes shut in pleasure,

“Look at me baby.” you obey, opening your eyes to see John’s flushed countenance, blue eyes dark and wide as you drink you in. “Go on, cum for me.”

He scissors his fingers within you, and with a cry, you do. You thank God you’re parked in the middle of some forest in the middle of nowhere as you moan, riding the wave of ecstasy. John doesn’t stop, keeping his pace till you start to come down, taking deep breaths as you loosen your grip.

“You cut me.” you blink, John nodding to his shoulder. You see the places where your nails have left crescent marks, breaking the skin. 

“Oops.” you shrug, still out of breath from your orgasm. “Something to remember me by?”

John purses his lip. “Only fair I get to leave a little something for you.” he turns his attention to your collarbone, kissing and sucking a bruise into it as he circles his thumb on your clit, making you yearn for more even after one orgasm.

“John, please, for fuck’s sake…” you mumble incoherently. Your brain is wired to tease him and even his fingers inside of you will not change that.

He lifts his head, looking down at the bruise he’s left with pride. “Something to remember me by.”

“You are such a teenager.” you sigh, hand reaching down to undo his belt. 

“You’re the one begging me to fuck you.” he grins. His hands meet you there, tugging the leather off and tossing it away as he yanks his tactical pants down just far enough to free his cock.

You can’t help it, you gape it at. He’s thick, and long, a vein running along the underside where you can clearly see. It curves slightly up against his stomach, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. If you weren’t on top of him, you’d lean down and lick it off.

“Shit, do we need a-”

“You’re good. Can’t get pregnant.” you’re already lifting your hips, trying to position yourself over him.

“See, begging.” he teases as he lines up with cock with your cunt, tip rubbing along your folds. “You ready?” he asks earnestly, looking up at you with genuine concern,

You nod. “Walker, if you don’t hurry up and fuck me I swear-”

With that, he pushes into you, silencing you with a moan as you feel yourself stretch around his cock. He’s not too painfully big, the kind of sharp pinch that makes the feeling just that much more sinful.

He groans, head rolling back as he clutches your waist. You’re sure if you looked down you’d see his knuckles turned white.

“Jesus Christ, this fuckin’ perfect pussy,” he mumvles incoherently as he pushes deeper into you. “SO fuckin tight for me, baby.”

Then finally, he sheathes himself fully, with a downright pornographic moan escaping your throat at the sensation, John gives you a moment to adjust, the two of you sitting in silence, save for your shared panting and occasional groans.

You’ve never felt so full, stuffed to the brim with JOhn’s cock, feeling the head just kiss your cervix within you. You breathe deep as you adjust, feeling every part of him, every ridge, vein, curve of his cock.

“God, John, so big…” you trail off as your brain shuts down, thoughts of anything else besides the man in front of you and his dick inside you fading away into static.

“Taking it so good.” he brushes a fallen piece of hair out of your face, a gentle gesture compared to his usually annoying countenance. “So pretty when you’re full of me.”

You nod sharply, your brain still fuzzy with lust and pleasure. You lift your hips, his cock rubbing against your walls before you slide back down, moaning as you do.

You pick up the pace, riding him like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do, because it’s all you’ve wanted for fucking weeks and he feels so fucking good. 

John sucks another bruise into you, this one on your neck, groaning out incoherent expletives as you bounce in his lap, moaning loudly with ecstasy.

Still, you’re exhausted from your mission and your previous orgasm, your pace beginning to falter. Your eyes meet John’s, and without a word he wraps his arms around you, rolling the two of you onto the seat, you on your back with him above you.

You rake your nails over his back, leaving even more scratches as you writhe beneath him. That gentle moment from earlier feels long-gone; John is rough with you, each thrust pounds into you, heavy balls slapping against your ass as you wrap your legs around his waist, trying to pull him in deeper, as deep as he can possibly get. His mussed blond hair frames his face as he fucks into you, his expression concentrated and determined. 

“Feels fuckin’ perfect, perfcct fuckin’ girl beensth me, God I’ve wanted you so bad, so perfect and good.”

“Wanted you too.” you manage to pat out, looking up into John's eyes. “So handsome, John, you’re so good.”

Oh, he liked that. He moans outright, loudly, his thrusts managing to become even harder. You give a raspy moan in reply. 

“Like when I tell you how good you are?” you pant out as you give him a dastardly smile, to which he just grunts in response, “So fuckin’ good, John, love your cock, let you fuck me forever.”

You’re a little cockdrunk, or a lot, head spinning as you clench around him, John pressing his mouth against yours in a bruising kiss. Maybe to shut you up, maybe because he wanted to, who knows. You just know you can feel the pressure building in your stomach, another orgasm on the verge of breaking loose within you.

“John,” you move a hand to his face, running through his beard, gripping the fine hairs as you seek something, anything to hold onto. “Gonna cum, ‘m close.”

“Go on, baby.” he grunts, thrusts growing faster and more erratic, his cock barely leaving you before slamming back in. “Cum all over my cock.”

You grip his shoulders, crying out his name as you cum again, seeing stars as you feel the white-hot waves of pleasure crashing over you. John follows shortly, sheathing himself deep inside you, where you can feel the heat of him cum painting your walls. 

He gives a few weak thrusts, as if he’s trying to fuck his cum further into you. You just groan, eyes squeezed shut, body still feeling like it’s on fire. 

When you open your eyes, you see him above you, panting as he comes down to Earth. He looks even more handsome like this, all sweaty and messy and smelling of sex. 

“Was that,” he exhales, still trying to catch his breath, “Was that good?”

You just stare up at him, before a laugh manages to escape you. He looks a little sad before you pull him down by the nape of his neck, kissing him again, soft and slow.

“Yes,” you say as you lay your head back against the seat. “That was good, John.”

He smiles, not the usual cocky and self-satisfied look, but a genuine smile, a sense of satisfaction flowing through him. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, atop where he’s left a hickey, then to the other, then a third peck to your lips. You giggle a little, running your hands through his messy hair.

“If I’d known all it took to make you stop being an asshole was fucking you, I woulda done it a lot sooner.”

“Well, technically I was the one fucking you”

You groan, exasperated. “God, the fucking technicalities with you.” you look back up at him, tilting your head as you smile. “Am I gonna have to do this again to make you stop?”

He just shrugs, a mischievous look on his face. “Guess so.” he rolls his hips against yours once more, and you can already feel him getting hard again within you.

“Fuck John…” you’re still barely recovered from the first round.

“Hey, thank the serum.” 

a/n: Shoutout to the Tiktok comment where someone called him Captain Crashout bc i immediately jotted that shit down for later use. And thank all of you who've shown my fics so much love!!! I started this as a hobby to practice my writing and I'm genuinely shocked that people really enjoy these.

It ain't much but it's honest work :)

[sparrow-in-the-field]

It's interesting to me that some people say that in the scene of John, Ava, and Yelena comparing weapons that John didn't get that they were making a dick joke about his gun, because that's not my interpretation of the scene at all.

He didn't stammer because he didn't get the joke, he stammered because he did get it, but he's been with exactly one woman in his entire life and maybe doesn't have much of a crude sense of humor himself, so the two of them insinuating anything as a euphemism left him too flustered to come up with a remark beyond stammering "just...a little...a little long". The backtracking is him realizing what his first statement sounded like and recognizing them poking fun (lightheartedly) at him. It's essentially him going "wait that's not what I meant" because he realizes it's embarrassing to brag about size for what they're talking about. And let's be real, he wants them to like him, lol, so he goes along with the joke rather than getting mad about it.

Idk what my point is. It's just my favorite scene in the movie, I think it's really cute and shows us the kind of friendship that the bolts want to have with each other (teasing but lighthearted, rather than begrudging or annoyed like we'd seen when they were first having to work together). I think it also shows a lot of potential for John's gentler side and ability to exercise humility with people he cares about; he's learning to be okay with being the butt of jokes if it's coming from friends. He doesn't get mad or defensive about it, he just awkwardly fumbles in response to the joke and yes I find that adorable and endearing of him.

[marveldaily]

What the hell? Thunderbolts* In Theaters | dir. Jake Schreier

[dearwalker]

Are we out of the woods yet?

Pairing: John Walker x reader. Word count: 6.2k

Description: You and John Walker are nothing more than two idiots who can’t stand each other. But when a mission goes wrong and you fall through cracking ice, he does everything in his power to keep you alive.

Warnings/Tags: Enemies to ‘you saved my life, what are we now?’, hurt/comfort, drowning in frigid water, CPR, body heat. You might fall in love with him. Thunderbolts make a cheeky appearance.

Notes: This was the most voted option for my next fic, it’s uh … it’s a bit long, yeah 🤭. Enjoy 🫶🏼

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You'd lost a stupid bet to Yelena, so stupid you couldn't even remember what it was, but you were currently living the consequences of it.

Which meant being paired on a mission with none other than John Walker.

Yes, the myth, the legend, the annoying, all star american asshole.

You'd managed to avoid being paired with him for a while. After all, the last few missions you were together had ended in setbacks, for the simple reason you two just couldn't get along. We're talking about a history of missed targets, blown covers, a few stray bullets aimed in each other's general direction, and maybe ... one crashed jet.

So Bucky and Yelena avoided it at all costs when planning for missions.

That was until now, all because Yelena had gotten bored. A lost bet landed you back on another jet with him of all people.

Mission site was in the middle of a frozen forest, where sunlight hadn't touched the snowy ground in years. Even inside the jet, you could feel the cold creeping through the metal walls as you got closer to the drop point.

You were sent to retrieve intel from a highly guarded facility that had made enemies with Valentina. Maybe eliminate a few targets if it came to that. Quite standard, even easy if you actually knew how to work together as a team.

The worst part? Their security perimeter stretched for miles. Which meant you had to go through a rough landing between the trees, far away from the base, and then hike through thick snow and unforgiving cold just to get in there.

Any enhanced teammate would've been better than you. Either Bucky or Alexei ... maybe they just didn't want to stroll around for miles with Walker either.

Couldn't blame them.

So Yelena, influenced by Bob surely, thought it would be funny to send you. Now that was the worst part, doing all of it with him.

You didn't even know what it was about Walker that riled you up so badly. Maybe it was his superiority complex. Maybe it was his agressiveness when he didn't like the way you planned things. Or how he never took the blame when things went sideways, even when he'd done something reckless too. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way he looked a little too good when he was pissed at you, those veins in his neck, chest heaving, strands of sweaty hair sticking to his forehead—stop.

Let's go back to 'You simply don't get along'.

It was easier to hate him than to name ...whatever the hell this was.

"Can you stop doing that? I'm trying to land this thing, or are you looking to crash another plane?" Walker snapped from the pilot seat, not even turning to look at you.

You stopped for a second, realizing you'd started pacing in the back of the jet. It was the only thing keeping your body warm, and your mouth shut.

Until he had to open his.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Is the super soldier getting distracted?" you said sarcastically. "Maybe if you actually paid attention to the plane this time, you won’t crash another one."

"We crashed because you couldn't sit still for five seconds … like right now."

"Wow, you're right. I brought it down with my bad attitude. My apologies, Cap."

You noticed the way his posture tensed on the seat, knuckles immediately flexing on the controls ... why was he so easy to rile up?

And why the hell was that kinda ... No. Stop it.

John didn't know what it was about you that riled him up so bad either. Maybe it was the constant defiance, that bratty attitude he just couldn't allow. Maybe it was how you never followed his orders, even when he was right. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way you kept running your mouth and he could only think about his mouth on yours to shut you up—no.

He just hated you, that was it.

"Just sit your ass down and put on your belt. We're about to land," he muttered, trying not to sound like he wanted to throw you out mid flight. "I don't know how bad it's gonna be landing into the woods."

You figured it was better to comply, not for him, but because the mission hadn't even started yet and part of the bet with Yelena was to finish the mission successfully, without killing each other in the process.

A lost bet was a lost bet, after all.

You plopped down into the copilot seat beside him, letting your eyes roll as you buckled in. John just side eyed you.

"Good girl," he muttered under his breath, but loud enough for you to hear.

You went upright in your sit, looking at him with disbelief. "What the hell did you just call me?"

All you saw was a half smirk on his face, but before you could unbuckle and force him to say it again, the jet landed harshly into the snowy woods, trees scraping against the reinforced windshield as the aircraft rolled for some distance until it came to an abrupt halt.

You groaned when your head knocked hard against the leather copilot seat. From the corner of your eye, you saw his head snap toward you.

"You okay?" he asked, already unbuckling his belt.

If you really looked into it, it sounded a bit off from someone who had made very clear how much he didn't care about you. But apparently he seemed to have forgotten that for a moment, as he walked over and knelt in front of your seat, fingers working quickly to unbuckle you as he scanned your face for any signs of a concussion.

And for a moment you believed the hit gave you one, because there was no way in hell this was real.

John Walker...being nice to you? Caring?

You blinked a few times at the sight of him crouched at your feet, heart thumping so loud on your chest you were sure he could hear it. John's eyebrows furrowed to your lack of response.

You considered faking the concussion so you could blame your dazed state to that and not to the fact that his large hands rested on your knees like he wasn’t the last person who wanted to touch you.

"I'm good," you finally replied, barely audible, but enough for him to let out a breath he was holding.

Your eyes dropped to your lap, and he was suddenly aware of the placement of his hands. He quickly cleared his throat, standing up to somehow pretend to shrug it off. He grabbed his shield from the floor and tightened it up in his arm, maybe a little too hard so he could control his own heartbeat.

"Okay then … time to go to work."

You cleared your throat too, nodding and trying to ignore the heat that flushed across your cheeks.

Must've been the landing... yeah, just that.

——

The rough landing seemed to had messed with the jet's communication system, leaving you unable to notify anyone back at the watchtower that you'd made it safely.

You barely got two steps outside before regretting every decision that led you to this point. The stupid bet with Yelena. Stupid Bob.

Actually, scratch that ... Yelena was taking the yelling for the both of them.

Even layered head to toe with Valentina's high tech tactical suit, the cold crept in through every seam and zipper. The forest around you was quiet, and too white, just frost covered pines and the sound of boots crunching the snow below you.

And... him.

He walked ahead of you, carrying the map completely unfazed by the freezing air, head high and posture perfect, with that ridiculous bent shield attached to his arm.

"Walker, why do you get the map?" you asked, not even trying to hide your irritation.

"Because I actually know how to read it," he replied without looking back.

You rolled your eyes. Honestly, you didn't even want the map, your crossed arms were staying glued to your chest for warmth. Picking a fight with him was just the most entertaining way to stay conscious.

You walked in silence for about fifteen minutes before you started talking again, not because you had anything relevant to say, but because it kept your jaw moving.

"How much longer?" you asked, not intending it to come out as whiny as it did, but the cold sinking in your bones was making your brain foggy.

"Can't keep up, already?" he mocked. "Want me to take out the Sentry I keep in my pocket? Maybe he can fly us there."

You inhaled sharply, resisting the sudden urge to stab him. No one would know ... right? Mission incident.

Just an incident.

You shook your head, you still needed him to get out of there. That didn't mean you couldn't mess with him a little longer.

So you sniffled.

"You're so mean, John," you mumbled, voice laced with fake hurt.

He stopped in his tracks, shocked about two things. First, did you just call him John? And second ... were you sobbing?

He immediately spun around to check, and Jesus, not a single tear. Just a goddamn grin spreading across your face. His jaw was tight as he turned away, clearly realizing he'd been played.

"You're impossible," he muttered, shaking his head as he began walking again. You laughed.

"I'm actually cold ... not that you'd get it Walker, you're biologically incapable of suffering."

"Can you just be quiet for two seconds?" He groaned. "Maybe shutting up will help you preserve some energy."

"Oh, I'm sorry," you huffed, "Are we saving that energy for all the arguing we're gonna do later?" you were panting now, hating the way your breaths came shorter from the lack of oxygen.

He stopped again, turned just enough to glance at you over his shoulder.

"You good back there, or do I need to carry you?"

There was a part of it that sounded like he actually gave a fuck, but most of it was just him being sarcastic. Or at least that's what you told yourself.

"Oh, please," you scoffed, trudging past him in the snow. "I'd rather get naked here in the cold than be carried by you." He let out a short, dry laugh, and continued trailing behind you.

Yes, fighting with you was entertaining to him too.

The two of you went deeper into the snowy woods for a while, until the trail curved into a clearing. There, a wide, frozen lake stretched in front of you, splitting the path you were supposed to get across. It was lightly dusted in snow, surface thin enough to be a problem but not so fragile you couldn't maybe cross it if you were careful.

If you were careful.

Walker stepped in front of you, eyes scanning the amount of space the lake covered. He cursed under his breath, realizing going around was not an option if he wanted to get this mission done before the night fell and you froze to death.

"I don't like the look of this." He muttered, shaking his head.

It didn't take long for him to get into his I-was-a-soldier-once persona, running through scenarios in his head until he chose the one he seemed to be satisfied with.

Surprise, it was always the same one. He leads.

"Okay ... you're gonna have to stay right behind me. I'll check the ice as I go, you step where I step, got it?" He turned to you, lifting his eyebrows expecting an answer while you looked at him with an annoyed expression.

Yes, you knew it was the safest way to do it, he just didn't have to sound so condescending about it.

"Yes ... got it Walker, thank you," you rolled your eyes, eager for him to just go so you could get this over with.

He sighed, and turned his back to you. He adjusted his shield on his arm and stretched his neck from side to side. You snorted, why was he so dramatic all the time?

"Let's go," he muttered, before testing the first step by tapping into the ice with his boot.

You made your way like that, he gave cautious long steps, first putting part of his weight to test it, then all of it, before he could step forward with you behind him. You kept yourself close to him, as much as you told yourself you didn't enjoy it, the broadness of his back covered you from the chill air and his body was so warm you could feel it through his suit.

You didn't notice when he came to an abrupt halt, lifting his right arm up as a 'stop sign' a second too late, causing you to collide against his back.

"What the– ouch!" You cursed when you crashed into him. He didn't even budge from his spot, it was like hitting a wall. A six foot two brick wall. "Do you mind warning me before stopping like that? you are literally made of concrete," you complained, rubbing your forehead.

"I signed it when I stopped," he furrowed his brows, pointing the hand he kept in the air. 

"You are supposed to sign it before you stop, soldier boy. Or how about you just talk like a normal human being?"

"Listen, I think this is a thinner section, so we have to walk through slower, s l o w e r, is it clear enough for you now?" he said, spelling the world 'slower' as he made a walking motion with his fingers on the palm of his hand.

God, stabbing him never sounded like a better idea.

"Jesus Walker, do you even hear yourself when you talk? Just because you're leading doesn't mean you have to be a dick about it." You were almost yelling, completely fuming at this point.

"If you don't like the way I lead," he snapped, gesturing sharply in front of him, "then by all means, go ahead, take the lead. Break the ice if you want. I won't catch you if you drown."

You narrowed your eyes at him.

He didn't expect you to actually move.

But you did. Because you'd rather drown out of spite than let him think he had the final word. So you squared your shoulders and strode right past him without hesitation.

His hand shot out to grab your shoulder. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm taking the lead," you shrugged, and he looked at you in disbelief.

"Are you serious right now–"

You yanked your shoulder from his grasp before he could finish. "Dead serious."

You kept walking without testing your steps, John's eye twitched at the sound of your boots hitting the ice. At this point you had forgotten how cold you were, just from the anger at him alone.

"Oh great ... yeah, keep stomping like that. You want me to throw the shield too? Maybe help you break it faster?"

"No, Walker, I don't want your stupid taco shield. Besides, I'm lighter than you."

You kept your pace, ice creaking faintly beneath you, but you ignored it. You were almost halfway through. When his firm hand latched onto your forearm, rougher this time, stopping you in your tracks.

"Stop doing that!" he snapped, holding you firmer so you wouldn't let go. "You can't just walk off and–"

"God, stop stopping me!" you shouted back, twisting violently in his grip. "Let go of me, Walker!"

But this time, he wasn't gonna let you. You exhaled loudly, feeling helpless, so you stomped your foot on the thin ice. Great … you were letting John Walker make you throw a tantrum. He just got angrier at your reckless move.

"I gave you an order!" He finally snapped, making your eyes go wide in surprise to his audacity.

Where the hell does this man get off?

You just stood there in silence for a few seconds that felt like an eternity, his grip still firm on your forearm. Your brows furrowed, chest rising up and down from the confrontation. You swore your head was about to explode.

"You know what, Walker," you muttered, your voice was low because you felt that if you raised it any louder you were about to have a stroke. "Maybe if you used half of the brain inside your big stupid head you would realize you're not the boss of me."

He opened his mouth to talk, but nothing came out. His posture relaxed slightly, letting out a frustrated sigh.

"I'm just trying to keep you alive," he muttered, like he was trying to make you understand something he couldn't quite put into words.

You saw a flicker of something different in his eyes, making you lower your arm to stop resisting against his grip. You wanted to believe him, you really did. Flashes of the way he'd looked concerned about you back in the jet invaded your mind.

But no. You wouldn't give him the pleasure.

"I don't need you to do that," you whispered, and when you noticed a slight falter in his grip, you forcibly pulled yourself back.

The sound of cracking ice didn't even register to him until it was too late. You turned around to continue making your way, planning to ignore him the rest of the mission.

"Wait, stop—" he blurted out, reaching a hand to stop you, but you had already stepped forward.

The clear layer beneath your boots gave way in an instant. Freezing water swallowed you whole as you lost sight on John, who stood on what was left of the ice on the surface.

It wasn't just cold, it was paralyzing.

Your breath got caught somewhere in your lungs, never making it out. You tried to swim up but everything was so heavy, your limbs, your thoughts ... the world. You could only watch as you were dragged down from the light above.

This was it. Your last dumb mission, stuck with him of all people.

John's knees hit the ground hard, scrambling to the edge of the crack you'd fallen in, peering into the dark, freezing water. But he could see nothing.

"Shit—shit ... where are you?” he looked frantically, but there was no way he could get you out like that, the current had pulled you under.

He inmmediatly dropped the shield attached to his arm, the goddamn map, and didn't even think twice before diving in. The cold punched the air from his lungs, but he didn't care, he could take it. You couldn't.

His eyes went wide in the dark, searching through the blurry water for you. Minutes passed, but he refused to acknowledge how long it was taking him to find you, how his enhanced body was already pleading for oxygen.

But then, in the distance he saw something. A figure ... your body, sinking like it didn't belong to someone fighting for their life.

Maybe you weren't fighting anymore.

No. God please … no.

He got to you in three large strokes, grabbed you with one arm, and pushed up, only to be met with thick, unbroken ice above. He cursed, accidentally swallowing some water. He slammed his fist into it once, twice, he didn't know how many it took until it broke wide open, cracks stained with the blood of his hand.

It didn't matter, he would heal.

John bursted through the surface with you held tight to his chest, coughing, ignoring the cold sinking into his bones as he dragged you into a thicker part of the ice like his life depended on it.

Because it did. Because yours did. But you weren't breathing anymore.

"No no no ... hey, hey, come on–" he groaned, laying your head on his lap, gently tapping your cheek, but you didn’t open your eyes. "Fuck."

He cradled your head to place you flat on the ice, and kneeled beside you. You were still, too still, the image of your limp body broke something inside him he didn’t even know was there.

"Don't do this to me," he muttered, as he started CPR with just one blood stained hand so his strength wouldn't crack your ribs on top of everything else. "Come on. Come on, don't– not like this ... I didn't mean it dammit!"

He shook his head, wet hair splashing cold water everywhere, aggressively wiping his eyes with his free hand, before going down to blow oxygen into your mouth.

"Breathe .. please breathe. You're not–you're not allowed to go out like this, you hear me?"

He kept just kept going, didn't plan on giving up, not on you. Compress, oxygen. Compress, oxygen. Over and over.

Until you finally jerked under him.

Water burst from your mouth in a choking cough, body lurching forward, your hands reaching out to cling on something, anything.

John.

He exhaled like he hadn't since he saw you go under the water and immediately scooped you up against his chest, a large hand placed behind your head to steady you. You gasped as you shivered, and he just felt this excruciating pain in his chest.

"Okay ... okay. You're okay," he mumbled, more to himself than you. "You're going to be just fine."

He just stroked your hair, as he kept muttering 'you're okay' 'you're alive'. You coughed a few more times, clinging into the heat of his chest that escaped the wet fabric of his clothes. That's when you realized he was soaking and shaking too, he'd actually pulled you out.

"You ... you went after me," you blurted out.

John wanted to punch himself in that moment. Repeatedly. Why did he have to say all those things to you? He knew damn well he would go after you every time.

He held you tighter, and placed a kiss on your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, voice cracking, something you never thought would hear from him, but man was he holding you like his life depended on it.

You wanted to say something else, but your teeth began chattering uncontrollably. You weakly pulled apart to look at him, maybe to let him know you felt your body giving out, maybe to look at him clearly one last time before your eyes began blurring more. And he saw it, he knew.

"No–no don't do that. Stay with me, alright? Listen to me! Just this once."

You're not the boss of me, Walker, you thought.

He finally stood up, pulling you up into his arms, one hand braced under your knees, the other across your back. "We're heading back to the jet. I need you to stay awake for me."

You just managed to nod, curling against his chest.

He left his shield behind, Val would get it back and if she didn't who cares. That wasn't important to him now, you were.

He miraculously managed to make it out the frozen lake without it breaking again, running right back into the forest path you'd already hiked through.

At this point, he didn't feel the cold anymore.

Didn't feel the bite of ice in his clothes, or the burning ache in his chest as he launched himself through the trees. You were trembling in his arms, he knew you were getting worse the longer he took to get you to shelter.

"Hey," John barked, louder than he meant to, like volume would anchor you to him. "C'mon. Say something, just keep talking."

You wanted to roll your eyes and laugh at him. He sounded way too desperate, for someone who couldnt stand you this morning. "You suck," you managed to blurt out, and you felt his laugh vibrate in his chest.

"Good girl," he replied, trying to get you mad at him like he'd done earlier in the jet, just so you talked to him.

Just so you stayed alive out of pure spite.

But you didn't fight him this time, you didn't want to anymore. He could boss you around all he wanted as long as you could feel the warmth of his body. As long as he kept running through the woods, holding you like you were the only thing that mattered to him.

"Eyes open. Stay with me." He groaned, when he didn't get the reaction he wanted. "Just a little longer, alright? Yell at me, go ahead, just keep saying shit. Insult my haircut. Tell me I ruined your day ... anything."

You made a noise, maybe a word, but it sounded wrong. Your head lolled against his shoulder and your lips were turning blue.

"Fuck," he hissed. "You're not dying on me."

The jet was on sight now, slightly buried in snow between the crashed pines. The second he reached the ramp, he stumbled up with you in his arms, kicking the door open. The inside was less cold than outside, but it was not enough.

He laid you gently on the copilot seat, and turned to the controls, desperately flipping switches to get the jet's heating system going, and fiddling with the comms settings to try to get to the team.

"Bucky? Yelena? Anybody, come in–" he barked, looking at you over his shoulder. "We need immediate extraction."

Nothing came back, the signal was still down.

"Goddammit." He slammed the control panel, a let out a string of curses under his breath.

He finally turned to your figure on the seat, and felt his whole chest cave in. You weren't moving anymore, just breathing shallow and slow. He could hear your heartbeat slowing down as you stared at him with half lidded eyes.

The jet had barely warmed up. It was like being inside a fucking freezer. There was no time, he knew what he needed to do.

"Fuck it."

He stripped off his gear quickly. The heat of his body had already dried off most of it. Still, he got rid of his tactical suit, gloves, the compression shirt he wore inside, until he was left in his underwear, body steaming against the crisp air.

He knelt by your chair, then hesitantly placed his hands on your soaked layers.

"Sorry ... I have to do this," he muttered, as his fingers found your suit's zipper. "I know you hate me. I know this is the last thing you want ... but I need you to live more than I need your permission right now."

His hands were careful. Gentle, even as they worked fast. He took off all layers, except for your underwear. His jaw clenched the whole time as he tried to keep his eyes from looking more than necessary.

He then lifted you off the seat so he could sit instead, placing you on his lap. He pulled you as close as he could, chest to chest, arms wrapped around your freezing body trying to trap as much heat as he could between you. He tilted your face gently, tucking it under his chin.

And God, he was warm.

By this point you had stopped shivering, but he knew it meant you were just at the worst stage of it. Your lips were blue, skin worryingly lifeless, and you couldn't quite figure out what was going on anymore.

"I got you," he whispered, kissing your head like he did when he got you out of the water. But that time you'd gotten back to him. Right now you were drifting away. "I've got you. You're gonna be okay."

"John?" His name came out unsure. Like you didn't remember he was even with you. Like you didn't remember you never called him John.

"Yeah it's me ... it's Walker. You hate my guts, remember? ... come on, stay with me," he held you tighter, wishing there was a way to give you all the serum going through his veins, even if it was him dying instead of you. "I didn't mean it. Any of it. You can punch me when you get better. I'll let you."

His hands tan through your back, your arms, rubbing warmth into your skin, trying to coax you back.

"I'll carry you through another mile of snow. I'll lose all the bets to Yelena if it means you get to yell at me one more time."

He didn't know what he was saying anymore. And it's not like you were hearing him anyways, time got strange after that.

You drifted in and out, sometimes aware of his arms around you, sometimes lost in the static of your own head. But slowly, like fog clearing, your mind began to catch up with your body. You felt heat all around you, like you were wrapped in something solid and safe.

And... bare.

Your cheek was pressed to bare skin.

John Walker's skin.

You blinked against the soft rise and fall of his chest, his heart thumping under your ear.

"...you're warm," you whispered, barely audible.

For a moment, he thought he’d imagined it. But you shifted in his grip enough to let him know that you were there, that you were real again.

Thanks to him.

"You're alive," he exhaled. His hand instinctively cupped the back of your head, fingers threading carefully through damp strands. "Jesus ... you're alive."

"You sound surprised," you rasped, lips ghosting a smirk.

"I watched you fall through the ice." His voice cracked on the word fall. "Yeah ... I'm fucking surprised."

"I can tell ... your heart is racing," you mumbled, voice coming out hoarse from your dry throat.

The adrenaline was still screaming through his bloodstream. He wanted to play it off, crack a joke, maybe roll his eyes and say yeah, thanks for ruining the mission, but none of that came out.

"Yeah ... well," he breathed out. "You scared the hell out of me."

There. He said it. Fuck it.

"I thought you hated me,"

"I tried to.. . God knows, you make it easy."

That made you huff a shaky laugh. He ignored the way his heart skipped to that. You were laughing again. Alive. In his arms.

"You're not exactly sunshine yourself, John."

John. His name sounded so pretty coming out your lips when you were not dying.

"I know."

That was probably the first conversation that didn't end with you wanting to punch him in the face. Something had shifted.

Maybe almost dying was all it took.

It was like the cold had finally frozen the part of your brain that hated John Walker. Or the heat of his body had melted the part of you that still tried to pretend you did.

You nestled your face closer to his neck, trying to soak in the impossible warmth of his skin. "I didn't mean it either ... you know. All the times I said you were insufferable."

He didn't say anything.

"I mean, you are ... but–" You exhaled. "I think I just didn't want to deal with whatever this was."

You felt his fingers twitch against your back, still careful, like you weren't almost naked in his arms.

"Yeah," he said. "Same."

John looked down at you, still cradled to him like glass. You were watching him now, really watching him, and not with the usual disgust behind your eyes. This time it was something... gentler.

And he was close. Too close. You could feel the heat of him everywhere, arms still locked around you like you belonged there. And his gaze had stopped hiding whatever had been buried under all those arguments and insults.

He tilted his head, eyes flickering down to your lips for a second too long. That's when something snapped inside you. You surged forward before your brain could catch up.

It wasn't cute, not at first. It was cold dry lips, desperate touches, and months of pent up tension crashing together. But then he softened, his hand cradled your face like you were something fragile, and yours clung to his neck like maybe if you held tighter, this wouldn't end.

But it did, because he pulled apart, like he was still holding himself back. He shook his head.

"I want you alive first ... fully conscious," he whispered against your lips. "Not ... not like this."

Of course he wasn't sure if this was real. If this was just some kind of 'thanks for saving me' type kiss. Like tomorrow you would wake up and remember you hated him, and he wasn't sure if he could take that.

You shook your head, you have never known what you wanted more than in this moment. Maybe it was the adrenaline wearing off. Maybe it was the brush with death.

"No," you shook your head. "Ive never felt more alive ... and I'm not wasting another second."

John opened his mouth to argue, but you kissed him before he could. You took all the strenght left in your body to kiss him deeper, until it was less about the anger, the insecurities, and more about everything else you hadn't said yet.

And you showed him, with your hands running through his hair, with your tongue playing with his, that this kiss wasn't a just a thank you, it was an apology ... a finally. Because you still didn’t know what the hell this was, but neither of you wanted to fight it anymore.

You pulled back breathless, but you were still so close that you could feel his chest rising and falling against yours. And then ... you both laughed.

Awkwardly. Like you didn’t know what to do with each other now.

"...What on earth was that?" you whispered, smiling through the adrenaline crash.

"I ...I don't know," he muttered, a little dazed.

You knew you should be panicking, overthinking. You should be denying everything that just happened. Yet still, you're both laughing again, naturally, like you didn't spend the last months wanting to stab each other.

Something loosened inside you, and you closed your eyes. His warmth, John was so damn cozy and soft ... almost unreasonably so.

Until he oppened his mouth again. Because he was still John Walker after all.

"So... what was that about you rather being naked around here than letting me carry you?" He allowed himself to tease you, because he could now.

Because everything you said in your stupid argument came true. You just didn't expect him to rub it in. You opened your mouth in surprise, hitting his chest, but this time it was playful.

"Haha, very funny. What was that about you not going after me if I drowned?" you snarked back.

He chuckled, and god ... it felt so easy now. He didn't have to say something mean back this time, too many months wasted on that.

So he just leaned in and crashed his lips against you.

Because you were cold. Because you were warm. Because your lips were right there and he just saved your life. And he was sick of pretending he hated the sound of your voice.

This time what interrupted your little make out you was the voice of someone else.

"... h-hello? ... guys come in. We got your message, Walker. Already on our way. Are you both okay?"

Yelena's voice coming out the jet’s comms made your tongues freeze mid kiss. You split apart like teenagers caught making out in a janitors closet.

You were suddenly aware of your very compromising position ... almost naked.

"Oh my god ... oh my god, John," you panicked, looking at the pile of wet clothes on the floor. "She's not even gonna let us explain it to her."

"Just ... don't answer yet," he hissed. "Give me a second to ... it's just my face, I can't—" He turned away from you.

"Are you blushing?" You chuckled through your panic.

"No ... It's the cold, shut up."

"Guys, do you copy? Hellooo ... this is Yelena … I swear to God if you two are dead, I'm going to be very upset."

You scrambled upright, before she thought about accessing the jets cameras or video calling, and tapped the console to talk to her.

"This is Walker and uh ... me," you said, voice slightly breathless. "We're alive, mission compromised. But we're... okay."

There was a pause, and you thought maybe you saved your asses.

"Why do you sound like you've been making out?"

You didn't answer inmediatly.

"Hold on ..." she hurried, and you panicked.

A white light flickered, signaling image was coming through. A fucking video call.

Before you could launch towards the control deck to cut the communication, a hollogram showed the inside of another jet, and Yelena's face. Or more accurately, Yelena's extremely judgmental face. Her eyes went wide, jaw almost falling to the floor.

"What the fuck are you guys doing?"

John cursed under his breath and reached blindly to get his tactical shirt, laying it over your shoulders to cover what was left of your dignity. Bob's voice came in behind her.

"Wait, wait ... move, lemme see—holy shit,” he covered his mouth with both hands, in half amusement, half disbelief.

Ava shoved herself into frame next, squinting. "Are you guys... naked?"

Bucky just peeked his head in, horrified. "They are."

You covered your face with both hands, muffling a mortified groan. John just tipped his head back and let out the most dramatic sigh of his life.

"I swear to god," he muttered. "We weren't ... we're not—it was hypothermia!"

"And your solution was...?" Yelena teased.

"Body heat, Belova," he snapped, rolling his eyes. "It's called first aid, look it up."

"Well ... clearly you got aided." Ava smirked at you.

Bob's voice chimed in again. "I bet that's not the only thing he—"

"BOB."

Yelena mouthed a sorry to the camera after shutting him up, and gently pushed him to the side. Ava disappeared next to them. Even off frame you could still hear their muffled laughs.

Bucky just scanned your face through the screen. "You okay?"

You nodded, because you were. You finally were. "He's really warm."

John cleared his throat.

"We need evac. She's stable now but still cold. Jet heating wasn't enough, I did the only thing I could."

"Copy that," Bucky nodded, biting his cheek to not say anything. "Reaching your coordinates, just please... put your shirts back on before we get there."

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Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated, thank you so much for reading <3

[incorrect-thunderbolts]

Bucky, to everyone: Every talk I have with you people gets more and more absurd!

Yelena: You say "you people" like you're not part of the family. Well, I've got news for you, Bucky. You're already on the Christmas card.

[dearwalker]

Have you ever tried this one?

━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━

Pairing: John Walker x reader. Word count: 5.2k

Note: Another one inspired by a Sabrina Carpenter song, this time it’s Juno. If you know, you know😉 enjoy 🫶🏼

Description: John had been away on a long mission. A month of nothing but his fist and filthy thoughts of you, edging himself to save it all for you. Every last drop. So when he catches you singing some dirty song about needing it deep? You get exactly what you asked for.

Tags/Warnings: Smut, fem!reader, John gets freaky with his super strength, oral f!rec, only the tip, piv sex, cum play, cum kink (srlsy a lot🙂‍↕️), overstimulation (he just keeps going), so much dirty talk, literally just 5k words of filth with plot.

Happens in the same universe as “Come right on me … I mean camaraderie” but can be read as a stand alone.

Masterlist / archive

It wasn't John's fault. Not really.

It wasn't his fault Bucky had sent him on a month long mission to a place so remote it didn't even show up on a map. It wasn't his fault the signal was garbage, barely enough to send a text, much less hear your voice to at least let you know just how badly he needed you.

By the second week, he was already losing his mind.

Because waking up soaked in sweat with a cock so hard it hurt wasn't the problem, it was waking up alone. Reaching out blindly for the soft heat of your body only to find cold sheets and a cruel reminder that you were only in his dreams. Nothing more than a fucking fantasy. That the version of you riding him, moaning his name in that perfect, ruined little voice of yours, was nothing but a sick joke his head kept playing on loop.

It was maddening.

So no, it wasn't his fault that the tension inside him just kept building up like he was some horny teenager. And no matter how many times his hand drifted down to try to relieve some, anything, he never let himself finish. Not once.

Because coming without you felt wrong.

He told himself the same thing every time, between gritted teeth and sweat dripping from his brow: save it for her.

Every. Single. Drop.

He wrapped up his assignment three days earlier. Fueled by the image of you on your knees, of your pretty little mouth open for him, of that wet heaven between your legs he hadn't tasted in weeks.

He barely acknowledged Yelena when she passed him in the hallway that night he arrived. She raised a brow, opening her mouth to speak.

"Not now," John snapped, already walking past her.

Yelena didn't press further, just raised an eyebrow at the direction John was headed to. Your room.

Yeah, not exactly a shock. 

It wasn't a secret you two were having ... something. The compound's walls weren't that thick, and no one here was blind either. You'd both been caught sneaking out of each other's rooms enough times that it barely qualified as "sneaking" anymore.

The whole damn compound probably had a scorecard by now.

At this point, it was honestly ridiculous you still had separate rooms at all. Maybe you liked the thrill of it ... or maybe you were just idiots.

Either way, Yelena knew one thing for sure, she'd probably end up crashing in the living room with the others from that floor, if they wanted to get some sleep that night.

But when John finally reached your door, you weren't there.

He groaned in frustration, eyes narrowing. Maybe you were in the kitchen. Maybe you'd just stepped out, the warm lamp illuminating your messed bedsheets told him so.

Fine. He could wait ... barely.

He dropped his duffel and shield in the his room and headed straight for your shower, too tense to sit still. He scrubbed off the mission, the restraint, all while ignoring the throbbing between his legs he'd been carrying for weeks now. He told himself just a little longer, just a few more minutes and he could finally bury himself in you again, where he belonged.

He was mid drying his body when he heard the door of the room open. He tracked the sound of your footsteps across the room, the gentle bounce of the mattress as you hummed a song.

"Wanna try out some freaky positions ... have you ever tried this one?"

He paused with the towel in hand, half grinning to himself. What on earth were you singing now?

It wasn't the first time he'd caught you in your room with headphones on, humming to yourself like no one else existed. He loved it, loved the way you sang so freely when you thought you were alone. It was always cute. Except this time the lyrics were far away from being “cute”.

He opened the bathroom door with anticipation, hoping to catch your surprised face when you saw him standing in your bathroom with just a towel covering his lower half. But you couldn't see him.

You were sitting cross legged on the bed, facing the headboard. Wearing nothing but one of his huge old shirts, the hem barely covering your thighs, and those noise canceling headphones Yelena and Bob gave you for your birthday.

You were swaying softly, completely oblivious to his presence. The music was loud enough that he could hear the faint echo of a girl's voice through the headphones. Your head bobbed to the beat, eyes glued to your phone.

"One of me is cute, but two though?

Give it to me, baby

You make me wanna make you fall in love," you sang softly, scrolling absentmindedly.

John leaned against the doorframe, one hand holding the towel around his hips, tilted head and a smirk on his face. He lost interest on the music you were humming for a moment, his gaze dropped lower.

Was there anything under that shirt?

He needed to know. He had to.

The hem of the shirt shifted with your movement, offering teasing little flashes of your bare thighs. He tried, really tried to shake those thoughts away. It was a sweet moment. He could hear the playfulness in your voice, maybe you were even thinking about him.

But then the lyrics hit again.

"Adore me, hold me and explore me

Mark your territory

Tell me I'm the only, only, only, one"

He didn't know why the words hit him like that. Maybe it was the anticipation of it all. Maybe it was because they echoed every filthy thought he'd tried to bottle up over the past month. Maybe because he barely held himself together anymore.

He hadn't even touched himself in the last few days ... hadn't dared. Just drowned in the pent up need to be inside you, so thoroughly you'd be dripping with him for days.

"Adore me, hold me and explore me

I'm so fucking horny."

The words came out of your mouth in that same casual, airy tone, like you didn't even realize you were saying them. It was almost innocent. But he shook his head, because he knew you.

Always that mouth. That filthy, sweet, open mouth.

"Jesus Christ..." he muttered to himself.

"Tell me I'm the only, only, only one"

You sighed this time, flopping back on the bed with a dramatic groan, closing your eyes while you held your phone against your chest. The movement of your legs caused the hem of his shirt to ride up your thighs just enough to answer his question.

No panties.

That was it.

He crossed the room in three strides, eyes locked on the picture of you laid out beneath him, upside down from his angle, completely unaware of his gaze fixed on you.

What a treat.

He reached for your headphones, but your eyes flew open before he could pull them off. You yelped, gasping at the sight of him looming over you.

"John?!" you gasped, scrambling upright so fast your phone bounced off the bed, headphones following.

You weren't expecting to see him there at all, at least not yet, he was supposed to arrive by the end of the week. Not that you could ever complain though, the image in front of you was something you'd been dreaming all those weeks he was gone.

His body still damp from the shower, towel barely hanging onto his hips, wet blond hair dripping all over his shoulders … and that devilishly charming grin on his face.

"Hey, sweetheart," he greeted, nonchalantly, like he didnt almost give you a heart attack.

You blinked a few times, with a breath caught on your throat. "Did you ... did you just come out of my bathroom?"

But you didn't even wait for an answer. Your body just launched forward, wrapping around him like you needed to prove he was real. He caught you instantly with a faint laugh, one arm curling tight around your waist, the other gripping his towel.

His nose brushed your temple as he whispered, "Got back early, couldn't wait to see you."

You smiled, and couldn't wait any longer either, so you crashed your lips against his. There was no hesitation from him, his hands gripped your waist hard, like he needed to anchor himself. Your fingers clawed his chest, his shoulders, dragging him closer by the back of his neck, needing more.

Needing everything.

His body pressed into yours with no space left between, large hands roaming all over your waist, your back, you ass. It wasn't slow, it wasn't sweet. It was tongues and fingers digging into skin. His rough beard scratching against your soft skin.

You pulled back just long enough to breathe, but he chased your mouth, biting at your bottom lip, not letting you go far.

"Fuck, I missed you," you muttered against his mouth, chest heaving. "Why didn't you say anything?"

He chuckled, raising his brow, his chest vibrating against yours. "Didn't want to interrupt the show."

Your face burned. You tried to hide in his chest, but he grabbed your chin so you wouldn't.

"You gonna tell me the rest of those lyrics?" he asked, looking down at you.

You just cursed lowly, because of course he heard all that.

In one smooth motion, he spun you around so your knees hit the bed and your was back pressed to his damp chest. His arm hooked across your shoulders, keeping you upright as his mouth dragged slow, wet kisses along the side of your neck.

"Don’t be shy … I liked that little song of yours," he mumbled against your skin. "But I think I misheard the best part honey ... you said you were what?"

Your breath hitched, you knew he heard you damn right the first time. And he knew you knew. His arm gripped your hip, guiding your ass to grind against him, and that's when you felt it. Felt him. The thick press of his bulge through the towel, hot and painfully hard, in a way that made you drool in anticipation.

"I said ... you were fucking what baby? What was it again?" he growled, pressing your hip harder when you didn't reply.

Your knees suddenly felt weak. God, you had missed him so much, even if he was about to fuck every single line out of you.

"So fucking h-horny," you blurted out the lyrics, dropping your head back to rest on his shoulder.

He hummed, satisfied, slipping a hand down your shirt until he reached the mess between your thighs.

"Jesus, baby..." he rasped, your body jolting when his fingers barely brushed the slick already pooling there. "You're soaking just from that? tsk tsk tsk.”

"You were gone for so long John," you whined, instinctively pushing back against him, "can you really blame me?"

He laughed, lowly, like you've just told him something absurd.

"You think you’re horny?" he groaned, shaking his head. "I've been jerking off like some goddamn teenager for weeks, and the worst part? I couldn't even finish honey … thinking how you should be the one wringing it out of me."

You bit your lip, whimpering at the image.

"You know how fucking hard that was?" he continued. "Sleeping in a cold bed, not even being able to hear your voice while I had my cock in my hand, trying not to cum 'cause I wanted it all to be yours. Wanted to fill you up the second I got back."

He loosened his grip on you only enough to let go of the towel covering his body. He dragged your shirt higher and then he pressed his bare cock against your ass.

"Feel that, baby?" he growled in your ear. "This is what I've been carrying ... just for you."

"Then give it to me," you begged, squirming in his hold. "John, please, it's been too long..."

"Oh, I will." He chuckled darkly. “But you gotta run that dirty mouth a little bit longer.”

You whined, this is exactly where he wanted you.

"Imagine the first thing I hear when I come back is that filthy little mouth of yours ... what was it you were singin' about? some freaky positions?"

Shit.

"Hold on to me."

Before you could even process it, his arms were under your thighs. You let out a squeal as he took you off the bed, carrying you to the wall. He turned you around midair, and without even a sign of discomfort, lifted your body up until your legs instinctively wrapped around his neck.

Your back hit the wall with a soft thud, and your breath caught in your throat as you realized what was happening.

He was standing, fully upright. Holding you high in the air with your legs hooked over his shoulders, his hands locked under your ass. His face aligned perfectly with your dripping pussy.

"John," you gasped, gripping his wet hair when you realized your head was close to the ceiling now. "What the fuck ..."

He looked up grinning like a devil.

"What?" he asked innocently, smug as hell. "Have you ever tried this one?"

You nervously laughed, shaking your head incredulously.

"Don't worry, baby," he winked, bunching the shirt around your waist, exposing you completely to his greedy eyes. "I got you."

It was like like the serum was created just to give him the strength to hold you like this.

You gasped when his mouth latched on your pussy like he'd been dying of thirst. Obscene sounds filled the room, from your wetness, from the mess he was painting all over his beard, from your pleads. His grip was unshakable, anchoring you in place while his mouth worked like he was trying to make up for every second he'd been gone.

Your chest began rising up and down quickly, one hand desperately tugging his hair while the other traveled up for some sort of leverage, slapping blindly at the ceiling above you as your body trembled.

"John ... fuck–yes," you panted, vision blurring from the intensity.

He groaned against your pussy, the vibration shooting up your spine. It was too much. The strength in his arms, the way he held you there without even faltering, while dragging his tongue through every slick inch of you.

It felt worshipful.

"You're doing it so good, baby," You praised, tugging his hair harder.

He hummed against your pussy, sucking your clit into his mouth in a way only he knew how to make you see stars, and then looked up at you with those unfair baby blue eyes.

You almost came at the sight of him under you, beard all soaked, looking at you like he was getting drunk from your taste alone.

It wasn't long until your whole body began shaking, legs trembling where they were draped over his shoulders, the heels of your feet digging into his back like it would somehow ground you. But nothing could.

You were so high up the wall, so completely suspended by him, only your back touching anything solid, that your vision started to white out.

"J-John I can't ... I'm gonna–“

"Yeah?" he grunted. "Go on then, sweetheart ... mark your territory."

His fingers dug deeper into your ass, holding you in place as he moaned against your cunt, the vibrations sent you crashing over the edge.

Your thighs clenched around his head, body trembling as you reached your high. He didn't stop, not when you came, not when your back arched off the wall, not even when you whimpered his name.

He kept eating, drinking down every twitch of your orgasm, tongue flicking your clit until your thighs shook violently and you tried to push him away.

Your hands ran all over his hair, desperate.

"Too much ... John, baby, please–"

That's when he finally pulled back.

You blinked a few times at him, your juices glistening on his lips, running down his bearded chin. He looked wrecked. His wet hair all wild, jaw flexing, chest rising and falling like he'd been the one coming.

You twitched one more time, and he grinned satisfied.

"You taste even better than I remembered." His voice was raspy, so fucking sexy.

You barely had time to recover before he lowered you just enough to cradle you in his arms, still against the wall, but now your legs wrapped around his waist, your arms locked behind his neck.

He was the one you kissed you this time, making sure you tasted every drop of yourself on his lips. You could feel his hard cock trapped between you, hot and slick, leaking against your stomach.

"Still singin' that song in your head, sweetheart?" he asked as soon as you came apart, in that devilishly teasing tone.

"Huh?" You blurted out, dizzy from the haze.

He shook his head amused, he was barely getting started with you.

He adjusted his grip on you, before taking you off the wall. Your arms tightened around his neck, eyes wide as he carried you through the room, toward the bed. He lowered you on the mattress, spreading your legs with his knees as he hovered over you.

He didn't have patience for you to be covered anymore, even if seeing you in his shirt drove him insane. But he just needed you naked when he came all over you. So he easily ripped his shirt off from you, throwing it somewhere in the room. His eyes dragged down your body, pausing at the mess between your thighs, at the way your chest heaved, at the way your eyes pleaded.

"You look like a fuckin' dream," he muttered, voice rough. This is all he'd been waiting for, all he’d been fantasizing about.

Before you could say anything, hell, before you could even breathe, he grabbed his cock in his hand, slapping the fat head of it against your soaked pussy.

Once. Twice. Again.

You jolt with each wet hit, little shocked gasps slipping from your lips as your sensitive clit twitched under the weight of his cock.

"Too much?" he asked, grinning as he slapped your folds again, harder this time. "You're twitching so pretty for me, sweetheart."

"John ... fuck–please," you whined, head rolling back on the mattress.

He just grinned, treating himself to a few more heavy wet slaps. You looked so pretty when you shivered, when you begged.

You gasped when you felt him pressing in your entrance with no warning. Head shooting up, eyes going wide just in time to see how he only pushed the tip in. Just that goddamn massive tip, splitting you open with a stretch that knocked the air right out of your lungs. You couldn’t help but throw your head back again.

"I know, baby," he groaned at the feeling of your pussy around him. "You're so tight and so full already … look at you, it's not even halfway in," he praised, breath coming short.

He didn't go deeper. Just pushed the head of his cock against your entrance, in and out. Driving you wild.

And my god, he was so vocal. The grunting, the low growling. The slow movement of his hips like he was holding himself back from slamming balls deep inside you. You knew he has.

You whimpered, clutching the sheets, your hips rolled up to chase more, deeper, but he pinned you down, his chest tensing as he held himself back with a growl.

"Just the tip for now, baby."

He wanted to take his time. Make you go as many rounds as he'd saved his cum for the time he was away. But when you clenched your pussy around the head of his cock, he almost almost bursted right there. He kept pressing in, just the swollen crown stretching you wide.

“God … John,” you whimper, grabbing the sheets. “I love the way you fit.”

“I know,” he hisses, eyes glued to where your bodies met. “Feels so fucking good like this.”

He didn’t thrust deep, just moved in short, devastating rolls of his hips that drove that thick tip over your sweetest spot again and again, attempting to drag another orgasm right back out of you.

“You gonna cum again, baby? tip’s too much for you already?”

That cockiness, that smug grin on his face, the way he keep pushing just a part of himself in that teasing pace, made you unravel, his name came out between gasps, body spasming with the pressure.

“Just like that baby, taking me so well, and I haven’t even fucked you properly yet.”

No he hadn’t, still made you see white as you rode your second high on the night. He groaned at the sight, feeling himself closer and closer.

"You want me to cum like this?" he gritted, hips grinding. "Been saving it, my sweet fucking cum ...all yours. You want it?"

You just nodded, eyes still seeing stars, breathless.

"Then sing it for me.”

Your brows furrowed. "W-What?"

"Sing the fuckin' lyric." He growled this time, leaning closer. "The part that got you all worked up. Let's hear it again sweetheart, just the good part"

Your cheeks flushed, brain fuzzing. "John—"

He slammed forward, just an inch deeper, but so hard it knocked a cry out of your throat. You swallowed hard, while he waited expectantly without moving, making you ache for the friction.

"...Adore me..." you mumbled, barely singing.

“Louder."

“Adore me... hold me... and explore me..."

You noticed the way he was becoming undone to your shaky voice, breathing caught in his throat as he began fucking you again his leaking tip, exploring your entire body with his hands. His eyes glistened with anticipation. He needed you to say it, he was so close.

"Go on, what’s next?” He growled between gritted teeth, hips dragging faster his tip in and out of your entrance, hands pinching your nipples.

"...Mark your territory..." you whispered, nearly choking on your words.

"Yeah," he breathed, voice feral. "That's the one."

He let out a guttural sound, hips slamming forward, his body locking up as he finally let himself spill into you, tip buried, grinding into your clenching pussy while his cum rushed out desperate, like it's been waiting to drip out of you.

"Fuck– ugh baby, fuck..."

You felt it before you even saw it. The first hot pulses inside you, so thick and warm. But he’d dreamed about you covered in him, so he pulled out, his cum leaking out behind him in thick drips as he poured the rest of himself on you. You felt it spill all over your body, one spurt. Then another. And another.

And another.

"Oh my –shit, baby," you gasped , eyes flying wide as he poured into you. "That's so much, John ... holy fuck–"

He kept going while he grunted, kept spilling, holding the base of his cock tight as he came all over you. Your clenching walls pushed what was left inside you out, dripping down your pussy, pooling on the sheets.

"Shit–can't stop," he panted, all flushed, watching with hooded eyes as his cum kept painting your body. "Fuck, look at you ... you're soaked."

You glanced down, and your jaw dropped.

It was everywhere. Your belly, your thighs, the curve of your hips. Sticky, thick white streaks all over your chest, a faint drop on your neck. And even more dripping out your pussy like he never pulled out.

And it had been just with the tip.

"John... it’s so much..." you panted, voice barely above a whisper.

"Told you I was saving it up, honey," he grinned, breathless yet still smug, proud ... asshole.

He leaned down, dragging two fingers through the mess on your belly, gathering a thick strand of it, and then smearing it right back onto your skin, lazier, messier, spreading it even more.

"You're not getting cleaned up," he mumbled, voice rough. "Not yet. I want you to feel it. I want you to lie here soaking in it."

You whimpered as his fingers trailed lower, collecting more where it was pooling between your thighs. He spread it around your folds, deliberately pushing it over your sensitive clit, and you jolted, hips twitching.

"Still twitchy," he smirked, loving the way you squirmed. "So damn pretty when you're sensitive."

Then he dragged his fingers back up and smeared more of it across your chest, rubbing his release into your skin like he wanted it to stay there.

His territory marked. Owned.

You were trying to catch your breath, your limbs heavy, skin flushed and sticky, brain barely holding onto thoughts.

But then, the weight of him moved over you again. His hand gripped your wet thigh hard, pushing it up and out. His cock, hard again, sliding right through the mess between your legs, thick and wet from your arousal and his white paint.

Your eyes flew open. "John ... just give me a minute–"

"It's okay baby, I got you."

He grabbed your limp body and flipped it over, chest against the mattress, ass low, while he crossed your arms behind your back so he could raise your back to him. His cock pressed against your ass, and you suddenly needed him more than before.

"Need you ... all of it … please"

This time he didn't say anything, he just thrusted. He buried himself deep, all the way this time, no more teasing with the tip. The sudden stretch made your whole body arch, back curling away from him but he tightened his grip on your arms, as a helpless cry ripped from your throat.

"Shit, you're so tight," he growled, voice rough with need.

He set a brutal rhythm instantly, hips snapping against your ass, the wet slap of skin on skin loud and filthy in the room. You were too sensitive, too full, too overstimulated, but you couldn't stop moaning. Your body could take it. Needed it.

One large hand gripped yours on your lower back, the other landing a smack in your ass as he fucked into you, panting, wild, relentless.

"You're so fucking perfect," he leaned down, teeth grazing your shoulder. "I'm gonna come inside this time. So deep you'll feel it for days."

Your mind was gone. Words were gone. You were just whimpering, relying on his grip to hold you up while he ruined you for the third time.

This is how he needed you. Overstimulated, a moaning mess, dragging orgasm after orgasm out of you. You clenched around his whole length this time, tighter, he looked down at you and smirked.

"Cum on my cock, baby. That's what it's for, all yours."

His deep voice sent you over the edge. Your walls fluttered around his cock, your back arched as you came again while he fucked you through it, clenching around him with a strangled cry. He slammed in deeper, his cock twitching for release.

"Take it, baby … so pretty how your take it."

He growled seeing you become undone again, losing his last thread of restraint.

"Oh fuck..."

"Come on John, I know you still have more for me.”

You felt it the moment he started to lose control, his rhythm stuttering, jaw almost snapping, breath hot and shaky against your skin.

"Gonna fill you up again," he growled, hips slamming into you one last time.

And then he crashed again, deep inside you, seed thick and hot, spilling into your pussy in those long, creamy strings. Your body jolted under him, back arching, but he didn't pull out this time.

He kept himself buried balls deep, cock twitching inside you, his hands tight still holding your arms behind your back.

"Jesus," he groaned, dazed. "You're fuckin' milking me."

You hummed, overstimulated and trembling, feeling every drop of him, filling you up until it began leaking back out.

A slow, thick stream of cum slipped out around his cock, trickling between your thighs, dripping down your leg as John just watched. Mesmerized. Smirking.

He let his grip on you go, gently letting your chest fall back on the mattress, cock still inside you. He looked down.

"Look at that," he mumbled. "Can't even hold it all." He pulled his cock back a little, just enough to make it spill faster. "Fucked you so full I can feel it spilling out of you."

You moaned, all weak, breathless. "Saved all that sweet cum just for me Johnny."

"It's all I thought about baby," he gritted, dragging his thumb to smear the mess around.

He finally pulled out, a gasp escaping your mouth when you felt all his love dripping out of you.

"Look how pretty you are when you're leaking my cum..."

You thought he would give you a minute this time. A little break to remember how to breathe again, when he helped you turn around so you laid your back on the bed, facing him now.

You could feel it against your leg, he was hardening again. Like your whole body wasn't already covered in all of him.

You felt the weight of his cock, thick, flushed, and heavy against your overstimulated pussy, you whimpered when he pressed the head back to your folds.

"John," you breathed, head rolling back. "You already ... fuck, you came so much baby."

"I know," he growled, pressing his forehead to yours. His breath was hot against your cheek. "I know. But look at me, baby."

He grabbed the base of his cock and rubbed the tip through the slick, tender mess between your legs, your whole body reacting. "Still fuckin' hard."

It wasn't his fault. The serum had enhanced everything. Every fucking thing. And he'd been gone, for too damn long.

You barely had time to recover. You were still twitching, body too sensitive, soaked and overstimulated. But your hands still reached to his back, to push him into you one more time.

"Greedy little thing." He chuckled, shaking his head. “Can’t even hold yourself up but you keep reaching for more.”

So he complied, slow at first, like he could still tease after all he’d done to you by now. His hips rolled forward, pushing his previous loads deeper. You gasped, legs trembling, nails digging into his back as you shook your head and whimpered, "John, I can't–"

"Yes, you can," he growled. "You're gonna take every drop. Again."

Then he snaps his hips forward, hard.

Your whole body bounces as he fucked it into you one more time, his cock slamming through the mess he already left inside, making it gush out in slick, tiny splashes with every thrust.

"Fuck, listen to that," he snarled, going feral at the obscene sounds. "So messy for me. You love this."

And the worst part? He was right.

Because even through the overstimulation, the ache, the stretch, you were clenching around him again, your body greedy, desperate, obeying every filthy command he made without question.

He was relentless. Gripping your hips, fucked into you like he was trying to imprint himself into your core, cock pounding the mess deeper while more of it leaked out down your ass and thighs.

"Still sensitive, sweetheart?" He was smug as sin, one hand spreading you open while the other pressed your lower belly. "You can take it … just a little more."

You didn’t take long to come again, nearly sobbing, legs shaking uncontrollably, and he groaned as you cried out his name, squeezing him tight.

He was there, almost there. But he wanted this one somewhere else.

He pulled out of your shaking pussy, and climbed over your body on the bed, straddling your chest as he guided his cock to your face.

"Open for me, sweetheart ... yeah that's it"

He shoved his cock in your mouth, and you gladly took it, all of it. In twitches it spilled down your throat. Salty, thick warmth overflowed your mouth as he grunted, coming all over your tongue.

You hit his thigh when you couldn't breathe anymore from how much it was, so he put a hand behind your neck to lift your head, and raised you to sit on the bed as he panted beside you, mesmerized by the view of you choking in it.

His hand ran comforting strokes down your back, as you tried to swallow as much as you could. Like you always did.

Like the good fucking girl you were for him.

"Look at you," he whistled in a growl. "Covered in me. Stuffed full of me. Choking on me … and I still see some untouched parts."

His thumb found your chin, smearing what had leaked out your mouth down your neck, and tilted your face toward his.

"How many times is that, baby?" he taunted, pushing the hair out of your sweaty face. "Two, three loads? … doesn't even matter, you always take ‘em all.”

You just whimpered to his praise, couldn't trust your voice when you still felt his warmth going down your throat.

You both go quiet.

The kind of quiet that only happened after John was finally satisfied with how many times you came on his cock, with the way you twitched from the sheer exhaustion, when you didn’t even know how to speak anymore.

He pressed kiss to your temple, his lips soft, lingering. The sharp edge of his voice from earlier was gone, replaced by a low raspy whisper as his fingers brushed over your spine.

“Hey… you still with me, baby?”

You nod weakly.

“That’s my girl,” he grinned. “You did so good for me. So damn good.”

As you regained your breath, he just held you for a moment with his hand on your back, and stared. At you. At the mess all over your body. At what he did.

At what you let him do.

“C’mere” He whispered, while he pulled you into his lap, and settled you down on his wet cock.

You moan out, body going limp and stuffed beyond reason as he held you there, not moving, just filling you up for the last time. You clung to him with the last bits of strength you had left, while he wiped the sweat and hair out of your face.

“Just sit here sweetheart, you’re okay” he breathed against your hair, rubbing soothing circles on your body. “Keep me warm while you recover baby, don’t spill another drop.”

He wrapped his arms around you, possessive, smug but with tenderness now, he kissed your shoulder like it was the softest thing in the world. He could feel the stickiness of your body on him, a sweet reminder that you were in fact, the only only only one for him.

“We’ll cleanup later, baby” He cooed and you just nodded weakly, placing a kiss on his pec.

He leaned slightly to see your face, to catch a glimpse of that blissed out, weak smile on your lips. He smiled adoringly, with that softness that only came after he wrecked you.

But then, without even a doubt, a harsh chuckle left his throat.

“Have I marked my territory enough?”

━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━

comments and reblogs are always appreciated, thank you so much for reading 🖤

[magnetic-rose]

john does something controversial that gets the new avengers bad press (naturally) and the very next day bob steps out in public wearing a “i stand by my canceled wife” t-shirt.

[lostfracturess]

THE STRANGER ON LINE 4 — SATORU GOJO

pairing — ceo!satoru gojo x artist!reader

summary — for 713 days, you've been sketching strangers on your morning commute, giving away portraits to brighten their day. when a missed train puts you on an unfamiliar route, you draw a white-haired man who's impossible to ignore. you think you'll never see him again—until he plasters half of tokyo with posters trying to find you.

word count — 16.4 k

genre/tags — modern AU, ceo x artist, strangers to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, soft romance, fluff, so much fluff, banter, provider!satoru gojo bc goddamn yes & him being a very dramatic puppy in love, misunderstandings

warnings — 16+ ONLY. contains suggestive sexual content, brief mention of financial stress and reference to past cheating experience.

author's note — put on your favorite taylor swift playlist and get cozy for the fluff. i squeeeezed every tiny bit of fluff that i have out of my heart into this. side note, the idea came to me after seeing a tiktok of someone handing out sketches on a train hehe. hope it makes you smile <3

masterlist + support my writing + artwork by @3-aem

Your alarm goes off at exactly 5:45 AM, the same time it has for the past three years. You silence it with a tap (or try, anyway) and slip out from under your warm blankets before the urge to just stay there and call in sick becomes too stong to withstand it.

Your small one-bedroom apartment is quiet, save for the distant early morning traffic of the city outside your window and your groaning as you make your way to the bathroom.

Your morning routine was more muscle memory than anything other at this hour. Shower (seven minutes), hair (five minutes, more or less), makeup (eight minutes), and outfit—already sorted from last night (smart you)—coffee and an avocado toast. 

By 6:30, you’re checking your bag if you’ve got everything: laptop, planner, phone charger, and most importantly, your sketchbook—a simple Moleskine with cream-colored pages that are perfect for graphite—and a few spare pencils.

You flipped open to a new page in your sketchbook and wrote “Day 713.” Tomorrow’s entry would be 714. 

You’d been counting since the first time you gave a drawing to a stranger, an elderly street musician whose weathered hands moved across his guitar strings so smoothly, you couldn’t help but try to capture his ease. When you’d shyly offered him the sketch afterwards, the tiredness in his face gave way to something softer. 

Surprised. Delighted.

“Is this me?” he asked, his voice carrying that gentle kind of warmth older people always seem to have.

You had simply nodded.

The musician smiled, thanked you, and carefully tucked the drawing into the front pocket of his jacket, and that small moment sparked something in you—a sense of purpose, you could say, that had been missing from your otherwise structured life as a graphic designer. Since then, every morning without fail, you picked a fellow passenger on your train commute, capturing them in a quick sketch, and offering it to them before your stop arrived.

Maybe it was cheesy, but you didn’t care. It was the smile that made it worth it—the way a simple gesture could light up someone’s face at such early hours—that’s what kept you going, for exactly 713 days and counting.

As you locked your apartment door this morning—Tuesday, 6:32 AM—you had no idea that your simple, stupid little cheesy routine was about to change.

Your phone vibrated as you reached the station entrance. A notification from the transit app lit up your screen:

Line 6 service temporarily suspended due to overnight maintenance issues. Please seek alternative routes.

Great. Just what you needed.

Line 6 was your direct route to the office, the one that got you there at precisely 8:00 AM every morning. And you’d never been late. Not once in three years at Takahashi Media Group. And today of all days? Really? The Yamada account presentation was at 9:30, and as lead designer, you needed time to prep. 

Panic started to bubble.

“Excuse me,” you said to the nearest station attendant, trying to keep your voice steady while a tiny voice inside your head was screaming. “What’s the fastest way to Central District Station?”

Clipboard guy barely looked up. “Take Line 4, transfer at Miyashita to Line 9. Adds about twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes?

Now panic was definitely starting to bubble up. 

Okay, think. If you skipped your usual coffee stop and went straight to the office, you could still make it with just enough time to run through your slides once. Not ideal, but doable.

Line 4 was unfamiliar territory. Unlike Line 6, which you always caught early enough to get a seat, this one was already full. Businessmen in dark suits, students in uniform, and way too many elbows. And the smell—less lemony and clean, more like... cologne and sweat. You squeezed in and clutched your sketchbook to your chest as the doors closed behind you.

Usually, you picked your sketch subject within the first minute. It was like on autopilot by now. Your eyes would just land on someone, and you’d know. But in this crowded, unfamiliar car full of strangers, you felt a little bit lost. These weren’t your usual commuters, the ones you’ve come to recognize over hundreds of mornings, even if you’ve never spoken to them. 

But then you saw him.

He was standing near the doors at the far end of the car, one hand gripping the overhead rail, the other tucked casually into the pocket of his pants. He looked completely out of place, so unlike the others around him.

He was tall. Like, really tall. And his hair was white. It caught the overhead lights in a way that made it shimmer, like fresh snow under a winter sun. He looked young, though. Early thirties, maybe? The white hair didn’t read as old, more like a choice. Or maybe it was natural. Hard to tell.

His suit was navy, perfectly tailored, but somehow different from all the other navy suits in the car. Maybe it was the cut, or maybe it was just him. He wore it like—well, like he wasn’t trying. Top button undone, no tie. A pair of green-tinted glasses perched on his nose, partly hiding his eyes, but not quite.

Everyone else around him was either half asleep or nervously checking their watches, the usual morning commute zombie routine. But not him. He looked completely at ease and almost... amused. Like the full train and countless elbows between one’s ribs didn’t bother him.

You flipped to a blank page in your sketchbook, adjusting your stance as the train swayed. Your pencil hovered, studying him for a moment. Then, like always, the world blurred at the edges as your pencil touched paper, almost making you forget about the schoolboy who stepped on your foot every few seconds, squeezed between other schoolchildren on their way to class. 

After a while, the train announcement: Next stop, Miyashita Station. Transfer for Lines 2, 9, and 11.

You signed the corner, tore out the page, and held it for a second. This part was usually easy—walk over, smile, offer the sketch, say something nice, move on. But something about him made you hesitate.

What if he thought it was weird? What if he assumed you were flirting? What if he had a wife and three kids and a very awkward story to tell over dinner tonight? What if—

The train began to slow. Now or never.

You stood and started weaving through the packed car towards the stranger. He hadn’t moved, still holding the rail with that same relaxed grip, still wearing that faint smile.

“Excuse me,” you said.

He turned, and for the first time, you got a clear look at his eyes through those green-tinted glasses. Startlingly blue. Vivid and almost unnatural. Somewhere between forget-me-nots and ripe blueberries. When they locked onto yours, warmth spread through your chest like you’d just stepped into sunlight.

“This is for you,” you said and offered him the drawing.

For a second, he didn’t react, and panic started to flare. Oh no. He hated it. He definitely hated it. But it was good, or not? Not Picasso, but decent. Solid. Right? Oh god, if he doesn’t say something, literally anything in the next second, you’re going to spontaneously die.

Then, finally, his lips curled into a slow, handsome smile. 

“A drawing? Of me?”

His voice surprised you. Deep and smooth, with a certain richness to it, like dark chocolate. And... was that a Kyoto accent? Subtle, but there. He reached for the sketch, his fingers brushing yours as he took it.

You watched, breath caught in your throat, as his eyes moved over the page. It felt like your entire morning—no, your entire existence—was waiting on his next words.

“You’re very talented.”

...Huh?

You didn’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t that. Or rather, it was how he said it. Usually, people said “thank you,” or “oh, that's so sweet,” something polite and brief before they got off at their stop. But he said it like he meant every syllable. Like you’d just unveiled the Mona Lisa to him.

You. Are. Very. Talented.

The sincerity in his voice hit you oddly sideways.

Then the train doors hissed open and commuters surged forward, dragging you back to reality. Oh god—the presentation.

“This is my stop,” you said hastly, suddenly remembering everything else happening in your life. “I need to go.”

“Wait.” He took a small step forward, but you were already being swept along with the crowd.

“I hope you like it!” you called over your shoulder, catching one last glimpse of him, but then his white hair vanished among the sea of dark suits, and the doors slid shut behind you.

It wasn’t until you were halfway up the escalator to your connecting train that you realized something. Your signature—the tiny heart you always draw into the corner of your sketches. Gone. Missing. For the first time in 713 days.

It strangely bothered you. By the time you reached your office (7:58 AM—still on time, miraculously), you’d almost convinced yourself it was just the chaos of the morning and had nothing to do with the handsome stranger who made your heart beat just a little faster when your fingers touched. Absolutely nothing.

You shove the thought aside and focus on your presentation. Line 6 would be back tomorrow. Back to your normal route, your normal routine, your normal life. You’d never see that man again. 

Or so you think.

Your presentation went flawless. The Yamada executives nodded along to your designs, and your boss even cracked a rare smile by the time you wrapped up. It was almost unsettling.

And by the time you packed up to leave, the handsome stranger had faded into the background—a fleeting moment in a city full of them.

Line 6 was back on schedule that evening. You found your usual seat. Everything was exactly the way it had always been. Just how you liked it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The next morning, you slipped back into your routine without thinking. Alarm. Shower. Tea and toast. Line 6 at 6:52 AM. Your favorite seat at the end of the car.

Your subject today was a young woman with brightly colored headphones, who seemed lost in her music. When you handed her the sketch (this time with your trademark tiny heart in the corner) she beamed. You’d made her day, she said. 

Life continued exactly as it should. Drawing number 714, 715, 716... each one gifted, each one with a tiny heart in the corner. Your little bit of everyday cheesy rom-com magic thingy carried on, uninterrupted.

A week passed. You were on your usual train, putting the final touches on that morning’s sketch—an older man engrossed in a paperback novel. When you handed it to him, his face lit up. But then it changed. Surprise gave way to something else… something like recognition.

“Wait,” he said, adjusting his glasses to look between you and the drawing. “Are you the subway artist everyone’s been talking about?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The subway artist,” he repeated, like that explained everything. “There’ve been posters up on Line 4 all week. Someone’s trying to find the person who draws portraits on the train.” He smiled, gesturing to the sketch. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

“Line 4? I... I don’t usually take that line.”

But then it hit you. 

You thanked the man and stepped off the train feeling slightly dazed. All day at work, your mind kept drifting back to this strange turn of events. Someone was looking for you? Putting up posters?

There was only one person it could be.

The stranger from Line 4. 

After work, instead of taking your usual Line 6 home, you found yourself heading towards Line 4. Your heart beat a little faster.

The train was full with evening commuters, but you barely noticed them. Your eyes scanned the station walls as the train pulled into each stop. Nothing at the first station. Or the second. Then, as the train slowed for the third stop, you saw it.

There, on a pillar near the platform’s edge, was a poster. Even from inside the train, you recognized your own work. It was the sketch you had given the handsome stranger—or rather, a scan of it. Below, printed in bold, clear type:

LOOKING FOR THE ARTIST

Did you draw this portrait on Tuesday morning, Line 4? I’d like to thank you properly.

Please call: XXX-XXX-XXXX

The train doors opened, and without thinking, you stepped out, weaving through the tide of boarding passengers. You pushed your way toward the poster, staring at it in disbelief. It was definitely your drawing. No question. But why was he looking for you?

You pulled out your phone and took a quick photo of the poster, and then you just stood there, frozen. What now? Should you call? Would that be weird? What did “thank you properly” even mean?

You glanced around the platform, almost expecting to spot him nearby. But there was no sign of him. Only a sea of strangers, none of them with hair the color of snow. 

On impulse, you peeled the poster off the pillar and tucked it into your bag. Back at your apartment, you unfolded it on the kitchen table. The drawing looked back at you, familiar and strange all at once. You traced a finger over the phone number, wondering about the man who had gone to such lengths to find you. 

What kind of person did that? Was he just being kind? Did he want to pay you? Commission another drawing? Something about it was flattering… and also a little unsettling.

You took out your phone, entered the number into your contacts, and hovered your thumb over the call button.

This was ridiculous. You didn’t know anything about him—other than the fact that he had white hair and apparently enough time and money to put up posters in subway stations. What if he was a stalker? Or some kind of... weirdo?

You folded the poster again and tucked it into a drawer. Maybe in a few days you’d feel differently. Or maybe it was best to forget the whole strange thing altogether.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Next day, you were back on Line 6, back to your routine. You chose your subject—a woman with a long braids—and focused on capturing the way the morning light played in her woven hair. By the time you handed her the sketch, all thoughts of the poster and the maybe stalker had faded.

Two weeks later, you were running a little late for work. As you rushed onto your usual Line 6 train, something familiar caught your eye on the station wall. The doors closed before you could really process it, and the train pulled away. You spent the rest of the ride wondering if you’d imagined it.

The next morning, you arrived at the station a few minutes early to investigate and what you found made your breath catch. There on the wall of your station, wasn’t just one poster, but several. Each one with your sketch. And this time, beneath the drawing, a new message:

TO THE ARTIST

Dinner? This Friday, 8 PM.

Hanami Restaurant, Central District

You stared. Eyes wide. A dinner invitation? Posted publicly in the subway? Who even does that? Oh god. 

He was a stalker. 

Or… maybe it was romantic? No. Definitely creepy. Right? Who publicly invites a stranger to dinner using posters? A total stranger he didn’t even know? 

But... Hanami Restaurant? That was a nice place. Fancy. Not cheap. You’d seen it once on your birthday when your coworkers took you somewhere nearby. This wasn’t just casual ramen and a maybe—this was… effort.

“Oh, you’ve seen them too?”

You turned to see an older woman standing beside you, also gazing at the posters.

“Isn’t it the most charming thing?” she said. “They’ve been popping up all over Line 6 for the past few days. My daughter thinks it’s a movie promotion, but I think it’s a real love story in the making.” She gave a wistful sigh. “I hope the artist shows up.”

You muttered something polite and hurried onto your train, heart thudding in your chest. 

This had gone from odd to completely, absolutely weird. Not only had he expanded his poster campaign to your line, but now he was publicly inviting you to dinner? How did he even know which train you usually took? Or worse, were these posters up on every line in Tokyo? No. That couldn’t be possible.

You sank into your seat, sketchbook clutched tightly against your chest, your thoughts spiraling. Was this romantic dedication? Or borderline stalking? 

The invitation was for tomorrow night. You didn’t have to go. It’s not like he knew who you were or where you lived—technically, you could ignore it and carry on like none of this ever happened. 

But… what would happen if you did go? What if he was charming and witty and everything you’d secretly ever dreamed about on sleepy train rides? What if he was a total creep?

You looked down at your sketchbook, heart still racing.

My God.

What had you started?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Friday evening arrived, and you found yourself standing in front of your closet, absently fingering the hem of a dress you hadn’t worn in months. For a dinner you weren’t going to attend. With a man you’d barely met.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, shutting the closet door with finality.

You’d already made your decision. Absolutely not going. This whole thing had gone from charming to…well, kind of creepy. Who put up posters across the subway just to find someone they spoke to for like two seconds? It was excessive. Borderline obsessive.

You ordered takeout from your favorite place down the street and spent the evening sketching while a movie played in the background. Every so often, your eyes drifted to the clock. 

7:30.

7:45.

8:00.

He was probably at the restaurant by now. Maybe checking his watch.

8:15. 

8:30.

Maybe he’d ordered a drink to pass the time.

9:00. 

Surely, by now, he knew you weren’t coming.

You told yourself it was for the best. This way, he’d get the message. No need for awkward conversations or outright rejection. Just silence. Clear. Polite, in a distant kind of way.

Life could go back to normal. Back to routine. Back to sketching strangers who didn’t plaster the city with posters looking for you. 

And still, somewhere underneath all that logic, a quiet little voice whispered: What if he’s just sitting there, alone, sad, and feeling as unsure as you do right now?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The weekend passed uneventfully. By Monday morning, you’d nearly convinced yourself you’d done the right thing. You’d protected your peace. Maintained your boundaries. All good decisions.

Your alarm rang at 5:45 AM. Shower. Hair. Makeup. Outfit. Green tea and avocado toast. Sketchbook and pencils in your bag. Everything back to normal.

On your usual train, your eyes landed on a high school girl seated near the doors. She looked tired, but focused. A textbook rested in her lap, worn at the corners and stuffed with colorful Post-it notes poking out from all sides. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and leaned in to read.

By the time the train neared your stop, the sketch was finished, your signature heart placed neatly in the corner. You stood and made your way over to her, when a flash of colour outside the train window caught your eye.

Another poster. But this one looked different.

As the train slowed, you could make out your sketch—the one of the white-haired stranger—but now surrounded by a border of…were those flowers? 

You squinted, leaning closer as the train rolled to a stop. Then the doors opened, but instead of handing the student the sketch you had made of her, you stepped out onto the platform without thinking.

You moved toward the poster. It was definitely your drawing in the center, but someone—him, obviously—had added to it. Were those real flowers? Pinned around the edges? You leaned in. Yes. Small blossoms. Some still fresh, others beginning to wilt.

And below, a new message:

TO THE ARTIST WHO DIDN’T COME TO DINNER

I understand. Perhaps too forward. My apologies. But I’d still like to meet you.

Coffee instead? Your choice of time and place.

Same number below. No more posters after this, I promise.

Call: XXX-XXX-XXXX

You stared at the poster, not sure what to think of it. It was still... a lot. But the tone had changed. It didn’t feel like pressure anymore. It felt like a peace offering.

“Is that about you?”

You jumped slightly and turned to find the schoolgirl from the train standing behind you. She was looking between you and the poster, eyebrows raised. You hadn’t even noticed her step off.

“What? No, I—”

“It is, isn’t it?” she said, pointing to the edge of her portrait still peeking from your sketchbook. “You’re the subway artist! I’ve seen these posters for weeks. Everyone at school’s been talking about them.” Her eyes lit up. “But it’s real! It’s actually you!”

Your face went hot. “I just… draw people on my commute. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” She looked at you like you’d just told her the earth was flat. “Someone literally covered half the subway trying to find you. That’s so romantic.” She paused, glancing back at the poster. “Though I guess... it might feel a little intense if you don’t know him.”

“Exactly,” you said, a little too quickly, but relieved that someone finally understood. Not that you told anyone, anyway.

“But now he’s apologizing and backing off. That’s actually kind of sweet, don’t you think? Like he realized he overdid it.” Before you could respond, she suddenly gasped. “Oh! Were you going to give me something?” She pointed to your sketchbook.

“I—yes, actually.” You’d almost forgotten. You tore out the page with her portrait and handed it over. “I hope you don’t mind.”

She took the drawing, her face bright. “This is amazing! You made me look so... I don’t know, determined? Like I actually understand what I’m reading about.” She laughed. “Thank you so much!”

A chime echoed through the station—the warning for the next train.

“That’s my transfer,” she said and glanced at the poster one more time. “You know, if I were you, I’d call him. Not everyone gets a second chance at something interesting.” And with that, she turned and vanished into the crowd of boarding passengers.

You stood there for a moment longer, staring at the poster. At the flowers he’d carefully pinned around your sketch. It must have taken hours. 

Your phone buzzed with a calendar reminder. Morning meeting in fifteen minutes. With one last glance at the poster, you turned and headed for the station exit.

Maybe the girl was right. Maybe there was something here worth exploring. Or maybe this was exactly how people ended up in true crime documentaries. 

Either way, you had a decision to make.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

For the next three days, the poster haunted you. Not in a scary way, but enough to slip under your skin and stay there. 

You caught yourself absentmindedly sketching floral patterns during meetings, doodling petals in the margins of your planner, even on the back of your grocery list. His phone number was still saved in your contacts. You hadn’t called it. Yet.

By Thursday afternoon, in the middle of yet another agonisingly boring meeting, you finally made your decision. 

The moment your boss wrapped up, you grabbed your phone and slipped into the empty break room. Your heart thudded so hard it felt like it might knock your ribs loose. Before you could overthink it, you dialed the number.

It rang once. Then—

“Hello?”

That voice. Deep. Warm. Curious. Instantly familiar.

“Um. Hi,” you said, suddenly questioning every life desicion that had led you to this moment. “This is… well, I don’t know if you’ll remember, but I drew your portrait on the train a few weeks ago, and—”

“You called.” He sounded genuinely relieved. “I was starting to think you weren’t ever going to.”

“Yeah, well…” You took a breath. “You do realize those posters were kind of creepy, right?”

“I thought they were romantic?”

“For someone I don’t know, it’s more creepy than romantic. And also, what if I was already taken?”

“Are you?”

You went silent. Right. You probably should’ve seen that one coming.

“I’m Satoru, by the way.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

You gave him your name in return, nervously clicking your pen against the break room table.

He repeated it slowly, like he was trying how it sounded on his tongue, and that somehow sent a strange flutter through your stomach. Why did hearing him say your name suddenly make you so nervous? It was just a name. Your name. You’d heard it a million times before.

But from him, it felt different. More intimate somehow. Ridiculous, you told yourself. You were overthinking it. Probably. Still... the little flutter lingered.

“Listen,” you said, clearing your throat, trying to sound casual. “I’ve got my lunch break in about an hour. If you’re free, maybe we could meet. Nothing fancy—just coffee or something.”

“An hour? Yes. Absolutely.” A pause. “Where do you work? I can come to you.”

You hesitated, then figured it was harmless. It was a large and well known office building downtown, after all. Not exactly revealing your home address. “Takahashi Media Group. Midtown Tower, fourteenth floor.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you in an hour.”

The call ended, and you stared at your phone for a beat before heading back to your desk. You tried to focus on your emails, your task list, anything—but your eyes kept drifting to the clock.

It was just coffee, you reminded yourself. Just a casual meeting with the stranger from the train who’d launched a city-wide poster campaign to find you.

 Totally normal.

Fifty-five minutes later, you were gathering your bag when a commotion near the reception area caught your attention. Moments later, your coworker Aki appeared beside your desk.

“Hey, there’s someone asking for you at the reception. And he’s... well, you should just come see.”

“Someone’s here for me?” you asked, frowning. “But I was supposed to meet—” You stopped. “Oh no.”

You hurried toward the reception area, Aki trailing close behind. As you rounded the corner, you saw a group of coworkers gathered near the glass doors, all pretending very badly not to be gawking at something—or better said, someone.

And there, standing right in the center of the chaos, was the handsome stranger form Line 4.

He was even more handsome than you remembered. Tall, effortlessly confident, and dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit, with a blue tie that was the exact same shade as his eyes.

When he spotted you, his entire face lit up with a smile so dazzling it looked like it belonged in a toothpaste commercial. You saw your coworker Mei place a hand over her heart, and you could’ve sworn someone behind her whispered, “Oh my god.”

“Artist!” he called, completely unaware of (or more likely, entirely unbothered by) the scene he was causing. “Wow, you’re even prettier when you’re mortified.”

And then you saw the flowers. 

Correction: you saw the flowers.

He was holding the most ridiculous bouquet you’d ever laid eyes on. A vibrant, overflowing explosion of violet, pink, and red, easily three dozen stems if not more. It was a lot. Even for him.

Every head in the lobby turned toward you.

Great. Just fucking great.

You walked over, ignoring the heat rising in your face and the whispers following behind you, wanting nothing more than to quickly escape the awkward scene. Reaching him, you grabbed his elbow and leaned in, voice low.

“You really don’t know how to be subtle, do you?”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Satoru had suggested a café not far from your office, and you followed him down the busy street, relieved to be away from the scene he had caused with nothing more than… his face.

People glanced at him as you walked, some doing double takes. He seemed completely unbothered by it. Perhaps he’s used to it. Being pretty comes with stares naturally, you assumed.

Maybe he was a model. Or a singer. Or both. And you were the only person in Tokyo who didn’t recognize him and later it will be so awkward when paparazzi take photos of you holding hands on your way out and splash them across trashy magazines with some ridiculous headline and—

Wait.

Holding hands?

Why were you even thinking about holding hands?

He could still be a stalker. A total weirdo. A—

You nearly tripped over someone weaving through the crowd, lost in your thoughts. Before you could catch yourself, Satoru’s hand landed gently on your elbow, steadying you as he pulled you closer to his side. Your arm brushed against his, and that brief contact sent a shiver down your spine.

Stupid, handsome and cute weirdo, for sure.

A few minutes later, you were seated in a quiet café, staring hard at a menu you’d already ordered from because pretending to study the drink list was easier than making direct eye contact with the man who was definitely watching you.

You could feel it. His gaze. Not bashful. Not subtle. Not even blinking, apparently. 

Finally, you set the menu down. “You’re staring.”

“I am,” he said, without a hint of shame. “It’s not every day I get to meet the artist who’s been haunting my dreams for weeks.”

“Haunting your dreams, huh?” You glanced up and met those absurdly blue eyes. “You know, you do sound very creepy sometimes.”

“Do I?” He tilted his head slightly. “I’ll admit, I don’t do this often.”

“What, stalk people? Or launch city-wide poster campaigns?”

He laughed. “Both, I guess. That might’ve been a bit much. My colleagues say I have a tendency to go overboard once I’ve set my mind to something.”

“Oh really?”

His smile widened. “Okay, fair. I deserved that. But in my defense—it worked. You’re here.”

“Out of curiosity more than anything,” you said, though you weren’t entirely sure that was true. “So now that you’ve found me, what exactly was the plan? Beyond coffee, I mean?”

He paused, considering. “I must admit, I didn’t think that far ahead. I just wanted to meet you. To thank you for seeing something in me worth capturing.” There was an unexpected softness to his voice. “And maybe to find out if the person behind the pencil is as interesting as her art suggests.”

“And? Verdict so far?”

“Even more interesting,” he said without hesitation. “But I still have questions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as how long you’ve been sketching strangers on trains. Why you give the drawings away instead of keeping them. Whether you draw for a living.” He leaned in slightly. “And if you’d ever let me see your sketchbook.”

Before you could answer, the barista approached with a tray.

“Here’s your cappuccino, miss. And Mr. Gojo, your usual.” She set down a borderline theatrical coffee drink in front of him, along with a small plate of pastries you definitely hadn’t heard him order.

“Chef sent these over for you both,” she added with a smile. “It’s that new recipe you suggested last week.”

“Thank him for me, Hana,” Satoru said, offering her a warm smile that made her visibly melt. “They look perfect.”

“Of course, Mr. Gojo. Anything else you need, just let me know.” She gave a polite bow before heading back.

You watched the entire exchange with growing suspicion. As soon as she was out of earshot, you leaned in.

“Okay. What was that about?”

“What do you mean?”

“The chef takes your suggestions for pastries? And the barista knows your ‘usual’, which looks—by the way—like something from the kid’s menu.”

Satoru looked mildly amused as he slid the plate towards you. “Try one. They’re amazing.”

You took one, but fixed him with a pointed look still. “Still not answering my question.”

“I come here a lot.”

“I’ve been going to the same coffee shop near my apartment for three years,” you said, “and they still spell my name wrong on the cup.”

He laughed—a real one. It drew a few subtle glances from nearby tables.

“Fair point.”

The pastry was every bit as good as he promised—light, buttery, with just the right amount of sweetness. But you weren’t letting him off the hook.

“So?” you asked, licking a crumb off your thumb. “Why does everyone here treat you like you’re... I don’t know. Someone important?”

“I suppose because I am someone important”

“What does that mean?”

“I figured I’d bring this up eventually.” Satoru took a sip of his kid’s menu drink, then set the cup down. “I own Gojo Holdings.”

You stared at him. Blankly.

“Our headquarters occupies the top ten floors of this building,” he added, casually gesturing upward.

Suddenly, the name clicked into place. Gojo Holdings—a name you’d seen before. On office towers, in business headlines, maybe even on the news channel. One of those massive investment and trading firms. It was the kind of company that quietly owned half the city without anyone really noticing.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” His tone was surprisingly straightforward. “I’m the CEO. Have been for about five years, since my father stepped down.”

“So this building—?”

“I don’t own the whole tower. Just the top portion. Company offices. This café’s independent, though we partner with them for corporate events.”

“Which is why they know your usual.”

He gave a small shrug. “Perks of a eating here often.”

“So when you were on that train…”

“I was just commuting. Like anyone else.” He sipped his coffee, completely at ease. “Traffic sucks. Trains are faster.”

“A practical billionaire. How novel.”

“CEO. Not a billionare,” he corrected. “Well—technically—”

“Not helping your case,” you cut in, and to his credit, he actually looked sheepish.

“So that’s how you managed to plaster half the city with posters.” You leaned back, studying him again. “Most people would’ve just... posted something online.”

“I don’t do things halfway,” he said, not even pretending to apologize. “Besides, I don’t have social media. Too messy in my position.”

You took a long sip of your cappuccino, buying yourself a moment. Then you asked the question that had been quietly building in the back of your mind.

“So what exactly does the CEO of a major trading company want with a graphic designer who sketches strangers on the subway?”

“The same thing I wanted before you knew any of this. Get to know you.”

You tilted your head, unsure whether to believe him. He must’ve sensed your hesitation. 

“Okay, listen,” he said, leaning forward. “I’ve been renovating the executive floor of our headquarters and there’s this white wall in my office. It’s been empty for months because nothing felt right for it—”

“You want to commission me?” You blinked, more confused than ever. “For your office?”

“Yeah. Actually, for the whole floor. A series of pieces,” he said. “Not landmarks or cityscapes—everyone does that. I want your version. The people. The soul of each place. Like the sketch you gave me.”

“So all this—the posters, the dinner invitation, the whole subway artist manhunt—was for a commission?”

Something flickered in his expression. Not quite hurt, but close.

“No,” he said after a second. “Yeah. I mean—” He sighed. “Does it sound that stupid?”

“I don’t know. It’s... unexpected. That’s all.”

“Is that a yes?”

You took another sip of your cappuccino, more for the excuse to think than anything else. “It’s an ‘I’m thinking about it.’”

“Perfect,” he said, pulling out a business card of his and sliding it across the table. “No pressure. No expectations. If you're interested, call me.”

You turned the card in your fingers, still watching him. “How do you even know I draw anything—beside subway sketches, that is? I never told you.”

He raised an eyebrow, like he couldn’t quite believe you said it yourself. “You don’t?”

Stupid, handsome man. “I  hate you.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Back at your desk, you twirled Satoru’s business card between your fingers, trying to make sense of it all. Was he being genuine? Or was he making fun of you? 

You glanced at the flowers he’d gifted you—still sitting in the large glass vase Mei had found in the office kitchen. They were slightly too vibrant, slightly too much, still too beautiful to ignore. No one brought those kinds of flowers as a joke. Right? And yet, the absurdity of it all made you question even that. 

You slipped the card into your desk drawer and turned your attention to the ad campaign mockups waiting on your screen. But your focus faltered. Your mind kept drifting back to blue eyes, white hair, and the warmth in his voice when he said your name.

Aki appeared at your desk not long after, not even trying to hide her curiosity. You offered her the bare minimum. Just someone whose portrait you’d sketched on the train. Nothing serious. When she pressed further, you sighed and handed over his business card.

Her reaction was immediate. “Gojo Holdings? That Gojo?”

You nodded, reluctantly.

“And he wants to commission you? For art? In his office?”

“He mentioned it,” you said, already regretting sharing anything.

She didn’t miss the nuance. “Oh. He mentioned it. But also stared at you like you hung the moon?”

Your cheeks warmed. She grinned.

That evening, you moved the card from your desk drawer to your wallet, telling yourself it’s just in case you decide to take the commission. Nothing more. 

The rational part of your brain knew this entire situation had ‘bad idea’ written all over it—in flashing neon, no less. But the less rational part of your brain kept remembering how he looked at your sketch as if it were something precious. Not just charcoal on paper.

Days passed. Then weeks.

You kept up your morning ritual—train sketches, quiet observation, the meditative act of putting pencil to paper. But now, each time you boarded, your eyes scanned the car, quietly wishing to see him again. He never appeared.

The business card moved again—from your wallet to your bedside table, then tucked into your sketchbook, then back to your wallet. You drafted emails. Professional, polite. None of them made it past your drafts folder.

And then, life—as it so often does—made the decision for you.

It started with your car being a bit bumpy, then a strange rattle under the hood. And finally, smoke. The repair bill was roughly equivalent to two months’ rent.

That night, you sat at your kitchen table, staring at your bank account and mentally rearranging numbers that didn’t cover the bill no matter what you tried. Between rent, old student loans, and the usual cost of just existing, you didn’t have a cushion big enough to absorb the hit and your parents were still helping your younger sibling through college. Credit cards would only delay the problem.

Your gaze drifted to the business card sitting on the counter where you’d left it earlier. A commission from Gojo Holdings would cover surely more than the car repairs. And then some.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“This entire hallway is yours to reimagine,” Satoru said, gesturing with a casual sweep of his arm. You trailed a few steps behind, sketchbook in hand, scribbling notes as he pointed at one blank wall after another. “Boardroom entrances, reception, executive offices—the whole floor could use your touch.”

The headquarters of Gojo Holdings was exactly what you’d imagined. Sleek, modern, almost intimidating. Walls of glass divided up the offices, giving the illusion of privacy without actually offering much of it. Matte blacks, brushed steel, deep grays, and just enough warm wood or marble veining to say ‘tasteful’ without inviting any real comfort. But maybe that was the point.

Offices like this weren’t meant to feel cozy. In these rooms, decisions were made that shifted markets. Billions moved with a gesture. A signature. A nod. And somewhere at the center of it all was Satoru Gojo, walking through it like he was on his way to pick up coffee at the mall.

“How many pieces are we talking about?” you asked, already measuring the length of yet another white wall in your mind.

“However many feels right.” He glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch your raised brow. “What? I mean it.”

“You know, most clients have a vision board. Timelines. Color codes. Budgets. A whole approval chain.”

“I’m not most clients.”

“Clearly.”

He continued the tour, leading you through a maze of meeting rooms and long corridors, while you took notes in your sketchbook—dimensions, how the light shifted through the glass and how certain walls caught the sun. 

You paused often to sketch rough layouts or mark potential placements, all while trying to ignore the way Satoru was watching you more than the rooms.

“And this,” Satoru said, stopping in front of a pair of sleek double doors, “is my office.”

His office was huge—at least four times the size of your apartment—with windows stretching from floor to ceiling, offering a stunning view of the Tokyo skyline. Gentle afternoon sunlight streamed in, causing everything to shimmer softly, as if in a dream.

“It’s…” you hesitated, searching for a word that wouldn’t stroke his ego, “…adequate.”

Satoru burst out laughing. “Adequate? That might be the first time anyone’s used that word to describe my office.”

“I’m sure people usually fall over themselves with compliments.” You moved towards the windows. “I thought I’d try something different.”

“And that,” he said, following with hands tucked casually in his pockets, “is exactly why I hired you.”

“Because I don’t stroke your ego?”

“Because you’re straight forward. I like that.”

Something in his tone made you glance up at him, but his expression was unreadable as he gazed out at the city below.

“That wall there,” he continued, pointing to the large empty space behind his desk, “is where I originally thought your work would go. But then I thought, why not the whole floor?”

You walked his office slowly, taking in the space, the light, the simplicity. “It’s quite the blank canvas.”

“I’ve been told my style is too minimalist.”

“By who? The interior design magazine that did a feature on your last penthouse?”

His eyes widened a little before crinkling at the corners. “You Googled me.”

“Basic research before meeting a new client,” you said, but your cheeks, of course, betrayed you.

“Mmhmm.” He didn’t look convinced. “Come here. I want to show you something.”

You approached the window where he stood.

“See that building there?” He pointed toward the horizon. “The one with the copper coloured roof?”

You squinted, seeing hundreds of buildings but not sure which one he meant. “Not really…”

“May I?”

Before you could fully register the question, he was behind you, one hand grazing your shoulder, the other gently tilting your chin to guide your gaze. His warmth at your back made your breath hitch.

“There,” he said, his voice brushing your ear. “Between those two towers. That’s where I first saw your work. A small gallery in Ginza. Community showcase. Your cityscape series.”

Your pulse stumbled. “You knew? All this time?”

“Kind of, yeah,” he admitted, still close enough that you could feel the quiet rumble of his words. “I’d actually thought about commissioning you back then—at the gallery. But things got busy, and I let it go. When I saw your sketch on the train, I recognized it immediately and it felt like… I don’t know. A sign. Like the universe was giving me a second chance.”

“How poetic.” You turned slightly, realizing his face was only inches from yours. “Why didn’t you just ask the gallery for my contact info? Would’ve saved you a lot of time. And posters.”

His lips curved into that maddening smile. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“You’re so weird.”

“Says the woman who stalks stranger on the train and draws them.”

“You’re the stalker here.”

“So, what do you think?” He stepped back and leaned casually against his desk. “Can you handle transforming the most boring executive floor in Tokyo?”

“Let’s talk numbers first.”

“I was thinking something in the range of two million yen for the full project,” he replied, watching you carefully.

You nearly choked. That was more than generous—enough to fix your car, pay off a good chunk of your student loans, maybe even take a breath for once. But something in his easy confidence made you want to test his limits.

“Four million,” you said, eyes steady. Bold.

His brows lifted. “That’s quite a jump.”

“I’m quite an artist.”

“That’s already well above—”

You tilted your head, pretending to reconsider. “Hmm. So, if you don’t want me…”

You let the words hang as you casually closed your sketchbook and took a slow step backward, turning like you were ready to walk out. “I get it. It’s a big commitment. I’m sure someone else can paint your sterile corporate walls.”

Satoru blinked. “Wait—”

You took another step.

“Three million,” he said. “Final offer.”

“Deal,” you replied, quick before he could change his mind. “But I have conditions. I want full creative freedom.”

“Naturally.” He pushed off the desk and extended his hand. “Three million yen, complete creative freedom, and dinner.”

Your hand froze halfway to his. “Dinner?”

“Just a simple business dinner,” he said innocently. “To go over project details.”

“We can go over those in an email.”

“Some things are better discussed in person. Over good food. And maybe a glass of wine.”

You crossed your arms. “That sounds suspiciously like a date.”

“Only if you want it to be,” he said, mirroring your stance.

“I don’t.”

“Then it’s not.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Fine. One business dinner.”

“At Narisawa,” he added casually. “Private dining room, excellent view.”

“Narisawa? That’s a two month waiting list.”

“Not for everyone.”

“You’re really trying to blur the lines between business and private, aren’t you?”

“I’m merely suggesting a restaurant worthy of an three million yen commission.”

“McDonald’s exists.”

“I’m not taking you to McDonald’s.”

“I thought I had creative control in this partnership.”

“Over the art,” he said. “Dining arrangements fall under my jurisdiction.”

You gave him a look. “I’m starting to think this dinner is more important to you than the actual commission.”

“What would give you that impression?”

“Maybe because you’re pushing harder for this dinner than you did for the art.”

“I didn’t need to push for the art. You were already sold.”

“Presumptuous.”

“Am I wrong?”

You sighed, knowing you were fighting a losing battle. “One dinner. No private room—that’s weird. Main restaurant only. And I’m paying for myself.”

“Main restaurant’s fine,” he conceded, far too agreeable. “But I’m paying. Consider it a signing bonus.”

“That’s not how signing bonuses work.”

“It is at my company.”

“Fine. But this changes nothing. It’s strictly professional.”

“Of course,” he said. “Just two colleagues having a quiet eight course meal at one of Tokyo’s finest restaurants. Completely professional.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are, agreeing to both the commission and dinner.”

You extended your hand to finally seal the deal. “Three million yen, full creative control, and one—singular, not two, only one—business dinner.”

He took your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, and you hated how weak that made your knees feel.

“If you say so,” he said.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Over the next two weeks, Gojo Holdings basically became your second home. You spent hours wandering the halls, filling your sketchbook with rough layouts and scribbled notes, snapping photos of how the light shifted from morning to dusk. 

The project had you more energized than anything you’d worked on in years. Full creative freedom and a proper budget? That almost never happened. You didn’t want to waste it.

What you hadn’t expected was how often you’d see Satoru, though. Despite being constantly pulled into meetings and conference calls, you know, running a whole financial empire and all that, he somehow always knew when you were in the building.

Sometimes you’d catch glimpses of him through the glass walls of the conference rooms, commanding attention with a casual confidence that was almost mesmerizing to watch. He’d be deep in conversation with some serious looking executives, completely in his element, and then, as if he could sense your gaze, his eyes would find yours. A subtle wink or the ghost of a smile just for you, and suddenly your stomach would do that stupid fluttering thing again.

Other times, he’d just… appear. Out of nowhere. Usually while you were measuring a wall or standing on your tiptoes trying to track the afternoon shadows.

“Need a hand?” he’d ask, already handing you a coffee like he knew you forgot to eat again and make some terrible joke about “hanging” your work. (“Get it? Because they’ll be hanging on the wall?” “Yes, Satoru, I get it. It’s still not funny.” “You smiled though.”)

He’d carve out little bits of time—ten minutes here, twenty there—despite his full schedule. Sometimes he’d walk with you through the space, telling stories about silly board meetings. Seriously, who would’ve thought that a company handling millions in the stock market could be run like a sitcom half the time? 

Other times, he’d just sit nearby while you sketched, sipping his coffee in silence and letting you work. Strangely enough, his presence was never distracting. If anything, it felt… comfortable. Good, even.

And occasionally, he’d say something that surprised you. A thought about layout. A comment about color balance. Something you didn’t expect from a guy who usually talked in numbers and strategies.

“Shouldn’t you be doing CEO things instead of analyzing my color palette?” you’d ask.

“I could, but I’ve already yelled at three departments today. I’m ahead of schedule,” he’d reply with a grin.

And the strangest part wasn’t how much he was around. It was how quickly you got used to it. And how weirdly empty the rooms felt when he wasn’t there.

Your concept came together almost on its own. A series about Tokyo told through its people. Not neon signs or city skylines, more salarymen passed out on the train, old women gossiping in corner markets, teenagers packed into ramen shops after school. Quiet, ordinary moments that felt honest. Human.

Your apartment turned chaotic. Canvases leaned against furniture, reference photos were spread across every flat surface, and your sketches were taped to the windows just to see how they looked in different light. You worked late most nights, completely losing track of time until your stomach reminded you that you hadn’t eaten anything except an energy drink and half a protein bar.

You’d send status updates to Satoru sometimes. Professionally, mostly.

The concept boards are coming along well. I’ll have something concrete to show you by next week. — You

His replies, however, did not share your sense of professional distance:

I’m sure they’re amazing, but I’d rather see the artist than the art. When are you letting me buy you dinner? — SG

You rolled your eyes at his persistence, but you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

The art comes before the artist. Patience, Mr. Gojo. — You

Mr. Gojo was my father. I’m Satoru to you, remember? And patience has never been my strong suit. — SG

The exchanges continued like this—you sending actual work updates, him responding with barely veiled attempts to see you again. It was absurd. Unprofessional. And yet… you looked forward to his replies more than you cared to admit.

Three weeks in, his patience seemed to officially ran out:

Dinner. This Friday. 8 PM. I’ve already made reservations at Narisawa. Unless you’re planning to work through the weekend again? — SG

You stared at the message for a long moment before typing back:

I’m in the middle of the sixth canvas. Friday won’t work. — You

His response came almost immediately:

Art can wait. Food can’t. The reservation is at 8. — SG

You scoffed.

I don’t recall agreeing to this Friday. Reschedule? — You

Ten minutes passed with no response. You had just returned to your canvas when your phone rang. His name lit up the screen.

“Hello?”

“I don’t accept a no.”

“That sounds problematic.”

He laughed. “Only when it comes to dinner invitations. Specifically ones I’ve been waiting weeks for.”

“I’m covered in paint and haven’t slept properly in days.”

“You could show up in pajamas and still be the most interesting person in the room.”

“Flattery won’t work.”

“You’re an awful liar, you know that? Your voice just did that thing it does when you’re trying not to smile.”

Your traitor lips curved anyway. “You can’t possibly know that over the phone.”

“But I’m right, aren’t I?”

You sighed and set your brush down. “Why are you so persistent about this dinner?”

“Because I want to see you,” he said simply. “Because you’ve been painting pieces for my walls and I haven’t even seen your progress. Because maybe I miss the way you look at me like you’re immune to my charm.”

“I could send photos of the work.”

“Or,” he said, “you could wear something you like, let me feed you something expensive, and tell me about your process in person.”

“You won’t let me out of this, will you?”

“No.”

You sighed. “Fine. But I’m paying for myself.”

“We’ll discuss that over appetizers.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Friday at 8,” he said, ignoring your protest. “I’ll pick you up.”

“I can take the train.”

“Humor me.”

You could practically hear the smile in his voice.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re impossible?”

“You. Repeatedly. It’s part of our thing.”

“We don’t have a thing.”

“Yet,” he added. And before you could argue, “I’ll see you Friday. Wear something that makes you happy.”

After the call ended, you stared at your phone for a few moments longer, until the screen turned black.

Somehow, despite your best efforts and at least three attempts to ghost him, you had a dinner on Friday night. Not a date, you told yourself. A business dinner. With a man who was way too attractive, way too confident, and had launched an entire campaign just to commission you. Totally normal.

You turned back to your canvas and tried to focus, but the flutter in your stomach wouldn’t go away.

It was just dinner. In a restaurant. With candlelight and probably a lot of eye contact. Nothing more.

Still, as you painted into the night, you caught yourself wondering what you might wear that would make you feel good. And maybe—just maybe—make him look at you the way he had in his office, when he stood so close you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin.

Strictly professional, you reminded yourself.

Even you didn’t believe it anymore.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Friday evening arrived with the kind of weird, way too warm weather that made you rethink your outfit three times before settling on something that felt like you—comfortable but still nice enough for... whatever game Satoru might be playing.

You were fixing your lipstick when your phone buzzed.

Downstairs. Take your time. — SG

You walked over to the window for a quick glance outside—and there he was.

Satoru was leaning against the passenger side of a sleek black car, arms crossed, dressed in a dark suit that looked almost identical to the one he’d worn the day you first saw him on Line 4. As if he could feel your gaze, he looked up. And saw you. 

No wave, no wink—just a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips.

You blinked and stepped back from the window, heart fluttering in a strange way it hadn’t in a long time. Who even was this man? And how had he managed to get under your skin so completely, so quickly? You were dressing up, wearing lipstick, checking the window like some high school crush was picking you up for prom.

It was ridiculous. Stupid, even.

You grabbed your bag, took a breath, and headed downstairs before your brain had time to start asking too many questions.

He was still just a client. A persistent, maddeningly handsome client.

When you stepped out, he was still leaning against the passenger side door and just for a moment, he froze. No smirk. No teasing remark. Nothing prepared. His usual cool confidence seemed to falter as his eyes swept over you slowly and deliberately, like he wasn’t quite sure he was seeing you right.

“Wow,” he said quietly, straightening up a little and running a hand through his hair before letting out a breath. “You look…” He actually stopped to find the word—that alone felt suspicious. “…really beautiful.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what? Being honest? Sorry, not tonight.”

Before you could say anything else, he was already opening the car door for you, one hand briefly touching the small of your back as you slid inside. Not in a sleazy way. More like it came naturally to him. Which made you almost forget to be annoyed by his presumption.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Narisawa was exactly what you expected and somehow even more—the kind of place where the lighting was soft without being dim, where the air smelled faintly of thyme and something far more expensive, and where every detail felt carefully chosen to whisper, ‘you absolutely cannot afford this’.

Satoru had, of course, managed to get a table by the window, offering a view of the skyline that felt almost unreal. It was the kind of view that made the whole night feel like it belonged in a movie and made you almost forget this was technically a business dinner.

Conversation came easier than you’d expected. Over the first few courses—each one more art piece than meal, which made you feel slightly guilty about ruining it by eating it (I mean, who does that? Making such pretty food just for it to end up in a stomach?)—you talked about everything from your work as a designer and your favourite bands, to his tragic inability to make anything more complicated than instant noodles, and how he once almost made it into the national basketball team.

But what surprised you most was the way he asked about your art. He had a way of asking about that didn’t feel performative or polite. He was actually listening, not just waiting for his turn to talk.

“So, the third piece,” he said, slicing into what was probably the most perfectly cooked fish you’d ever tasted. “The one with the commuters—how do you get that sense of movement in a still frame?”

You paused. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“I told you—I’m interested in your process.”

“Most clients only ask when it’ll be done and how much it’ll cost.”

He smiled, lifting his wine glass. “I’m not most clients,” he said, echoing what he’d told you that first day at his headquarters.

For the next twenty minutes, you talked shop. Layering techniques, color and motion, how to evoke emotion without showing too much. He asked questions that actually made you think—sharp, specific ones that showed he wasn’t just nodding along to be polite. He was genuinely interested.

At some point, somewhere between your third course and your second glass of wine, you caught yourself relaxing. Laughing. Enjoying it. And then you paused and set your glass down.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, unsure why the question suddenly felt heavier than it should.

“Anything.”

“You really went through all this—the car, this restaurant, the whole dramatic dinner—just to talk about brushwork and layering techniques?”

He leaned back in his chair, fingers resting lightly against his glass as he searched for the right words. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe I just like you.”

“You like me?” you echoed, unsure if it was a question or a warning.

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Kind of, yeah.” You fidgeted with your napkin. “I mean, you could be having dinner with a dozen other people tonight. Models. Actresses. CEOs’ daughters. People who don’t get paint on their shoes and give you a hard time.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why.”

Something shifted between you at his words. Like someone had turned the volume down on the room so you could hear each other better. You took a slow sip of wine, partly to buy time, partly to keep your expression neutral as you studied him across the table.

“So, you’re single then?” you asked. “Unless your girlfriend’s very cool with you taking strangers to fancy dinners.”

Satoru raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking if I have a girlfriend?”

“I’m asking if I should expect an angry phone call later.”

He laughed. “No angry phone calls. And yeah—I’m single.”

“Shocking,” you said. “A successful and attractive CEO who can’t keep a girlfriend? What’s the catch?”

“Maybe I’m just picky.”

“Or maybe you’re married to your work,” you teased. “Let me guess—canceled dates for board meetings, forgotten anniversaries because of some deadline?”

“That’s…” He paused, glancing down on his glass for a moment. “Actually, my last girlfriend cheated on me.”

Your smile slipped. “Oh. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t be sorry. She wasn’t the right one. If she had been, maybe she would’ve understood that building something that lasts takes time. And attention.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About two years.” He reached for his wine, swirling it once before taking a sip. “Haven’t really dated since then.”

“So, casual things?”

“More like burying myself in work. Honestly, the closest thing I’ve had to female company lately is my secretary. And she has this strangely strict voice that sounds exactly like my mother when she’s disappointed.”

You laughed, sharp and sudden, covering your mouth with your hand. It wasn’t even that funny, not really. But the way he’d said it—so dry, and slightly frightened—and the face he made, like a kid who’d just been scolded for wearing the wrong socks to a school recital, caught you completely off guard.

For a moment, he didn’t look like the CEO of a massive company or the man who moved literal billions without blinking. He looked boyish. Almost shy. Like he was letting you peek at something most people didn’t get to see. And somehow, that made it even funnier.

You tried to compose yourself, but your shoulders were still shaking as you dabbed at the corners of your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He smiled as he watched you try to hold in your laughter. “I like when you laugh like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re not thinking about how you look doing it.”

Something in the way he said it that made the humor settle into something softer, something that hangs in the air a little too long. Like neither of you wanted to be the one to move past it first.

“Well,” you said, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up, “your secretary sounds scary. I can see why you’d rather have dinner with me.”

“Among other reasons.”

Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it. You picked up your glass, needing the excuse to look away for a second. “Are you always this charming?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but your voice came out a little softer than intended.

“I’m trying,” he said. “With you.”

He said it like it wasn’t heavy at all. But it was. And you could feel it settle in your chest.

“Satoru…” you started, not even sure what was going to follow. But then the waiter showed up and set down the next course with a brief description you didn’t really hear because you only had eyes for him.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Dinner had stretched well past ten, neither of you making any real effort to end the night. So when Satoru suggested a walk instead of heading straight to the car, you said yes.

The night had cooled off more than you expected, and you pulled your jacket a little tighter around your shoulders as the two of you wandered through the quiet streets near the restaurant. It had rained earlier, leaving the pavement slick and glistening under the streetlights. At one point, a small puddle stretched across the sidewalk, and before you could react, Satoru just scooped you up without a word and carried you over it like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Maybe it was the warmth the wine had left in your chest, or maybe it was just the way his arms felt around you, steady and sure, but you let yourself lean a little closer against him before he set you down again on the other side. 

“That was unnecessary,” you said, trying to sound annoyed, though you didn’t make much effort to slip out of his arms.

“Maybe,” he replied with a grin, “but I’ve always wanted an excuse to do that.”

It felt good—being with him felt really good. The kind of good that made you forget to guard yourself. The kind that crept in quietly and made you wonder what it would be like to have more nights just like this.

You’d just rounded a corner into a small park when you heard soft violin music drifting through the air. You slowed, then stopped entirely. Just ahead, a street musician stood under the warm glow of a streetlamp, playing something slow and aching and beautiful.

You stood still and listened for a moment, a smal smile tugigng at your lips. 

“Dance with me,” Satoru said.

You turned to him. “What? No.”

“Why not?” He held out a hand.

You hesitated and looked around for a second. 

“You know, I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

You surrendered and took his hand. “This is so stupid.”

He smiled, soft and sincere, and stepped in close. One hand found your waist, the other guiding yours up between you. His touch was warm, steady. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.

“You know,” you began, as he gently started to move. Not quite dancing, more like remembering how. “I usually don’t do this with clients.”

“Figures. I always suspected I was your favourite.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” you teased. “That other client of mine, a guy from an accounting firm is pretty smooth too.”

“Oh really? Did he buy you dinner at Narisawa and slow dance with you in the park?”

“Not yet.”

“I like when you try to mess with me.”

“I’m not trying. You just make it easy.”

He spun you gently, then pulled you back in, your hand pressed lightly to his chest. You could feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his dress shirt—too fast, like yours.

A few people passed, smiling without staring. It didn’t matter. You were too aware of his breath near your cheek, the weight of his palm at your back, the quiet between songs that didn’t feel like silence at all.

“You’re good at this,” you said softly.

“I only dance with people who make it easy.”

“That line would work better if your hands weren’t shaking a little.”

He leaned in closer, his breath gazing your ear. “So are yours.”

You swallowed, the closeness of him settling into your skin. You didn’t answer. Just let him hold you for a few more seconds, rain beginning to fall in light taps across your shoulders, your hair. And then he dipped you back gently, one hand firm behind you.

“Still think it’s stupid?” he asked.

Your breath caught as you stared up into those impossibly blue eyes, your back arching as he supported your weight effortlessly. The rest of the world faded away until there was nothing but him and the violin and the electric space between you.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Absolutely.”

“But?”

You hesitated, then let your fingers curl lightly around the front of his jacket. “But I don’t want it to stop.”

That’s when you felt the first raindrop hit your cheek.

His gaze flickered down to the raindrop on your skin, how it slowly run down, and for a second you could have sworn he looked at you lips. And maybe, just maybe you wished he’d kissed you but then the rain came heavier.

“That’s our cue.” But he didn’t move right away. His eyes stayed on you. 

Finally, he lifted you back up, drawing you close against his chest. You were both breathing hard, though you’d barely been moving. The rain was falling more steadily now, and you could see Satoru’s white hair beginning to darken with moisture.

“Home?” he asked, voice rougher now, like he wasn’t quite ready for the answer either.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to say anything without giving too much away. Because at some point, this had stopped feeling like dinner with a client. You weren’t sure when it changed—only that it had. And now everything felt a little too close, a little too important.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

When the car pulled up to your building, he was out and opening your door before you could reach for the handle yourself. Of course he was. Always one step ahead, always just… thoughtful in that maddening, disarming way.

“Thank you,” you said, stepping out into the quiet night.

“My pleasure.” 

The air smelled like wet pavement and something faintly floral from someone’s balcony. He walked you to your door, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes flicking toward the sky like he wasn’t quite ready to say goodnight either. 

You fumbled with your keys for a moment, buying time before the inevitable goodbye. The silence stretched, not tense, but full. Full of everything that had happened and everything that hadn’t.

When you finally turned to him, he was closer than you’d expected, close enough that you could see the way his white hair had dried in soft waves from the rain. He smelled faintly of wine and cedar and like someone you could spend the rest of your life with.

“I had a really good time tonight,” you said. “Thank you. For the dinner, the dancing, the completely unnecessary puddle rescue…”

He smiled, a little crooked, a little tired. “Even the terrible jokes?”

“Especially the terrible jokes. Though the stories of your secretary will probably haunt me tonight.”

“Oh, she haunts everyone,” he said. “She’s very scary.”

You both laughed, but the sound died down fast, like the moment had suddenly remembered it was trying to mean something else. His gaze dropped, if only for the briefest moment, to your lips. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you waited, hoping, expecting—

“I should let you get some sleep,” he said. But instead of stepping back, he stepped closer.

Your breath caught as his hand rose—slow, deliberate—coming to rest gently at the back of your head. But instead of the dreamy kiss you’d hoped for, he kissed your forehead. Not your mouth. Not even your cheek. Your forehead.

The kiss was soft, warm—overflowing with care. But not the kind you’d been waiting for. It was tender, almost reverent, and somehow, it left you feeling strangely hollow.

“Sleep well,” he murmured against your skin before pulling back. And then he turned—just like that—and walked back to the car. No glance over his shoulder. No hesitation. No second thought.

Inside your apartment, you leaned against the closed door, jacket still damp against your shoulders. You touched your forehead, where his lips had been. It had been sweet. Really, it had. Just… not what you’d expected. Not what you’d wanted.

You let your head fall back against the door with a soft thud. Why hadn’t he kissed you? Why would he do all that just to not... kiss you?

You’d been so sure. The way he’d looked at you over dinner. The way he’d held you during that ridiculous dance. The way it had all felt like a slow build to something. And you wanted that something.

But maybe that was the problem. Maybe you were just another commission to him after all, something to be handled with care but ultimately kept at arm’s length.

It shouldn’t have stung the way it did. But it did.

More than you cared to admit.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Monday morning arrived under a gray drizzle that matched your mood a little too perfectly. You stepped into a puddle on the way out, got your umbrella stuck in a doorway because you’d forgotten it was open, and then someone on the subway sneezed directly in your direction. It was that kind of morning.

You’d spent the entire weekend replaying Friday night over in your head—every glance, every word, every fleeting gesture—until you’d nearly driven yourself mad with questions that had no answers.

And Aki was absolutely no help. She was already perched on your desk when you walked in, your usual coffee in one hand and dark circles under your eyes doing all the talking.

“Soooo… how was your fancy dinner?”

“It was fine,” you said, powering up your computer.

“Fine?” Mei materialized beside her like she’d been lying in wait for gossip. “That’s it? You go to Narisawa with the hottest CEO in Tokyo and all we get is fine?”

“It was a business dinner. We discussed the commission.”

“What kind of man gets you flowers that pretty just to talk about business?”

“A man who takes his commission very seriously.”

You could feel their stares burning into the side of your head.

“Come on,” Mei pressed. “Did he kiss you? He kissed you, didn’t he? I can tell by your face.”

“He didn’t kiss me.”

“Ah,” Aki said, with that stupid satisfaction of someone who’d just solved a puzzle. “So you wanted him to.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “Can we please not?”

But of course, they were relentless, firing question after question at you about what you wore, what you ate, what he said, if there was a ‘vibe’—until you were actually grateful for that boring meeting before lunch with a client who always rejected your ideas, made you change them back and forth a dozen times, and inevitably circled back to the original design. As frustrating as that was, it still didn’t compare to what was coming later.

You had a meeting with Satoru after work to talk about delivery logistics—when to bring the artwork, how many pieces were ready. The commission was nearly complete, and a few canvases could be brought to his office already. But the thought of standing across from him again, making small talk about framing and placement, felt unbearable.

Not to mention figuring out how to get those giant canvases out of your apartment, which was now packed to the walls with drying paint, sketches, and so many drop cloths you’d basically lost your kitchen to the cause.

For weeks, this commission had felt like the best thing to happen to your career. But now, standing outside the gleaming tower that housed his office, you weren’t sure what to think anymore.

Was this just business to him? Had you imagined the connection, the tension, the way he looked at you like you were someone special? Maybe successful men like Satoru Gojo were just naturally charming, and you’d been naive enough to think it meant something more.

You straightened your shoulders and walked into the building. If he wanted professional, he could have professional. You had a job to do, no matter what kind of game your heart thought it was playing.

You raised your hand to knock on his office door—though really, there was no need. The walls were glass, and he’d already spotted you the second you moved. 

He was on the phone, his shoulder pinning it in place as he typed something on the laptop in front of him. With a slight nod of his head, he gestured for you to come in. And there it was again—that maddening smile. The one that made it look like his whole face lit up just from seeing you.

You stepped inside, lingering uncertainly near the door. He was still deep in conversation, something about a company merger and someone named Gerald being an absolut idiot, and how he might as well handle it himself. Always busy, it seemed. 

Satoru shifted the phone slightly and glanced at you. “Hey, you want coffee?”

You nodded and then he was back to his call. You wandered a little further into his office, taking in the space. It was always so tidy which felt strangely at odds with how chaotic his work seemed to be. You drifted toward the tall windows and looked down at the city below. In the gentle afternoon sun, people were rushing through the city—commuters heading home, students in uniform, ordinary lives unfolding far beneath you.

Satoru stood and walked over to you. He was close—Why would he come so close?—and placed a hand gently at your waist, a brief touch that lingered just long enough to make your breath catch. He pressed the phone to his chest for a moment. 

“Sorry for the wait,” he said, voice low. “I’m nearly done.” 

And then he was gone, stepping out of the office and leaving you reeling.

When he returned two minutes later, he had two mugs in one hand and a canned coffee tucked under his arm, balancing it all as he kicked open the door with his foot. Phone was still pressed between his shoulder and ear. He poured two cups and handed you a one, flashing you that easy smile of his.

You took a seat on the couch, sipping carefully and doing your best not to make eye contact. But you were sure he’d already noticed the flush creeping into your cheeks.

Finally, he hung up and let out a long sigh. 

“I’m so sorry. There’s this big merger we’re handling, and the guy in charge is like the biggest idiot I’ve ever met.”

“It’s okay.”

He ran a hand through his hair, sending it falling messily back over his forehead.

“No, it’s not. I don’t want to keep you waiting.”

“I bet that just comes naturally with being important.”

“I’m not that important,” he replied with a grin.

“The whole tower has your name on it. I’d say that qualifies.”

“What’s more important right now,” he said, standing and walking over to you, “is you.” He took the seat across from you. “So… how was your day? Treat you well?”

Why was he asking about your day now? What kind of game was he playing?

“It was fine. Monday’s not exactly my favorite.”

“Don’t get me started.” He laughed. “I hope at least your meeting went well?”

You blinked. He remembers? You’d mentioned it briefly during dinner.

“Oh, uh… yeah. It went okay,” you said. “But let’s talk about the commission. That’s why I’m here, right?”

He frowned, and there was a moment of silence. “Sure.”

You spent the next hour and a half going over the artwork—discussing placement, lighting, framing. He was enthusiastic and attentive, genuinely appreciative in a way that still surprised you, even now.

You moved through the headquarters together. Most people had gone home by then. The sun had already set, casting long shadows through the quiet halls. A few late workers lingered, but Satoru told them to go and rest and sent them home. And just like that, it was the two of you, walking side by side through the empty building, planning where each piece would live.

It was in one of the offices on the west side of the building—the ones with the perfect view of Tokyo Tower—that you found yourself on your tiptoes, trying to tape a placeholder on the wall for one of the larger pieces. You stretched, struggling to reach just high enough to get the angle right.

“Wait, let me.”

Before you could respond, Satoru was suddenly right behind you. He gently took the tape from your fingers, easily reaching over you to press it into place. His body hovered just a breath away, tall and warm.

“Thank you,” you said, suddenly flushed. But he didn’t move away. “You can step back now.” You didn’t dare turn around because if you did, you would end up facing his chest. And you really didn’t want to face his chest.

“Does this make you uncomfortable?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I’m just checking in,” he said casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world to stand inches away from someone like this.

“You have a strange way of doing that.”

“I had a feeling.”

“About what?”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I don’t.”

He reached out, fingers brushing your shoulder, and then slowly trailed the back of his hand down your arm. It sent a shiver down your spine that you hoped he didn’t notice.

“So this doesn’t bother you?” he asked, almost curious.

“Satoru, what’s your mission here?”

You finally turned to face him and regretted it immediately. You were much too close, nearly pressed against him. His white dress shirt did nothing to hide the muscle beneath, and you hated the fact that your first thought was how unfairly good he’d look without it.

“You’re blushing.” He reached out, gently cupping your chin and tilting your face up toward his.

“It’s hot.”

“It isn’t,” he said, and smiled.

He was right. It was around eighteen degrees. Damn these fancy offices and their perfectly functioning ACs.

“Can we go back to work? I’d rather not have a sleepover here.”

Satoru didn’t move. Instead, he leaned in closer, placing one hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in.

“You’re acting strange today,” he said softly.

“Maybe because you’re keeping me here.”

“Was I mistaken?”

“About what?”

“Our date.”

“What about it?”

His hand dropped from your chin. “I thought it was… good.”

You blinked, trying to read him. “It was—” you cleared your throat, “—it wasn’t just good. It was great.”

“Oh. Yeah… I think so too. Then why—”

“But you didn’t kiss me.”

His eyes widened just a little. “You… wanted me to kiss you?”

“I…” You hesitated, feeling your face getting even hotter then is already was. “Yes.”

“I thought I’d be a gentleman and take things slow. Are we actually kissing on first dates these days?”

“I mean… yeah. It depends—I guess, but…” You trailed off, absolutely flustered.

He paused for a beat, then that maddeningly smug grin spread across his lips.

“Don’t smile like that,” you said, pushing lightly against his chest.

“I’m sorry, I just… I didn’t want to rush things. I mean, my whole approach was already kind of—”

“Weird? Borderline stalker—” And then his lips were on yours, silencing your words. 

No hesitation this time. No uncertainty. You melted into him instantly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. 

His hands slid into your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he tilted your head back, deepening the kiss with a confidence that made your knees go weak. One hand traced the line of your jaw while the other found the small of your back, pulling you closer until not even air could fit between you.

You could taste the coffee on his lips, could feel the slight tremor in his hands that betrayed that he wasn’t as composed as he looked. When he pulled back, you were both breathless, foreheads pressed together under the dim lights.

“Still think this is just about the commission?” he asked, his thumb brushing gently across your bottom lip, now flushed and swollen from his kiss.

“Shut up.” And then you grabbed him by his tie and pulled him back to your lips.

This kiss was different. Hungrier. Needier. He pressed you back against the wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other tangled deep in your hair. You couldn’t stop the soft sound that escaped when he deepened it further, like you’d been waiting for this longer than you wanted to admit.

“What’s the hurry?” he whispered between kisses, his mouth trailing along your jaw.

“You made a whole-ass campaign to find me,” you said, breathless, your fingers twisted in his shirt. “Don’t back down now.”

His laugh was low and rough against your neck. “Fair point.”

Before you could answer, his hands slid down to your thighs, and suddenly you were being lifted, your back pressed firmly against the wall as he held you there effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and the new position brought you eye-level with him, close enough to see just how dark his eyes had gone.

“Still too slow for you?” he asked against your throat, his breath warm on your skin.

“Getting there,” you managed, though your voice was shakier than you’d intended, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance.

“I do like a challenge.”

Without breaking the kiss, Satoru carried you across the floor into his office, your legs still wrapped around his waist, until he reached the leather couch by the windows. He lowered you both down, following you as you sank into the soft cushions, his weight settling over you as his hands framed your face.

“Much better,” he breathed against your lips.

His kisses deepened, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to explore the taste of you. One hand slid into your hair while the other traced the curve of your waist. 

“I hope you sent everyone home,” you said, fingers threading through his white hair as his mouth moved along your neck.

“Don’t worry. And besides—glass or not, the walls are soundproof. One of the perks of being CEO.”

“How convenient.”

“I thought so.” His teeth grazed the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw, making you gasp and arch beneath him. “Though I have to admit—I didn’t imagine using it like this when I had them installed.”

You tugged gently at his hair, bringing his mouth back to yours. “Then what did you imagine?”

“Boring conference calls,” he said between kisses. “Definitely not as interesting as this.”

The leather of the couch was cool against your back where your shirt had ridden up, highlighting the heat of his large hands as they explored the newly exposed skin. Outside, Tokyo shimmered in the night, but the only thing holding your attention was the man above you—the way he kissed you like he was memorizing every reaction, every breath, every soft sound you made.

“What makes you think I’m that loud?” you murmured against his mouth.

“Oh, I have a feeling.”

His hand drifted lower, fingers tracing the curve of your hip before skimming up the inside of your thigh. The touch sent a rush through your veins, making you gasp softly into his kiss.

“Satoru,” you whispered, fingers gripping the front of his shirt, pulling him closer as his touch grew bolder.

“I know.” His hand inched lower between your legs, while his lips kissed down your neck. “I hate waiting too.”

Then his hand slipped beneath the waistband of your jeans, chasing every bit of tension that had been building between you since that very first subway sketch. And as the lights of Tokyo glittered beyond the glass, the rest of the world fell away, leaving nothing but the heat between you—and the things neither of you could hold back any longer.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Later, you lay tangled together on the leather couch, your head resting on his chest as his fingers traced lazy patterns along your bare shoulder. Everything had gone still, except for your breathing and the distant noise of Tokyo still awake outside.

“So,” Satoru said, his voice warm with amusement, “where exactly did we leave off with the commission?”

You lifted your head to look at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “Pretty sure we got distracted somewhere around placing the canvas in the west office block.”

“Ah, yes—the once perfect placement. Facing the window, not the door. ‘Omg, what was I thinking?’” he teased in a gentle mimic of your voice, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “For what I’m paying you, I really have no say.”

“Don’t blame this on me. You gave me full creative freedom. Or maybe you need better negotiation tactics.”

“My negotiation tactics are pretty solid,” he protested, his chest rumbling with quiet laughter beneath your cheek. “I got exactly what I wanted.”

“The art commission?”

“Among other things.” His arms tightened around you, drawing you closer. “Though I still think the pieces should face the door, so I can see them from the hallway when I pass that office.”

“Is that your professional opinion, Mr. CEO?”

“That’s my completely biased, utterly smitten opinion,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “The CEO in me would probably have a lot to say about the productivity level of tonight.”

“Poor productivity indeed. We only managed to discuss half the rooms.”

“Terrible oversight.” His hand slid slowly down your back, caressing your hip. “We’ll have to schedule another meeting. Several, probably. Very intensive. Very hands-on.”

“Hands-on is definitely the way to go with this project,” you said, tilting your face up to meet his gaze, and the look he gave you was so tender it made your heart skip.

In one smooth motion, he flipped you beneath him again, his weight settling over you as his lips found yours. “I think we should continue our discussion right now,” he murmured, trailing kisses down your throat.

You were just beginning to melt into his touch when the sound of the office door opening made you both freeze.

“Oh fuck! I didn’t know you were still here,” a voice blurted.

You scrambled to grab Satoru’s shirt from the floor next to the couch and pulled it over yourself as you pressed back into the couch cushions. Thankfully, the back of the couch faced the door, giving you at least some cover, but your heart was hammering so hard you were sure whoever it was could hear it.

Satoru pushed himself up, running a hand through his messy hair, looking far too at ease for someone who’d just been caught in a very compromising position

“Suguru,” he said, voice calm and unbothered. “What’s up?”

“Don’t bother—I’m just looking for my laptop charger. I’ll leave.”

“It’s okay. We were just...” Satoru began, then seemed to realize there was no good way to finish that sentence. “...Having a meeting.”

You buried your face in your hands, mortified. Why the hell is he starting a conversation right now? This was not how you’d imagined your evening ending—almost naked on Satoru’s office couch, wearing only his shirt, while his colleague stood in the doorway looking for his goddamn laptop charger. 

The time you waited for the guy to get his charger were the most agonizing twenty second of your whole life and to your bad, Satoru wasn’t even the slightest bit ashamed.

Little did you know that Suguru would become one of your closest friends once you and Satoru were actually in a relationship. But every single birthday party or casual gathering, that story would come again. “Haha, did you know Suguru caught us on the couch?” Satoru would joke, while Suguru would groan, “Can we please never talk about that again?”

Six months later, the apartment Satoru found for the two of you was perfect in the way only he could manage—spacious enough for both of you to have your own creative corners and with big windows that caught the morning light beautifully and offered a stunning view of the city skyline. It was nestled just across from a quiet park where the trees already turned gold for autumn.

But it was the room he’d turned into your art studio that brought you to tears the first time you saw it. Windows that faced the north for consistent lighting, spacious storage for your materials, and enough wall space to work on several large canvases at once.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you’d said, running your fingers along the custom easel he’d installed.

“I wanted to,” he’d replied simply, wrapping his arms around you from behind. “I want to see what you create when you have all the space and time in the world.”

You’d cut your hours at Takahashi Media Group down to part-time—something that would’ve been financially impossible before Satoru. But the commission for his headquarters had led to three more corporate projects, and suddenly, you had enough steady work to support yourself as an artist. Real work. Meaningful work. Not just subway sketches—though you still did those too. Now, Satoru sometimes joined you on weekend train rides, amused by the way strangers reacted to receiving unexpected portraits.

Your mornings became a rhythm of coffee in bed while he read financial reports and you sketched ideas for new pieces. After the third time he found you passed out over a canvas at 2 AM, having forgotten to eat dinner, he installed a espresso machine in your studio. Now, he’d show up with perfectly crafted lattes and whatever takeout he’d ordered, settling into the window seat with his laptop while you painted—taking calls with investors in Tokyo, New York, and London, all while keeping an eye on you and making sure you don’t overwork yourself again.

“You know I can hear you smiling through the phone,” you’d tease after he hung up from his calls.

“Can’t help it,” he’d say. “I’ve got the most beautiful view in the city right here.”

The subway sketches evolved too. Instead of giving them all away, you started keeping some—the ones that captured something more, moments that felt like little revelations about people, about life. Satoru convinced you to include them in a group exhibition at a gallery in Shibuya. The opening night was small and intimate, but watching people connect with your work in a way they never had when you were just handing out drawings on trains felt like validation of everything you’d been trying to do.

“This feels like coming full circle,” Satoru whispered into your ear as you both watched guests study your pieces, his hand resting warmly at the small of your back.

“From stalking me through my art to displaying it properly?”

“From falling in love with your work… to falling in love with you,” he corrected. And even after months of dating, after hearing him say those words more times than you could count, they still made your heart skip.

Suguru became an unexpected constant in your life too. What began hella awkward slowly turned into real friendship. And the three of you fell into an easy routine of weekend dinners and spontaneous museum visits, Suguru often playing the role of best friend and occasional voice of reason when Satoru’s grand romantic gestures got out of hand.

Which happened more often than you’d expected. Like the time he rented out an entire floor of a restaurant because you’d wanted to eat there but hated crowded rooms. Or when he bought a whole flower shop’s worth of peonies because you’d mentioned loving them once. Or the morning you woke up to find the city’s best sushi chef—apparently an old friend of his, because Satoru seemed to know everyone in this goddamn town—preparing breakfast in your kitchen, just because you’d been craving good fish.

“You know you don’t have to keep trying to impress me,” you told him after each increasingly excessive gesture. “I already said yes to moving in with you.”

“I’m not trying to impress you. I’m trying to spoil you. There’s a difference.”

The truth was, it was the small things that meant the most. The way he’d automatically order your coffee when you were running late, or how he’d text you photos of interesting architecture from whatever city he was traveling through, or the fact that he’d learned to distinguish between your different paintbrushes and how to clean them properly when you forgot. 

He even kept a sketchbook of his own now, filled with terrible but enthusiastic drawings of you working, cooking, sleeping, just existing in the space you’d built together.

Your family adored him, of course. Your mother immediately started calling him her ‘second son’ after a chaotic family dinner he’d attended—which, by the way, you always thought was kind of weird. Like, why would parents call him their ‘son’ when he was spending every other night between your thighs?—Still, he charmed everyone with stories about his work, genuine interest in your father’s completely ordinary job and about your cousins’ college applications—and even remembered your aunt’s dog’s name. He always brought the perfect wine to pair with whatever your mom was cooking, and never forgot a birthday.

The subway sketches and posters that had started everything found a permanent home in the hallway of your shared apartment. A dozen framed moments that told the story of your work and your relationship. The original sketch you’d given him on that crowded train of Line 4 hung proudly in his office at work, right next to his desk where everyone could see it.

“That’s where it all started,” he’d say whenever anyone asked. “Best investment I ever made.”

Three years later, when Satoru proposed during one of your morning train rides—getting down on one knee right there in the subway car where you first met, causing a scene that had fellow passengers cheering and taking pictures—you realized that sometimes the best love stories start with the smallest gestures. 

A sketch handed to a stranger. A poster campaign that was equal parts romantic and unhinged. A decision to be brave enough to call a number written on a business card.

And every morning, as you watched the city wake through the studio’s windows while Satoru hummed in the kitchen, probably checking market reports with one hand and making your coffee with the other, you couldn’t help but smile at how beautifully imperfect it all was. How your once carefully ordered life had been turned upside down by a man with white hair and the kind of heart that didn’t know how to love in small doses.

“Still think I’m weird?” he’d ask sometimes, appearing in your studio doorway with a mug of coffee and that same grin that had made your knees weak the very first time.

“The weirdest,” you’d always reply, taking the coffee—and the kiss that came with it. “But you’re my weird. And I love you.”

“I love you more,” he’d say, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

And that, you’d learned, made all the difference.

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author's note — wait ! before you go ! if you enjoyed this story, i’d be forever grateful if you’d consider gifting me a few minutes of your time to participate in a research survey for my master’s thesis in psychology <3 (am i shamelessly using my reach to gather primary data ? yes. yes i am. and i have no regrets.)

here's the link.

it’s completely anonymous, but just a heads-up: the survey touches on nightmares and emotional wellbeing, so it may be sensitive for some. please feel free to stop at any point if it doesn’t feel right for you.

other than that, thank you so much for reading !! i hope you enjoyed the story. i need provider!satoru gojo so bad like ugh but instead i’m stuck in higher education trying to become my own provider. send help :')))

wishing you all the soft chaos you deserve. take care <3

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tags — @fayuki @starmapz @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna @cocomanga

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@beaniesayshi

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[tonycries]

Cruel Summer - G.S.

Synopsis. The five times Gojo Satoru would rather díe than marry you, his (infuriatingly pretty, oh-so-irresistible) arranged fiancée - and the one time he comes back from déath to.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, arranged marriage AU, enemies-to-Iovers, 5 + 1 things, PINING, Geto and Shoko cameos, matíng press, big D, tummy buIges, GOJO’S POWERS, creampíes, maIe squírting, oraI (fem rec.), face-sítting, he’s FÉRAL, fíngering, chokíng, spítting, p talking, down bad Gojo, slight exhíbitíonism, making him PÚSSYDRÚNK, those Gege sketches, slight spoiIers, HAPPY ENDING, swéaring, pet names.

Word count. 11.5k

A/N. Oh y’all don’t know how those Gege drawings had me, I just had to…

“I’m never marrying you.”

“I’d rather marry a special grade curse than you.”

“Huh- I’m much hotter than a fuc-”

SLAM!

That sharp, pointed noise of a ceramic teacup hitting the winding table you were seated at had almost become ritual at this point. The first few jabs of an argument escaping the mouths of both you and the other heir being a signal for at least one of the grim elders to interrupt before either of you could ruin a four-hundred-year-old contract.

And with a stubborn huff, you’re leaning back into your seat on the tatami mat to appraise the boy opposite you.

Everything from his cropped, snowy bangs to the way his summer-blue eyes blazed into you. Honestly, if you closed your ears every time he spoke, he could almost be- nope, he was sticking his tongue out at you now.

The ever-mature Gojo Satoru; new head of the ancient Gojo clan, freshly-enrolled student at Tokyo Jujutsu High. 

And your soon-to-be husband.

All cooped up in this traditional meeting room, one where generations of matches had been made and very rarely broken.

A coming-of-age ceremony, where the two of you had officially been declared leaders - and an engagement.

Your engagement. 

It was a business transaction of sorts. One that didn’t require any input from either marrying parties, according to the council of elders who sat upon either side of the table and stroked their beards in smug success. 

You’d heard that several clans had physically fought over this chance, before the Gojo clan ultimately chose you. And you knew why - you were one of the very few that had something to lose. 

The chance to attend Tokyo Jujutsu High. 

In short, play sorcerer all you want for three years, and in return they’d be free to enforce an old betrothal alliance between your two clans and demand a powerful new heir to jujutsu society - a win-win.

Though- looking at your reluctant fiancé, still donned in his dark silk robes from his ceremony, you wonder if you really should have just run away as your friends from Kyoto had urged you to. 

And one look at Gojo’s scrunched-up face told you he might just be thinking the same thing. Delicate features marred. Pouty lips nothing of the whispered legends you’d heard of the young prodigy—a monster. A blessing. The strongest.

He sounded very much his age as he echoes, “I’m never marrying you.”

You open your mouth- “And I-”

“-will be part of young Satoru’s high school journey!” Your father puts a hand on your shoulder, lightly squeezing. Becoming part of the Gojo clan was just as big of an opportunity for him as it was for you. Apparently. “We’re sure the young couple will get over their pre-wedding jitters by the time they’re back from graduation to continue their duties- right?”

A tap on your figure, that was your cue to answer.

Instead, you just turn your face towards Gojo, look him serenely in the eyes, the sweetest practiced smile on your face- and flip him off. Pre-wedding jitters your ass. 

The gasps that cloud the stuffy summer meeting chamber atmosphere were almost comical. As if you’d just sprung out of your seat and made an attempt on the poor, sheltered heir’s life. Out of the corner of your vision, you think you see one member of the council clutch his heart and faint-

“Pffft–!” That slight snigger rips through the air in sheer contrast, and every pair of eyes in the room peaks curiously over at the way Gojo muffles a slight chuckle. 

Your eyes widen, you think you liked him better like this.

Almost as if he’d just sensed your thoughts, he’s schooling his face into one of a steady lack of emotion, lightly clearing his throat.

Though, you catch the pointed tips of his ears scorching cherry-red.

“Where is the ring, boy.” Gojo’s father was a stern man, and his commanding voice was just as cut-throat. Seated right beside his son in a mirror image of you and your own father, he didn’t have to be loud to make Gojo’s spine stiffen almost unnoticeably still.

Ramrod-straight, silent- the younger version of the former head stuffs one hand between the fabrics of his yukata. 

And you weren’t sure what sort of ring might be bestowed on you by the famed Gojo clan - you didn’t allow yourself to imagine it. Perhaps a clean silver to match their emblem? Perhaps studded with sapphires for their new head’s irises?

Whatever it may have been, you don’t get to find out.

Because in that moment, Gojo Satoru flashes you with the obnoxious plastic pink of a ring pop. The very same kind you’d sneak out of your estate to buy from that little corner shop down the road, fifty yen maximum. 

“Satoru.”

Make that twenty yen.

“What?” His voice almost lilts into a whine as he responds to his father - trying oh-so-hard to pretend nothing was wrong, and this was totally the silver heirloom engagement ring of his family. Just…smelling slightly of artificial strawberry.

Gojo senior pinches his nosebridge, “I swear to- if you are not serious about that damn- school-”

“It’s alright!” Your fiancé seems just as bewildered at your interruption as you are, and you narrow your eyes enough to tell him that if he messed up your chances at going to Jujutsu High then his blood would be on your hands. Strongest or not. Reaching out your left arm, “I don’t mind, truly.”

And while the rest of the chamber murmurs, Gojo leans over the table to slip his mocking engagement ring onto your finger. To be married. To be his.

Holding your hand in his larger, slightly roughened ones, “I’d rather die than marry you.” He’s crouching to whisper in a heated pant, each syllable sticking to your skin. Only mostly meaning it.

And you whisper back into his furiously pink ear—“And I’d rather marry a special grade curse.”

.

.

.

Gojo Satoru met you in the summer, like one of those heat-induced fever dreams.

Okay, perhaps that wasn’t the best comparison- but in his defense, penning flowery literature was never his best subject after he nearly caused a clan rift by comparing Zenin Jinichi to a bullfrog. 

It was a compliment, really!

But you were a whirlwind, one that left his world tilted and his skin sizzling with heat in the aftermath- in a bad way, of course! You were a bad fever dream - a pretty one, sure, dressed in your most decadent cerulean robes and a withering glare - but still one of those you think back to even months later. 

Even nearly a year later when he’s sixteen and had insisted on walking up the ancient stone steps of Tokyo Jujutsu High without his entourage of attendants and elders.

“Hello hello—” Gojo’s running his pale fingers through even paler, short hair to free it of pinkish cherry blossom petals. Looming around the naturally green gardens of campus, “Where is- oh!”

Just as soon as he was about to tug his opaque, round sunglasses off to inspect whether it would impress his fellow students- that lady working at the store said so, so it must be, he bought twenty-five! Gojo spots a figure leaned against one of the ancient oaks by the dorms. 

That velvety blue of the dress code was one that he could recognize anywhere after so many years of yearning for it. 

And before he can stop himself, he’s sprinting towards the dark blob as fast as his lanky legs could take him. Calling out, “Yoohooo–! Your one and only favorite classmate is here~”

“Ieri–!”

“Wait-”

“You-”

So caught up in both your excitements to meet your new classmate - one of Utahime’s friends who happened to be your age - you two didn’t notice the one, single thing that you two couldn’t deny. Right by your side.

Your betrothed.

You snarl, stopping short. “What are you doing here-” And he does, too, hands haughtily planted on either side of his slender hips as he leans in close.

Snapping at you, the brief glimpse of his electric blue eyes sends goosebumps down your body. “I could ask the same from you. Couldn’t resist my charms so you had to follow me, hm~?”

“I’m here to learn, obviously. Why are you here- to get exorcised?”

“Take that back! I’m here to learn, too.”

You knew that it was part of your betrothal contract that the two of you would attend Tokyo Jujutsu High, you knew that the two of you would end up seeing each other one way or the other. And you already knew your clan stowed that stupid pink ring away deeply at the bottom of your suitcase (where you’d hopefully never have to see it ever again).

But you still raise a brow at the flashy designer stamping on his shades. “…Really?”

And Gojo could’ve taken disgust- hell, he would have even welcomed anger. 

But that genuine, wondering confusion in your tone as you swept your eyes up n’ down his defensive stature made him flush- “H-how dare you- duel me. Right here, right now.”

“Haaah? You would duel your future wife?”

“Scared?”

“No, just wondering why you didn’t ask sooner.”

Scoffing, both of you dart your heads in unison to the girl with the shortly-cut hair that was following your argument like the fiercest of tennis matches. Immediately turning ashen-faced at your attention, and damn near devastated when Gojo happily keens. “Bob girl! Can you keep score of-”

“No.” She deadpans. 

Frankly, you wondered just how she managed to sound as if she’s seen every horror there was to see in the world already. Possibly because she already had, right there, but Shoko doesn’t spend her time answering your unspoken question.

Too busy digging in her jacket pocket for-

“Cigarettes!” Gojo squeals, never having seen someone his age take a puffed-out drag of one so close-up before. The clan always detested anything that would ‘stain the purities of the body’- and right now, Ieri Shoko looked like she couldn’t handle sitting there one more second longer if she didn’t have one. 

He points a lengthy finger your way, accusatory. “I blame you for this- somehow- you must have corrupted her with your ways and made her feel all strange like you did me.”

You roll your eyes, “Yeah? I blame you for our marriage-”

And he’s uttering for the second time, “Oh yeah? Well, I’m never marrying-” 

But just as Gojo was about to whirl on his feet and flick out a few cursed tendrils of energy like he’d taught himself. He was thinking of calling this one ‘Blue’ after that shade of your robes the first time you met, and the way you were about to be it’s first-

A deep voice cuts off his train of traitorous thoughts- “Yeah- mhm, I’ve gotta go. My new classmates are here.” 

A new-comer. 

And the black-haired boy looks as if he’d no sooner flip his cellphone closed to end his ongoing call and pretend he never walked out of the dorms than join whatever mess he’d just walked in on. 

Amethyst eyes slowly swivelling underneath his tied-back bangs to look at a fuming Gojo…to an equally-matched you…to Shoko, already chain-smoking her fifth cigarette away by now.

“Actually…could you stay on the line for a bit longer, momma.”

.

.

.

“It’s legal if it’s personal property, isn’t it?”

You groan, “It’s not your personal-”

He quickly taps the polished handle- “Now it is.”

“That’s…” You’re squinting your eyes, as if it will somewhat blur and spare you the sight of Gojo Satoru attempting to steal that shiny red moped parked at the outer edge of campus. If anything happened, you didn’t want to go through the hassle of getting called in as a witness, at least.

Shoko puts you out of your misery as the one voice of reason, “Yeah, that’s a lie.”

Geto cups a hand over his gaze to fight off the breaking rays of sunset, voice amused. “Well, I don’t see any cameras here.”

“Perfect—!” Gojo sings, clapping his hands together as he stares over his ridiculously gaudy glasses. It was nearing the end of first year, early December wind your fifth uninvited guest as the four of you chose to stay over in the dorms for your first high school holidays. “The key’s still here so we can sneak out, buy me the best birthday cake in Tokyo- no, in all of Japan, and sneak back in right before grump ol’ Yaga-”

“Sneak off from who-”

And, there, was aforementioned grumpy ol’ Yaga. 

Running at full speed toward your deviant little group from the top of Jujutsu High’s stairway. Which, considering the tough, rocky path, wasn’t too fast at all- but the four of you just bolt.

Faster than you’ve seen anyone move during any cursed mission, if you’re being quite honest. 

Shoko running, phone in hand with a suspiciously blinking camera light that meant she was recording the entire ordeal. Geto urgently twisting his fingers into what you’d learned was his summoning technique - he’d meant to call his Rainbow Dragon for a rapid escape, but ended up manifesting the massive, sleek form of his Giant Catfish who scooped him up into the murky depths of its mouth and slithered away.

And Gojo? 

Oh, Gojo was letting out the most impressive high pitched squeal before he’s slamming something hard, and helmet-shaped on top of your head. 

“Wh- hey!” Before you can even register it, two massive hands are grabbing onto your waist to sit you down on the cushioned back of the moped. Backwards. “Wrong way-”

“I don’t know how to drive!”

Your feet hitting the side, your back hitting Gojo’s larger one, it takes only a singular split-second for him to jam that lil’ key and speed off down the stony path of the campus. With Professor Yaga yelling from behind and you yelping, “Gojo I’m gonna kill you-”

“My bad, I meant to grab Yaga.” He’s grumbling at you from the front, the roll of his eyes practically carrying on the whipping wind. 

“Yaga would’ve known how to seat a kidnapee-”

“You want to touch me?”

“…No”

“Scared?”

Your wide eyes watch the disorienting way the lush nature of the Jujutsu High passes by, as if you were stuck in a kaleidoscope. “No.”

He only hums, finally getting used to controlling the vehicle enough that he was mostly sure he wouldn’t crash into every upcoming tree. “Prove it~”

Wordlessly, Gojo slows down enough that you won’t be part of his definitely-opportune traffic accident as you shift your body ‘round. The faux leather cover creaking! once you rover your palms onto his shoulders for balance- “There.”

“Ever seen anyone hold onto the driver like this? Ya prude-”

“Fine-” You’re cutting him off- cutting yourself off by clinging your hands in a neat knot around Gojo’s firm core. And through the flashing shard of the side-view mirrors, you catch the way his ears burn. “You better not get an erection.”

Okay, only partly sure he wouldn’t crash into an oncoming tree.

The deep timbre of his voice cracks- “H-hey!” You knew how to push his buttons just so. “Gods- why’d it have to be you?”

“And why’d it have to be you.”

The part he doesn’t say out loud is that it would’ve been stranger if it was anyone else. 

Not that you needed to hear it- of course not, you were still his infuriating, bold- stubborn fiancée who was forced onto him, after all.

Yet, to Gojo who’s held close by you, and to you who was clinging onto him for dear life as the haven of Jujutsu High melts into the bustling city, he doesn’t think he’s had a more peaceful birthday.

It takes fifteen minutes for the two of you to ride to that cozy convenience store on the outskirts of Tokyo, and what felt like hours (but in reality was five minutes) to give up on convincing the elderly clerk that you both were totally not a couple out for an after-school joyride.

And then - as if the universe was directing its very own prank at your expense - only three for Gojo to grow impatient and throw a tantrum swerving the moped to and fro until you finally tore open that packet of sparklers bought as birthday celebrations.

Honestly, what else did you expect from a man who organized his own surprise birthday party?

“Cake? Check. These things? Check. Happy birthday to me~” He’s tipping the starlit firework upside down to draw bands of gold in the darkening air. “Must be in the top seventeen birthdays I’ve ever had-”

You scoff, your breath emitted as a small cloud. “You’ve only had seventeen.”

“It just dropped down to eighteenth thanks to you-” And you swear you see the strongest outline a dick in the air with his sparkler, you swear he purposefully made it bigger than the one you’d drawn. “And nineteenth if we get arrested for the moped.”

In response, you draw the biggest dick. One with his face. 

You were parked on the side of a lazy road, only the occasional car and Gojo’s wonderment breaking the tense silence - perhaps the most civil one you’ve had in years.

It was odd being out with Gojo Satoru. No sniping over your betrothal, and if he tried hard enough- he could pretend that there was none. That there might be. But for now, the two of you were just two classmates sneaking out to ransack your local stores, “If we do get arrested, I’m blaming you.”

He nods, dramatically. Bumping his broad deltoid against yours, “As husband, that would be my duty.”

“So…” You’re blinking, your own sparkler’s ashy ends drooping onto the ground. There was no doubt on your mind that Geto would not have mercy on the two of you for finishing about half of these sticks. But you had something else on your mind right now, “You’re saying you don’t mind-”

“Wait. wait, no, that’s not what I meant. O-of course I mind!” And Gojo doesn’t give you the time to call out the way his breath gasps- the way his voice shakes, the way he’s flushing. Furious, “Never- in my right mind- would I marry you.”

A ring of gold from the dying sunlight wraps around your irises and irritates him so much when you finally look away to rustle your hand inside the numerous shopping bags.

Airily musing, “Then, I guess as my not-ever-husband you wouldn’t want your not-ever-wife to gift you this-”

“I take it back, I’m marrying you.”

If the elders of your clan knew that all it took for Gojo Satoru to accept the betrothal would be a packet of extra, extra-caramelized popcorn then they would have had the two of you married off by yesterday.

“Make no mistake, this was meant for me.” It wasn’t. You did eye this particular brand too long before swiping it off the shelf and paying when he wasn’t looking. You did think of nothing but the plastic ring burning a hole deeply inside your skirt pocket. And the way he’d whined and thrown himself on the floor of the nearby theatre on your last outing to the city, when Geto refused to buy him caramel popcorn.

So you’d bought it- to shut him up and spare your poor throbbing temples, if anything. Of course. 

But you can’t help the words that tumble out of your mouth at the glowing expression gracing his features. “But- here- happy…birthday. I’m not getting you anything for the next ten years.”

He’s silent.

Pondering.

And he can’t think of anything more flat than a little ‘thank you.’

The red, red metallic bag with enough sugar content to put anyone but Gojo Satoru into a coma sits carefully where you’d plopped it into his arms. And he looks at it with the sort of twinkle in his eyes that you’d never seen before. “Well…If I brought Yaga instead of you, he wouldn’t have bought me this.”

“I take it back-”

“Thank you.” Almost as if realizing those awful, treacherous two words himself, he backtracks with a sputter. Strange, he should bug Shoko into doing some sort of heart check-up on him soon. “W-we’re married for as long as I eat these. And after that? Divorce, sweetheart.”

Pretending to wipe your forehead in relief, “Thank goodness-”

“Oi-”

“What-”

And with your grumblings and partially-filled bags in tow, he’s fastening the singular helmet on you - so fast that you think he might’ve just taken advantage of his powers to do so. 

Just to watch you strangle out in what was definite annoyance as he pets the plastic top as if you were a child. Smack, smack! 

“I’d be a good husband- not that you’d ever know.” Gojo sticks his tongue out at you, vrrrrr—ing the moped engine so that your snarky reply gets drowned out. “And next time I am bringing Yaga instead.”

He takes back those words soon enough when Yaga catches the two of you right at the gates of Jujutsu High. Trying to race back away on his brand-new moped. 

.

.

.

“So- you see” Long, white lashes flutter rapidly, “Take pity on your poor, sheltered student. The Gojo elders really didn’t teach me-”

“I should’ve set the mission sooner so that I could be rid of-”

Geto pipes up above Professor Yaga’s booming lecture, a hand raised in every ounce of solemn discipline that his best friend didn’t show. Another mission. Constant. “In my defense, it was his idea.”

Valentine’s day. Also the early first day of second year; and it only brought about more missions, a couple more students as first-years, and a slightly-longer haired thorn at your side betrothed. And, apparently, this - three annoying, grating voices muffling through the gaps of your dorm’s front door. 

“I call shots on not answering to that.” Utahime pipes up where she was sprawled out on your bed and knitting her brows at your interrupted girl time. It’s not often that she gets time off from Kyoto to bother her only friends in Tokyo.

Snickering at Shoko’s absent-minded ‘ditto’ and Haibara’s- why was he even here, anyway - “I could! But maybe you should do it, he is your fiancé!”

Utahime cackles, face twisting from mirth to disgust when she inspects that plastic ring from where she’d dug it up from your drawer. “On Valentine’s day, too- oh I would rather die if I were you.”

It takes you a few moments to realize that all three occupants of your bedroom were staring at you for an answer. Pointing at yourself, “M-me?” Facing Haibara, “And why do you know that- you’ve been here for a day.”

He smiles, dazzling. “Ah, Gojo-senpai was telling us- it was why Nanami was trying to call home and leave.”

“Oooo, you heard the man.” Shoko presses a few buttons on her phone, and you hear the suspicious beep–! of the camera starting. Only incriminating herself further when she’s raising it upwards and flapping her hands forwards to urge you to open the door.

You groan, “Next time, we are not having girl’s night in my roo- wait.” And it had never caused you any trouble to leave and enter your dorm, it had never taken you more than a gentle push to open your door. So why was it that it just refused to open right now- “What the-”

It’s as if the door was locked from the outside somehow. 

Shoko leans in further with her recording camera as you prod, as you turn your shoulder to hit the wooden pane and shove- 

“Why- isn’t this-” You’re hissing through grit teeth, feet planting firmly on the surface and cracking open the bedroom door inch by inch. Gasping, “-open-ing–!”

And the sight before you was one you’d remembered for years.

Not just because smack-dab front n’ center to your vision was a pathetically kneeling Gojo Satoru, cowering in front of your looming teacher- but because of what was actually blocking your entryway. 

It wasn’t some lock on the outside as you’d suspected, it wasn’t a large desk or anything of the sort. It was a massive, heaping pile of buttons. 

Gold with bits of purple. So many that it was almost as tall as your door.

“What. The. Hell.” Your deadpan voice cuts Gojo off in the midst of some complaint to Yaga about ‘why is it named the Vessel Mission anyway, that’s stupid.’ And three sets of eyes snap to you as they finally register your entrance. 

“Ah…” Geto’s the first one to break the silence of your impromptu staring match, even though Gojo was pointedly staring away. Eyes twitching the longer his best friend stared at the mountain of buttons on your doorstep, he looked exhausted. “Satoru, care to explain?”

He’s gulping, “You see, this all has a very reasonable explanation and a very reasonable line of thinking-” 

“It’s all Satoru’s fault-”

“What-”

“Of course, it is.” Yaga rubs his aching temples, as he often seemed to do whenever he was around his group of second-years for just a minute too long. The older man turns to you with a weary, tired expression - and you make note of his dark circles, “This is the fifth pile of second buttons I cleaned from your door today- this hour.”

Ah, that explained it.

And it feels like your brain had just short-circuited, “Oh…wait- second buttons-?” Nevermind how he’d come across so many. Bought, most likely.

“I told you the elders taught me nothing-” Gojo squawks, scrambling onto his feet. He’s flailing his hands about, it was not his fault he didn’t know that second button meant…a confession. Or the fact that Geto hadn’t bothered to tell him and only watched with an easy smile as he made a fool of himself. “It was a prank- a prank! And his idea- he helped! I was going to block your door with buttons-”

“-second buttons.”

“-and make you all huffy and puffy that way you get-”

“-on Valentine’s day.” You’re finishing off, arms crossed. Carefully scrutinizing up at him- he hadn’t come across a growth spurt since last semester, he’d rammed into one at full speed. You shudder, in disgust, surely. “Did the elder’s hypnotize you or is there something you’re not telling me…”

And he hates it.

He hates how you look right through him in a way that induces some sort of heart condition in him- and Gojo would know, he’s visited every doctor in Tokyo just because of it. They all laughed. 

One even wrote up his letter of resignation.

Sputtering, ears pink in anger- and Gojo was glad that his pale hair had grown out just enough to cover it. Strangely. “Y-you wish, ex-wife.”

You’re swatting the back of his soft locks, and Geto doesn’t note how Gojo seemed to have put down limitless so you could swat him.

“Dickhead.”

“Delinquent.”

“Blind mouse-”

Gasping, he clutches onto the frame of his shades. “Oh, now I really don’t wanna marry you-”

Yaga’s had enough. 

“Enough!” 

One of the veins near the side of his forehead nearly pops, and you step back with a wince at the oncoming scream- Gojo shuffling behind as if he was bravely offering you up for sacrifice. 

“Enough- enough with the- the confessions-” Yaga spears a finger straight at Gojo’s directions and speaks over his protests. “-and the flirting! Flirt after the mission-” Then at you, and you could hear your friends cackling from either side. “Detention for everyone!”

Dammit- another line on your divorce document. 

.

.

.

You didn’t get to ‘flirt’ after that Star Plasma mission - not that you would, but still.

In fact, you didn’t get to do all that much after tasting death so close to your little haven at Tokyo Jujutsu High. 

And life goes on, sometimes leaving those behind.

And other times honing others who choose to stay and snap-

“It’s Suguru.”

“I know.”

The defection of Geto Suguru. The murder of his parents. His mother.

Your voice was more empty than he’d ever heard it- and he wanted you to scream at him, he wanted you to sob. Anything and everything other than the trained, stable tone that clashed against everything he was feeling right now.

But you only stare out into the yolky yellow tint beaming over the sprawling grounds. Sat on the flat, stone staircase of campus with your knees hugged to your chest- and he was close enough on the steps to hear your low mutter. “I’ll be leaving, too.”

Gojo’s head snaps to you- “What?”

“It’s my clan.” You’re swallowing, refusing to look at him directly. And that in and of itself almost hurt as much as when you did- and, for perhaps the first time, he’d rather have his heart race in those strange little palpitations. Right now, it was just heavy. “And yours. They don’t think it’s safe for a ‘future Gojo bride’ to be so close to danger.”

“Then we won’t marry.” He’s declaring, snowy brows set stubbornly.

“I know.” You lilt your head back to watch the sluggishly swimming clouds above, likely the last time you will from here. The council will be here tomorrow, and with them, your departure. You had that silly pink ring on your little finger, he notices. “I’m leaving.”

“I already said we won’t-”

“No, dickhead. I’m leaving.”

Widened, quivering blue peripherals lock onto you- and Gojo’s rosy lips part into a soft oh! 

He knew what you meant- hell, when he first wanted to enroll in this damn school, he’d threatened to leave the clan over and over until they’d finally relented. And suddenly he’s hit with the loss of his little group - no more missions, no more convenience store runs, no more you.

You were to graduate in a year, with only half the students left in both your grade and the one below. Nanami wasn’t even going to become a sorcerer anymore, not after Haibara. 

And he knew - he just felt - that you won’t be there for it. That you might never be. 

How he wished to run, too.

“Utahime’s friends with that one special grade sorcerer- Yuki Tsukumo. I’m leaving with her today to continue training my own way.” You’re continuing, hands flexing in your lap. “And leaving the clan. Officially.”

Huffing, “What? Gonna leave your poor husband at the altar—?”

“Like I’ve always wanted to.”

“Without even a kiss for the bride?” And he doesn’t know why he says it. Even more, he doesn’t know why he holds the line of your gaze and can’t bear to look away, even as his heart starts up that familiarly strange ba-dump–! rattling his chest. 

The tips of his ears tinging the very same blood-red as the sun now, Gojo thinks he can hear his eardrums whistling once you lean in. Once you close your eyes. And once you press your lips to his plush, soft ones for a mere single second. 

“There-” You’re murmuring, trying to sound stern even though the waver in your voice gives you away. “Now you’ve been deflowered and can’t complain. You’re an absolute curse, you know that?”

And, suddenly, he gets it.

Oh, so that was why all those cardiologists he visited laughed at him for about a year straight. 

He gets it.

Chuckling bitterly, of course. Of course, he has to understand now. Of course, he loses every shred of sun just as soon as he closes his hands- because for what reason should a weapon crave normalcy? Crave sealed fate? For what right should he demand that you stay here to bind you to him? 

His mouth quivers, head turning so that you won’t see the wet glitter of his eyes in the dying daybreak. “So now I’m a special grade and a curse? Does that make me the special grade curse you want to marry?”

Your flip phone buzzes, and he already knows it’s time. Standing up, “You had the curse part down pat even before you were a special grade. Probably why your bride’s running off, Satoru.”

It was the fifth and last time that Gojo Satoru would be declaring that stupid sentiment. Smile only half-true. It was a cruel summer.

But he always was good at waiting.

Gojo tugs on that cold second button of his uniform, calling out in place of a goodbye. “Good thing we won’t be getting married, sweetheart~”

.

.

.

Itadori Yuji has spied on his teacher’s phone before.

He didn’t mean to–he swears it! And was it even that much of an invasion of privacy if he simply glanced over at the glaring lockscreen wallpaper? Surely, it wouldn’t have been as bad as if he had peered over Gojo’s shoulder when he actually unlocked his phone…

…Okay maybe he had seen a snapshot of the older man’s home screen as well, but like he said- it was an accident. Flickering his curious eyes over as he opened up his catalogue of movies during their training together. 

But what wasn’t an accident was just how vividly he remembered each wallpaper. 

On his lockscreen; taken from the inside of what looked like one of Tokyo Jujutsu High’s dorms, with a massive pile of toppling buttons in the center and a much younger Gojo Satoru (and someone who looked faintly like Kenjaku?) kneeled on the floor. Clearly being punished.

Yet, what was most interesting was the scowling, arms-crossed figure of another student he was staring up at. Unable to tear his eyes away, even through his shades.

It was you.

That familiar face also featured in Gojo’s home screen - a more blurry photo, this time, as if it was still in motion. Of his teacher in the process of scrambling onto a shiny red moped, keys turning, with you stowed away in the backseat - yelling and sat backwards. 

And Itadori tried not to think much of it, but he saw you in the small framed photograph that Principal Yaga pretended not to have on his desk, yet, polished every day. 

He saw you in the postcards that Professor Shoko pinned up on the packed bulletin board of her infirmary, amongst diagrams of dissections and slaughter. He saw you in the brief, blurry facetime that the other teacher, Utahime, from Kyoto was on during parts of the exchange event.

And he saw you at the foot of Gojo Satoru’s bed, after he’d won.

Older, more mature now - but inevitably you.

Itadori could tell, even in the forlorn way you were slumped over the side of the mattress in Shoko’s clinic, body half-seated on a chair like you’d been there all night. 

“You…” He’s breathing, making you stir against his will. 

You blinky your teary eyes up in groggy confusion, fingers instinctively tightening on the large, callused fingerpads of Gojo’s digits. “Huh? Oh, you must be Yuji. And Megumi, and Nobara.”

Itadori was just about to open his mouth and answer that no, he was actually just Yuji- when a disgruntled voice behind him makes him realize he isn’t alone. “We apologize for the trouble, we can come back later if you-”

“Oh, no no.” You wave Fushiguro’s words off as the three enter - well, as Fushiguro enters and Kugisaki shoves Itadori inside. “I’m sure he’d want everyone here when he wakes.”

Gojo had won in Shinjuku, but Satoru was still sleeping.

Famed eyes closed. Bundled in the arms of bandages and reverse cursed energy ‘round his toned middle, he was breathing in slow unison with the beep! of the nearby heart monitor. Alive. 

You really did have Shoko to thank later.

And Itadori knew that as a student he should be more invested in how his unconscious teacher was doing, but he just couldn’t help but keep sneaking glances over and over. Wondering just who you really were-

“So, is the wedding going to be anytime soon?”

Fushiguro speaks, and the rest of the trio gapes. How dare he ask something like that from a sorcerer so lovely. And wait- why were you chuckling? “Oh right-” Nodding down at Gojo’s large form, of course, he told his honorary son everything. “I am his fiancée.”

“His what-”

“How much did he pay you-”

“Kugisaki, don’t be rude-”

Fushiguro nods, “No, she’s right.”

“Unfortunately, only this.” You’re scrunching your nose as you answer Kugisaki’s question- pulling out a tiny chain from underneath your uniform with an aged, faded pink plastic ring pop.

And she responds like she’d been personally wronged, dragging her hands carefully down her eye-patched face. “Ohhh- I knew it- not only is he a deadbeat teacher, he’s a deadbeat husband, too.”

“To be fair I did leave him. Of sorts.” You wave a hand airily, already having heard from Ijichi about the fate of the higher-ups. The clans. Over the younger girl’s ‘understandable!’ “I just landed in Tokyo today, I wish I could’ve come sooner but- ah, well.”

“B-but…” Everyone looks at Itadori as he stammers out, cheeks burning a slight rouge once your hand drifts over Gojo’s exposed core. Whispering in one breath, “How did he get a wife so pretty…”

“Hey- that’s my wife you’re talking about.”

You could recognize that smug, simpering tone anywhere. You’d be able to pick it out from a crowd of thousands. 

Laughing- as he’s tackled into a hug by an overeager Itadori, and the falsely reluctant rest.

It was quite strange to see Gojo Satoru like this - not just laid barren and sprawled over some hospital bed, but without any of his usual blindfolds and sunglasses. Just like when you’d met. And he always was so honest with his eyes.

And he was back.

And you were back - after ten years.

Which is why Itadori and Kugisaki have to fight the urge to look away at the expression settling over Gojo’s serene face. Wondering how you - his fiancée, of all things - would react. Winning against the King of Curses was quite the accomplishment, even for the strongest.

Would you cry? Would you throw your hands over him as they just did? Should they actually get up and leave the room-

“You- you complete idiot.” Gojo half-wonders whether your strength could rival Sukuna himself once you strike down a punch to his scarred shoulder. Yelling, glaring- crushing him into a hug. 

Your voice is suspiciously thick once you’re gurgling out into the pale crook of his neck, “I thought you said you’d rather die than marry me.”

And they don’t know what they’re more surprised about- the way that Gojo had the audacity to say those words to you, or the way that Gojo had the audacity to listen to those very words and laugh. Head thrown back, “Sweetheart, I’d come back from death just to marry you.”

Pulling away, you take the longest look at your betrothed that you think you ever have.

Everything from his longer, still-snowy hair, tickling the tips of sparkling sapphire eyes. Slightly slicked back to reveal shyly red-dusted ears, and a cute lil’ dimple at the edge of his boyish grin.

He was still the same Gojo you’d left behind - even though he was taller, stronger. So much bigger that you could feel the flex of his deltoids underneath your palms, and the ripple of his beefy forearms looped around your waist.

He was still Gojo. Always beautiful. 

SLAM!

“O-oh.” You’re jolting at the sudden closing of the clinic door, clearly his students had left the two of you to some privacy, and you’re almost embarrassed. “We’re an awful example.”

“When have we ever been a good example?”

“Well, I could say that about you-”

He only tugs you closer, breathing out as if the first breath he’d taken in a while since Shinjuku. Since you’d been gone. “I missed my wife.” And the two of you knew you should alert Shoko by now, but you only stay still- with you nearly in his bed by now. 

For what felt like hours. Years. 

“Yeah? Well, I- I missed you, too. I thought I lost you.” You wince, “I’m sorry for departing so suddenly.”

It was sincere - but the feeling of Gojo’s smirk pressing up against the side of your thumping pulse almost makes you reconsider it. “I know how you can make it up to me, wifey~”

Scoffing, he was really ramming up the ‘marriage’ part of your relationship by now. “Nothing with buttons or mopeds or-”

“No no-” Lurching back slightly, the plush, puckered fringes of his lips lean in oh-so-closely. Until you could practically taste the saccharine sugar of his heated breath, “You know, I never got to kiss the bride.”

Oh.

Oh.

Then he’s kissing you- and you’re kissing him. And it’s all that you’ve ever wanted with the sharp, pointed ends of Gojo’s canines digging into your bottom lip to drag you back.

Drinking you in like a man parched- he’s finding life in your mouth. Slipping his tongue in past the spit-glossed crevice of your mouth and uttering a hot pant. “Please-” Manhandling you with his strong, scarred arms up to straddle him on the rickety mattress. “Please.”

And you’ve never heard the strongest beg like this.

Never heard him flutter his droopy lashes and look at you through starved, feral eyes. A translucent bubble of spittle sparkling by the end of his swollen lips, “P-please.”

Never heard him stutter. 

Clearly he’s reading something in your sultry eyes because Gojo’s hastily shuffling the two of you down the bedsprings. Head hitting the puff of his pillows, your ass hitting his sharp pelvis. 

Your fiancé holds you upright and rubs a clawing hand doooown the back of your spine, toying with the metallic zipper on your sorcerer’s uniform skirt. “Fuck that about hah- not marrying you.” He’s crooning out in a throaty tone, strands of white nearly covering his greedy gaze. “M’ready to consummate our marriage right here, right now.”

“B-but Satoru- you just woke up-” 

“So?” There’s something deep n’ dark in his tone that made shivers skitter up your spine. Attempting to clench your thighs together but all it does is make your outer pussy push against the smooth path of his white happy trail. “Your husband’s the strongest, sweetheart.”

And then you’re being roughened up- then your skirt’s bearing the brunt of being almost torn clean off your hips. 

Gojo barely even registered his power, not giving two shits if it meant that he got to admire your pale blue panties up close and personal. A firm hand groping your right cheeks help push your clothed pussy up until your slit strikes the edge of his chin, thighs now straddling his pretty, pretty face.

Rosy lips purring over that darkening wet splotch between your legs, “Bon appétit.”

“Shut up and just- oh, fuck!”

He’s flopping the pinkish crown of his tongue out just enough to dab a lil’ dewdrop of spit between your swollen pussylips. And it’s just all that it takes for the first taste of your saccharine pussy to coat his tastebuds-

“O-oh!” He gasps, his hazed peripherals widen. You’re faintly registering the way that the shiny overhead lights of the private room flicker- 

Gojo grins as you gape, “Did you just…”

“Guess m’not in control anymore.” He’s snickering, stuffing himself nose-deep into your cunt. And there’s such a primal hunger in him, the way he’s not even caring for your poor, sodden panties before he’s hanging his jaw open and slide-slide-sliiiiding the edge of his mushy tongue up n’ down your folds. “Heh-” A light goes out somewhere down the corridor. “Whoops.

He’s whacking his jawline on the soft inner parts of your thighs and it still isn’t close enough. Tilting his head just so to slip his damp muscle between your ruined fabric.

“Shit- shit, your tongue is sooo big.” You find yourself keening, hips rocking back and forth at a mindless pace. And, truly, you now knew why Gojo talked so much because his tongue was so-very-lengthy, already circlin’ your sticky hole, “Like you better- hck! better like this.”

And the way he looks at you gets you even more drenched, haplessly watching as Gojo opens his throat wide enough to let the cloying droplets of your slick fall down to his maw.

“Oh yeaaaah–?” Gurgling already with the beads of sap that soak the lower half of his face, he’s starin’ you right into your fluttering eyes once he’s tugging your panties to snap! back on your heated core with an index. “Whaddaya gonna do about it?”

Before you can answer - before you can even think, the very tippy-top dome of his fingertip coils slimily down your naked slit. He feels you - so soft n’ warm - for the first time and pants. “Gonna ngh- argue with me from here to make up for it? Hmmm—?”

Almost as if on cue, your pert pussy is letting out the rawest lewd squeeelch at his touch. Bucking wildly, “Are you all talk or what ngh-”

“Looks like you’re all talk.” And you seriously were so wet that it was dripping down Gojo’s handsome chin, rovering a few more solid inches of his index to keep pryin’ your cunt apart with a wet plap!

Then a second inch- and a second finger.

His probing fingers are so big that the gummy channels of your walls have to mold to each size and measurement just to take him. “Look at ya- taking me in sooo well but ya don’t even- sit-” One of his hands claws on your left ass cheek to hold you down where you were hovering your weight, the other sinking in—

You’re squealing at the press of his thick, knobbled middle finger curving against one of your most tender spots. “What if I suffocate-”

“Then suffocate me.”

“You just came back to life.”

“I came back to life just to ngh- see this pretty pussy.” Gojo snarls up at you, tugging you down. Pulling you. Manhandling you. He just wanted to French kiss your pussy until he had that smart mouth of yours stupid. And those silly lil’ panties were a barrier- 

Within seconds, he has shreds of your underwear tattered and ripped between his pearly whites. 

Looking like a fucking animal once he’s finally sitting you down properly and stuffing himself so deep that you nearly see his pale, straight nosebridge disappear between your folds. 

Snaking his tongue to stuff and stuff where two of his fingers were pumping in n’ out in n’ out in n’ out. You were being dually stuffed open, the sting of him stretchin’ you out and swiping the gooey bottom of your core just delicious. 

“Don’t mind- haaaa-” Breaths ragged, movements sloppy. Gojo wastes no time in pursuing his delicate lips and spitting, “-dying now that I got ta see her. Now that I got to- hck- taste.” 

Hand shaking where he slides it along your thigh, breaths stuttered.

He’s feeling your slick waterfall down with every lap and slash of his tongue, bearing no mercy. Your thighs rendered all jittery and sleek with a sheen of syrup every time he flicked the tip of his tastebuds on top of your clit. 

“I’ve been so fucking thirsty- sooooo fucking thirsty.” Gojo whines, and you swear his baritone voice cracks. Hitches. Hips rutting up into the empty air, “You know how long I’ve wanted this- do you have any. Fucking. Idea?”

He sounds genuinely ruined, spitting back into your treacly pussy just to follow the wad dooown the seam of your pussy with his tongue. 

A third finger puckers ‘round the edge of your entrance, and you’re whining once Gojo lazily slugs the first pad inside and scrapes the roof of your cunt. “Please- since when- ngh- s-since…”

Giggling, higher-pitched than usual. “Oh, sweetheart- you don’t even wanna know.” You’re whimpering when he’s swatting down the velvety edge of his tongue on your sensitive nub three times before pulling away. Smack-smack-smack. “Spit in my mouth n’ I’ll tell you, h-heh.”

Breathless, “What did you just ask—?”

“Scared?”

And Gojo’s pale brows raise when you’re hunching forwards just enough to grab his clammy cheeks, streaming out a glittery streak of spittle straight into his ajar mouth. “Not if it gets you t-to- shut up-”

You spit in his mouth, and from the slightly-angled turn of your head you catch the way that his throbbing erection twitches. 

His fingers thwack so hard your very bones rattle, and Gojo drools the knot of slick straight back through your hole. Letting the jointed bumps of his digits stretch rub your pussy all red and raw from the inside. 

“That’s it that’s it.” He’s goading you on, scouring the searchlights of his digits inside of you for that one fragile target. And you’re feeling him poke his fingertips into the nooks n’ crannies near your g-spot, making you see stars. “I’ve wanted you to shut me up- use my ngh- face since I fucking knew what it was. Heh- if you’re not scared-”

“As if I’d be scared-”

“Prove it. Ride me.” 

“I am-”

“Not enough.” Within just a single blink of your glassy eyes, Gojo’s raising his non-dominant hand up with enough cursed energy that the neglected ol’ blindfold strewn on the edge of his bed flies into his grasp. 

Twisting his thick fingers over the silken fabric, circling it over your neck and immediately hauling you further down- “Ride me. Ride the st-strongest like you own it- h-haaaah- I’m your husband, aren’t I?”

With every word, with every second he’s thrashing four exact strikes of his fingertips scraping your poor g-spot. Slurring out a damp sluuurp every time your sheeny pussylips are gobbling him up. 

“Yes- hck! yes.”

Grumbling, sleazy grin just glued to the knobbly tip of your clit. “Yeah- yeah, then use me like I am.”

Kissing right back every time he’s surging his head up and mazing the flexible ends of his tongue muckily. It’s so wet n’ long that you’re damn near feeling the scrape of his tastebuds by your favorite spot, sloppily—“D-don’t think m’gonna last, Satoru.”

Gojo audibly, pornographically moans as you start carnally hastening your tempo. 

Cumming on his face- fuck, this was the wettest of his dreams all those long, lonely nights. In response he only latches his strawberry-pink lips against your cunt further, feeling every hot gush flood his throat. 

And you were so close that Gojo was drooling- pupils stirrin’ around the whites of your eyes with every circle of his thick tongue, throat cracking with whines every time he’s slushily spearing your pussy with his fingers. Over  n’ over. 

Rovering alllll around to prick your tenderest areas with- fuck, now four of his fingers.

Your husband spikes the edge of your g-spot, hard. Pulling you down with the corner of his blindfold just to dig his finger in deeper, “W-wanna cummm— ngh- please.”

“Call me husband.” He cockily smiles over the rim of your cunt where he was devouring you like a feast. “Call me- nghh- husband and I’ll let you cum.”

“Please-” Grabbing a fistful of his hair to shove him deeper and hopefully quieten his teasing. “-h-husband.”

Gojo groans like he’s the one cumming, “Ohhhh- again. Louder.”

“Husband-”

“Again.”

“Husband– Toru–!” Pouting stubbornly, “Unless you fucking can’t- oh, fuck.” 

Both you and the protesting bedsprings sing out in embarrassing synchronization once he’s shoving you into your high with a soft, sudden zap–! of one jujutsu-coated fingerpad across your g-spot. “Cumming- nghhh- m’cumming m’cumming–!”

And it feels so good you lose your vision to pure white, it feels so good that you can only throw your head back and ride him through each one of your peaks.

Milking the highs of your orgasm in repeated, filthy drags of your hips that knock the top of your glazed slit against his buttony nose. Whack! 

“O-ohhh—” Gojo throws his head back at the sheer, sensual motion. It just feels so good having you slickly rovering your pussy over his gaping maw, chasing the heat of his tongue slithering across your clit. Your sweet insides squeeze around his long fingers that Gojo thinks he could just cum right then n’ there.

And he almost does.

Almost- with almost inhuman reflex, he’s sneaking his free hand underneath the covers to plug up his leaking, red-hot orifice. Drivelling out a few creamy cobwebs of pre before he can plop his thumb over it. Close one. 

You ogle with a parted mouth as he grits his teeth hard enough that the plane of his neck throbs with a few veins, “Fuh-fuuuck–!”

And if you didn’t know any better, you’d have claimed that sounded like a whine.

A whimper.

But before you can call Gojo out on it, he’s sitting nearly ramrod straight against the cool metallic headboard. Starchy blankets - all drenched and coated at the hem with your trickling sap - all but thrown to the bottom of the bed. 

“Don’t worry- hah-” Suddenly, you feel something hot and moist gliiiiide between your puffy core. And it was so thickly curvy that your folds are being smeared apart as much as possible, “Made sure to save the big one for when m’inside, sweetheart.”

Mewling, “Big one?” Pathetically swaying your mouth open the moment he starts suckling on your tongue like some cute candy, “You sure about that?”

“See for yourself, my wife.”

You don’t know what to gape at more. 

What Gojo Satoru looks right now - eyes hooded, face flush, ivory tendrils of hair slicked back with sweat, several layers of sickly sweet slick stuck from the tops of his cheeks and gleaming down to his jawline - or the way that his cock looks like right now.

He was completely naked underneath, and you’re mentally counting about nine inches- possible even ten. Ten inches of solid, barreling length scrubbed all red n’ raw with ribbons of precum. Bursting out from the hole at the top of his fat mushroom tip and all the way down to the soft white hairs at his base. 

Drenched.

And Gojo gives the left of your ass cheek a good spank when it seems like you won’t be talking any time soon. Too hypnotized. “There there- big, huh?”

You’re huffing, “Y-you wish.”

“No need to liiiie- s’all yours.” Something in him cracks when he bucks up ever-so-slightly to let the shiny bulge of his cocktip scrape down your slit, mixin’ a heady concoction of white pre and slick that makes him salivate. “Look at her- she’s sayin’ she wants more.”

“You’re pussydrunk.” Such loud squelching noises that he jerkily lurches his head closer to listen to, as if his favorite song.

“Hell yeah I am, my wife.” With a raspy chuckle, Gojo slips the circle of his divot just underneath your swollen folds and hisses. “Now- I won. Your husband ngh- won today, why don’tcha gimme my reward, sweetheart?”

Oh-so-ready to make him cry on your tongue, you eagerly start snaking your hand downward. 

Fist almost enclosed around the bulky cylinder of his hilt before he stops you right there. V-line hitting your pelvis as he fucks up, up, up- 

“Nononono- another time. Right now…” Gojo slouches back, liiiicking that candied glaze of your juices off of his right hand. One by one. Before cushioning it underneath his head and watching you through sexy half-lidded eyes. “How do you want me?”

You hum, pretending to tap your chin in thought. “How you’ve wanted ta- ngh- have me, Toru–”

How he’s dreamed of having you.

Of shoving his thick cock between your pussy folds and fucking that smug smile off of your face while you tried to snap back at him. And his body moves before his brain.

Your back hitting the dampened sheets, your shirt and bra puddling onto the floor.

He doesn’t think he can breathe, he doesn’t even think he can think—especially when he sees that pink plastic ring pop as a pendant on your necklace and leans down to kiss it.

Every ounce of blood sprinting down from his hotly melted mind to balloon up his shaft so hard and cherry-red. Gojo’s tip is practically bawling by the time he’s flipping the two of you over and swiping the hard, aching bulge of it down your cunt.

Your thighs on his shoulders, his pelvis against your ass. 

Eyes widening—a mating press. A fucking mating press.

Gojo’s barely even done folding you completely in half before he aligns the round, spheroid edge of his cockhead to crown your sloppy hole and rut. Gasping, he shuts his eyes firmly at the warmth. “Wanted this.”

“O-oh fuck–” Coming your jittery fingers through Gojo’s sweat-splattered hair. He’s just so big that just the feeling of his globular tip makes you see white. 

“Wanted this wanted this- wanted this.” Gritting his teeth, furiously. He’s hiking his thighs up so that yours are pushed all the way up to hit your tits, bending you with all his powerful strength. “Have no idea how long- I’ve wanted you like this. Always in this position.”

“Why this one?” It was so filthy - even for him.

“What? Your husband’s the ngh- strongest and you expect him not to put you in a mating press the minute he sees you?”

Spanking the slivery slit of your cunt with one hand, Gojo fucking angles his head and grins at the slight puddle of sap that collects on his wrist. 

“So soft n’ sweet-” He bends his knobbly thumb in to twist the button of your clit, licking his pink lips lazily at the way your arousal glitters further soaked. And it wasn’t just that- your husband was just so girthy that he’s tuggin’ your entrance apart to fit his heavy shaft inside. “Oh, always wanted this pretty hole begging f’me.”

Just as he speaks, Gojo slips yet another inch inside and makes your oversaturated pussy keen. “B-bold of you to assume- ngh- I’m the one begging.”

“Ohhh- she’s not?”

“She- fuck!”

Before you can even speak, he’s rolling his sculpted hips and slamming your spit-glued mouth shut. Cooing down with fluttering lashes, “What was thaaaat–?”

You feel a damn sob break at the back of your voicebox at the feeling of his rounded slit lodging against the treacly roof of your cunt. So wet that he’s constantly rubbin’ his veins back and forth on your walls, half-ruts. Half-thrusts. Just to fit in. “Fuh-fuck you!”

And then you’re swearing that Gojo grows harder. Bigger.

The corner of his head swelling up to an even thicker circumference that strikes your soggy cervix with a plop! 

He’s bottoming out with a breaking tone, “Who’s fucking who now?”

And now that you’d given him an inch, he was taking a mile.

Fucking you into the rickety clinic bed like he was trying to stop your cute, arguing mouth from shrilling out. Every swab of his bulging cock enough to make your tongue flood with cockdrunken spit, he pounds his entire length into you like he hates you.

Slap!

So hard that the skin on his prominent v-lines stains completely red. And Gojo isn’t even feeling the pain, he’s only spanking hard abs into your front again. And again. And again.

Mouth falling into a sagged oh! as Gojo tilts his head down and watches when your geysering cunt swallows him up from the ruby-red tip to the bulk of his base. Heavy balls just peeking out cheekily.

All the way up until his pure white tufts of hair scratchily massage your clit and make you rut. “There- there.” The flat mountains of his palm come creeping down your tummy to press as he sliiides inside. With a smile, “Inside. Fuck- it’s inside. Can feel me all deep inside, s’like you’re hngh- made for me.”

“S’just s-sooo big, though!” You’re whimpering once he rubs over the callous of his thumb right at the bumpy point of his mushroomy head spearheading in. 

Gojo grunts, “And what happened to me being small~” 

You clench in response- the only thing you can do. And it’s like the entirety of the chamber tenses with something thick coating each atom of the air. 

You just had to clench once and his cursed energy was lapping. Out-of-control.

So powerful that it might just be enough to cause alarm-

“Oh.” As if alerted by something invisible, Gojo raises his free arm towards the door. Lengthy lashes coating with a flicker of blue lightning- before, like nothing ever happened, he’s back to rutting and rutting. In long, methodical strikes of his bashing, bulbous head. Probing deeply into every ridge.

Before you can ask what was the matter, there’s the metallic jiggling of the hospital doorknob. Locked - by his power.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

“I-is anything the matter in here?” Someone- you think it might be Ijichi - calls out from the other side. “The cursed levels were just so high that-”

“Listening to the voice of another man when I’m the one fucking you?” Gojo snarls out, two of his battle-hardened fingertips swatting the side of your cheek so that you’ll stop staring at the door. 

Not when he was looking at you like that.

And not when he was the one unsticking your left hand from the side of his muscular obliques, gently kissing your ring finger even though he was drilling into you ferally. “Don’t you think of anyone else when- haaah- I’m the one fucking you-” The fangs of his canines bite in to the flesh of your digit, “Not when I’m your husband.”

“Wh-what if he hears—”

The end of your whine is caught up in his mouth, gnawing down on your lower lip and draaagging. “So let him.” He melts his glissading abs down onto your core, making you feel every bump and scar. “Let him- fuck. S’our long overdue honeymoon- and you’re gonna fucking- take- it-”

Mewling, “Fuck- fuck yes. More.”

It’s like those words have him going mad.

Gojo’s slick orifice grovering into the very bottom of your pussy, he tugs back on the blindfold dangling ‘round your neck to arch you further. Letting his zig-zagged veins creep down your g-spot, precisely. 

“Yes- fuck. Your husband.” Repeating and repeating every time he hits your sweet splotchy areas. “M’your husband” And then he clings onto your clit, then he twists his wrist and lets the pads of his digits buzzzz–! with cursed energy. “Your husband.”

Almost as if he couldn’t believe it.

He’s departing his breath out in a scalding breeze every time you squeeze. Bodily shoving apart the inner parts of your legs with his large, flexing shoulders. 

“Please- please please-” You’re wailing out utterly raw, the top of your throat feeling like it was clogging up after every ba-thump–! of his sweetly leaking cock probin’ every space inside your cunt. Swelling up so big that it was almost hard for you to clench- “Feels so ngh- good–”

“Yeaaaah–? Your husband’s makin’ you feel all good, huh?” The strongest couldn’t even give a shit about the way your screams were reaching a fever pitch. 

Faster, sloppier.

Fingers starting to stain with a bright syrupy coating of your slick, he doesn’t even mean to- but he can’t help the way that the air touching his skin crackles with energy. Drawing out hearts on your perked clit like a lil’ bullet vibrator.

“Go on- say it.” He outlines a very obvious ‘S’ on top of your rugged nub that makes you quiver like a leaf underneath him. And then an ‘A’, a ‘T’, ‘O-R-U.’ Coaxing out your tiny whimpers, “Say my name—”

“Toru- hck! Satoru.”

He twitches, syllables taking on a shaky manner. “O-oh right, that’s my name.” Chuckling, fuck- did he forget his damn name? Just that drunk on your pussy that he’d rather just be called your husband forever and ever. His flushed face pushes forwards to bite on that blindfold and pull you back down, “Call me your heh- husband again.”

Just uttering those words makes him jolt his mushroomy, flared tip inside you until the ridge hits the door to your womb. His balls on your ass. Bruising. 

You almost felt shy as he hastily brings down one of your hands to caress his rippling core. From each washboard ab to scar, sensually. “H-husband. My husband.”

Shit- he needed to make you cum now or he was going to, already feeling a steaming drop of pearly liquid empty out from his balls. 

“There- there we- go-” And by now Gojo’s fucking you so hard that he’s starting to scrunch his partially-closed eyelids with the weight of big, sparkly tears of sensitivity. “Whatever my wife wants.” The crowned tip of his shaft red and swollen enough to burst, pushing and pushing. “Anything my wife wants.”

“I’m close-” You’re sobbing, reeling him in so close with a grasp of his tensed back muscles. And it was true, his Six Eyes was showin’ him the way your nerves were sizzling, the way your mouth flooded with spittle. 

He counts underneath his breath. Five. Four.

Lips wobbling oh-so-adorably, “Toru, m’gonna cum. Let me cum.”

“Ohhh— s’that what you want, sweetheart?” He rolls his thumb over your overstimulated clit until you scream a yes. “Cum then.” Three. Spitting on the hills of his crowned fingerpads, Gojo makes sure they’re tight with particles of cursed energy. Two. Before spanking down- “Cum, my wife.” One.

You don’t know who cums first.

But to Gojo Satoru it doesn’t even matter- all he needs is to make sure is that you were creaming all over his ravaged cock, and that he was there to pump all his columns of wadded seed inside. 

Room lights shattering, somewhere in the distance sounding with a sonic boom! Gojo fucks himself hoarse on your pussy until the expanse of his skin was littered with pure power and lightning. 

“O-oh my god s’too mmm–” Your mouth dribbles with sap, gooey walls of your cunt sticking to the sides of his veiny shaft. Every tiny drag of his winding lines makes your high explode- “There’s so- hah- so much of it-”

So much that it was overspilling. 

And Gojo can only glide the planes of his digits down the saccharine white sap that leaked from between your legs. Gluing his fingers to the stray gaps of your hole, and they were buzzing. “No wastin’ now.” He bites down on the plush gum of his bottom lip and still can’t hold back his snickers. “Gotta g-give you the ring- and my second button. Then take you out for a- a ride-”

He could almost laugh at the dazed confusion on your face, arching up his spine just so that his cock pummeled into you deep and stayed there. 

“A ride and then a real ride. On a moped.” Giggling at his own joke, “Take you to eeeevery sweet convenience store in Tokyo you ngh- missed out on. Tell each one m’your husband and we’re having a summer wedding.” Kissing you softly, “M’thinking theme colours blue.”

That in and of itself is enough to make his drivelling orifice stream out yet another jetstream of cum, wadding up the entrance to your womb with clingy sap. 

He finishes off with another lecherous slurp that makes you feel so hot inside that it was almost feverish. “A-and then what? S’this all for you big- ngh- honeymoon idea?”

“And if it is?”

“Should’ve left you at the altar-”

Gojo’s red, raw cock jolts. “Ohhhh- just for that m’gonna fuck you in every hah- convenience store, too. Maybe they’ll hear- doesn’t matter.” Grinning, he hikes up a thigh until he is gyrating just enough to swirl his pummeling length in circles. The plump curve of his balls digging into your ass, eyes glowing with blue in the darkness. “Your husband’s the strongest.”

You don’t know if you can do anything but scoff through your embarrassment, “A-and real humble, huh?”

“Well…” He tilts his head with a dopey smile, “Did I tell you that was my first time? Been savin’ myself for heh- marriage, my sweetheart.”

Fuck.

“I love you. Isn’t that the worst thing you’ve ever heard?”

Oh- “I love you, too.”

And something in you told you that this was far from over.

Maybe it was the way that Gojo’s cock strikes the back of your cunt with a splosh of sap, slimily mazing through until it feels like he streams out a squirt of something. You’d just made him squirt- or maybe it was the way that he kisses your plastic engagement ring. 

Gaze delirious. Ears red. Fucked-out. 

“So…what was that they said about a Gojo heir, my wife?”

.

.

.

“The electricity has been suspiciously unstable today.” Shoko wrinkles her nose up at her completely shattered office lightbulb. The sixth today. 

Urgently flicking through her notes before she made a break for her most important patient as of late - the strongest.

Or, as she knew him, that damn Gojo with a penchant for tantrums and harboring a hopeless love for his betrothed. Often both at the same time. Speaking of said betrothed, she’d already shared a hasty greeting with you once you’d first arrived here- before you practically ran to the idiot’s room, that is.

Two peas in a pod.

“We have been getting strange him-level readings on cursed energy levels in this area since a few hours ago.” Utahime grumbles, barely out of the hospital herself but already steady at work as one of the new higher-ups.

“That so? Strange.”

“Yeah, and when I asked Ijichi about it he only looked pale and ran like he saw a-”

The two gasp. In unison.

“He finally proposed.”

A/N. Wrote this with a fever (Gojo was just that hot aha).

Plagiarism not authorized.

[gojover]

the subtleties of being in love.

kuroo tetsurou is the spider-man. he’s also your best friend. he’s also hopelessly in love with you. between fighting crime and juggling college, kuroo barely has the time to confess his feelings to you. lucky for him, you’ve got him covered. or, five times kuroo tetsurou tries to ask you out, and one time you ask him out instead.

— pairing: spider-man!kuroo tetsurou x fem!reader — contains: fluff, mild angst, best friends to lovers au, spider-man au, college au, debatable attempts at comedy, idiots to idiots in love, 5+1 things, profanity, mentions of violence but nothing graphic—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! — word count: 5.0k

ONE — THE SUBTLE ART OF SWINGING INTO A WALL

Kuroo Tetsurou swears he isn’t trying to be stupid. 

It’s just that when he sees you, his mouth dries up, the words he want to say get stuck on the tip of his tongue and he can’t force them out no matter what, he feels his brain turn to mush and his legs turn to jelly, and—

You’re laughing. At him.

All because he swung face-first into a goddamn brick wall.

You don’t even know it’s him—he has a mask made out of spandex covering his face, thankfully—but he saw you on the street, talking to the old lady who sells churros next to the sandwich place both of you love. He may have lost all directional sense after that, because one minute he’s watching you gesture animatedly while you converse with the shopkeeper, and the next he slams solidly into the brick-red compound of the building he was supposed to swing over.

At least his webbing is still intact.

Kuroo’s pride, on the other hand? Completely, utterly shattered.

For a minute, there’s silence—a sort of muffled, hazy silence that blankets everyone, the kind that’s impossibly rare to come by in a city which never sleeps—and then every single person whips out their phones and takes pictures, giggling to themselves throughout. It’s not every day Spider-Man accidentally swings into a wall, after all.

Kuroo can already picture the headlines: City’s Masked Superhero Can Fight Aliens But Is Apparently Blind When Confronted By A Gigantic Barricade. Or worse. He can hear J. Jonah Jameson’s voice in his head, bellowing into the cameras, “Breaking news everyone, this just in: Spidey has been caught lackin’! Is he truly good at his job or is he just a farce? We may never know.”

He peels his head off hard brick, contorting his neck to relieve all the cricks, and that’s when he makes direct eye contact with you.

He swears his heart stops beating—but it starts again in less than a second, starts rabbiting around like it always does when he sees you, before settling back down into its regular rhythm. It’s only then that he remembers his feet and fingers are still glued to the wall.

He pries them off, wincing at the hoots and hollers from the crowd, and glances at you again. 

You have a few churros in your hand, wrapped neatly in butter paper—no doubt a gift from the old lady—and you have your phone in your hand. He watches your fingers fly rapidly over the screen, notices the slight tilt to your head, the way your tongue pokes out of your lips slightly, the amusement at his mishap still running through your veins.

He hears the ping of the notification through his mask before you even put your phone down. 

The letters swim in front of his eyes, on the screen in front of him.

(11:36) You: KUROO!!!! u wont BELIEVE what i just saw!!!! I SAW SPIDERMAN CRASH INTO A WALL LMFAOOOO

Kuroo winces. He should probably tell you that there’s a hyphen separating the words ‘spider’ and ‘man’, but he doesn’t want to burst your obvious elation at the city’s most prominent superhero’s accident. (Despite the fact that you’re the cause for him losing all common sense, in the first place.)

He doesn’t get the chance to form another coherent thought before a yell from below gets his attention. Specifically because it’s your voice.

“Hey!” You have your hands placed on your waist, your bundle of churros tucked into the corner of your arm as you squint up at him. “Need some help getting down?”

Unlike the jeers of the onlookers with their phones still out, you don’t sound malicious at all. You sound genuinely concerned, as though he isn’t Spider-Man, who’s fought off a hundred different villains and rescued the earth from alien infestations. You talk to him like he’s just a regular guy who accidentally swung onto a building and now finds himself in this precarious position.

His chest warms at the thought. “No thanks!” he hollers back. “I’m good.”

He lets his feet loosen up, feels his muscles relax and then he pushes himself off the wall, letting the momentum pull him through a graceful somersault before he lands softly in front of you.

“Are you okay?” You ignore the passersby.

“I’m fine,” Kuroo replies. “Are you okay?”

You look at him strangely, and Kuroo can feel his cheeks heat up. “I’m not the one who almost broke my nose because I wasn’t looking at where I was going.”

Kuroo shifts from one foot to the other, chewing on the inside of his cheek. You have a point, he supposes. He clears his throat. “Right, um. Thanks for offering to help me out.”

“No problem,” you reply easily, the corners of your lips rising upwards. “I’m glad you’re okay. Can’t have our city’s best line of defence get obliterated because of a wall.”

Kuroo’s not sure whether he’s supposed to feel happy about the fact that you’re worried about him despite not knowing who he is or if he’s supposed to be embarrassed at you pointing out his lapse of attention.

“Listen,” he begins, feeling a rush of adrenaline surge through his veins, run its course throughout his body, and settle at his heart, “do you… maybe want to get some coffee with me? As a thank you. For offering to help.”

You raise an eyebrow sceptically. “I’m not sure that warrants a coffee date.”

“It’s not,” Kuroo hurriedly says, heart thumping erratically, “I swear. I just want to thank you.”

You purse your lips, drawing out a sigh that’s in between contemplation and refusal. Kuroo’s heart sinks—he knows that expression of yours all too well. “I’m sorry, Spider-Man. You’re a great superhero and I’m sure you’re a really nice person behind the mask, but… I’m actually running late for a meet-up with my best friend. I’m sorry.” You shrug apologetically. “Maybe next time.”

“Okay, uh—” Kuroo licks his lips— “n-no worries. I’ll see you around.”

“Break a leg, Spider-Man.” You salute him with two fingers. “Not literally, but you know what I mean.”

He manages a smile, then realises you can’t see it through his mask—and then realises that the friend who’s meet-up you’re running late to is with him, so he’s going to see you again, anyway. The thought makes him smile again, this time wider, and he can feel his cheeks crinkle at the corners.

He stretches an arm out, presses his web shooter and swings onto the top of the building. Maybe he’ll have to deal with you retelling the story of how he crashed into a wall with extreme detail and lots of exaggeration, and Kuroo should probably feel extremely embarrassed about it. Instead, he finds himself looking forward to it.

Maybe he should crash into walls more often.

TWO — THE SUBTLE ART OF ACCIDENTALLY ASKING YOUR PROFESSOR OUT

Kuroo Tetsurou is decidedly fucked.

He’s late—unbearably so—but what else is he supposed to do if a platoon of aliens show up in the middle of his Introduction to Organic Chemistry class and he has to stop them from blowing up the president’s summer retreat? Once the situation is wrapped up and the foreign visitors agree to sign a peace treaty with earth, he’s effectively missed three classes, skipped lunch, and is currently running late to a study session you planned out after classes.

He supposes he can make up for it—he’s not sure how, but… something is better than nothing, right? He swings down in front of a flower shop, hurriedly asks for a bouquet and a box of chocolates, places a wad of money bills on the counter and swings away. The whole interaction takes place in less than fifteen minutes, but Kuroo is in a hurry. He has a slew of texts from you, all detailing the same thing: That if he doesn’t magically appear in the next ten minutes, you’re leaving, and you better make it up to him somehow.

Kuroo touches down on the rooftop of your university’s library and quickly removes his Spider-Man suit, stuffing it into his backpack and shouldering it. He heads down the fire escape, taking two steps at a time, and comes to a standstill in front of the Biology section of the library. It’s the least crowded part of the library, which is why you and Kuroo have chosen it as your designated spot.

He sees you immediately and braces himself for the telltale quickening of his heart. You smile at him as soon as you spot him, raising a hand in greeting. Books and sheets of paper are scattered around the table in front of you, and your hair is messy, swept up hastily. You’re wearing your favourite sweater with the coffee stain down the front, because even though it’s not something you would wear in public, it’s still the most comfortable piece of clothing you own.

Kuroo’s lips curl upwards on their own accord. The words form on the tip of his tongue, as they always do. He wants to tell you—he’s been in love with you since he first laid eyes on you—and it would be so easy to confess right then and there. He walks towards you.

Fate is never kind to him, it seems.

Kuroo keeps his eyes fixed on you, which is why he doesn’t notice his Organic Chemistry professor walk right across him.

In his defence, Professor Suzuki is short, with a head full of bountiful grey curls and a pink flower-patterned umbrella always tucked underneath her arm. She barely comes up to Kuroo’s shoulders, so she’s never in Kuroo’s line of vision unless he’s sitting down.

It’s no wonder he collides into her. 

Professor Suzuki lets out a startled “Ooh!”, the stack of papers in her hand flying out of her grip and falling around him and his teacher like snowflakes on a winter morning. She twists her lips at him, mouth downturned like she just sucked a lemon raw, and tuts disapprovingly at him.

Kuroo feels his cheeks blaze as he bends down and gathers all the loose sheets of paper and stacks them. He doesn’t need to look at you to know you’re gleefully watching the whole encounter. He tucks the bouquet and chocolates into the crook of his arm and hands the stack of papers to Professor Suzuki, mumbling an apology.

“Well, you better be sorry,” she says, looking up and down at him—except she has to crane her neck at him to meet his eyes, and the sight is so hilarious, Kuroo needs to stifle his laughter. Then her eyes narrow in recognition, and Kuroo stiffens, dread pooling in his stomach. 

She pauses for a minute. “Aren’t you the young man who ran out halfway through my class? Is your stomach feeling better now?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you snort and then cover it up as a cough. 

Kuroo wants to melt into the floor, pretend like he’s one of the tiles on the ground. “Yes ma’am,” he answers politely instead, hoping his voice doesn’t betray him.

“Hmm.” She scrutinises him carefully, reaching out with her free hand and pinching his stomach. “Indigestion is a serious issue, young man. Make sure you have enough ginger in your diet—it helps with your toilet problems.”

“I will, ma’am.”

“Now, how do you plan to make up for your lost lesson?” 

Kuroo licks his lips. “I’m… not sure. I could come over for a remedial class—”

“Oh, please. You insult me.” Professor Suzuki lets out a giggle. “Remedial classes are such mediaeval methods. These days teachers will let anything go for a small price. Young, handsome men like you especially…”

Kuroo nearly chokes on his own spit. “I—”

“Just some flowers and chocolates will be fine,” his teacher waves him off good-naturedly, as though this is a conversation she has all the time. Her eyes land pointedly on the flowers and the chocolate box still tucked safely in his arms. 

“Oh. Um.” Kuroo curses his luck. He’s Spider-Man, after all—shouldn’t he get some slack? All he wants is to ask you out, and if not that, at least spend some time with you without getting caught up in outworldly situations all the time. 

Professor Suzuki’s expression turns serious upon noticing his hesitation. “Of course, not every teacher is as lenient as I’m being. Some would—and I’m really just throwing it out here—assign compensatory essays, or—”

He hurriedly shoves the bouquet and the chocolates into Professor Suzuki’s waiting arms. 

“No, ma’am. Thank you very much for being so kind to me.”

“Not a bother, not a bother,” she waves him off again, smiling thinly at him. “Anything for my students.”

Kuroo bows and waits patiently for her to skitter away from him, finally letting out a loose breath that has his shoulders slumping forward and his head hanging dejectedly. He drags himself to your table, places his bag on the desk, and buries his head into his arms in such a way that half his upper body is spread-eagled across the wooden desk. A tired, muffled groan escapes his lips.

“Rough day?” Your voice is soft, and you tentatively reach out and gently run a hand through his hair.

Kuroo lets out another groan in response, closing his eyes when he feels your touch. He lifts up his head and props his chin on the desk, glancing at you. You have a soft smile playing on your lips, eyes twinkling.

“You recorded all of that, didn’t you?” It’s more a statement than a question; Kuroo has all your tendencies mapped out in his head, and you would never pass up on an opportunity to record his humiliation.

“Yup.” You grin at him, patting your pocket where your phone is stowed away. “I won’t show it to anyone, don’t worry.”

It’s a small consolation. He decides to let it slide. “By the way, the flowers and the chocolates were for you. To apologise for being late.”

“Oh.” To Kuroo’s surprise, you sound… bashful, almost. His heart skitters at the revelation. “That’s alright. I’m not a big fan of flowers anyway. Are you hungry? You skipped lunch, too, didn’t you? We could go get some ramen.”

“That sounds good.” Kuroo smiles wearily at you. He just hopes there isn’t another national emergency to divert his attention from you and the time he gets to spend with you.

THREE — THE SUBTLE ART OF ALMOST DATING YOUR HOMIE

If Kuroo Tetsurou has been Tokyo’s one and only Spider-Man for the past two years, then Bokuto Koutarou, his roommate, is his designated Guy-in-the-Chair.

He’s the only one who knows about Kuroo’s secret identity, and Kuroo relies on him to make up some believable reason for his often and sudden disappearances. The last time, when he had to escape in the middle of his Organic Chemistry class and that whole debacle with Professor Suzuki took place, Bokuto had said Kuroo had indigestion. He assumes his roommate has fun coming up with excuses. As long as his secret remains safe, Kuroo’s not too concerned.

Despite all the help Bokuto has provided him with, he wants nothing more than to toss him over their shared apartment’s balcony.

For the past half an hour, he’s been consistently badgering him. Specifically about you.

“Have you told her you like her yet?”

The question drags a tired sigh out of Kuroo’s lips. He’s hunched over his Physics textbook, scribbling down notes, and he could really appreciate some peace—but that’s not something he should expect when he lives with the human equivalent of a hamster on a wheel.

“No, Bokuto,” he reiterates, “I haven’t had the time.”

Bokuto flops dramatically across the couch. “Dude. You need serious help.”

“Do I?” Kuroo murmurs absent-mindedly, wondering how to calculate the coefficient of friction with the variables he’s been given.

“Yes.” When he notices his roommate not paying attention to him, Bokuto rolls his eyes. “Stop doing homework, you have more important matters to attend to.”

Kuroo finally tears his tired gaze away from the numericals printed out on the page. He locks eyes with Bokuto, barely aware of the tic in his left eye. “Like what?”

His roommate throws his hands up in the air exasperatedly. “Like your best friend! And the fact that you’re in love with her!”

“Okay.”

“This isn’t going to work. C’mere.” He gestures to Kuroo to come sit next to him on the couch. Once he makes his way to the couch and sits next to him, Bokuto takes both his hands in his. “Consider this an intervention.”

Kuroo leans back and lets his head fall against the couch cushions. This is going to be good.

“Okay, so,” Bokuto begins, “she doesn’t know you’re Spider-Man—no one knows that except me—but you love her, don’t you? Just walk up to her, tell her you can show her something she’s never seen before, swing her up to a rooftop somewhere, and watch the sunset with her. Tell her you love her and that you can’t live without her, and your heart beats only for her—trust me, girls love romantic stuff like that—and then tell her you’re also Spider-Man. Easy.”

All Kuroo can do is laugh. There’s no way Bokuto is serious about this.

“I’m being serious,” Bokuto says. “How long are you going to keep hiding this from her? She’s your best friend, don’t you think you should tell her that you’re basically in mortal peril every other day?”

“That’s exactly why I’m not telling her,” Kuroo says. “What if some villain finds out she’s special to me and does something to her to get back at me?”

His friend looks dubious. “You really think that could happen?”

“Yes.” Kuroo turns his head to look at Bokuto. “That’s why I didn’t want to tell you either.”

Bokuto chews his lip thoughtfully. “I kind of see what you mean. But…” He squeezes Kuroo’s hand once, gently. “I think she would want to know.”

Kuroo considers it—for a brief half-minute, he actually thinks about it—and then shakes his head. “It’s better to keep her safe.”

You have the worst possible timing. (Perhaps it’s Kuroo’s fault for having given you a spare key to his apartment.)

The door swings open and you walk into the living room, two bags of takeaway in your hand. “Guess who’s got food!”

Then you pause, survey the situation in front of you, and your jaw drops.

Kuroo and Bokuto, both on the couch, sitting so close to each other, their knees are brushing. Kuroo’s hands are still being held by Bokuto, the latter rubbing circles on his palm. Belatedly, Kuroo realises what this must look like to you.

He shoots up to his feet. “It’s not what you think—”

“Oh my God.” You raise your arms. “Am I interrupting something? I’m so sorry, I had no idea! I’ll just—”

“No, wait! Bokuto and I, we’re not—”

“No, no, it’s okay!” Your repeated reassurances don’t do anything to assure him. “You guys look good together! Congratulations on graduating from cherry boy university, Kuroo!”

Kuroo lowers his head, crimson creeping up his cheeks. He turns around and faces Bokuto, who’s busy snickering on the couch. “This is all your fault.”

You look between them curiously. “Are you both dating?”

“No,” Kuroo says at the same time Bokuto says, “Possibly.”

He glares at his friend. “No, we are not together. Bokuto knows I like someone else.”

“You like someone else?”

There’s the barest hint of hurt in your tone, a slight hitch in your voice that Kuroo picks up on easily. “I—yes.”

“You never told me.” 

Your voice is carefully calm and you fiddle with the handle of the takeaway bags. Kuroo winces; he takes a step forward and grabs your elbow, gently forcing you to look up at him. “I was going to tell you. I just… forgot.”

It's the worst possible excuse he could come up with. Your eyes harden. Thankfully, Bokuto swoops in. “He’ll tell you soon. He just never has good timing.”

You poke your tongue in the inside of your cheek. “It… doesn’t matter. I brought Chinese,” you say, lips pursed into a threadbare smile, “so all that’s left is to pick the movie.”

You move into the living room and playfully poke Bokuto’s legs to make space. Kuroo closes the door behind you, a heavy feeling in his gut.

He’s fucked up. Big time. No matter what, he can’t get the look of dejectedness on your face out of his mind.

Kuroo decides he’s going to tell you. Somehow. Even if you don’t return his feelings, at least he’ll be free of the burden of keeping them hidden. 

With new conviction in his head, he strides over to where you are.

FOUR — THE SUBTLE ART OF GETTING HIT ON

Kuroo loves you—he really does—but despite his obvious affection towards you, he still thinks you’re acting slightly (read: extremely) delusional.

“A… Spider-Man love blog?” he asks weakly, sitting opposite you.

“Yeah!” You nod your head vigorously, obviously excited. “J. Jonah Jameson started a Spider-Man conspiracy theory blog, so I figured I need to start a blog to support Spider-Man and all his endeavours. Too much hate is a bad thing, and… well, he is kind of hot. Objectively speaking.”

Kuroo doesn’t know whether to grimace at the fact that J. Jonah Jameson started a page on conspiracy theories about him, laugh at the fact that you want to start a blog to support him, or melt like an ice cream on a hot summer afternoon at the fact that you just called him objectively hot.

He tries to do a mixture of all three. You glance at him, concerned. “Did you just have a stroke or something?”

Kuroo purses his lips together. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” you say dismissively. “Well, what do you think of the blog idea?”

“I think it’s a good idea,” Kuroo agrees. “It’s like a little Spider-Man support group.”

“Exactly!” you agree, perking up even more. “That’s actually a really cool slogan, thanks Kuroo.”

“No problem.” Kuroo feels his mouth dry, but before he can second guess himself, he says, “Hey, you said Spider-Man is hot?”

“Hm? Yeah, what about it?”

“You know who else is hot?”

“Tom Holland?” Your eyes widen excitedly. “Oh, I know! Andrew Garfield!”

“No—I mean, yes but—” Kuroo heaves out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I wasn’t talking about them.”

You cock your head to the side. “Who do you mean, then?”

He takes in a deep breath, forcing his heart to calm down. “I was talking about—”

He’s about to say you when the fire alarm rings. You stand up, eyes widening—not with excitement, but with panic flaring up inside you. Kuroo stands up too; how did he not notice something was off? The hair at the back of his neck tingles. He needs to get you out of here—now.

“Hey,” he says hurriedly, “you need to leave. Go out the fire escape.” He shoves you none too gently towards the fire escape, but you stumble forward and then stop.

“Kuroo,” you say, and he can hear the mounting fear in your voice, “what about you?”

“I’ll be right behind you,” he assures. A series of bangs follows his statement, and he narrows his eyes at the direction of the sound. “But you need to leave. Now.”

You open your mouth to say something, but when you hear a loud clang echo down the stairwell, you close your mouth and run towards the staircase. Kuroo waits for you to disappear from his sight, before turning on his heel and grabbing his suit from his bag.

God, supervillains really have the worst timing. All Kuroo wanted to do was tell you he thought you were hot, too, but that he found you more beautiful than anything else.

FIVE — THE SUBTLE ART OF EXPOSING YOUR CRUSH

Kuroo is so, so tired.

He lands in front of a small, quiet lake in a park you used to come to with him. The ambience is perfect for when you want to spend time alone, in solitude. A family of ducks paddles gently over the water; it’s peaceful and serene—completely unlike the destruction he just had to deal with, and the turbulence currently running through his mind.

He pulls his mask off his head and runs a tired hand through his hair. Wearily, he sinks down onto the grass, feeling the cool breeze caress his skin and the rustle of the leaves of the giant tree under whose shade he’s sitting.

He blinks once, slowly, and then again, and when a duck lets out a quack, he opens his mouth and lets everything spill out, like sand pouring through an overturned hourglass.

(He’s aware he’s talking to ducks. He doesn’t care.)

“Screw this shit. I never wanted to be a hero, you hear me? I never wanted to be bitten by a stupid spider, I didn’t ask for all this—I didn’t ask for all this! God, what does a guy need to do to have some time to tell his best friend he’s in love with her?!”

His rant falls on silent ears—but then, he hears the crunch of dried leaves, and he whips around.

Your head pokes out from behind the tree trunk. “Kuroo?”

“Oh,” he breathes out, scrambling to his feet. “What are you—”

“You said you’d be right behind me!” Despite the false bravado in your voice, he can hear how wobbly you actually sound.

“I-I was. Technically.” He takes a tentative step towards you, one arm stretched out placatingly.

“You never told me you were Spider-Man!” Your voice increases in pitch steadily with each word.

“I didn’t tell you to protect you—”

“Oh my God, you were in mortal peril every day and I didn’t even know!”

“Bokuto said the same thing, but—”

“Bokuto knew all along, of course he did!”

“I only told him because—”

“And—and now you’re telling me you’re in love with me!”

“Okay, I wasn’t telling you, I was telling the ducks, but—”

“Kuroo!” You throw your hands up in the air wildly, gaze roaming rapidly across his face. “You’re in love with me!”

He sucks in a breath sharply. “I feel like that’s not the most important thing here.”

Of all the ways he thought he would confess to you, this is decidedly not something that crossed his mind even once. He’d always pictured flowers, holding your hand, maybe even a romantic stroll down this very park. He’d certainly never imagined you’d find out about both his secrets on the same day—all while he was busy ranting about his hero complex to a bunch of birds who didn’t pay him any attention.

“Please,” he tries again, “please let me explain.”

You shake your head. “No. There’s nothing there to explain.”

With that, you turn away and walk past him. Kuroo’s heart sinks. He crumples the material of the mask in his hand, feeling the cloth twist underneath his fingertips just like his heart twists into knots with every step you take away from him.

PLUS ONE — THE SUBTLE ART OF KISSING YOUR BEST FRIEND

You have Kuroo cornered, your arms crossed across your chest and your expression stern. “You need to listen to me.”

Kuroo gulps. It’s been a week since he accidentally let both his secrets slip, and this is the first time he’s talking to you in person since then. You’d sent him a text with a simple message. Library, first thing after lunch. Kuroo had complied, and here he is now.

“So. Bokuto explained everything to me,” you say. 

“He—he did?”

You glance at him shortly. “Yeah, he did. I… I understand why you didn’t tell me about—about your condition, Kuroo. I’m sorry I didn’t give you a chance to explain yourself.”

“It’s okay,” he replies immediately. “If I found out my best friend was a secret vigilante risking his life every day, I think I’d react the same way.”

You smile at him then, and his heart jumps inside his chest. He smiles back. “But that’s not the main reason I called you here,” you continue. “What I really called you here for was…”

You trail off, looking down, and Kuroo is hit with a sudden sense of nostalgia. Why are you being so bashful around him all of a sudden? “Was…” he gently prompts.

You swallow, lifting up your chin and looking him in the eye. “I wanted to tell you that I’m in love with you too.”

Kuroo Tetsurou swears time stops, and the whole world comes to a standstill. The words ring in his ears, echoing inside his head. His lips part, and he stares at you, flabbergasted.

“I— Say that again.” His voice is barely more than a whisper.

He sees the flicker in your eyes, notices how you’re ready to compete with him for this. “I love you, Kuroo Tetsurou. I don’t care about the fact that you’re Spider-Man.”

Kuroo takes a step towards you, holding your shoulders gently, like you’re made of glass. “I love you too.”

You grin at him, your own arms encircling his waist and coming to rest on his back. “I know that.”

And then you tip your head forward and capture his lips with your own. He gasps at first, before kissing you back with equal force, one hand tugging you closer to him and the other curving around your torso.

You giggle into the kiss, and Kuroo’s lips twitch upwards. He’s giddy, weightless, floating through the air like a feather being carried by the wind. The feeling he gets when he’s swooping through the rooftops of the city is nothing compared to the feeling of your lips slotted against his and his arms wrapped around you.

Kuroo Tetsurou swears he doesn’t try to act stupid normally. But if it makes you smile, he’s willing to do anything.

[sixeyesonathiel]

shy girls suck the best!

fratjo x nerd!reader, fluff & smut, m receiving, overstimulation, whimpering toru. 3.5k wc, 18+ only, MDNI.

satoru gojo is experienced.

he’s cocky for a reason. he’s made girls scream his name more times than he can count, and he knows exactly how to make someone fold in under five minutes—ten if he’s playing nice. he’s all confidence, charm, and unearned a’s from professors who don’t want to deal with his antics. his reputation precedes him in every room, and he walks like the world’s already bent over backwards just to please him.

everything about him screams untouchable, and he’s used to people treating him that way. he wears his varsity jacket like armor, a walking billboard of fratboy glory, all swagger and smirks and lazy confidence that makes people gravitate toward him like he’s got his own gravity field.

but then there’s you.

the shy girl in glasses, always scribbling in your notebook with an absurdly cute pen, whispering apologies when you bump into people, hiding in the back row of class like you owe the world an explanation just for existing. you don’t talk unless spoken to, don’t make eye contact, and definitely don’t give satoru the attention he’s used to. it’s not that you’re cold—it’s that you seem like you live in your own quiet little world, and satoru’s never wanted to be invited somewhere so badly.

and maybe what undoes him first is that he sees you before you see him. you’re already there, present in the corners of his attention before he understands why he’s looking. he notices you one day during lecture, tucking your hair behind your ear as you underline a sentence three times with an intense little frown. it doesn’t seem like much. but something in him clicks.

at first it’s curiosity. then amusement. then it festers into irritation—because why the fuck aren’t you reacting to him like everyone else?—and then fascination. and then something deeper that coils in his chest and makes his throat tight every time he sees you. he tries not to care. he wants not to care. but you’re already rooting yourself in places inside him he didn’t know were hollow.

satoru notices you because you don’t notice him. not the way everyone else does. you don’t flutter your lashes when he smirks. you don’t laugh at his jokes like they’re scripture. you don’t even flinch when he calls you “baby” out of nowhere—just blink at him like he’s an equation you don’t understand. it bruises his ego. and for some unholy reason, he loves it.

the problem is, you’re not immune to him at all. you’re just hiding it better than anyone ever has.

because what he doesn’t know is—you’ve always had a crush on him. from the very first time he walked into class, sleepy-eyed and bright-smiled, wearing that damn jacket like it belonged on a movie screen. you just figured he’d never notice someone like you. so you admired from afar. watched him flirt with others, watched the way he filled a room with laughter, memorized the cadence of his voice like it was part of your playlist.

your crush was harmless. private. something you never expected to act on. you played it safe. after all, guys like satoru gojo don’t fall for quiet girls with awkward posture and color-coded notes.

but maybe that’s what draws him in—the absence of performance. the quiet genuine way you exist. no theatrics. no games. just you, completely unaware that you’ve started haunting his every thought.

it starts small.

he catches himself watching the way your hands move. the way your nose scrunches when you’re deep in thought. the way you roll your pen between your fingers when you're anxious. it becomes a loop, a soft little addiction. he remembers details he shouldn’t. what color post-its you use. your preferred snack during study sessions. your favorite seat in the library. you don’t change. he just tunes in.

and then, one day, he realizes he’s rearranging his life around yours.

he starts showing up everywhere you are. loiters in the library, conveniently always around during your shifts at the campus café, makes excuses to sit next to you in class. offers to carry your books, asks you about calculus even though he already passed it. satoru gojo, golden boy of his frat, reducing himself to extra tutoring just to see you smile. it’s humiliating in theory, but it feels like worship in practice.

and it’s not just your smile. it’s the way you get passionate when you talk about obscure theories. the way you light up when you don’t think anyone’s watching. the way you stammer when he gets too close, but don’t pull away.

you don’t feed his ego. you feed something softer. quieter. something he didn’t think he had in him. he tells himself it’s because you’re innocent. because you’re shy and sweet and you deserve to be treated right.

he wants to be good for you. slow, patient, gentle. he holds doors open. he listens. he lets you rant about your thesis for forty-five uninterrupted minutes and actually understands it. he even looks up the books you reference, reads them just to impress you. he takes an annotated copy of your favorite book. he starts writing your name in the corners of his notebook like some love-struck high schooler. you haunt him in the best way.

and then—you kiss him.

it’s after a late-night study session. the campus is quiet. the lights in the library flicker like they’re caught between timelines. your voice shakes when you say “thank you for walking me back.” you pause, fidget with the strap of your bag. and then, like you’ve been gearing up for battle, you rise onto your toes and kiss him.

it’s chaste. hesitant. warm. like you're afraid he'll vanish if you lean in too much.

you pull back like you’ve done something wrong, but satoru’s frozen, staring at you like he’s just been baptized. you’re blushing so hard he can feel the heat radiating off your skin.

“you… sure?” he whispers, voice ragged, leaning in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

you nod, barely audible: “i’ve read… a lot. i think… i wanna try. with you.”

and he short circuits.

he thought he’d lead. thought he’d ease you into it, kiss your forehead, hold your hand like a gentleman. but then your hands are on his chest, pushing up under his shirt—the varsity jacket creaking as it shifts on his shoulders, the cotton brushing your fingertips. your eyes are searching his like you’re looking for confirmation that he’s real. you study every reaction like a research project. when he shivers, you smile, barely-there, and go back to tracing the line of his abs with trembling fingertips.

it’s not even mischief.

it’s curiosity. slow-burning, chest-aching, and barely held together by your own hesitation. the sort of yearning that tastes like nervous giggles and the edge of something terrifyingly new. you pause between touches like you're checking your hypothesis, calculating the way his muscles tense under your fingers. each brush of your skin feels like a question he's too dazed to answer properly.

“does that… feel good?” you whisper, lips barely moving, as though you’re scared to break the spell.

“f-fuck—yes, baby, yeah,” he gasps, throwing his head back, one hand clutching the edge of the couch like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

your lips trail down his throat, each kiss a trembling prayer, following a path only you can see. his skin is fever-hot, tasting of mint and salt, boyish charm unraveling under your mouth. when you press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone, his pulse jumps, a twitch rippling beneath your lips. his breath catches, a sharp stutter that makes his chest lurch, and his hands hover, fingers flexing like he’s afraid touching you will break the spell.

satoru gojo—fratboy, golden boy, untouchable—is quiet. too quiet. his eyes are hazy, pupils wide and unfocused, lips parted like words have abandoned him. his varsity jacket is bunched at his elbows, leather creaking, shirt rucked up to his ribs, abs clenching under your trembling fingers. he could take charge, flip this with a smirk—he’s done it countless times, effortless and expert. but now? he just watches, reverent, like you’re a deity he’s too awestruck to approach.

he’s known mouths. polished ones with perfect rhythm, greedy ones that took without giving, bold ones that knew every angle. but yours? it’s hesitant, new, like you’re crossing a threshold you’re not sure you’re worthy of. the way you look at him—eyes flickering behind slipping glasses, wide with awe—shouldn’t hit this hard. shouldn’t feel this fucking intense. but your fingers, shaking as they tug at his waistband, send a jolt through him that makes his vision spark.

satoru’s hand grazes your cheek, a trembling brush of knuckles. “baby… keep going. please.”

you nod, glasses sliding, your breath hitching as your fingers slip under his jeans, easing them down. your eyes flick up, catching his—flushed, jaw tight, his whole body fighting to stay still. it hits you like a blade: he’s done this a thousand times, fucked girls who knew every trick, but you’ve got him like this. trembling. aching. satoru gojo, invincible, unraveling because of you.

guilt stabs your chest, sharp and fleeting. you shouldn’t have him like this, shouldn’t be the reason his hands clutch the couch like it’s his only anchor. he’s always cocky, untouchable, the center of every orbit. now he’s breaking, and it’s your fault—your lips, your touch, your fault. but the guilt only fans the heat in your core, makes your thighs press together as you lean closer, your breath ghosting over his skin.

satoru is used to being wanted. but not like this. not with this aching, earnest hunger that makes his chest tighten.

you press shaky, open-mouthed kisses to his hip, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin. spit gathers at the corner of your mouth, a slick trail left behind as you suck softly at the sensitive skin just above his cock. he jolts, hips jerking before he catches himself, a low curse slipping free, his hands clenching until his knuckles bleach. the sound he makes—fuck, it’s a choked gasp, raw and ragged, like you’ve torn it from his core.

you shift lower, hands sliding up his thighs, fingers digging into the taut muscle. your kisses grow bolder, sloppier, your tongue dragging along the crease where his thigh meets his groin, leaving a glistening streak of drool that catches the dim light.

he tastes like heat and need, and the way his skin trembles under your mouth makes your own pulse hammer. you pause, lips hovering over his cock, spit pooling on your tongue, and glance up—his head is thrown back, throat bobbing as he swallows, a groan clawing its way out of him.

“holy shit—baby, you—fuck,” satoru gasps, eyes snapping open, blown wide as his hand grips the couch, fabric groaning under his fist.

you take him in your mouth, lips wrapping around the tip, soft and slick with spit that drips down his length. your tongue swirls, slow and deliberate, tracing the ridge as drool spills from the corners of your mouth, coating him in a wet sheen.

he’s hot, heavy against your tongue, and you hum—a low, vibrating sound that pulls a whimper from his throat. your fingers curl around the base, stroking in time with the bob of your head, slick with the spit that pools at his base, making your grip slippery. you suck, gentle at first, then harder, lips stretching around him as spit slicks your chin, a glistening trail dripping onto his thighs.

he’s panting, desperate, each breath a ragged plea. his abs flex, thighs trembling under your palms, and he’s biting back whimpers, trying not to overwhelm you. that restraint—fuck, it’s gorgeous, the way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes flutter shut like he’s fighting to stay grounded. he doesn’t push, doesn’t guide, just moans your name like it’s a prayer, raw and broken. “that’s it, baby—fuck—just like that—your mouth’s so fucking perfect—”

the satoru gojo is unraveling, and it’s because of you. the way you glance up, glasses fogging, eyes glassy with effort, lips shiny and stretched around him, spit dripping down your chin in messy strings. the way your tongue flicks, catching the sensitive spot under the head, makes his hips buck, a choked sob escaping.

your hand slides lower, fingers brushing his balls, tentative but deliberate, slick with the drool that’s pooled at his base. you cup them, rolling gently, and his whole body seizes, a string of curses spilling out as his hand fists the couch tighter, the fabric creaking under the strain.

he’s had every fantasy, every trick, but this—your mouth, slow and reverent, full of wonder, messy with spit that coats him like a second skin—hits like a fucking freight train. it’s too much, too good. he wants to last, to let you explore, but you’re too fucking intent.

you hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, tongue swirling in tight, wet circles, spit bubbling at the corners of your mouth as you take him deeper, throat tightening around him. he chokes, hips jerking as his control frays. “gonna—baby, gonna cum, wait, fuck—”

you don’t stop. your lips slide further, tongue flattening, taking him as deep as you can. it’s filthy—spit drips down your chin in thick strings, pooling on his thighs, your glasses fogging as breaths puff through your nose. you’re focused, watching his every twitch, adjusting when he gasps, slowing when he whimpers, like you’re mapping him.

his hand grips the couch, knuckles white, and he breaks with a sound that’s barely human—a shattered cry as he spills, hot and pulsing against your tongue.

you try to swallow it all, but it’s overwhelming—cum mixes with the spit already coating your lips, spilling past them in a slick, messy rush, dripping down your chin, onto his thighs, and pooling on the couch. you pull back, gasping, wiping your mouth with trembling fingers, but the slickness clings, smearing across your skin as your eyes stay wide behind crooked glasses. he’s trembling, chest heaving, shirt clinging to sweat-slick skin, pupils blown like he’s seen the divine.

you should stop.

you fucking should.

he’s wrecked, twitching, fucked out beyond reason. but the ache in your chest—the sharp, flickering guilt of breaking him—only makes you hungrier. you lick your lips, tasting the salty mix of him, and your thighs press together, a soft whimper escaping as you lean in again, spit still clinging to your chin.

“just once more?” you whisper, voice barely audible, like you’re afraid the words will burn you.

his eyes flutter open, unfocused, dazed. he groans, raw and low. “baby… you’re gonna fucking kill me.”

but he doesn’t stop you. doesn’t even try.

you start again, slower, your mouth softer but hungrier, lips wrapping around him with a reverence that makes him twitch instantly. he’s sensitive, still pulsing, and the second your tongue grazes him, he whines—a high, broken sound that makes your stomach twist. you suck lightly, lips gliding along his length, spit pooling at the base and dripping onto his thighs in slow, glistening trails. 

satoru buries his face in a cushion, muffling a sob. “s-sensitive—fuck, it’s too much—”

his thighs tremble under your hands, hips jerking as you kiss the tip, tongue darting out to lap at the bead of cum still leaking from him, your spit mixing with it in a slick, glossy sheen. you linger, savoring the taste, the way it coats your tongue in a sticky film, and he whimpers again, louder, his hand flying to his mouth to bite his knuckles.

your fingers slide to his balls again, rolling them gently, slick with the drool and cum that’s dripped down, making your touch slippery and warm. he arches, a desperate, “please—fuck—please—” spilling from his lips like he’s begging for mercy but craving more.

you don’t rush. your tongue traces every inch, slow and deliberate, swirling around the head before dipping lower, dragging along the vein with a wet, sloppy kiss that leaves a trail of spit in its wake. your breath is hot, teasing, each exhale making him twitch, and you pause to suck at the base, lips lingering as your tongue flicks out, tasting the musk of him through the sticky mess. his hand finds your hair, fingers threading loosely, not pushing, just holding—like he needs to feel you’re real.

you grow bolder, hungrier, your lips tightening as you take him deeper, throat fluttering around him, spit bubbling up and spilling over, coating his cock in a thick, glossy layer. you hum, low and vibrating, and he chokes, a wet, pathetic whimper breaking free.

your hand strokes the base, slick with spit and cum, fingers sliding in the mess, and you slide a finger lower, brushing the sensitive skin behind his balls, now slippery with the drool that’s dripped down. he jolts, a high, keening sound tearing from his throat, his hips bucking as his whole body trembles.

“baby—god—please—fuck, i can’t—” satoru’s voice cracks, raw and whining, as you suck harder, tongue swirling in relentless, wet circles, spit and cum mixing in a frothy mess that drips onto the couch. every noise is desperate—gasps, whimpers, sobs that he tries to muffle but can’t. his body arches, twitching like he’s unraveling at the seams, and you feel it: the moment he breaks again.

he cums with a wail, sudden and violent, hips jerking as he spills into your mouth. it’s messier, hotter, a flood of cum and spit that overwhelms you, spilling out in thick, sticky ropes that coat your lips, your chin, your glasses, dripping onto his thighs and pooling in the creases of his skin.

you swallow what you can, lips still wrapped around him, tongue lapping at the oversensitive tip through the slick mess until he’s twitching, a broken, “n-no more—please—” escaping as he clutches the cushion.

time slips. minutes? hours? you’re tugging his shirt, pulling him closer like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded. ten minutes later, he’s gripping the sheets, praying, fucked senseless by every move you make. you flinch when he whines too loud, hands flying to your mouth, eyes wide with guilt—but then you lean in again, bolder, hungrier, chasing every twitch, every broken gasp of your name.

he’s never felt so cherished and so destroyed at the same time.

every touch is careful, but determined. you’re hesitant but thorough, like you’ve read the same passage in a smutty fanfiction a hundred times and are finally getting the chance to test it out. and the worst part? you’re good at it. really good.

your mouth, your hands, the way you watch his face for every twitch of pleasure—it’s enough to make him lose all sense of pride. the way you keep glancing at his reactions, as if adjusting your technique in real time, is insane. terrifying. he’s never been studied so hard. he likes it. he needs it. he’s suffering in the best way.

he’s never had to hold back like this. never had to breathe through it. never felt this fucking sensitive. he’s gripping the cushions like a man possessed. he’s whispering your name like a prayer. he’s not even sure he’s still speaking coherent sentences. you’ve wrecked him. utterly and entirely.

you pull back, panting, your hands shaking as you adjust your glasses, eyes glassy and wide. your lips are swollen, chin wet with a glistening mix of spit and cum, and you lick them, tasting him again, a soft moan slipping free as your thighs press together.

satoru is ruined—sprawled on the couch, shirt clinging to his chest, chest heaving like he’s fought a war. his hand is still in your hair, loose, trembling, and he’s staring at you like you’re a fucking goddess.

“thought you were the innocent one,” he chokes out, breathless, watching you nibble your lip and adjust your glasses with shaking fingers.

“i still am,” you murmur, face tucked into his shoulder. “kind of.”

he huffs out a laugh, dazed and wrecked. he can feel your heartbeat against his ribs. he doesn’t want to move. his hands are still trembling from how hard he tried to keep it together for you—and yet, you’re the one who took the lead. you’re the one who made him forget how to function. you kiss the edge of his jaw, soft and uncertain, and it undoes him more than anything else.

satoru gojo, campus heartthrob, ruined by a shy nerd girl who reads too much smut on her kindle late at night under the covers. who probably has a secret ao3 account and bookmarked folders. who looks like a timid schoolgirl but fucks like she’s been studying him like a midterm exam. and passed with extra credit. honors. valedictorian. summa cum laude of making him lose his damn mind.

he’s never been so obsessed.

and you? you’re already pressing your forehead to his chest, voice small, eyes wide with want and something raw and messy and needy as you look up at him.

“can we… try again? i think i missed a step.”

he doesn’t know if he wants to laugh, cry, or propose.

he’s never been more in love. and all he knows is he’s done for.